The Witching of the King

by Greg Hoover

  “First, you need to interview suspects. Learn all you can from them. No fact is insignificant.”

  “That’s what I’ve been doing,” I said.

  “Then you’re on the right path. Also, gather as much information as you can. Treat everything as evidence. Look for clues everywhere.”

  As he spoke, I patted my pocket to find out if the vial was still there, and it was. The witch’s poppet that started my adventure also came to mind. I wondered, have I missed anything?

  “Develop an eye for detail. Use your mind. Apply the principles of logic and reason. But use your imagination, too.”

  He finished his tea, put a crutch under his right arm, and pulled himself up.

  “Any other advice?” I asked, sorry that he was leaving.

  “Yes,” he said, as he put on his hat. “When you fail, and you will, abandon reason and follow your instincts. Your feelings are your thoughts working on a deeper level. Trust them.”

  We said goodbye, and I finished my bread. While I poured a last cup of tea, I saw my wife enter the Great Hall. Her face was white. I leapt up and ran to her.

  “What’s wrong, Anne? Are you all right?”

  “Will,” she said, breathing hard. “Someone was in our room and they went through all our things. They ripped everything apart!”

  Chapter Ten

  It surprised me how well someone had searched our room. Our clothes littered the floor. The pages of my manuscripts lay like autumn leaves on the ground. We began straightening up our small apartment.

  “Look,” said Anne. “They even ripped open our mattress.”

  While stuffing handfuls of feathers back into the mattress, I noticed something underneath the bed. I reached under and pulled out a small wax figure.

  “What is it?” asked Anne.

  “It’s a witch’s poppet.”

  “What’s that?”

  I looked up at Anne. “It’s a little doll made to represent someone. It’s used for casting spells on the person it represents.” I looked closely at the wax figure. “It’s holding something in its hand.”

  Anne inspected the doll. “It’s a quill. Will, I think this represents you.”

  “Who would do this?” I wondered aloud.

  “This means there truly are witches in the palace,” said Anne, crossing herself.

  “Do you think they’re responsible for the assassination attempt?” I asked.

  “Probably, but why would they want to kill the king?”

  “Because of his witch hunting in Scotland.” I said. “Hundreds were arrested, tortured, and killed there. A few years ago, there were a long series of investigations and persecutions. I would imagine that English witches don’t want the same to happen here.”

  “Yes, right,” said Anne. “I heard that in Scotland they pierced the skin of suspected witches with needles; I never understood why.”

  “They say witches have a ‘Devil’s mark’ which prevents them from experiencing pain. Using needles to pierce them is a way of determining if they have the mark.”

  Anne shook her head. “I heard that in Scotland there are professional witch-prickers. I hope the king doesn’t gift you with that title next.”

  “Me too.”

  “Will,” said Anne, touching my arm. “You must be their target now that it’s known you’re the king’s witchfinder.”

  “You’re right,” I said, nodding my head. I noticed something. “Look, there’s something on the back of the door.”

  Anne walked over and removed a sheet of parchment that was hanging there. Someone had pinned it to the door with a silver dagger. Anne unfolded the paper, read it, and turned white.

  “What does it say?”

  She looked at me. “It says, ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.’”

  I clenched my fists. “Malachi.”

  ***

  I had to confront Malachi, but I needed a few minutes to calm down first. I was in a race against time, so I decide to return to the scene of the crime. When I reached the door of the chapel, the guard let me in without a single word. My new found fame had some advantages.

  “Hello,” said Father Talbot. “Here early for the noonday service?”

  “No,” I said. “I want to have another look around. Are you leading the noon prayers?”

  “Fortunately, I don’t have to,” he said. “Now that Father Page is gone, I’ve been promoted.” He looked proud. “Now I’m in charge of scheduling priests to officiate services. I only do the important ones now. No more Noonday Prayer services for me.”

  I shrugged. “It’s all God’s work.”

  “I suppose,” said Talbot. “But I have my career to think about. The meek may inherit the earth, but they don’t become bishops.”

  Not sure how to respond, I simply said, “Indeed.”

  “I’ll call the sexton to assist you,” said Talbot.

  “Actually, I would rather talk to you if I may.”

  “As I said,” he replied, “I’ve been promoted. I’ll call the sexton to assist you.” He turned and called out in a loud voice, “Alban!”

  “Yes sir?” said Alban as he entered the nave from the sacristy.

  “Please assist the Witchfinder General.” Talbot turned and left the chapel with no further pleasantries.

  “He seems happy with his new promotion,” I said to Alban Braunstone.

  “An ambitious man is never happy for long,” said Alban. “There’s always something more on the horizon.” He paused, and then added, “If I may be so bold.”

  “I hope you know that you can speak candidly with me,” I said.

  “I’m an old man,” Alban smiled. “I can speak candidly with anyone I want.”

  “Have you thought of anything that may help in my investigation?”

  Alban scratched his beard. “This palace is filled with mysteries. Witchcraft, hauntings, and now murder. There are hundreds of rooms, and at times nearly a thousand people here. And there are even secret rooms and passageways.”

  “There are?”

  “Yes,” he replied. “They’re unknown to most people here.”

  “Can you tell me where they are?”

  “If I was a spry young fellow with the curiosity I had in my youth, I’m sure I would’ve rooted out all of them. But I’m too old to go adventuring. Nowadays I spend most of my free time reading books I’ve gathered and preserved over the years. I only know what I hear.”

  “And what do you hear?”

  “That King Henry VIII had a secret room below the palace that has been walled off. I’m told you can still access it by the Silver Stick Stairs.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I know where those stairs are.”

  “Good,” he said. “It’s said to be haunted by the ghost of Jane Seymour.”

  “One of King Henry’s wives.”

  “Yes,” Alban nodded. “Witnesses report that her spirit glides down the Silver Stick Stairs. They say she’s dressed in a white gown and holding a candle.”

  “More ghost stories,” I said.

  “Quite.” Alban smiled. “Still, I wouldn’t want to go there at night and by myself if I were you.”

  I smiled back. “Any other advice?”

  “Only this,” said Alban. “Be careful of your fellow witch hunter.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked. I didn’t trust Malachi at all, but it intrigued me that someone else shared my opinion.

  Alban glanced around the room. Seeing it was empty, he leaned in and whi
spered, “The guiltiest are the quickest to condemn.”

  ***

  I searched for Malachi throughout the palace. I checked the Great Hall, the library, and even the royal tennis courts. I finally found him as he was coming out of the Great House of Easement, a grand name for the public lavatory, in the building to the right of the Main Gatehouse.

  “Malachi,” I said, holding back my anger. “We need to speak. Have you been in my room?”

  “Of course not,” said Malachi. “Why do you ask?”

  “Someone has been in our room and has rummaged through all our things.” I handed him the poppet. “And I found this under the bed.”

  Malachi looked at it for a moment and then dropped it to the floor. He glared at me with fire in his eyes. “A witch’s poppet!” he yelled. “Did your daughter share your room before her arrest?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then this proves she is a witch!” said Malachi. “She left behind evidence of her craft.”

  “The image on the poppet is of me,” I said, trying to remain calm. “My daughter would never do that.”

  “You never know about witches,” said Malachi. “They often fool even those closest to them. Especially if they’re under a witch’s spell.”

  “Nonsense,” I replied. “Judith is not a witch.”

  “How can you be sure? You’re new to witch hunting, but I worked for His Majesty before in this capacity. I served him in Scotland several years ago during the great witch hunt, although I never met him in person.” Malachi smiled. “I don’t mean to brag, but I was one of the torturers of Margaret Aitken, the Great Witch of Balwearie. I know how to make a witch talk.”

  “I had no idea that you were such a celebrity,” I said dryly.

  “Oh yes.” He missed my sarcasm. “Margaret Aitken confessed under torture and then made a deal to lead us to many witches throughout the land. In exchange for her life, of course.”

  “I would imagine she was motivated to do so.”

  “Yes,” said Malachi, who seemed proud to tell of his part in the Scottish witch hunt. “And I was at the witch trial in Aberdeen against Janet Wishart and her collaborators.”

  “I’m not familiar with Janet Wishart,” I said.

  “No?” he seemed incredulous. “You call yourself a witchfinder, and you are ignorant of the Wishart witch?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “She was a dreadful witch. Used spells to make it storm and bring sickness and fevers. She even used ‘nightmare cats’ to inflict horrifying dreams.”

  I remembered the little black cat in the courtyard, and the terrible dream I had the night before.

  “There was so much evidence against her we had no trouble convicting her. She couldn’t withstand my bodkin. I had to prick her thousands of times over a period of several days, but eventually she confessed. We proved in court that she was guilty, and she was hanged and then burned at the stake.”

  “And her entire family with her, I suppose.”

  Malachi shook his head. “Unfortunately, no. Her family was banished, but we convicted her son, Thomas. He was the ringleader, and in league with the Devil himself. He was executed, too.”

  “Gruesome work,” I said, shaking my head.

  “That’s where you and I differ,” said Malachi. “You don’t have the stomach for this kind of work.”

  “I prefer the theater,” I said.

  “I used to love the theater,” he said, “until I realized the error of my ways. When I was young, I acted in a traveling show. We traveled throughout England performing, and even up into Scotland. That’s where I realized that theater was the Devil’s work. There’s nothing in the Bible about theater, so we shouldn’t allow it. That’s why I left the theater and trained to be a witch-pricker.”

  “That takes training? Don’t you just stick a suspect with a pin at random until she confesses?”

  “Bah,” Malachi waved his hand as if he were waving away a foul smell. “That’s what many fools think. No, you have to find the Devil’s mark, a certain spot on a witch’s body where you can insert a pin without pain or bleeding.” He paused, and a wicked smile spread across his face. “Or at least with little pain or bleeding.”

  “You seem to relish the work.” I said, disgusted. “Why did you leave Scotland?”

  “After the witch trials that year died down, I came home to England to continue my work here,” said Malachi. He paused and then looked at me with a penetrating stare. “Now I have a question for you. Have you inspected the body of the murdered priest for witch marks?”

  “No,” I said. “There is no body.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It disappeared from the doctor’s examination room.”

  “Oh no,” said Malachi, looking horrified. “Do you know what that means?”

  “No, what?”

  “They’ll use it for their Black Mass.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Witches have no creative power of their own. They only mimic and mock Christian rituals. They imitate the Mass, but twist it for their evil intent. They worship Lucifer rather than our Lord.” He paused and looked at me without blinking. “And they’ll use the murdered priest for their Unholy Communion.”

  Suddenly the full impact of what he was saying dawned on me.

  “Cannibalism,” I said, and made the sign of the cross.

  Chapter Eleven

  Although I hated it, I had to work with Malachi Hunter. It seemed to be the wisest course of action for the moment. If there is a wasp in the room, I want to know where it is. In other words, working with him would be the best way of keeping an eye on him and avoid getting surprised by his sting. Malachi went in search of the body, and I searched for secret rooms and passageways.

  As I walked towards the Silver Stick Stairs, I passed by the kitchen. There was laughter coming from a side room used by the servants when they were off duty. Through the doorway, I noticed several servants, some of whom I recognized. There was the elderly couple, Alyce and Henry. Myles Lewis and his daughters, Elspet and Janet, were there, too. And a few others I had not yet met were also on break in the room.

  “Come in, sir, come in,” said Janet, smiling.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t want to intrude.”

  “Nonsense,” said Elspet. “We’d love to chat with you for a while.” She looked at Janet and smiled.

  “Elspet,” said Myles Lewis. “I’m sure His Majesty’s Witchfinder General has more important things to do than socialize with servants. It’s important work, rooting out witchcraft.”

  “What did he say?” Henry asked his wife, Alyce.

  “He asked the gentleman which draft he would like,” replied Alyce in a loud voice. She turned to me and said, “Nice cold draft of ale is what you’re after, is it? We have several fresh ones to choose from.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “No need to be embarrassed, my lord,” said Henry. “Why, I myself have been drinking heavily all morning.”

  “You have?” asked Myles in a stern voice.

  “Have what?”

  “Been drinking ale all morning,” said Myles.

  “What?”

  “Drinking ale!”

  “I’d love some,” said Henry.

  “Never mind,” said Myles.

  “What?” Henry asked in a loud voice.

  Myles rolled his eyes. “I said, never mind!”

  Henry shook his head. “Whisper and shout, whisper and shout, that’s all people do anymore. I’ve work
ed in this palace for nearly fifty years; I remember when I was young, people spoke up in clear voices.”

  “Be that as it may,” said Myles in a loud firm voice. “I will remind you that no job is permanent. Please respect the head servant.”

  “Oh, of course, of course,” said Alyce. “You certainly have our respect, sir. ‘Always respect your betters,’ that’s what I say.” Alyce curtsied to Myles.

  “That’s better,” said Myles as he turned back towards me.

  “Wretch,” said Alyce in what she seemed to think was a quiet voice.

  Myles glanced at her, and she smiled innocently. It appeared as though he was going to address her malfeasance, but instead he just looked at me for sympathy and shook his head. I smiled at Myles.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” he said to me. “What can we do for you?”

  “Nothing, thank you,” I said, and turned to leave. Then I realized something. If Alyce and Henry had worked in the palace for so many decades, they may know of any secret passages or rooms. I thought it best to ask them in private.

  “May I please speak to Alyce and Henry for a moment?”

  “Of course,” said Janet. “My sister and I have to get back to the bakery, anyway.”

  “That’s right,” said Myles, clapping his hands. “Everyone, back to work.”

  The servants filed out past me. Myles gave me a sympathetic glance as if to say, good luck with them.

  When the room was clear, I moved closer to the elderly couple. I wanted to whisper, but I would have to speak louder than I thought prudent.

  “Do you know where any secret passages are?” I asked, as loudly as I dared.

  “What’s that?” asked Alyce, almost shouting.

  “Secret passages,” I said a little louder. “Do you know where any are?”

  “Secret sausages?” asked Alyce, puzzled. “We have plenty of sausages, but they aren’t much of a secret.”

  “Not sausages,” I said, and then repeated in a loud voice, “Passages!”

  “Whisper and shout, whisper and shout,” said Henry, shaking his head.