by Greg Hoover
“Your business, and the business of everyone in England, exists solely at the pleasure of Ravynna the Witch,” said Richard.
“Whatever you say,” responded Thomas, and sat down.
“How dare you sit when being addressed by your queen?” thundered Ravynna. “I shall strike you dead!”
“Please, Your Majesty,” said Robert Winter, standing. “My brother is not well. I ask your forgiveness for his insolence.”
“And you shall have it,” said Ravynna. “But only if you answer in his proxy.”
“I will be happy to,” said Robert Winter. “Our business here is intellectual, nothing more.”
“Intellectual?” asked Ravynna. “What do you mean?”
“We are on a fact-finding mission, Your Majesty, and that is all.”
“Are you Puritans?” she asked. “Or Anglicans? Do not lie. Ravynna has her ways of finding the truth.”
“We are neither, Your Majesty,” said Robert. “We represent an overlooked faction in this debate.”
“And what faction is that?” asked King James from the back of the room.
Thomas Winter stood and faced the king. “We are proud to be faithful Roman Catholics, Your Majesty.”
“Roman Catholics have enjoyed tolerance in England since the Elizabethan Settlement,” said Robert Winter.
“That initial tolerance waned, however,” added Thomas, “in the later years of Queen Elizabeth’s reign.”
“You need not labor this point,” said King James. “I was baptized Roman Catholic, but raised Presbyterian.” The king glanced at the Puritans, who seemed pleased that he was raised protestant. And then he added, “At the moment, however, I’m leaning Anglican.”
“Enough,” said Ravynna. “I have no dog in your petty religious fight. Sit down, both of you.”
The Winter brothers glanced at each other and then sat.
Well, I thought. That explains why they are at Hampton Court and why they are so serious and secretive. The religious tensions in England were high, and a tiny spark could set the country ablaze.
“Arise,” Ravynna pointed at Father Jeremiah Talbot. “Stand before your queen.”
Father Talbot stood and faced the witch, his hands clasped behind his back.
“You are ambitious,” said Ravynna. “And you crave advancement in your career.”
“Only if it will allow me to better serve my Lord and my king,” said Talbot. And then he added, “Or my queen, should that be the case.”
“I applaud ambition, and the use of murder to gain a higher rank appeals to my sensibilities,” said Ravynna with a wicked smile. “But only in the service of my agenda. Regicide is troubling to me, now that I have rightfully ascended to my throne.”
“If you are asking if I would kill King James, I most certainly would not,” said Father Talbot. “I believe strongly in the divine right of kings.”
“What do you mean?”
“The king rules by God’s authority, and by God’s authority alone,” said Talbot. “And so, only divine authority can depose a monarch. Man cannot do it,” the young priest paused. “Nor can a witch.”
“How dare you!” thundered Richard Burbage, playing his role as a loyal subject of the Witch Queen to the hilt.
“Stop,” Ravynna raised her hand. “We shall let this slight pass. At least for now. You may be seated.”
Father Talbot sat, and a fellow priest next to him patted him on the back. I was afraid. A few brave souls were challenging the witch. This would embolden others to doubt her powers, and we still needed to gain more information. It was time for the witch to summon the ghost of Janet Wishart.
“The time has come to bring a witness from the other side,” said Ravynna. “The veil between the worlds is thin for Ravynna. I can part the curtains at will and summon spirits to do my bidding. I demand complete silence. I shall go into a trance and you must not disturb me.”
Richard Burbage came forward with a sack filled with ground salt. He began sprinkling it in a circle around Ravynna. When he had completed the circle, he put a handful of dried lavender in each of the three burning pots. Ravynna took a deep breath and summoned the ghost of the witch.
“It is I, the Witch of Eden. It is I, the Witch of Endor. I call to the other world for one of the spirits in prison.”
I glanced around at the crowd. The people were wrapped in awe. Anne was gaining them back, and terror filled their eyes.
“I call for Janet Wishart, the witch of Aberdeen.”
Malachi let out a gasp, his eyes transfixed on the stage.
Ravynna lowered her head and became silent. The incense in the air was very thick now, and it was getting harder to breathe. Smoke filled the air. The glowing light from the coals in the cauldrons created a terrifying atmosphere. Ravynna threw back her head and let out her breath. She shook from head to toe, dropped her head, and became still.
After a moment, there was a thump followed by something scraping against the floor to Anne’s right. The sound continued and was rhythmic and hypnotic. Thump, scrape, thump, scrape, thump, scrape. Out of the darkness stepped the figure of a woman dressed in a long white shroud with a veil. She would take one step, and then drag her other leg behind her. The ghostly figure held her head stiff, and to one side.
Nice touch, Violet. I thought. Janet Wishart was hanged, so her neck must have been broken.
She turned to the crowd and cried out in a raspy voice: “Who dares disturb the ghost of Janet Wishart?”
Very good! I thought. She is a great actor.
Even I almost believed that this truly was the ghost of the witch of Aberdeen. At that moment, I felt cold fingers touch my arm. It startled me, sending an icy shiver up my spine. I glanced over, and I couldn’t believe my eyes.
It was Violet Lewis.
Chapter Eighteen
Violet’s eyes were intense, and she looked like she had been crying. Whatever had happened would have to wait. The ghost of Janet Wishart was facing the crowd. She was clad in a white-lace dress, and the veil covering her face hid her features. I could barely see her nose and mouth, but the veil completely hid her eyes. The glowing orange and red light from the dying embers flickered on her form, framing her in shadows and rising smoke. It filled me with terror. The smell of the incense was so thick and sweet that I thought I would be sick. There was something familiar within the smoke of the burning incense. My mind searched to identify what it was. And then I remembered. It was the same scent as the liquid in the vial I found. My stomach churned as I took out a handkerchief and covered my nose.
“My spirit has returned, hungry for vengeance,” said the ghost. “My powers have grown since crossing to the other side. I sense in this room someone who was at my trial for witchcraft.”
The ghost scanned the crowd, searching back and forth among the darkened faces. She crept closer to the crowd; her neck hung stiffly to one side. Walking across the stage, she dragged her broken leg behind her. Thump, scrape, thump, scrape, thump, scrape. A woman on the second row covered her ears to block out the horrifying sound; a man put his arm around his wife to comfort her.
The ghost started on the left side of the crowd and walked down the row—Thump, scrape, thump, scrape, thump, scrape—looking into the face of each person. When she came to a certain man, she stopped and turned towards him. She pointed a long bony finger at him. It was Malachi Hunter.
“You!” she screeched. “I recognize your face. Where do I know you from?”
Malachi said nothing. He locked his eyes on the ghost of the witch. Fear paralyzed him.
“Answer me!” thundered the ghost.
Malachi was trying to speak, but terror made him mute. After a moment, he pulled his eyes away from the ghost and squeezed them tight. Then he spoke.
“Begging your pardon, ma’am,” he whispered. “I am—”
“Speak up!” said the ghost.
“I am Malachi Hunter,” he blurted. “And I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure—”
“Oh yes,” said the ghost. “Now I remember you.”
“I’m flattered,” said Malachi, keeping his eyes shut in terror.
“Flattered, are you? Then you will be happy to know that I remember even more about you.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, opening his eyes. “But I don’t want to monopolize your time—”
“Time?” said the witch. “I have nothing but time. Time to remember. Time to think. Time to play the sham of my trial over and over in my mind. Time to remember the face of my torturer.” The witch paused. “Time to remember your face, Malachi Hunter.”
Malachi was shaken to his core. His hands were trembling, and he kept his eyes on the floor in front of him.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” said Malachi. “I’m so sorry.”
“I remember the days of questioning,” said the ghost. “No food, no water. I remember cruel tests.”
“I am so sorry, ma’am,” mumbled Malachi.
“There was the swimming test,” said the ghost. “When you and a few others dragged me to a filthy pond, bound my hands, and pushed me in to see if the water would reject my body. I was examined from head to toe for the Devil’s mark on my skin, with crowds of people watching. And then there was the worst test of all.”
“And what test was that, ma’am?” asked Malachi.
“Perhaps you would like to guess,” said the ghost.
Malachi Hunter was silent. The room continued to fill with thick incense. The glowing coals flickered and the smoke continued to rise.
“I… I’m afraid…” Malachi cleared his throat. “I’m afraid I don’t know, ma’am.”
“You don’t know?”
“No, ma’am.”
“You?” she said. “A highly trained, professional witch-pricker. You of all people don’t know the worst torture?”
Malachi was silent.
“Stand up,” said the ghost.
Malachi remained glued to his seat.
“Stand up!” thundered the ghost.
Malachi stood up, but kept his eyes focused on the floor.
The witch’s ghost turned and said to the crowd, “The most terrible torture of all was the witch pricking.”
She moved across the front row, speaking to the crowd as she walked. “Who here knows what witch pricking is?” Thump, scrape, thump, scrape, thump, scrape.
The crowd was silent.
“Come now,” said the ghost in her raspy voice. “We are all friends here. Surely someone knows what witch pricking is.”
Again, no response.
“Well then,” said the ghost, pointing at Malachi. “Why don’t you share with everyone your wealth of knowledge on witch pricking? You, like the other professional witch-prickers, have had a massive amount of expert training on this matter. I believe some of you may have even read a tiny booklet on it. Surely with that level of higher education you can tell these simple people about your noble profession.”
Malachi looked up. “Witches have the Devil’s mark, which keeps them from experiencing pain. Piercing them with pins is the only way of determining if they have the mark.”
“Yes,” said the ghost. “So they say. And witch-prickers numb the suspected witches first, is that not so?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Malachi. “Some do.”
“And you yourself have done this?”
Malachi was silent.
“Answer me!”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Now why would you do a thing like that? Could it be because anyone would feel excruciating pain after being poked by a sharp needle? Could it be that the only way to make someone appear not to sense pain would be to numb them first?”
“It was only because I was trying to weed out the false witches,” said Malachi. “I am a loyal supporter of Ravynna, the Witch Queen. I only wanted to expose the fakers, that’s all. Never real witches.”
I glanced at my wife. She was still sitting slumped over in her chair. My heart jumped into my throat. What if Anne wasn’t acting?
“Bah!” said the ghost. “Ravynna is nothing but a fraud. She fools the weak-minded with parlor tricks. She performs a role, and you applaud. She plays a tune, and you dance. Here stands before you a real witch, and you are too stupid to realize it. If anyone is to be crowned the Witch Queen of England, it should be me, not her. Bow before me!”
Malachi dropped to his knees before the ghost.
“So,” said the ghost. “You are loyal to Ravynna, are you?”
“No, ma’am.”
“No?” she asked. “But you just said that you were her loyal subject.”
“No ma’am,” said Malachi. “I was only testing her, ma’am. To find out if she is a real witch.”
“And is she a real witch?”
“No ma’am,” said Malachi.
“Then what is she?”
“She is a fraud.”
The crowd gasped. Malachi glanced up, but then lowered his eyes again.
“And to whom are you loyal?”
“To you, my lady.”
“Louder please.”
“To you, my lady.”
“Shout it,” said the ghost.
“To you, my lady!” said Malachi, and then he burst into tears.
“Stay on your knees, you coward.”
The ghost turned and walked up and down the front of the crowd. Thump, scrape, thump, scrape, thump, scrape. When she passed in front of me, I mustered every drop of courage I had and looked into the face of the ghost. I still could only make out a general shape behind her white veil. The witch then stopped and turned to address the crowd.
“Is there no innocence here?” she asked. “Is there no virtue?”
The crowd was silent. The ghost continued.
“You are all guilty, for you have all had a part in this tragedy. Your part may have been small or great, but you all have blood on your hands. You who have stood by in silence as they burned your friends and family at the stake. You who have supported a king who has made it his mission to persecute witches. Yes, all of you are guilty,” she paused. “But some are more guilty than others.”
The witch resumed her silent march. Thump, scrape, thump, scrape, thump, scrape. When she came to the end of the row, she turned and made her way back, step by step. Thump, scrape, thump, scrape, thump, scrape. This time when she passed by me, I noticed that the sweet scent from the glass vial was strong. When she reached the center of the room, she stopped and again addressed the crowd.
“You here who are loyal to King James, stand up.”
There was a long silence. Someone in the crowd was crying.
“Is no one loyal to King James?”
The silence became unbearable. I took a deep breath and stood up.
“Well, well, well,” said the ghost. “The king’s Witchfinder General is his only loyal servant.”
“I am sure there are others,” I said, hoping I sounded braver than I felt.
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” said the ghost. “I can understand now why someone tried to murder the king. He has inspired so little devotion.”
The ghost began
walking towards me. Thump, scrape, thump, scrape, thump, scrape. It seemed to take an eternity for her to reach me. When she did, she spoke to me, but she meant it for everyone to hear.
“I pity you, Witchfinder General. With so many disloyal subjects, finding the killer will be impossible.”
“I hope it is not as desperate as you suggest,” I answered.
“Ha!” said the ghost.
And then someone stood. It was William Butler, the court physician. He looked defiant and faced the witch.
“So,” said the ghost. “There is one other. And this one is known for his courage coming from a bottle.” She turned to me. “Can you solve a murder with a staff of one?”
And then something wonderful happened. Archbishop Whitgift stood, followed by Richard Bancroft, Jeremiah Talbot, and John Reynolds. The rest of the Anglicans and Puritans all stood together as one, facing the ghost. They seemed to be a brotherhood for the first time since all this began. I smiled despite the gravity of the situation.
“I’m surprised,” said the ghost. “Even rats are smart enough to leave a ship when it is sinking.”
For the first time, she sounded unsure of herself. I gazed around the room as others stood. Oliver Fletcher, Edward Wilkinson, and the king’s staff were all standing. Most of the room was standing now. I glanced back at King James and he looked pleased.
“Witchfinder General,” said the ghost. “It appears your list of suspects is growing shorter. Perhaps there may be hope for you after all. And perhaps I can help you by reducing your list of suspects even more.”
The crowd was silent as she began her walk. Thump, scrape, thump, scrape, thump, scrape. The incense was thick. I had to have fresh air soon. The room that had been so cold at the start of this gathering was now stifling hot. I was afraid I would pass out. The coals were dying down, and she continued to walk. Thump, scrape, thump, scrape, thump, scrape.
The ghost then stopped in front of Malachi Hunter, who was still kneeling on the floor.
“Look at me,” said the ghost.
Malachi kept his eyes lowered.
“Look at me!” the ghost commanded.
