I nodded. “Very well. Friday it is.” We bid the printer farewell and hurried back to my house, our shoulders hunched against the cold.
“Joseph will be furious,” Martha said as we stepped inside. “And he will surely suspect that you are behind the book.”
I knew this, of course, and the sound of Elizabeth clattering down the steps to greet us reminded me that my love for her was my greatest vulnerability. Rebecca Hooke had already threatened her, and I knew that the danger was real. Elizabeth threw herself into my arms, and I felt my heart overflow with love and fear. What could I do to keep her safe from my enemies?
This question kept me awake for hours after I climbed into my bed, but even sleep offered no respite. In my dreams, I ran pell-mell through York’s streets and alleyways. Sometimes I pursued a hooded figure that I somehow knew to be George Breary’s murderer. Several times I nearly caught hold of his hood and revealed his face, but at the last moment he ducked from my grasp, and my voice echoed off the cobblestone streets when I cried out in rage and frustration. In other dreams—or perhaps they were the same ones—I searched for Elizabeth as she tried desperately to escape a predator of her own. But she proved no less elusive than George’s murderer. I sometimes caught glimpses of red hair as she turned down an alley, but I could never come close enough to take her in my arms.
When I awoke I wondered if I was the one from whom she fled. At the same time my pamphlet might save Will, it would infuriate Joseph beyond measure. And for all I knew, he would turn his rage on Elizabeth. What better way to exact his revenge?
I lay in bed telling myself that while he was a violent man, Joseph had never harmed a child. I prayed that his honor would keep him from doing so on this occasion. I then resolved to keep Elizabeth indoors until the witch-hunt had ended and George’s killer had been hanged. What else could I do? I felt like a man trying to escape a maze, never knowing if my next step would take me to freedom or down another blind alley. All I could do was continue my search for an escape.
* * *
A full two hours before sunrise a boy arrived at my door and threw all our schemes into confusion. “I have a summons to the Castle, my lady,” he announced. He handed me a letter held closed with an impressive seal of red wax.
As I broke the seal, Martha appeared at my side, no less worried than I was. In the past week, we’d accused the Lord Mayor’s wife of murder and then written a pamphlet against the city’s most powerful Alderman. It seemed unlikely that official correspondence would bring good news. It was almost a relief that the letter did nothing more than summon Martha and me to the trial of Mother Lee on charges of witchcraft.
“They’ve found judges for the Special Assizes,” I said as I read the letter. “We’re to testify against Mother Lee today.”
We spent the morning gathering the food and drink needed for a day at the Castle. Victuallers would flock there, but their offerings would be better suited for the lower sort, and they’d charge a fortune. Elizabeth begged to accompany us, of course, but mindful of my dream, I denied her. Before we left, I pulled Hannah aside.
“I want you to keep Elizabeth indoors,” I said. “Anything you need from the market can wait, or you can send a neighborhood boy for it. I don’t want her to attract any attention at all.” Between her blazing red hair and talkative habits, Elizabeth was well known throughout St. Helen’s, but I had no interest in reminding my neighbors of her presence. I knew Joseph would not forget I’d brought her into my home, but the less people thought of her, the safer she would be. Hannah cast a worried look in Elizabeth’s direction and agreed. Martha and I wrapped ourselves, bid farewell to Hannah and Elizabeth, and started for the Castle.
“What are you going to tell them?” Martha asked as we walked up Coney Street. The letter said the trial would be in the afternoon, but I wanted to arrive early and get a sense of the direction other trials had taken.
“Remember that we’ve both been called,” I replied. “So you’ll have to speak as well.”
“That is why I asked,” she said. “As midwife and deputy, we should not contradict each other.”
“I’ll tell the truth,” I replied. I knew so vague an answer would not satisfy her in the least. “I’ll tell the jury what I saw. I cannot say if the child’s death was natural or if he had been bewitched.” Even as I spoke, I could imagine the reaction of Lucy Pierce’s gossips when I did not fully agree with their accusations. If I were not careful, the mothers in Upper Poppleton would turn to another midwife. “But in the end the trial will not hinge on my words or yours.”