by Greg Hoover
The chanting I had heard the day before came to mind. “So, to kill a king they would act out the king’s death, with someone playing the part of the king?”
“Yes, that would be one way,” said Alban.
“And does all this work?”
“Like I said, I am a scholar, not a practitioner.”
“But you must have an opinion on the matter.”
Alban shrugged. “I think the real ‘magic’ is the power of belief. If you believe strongly enough in something, it becomes true. Truth happens. It’s a process. There is a Supreme Power in the universe that responds to our belief in it.”
“So, if you really believe that a witch’s poppet has power over you, then you may actually become sick if you know that the wax figure is being tortured?”
“Yes,” said Alban. “You may even die from your negative belief, even if what you believe is not objectively true. Through the power of faith, it is still true for you.”
“Belief is the key,” I said, stroking my beard. “Faith is the real magic.”
“Yes,” said Alban. “In fact, many magicians and sorcerers try to manufacture people’s faith in them by performing tricks to fool them into belief.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, perhaps predicting the future, or describing things that only the victim would know. But it’s all a trick. At least, in my humble opinion.”
“Fascinating,” I said. “Could the principle of belief also be used for good?”
“Yes,” said Alban. “Believe that you will be successful and you will be. Have faith that your children will turn out well and it will come to pass. Believe that things will ultimately work out for the best, and they will. But believe that you are defeated, and you already are. Think you have a sickness, and you become sick. As you believe, so is it.”
I shook my head. “So, a witch doesn’t understand this deeper principle, but believes the poppet itself and surrounding rituals have power to make their evil wishes come true.”
“That’s right,” said Alban. “At least, that’s what I think.”
“Actors know this to be true,” I said. “To be authentic on stage, you need to believe you are the character you’re portraying.”
Alban nodded his head.
“Thank you, Alban.” I stood and hurried to the door. “You have been very helpful.”
“Where are you going?” asked Alban.
I turned back and smiled at Alban. “To see a witch.”
Chapter Fifteen
Soon after leaving Alban’s room, a sharp pain tore through my side. Leaning against the hallway wall, I cradled my aching ribs. In my imagination, I pictured a witch’s bony fingers stabbing a wax poppet made in my image. I wasn’t far from Doctor Butler’s examination room, so I shook off my fears and walked in that direction. I rounded a corner and ran into Richard Burbage.
“Will,” he said. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Are you all right?”
“Yes,” I said, smiling through the pain. “But I’m going to visit the doctor just in case.”
“Let me walk with you,” he said, taking my arm.
“Thank you,” I said. “I would like to talk with you.”
“Will, please know that I had no idea Judith was playing Juliet until we were onstage. We didn’t talk beforehand, and I assumed it was Samuel.” He paused. “I mean Samantha.”
“No need to apologize,” I said. “I should have expected this.” I smiled. “On a positive note, she is a great actor.”
“Yes, it’s in her blood.” Richard let go of my arm. “Have you found the murdered priest’s body?”
I shook my head. “Malachi Hunter said that the witches probably used it for their unholy communion.”
“Perhaps,” said Richard. “But I have little faith in the words of Malachi Hunter. He wears his soul on his face.”
Stabbed by another pain, I groaned and grabbed my ribcage. “We’re almost there,” I said. “What have you been working on, Richard?”
“I’ve been trying to organize the King’s Men and complete our preparations for our performance. But I also investigated the ghost sightings in Gallery Hall.”
“Discover anything interesting?” I asked as we reached the doctor’s door.
“Perhaps,” said Richard, reaching into his pocket. “I found this.” He pulled out a handkerchief and handed it to me. It contained white powder.
“What’s this?”
“I don’t know,” said Richard, “but I found the powder on the sill of the doorway where the ghost was seen. I put it in my handkerchief in case it was a clue.”
“May I keep it?” I asked as I knocked on the doctor’s door.
“Of course,” said Richard. “I’ll wait for you out here.”
The door opened and Doctor Butler smiled at me. “I thought I’d see you today. Please, come in.”
“Thank you,” I said, as I entered the physician’s room. “I took a rather nasty beating yesterday, and my ribs are very painful today.”
Edward Wilkinson sat on the examination table. His pant leg was rolled up high on his thigh, revealing the stump where he had lost his leg during the war.
“We meet again,” said Edward as he smiled.
“It is my pleasure, sir,” I said.
“I was just seeing how Edward is adjusting to his new leg,” said Doctor Butler.
“New leg?” I asked. “Sir, if this is a joke, it isn’t very funny.”
The physician laughed. “I’m not joking at all.” He turned to Edward. “Show him.”
“I made it myself,” said Edward, as he handed me the wooden leg. It was made of three pieces of oak connected with hinges, wrapped in leather, with a shoe covering a wooden foot. Brown leather straps secured it in place, and a cotton base cushioned the spot where it mounted against his thigh.
“This is amazing,” I said. “Does it work?”
Edward nodded. “It works pretty well, but sometimes the hinges stick.”
“Incredible.”
“Thank you,” said Edward. “And as an old sheriff, I couldn’t resist adding something else.” He opened a little door on the wooden leg, removed a small wheel-lock pistol, and handed it to me.
Its small size and unique firing mechanism impressed me. He had made the stock of polished dark walnut and attached a shiny brass cap. There was a smooth hickory ramrod along the bottom of the barrel. Doctor Butler examined my ribs as I turned the weapon over in my hands. “It’s different from other pistols I’ve seen,” I said, looking at the firing mechanism.
“That’s right,” he smiled, a look of pride spreading across his face. “It’s self-igniting.”
“Really?”
“Yes, it uses iron pyrite.”
“Is that as hot as flint and steel?”
Edward laughed. “It burns three times hotter, Will.”
“Outstanding,” I said, handing the pistol back to him.
“Gentlemen,” said the physician. “Please put away your toys.”
“Of course,” said Edward, securing it back inside his wooden leg. “I’m sorry, doctor.”
“Your ribs don’t seem to be broken,” said Butler. “But I would suggest you put a poultice on it. I’m all out of the proper herbs, but Violet Lewis can help you.”
“Thank you,” I said, and turned to leave.
“William,” said the doctor. “Don’t delay. Your ribs aren’t broken, but you’ve been badly hurt. You have a lot of swelling, and your condition could degrade quickly if you don’t treat it.�
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“Don’t worry, doctor,” I said. “Her shop is right on my way.”
***
Richard was waiting patiently for me in the hallway. “Now what?” he asked.
“I have to visit the herbalist for a poultice for my ribs,” I said. “And then I want to request an audience with Ravynna.”
We continued on to see the herbalist and passed a courtier in the hallway. He looked at us nervously and said, “All hail Ravynna the Witch.”
“All hail Ravynna the Witch,” we echoed back in unison.
Everywhere we went, terror haunted the palace. People were quiet and seemed afraid to say anything other than praise for the self-proclaimed witch queen. Most looked away from me when I glanced at them, but some stared daggers as we passed. When we came to the herbalist’s shop, the door was propped open, and the rich scent of dried herbs and medicine wafted out into the hall. Inside, Violet was grinding dried herbs with a stone mortar and pestle.
“Excuse me,” I said. “May we come in?”
Violet looked up and smiled. “Yes, of course,” she said as she pulled the hair back from her forehead with her fingers.
“Doctor Butler suggested that you might be able to help me treat this injury,” I said, raising my shirt to reveal my bruised ribs.
“Yes, I have a poultice that will help lower the swelling,” she reached into a drawer and pulled out a white bandage with a strong medicinal scent. She began tying it around my chest, using great skill to avoid causing me more discomfort.
“I’m sorry you are going through all this,” she said as she worked.
“These are tough times,” I replied, wincing as she creased a knot.
“I can sympathize with how you feel,” she said. “Several years ago, my mother was arrested for witchcraft.” Violet wrapped another layer of cloth over the pungent poultice.
“And now a witch is in power,” said Richard.
“At least for the moment,” said Violet as she focused on her work.
Richard shook his head. “Crowds can be so fickle.”
“You must forgive me,” Violet said, as she pulled her hair back with both hands and tied it with a small tan strip of cloth. “I’ve been grinding herbs for medicine all day and I must be a sight to look at.”
“Nonsense,” said Richard. “You look lovely, my dear.”
“Thank you, sir,” Violet smiled as she curtsied. “You’re Richard Burbage. I saw you in Romeo and Juliet when I was in London.”
“Oh, you did?” he asked. “Did you like it?”
“Oh yes, very much,” she nodded. “As an herbalist, I especially liked the sleeping medicine Juliet used to fake her own death.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” I said.
“Tell me,” said Violet. “What was the potion based on?”
“I’m afraid I’m not an herbalist,” I said. “I just wanted a good plot twist. Once I was told of a similar concoction being used in real life, so I worked it into my play. What do you think it could be?”
Violet looked thoughtful. “My guess would be belladonna. It has real medical uses, but it requires skill to mix properly. A single berry could kill a child, but if it was ground, thinned, and weakened, it could cause a catatonic sleep. Not unlike death in appearance.” Violet checked the tightness of the bandage. “You could also refine it and make it into a white powder. You could then mix the powder with a liquid and a drop or two would be fatal.”
“Or perhaps dust the rim of a chalice,” I said. I pictured the killer lightly dusting the shiny cup with white powder and then setting it back in the sacristy to be used for the service. I also imagined him pouring a few drops of belladonna into the wine cruet. Either way would be effective, easy, and untraceable.
“Will,” said Richard, snapping me out of my thoughts. “Give her the white powder I found in Gallery Hall.”
I handed her the handkerchief. She unfolded it, smelled the powder, and sneezed. “Excuse me!” she said.
“Is it belladonna?” Richard asked.
Violet laughed. “No,” she said, and smiled. “It’s ordinary flour.”
Richard looked embarrassed and glanced at me. “Maybe she would have an educated guess on what killed the priest.”
“What priest?” she asked.
I told her the story of the deadly Communion service, and the suggestion that hebenon was used to poison the priest. Violet’s face became pale. She looked like she was going to be sick, and pressed her hand to her mouth. I realized my description of the appearance of the murdered priest was a bit too graphic.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m afraid I’ve become too comfortable with these gruesome matters.”
“I’m sorry, too,” said Violet, regaining her composure. She took a deep breath. “What was your question?”
“What is hebenon?”
“I’m not familiar with it,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “Maybe it’s the medical name for the flower henbane.”
“Is henbane poisonous?” asked Richard.
“In high-enough concentration it would be lethal.”
“Smell this,” I said, handing her the bottle I had found in the room under the palace. She took a whiff and turned her head away. “It’s belladonna.” She wrinkled her nose.
Richard looked at me. “Juliet’s sleeping potion.”
“Or perhaps the poison that killed King Hamlet,” I said, carefully lowering my shirt over the poultice. “Or maybe a priest.”
***
We left Violet’s place and continued on our way. We passed Thomas and Robert Winter who were talking with a group of men. They were deeply involved in a serious discussion and spoke in hushed voices. They didn’t seem to notice us as we walked past.
Once we were well out of sight, I turned to Richard. “Could you please do me a favor?”
“Of course.”
“Try to use your charming personality to befriend the Winter brothers. Maybe you can learn what they are up to.”
Richard shrugged. “Why do you think they are up to anything?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But I think there’s more going on with them than meets the eye.”
Richard smiled. “I’ll check into it.”
“Thank you,” I said. Up ahead was the door to Ravynna’s room. Two guards were posted outside. “I’m going to try to speak with Anne. Find me later.”
Richard nodded his head and started walking back the way we came. I straightened my clothes, ran my fingers through my hair, and walked up to the two guards.
“Her Majesty has been asking to see you,” said a guard as he knocked on the witch’s door.
From inside, her powerful voice said, “Who dares disturb Ravynna the Witch?”
Terror surged through me. The guard glanced at me with fear in his eyes.
“Begging your pardon, my lady,” said the guard, and cleared his throat. “But William Shakespeare is here to see you.”
“Send him in,” replied the wicked voice. “And don’t disturb me again!”
“Yes, my lady,” said the guard, opening the door for me. “And just to be clear, it was Barnard who disturbed you, my queen. Not Avery.”
As I entered the witch’s room, the other guard whispered sarcastically, “Thanks a lot, Avery.”
The room was bright with natural light streaming through the many glass windows. In front of me was a grand dining table covered with rich foods.
Ravynna stood at the head of the table. She looked at me haughtily and commanded, “Bow before your queen!”
Shocked, I bowed low.
Her rich laughter filled the room. “Well,” she said. “I guess you’re not the only actor in the family!”
Anne ran around the table and hugged me. “Oh Will, I’m so glad you’re here! Is Judith all right?”
“Yes, my dear,” I said, my eyes filling with tears of joy. “She’s all right. How are you?”
“I’m splendid!” she beamed. “I never dreamed I’d be the queen of England!”
“Don’t forget about Lady Jane Grey,” I said. “The nine days queen.”
“I know,” said Anne. “Nine days and then beheaded.”
“Along with her husband,” I added.
“Will, what should we do now? Last night I was in a race against time to save you and Judith. I hurried into costume and makeup, and created the character of Ravynna on the spot. I did improvisation like your actors do at the Globe Theater for practice. But I can’t keep this up.”
“It was a brilliant move, my dear,” I said. “And you’re right. You can’t keep it up for long. The initial shock and fear from last night will begin to fade among the people. Fury will soon take its place.”
Anne began to cry. She threw her arms around me and pressed her head against my chest as she sobbed. I held her in my arms and let her emotions pour out. After a few moments, she pulled back and wiped her eyes.
“Well,” she said bravely. “Enough of that. We need to come up with a plan. The first thing we need to do is find the murderer and appease the king.”
“I agree,” I said. “That’s what concerns him the most.”
“I suspect Malachi Hunter,” said Anne. “The way he turned his allegiance to Ravynna so fast doesn’t speak well of his integrity.”
“That gives me an idea,” I said. “What if we use your power to trick him into revealing all he knows?”