Shakespeare's Witch

by Samantha Grosser

  ‘Don’t fret,’ he murmured. ‘He wouldn’t dare.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘Trust me,’ he replied.

  But she was uncertain if he truly meant it, or if they were empty words that merely hoped to reassure her.

  Finally, the great walls of the palace at Whitehall loomed at the bend in the river, and she was glad to step off the boat and onto the landing stairs. With solid boards beneath her feet at last, she stood and breathed deeply to quell the unease in her gut as Tom and the boatman heaved the trunk onto shore. But though the nausea began to abate, the sense of danger remained – her skin still prickled with trepidation and her mouth felt dry.

  The other boats arrived, and she followed the men of the Company as they wound their way through the corridors towards the Great Hall. They strode with confidence, self-assured – they were the King’s Men and this was their rightful home – so she had little time to look around her as she hurried to keep up, until abruptly she found herself in the doorway of the Hall and stopped instinctively, casting her eyes around it, amazed by its vastness. Great stone walls supported a steeply pitched roof, and multiple windows admitted the last of the afternoon light through dozens of clear panes of glass. Richly dressed servants with tapers moved like ghosts, and the walls began to glimmer as hundreds upon hundreds of candles flickered into life, drifting a sweet honey scent across the air. The biggest hearth she had ever seen roared with flame, and her fears were forgotten amidst the splendour. She stared, mouth agape, until she became aware of her brother beside her, laughing.

  ‘It’s impressive, is it not?’ he said.

  She returned the smile and nodded. It was hard to imagine that people could actually live in such a place.

  ‘Come,’ Tom said, and he led her toward the curtained-off area behind the stage that had been erected for the evening’s entertainment. The men were already busy at work, donning make-up and costumes, stretching out the stiffness of their limbs, muttering their lines. She caught Nick’s eye across the room and he winked. A flush of pleasure sighed inside her and she smiled, aware of the heat across her cheeks. He looked very fine in the robes of the Duke, and she had begun to make her away across the room to help him dress before she noticed John at his side, absorbed in a struggle with the laces of his dress. She stopped mid-step, reluctant to go near him, fearful of his reaction. Nick, observing her uncertainty, caught her eye again and shook his head, but it was too late. John had seen her and he froze in his movements, ignoring her hopeful smile of goodwill, his limbs held tense and in readiness, eyes wide and wary. She flicked another glance to Nick, who tilted his head in a small shrug of helplessness as John shifted backward and away.

  ‘Don’t come near me!’ he hissed. ‘Witch!’

  The murmurs in the small room halted abruptly, and while the men did not pause in their dressing, she was aware of the heat of their attention. Briefly, she wondered where her brother was, but she didn’t dare to take her eyes away from the boy. She lifted her hands, palms outward in a gesture of peace.

  ‘I wish you no harm,’ she said softly.

  There was a silence. Beyond the curtain they could hear the hubbub of the audience drifting to their seats. A man gave a sudden shout of laughter that set off others in a ripple of hilarity.

  Then Nick said, ‘Come here, Sarah,’ and reached out his hand toward her. ‘Help me with these damn ties.’

  John shot him a look of hurt confusion, then dropped his head and turned away. Sarah waited a moment longer until the boy had begun once more to attend to his costume, then she went to her master and fumbled with the laces at his wrists with trembling fingers.

  Nick said nothing, but ran a quick and gentle hand across her hair. It did nothing to reassure her and she had to fight against the tears that prickled behind her eyes.

  The heavy tension in the room was broken by a fanfare of trumpets that made her jump, and the chatter beyond the curtain quietened to a sudden hush. Will peered through the gap in the curtains, and Nick took a deep breath, straightening up with a nod to Sarah that he was ready. The musicians began their song and he strode toward the curtain. Then, at Will’s signal, the two men stepped out onto the stage.

  ‘If music be the food of love, play on …’

  With the beginning of the play, Sarah’s unease began to ebb. John transformed into Viola, and all his fears seemed forgotten – onstage he was a different person. She watched as best she could through the small chink at the curtain’s edge, and then Tom came to stand behind her, pointing out people in the audience whose names she might know.

  It was her first glimpse of a king, and she found she was disappointed: there was nothing remarkable about him, no quality that marked him out as monarch. His clothes had seen better days and his hair hung lank and greasy – she had seen more regal-looking kings on the stage at the Globe. But still she was fascinated, watching how awkwardly he sat in the great high-backed chair with his head leaning close to the fair young man beside him.

  ‘Robert Carr,’ Tom whispered, in answer to her silent question. ‘The King’s favourite. ’Tis said they’re lovers …’

  He shrugged, as if to imply such a thought was beyond his understanding, and she had to turn her head away to stifle a giggle. Then he showed her others.

  Lancelot Andrewes, chaplain to the King: she had heard him preach at St Paul’s on the devilry of the gunpowder treason – he had a way with words to rival Will, and a voice that could have out-acted Burbage.

  Richard Bancroft, Archbishop of Canterbury, more like a Bankside wrestler than a cleric, with thick, stubby hands that gripped his knees, and an air of boredom he could not quite disguise, as though he would rather be elsewhere – interrogating Papists, perhaps.

  Robert Cecil, Earl of Salisbury, the true power in the land; Thomas Egerton, Lord Chancellor; Queen Anne and the princes. She had never seen so much finery before, but her interest in silks and jewels soon waned and her thoughts drew her back, as always, to the world of the stage.

  ‘There is no woman’s sides

  Can bide the beating of so strong a passion

  As love doth give my heart …’

  Her brother was forgotten, her attention rapt once more in the play.

  ‘… She never told her love,

  But let concealment, like a worm i’ the bud,

  Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought …’

  John – boy as girl as boy, lamenting his secret affection. She flicked a glance to her brother, still standing close, and he met her look with small smile of understanding.

  Later, at home, she pleaded a headache and retired to her own bed, so it was easy to slip from the house unseen in the darkness. The crescent moon rode high now above a chill mist that drifted off the river and searched inside the wool of her cloak. But she welcomed the freshness, standing for a moment in the lane, letting her eyes adjust to the gloom, breathing in the night air that was hard in her lungs. Then she checked her bundle, making sure of the piece of paper that detailed John’s offences before she turned her back to the river and set her footsteps through the maze of lanes that led towards the woods. She was glad to be on her way at last – the waiting had nurtured her fears, making her jump at every footfall in the lane, expecting arrest at any moment, the dread of the noose around her neck.

  She was first to arrive, the way to the Grove well known. Even in the darkest of nights, she had never lost her way to this sacred clearing, led rightly by Hecate’s power. It was a place of great magic, infused with the goddess’s presence, but it had taken on a new significance now, other magic conjured there, other spirits called through her union with her brother. She had not asked him what it was he summoned – she didn’t want to know – but it was a different brand of magic, a new world opened, and in spite of everything, she had no wish to take it back.

  She was not there long before Tom arrived, appearing silently beside her so that she laughed in delighted startlement. He took her hands i
n his as she greeted him with a kiss to both cheeks, and though he was just a shadow in the darkness, she knew his face was close to hers, could feel the warmth of his breath. She smiled, reassured by his presence and love, the power of their connection.

  ‘All will be well, good sister,’ he said. ‘Hecate will see justice done.’

  She nodded and took her hands out of his, and they parted to gather wood for a fire. As they worked together in silence, the cold wood felt good in her hands, solid and real, and when the pile of branches and twigs was big enough, Tom knelt to light it in the centre of the clearing. The dry wood caught quickly and the flames sent a merry light through the Grove, shadows dancing. They stood side by side in the glow in silent contemplation, preparing themselves for the ritual, awaiting their mother. There was no need for words, their bond sealed in the rite to come, the rites they had already shared. Then Elizabeth was standing beside them and neither had heard her arrive.

  They set to work, Tom casting the circle around them, calling to the quarters for the Dragons to attend and defend them against the forces of harm. A brief image of the last time flickered through her thoughts – Tom’s naked body, skin ghostly in the firelight – and she let the memory rise and fall away. When the circle was ready they stood together at the fire, and though only Elizabeth’s voice called out to the night, she spoke with the heart of all of them.

  ‘Oh, Great Goddess of Darkness, unruled Sorceress, teacher of Mysteries,

  we call upon you to attend this rite and send back the evil that is sent against us.’

  The fragrant scents of juniper and rosemary mingled with the earthier smell of woodsmoke as they threw herbs onto the flames, and the words vibrated through the stillness of the night, borne upwards in the smoke.

  Sarah’s fingers gripped the folded sheet of paper she held out before her. John’s wrongs against them hung above the fire. A stillness descended, a greater darkness, and an owl hooted overhead. She could hear the flurry of its wings as it took flight, and she knew that Hecate was with them.

  Elizabeth’s voice sounded out again, louder now, stronger.

  ‘Dark Mother, Queen of the night, there are those who stand against us.

  Let their efforts fail. Let them be always lost in the darkness with no light to guide them.

  Dark Mother, we are your children, protect us and keep us safe to follow thee …’

  Sarah stepped forward, and the heat of the flames licked at her legs through her skirts as she held the paper above it.

  ‘Crush the evil that is sent against us,’ she called out.

  ‘Sweep its remains back against him who sent it.’

  Briefly, she bent to touch the corner of the sheet to the flame and held it out in her fingertips for a moment, watching it curl and burn before she let it drop into the centre of the fire, where it shrivelled into ash and was gone.

  ‘Hecate, Dark One, hear our plea.

  Bring justice now, we ask of thee …’

  She stood back and watched the smoke rise from the fire, John’s accusations contained in the ashes that burned within. There was nothing more she could do, their fate in the hands of Hecate now. When the last remnant of the paper was gone, she spoke once more.

  ‘We thank thee, O Hecate, Dark Goddess, our Queen, and we bid thee farewell.’

  Afterwards, they sat silent in the fire’s dying light, allowing themselves time to come back to the earthly realm, each still infused with the magic of the rite, heart and senses open, the chill of the night unnoticed. The embers pulsated with the last of their warmth, and when, finally, the fire was cold, they got to their feet, packed away their things, and made their way silently back to the world of men.

  At the door to the house, Sarah paused. She could hear the soft footsteps of her brother receding along the lane, and in her mind she watched him go, savouring the last few moments of connection before stepping back into her daylight world. Then a sound beyond the door snapped her back to the present with a shudder of apprehension: the morning was still far away and the household should be sleeping.

  Aware of the knocking of her heart, she slid the key into the lock and turned it, inching the door open so as not to make a sound. The entrance hall was empty but a light flickered at the head of the stairs, and as she stepped forward and closed the door behind her, she could see the figure of John in his night shift, his face lit pale and ghastly in the light of the candle he held. Hot wax dripped onto his fingers unnoticed, his eyes were wide and staring and there seemed to be no life in them.

  Placing her bag down at the foot of the stairs, she swung her cloak from her shoulders. Then, with a deep breath to calm herself, she crept up the stairs towards him.

  ‘John?’ she said softly.

  He did not hear her.

  ‘John?’ She said it louder this time, and her voice sounded strange in the silent house.

  ‘Sarah?’ Nick’s voice answered. ‘Is that you?’ He appeared on the landing close to John, legs bare under his night shirt and his hair still tousled with sleep. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘With my mother,’ she said quickly. ‘But no matter. What’s the matter here?’

  ‘As you see,’ Nick said.

  John turned at his master’s voice so close to his ear but seemed not to see him. Instead he took a step forward towards the stair and Nick reached out a hand to stop him, palm coming to rest on the boy’s outstretched arm. The touch jolted through John’s body, and he swung his head towards Nick in abject terror as his body bent and backed away, candle held out before him now as a weapon to defend himself.

  ‘Hush, John,’ Nick soothed. ‘It’s only Nick. I wish you no harm. ’Tis a dream you are having …’

  The boy stared, eyes apparently still unseeing, and Nick took a step back, hand outstretched in concern. He flicked a glance to Sarah, still on the stairs.

  ‘We must get him back to bed,’ she said.

  ‘Aye,’ Nick answered. ‘But how?’

  They watched him for a moment, bewildered, and then John spoke, startling both of them. Sarah sidled up the stairs behind him to stand with Nick, reaching for his hand, which he took with a small, uncertain nod of reassurance.

  ‘Why did God make me so?’ he whispered. ‘Why can I not wash this sin away with prayer? I must confess, I must confess …’

  He knelt, perilously close to the top of the stairs, and Nick took an instinctive step forward, but Sarah’s hand on his arm stayed him before he could touch the boy again. She was aware of his breathing beside her, ragged and hard, and her own heartbeat knocked hard in her chest. They waited, watching.

  ‘It is too long since my last confession … Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned …’

  Sarah turned to Nick. ‘Hear his confession,’ she whispered. ‘Be his confessor.’

  He swallowed. ‘Tell me your sins,’ he said softly, with a shrug towards Sarah. Neither of them knew the rite and he could only guess at the words. But they seemed to have their effect.

  ‘I have wicked desires. I have lusted after men,’ John murmured. His head was bowed and his words were hard to hear. ‘And I have lain with a man…’

  ‘And do you repent of your sins?’ Nick asked with a quick glance at Sarah, who nodded, encouraging. He seemed to be doing it right.

  ‘Yes, Father,’ John whispered. ‘Can I ever be forgiven? Can I ever be forgiven? Can I ever be forgiven …’

  ‘If you truly repent,’ Nick answered. ‘Then God will forgive you.’

  ‘What must I do?’

  Nick looked to Sarah for help, but she could think of nothing. She shrugged.

  ‘You must pray,’ he said desperately. ‘You must ask God’s forgiveness and you must pray.’ Then, inspired, ‘But first you must rest and find your peace in sleep.’

  John nodded and in one swift movement lay down on the floor where he had knelt at the top of the stairs, the candle tumbling from his hand. Sarah leaped forward to snatch it up, then went to fetch a blanket from John’s bed
to cover him, and a pillow for his head. When he was settled and apparently peaceful in sleep, she sat with Nick on the stairs, one step below him, resting her arm against his leg. He stroked her hair and she rubbed her head against his hand.

  ‘He is losing his mind,’ she said.

  ‘Where were you, Sarah?’ he replied.

  She looked up sharply at the distrust in his tone. He was observing her, searching for a new truth, and though his hand still caressed her hair, she knew he was seeing her differently, as a stranger.

  ‘With my mother,’ she said again. ‘A midwife’s duty.’

  ‘I did not hear her come for you.’

  ‘She sent a boy. I was awake and I heard him in the lane before he knocked.’

  ‘A local woman?’

  ‘A whore on Bankside.’ She hated lying to him but this truth he could not know. He was still watching her and she could see the tension in his face, the uncertainty. John’s accusations had taken their hold and he doubted her now. Tom’s fault, she thought. Tom and his forbidden desires. She nodded towards the sleeping form of John. ‘Do you think he’ll be all right?’

  Nick shrugged and finally drew his gaze away from her. ‘Who can say?’ He stood up and reached down a hand for hers. She took it and got to her feet and stood beside him, fingers still entwined in his.

  ‘Shall we sleep a little?’ he asked.

  ‘Sleep?’ She smiled, and squeezed his hand, head tilted and coy.

  He returned the smile. Then he said, ‘Yes. Sleep. You’ve been awake all night.’