by J. C. Hanna
The Saint
and the Sorcerer
by JC Hanna
Copyright © 2017 by JC Hanna
All rights reserved.
Dedicated to the Raccoon.
A witch in name only.
Contents
Prologue: A Death in the Park
Chapter One: The Queen is dead, long live the Queen!
Chapter Two: King of the Condemned
Chapter Three: Central Park, New York City—One month before Amy’s Death
Chapter Four: Good Queen Bess
Chapter Five: Fairy-folk and the Face of Evil
Chapter Six: The Uninvited
Chapter Seven: Eternal Flame
Chapter Eight: Thirty Days Until Amy’s Death
Chapter Nine: The King’s Wrath
Chapter Ten: John Dee, Slayer
Chapter Eleven: A Rebellious Whisper
Chapter Twelve: Doubt
Chapter Thirteen: Twenty-nine Days Until Amy’s Death
Chapter Fourteen: The Face of Evil
Chapter Fifteen: Touched by Magic
Chapter Sixteen: London
Chapter Seventeen: The Ambush
Chapter Eighteen: The Deal
Chapter Nineteen: Twenty-eight Days Until Amy’s Death
Chapter Twenty: The Rescue
Chapter Twenty-one: Witchcraft
Chapter Twenty-two: Listening at Doors
Chapter Twenty-three: The Reservations of a Saint
Chapter Twenty-four: Prey
Chapter Twenty-five: The End of Innocence
Chapter Twenty-six: Twenty-seven Days Until Amy’s Death
Chapter Twenty-seven: The Captive
Chapter Twenty-eight: The Gauntlet
Chapter Twenty-nine: Showdown
Chapter Thirty: From Man to Legend
Chapter Thirty-one: Twenty-six Days Until Amy’s Death
Chapter Thirty-two: Queen of Broken Hearts
Chapter Thirty-three: The Two Sorcerers
Chapter Thirty-four: A Deal Sealed
Chapter Thirty-five: Twenty-five Days Until Amy’s Death—Part One
Chapter Thirty-six: Twenty-five Days Until Amy’s Death—Part Two
Chapter Thirty-seven: Twenty-four Days Until Amy’s Death
Chapter Thirty-eight: Amy’s Death—Part One
Chapter Thirty-nine: Amy’s Death—Part Two
Chapter Forty: A Royal Death
Chapter Forty-one: Rebirth
Chapter Forty-two: The Traitor’s Tale
Chapter Forty-three: Amy’s Death—Part Three
Chapter Forty-four: The Golden Age
Chapter Forty-five: The Successor
Chapter Forty-six: Amy’s Death—Part Four
Chapter Forty-seven: Amy’s Birth
Chapter Forty-eight: The Other Boat
Chapter Forty-nine: Of Desperate Acts
Chapter Fifty: The End of the Beginning
Epilogue
Prologue: A Death in the Park
Central Park, New York City—Present Day
It had been a bad day. She dropped her iPhone and cracked the screen while getting out of bed. The water ran cold during her morning shower. Her cat, Lord Norfolk, spewed half-digested dumpster waste onto the hallway rug during the night. She stepped in the puke as she left the apartment. And to top it all, she had been shot and fatally wounded during her lunch break. She was dying, and it hurt—a lot.
The bullet passed cleanly through her body. She felt a sharp pain next to her stomach. The pain forced a desperate gasp. Then came a sickening weakness, that started in her legs, and quickly seeped through to every part of her being. She landed hard as she fell with twisted awkwardness onto her back. Her head impacted the cracked concrete pathway at speed. The trees around her, heavy with summer leaf, began to darken. Agony radiated from the wound and put pressure on her lungs, reducing her breathing to a series of panicked, shallow intakes of air, followed by a slow, uncertain exhalation.
Her life could have been epic. Her life should have been epic. As it turned out, her life had been very ordinary, highly uneventful, and unnaturally brief.
She ran her fingers across the small mouth that had been ripped open by the ice-cold projectile as it tore through her lower abdomen. The wound had felt like a wet smile when she first touched it, but as she gently prodded the opening for the second time, the congealing blood felt like teeth—small and sharp and eating away at her life-force with cruel delight.
Her eyes widened. The world around her began to dissolve into confusion as thought, and dream and reality collided. Under the shade of an oak tree on a glorious summer's day was not how she imagined her life ending—but then again, she had never imagined how her life would end. A few unimportant regrets pierced her faltering mind—what she should have said to her parents when she last met with them; who she should have kissed at the prom as opposed to who she did kiss; that she left the apartment on such bad terms with Lord Norfolk in the aftermath of the puking incident. And most importantly, she regretted not paying for insurance when she bought her phone.
As she gazed up into the branches of the oak she noticed something moving. It was slight. A silver flash. Leaping from branch to branch and never settling in one place long enough for her to identify the tiny thing. She was so focused on the light that she did not regard the leaves as they changed—from green to yellow, to brown—a full autumn in less than ten seconds. As the leaves began to fall, the flash of light moved faster and faster until the entire wooden skeleton of the tree appeared to glow with a dazzling white light. She closed her eyes. Bloody squirrel, she mused. She didn't see a squirrel, and no squirrel could account for what she was witnessing, but a nut-munching rodent provided an easy answer to a mystery that she was in no fit state to contemplate. She was too preoccupied with death, and anger at the extortionate price she would be charged to replace the screen of the phone.
As her last breath passed between her cold, numb, lips, she finally asked herself, why? Why her? Why now? She would never know the answers to the whys, but she felt certain that her pitiful end had begun one month earlier in the very spot where she now formed, and then lost her last thought. It never occurred to her that the assassin was a friend—her only true friend. One month earlier her world had changed forever. One month earlier she had been introduced to the prospect of wonder and excitement. And now her life was over. Amy Coren was dead.
Chapter One: The Queen is dead, long live the Queen!
London, 17th November 1558
A small, quietly expectant crowd had assembled outside St. James’s Palace before dawn. The Queen lay dying inside the grand house. A hard frost bit with unbiased brutality at well-wishers, and those who would see the dying tyrant on her way to hell. Men at arms looked on with nervous eyes—a smooth transition from one sovereign to the next was never guaranteed, and the armed men, oblivious to the intrigues of the great and the good, could be called upon to pick a side at any moment. If they nominated poorly, their choice would see them executed at Tyburn.
When King Edward died, five years earlier, the accession of Mary was assumed. A small band of men who feared that the Catholic Mary would overturn the Protestant reforms of the young king, placed an innocent child on Mary’s throne. Queen Jane reigned for a paltry nine days. In those dark and uncertain days, the kingdom had stood on the brink of a brutal, sectarian, civil war. This time the men at arms would be ready to ensure a just transition.
There was little love left in the kingdom for dying Queen. Her five years on the throne had brought the realm to the brink of bankruptcy and civil war. Her religious zeal had resulted in casual torture, beheadings, and the burning of those that would not fall into line with her s
trict religious principles. Bloody Mary was dying, and an entire nation held its breath in hopeful expectation.
He joined the crowd in the attire of a poor man. Deep lines across his brow, etched over many years of sincere contemplation and steadfast worry, aged him greatly. The muddy stains of a peasant on his cheeks and chin were a fresh camouflage. No one would recognise him; or, most importantly, no one from Mary’s inner circle would recognise him. His reputation as a practitioner of the hidden science was well known, and if observed anywhere near the Queen’s sick-bed then suspicion for her terminal condition would fall on him. There was still time for that suspicion to turn to an accusation, and then to execution. The head of John Dee on a spike would most assuredly bring a smile to the dying Queen’s lips.
The hours passed slowly. From time to time an excited mummer would rise. News. False news. Disappointment. At the stroke of noon, a man wearing a black velvet hat and black velvet robes stepped out of the palace. Dee recognised the man at once as Lord Chancellor, Nicholas Heath. As Archbishop of York, as well as Lord Chancellor, Heath held the appropriate credentials to make the official announcement. Heath walked with a straight back, and self-important purpose, towards the royal messengers that had been waiting patiently outside the palace for two days and one night. He spoke to one of the three heralds. The crier’s face registered no emotion as his lord whispered into his ear. As Heath finished instructing him, the herald stepped forward.
“The Queen is dead,” announced the man, in a loud, authoritative voice.
Dee’s grin was barely perceptible; his words hushed, “Long live the Queen,” he muttered.
Heath turned his back to the crowd and he walked away smartly—an unspoken indication that the announcement was to his satisfaction. Heath marched off in the direction of the House of Lords. He would stand up before the Lords and inform them that the Queen was with her Lord in Heaven. At that moment, the process of transferring power to Princess Elizabeth would begin. Dee would be by her side, counselling and guiding her through, and around, the many hidden dangers before her.
Dee waited patiently. The dazed crowd milled around for half an hour, waiting for someone important to instruct them further. Eventually, the four most important men from the dead queen’s Privy Council left the death house. Flanked by soldiers, the men walked resolutely in the direction of the stables by the side of the palace. To a man, they were dressed from top to toe in black—a tight cluster of anxious, scheming crows. The dense crowd slowed their progress. Dee made his move. Skirting the crowd, he rushed to the stables ahead of The Council.
Four of the fastest horses from the royal team stood tethered at the front of the stables. The grooms had left their posts to catch news from the palace. Dee approached one of the unattended horses—a chestnut brown stallion of fine features, and athletic build. Dee slowly circled the animal. He stroked it. He viewed the mighty beast carefully. He whispered into its ear. He untied the reigns and set the animal free. The horse trotted off merrily across the uneven cobbles. Dee grinned. He would not be the one to break the news of Mary’s death to his princess, but he would be there when it happened.
The men of the Privy Council arrived at the stables. Each man wore a look of deep concern. They had been the bloody Queen’s closest advisors, and now they were going to meet with the woman who they had urged Mary to put to death. They hoped that by bringing the joyous news of her elevation to the throne it might inspire mercy in her, and in the process, allow them to keep their heads. The men mounted the horses; four powerful steeds, including the fine chestnut brown stallion, still tethered, as it had been when Dee had first come upon it. Dee had vanished; yet there he stood, strong and proud, and chewing on sweet meadow hay.
Chapter Two: King of the Condemned
Tara: Seat of the High Kings of Ireland, 441 AD
Springtime had arrived late. The last icy breaths of winter menaced the night-time and bit hard into the early hours of the morning. Peasants and king’s men alike worked the mean earth of the valley by day, and they sought refuge from the hard frosts of darkness around stout fires of peat and wind-felled hazel. An earthy smoke mingled with the low-lying mist to inspire an acrid smog, that was at once unpleasant, and reassuring—it stung the eyes and lungs, and yet it spoke of warmth, and the promise of a hot meal, and the familiar comfort of family.
On that cold night, much colder than the nights of late, all fire holes and grates lay still and empty. The families huddled together for warmth; too cold and numb to exchange idle gossip. The soldiers in the temporary wooden garrison braved the cold with bawdy conversation and tale-telling of the most fantastical kind. The warmth from the horses that were holed-up with the soldiers offered some relief, but the unpleasant smell from the beasts effortlessly nullified that slight luxury.
The self-imposed discomfort of that night, steeped in a tradition that temporarily subdued the increasingly rational and progressive world of man, humbled everyone. The tense stillness that had settled over the valley crackled with the ancient magic that men had almost totally dismissed. As the night crawled slowly onwards, the hint of magic grew and intensified, until finally, there was no room for doubt; not even the most worldly-hardened heart or skeptical mind could deny the truth. The world that they knew so well, the world that they were so firmly rooted in; it was not their world. They were merely an infestation. Uninvited guests to remove or destroy at any time by a power much older, and much greater, than they.
On the eve of the spring festival of Imbolc, a ban on fires in the valley came into force. The magical realm of the Old Ones was most powerful and present when cold. All serious practitioners of magic knew that more authority could be added to their work away from the light and warmth of the Sun, or the flame.
The prohibition on heat and light would remain in place until the holy fire burned in the King’s home on the day of Imbolc. The punishment for lighting a fire was death by burning, followed by the eternal damnation of the offender’s immortal soul. The family of the condemned would be rendered outcasts; doomed to dwell in misery in the dense forests, and on the mean mountainsides.
King Loegaire had been High King of Ireland for seven years. He was not as wealthy or as powerful as some of the other kings, but he was wise and the gods touched him. His brother kings had made him first amongst them without hesitation. His army was small, but they were dedicated and fierce, and they had never lost a battle. Each springtime he moved his entire court to Tara. On the day of the great feast, the kings of Ireland would arrive at court and kneel before their High King.
The evening before the feast, reserved for receiving and entertaining the Old Ones—the fragments of the early faith, given form as creatures, that even in ancient times, were more mythical whispers than physical manifestations. The magical essence that gave them life was quickly passing into memory, but to King Loegaire and his closest advisors, the legendary beings were Ireland’s beating heart and her timeless soul. They were to be revered and respected above all others—a duty that the king observed with great thoroughness.
The King had decreed that no forest was to fall to the axe without consultation with the Old Ones and that no new settlement built on land that was known to be home to any mythical creature. Despite his best efforts, the king could not help but feel that something was changing. There was a darkness that had descended over the island. Something new had arrived. It had rolled in from the east like a terrible thunderstorm, and it had come to settle on the edge of Tara on that fateful night. Somewhere in the darkness beyond Tara, a quiet prayer was sincerely uttered by a holy man. A spark came into being. It was small and bright blue, and bursting with more power than the Earth had witnessed in a long age. The spark grew.
Chapter Three: Central Park, New York City—One month before Amy’s Death
Amy hurried along the narrow pathway that led to relative seclusion of Turtle Pond. She moved as if she was being pursued by a knife-wielding mugger—not an altogether peculiar prospect in Ce
ntral Park, even on a bright afternoon at the beginning of summer.
A red-eared slider sat lazily sunbathing on an outsized patch of crazed concrete by the edge of the murky pond water. Amy paid the creature no regard as she approached the reptile like a calamitous giant. The little turtle quickly stirred as Amy advanced. It whipped its head around in alarm as her heavy boots pounded the crumbling pathway. When she was within stomping distance of the animal, a look of wrinkly terror flashed across its red, speckled face. It lunged towards the water with unusual speed and little grace. The dark liquid sighed meekly as it swallowed the animal with an effortless gulp—a gentle plop punctuated the one-sidedly terrifying incident.
Amy quickly took the place of the turtle as she gracefully dropped onto the warm square of concrete. She began to unlace her boots. The twenty eyelets of the boots looked stylish and enticing when they had been sitting on a shelf in the shop, but they were infuriatingly difficult to reason with when she was in a hurry. She had only forty-five minutes to grab lunch, and it had taken almost ten minutes to walk from the alternative fashion boutique on 79th Street, where she worked, to the pond. As if to make matters more intense and pressing, the clock in her head was running faster than real time—it often did.
She cast the first boot to one side with reckless abandon. The boot rolled for a moment before settling perilously close to the water. She then set about freeing her other foot from its sweltering leather prison. As the second boot landed awkwardly on top of the first, Amy exhaled sharply—mission accomplished. A second, deeper sigh rushed past her lips as she slid her feet into the cool water of the human-made pool. A chill, followed by a wave of exhilaration, pulsed through her body—the effort had been worth that simple moment of pure release. The mild euphoria quickly turned to caution as she scanned the murky water for any indications of turtles hungry enough to try to make a meal of her vulnerable toes. Satisfied that she was safe, she directed the pale skin of her face sunward.