The Witching of the King

by Greg Hoover

  “What a kind man,” said Judith, smiling at me.

  The scent of fresh-baked bread in the Great Hall made my mouth water. I scanned the room and saw my wife. Anne waved to us from her table, where she sat with Samuel Winston, Richard Burbage, and other members of our acting company.

  “I see our friends,” I told Myles. “Thank you for your help.”

  “My pleasure, my lord,” said Myles. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other matters to attend to.” He bowed and left the busy hall.

  “I would love to work here,” said Judith. “Maybe meet and marry a prince one day.”

  “No one you marry will ever be your equal,” I smiled at her as we sat at the table with the rest of our party. “Whether they are prince or pauper.”

  “Look up,” said Burbage, pointing overhead. “I love that hammer-beam roof.”

  “It reminds me of a medieval castle,” said Anne. “But nice and warm.”

  “And dripping with enchantment,” said Judith.

  Warm bread rolls were on the table, along with dried fruit and hot tea. We ate together and talked about our upcoming performance.

  “This is where we’ll perform,” said Richard, looking around the Great Hall. “I can hardly wait.”

  I nodded and imagined A Midsummers Night’s Dream coming to life in this performance space. This location had great potential for theater. I dreamed of one day moving our acting company here permanently.

  “It’s so nice not to have that awful plague breathing down our necks,” said Anne. “I wish we could stay here until it passes.”

  “The plague is not the only thing to fear,” said Samuel. “There may be other terrors we know not of, even in this mighty palace.”

  “Please,” said Judith, munching on a piece of dried apple. “May we enjoy the moment and not dream up phantoms to fear?”

  “I agree,” I said. “Besides, we have work to do to prepare for our upcoming performance.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Samuel. “Please forgive me, my lady.”

  Smoke from a nearby fireplace backed up into the room. Two servants investigated to find out what was causing the problem. One of them reached inside the chimney with a metal hook and dislodged an old shoe. I thought a shoe being in a chimney curious, and even a little humorous. However, the servants now seemed more concerned about the shoe than the smoke. I wondered aloud why they seemed so upset.

  “You don’t know, sir?” asked Samuel, looking surprised.

  “I’m afraid not,” I replied, intrigued by his seriousness.

  “Why, it’s a way to ward off witchcraft,” he said. “An old shoe carries the scent of the one who wore it. When placed in a chimney, the fire intensifies the odor and it becomes a decoy.”

  “You mean the witch would go after the old shoe instead of the person?” Anne asked.

  “That’s the belief, my lady,” Samuel said, finishing his tea.

  A group of young women nearby were talking together with animated faces. Their expressions ranged from terror to exhilaration. Judith went to ask them what they were so excited about. In a moment, she returned, her eyes wide and shining.

  “People have just seen the ghost of Catherine Howard outside the Chapel Royal,” said Judith, clapping her hands.

  “A ghost?” said Richard. “What happened?”

  “They were preparing for the king’s noonday Communion service when she appeared in the hall. Everyone dropped what they were doing and came running to see the ghost. I’m going! Who wants to go with me?”

  “I do,” said Samuel. “That is, if Master and Lady Shakespeare permit it.”

  I glanced at Anne, and she nodded her approval. Samuel was young, and I felt that since our performance was still a few days away, he had time this morning to have a little adventure. Besides, I was glad to have someone to look out for Judith in the busy palace.

  “Enjoy yourselves,” I said, remembering what it was like to be young.

  “Come on,” Judith took Samuel’s hand and pulled him behind her. “I hope we’re not too late!”

  A stately woman came over to our table. She looked to be in her early fifties, and her red hair was greying.

  “Pardon me,” she said. “My name is Lady Sarah Goody.”

  We introduced ourselves and asked her to join us. She agreed and sat next to my wife. Anne poured Lady Goody a steaming hot cup of tea. I noticed that the hall was clearing of diners. It would soon be time to build the set for our performance.

  “The reason I wanted to speak with you is to ask you about the man who left with the young lady.” Lady Goody took a sip of her tea. “He looks very familiar, but I don’t remember where I know him from.”

  “That’s Samuel Winston,” said Anne. “He is a new actor with the King’s Men.”

  “Oh, you’re with the King’s Men!” Lady Goody seemed pleased. “I saw you perform at the Globe Theatre three years ago.”

  “How wonderful,” said Anne. “And you think you know Samuel?”

  “Perhaps,” said Lady Goody, sipping her tea. “But I don’t know where I know him from.”

  “Could it be that he merely looks like someone you know, my lady?” I asked. “A helpful feature of a successful actor is to have an appearance that can be easily mistaken for someone else.”

  “Yes, perhaps,” said Lady Goody. “But I don’t think so in this case. Oh, this will drive me mad!”

  “Well, I hope you can join us for our upcoming play,” Richard smiled.

  “Yes, I plan to,” said Lady Goody, smiling. “Now I must go. Very nice to meet you.”

  “Our pleasure,” said Anne. “May I walk you out?”

  “Thank you,” said Sarah Goody as she finished her tea. She stood, smoothed her dress with her hands, and left the hall with Anne and the last of the diners. I was glad my wife was making friends here.

  Richard and the other actors began setting up for the play, and a few servants helped rearrange the chairs and tables. We had brought basic scenery with us, and we all joined in building the set for A Midsummers Night’s Dream. I’ve always loved the sounds of setting up for a performance. Richard felt the same way. His face had a look of almost mystical rapture.

  We needed rope to secure scenery, so we asked a servant where we should look for some. He directed us to a nearby storage room; Richard and I made our way there together.

  “What do you think of our new actor?” asked Richard.

  “Samuel?” I asked. “He seems fine. Perhaps a bit melancholy.”

  “Yes,” said Richard as we entered the storage room. “But with the plague beginning so close to his home, that’s understandable.”

  “Yes,” I said, lighting the stub of a candle to search the dark room. “Besides, being dramatic is part of being an actor.”

  Assorted boxes and supplies filled the room. Richard sneezed, startling me.

  “Oh, bother!” said Richard. “It’s so dusty in here!”

  We began searching for the rope, but had difficulty finding it in the crowded storage room. We only had limited time, because our small candle stub was about to burn out. Richard moved two large boxes, opening access to a space with lots of assorted items. We found wooden pegs, nails, and tacks, but not rope.

  We had almost given up our search when Richard at last found a coil of rope, entwined in a pile of kitchen supplies. When he pulled it free, something dropped to the floor. I reached down, picked it up, and turned it over in my hands. It was a small wax doll. The waxen figure was about four inches tall and had a crown on its head. There was a small stake stabbing it in the heart.

&
nbsp; “Look at this,” I said, moving the candle closer to the wax figure. “It has a word scratched into it.”

  “Let me see that,” said Richard, taking the wax doll and candle. “It says, James.”

  “What do you think it is?” My skin crawled.

  After a long pause, Richard lowered the wax figure and looked at me. The flickering light from the dying candle illumined his face. There was something about his expression that filled me with dread.

  “It’s a witch’s poppet,” said Richard, just as our candle died out.

  Chapter Three

  “What should we do?” I asked Richard as we walked back towards the Great Hall.

  “Do?” he asked. “Why should we do anything?”

  “The witch’s poppet is an effigy of the king,” I said, looking at the wax figure in my hand.

  “Is it?” said Richard. “Besides, we have a job to do. We only have a few days to build the set for A Midsummers Night’s Dream and rehearse the show.”

  “We have an obligation to His Majesty,” I said as we entered the Great Hall. “His life could be in danger.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” said Richard. “You go report this to the king, and I will supervise work on the set.”

  I was a little disappointed. I would have preferred if we went to tell the king together. But knowing he was right, I agreed. We said goodbye, and I noticed two servants, one male and one female. I hoped they could direct me to the king.

  “Pardon me,” I said, walking up to them. They were both older and heavyset. “I would like to request an audience with His Majesty the King.”

  “What did he say?” the man asked the woman. He munched on a piece of bread he found while cleaning up a table from breakfast. His grey hair was unkempt for a servant at Hampton Court Palace.

  “He asked if we found a ring!” shouted the woman into the other servant’s ear. She smiled at me. “My husband is as deaf as can be.”

  “Not a ring,” I replied. “I request an audience with the king.”

  “We haven’t found a ring,” said the man. “But if we do, we’ll let you know, my lord.”

  “Right,” said the woman. “Never keep something that’s not yours, that’s what I always say. Nothing we’re not privy to, that is.” She elbowed her husband. “Right Henry?”

  “Right Alyce,” said the man as he finished his bread. “The privy is right over there, my lord,” he said, pointing to the side entrance.

  “Not a privy—”

  “Pardon me, sir,” came a man’s voice from behind me. “My name is Thomas Winter, and this is my brother Robert. May I be of assistance?”

  The man speaking was in his early thirties, with curly-brown hair and a matching beard. Next to him stood a similar-looking man, but slightly older. Their family resemblance was unmistakable.

  Henry, the male servant, interrupted before I could answer. He pointed at me and whispered in a loud voice, “He desperately needs a privy, sir.”

  “No, I don’t,” I replied, irritated.

  “Now, now,” said Alyce, the lady servant. “No need to be embarrassed, my lord. From the high king to the lowest peasant, we all share the same throne.”

  “Indeed,” I responded, and turned to Thomas Winter. “Sir,” I said, hoping the two elderly servants would go back to work. “I wish to request an audience with the king. Would you be so kind as to assist me?”

  “And who exactly are you, sir?” asked Thomas.

  “I’m William Shakespeare, sir.”

  “Never heard of you,” said Robert, looking annoyed. “Come Thomas, we have business to attend to.”

  “You’re with the King’s Men, correct?” asked Thomas, ignoring his brother.

  “I am, my lord,” I said, bowing my head. “Where might I find His Majesty?”

  “I’m told the new king is fond of theater,” said Robert, looking at his brother.

  “Yes, I’m sure we could arrange something,” said Thomas. “Think of Hampton Court Palace as a giant spider’s web, with the king sitting at the center. Rather than getting trapped in his bureaucratic web, I suggest you wait for him outside the Chapel Royal. He’s invited a select group of Puritans, bishops, and priests to attend a private Holy Communion service with him. It’s scheduled for noon.”

  “I don’t want to intrude,” I said, not wanting to make a bad first impression with the king.

  “I will send a servant to arrange a meeting with him for you,” said Thomas. “I’m sure it will thrill him to meet an actor with His Majesty’s new theater company.”

  “Thank you,” I said, smoothing my hair in anticipation of a meeting with the new king.

  “Our pleasure,” said Robert.

  Thomas Winter gave me directions. Then he and his brother went on their way, whispering to each other. I started towards the Chapel Royal. As I was leaving the Great Hall, the servant Alyce yelled to me from across the room, “The privy is the other way, sir! The other way!”

  ***

  The hallway leading towards the Chapel Royal was quiet. The noise of the bustling palace had faded, and there was an eerie calm. It was colder in the hallway than one would have expected, and there was an unpleasant odor which I couldn’t identify. I looked at an exquisite painting of Queen Elizabeth, called the Rainbow Portrait. I became lost in the image of Her Majesty, preserved in the prime of her life. Her regal outfit, pale skin, and flaming red hair were striking. She looked quite different from the frail queen I remembered. I noticed what seemed to be a dragon or a serpent on one of her sleeves.

  “A dragon is a symbol of wisdom, they say,” came a woman’s voice from behind me.

  I turned around, and there was a lovely young woman dressed as a nurse. She had long dark hair, piercing blue eyes, and a warm smile on her face.

  “Did you know her?” I asked.

  “Oh my, yes,” said the nurse. “She was such a lovely young woman.”

  “I would imagine,” I said, picturing the elderly queen the last time I saw her before she passed into eternal life.

  “It’s nice to see her again,” said the woman, admiring the painting.

  “Pardon me, madam,” I said. “I seem to have forgotten my manners. I’m William Shakespeare.”

  “A delight to meet you,” replied the woman, smiling. “I’m Sybil Penn.”

  A man cleared his throat behind me. I turned around to find Myles Lewis, the servant whom I had met earlier that morning, looking concerned.

  “Is everything all right, sir?” he asked.

  “Yes, of course,” I replied. “I was speaking with the young lady.”

  Myles looked at me for a moment, unblinking. “And what young lady is that, sir?” he asked.

  “Myles Lewis,” I said. “This is Sybil Penn.” I turned and gestured to where the young woman had been standing, but she was gone.

  “Sir,” said Myles. “Are you making sport of me?”

  “She was here a moment ago,” I said, confused. “She appeared to be a nurse by her dress.”

  “My lord,” said Myles, looking serious. “Sybil Penn was a nurse to Queen Elizabeth here at Hampton Court Palace. She bravely cared for the Queen when Elizabeth had smallpox, but Sybil contracted the illness herself. She gave her life caring for Her Majesty.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said, wondering if I had missed something.

  “She is a ghost, my lord,” said Myles. “Guests report seeing her from time to time in the palace.”

  A cool breeze passed by my cheek, and I shivered. Not long ago, my daughter left for this very hall
way. Reports of the ghost of Catherine Howard drew her here, like a moth to a flame. I worried about her.

  “Come, sir,” said Myles. “His Majesty has invited you to attend a private Holy Communion service in the Chapel Royal.”

  ***

  The sheer beauty of the royal chapel was remarkable. Overhead was a gorgeous vaulted ceiling, and the stained glass was exquisite. Incense wafted gently throughout the chapel. The king’s private pew looked down on the nave. Sitting in the pew, eyes shut in private prayer, was a well-dressed man. He had curly auburn hair and a short, pointed beard, not unlike my own. I could tell at once it was the king.

  The service began, and the voices of the choir filled the air, resonating throughout the chapel. I looked around me at the thirty or so fellow worshipers, and I noticed a few faces I recognized. There was Archbishop Whitgift, dressed in elegant clothes. Next to him was Richard Bancroft, the anti-puritan. There were also several well-known Puritans. They were gathered around John Reynolds, the president of Corpus Christi College at Oxford. It was certainly a diverse group.

  Father Martin Page, the priest who comforted the little girl with the skinned knee, was the Celebrant. The liturgy flowed along smoothly, through the various Scripture readings, Collects, and music. I felt inspired as we moved through the worship. We were preparing spiritually, step by step, to receive Communion together as one body. This diverse group of believers coming together in common worship gave me hope for the future of England.

  “Likewise, after supper he took the cup,” said the Father Page, lifting the chalice.

  Some Puritans looked away from this liturgical action. “Priestcraft,” one of them whispered.

  “If you please,” someone muttered. “This is neither the time nor the place for petty politics.”