The Witch Hunter's Tale(84)

Martha broke the silence. “Why would you do that?”

“I’ll not tell you that,” Rebecca replied. “Obviously I would not undertake such a task lightly, so you may rest assured that my reasons are good ones. The problem is that I cannot hang him myself. As much as it galls me, I need your help.”

“I would never.” I forced my words through clenched teeth.

Rebecca laughed. “Well, I know in ordinary times you’d sooner hang me than help me, but we hardly live in ordinary times, do we? Hear my offer and then consider your options. If you’d rather see your family hang than accept my bargain, I’ll send you on your way.”

“Never,” I repeated.

“No?” she asked. “Lady Bridget, you cannot be insensible to how desperate your position has become. You have made an enemy of York’s most feared man, and tell me, what friends do you have left? And I don’t mean the women—they will stand by you come Judgment Day. But it is the men who matter, and what man will hazard all for your sake?”

She paused for a moment, knowing full well I could not refute her claim.

“All your friends are fled or dead,” Rebecca continued. “The very best you can hope is that Joseph Hodgson will only drive you from the city. But even that may be a fond hope. His fury at Mark Preston’s disappearance was something to behold. He will have his revenge. If you do not join me, he will hang the both of you for murder.”

She paused for a moment and let her words sink in. I still could find no answer that would not choke me.

“While you consider my offer, I must ask you one more thing.” By now Rebecca’s smile seemed to cover her entire face. I’d never seen her so satisfied. “What did you do with Preston’s body? It is an impressive feat to kill such a man, but to dispose of his corpse as well? It is not as if you could simply cast him into a privy.”

In an instant I knew that she was jesting about the murder of her infant grandson, who had been thrown into a public jakes and left to die in a pile of shit. A roar fit for a beast tore from by throat as I gave voice to the fury I’d held inside ever since that killing. I flew at Rebecca, my arms flailing wildly, bent on exacting justice for the lost child. Blood cried out for blood, and I would have hers. My hands found Rebecca’s throat, and my muscles sang with joy as they tightened on her neck. It was not the hangman’s noose, but it would do.

Rebecca fell backward onto the bedframe behind her, and I threw myself on top. I felt her hands battering my face, but for all the effect they had, they might as well have been striking someone else. I was dimly aware of a voice shouting my name, and through the fog of my anger I wondered how Rebecca could speak with my hands clamped on her gullet. I redoubled my effort to choke the life from her body, thankful that the years of delivering children had strengthened my hands for this task.

I could feel Rebecca’s strength beginning to fade when I was knocked from on top of her. I screamed in rage as I lost my hold of her neck and tumbled to the floor. I fought to regain my feet so I could resume my murderous work, and only then realized that Martha sat on top of me, holding my wrists. I twisted my arms in desperate hope of freeing them and lashed out like an unbroken colt, but she would not be thrown.

“Bridget, you must stop.” I do not know how many times she said the words before I heard them. Eventually I ceased my struggles and peered past Martha to see if I’d accomplished my goal. To my dismay, Rebecca had pulled herself upright and sat on the edge of the bed, her head between her knees. Her shoulders heaved as she tried to regain her breath. I tried once again to free myself from Martha’s grip but could not.

“You must stop,” she repeated. “Your revenge can wait. For Will’s sake, and Tree’s, we must hear her out.”

I breathed deeply and nodded.

Martha looked at me distrustfully and did not release my wrists.

“I’m done,” I said at last. “I won’t hurt her.”

Martha helped me to my feet, and we turned to face Rebecca. My assault had knocked her hat askew, and a thin trickle of blood ran from one nostril to the corner of her mouth. Even in the dim light of the room I could see the marks my hands had left on her neck—by morning she would have terrible bruising. Her breathing was quick and ragged; every few breaths she would cough and then spit blood onto the floor. After a moment she looked up at me with hooded eyes. In my time as a midwife I had made more than a few women into my enemies, but none had ever stared at me with the pure hatred I saw in Rebecca Hooke’s face.

She tried to speak, but only a weak mewling sound escaped her throat. She paused and tried again. “Now, if we are to hang Joseph Hodgson we must be wise as serpents,” she croaked.