The Witch Hunter's Tale(77)

“So we wait while Joseph and his men search the city room by room? They cannot stay hidden forever.”

“There is nothing we can do tonight, but tomorrow we will speak to Helen Wright,” I said. “If she can see them out of gaol, perhaps she can ease them through the city gates as well. I should be surprised if she hasn’t already begun to plan for their escape.”

I don’t know whether Martha or Hannah slept that night, but I lay awake for hours puzzling at the dangers we faced. After a time my mind returned to the murder of George Breary, so easily forgotten in the fire and smoke of my battle against Joseph. I remembered that if I could somehow prove Joseph’s role in the murder, our problems would fall away in a matter of days. However I tried, though, I could not imagine a way to do this.

I had just drifted to sleep when a knock roused me once again. My first fear was that the Town Watch had found Will, Tree, and Elizabeth, but the knock was far too gentle for that. Instead of a constable, Hannah admitted one of Matthew Thompson’s lads calling me to Grace Thompson’s travail.

“With all our running about I’d near forgotten I was a midwife,” I said to Martha as we wrapped ourselves against the cold. I was pleased to have the Thompsons’ man with us as we wound our way toward Micklegate. Joseph’s rage when he learned of Will’s escape would know no bounds, and I did not know how he would react. If he had seen fit to crush George Breary’s skull, I did not know why mine would be sacrosanct. The moon hung cold and bright in the night sky; sometimes it lit our path, but it also made the shadows seem that much more threatening. We kept to the light as best we could, but the darkness seemed to reach out, intent on catching us up. Relief flooded my body when we climbed the steps to the Thompsons’ home.

As befitted his place in the city, Matthew’s home was among York’s largest and most impressive. The Thompsons had filled every room with the finest furniture and wall coverings. Grace’s chamber was twice the size of my own, and I could not avoid a twinge of envy when I saw the exquisite quality of her quilts. Such uncharitable feelings dropped away when I felt the warmth of the women’s welcome. They waved Martha and me into the room, thrust glasses of wine into our hands, and peppered us with questions about Will and Tree’s escape from Ouse Bridge gaol. Martha and I pretended amazement, of course, and joined them in their wonder of how such a thing had come to pass. If the women worried about the men who had died that night, they hid it well, but I could not avoid thinking about them.

It took some doing, but after a time I convinced Grace to leave off gossiping and let me examine her. I found that she was still many hours from her final travail, so we returned to the other women and their merry conversation. It did not take long, though, before the days and nights I’d spent worrying about Will, Tree, and Elizabeth began to drag me down. I told Martha I required some sleep, slipped into a neighboring chamber, and fell into a large and exceedingly comfortable bed.

It was full daylight when I awoke to a burst of laughter from Grace’s room. I called for a basin of water, splashed some on my face, and returned to the gossips. Martha was clearly exhausted, so I sent her to the bed I’d just left. Gossips came and went in a steady stream as Grace’s labor pains became more frequent.

Grace tried to rest as well, and her gossips began to talk in hushed tones. To my surprise I heard Rebecca Hooke’s name. I joined the conversation, eager to hear whatever news they might have.

“He was standing below her window,” Susan Baird said. Her husband was one of York’s wealthier merchants and had built a home not far from the Thompsons. “I saw him myself. It was cold as could be, but he stood there, gazing up at the window. Then he hurried off.”

“What is this?” I asked. “Someone is wooing Rebecca Hooke?”

Laughter greeted my question. “Not Rebecca,” said Susan. “Though that would be a man to meet. No, I saw James Hooke. He was gazing at the Lord Mayor’s house. We live just across the street from the Lord Mayor, you know. My husband speaks to him all the time.” Susan’s nearness to the Lord Mayor was not something she’d let anyone forget.

“And James Hooke was staring at the Lord Mayor?” I asked. My head was still fuddled with sleep, and I could not puzzle out what she was saying.

Once again the women laughed long and loud.

“If he was looking for the Lord Mayor,” one woman replied, “it was only to cast an evil eye and hurry that old pantaloon into his grave.”

“Then what was he doing?” I asked.