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much darker explanations for Stephen’s death, and with each telling Esther became more villainous. One woman said that Esther had taken a younger lover when her husband couldn’t satisfy her. Another argued that she had succumbed to the temptations of Satan himself, and a third claimed that she had bewitched Stephen before murdering him. The last struck too close to home by suggesting that Esther blamed Stephen for her miscarriages and wanted to be shut of a husband with such weak seed. But in the minds of these women, the explanation for her actions became secondary to the enormity of her crime. This was not a crime of passion, but deliberate and cold-blooded murder, and one that threatened all order. If wives murdered their husbands, servants would soon kill their masters—or mistresses. The women said she would be lucky to escape with hanging but hoped that she would be burned. When such slander began, I tried to remind the women that Esther was a friend, but I spoke too late. Once they turned on Esther, there was nothing I could do to save her reputation.
    Powerless to stop such loose talk, I slipped from the room and started for home.

Chapter 6
    That night I lay in bed for many hours considering the day’s events. My mind first went to Esther Cooper’s plight, for hers was the most dire. I did not for a moment believe that she had murdered her husband, and the discovery of a vial of poison in her chamber did little to change my mind. Who knew when it had been put there? In a busy household such as the Coopers’, any number of guests or servants could have hidden it. But I could not see any way to help her. She was in gaol, and in the morning the Lord Mayor would have his trial. It seemed clear that the only possible result of such a farcical proceeding would be conviction and execution. I prayed to the Lord that Esther would somehow avoid the terrible fate that seemed so near. I also considered how I might address the rumors that Anne Goodwin was with child. Rebecca Hooke would never allow me to question her, for even raising the issue would bring shame on her household. But I knew that Anne’s mother, Margaret, lived in the city and resolved to speak to her first. If she knew of her daughter’s condition, she might convince Anne to slip away from her mistress and talk to me.
    In the morning, I found Martha in better spirits, and with only a little coaxing she agreed to accompany me to meet Margaret Goodwin. The Goodwins lived on the northern edge of the city, in St. John del Pyke, one of York’s poorest parishes. Martha and I walked up Stonegate and the Minster towers came into view, bathed in sunlight. Even after years living in the city, I was struck by the majesty of the cathedral, and I said a prayer that the Lord would see it safely through our wars. The so-called godly complained so long and loud about the beauty of churches, I sometimes wondered if they might be of a different, more barbaric stock than most Englishmen. I was no Papist, but I could not see God becoming enraged over a stained-glass window, silver candlesticks, or a brass reading desk. I shuddered to think what fate awaited the Minster and our parish churches if the fever-brained rebels and their schismatic preachers took control of the city. We turned southeast at the Minster and wound our way through the city’s narrow streets until we reached the square tower of Holy Trinity Church. I pointed it out to Martha.
    “I thought Holy Trinity was on the other side of the Ouse, past your brother’s house,” she said.
    “York has so many churches, they had to share names,” I said with a laugh. “This one is Holy Trinity, Goodramgate, the other Holy Trinity, Micklegate.” She nodded, and I continued. “There are three parishes called All Saints, two each named after St. Helen, St. Michael, St. Martin, and St. Mary.” She shook her head in wonder. “If you pay attention to the neighborhood they are in, you won’t get too