The Witching of the King

by Greg Hoover

  “And when he had given thanks,” the Celebrant continued, “he gave it to them, saying, Drink ye all of this, for this is my blood of the new testament which is shed for you and for many, for remission of sins: do this as oft as ye shall drink it in remembrance of me.”

  The priest lifted the chalice to his lips to receive the Sacrament. A man sitting with the Puritans spoke out in a loud voice, startling me.

  “Pardon me,” he said. He was a middle-aged man with short-black hair and a patchy beard. “His Majesty should have the honor of receiving the chalice first.”

  “No, please,” the king spoke, rising from his pew. “The upcoming Conference is to determine possible changes in English worship. But for now, please continue according to the rubrics of the Book of Common Prayer.”

  “Your Majesty,” said a young man. He had blond hair and a long beard and dressed as a priest. “In this case, I have to agree with the Puritans. Please do us the honor of receiving first.”

  “Please continue,” said King James to Father Page. “We will have no more disturbances during worship.”

  The priest continued with the service and took a sip from the chalice. He cleaned the rim with a small square of white linen. He then turned to the assisting priest and offered him the Sacrament. Before his assistant could drink, however, Father Page began coughing. His coughing became more violent and his face turned bright red. His assistant reached out to help him, but Martin Page collapsed onto the floor. The assisting priest knelt over the fallen body and then called out, “Lord have mercy!” He made the sign of the cross, horror spreading across his face. He then looked at us and shouted, “Help him!”

  We ran to the chancel steps and gathered around the priest lying on the floor. His face was now purple, his tongue badly swollen, and his eyes were squeezed tight. His hands were clenched and locked. He wasn’t moving. The royal physician, an elderly but spry man, pushed his way through the small crowd. He bent down to examine the victim.

  “He is dead,” said the physician. “And what is more, he has been murdered.”

  Chapter Four

  “Murder most foul,” said a voice from behind me. I turned and saw it was King James.

  “I’m afraid so, my lord,” said William Butler, the court physician. “I’ve seen the purple face coloring, swollen tongue, and twisted hands before. He was poisoned.”

  “Hemlock, I would suppose?” asked the king, kneeling down to inspect the victim’s face.

  “I don’t think so, Your Majesty,” said the physician. “I believe he was poisoned by hebenon.”

  “Hebenon?” asked the king.

  “Yes,” said the physician. “I once examined the body of a man murdered by his wife; she poured a little hebenon in his ear as he slept.”

  “So, drinking it would be quite effective,” I said. “And very rapid.”

  “Indeed,” said Butler, standing up to face me. There was the odor of strong liquor on his breath; this surprised me, considering it was only noon. “Swift as quicksilver,” he said, “it courses through the natural gates of the body.”

  “Provide him with ministrations for the time of death,” said King James to the assistant priest. “After that, have him taken to the physicians’ room for further examination.”

  “Yes, my lord,” said the young priest, wiping his sweaty brow with his sleeve.

  “No one here is to speak of this to anyone without my permission,” said the king. “Do I make myself clear?”

  We all murmured our understanding of the king’s directive.

  “I would like to speak to you in private,” the king said to me.

  “Of course, my lord,” I stammered, surprised that he wanted to speak with me. My stomach tightened.

  “Walk with me, please,” said King James, and he turned to leave the chapel.

  I lagged a moment, still unsure about his intentions.

  “Now, good sir,” said the king in a firm voice, and so I followed him out of the Chapel Royal.

  As we walked down the hall towards the Great Watching Chamber, the king surprised me again by chatting about theater. He asked me minor questions about the art of acting. He even asked if he could call me “Will.” My stomach relaxed. The king gave orders to the Yeoman of the Guard who stood watch at the door that we not be disturbed. My nervousness returned as we entered the Great Watching Chamber.

  The room was spacious and beautiful, with a warm fire, plush chairs, and a thick carpet. It had a gilded ceiling, and King Henry VIII’s coat of arms was still there. It would have been wonderful to inspect the various paintings on the walls, but now was not the time.

  “I was told that you had something important to tell me,” said the king. “Does it relate to the murder of the priest?”

  “No, my lord,” I said, reaching into my pocket. “I mean, I’m not sure, my lord.”

  “Please speak candidly, good sir,” said the king.

  “I found this in a supply room.” I pulled out the wax figurine and showed it to the king. “Do you know what it is, my lord?”

  “Indeed,” replied the king, taking the wax figure from me and inspecting it with great interest. “It is a witch’s poppet.”

  “Yes, my lord,” I said.

  “And it has my name and a crown on it,” said the king, fascinated by the poppet. “And a knife through my heart.”

  “I’m afraid so, Your Majesty,” I said.

  “Do you think the killer meant the poisoned chalice for me?” asked the king.

  “I don’t know, my lord,” I said. “Perhaps.”

  “Will,” said the king. “An assassination attempt is serious business. And I’m in a difficult situation. I can’t trust anyone here at Hampton Court. If word leaks out about the murder of the cleric, it will jeopardize the success of the conference. It may even touch off a civil war.”

  The king wasn’t exaggerating. England was like a stack of dried firewood, and all it needed was a tiny spark to burst into flames.

  “I wish I could help you, my lord,” I said, not knowing what else to say.

  “Ah,” said the king. “But you can.”

  The king crossed the room and poured a glass of red wine. He offered a glass to me, but I declined. He then sat by the fire, lost in thought for a moment. He raised his glass to take a sip of the wine, and then stopped, perhaps remembering the recent incident. He sat the wine glass on a nearby table and stood to face me.

  “I want you to investigate this murder for me,” said the king.

  “Your Majesty has better trained staff for this matter than me, my lord,” I said, surprised by his request.

  “That’s just it, Will,” he said. “I can’t trust any of my staff. I need an outsider. I need you.”

  “I’m flattered, my lord,” I replied. “But with the upcoming performance and commitments to my family, I’m afraid that I don’t have the time.”

  “Are you refusing your country in her hour of need?” asked the king. “And not only your king and country, but the royal patron of your theater company?”

  I winced. With the Globe Theater closed because of the plague, we were all in terrible financial shape. How would I feed my family, and what about the other actors in the King’s Men? We needed the support of our new royal patron more than ever. Also, I was hoping to keep Anne and Judith safe here at the palace. Here they were far away from the plague. For all these reasons, I needed the support of King James.

  “My lord,” I said, “it would be an honor to help. However, I don’t have the authority to investigate.”

  The king sat at his desk, took out a parchment, quill, and ink,
and began writing. He was silent for a few moments as he worked. He then stamped the letter with his royal seal and held it out to me. I took the letter and read it. It gave me the king’s authority to investigate matters on his behalf. I noticed he also gave me a title in the letter, Witchfinder General. I winced again.

  The king handed me an envelope, and he smiled with satisfaction. I folded the fine paper, put it in the envelope, and placed it in my breast pocket.

  “Now you have the authority, Will,” he said, and shook my hand. “Start your investigation by interviewing William Butler. He was the physician who was at the murder.”

  “I shall, Your Majesty,” I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt.

  “I suppose I should warn you he is unusual, unconventional, and seldom sober,” said the king. “But he is without a doubt the finest physician in England.”

  The king walked over to the fire and warmed his hands. I joined him, realizing how cold my hands were, which is how they often felt when I was nervous.

  “He came to my attention last year,” said the king. “He revived a clergyman from a coma by placing him inside a freshly butchered body of a cow. Now that is medicine!”

  “I would imagine that woke him up, my lord,” I said.

  “Yes,” the king smiled. “And I realized then that I wanted this physician at Hampton Court this winter.”

  “Thank you for your guidance, Your Majesty,” I replied, nodding, and started to leave.

  “One more thing, Will,” said the king. “This conference is very important. The conflict between the Anglicans and the Puritans is at a boiling point. The results of this meeting could impact Christianity for a thousand years. Your investigation needs to be quiet, quick, and independent; I have my hands full with the conference.” He looked at me with a firm expression. “Do I make myself clear?”

  “I understand,” I bowed my head, excused myself, and stepped out of the Great Watching Chamber. I had a lot of work ahead of me and could expect no help from the king or his staff.

  Lord, I prayed as I walked down the hallway, heading towards the physician’s chambers. The last thing I wanted was an adventure.

  ***

  I knocked on the door to William Butler’s examination room. There was a loud crash, and a man’s voice said, “Just a moment!” After a few more bangs, clanks, and the sound of pottery breaking, the door opened. There stood Doctor Butler, the physician I had met earlier.

  “Pardon me, sir,” said the doctor, brushing his white, untamed hair back with his hands. He appeared to be about seventy-years old. “I’m afraid my sight is not what it used to be, so walking through a cluttered room can be dangerous.”

  “Perhaps you should remove the clutter,” I suggested.

  “Perhaps you should mind your own business,” he responded, and started to shut the door.

  “Sir,” I countered. “May I have a word?”

  “I’m busy,” said the doctor. “And I fear more of your conversation would infect my brain.”

  I smiled and filed the insult away for later use. The aroma from his room was strong, and I didn’t relish gaining access to it.

  “I’m here on the king’s business,” I said, handing him the letter.

  Unfortunately, his hands were filthy. The clean letter became soiled as he held it a few inches from his eyes.

  “May I come in, sir?” I asked, after he had a few moments to read the king’s letter.

  “It’s not the best time,” said the physician. “I’m working on the matter from earlier.” He fixed me with an uncomfortable stare. “If you take my meaning.”

  “That’s why I’m here, sir,” I responded. “That’s the king’s business I spoke about.”

  The physician sighed and read the letter again, turning it over with his filthy hands.

  “Perhaps it’s for the best,” he said finally, handing the letter back to me. “Please, come in.”

  I stepped into the strong-smelling room. The scent reminded me of dried herbs, but with a sickly sweet odor. Discarded candle stubs littered the table and floor. Medical books, stacked high, climbed the walls. Dozens of dusty jars filled with specimens, many of which I couldn’t identify, crowded the shelves.

  “What does the king think of your housekeeping?” I asked, looking at a dusty specimen jar with a preserved eel floating in it.

  “He hasn’t dropped by,” said William Butler. “Besides, I specialize in medical research. I’ve been meaning to clean.”

  “I’m sure you have,” I said, not wanting to touch anything.

  “Can I offer you a cup of tea?” he asked.

  “It’s tempting, but no,” I said, covering my nose with my handkerchief. “So, where is the victim’s body?”

  “Ah, you’ve hit upon my little problem, sir,” said the doctor.

  “And exactly what problem is that?” I asked.

  “Well,” said Butler. “I stepped away, only for a moment, to get a bite to eat, and…”

  “And what, sir?” I was growing impatient.

  Doctor Butler smoothed his clothes with his hands and ran his fingers through his white hair. He walked to his examination table and seemed lost in thought for a moment. Then he turned and looked me straight in the eyes.

  “Someone stole the body.”

  Chapter Five

  “You’ve lost the body?” I couldn’t believe it. “How could anyone lose a body?”

  My first instinct was to rush and tell the king, or at least his staff, about the missing body. I started to bolt from the room, but I remembered the king saying he couldn’t trust his staff at Hampton Court Palace. And so, I questioned the physician and conducted a thorough search of the room, but I could find no clues. It appeared my investigation was over before it had even begun. I decided to leave the physician and question other eyewitnesses to the murder. While opening the door to leave, however, a young woman surprised me, her hand raised to knock on the door.

  “Oh!” she said, startled by the sudden opening of the door. “Pardon me, my lord,” she curtsied. She looked to be in her early twenties and wore a plain white cotton dress covered by a grey woolen cloak. The hood of her cloak hung down her back unused, revealing her long honey-blond hair tied with a strap of tan leather.

  “Please forgive me,” I said. “I was on my way out.”

  “I’m just bringing a few herbs that the doctor ordered,” she said. “Please don’t leave on my account.”

  “I’m not,” I said, wanting to get on with my investigation. “But thank you. Please take your time.”

  “William Shakespeare,” said Doctor Butler. “Please allow me to introduce Violet Lewis, a local herbalist.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I said. “I’m sorry, I must be going.”

  “William is an actor with the King’s Men,” said the physician.

  “Oh, I love theater,” said the young woman, her green eyes shining with excitement. “Your acting company is building a set in the Great Hall.”

  “Your name is Lewis?” I asked. “Are you Myles Lewis’ daughter?”

  “Yes, my lord,” she smiled. “My father was kind enough to help me gain employment at the palace. He found work here for my sisters, Elspet and Janet, too. Family is very important to us.”

  “Jolly good,” I said, not wanting to waste time with pleasantries. “I must go, goodbye.”

  As I left the room, my conscience nagged me for being so rude. Time was of the essence, however; I could make apologies for my curtness later. I decided to go back to the Chapel Royal and look for clues. Walking towards the chapel, I thought about all the ev
ents leading up to the murder. One question haunted me. Who were the two men who insisted that the king drink first?

  I showed my letter to the guard at the chapel door. He scanned the letter and then waved for me to enter. I stepped into the opulent chapel, and memories of the murder flooded over me.

  “May I help you?” came the voice of the young priest who was preparing the chapel for the Evening Prayer service.

  “Sir,” I said, remembering him as the assisting priest from earlier. “I’m William Shakespeare. I’m here on the king’s business.”

  He met me at the chancel steps, and I showed him my letter.

  “I’m glad someone is looking into this ghastly business.” The priest took off his Tudor bonnet and ran his fingers through his thin brown hair. “Who do you believe was the murderer?”

  “I hoped that you could help me answer that question,” I replied. “I’m sorry, but what is your name?”

  “I’m Father Jeremiah Talbot.”

  “I wish we could have met under more pleasant circumstances,” I shook his hand. “Did Father Page have any enemies?”

  “Only every Puritan in this palace.”

  “I understand your point,” I said. “But did he have any personal enemies that may want him killed?”

  “Not that I know of,” Father Talbot answered.

  “Did he have any bad habits that may have drawn him into trouble?” I asked, hoping I didn’t offend the young priest. “Gambling, for instance?”

  “No, nothing like that,” said Talbot. “At least, not to the best of my knowledge.”

  “May I look around the scene of the crime?”

  “Of course,” he said, and he opened the chancel gate.

  I explored the area surrounding the altar, but it was spotless.

  “Have you swept this area recently?” I asked.

  Father Talbot called over an elderly man who had apparently been working in the sacristy. He introduced him as Alban Braunstone, the sexton. After introductions, Talbot asked Alban if he had swept the chancel area since the murder.