“What do you mean for us to do?” I asked.
“You and yours will leave the city before the month is out,” he replied. “Where you go is none of my concern, but go you must.”
“When can we return?” I asked. “You cannot banish us forever. This is our home.”
“Return?” he asked as if the thought had not occurred to him. “Any time after I breathe my last. Then you can come back to York and trouble some other man.”
“Then you’ll forgive me if I do not wish you well.” I heard my voice speaking the words as if on its own volition.
To my relief (and for the first time in my memory), the Lord Mayor laughed aloud. “No, Lady Bridget, given the circumstances, I cannot fault your lack of charity.” He suddenly became serious, and once again his eyes found mine. “But you will leave. There will be no reprieve of this sentence.”
His voice, his expression, everything about him made clear that he had no intention of changing his mind. I bowed my head and accepted his judgment.
“Good,” he said. “Your nephew will see you home. You can say your farewells then.”
As soon as we stepped outside, Martha turned to Will and grasped his hands. “Come with us,” she implored him. “There is no reason you cannot. We all can go to Hereford, and we’ll marry there.”
I felt my heart being rent in two as Will pulled his hands from Martha’s and turned away. “I cannot,” he said.
“Will—,” I started to say.
He turned to me, his eyes wet with tears. “No, Aunt Bridget. No. Do you think that I can simply forget what has happened? What you did?”
“Will, we had no choice,” Martha protested.
“You I can forgive more easily,” he replied. I recognized the bitter tone in Will’s voice, and knew what he was about to say.
“Will, don’t—,” I said. But he was not going to listen to me or any woman.
“You were misled. You did not know what you were doing. It was my aunt.”
Martha’s expression of surprise and pain turned to anger in mere moments.
“I did not know what I was doing, William Hodgson?” she cried. “I did not know? I’ll tell you what I know. I know that your brother was a cruel and ambitious man, who would destroy anyone who stood in his way. And I know that your aunt was the only soul in York courageous enough to resist him. Out of her love for you, she hazarded her life and estate to rescue you from gaol, and then she perjured herself to ensure that you were not hanged for George Breary’s murder. I am proud to have played a part in her plans. But make no mistake: I knew exactly what I was doing, and I would have done it myself if your aunt had not. If you are too blind to see what is before your eyes, I cannot show it to you.”
For a moment I hoped that Will might see the wisdom in Martha’s words, but the pain at his brother’s death was too fresh. Without bothering to respond, he turned away from us and gazed toward the Minster. I resolved to try another approach.
“Will, I am the only family you have,” I said. “And you can take Martha as your wife. Come to Hereford. I will make you steward of one of my estates. It will be a good life.”
“Is killing my brother not enough?” Will asked, his voice tight with grief. He mourned the death of his brother, of course, but I think he had resigned himself to losing Martha and me as well. “You wish to take me from the city my family has ruled for generations? My father and his father were Lord Mayors of York! You would have me content myself with life as a country shepherd?”
“Will, please,” I persisted. “Come with us.”
He turned to look at both of us, sorrow deeply etched on his face. He seemed to have aged a decade in mere weeks.
“Someday, perhaps,” he said. His words sang with sorrow. “I have lost so much this year. My father, my godfather, and now my brother. Someday I will forgive you for your place in all this, but I cannot do that yet. It is too soon.” He turned to Martha and took her hands. “I love you Martha Hawkins. And someday I will marry you. But not now.”
Without another word or backward glance, Will turned and walked away.
* * *
The weeks that followed consisted of frantic preparations for our flight from the city. I wrote to friends and family who lived between York and my estate in Pontrilas, begging their hospitality during the journey. Each day I visited a few of my city friends and, as delicately as I could, called in my debts. With that money, I purchased a carriage and horses, for I knew that once in Hereford I would need one of my own. All the while, Hannah and Martha packed our goods and arranged to have them sent to Hereford. And all the while, we hoped and prayed that Will would change his mind and rejoin our family.