The Witching of the King

by Greg Hoover

  The Witching of the King

  Greg Hoover

  © Copyright Greg Hoover 2021

  Black Rose Writing | Texas

  © 2021 by Greg Hoover

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.

  The final approval for this literary material is granted by the author.

  First digital version

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Print ISBN: 978-1-68433-707-1

  PUBLISHED BY BLACK ROSE WRITING

  www.blackrosewriting.com

  Print edition produced in the United States of America

  Thank you so much for reading one of our

  Occult / Supernatural novels.

  If you enjoyed the experience, please check out our recommendation for your next great read!

  Absolute Darkness by Tina O’Hailey

  “Tina O’Hailey nails it. She has a great talent, a gift. Character development is exceptional, the scenes are set so carefully that I found myself immersed in each.”

  –Ken Bangs, author of Guardians in Blue

  I dedicate this novel to my wife Kristen and our four wonderful children, Brenden, Ethan, Sophia, and Zoe.

  Acknowledgements

  Many people have helped make this novel a reality. First, I want to thank my wife and children. Their patience, technical support, proofreading, and unconditional love made this novel possible. Next, I want to say a special thank you to my son Ethan. His literary feedback, excellent editorial skills, and enthusiasm have enriched my writing process. Finally, I want to thank my publisher, Black Rose Writing. Their expertise, guidance, and support have enhanced my novel.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Recommended Reading

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  About The Author

  Note From The Author

  BRW Info

  “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.”

  Exodus 22:18

  King James Version

  Chapter One

  January 1604, on the road to Hampton Court Palace

  near London, England

  Wolves closed in behind us, snarling and snapping.

  “Faster!” our driver shouted as he cracked the reins, and the horses surged forward.

  We sped through the moonlit forest, horse hooves pounding. Our carriage pitched back and forth as we bounced over the bumpy road. Ice crunched beneath our wheels as we raced through the fog. After a few tense moments, the bark of the wolves grew faint.

  “I think we outran them, Will,” said Richard Burbage. His dark hair framed his smile as it spread across his bearded face. My friend was thirty-seven years old—four years younger than me—and at the height of his acting career.

  “If only we could outrun the plague so easily,” I said.

  The old carriage creaked as we rolled along. The scent of dried flowers filled the cab. I gazed out of the window at the barren oak trees standing watch in the moonlight. Pulling a wool blanket up over my ears, I settled back into my seat. I took a deep breath and blew on my hands, warming them.

  The plague had begun the previous year and spread like wildfire across England. Some said it was a punishment from our Lord for heresy. Others said the terrible illness was the birth pangs of the Apocalypse, a harbinger of the end of days. But many feared that the Black Death had still another source—witchcraft.

  “The sickness is spreading fast,” said Richard, breathing out a white cloud. “If only there was something we could do about it.”

  “Well, our new king has made some recommendations,” I said. “He wrote a book on the plague and how to fight it.”

  “Yes,” said my wife, Anne Hathaway, her flaxen hair neatly tucked under a lace-lined shawl to keep out the cold. “And doctors try to treat victims of the plague by purging and bloodletting.”

  “And with vinegar, rue, and walnuts,” I added. “Or with roasted onions mixed with butter and garlic.”

  “Stop,” said Richard, smiling, “you’re making me hungry. Besides, I don’t know how well these measures are working.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right,” said Anne. She breathed through a handkerchief laced with vinegar, another way of protecting oneself from the contagion. “The Black Death still rages throughout the land. Fear drapes over England like the burial shroud over Queen Elizabeth.”

  We hit another bump in the road, rattling our coach. “And now a Scottish king sits on the English throne,” added my teenaged daughter, Judith. She always had a fascination with royal intrigue.

  I can still remember how Judith looked at that age. Her chestnut hair was long and shiny, even in the dim light. Her eyes were the color of dark amber tea. Judith clasped rosemary and frankincense in her hands. The new king had many such recommendations for warding off the plague.

  “Well, at least King James was sensible enough to invite us to perform at the Hampton Court Conference,” said Richard. His hearty laughter drew me back into the present moment. “It’s wise to have something pleasant to keep the bishops and the Puritans from killing each other at that remote palace.”

  “Are you going to do something from your new play?” asked Judith.

  “No,” I replied, smiling at her. “Amidst all this gloom, it’s best to perform something light—A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

  “I’m glad we are going to the palace a few days early,” said Richard, looking out the window. “Since the Globe Theatre closed because of the plague, it’s been difficult to earn a living. I want to have time to make sure that everything is perfect for our new patron.” He turned his head and looked at me. “How is your new play coming along?”

  “I think it has potential,” I replied, always eager for feedback about my writing. “Have you read the excerpt I gave you?”

  “Yes,” said Richard, smelling the sweet scent of the herbs in his hand. “To be or not to be, that is the question: Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end
them.”

  “Very good,” I nodded, happy to learn that he had already committed some lines to memory. With a new royal patron, I too felt the pressure to make a good first impression for our theater company. Especially considering that he was so unfamiliar to us all.

  While I was gazing out the window into the darkness, lightning flashed. Deep in the moonlit forest, there was something strange. Five figures, dressed in hooded robes, were standing in a circle. Sitting up straight, I strained to see into the night. Lightning flashed again, but this time there was nothing except an empty clearing in the foggy forest.

  Our coach hit another pothole, jarring me out of my thoughts. I noticed a new actor with our theater company watching us. He was young—maybe nineteen—and he had honey-blond hair and delicate features, making him an excellent choice to play the female roles in our plays.

  “I’ve been meaning to introduce myself,” I said to our new actor. “I’m William Shakespeare,” I nodded at my friend, “and this is Richard Burbage.”

  “Delighted to meet you both,” he smiled at us. “I’m Samuel Winston.” His voice was soft, again making him the perfect actor to play female roles for our company.

  “Where are you from?” asked Richard.

  “Bristol,” said Samuel.

  “Where the plague began,” said Richard, glancing at me.

  “Yes,” Samuel raised his vinegar-laced handkerchief to cover his mouth and nose. “Our neighbor’s boy was the first to succumb to the sickness. His father was a butcher on the main road between Bristol and London. The plague seems to have spread from there.”

  “How many died in your area?”

  “Hundreds,” Samuel shrugged. “Perhaps thousands.”

  “I fear it will be tens of thousands before it’s all over,” I said, shaking my head. “If only there was a solution.”

  “There is,” said young Winston, blowing on his hands to warm them. “Or at least, there is according to our new king.”

  “And what would that solution be?”

  “Why, the burning of witches,” he replied.

  There was a long pause. Finally, Richard broke the silence.

  “I heard there has been a great deal of that to the north,” he said, looking concerned.

  “That’s right,” I said. “Our new king is enthusiastic in battling witchcraft.”

  “The reputation of King James has preceded him,” said Judith. “A decade ago, in Scotland, the king’s concerns about witchcraft lead to the arrest of hundreds of people. Many of them burned at the stake or hanged.”

  “I’m told he is a brilliant scholar,” said Anne. “But the science of demons fascinates him.”

  “Yes, he even wrote a book on black magic and witchcraft lore,” said Judith. “It’s called Demonology, I think.”

  “That’s right,” said Samuel, looking out the window.

  We rode in silence for a few moments, the hoot of an owl and the wheels of our coach crunching the icy snow the only sound.

  “I suppose,” I said, breaking the silence, “that it’s only natural to seek for a cause to explain the suffering of those we love.”

  “Some say that the witches became a problem long before this plague,” said Samuel.

  “What are you referring to?” asked Richard.

  “Many things,” said Samuel. “Animals have died, houses have burned down, harvests have gone poorly. It’s said that witches even tried to kill King James by raising storms to sink the ship he was on.”

  “You attribute all that to witchcraft?” I asked.

  Samuel raised his handkerchief to his mouth and looked at me. “You don’t?”

  In the distance, a wolf howled. Not knowing how to respond to Samuel, I turned my attention to my wife and daughter.

  “What are you two whispering about?” I asked with a smile, but from the glance my wife gave me, it appeared I had interrupted something important.

  “Oh, the same old discussion about why Judith can’t act in your plays,” Anne said, her cheeks pink from the cold. “As I keep telling you, Judith, it is neither a proper nor a legal activity for a lady.”

  “Nonsense,” said Judith, waving her hand as though to brush away the remark. “I will never understand why it’s illegal for women to act on stage. Men never play female characters right. No offense to you, Samuel.”

  “None taken,” Samuel replied. “Have you ever been to Hampton Court Palace before, my lady?”

  “No,” said Judith. “And I’m not sure I want to go there now.”

  “Why is that?” asked Samuel.

  “Because it’s haunted,” replied Judith, a playful grin spreading across her face.

  “Haunted?” asked Samuel.

  “Oh, yes.” Judith’s eyes were sparkling. “King Henry VIII’s fifth wife, Catherine Howard, haunts the palace. Henry’s guards arrested her there, but she broke free. She ran screaming down the hallway towards the Chapel Royal, where King Henry was praying.”

  “What happened then?” asked Samuel, intrigued by the story.

  “She begged for mercy, but found none.” Judith turned away, and gazed out the window of the coach. “They say Catherine’s ghost still runs down the gallery hallway, screaming for mercy.”

  “Judith,” said my wife Anne in a firm tone. “That’s enough.”

  “Don’t be too hard on her, my dear,” I said, reaching over and holding her hand. “This has been a tough time for all of us.”

  “I think it will rain,” said Judith. “I can smell it in the air.”

  After a moment, rain pattered against the roof of our coach.

  “Caused by witches, no doubt,” said Samuel, “trying to stop the conference.” I couldn’t decide if he was serious, or making a jest.

  “How long until we arrive at Hampton Court?” asked Anne.

  “Not long now,” said Richard, extending his head to look out the window. “In fact, I think I see it up ahead now.”

  I looked out the window. Up ahead was a large complex of structures, with lights in many windows. Lightning flashed, and for a moment it illuminated the end of our journey—the Great Gatehouse at Hampton Court Palace. The promise of warm fires, soft beds, and light in the darkness, lifted our spirits; there was laughter and merriment all around.

  As we climbed out of the coach, our muscles stiff from the journey, something ran across the path in front of us.

  “Look,” Judith said, laughing with delight. “A little black cat.”

  “A bad omen,” said Samuel, as he turned his collar up against the cold.

  Chapter Two

  I awoke the next morning to a room filled with light.

  The gloom of the night before had lifted, and the faint scent of fresh-baked bread was in the air. We arrived so late the evening before that we went straight to our rooms in the Base Court. Anne, Judith, and I shared a small room with white walls and a large window. Our daughter was sitting by the window in the bright morning light. She looked out over the frozen gardens.

  “It’s so lovely here, even in winter,” said Judith, seeing I was awake. “I feel like a princess.”

  “You are, my dear,” I said with a smile. “Where is your mother?”

  “She’s gone to find breakfast,” said Judith. “Shall we join her?”

  Famished, I agreed without protest. We stepped out into the hallway, and the palace was bustling with life. We made our way down the hall, hoping to find the dining room. Exquisite paintings adorned the walls. While admiring a portrait of Henry VIII, I became lost in the brushstrokes.

  “No
w there was a king,” came a voice from behind me. I turned around and was greeted by the warm smile of a thin man in his late thirties. He had short black hair and a well-trimmed beard.

  “Well, he certainly was…” I paused, choosing my words carefully, “of impressive carriage.”

  “Quite,” the man laughed and introduced himself. “I’m Myles Lewis, a chief servant here at Hampton Court Palace. Is everything to your liking?”

  “Yes,” said Judith. “It’s magnificent here, and I love the artwork.”

  “I’m William Shakespeare, and this is my daughter, Judith.”

  “Very nice to meet you both,” said Myles.

  “Charmed, I’m sure,” said Judith. “Sir, I’m afraid we’re famished. Would you please direct us to the dining hall?”

  “I will do better than that, my lady,” said Myles. “If you would please follow me, I will lead you there myself.”

  Myles escorted us down the hall to the busy dining room. People having breakfast packed the Great Hall. The sound of dishes rattling and people talking filled the air, inviting us into the room. On the walls hung beautiful tapestries, made from silk and wool, and stitched together with silver and gold thread.

  Just then, the sound of a child crying filled the dining room. I turned my attention away from admiring the tapestries. On the floor, a little girl with blond hair was sitting, tears streaming down her cheeks. She held her knee, which she had skinned on the floor. A tall, heavyset man dressed as a priest came to the girl’s aid. His bright smile, curly brown hair, and rosy cheeks made me like him immediately.

  “Who is that?” I asked Myles.

  “That’s Martin Page,” said Myles. “He’s the new head priest, serving the king in the Chapel Royal.”

  Father Page reached his hand behind the girl’s ear and pretended to pull a shilling from thin air. The little girl laughed with delight, took the coin, and hugged the priest. He hugged her back, his warm smile lighting up the room. The little girl’s mother beamed as she thanked the priest. She and her child giggled together as they walked off hand in hand, forgetting all about the skinned knee.