The Witch

 We join Maximilian of Tyne as he rides into Barrow village. His first stop is the vicarage. Barrow, he has heard, is home to a witch, and if he can beat the famed witch-hunter Matthew Hopkins to a trial and execution, he may gain the favour he so craves with the church. That, and the chance, perhaps, for an audience with King James. But what a day for a headache. And what a headache! Maximilian’s cranium is subject to an enormous, throbbing pressure, as if the moment of the blacksmith’s hammer on the anvil were drawn out into several hours. Putting on his best face for the vicar, he assembles the pieces of the rumour in his hurting brain: Gordon, cousin of the illustrious Spencers, has been losing his sheep to a pox. One of his shepherds stopped working then died. It is being whispered that this is the doing of a woman by the name of May, by means of black magic and assisted by her spirit familiar, a brindle dog.

Max resolved to find the woman right away. But first he had to do something about this terrible headache. The vicar directed him to the apothecary’s house, right across the street from the barber surgeon. He decided to leave his horse at the vicarage and picked his way down the street. By now, horrid spinning shards of light spun in his peripheral vision. Waves of nausea flowed from his chest to his throat. He clutched his scarlet robe around his neck and concentrated on not vomiting. No man with a reputation for the loss of public composure would ever be granted an audience with the king. 

Hearing the symptoms, the apothecary raised a knowing finger and proffered a simple biscuit. Unimpressed, Maximilian scoffed it and ordered two more. Even though they tasted peculiar, they’d suffice for breakfast. Surely there was a tincture or a poultice or something more medicinal for such a serious ailment as this? But the apothecary was adamant that this was the perfect cure for the symptoms described, and that one was enough. He scoffed the other two anyway. This ailment was serious and he was on serious business. He was here to rid Barrow of a witch, he’d have him know. The apothecary seemed even less impressed at this, and bustled him out of his house with nary a hint of decorum. 

What a strange fellow, Maximilian thought, but with a tilt of his agonised head reckoned that most apothecaries were anyway. In a meadow at the end of the high street he spotted through his clotted vision a serene oak. A perfect tree to sit still beneath for the hour the apothecary had prescribed. He picked a shoot of grass, put the end in his mouth and, squatting on his haunches with his back to the tree, closed his eyes. 

He was awakened by a pleasant breeze on his face. The sun was higher in the sky. To his surprise, his headache had subsided. Not completely, but he was no longer seeing things in his peripheral vision, the nausea was gone and the pain was now more dull than excruciating. Time to find this woman. Following the vicar’s directions, he came to a cottage nestled among the trees at the edge of the wood. A single bark from a brindle hound at the door alerted its occupant to his presence. Maximilian crossed himself and strode bravely forward. The hound fixed him with its yellow eyes and growled. Without realising how extraordinary this was, Maximilian understood the growl and answered with a growl of his own: Fear not, hound, it is I, Maximilian of Tyne, and if you are but a normal hound, not the spirit familiar of a witch, you will be availed of no harm.

“What is it, Ratter?” A fair and ample woman appeared at the door. The dog peered over its shoulder and gave a little whimper; its tail wagging nervously. “Oh, a visitor?”

Maximilian had been expecting an evil, haggard crone, but this was a rotund and rosy-cheeked woman. A little old to be considered a maiden, but too pretty to be unwed, which it seemed she was. 

“What can I do for you, sir?”

Maximilian introduced himself and his mission to uphold the law of the king. He inquired of her dealings with Gordon, cousin of the Spencers,  and was informed that she had on several occasions turned down the man’s advances. Aha! A motive for vengeful magic! But why spurn such a well-heeled man? May had her reasons, primary among them being a lack of interest in becoming anyone’s wife, no particular offence to Gordon.  How, then, does a woman of Barrow make her way without a husband? The answer was business: wood for the cooper, a whetstone and sharpening skills for the barber surgeon, herbs for the apothecary, odd jobs for the tailor and baker. Maximilian then gravely informed her that it had been mentioned by the vicar that her attendance at church could be described as irregular at best. Her reply was that she already gives tithes to a lord, and another invisible lord whose only real estate was available after death seemed suspicious. 

Witch or not, I could do her in for blasphemy! Maximilian thought, and the dog began to growl again. How now, dog? He growled back. Your woman is digging her own grave! She spurns the church and the well heeled man! She works dark arts to bring a pox on his flock and death to its shepherd! Ratter growled louder, baring his teeth. Oh, don’t you threaten me, foul hound! Outsider I may be, but a witch in Barrow will not do, nor her spirit familiar, as I suspect you are!

He swatted at a faerie flying too close to his face. 

May’s alternated her gaze between her dog and the caped man at the threshold. Their eyes were locked, both growling from the depths of their throats. Not a witch eh? And you take being called a spirit familiar as an insult? A companion, eh? You are a dog! Oh! So now you’re agreeing with me! Ratter barked. I see, Maximilian continued. You agree you are just a dog, but you disagree with everything else I say. Well, then. I shall confront her myself!

 “Madam, I have reason to believe you are a witch!” 

May stared at him. ”Sir, you have spent most of your time here conversing with my dog, yet you accuse me of being a witch!?”

“If you are no witch, then why is this place haunted by faerie folk?” He wagged his finger at her.

She regarded him from the corner of her eye and said, “Men of the church aren’t supposed to believe in the faerie folk.”

“I don’t work for the church!” He retorted, smirking. “I work to uphold the law of the king!”

“The King,” she replied, “who is the commissioner of the Christian Bible that bears his name. Ruler by divine right supposedly. And here you are, talking dog language and swatting at faeries, accusing me of working the dark arts on the poor departed shepherd? Are you mad? I found him his staff, for goodness’ sake! Why would I want to kill the man? Or any man? And Gordon? He sparks no warmth in my bosom, but the wool from his flock brings in most of the money that runs this village. That money makes it to me through my clients. The pox hurts us all. Surely you understand that even if I did work forces, doing so against Gordon would be like whipping my own back! Begone with you, bothersome interloper! My case against you as a witch is stronger than yours against mine!”

Maximilian of Tyne had never been scolded by a woman like that. Not even by his own mother. It left him reeling, unsteady. On top of that, the flowers in the pots by her door couldn’t seem to decide on what colour to be. Ratter’s yellow eyes glowed with concern, staring out from his cocked head. No, dog. I’m fine. In fact, I’ve never felt better! My headache is gone! The realisation was a wonderful sunrise in his chest; his head released from the anvil of pain and cast afloat on a cloud of bliss! Despite this contrary woman, her verbose dog and these bothersome faeries, he really did feel quite amazing. “My headache is gone!” he said out loud.

May’s eyes widened. “You ate a biscuit proffered by the apothecary, did you not? Perhaps more than the single one prescribed?”

“Indeed, and however would you have known that if you weren’t a witch!” He pointed at her triumphantly.

“Because I make those biscuits for the apothecary, you dolt! Their active ingredient is the sacred mushroom that grows in the bullshit.” She pulled a jar off the shelf near the door and showed him. The smell was unmistakable.  He stood there swaying and blinking. His demeanour softened and a tear welled up in the corner of his eye. This woman had released him from terrible pain. He suddenly felt appalled that he had come here to find a reason to have her hanged. He dropped to his knees. “Madam, I am so sorry. I have been awfully mistaken, and I fear I may even have chosen for myself the wrong profession.” 

May, Ratter and the faeries all stared at him, pity seeping through their sternness. 

“You won’t be riding anywhere else today with more than one of those biscuits inside you, Maximilian of Tyne. I hope your horse is in good hands. Let's go for a little walk, shall we? There are far better ways to serve your king. I'll tell you what they are.”