The Winter King Read Free

generally agreed, must surely be coming …
    In a small Kentish village a dozen miles up from the coast, an elderly woman was basking in sudden notoriety. Some said she was a witch; others that she was just plain daft. She had an uncertain grip on reality, but this was possibly no more than a clever act. She appeared to be even more agitated than most by the alarming portents that were regularly occurring and, one mild autumn evening, according to witnesses, she emitted an ear-piercing scream and fell into a deep and very public trance in the middle of the village green. In her trance state – and opinion was equally divided between her being inspired by God or the Devil – she began to proclaim frightening and dangerous predictions.
    ‘Darkness will prevail all the while this Winter King rules,’ she began.
    ‘Winter King? Who’s that, then? What’s she on about?’ her audience muttered.
    As if she had heard – possibly she had – the crone obligingly elucidated. ‘The Oak King rules in the months of light,’ she wailed, ‘and the Holly King takes over at the autumn equinox, for he is made of darkness and belongs to the winter.’ She paused, her wide, pale eyes ranging round her audience. ‘He is the Winter King!’ she cried. A few flecks of spittle dotted her lower lip.
    ‘Does she mean King John?’ a bold soul demanded.
    ‘His peers will try to bring him down,’ the old woman went on, her tone high and quivery, and not, according to witnesses, her normal speaking voice, ‘demanding that he signs a great document that will call him to account, but it will be to no avail. He will suffer disaster on the water, losing all he holds most dear. He will die an untimely death, leaving his realm in grave jeopardy, beset by the enemy from across the seas.’
    The crone’s eyes were wide and staring. Once or twice she put a hand up to her brow, as if her head pained her. It seemed to some that she was listening to words that nobody else could hear.
    A nervous frisson went through the villagers. Men and women turned to each other, searching for reassurance. On the outer edge of the now sizeable crowd, men looked anxiously over their shoulders. It did not do to be observed listening to such dangerous talk, and Heaven help the poor sap making the comments. One man, more sensible than most, hurried off to find the most respected of the village elders.
    ‘His successor will be weak and untrustworthy,’ continued the crone, either unaware of or ignoring her audience’s unease, and well into her stride now. ‘He will extract vast sums from his people to pay for ultimately fruitless wars—’
    ‘Just like this one, then,’ put in some humorist, raising a few half-hearted guffaws.
    ‘—and he will reign for half a century, although it will seem longer,’ went on the old woman. ‘Only on his death will a great king emerge, one who will provide strong leadership against England’s enemies and, at long last, permit his people a stake in their own lives.’
    ‘What’s she talking about? Stake in our own lives? When hell freezes over!’ her fellow villagers protested, howling their derision.
    A burly man – the village blacksmith – approached the old woman. His intention was unclear: perhaps he was going to demand an explanation, or perhaps, for her own good and theirs, he would attempt to stop her. Behind him, hurrying to catch up with his long strides, came the village elder, accompanied by the man who had run to fetch him. But they were too late to reason with or silence the old woman. With a dramatic cry, her eyes rolling back in her head, she fell into a swoon, and neither burnt feathers waved under her nose nor several quite hard slaps on the face could revive her.
    That might have been the last anyone heard of Lilas of Hamhurst, for the village would probably have soon forgotten the event, or else saved it up as an amusing tale of the odd ways of folk, to relate on a dark evening. Unfortunately for old