 
# The Necromancer

Whole Book

An answer to the greatest 'locked-room' mystery of all time,

What happened to the Princes in the Tower?

By Mike Voyce

Copyright 2012 by Mike Voyce

Smashwords Edition
Copyright © by Mike Voyce 2012

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my wife, my daughter and son-in-law, and all those who have helped in its production.

***

A copy, now in the public domain, of a rather famous painting of the Princes in the Tower. Whether or not Millais had any idea what the Princes looked like, this image has become the iconic depiction for all our modern age.

#  Contents

Part I

The Prologue

Introduction

Chapter 1 – The Reverend Doctor Thomas Nandyke

Chapter 2 – John Morton, bishop of Ely

Chapter 3 – A Further Meeting and a Mystery

Chapter 4 – The Workings of a School of Mysteries

Chapter 5 – In Meditation

Chapter 6 – A Rebuke to Thomas

Chapter 7 – A Plan of My Own

Chapter 8 – On Eavesdropping

Chapter 9 – King Edward

Chapter 10 – Hatfield Palace

Chapter 11 – A Little More of the School

Chapter 12 – London and the Great Council

Chapter 13 – The Conspiracy against Hastings

Chapter 14 – The Coronation that never was

Chapter 15 – Placing the Princes

Chapter 16 – A Call to Confession

Chapter 17 – The First Part of Thomas' Confession

Chapter 18 – Of Thomas' Comings and Goings

Chapter 19 – Of my Mind and Thomas' Situation

Chapter 20 – The Second Part of Thomas' Confession

Chapter 21 – The Next Step

Chapter 22 – Morton's Solution

Chapter 23 – Brother Thomas returns to the Work

Chapter 24 – A Tudor Riot

Chapter 25 – The Going Out

Chapter 26 – The Coming In

Chapter 27 – The Bishop's Retribution

Chapter 28 – History

Chapter 29 – Magic and Other Issues

Chapter 30 – Morton's Final Coupe

Comment So Far

PART II

Chapter 31 – Making Ready

Chapter 32 – The Scheming of King Louis

Chapter 33 – The Young Gentlemen

Chapter 34 – Return to Thomas

Chapter 35 – Return to King Louis

PART III

Chapter 36 – A Brave New World

Chapter 37 – An End for Bishop Morton

Chapter 38 – An End for Legley

Chapter 39 – A New Beginning for William Lord Hastings

Chapter 40 – Checking for Anomalies

End Notes

After Word on Magic

After Word on Reality

After Word on Truth – A Prayer to Ma'at

List of Hyperlinks

***

#  The Necromancer – Part I
#  The Prologue

It was twenty years in gestation. Well, you see, I had to think about it. In the end, when I tired of teaching, or maybe when it tired of me, I finally faced the truths from which I'd been so long running away, cleaned up the manuscript and published.

You could almost hear a sigh of relief; I'd done what I was supposed to do. First came "Edward, the novel" and then "Edward – Interactive". Learning that story was a baptism of fire, as you will see if you read it, but it taught me a great deal more than how to write.

Of the story, the first thing I learned was the utter ruthlessness of Lady Margaret Beaufort, who stands behind a good deal of our present story. I learned the rottenness of her family: her father, the traitorous Duke of Somerset, her first husband, Edmund Tudor, who raped his twelve year-old bride, and her son, the usurper, King Henry VII. The hero of Edward thought he had put an end to that poisonous family, but Margaret's grandson did a terrible and unimaginable thing, which by now has spread their infection to the whole World. It is to dispel that infection, back to its very root, in the evil surrounding the unfortunate King Richard III and the Princes in the Tower, that I wrote "The Necromancer."

Of all the truths from which I ran away, the worst was the practise of a kind of magic which I can only call 'Black.' It is of this magic the present book speaks. To expunge it we need to expose the truth, for all time, how it was the Princes in the Tower disappeared, why it was Richard III was blamed, and who it was that truly caused what may be the greatest calamity and misdirection of History ever to befall the English speaking world.

Let me confess the trepidation with which I started. To penetrate the heart of this mystery I had to experience, for myself, the worlds in which this magic was practised and enter the realms of Darkness. The forces lurking there do not want their villainy dragged into the light. Yet for your sake, and for the Princes, it has now been tried. Only by your belief will it finally be known if I have succeeded.

I beg you, dear reader, therefore, take a moment to pray for my success, and wish the Princes and our story well.

***

#  Introduction

By a combination of the Bishop of Bath and Wells' rejection of the right of Edward IV's sons to claim the throne of England, and a general fear of power coming into the hands of Edward's widow and her family, Princes Edward, the Prince of Wales, and Richard, duke of York, were set aside by history. Edward was only twelve when his father died, while Richard was just ten years old. They found themselves in the custody of their uncle, King Richard III. While he and the Duke of Buckingham went on a royal progress round the country, the Princes were left living in the royal apartments of the Tower of London. Sometime between July and the end of September 1483, the boys disappeared.

Contemporary propaganda and subsequent historians claimed Richard had his nephews murdered. Certainly Richard failed to produce or account for his nephews, but did he kill them? This is the core of the mystery, which has not been satisfactorily explained in roughly five and a quarter centuries.

There have always been doubts about what happened to the Princes in the Tower. In the reign of Henry VII, in the 1490s, the claim of Perkin Warbeck to be Prince Richard, spirited away for his own protection, shaped history and King Henry's policy. Only after the King captured, tortured and judicially murdered Perkin Warbeck could anyone feel sure either of the Princes was dead.

In each century since there have been challenges to the official line that the Princes were murdered on the orders of Richard III. The only 'factual' evidence for this murder came nineteen years after the event, with the alleged confession of Sir James Tyrell, a confession for which there is no evidence other than the word of Henry VII.

What you may find remarkable is that two royal princes could disappear from the strongest fortress in England without anyone being able to give evidence of how or why.

In the following pages there is a detailed explanation of how, why and who. You may take it as a novel: the belief systems of many people alive today, about what is and what is not possible, will make it impossible for them to take it any other way. If you are inclined to towards an open mind, simply ask yourself what other explanation fits the facts.

The Necromancer is intended to entertain; but it is also an interactive eBook. It has many hyperlinks giving source books and materials which can inform in great depth; this allows you to take both the story and the subject at whatever level you like. For many it might be tedious to read through all the link on Sir James Tyrell; it might be reassuring to know it's there and, who knows, if you don't read it now you might read it later.

The Necromancer not only explains the Princes but also the arrest of Hastings and the Buckingham Rebellion, these are also events with which history finds difficulty. Yet more, if you believe in Thomas Nandyke's conjuration, this book also explains the deaths of Edward IV and Richard III's wife and son. Historians cannot be sure exactly what illness killed Edward IV; they cannot explain its sudden onset or his rapid decline. If you read a textbook which states it was a chill, I suggest that's a guess.

As well as hyperlinks to historical source books, there are also links to materials on magic, including Sir Isaac Newton's translation of the fabled Emerald Tablet of Hermes. Magic is a very personal subject and I leave you to decide what to take, yet there is enough to allow you to form an opinion and even make a start on becoming a magician yourself.

Part I of the Necromancer deals with facts which can be known in the reality of the world in which we live. There are those who believe there are many alternative realities. Part II deals with securing the reality we know, while Part III concerns the reality of a different history. Afterwards come some words on Magic and on Reality, also Truth, and even a hint about our own future.

***

#  Chapter 1 – The Reverend Doctor Thomas Nandyke

The Sanctuary at Stansted Hall was in hushed expectation.

The room was packed; all attention focused on one of the World's best trance mediums.

I knew Chris slightly, we'd drunk together, and I asked his help in healing a friend. We'd sat in a noisy bar as I shared with him the medical impossibility of repairing destroyed nerves, relieving the progress of my friend's M.S, and all the payment he would take for it was a pint of beer. Of all the people I know, he is the only medium in whom I have absolute trust.

The Sanctuary is an addition to the hall. It's a light and long room, sloping down to the rostrum; part of the Arthur Findlay College, based at the hall, yet accessible from the outside, standing between this World and the next, attracting students from all over the globe, and as far away as the airport.

As Chris channelled spirit healers, so he channelled his control in this demonstration, Akmed the Assassin. Of all the people who sat in the Sanctuary that night I doubted any needed the guidance of an assassin; but what Akmed brought was absolute and unswerving purpose. It was palpable in Chris' recumbent body; Akmed showed me the meaning of real determination.

At a pause in questions from the floor, I found myself invited to speak,

"A long time ago there was a criminal conspiracy, a most famous abduction. In order to carry off two young boys magic was used and spells cast. In the many years since nobody has been able to discover what happened or who it was committed this crime. Stories have been told but some people believe these were inspired by the perpetrators.

I have one name. If I call on that name I will attract booby-traps. The people responsible for this abduction protected themselves. How can I call on that name without bringing an attack down on myself?"

The answer was simple and direct,

"Don't go to him. He will come to you; then there will be no booby-trap."

There is a magic about Stansted. After so many years invested in the 'spirit-world,' and the presence of so many leading mediums, the place has an atmosphere, you can feel it in the early morning mist, hanging over the parklands which surround it. Anyone who goes there cannot fail to come away touched by it. Its gift to me was a way to question Thomas Nandyke.

It was impossible, sooner or later, not to sit in meditation. I knew how to channel, but I also knew with whom I was starting to meddle: it's not for nothing the secrets of that abduction remained tightly covered for more than 500 years.

The scene in the Sanctuary played over and over in my head. The name I had from a list of the people accused of treason in an ancient Act of Parliament came in and out of consciousness.

The blackness was heavy and thick, there was nothing solid beneath me, above or around, but the blackness wasn't empty. The Reverend Doctor Thomas Nandyke was there. There was no form, only the sense of his emotions. The only words were, "I am he," or maybe, "I am here."

The blackness collapsed, like falling from the top of a fairground ride, I was called from another part of the house and back into the solid world, but now a door was open and there could be no turning back.

You cannot prepare for such a meeting. In my room were several bibles, candles and even a bell. There were books I'd read of history, philosophy, magic and psychic protection, but the forces from deep in our minds know nothing of rationality.

My next meeting with Doctor Nandyke was longer.

It started with the same blackness, and to start with I just waited.

As the blackness lightened I neither saw nor heard but was given a belief in the presence of a tall and spare man, no older than his mid-twenties, his fair hair untidily cut and his beard badly shaved.

"I would like you to tell me your story."

He didn't answer directly, he allowed me to see it.

Young Thomas had been given to the Church by a family which was not rich. He thought himself lucky to be sent to Cambridge and there he studied, separated by his shyness from other students. There were impressions of Cambridge, old established even in his day; of the brown leaves and brown buildings in the autumn of his going, of the bite of the wind coming in from the east, of the hardness of pews and benches in College and Church, the smells of candles, ink and books, the sound of singing, chanting, recital and prayer.

Thomas tall frame became thin from lack of food, and stooped from lack of exercise, his eyes became weak from the strain of reading in poor light and he came to hide even more from the company of others. His world narrowed to the books he read, in his tutor's opinion, unhealthy books.

He met the Bishop once, to receive a small gift for the devotion he showed to his studies. The Bishop had suggested to Thomas he should study Magic, to give him more confidence in his learning; the prior by no means approved, but he only showed it in a tightness of his mouth when Thomas told him.

Days merged into weeks and months, then years. Ink stained Thomas' fingers and would never wash out. He hated the disputations on which the University thrived, but the dreaded day came ever closer when he would have to present his own doctoral thesis in Great Saint Mary's Church. And after that ordeal, if he were awarded a degree, what then?

The day came, though few wanted to hear the expected dullness of Thomas' sermon,  Bishop John Morton of Ely), a master of Cambridge University, would be in attendance. Thomas looked in horror at the half full nave, some of the younger men he recognised as followers of the Bishop; those towards the back would never hear his carefully copied script.

Before Thomas was suffered to speak Bishop Morton addressed the church, his tones clear and confident. Then the congregation sat in silence as Thomas stuttered and stammered his way through his long work, often having to go back to correct himself. At the end Morton rose and gave one loud clap.

The degree of doctor was awarded in full ceremony, and on the day he received it he also received a surprising offer from the Bishop.

First Thomas was to attend Morton at his lodgings in Cambridge. When he answered that summons, in anxiety to hear the Bishop's pleasure, this is what he was told,

"My graduate school is not open to public gaze for our actions are not seemly for the public to know. I am commissioned to provide privy knowledge to a former member of the King's Council and have need of one who knows how to hide himself; I have need of other services also and may have need that you hide others by your art, in manner not open to the World."

Thus was the commission given.

You may take it, as Thomas did; Morton was not referring to disguise, the physical hiding of bodies, out of sight. What we should call Magic had become Thomas' only study and his mind turned to how people could be made to seem taken out of the real World altogether, perhaps not yet how they could actually be removed from it.

For the medieval mind there is something of great importance. Religion certainly tried to work magic, but it did so by beseeching God for miracles, supplicating the deity, Jesus or the saints by prayer. 'Magic' often sought exactly the same results but without the supplication, magicians were guilty of self-willed manipulations; this was the great sin for which Simeon Magus was demonised by Saint Paul. By his delicacy in talking to Thomas I realised, Morton wasn't engaged in Godly supplication, but rather self-willed magic, and he couldn't quite hide it from those he drew into his scheming. Amongst those around him there was hushed debate and disquiet, whether he was engaged in religion or magic. For all he made great play of his holy office, the sanctifying authority in whose name Morton sought to act was his own – adding the sin of hubris to his other faults.

In the Sanctuary I thought I had no weapon, now I had one. Bishop John Morton set his actions against his own belief in God and the Church; he made use of magic, necessarily against his own religion.

I had a second weapon also, in everything I saw through Thomas, Morton hid, never making his actions clear or open. He had become a creature of darkness, and all that would be needed was a strong light, shone on him in the sight of God and Man, for his deceitful spirit to fall to dust. At least, so I promised myself.

Now I could make my challenge openly. It would not take away the booby-traps standing in the way, but now their effect could be turned against Morton himself.

The medieval World set the terms by which he sought to operate, the first charge in the indictment against John Morton is that he acted in his own will, not in the Will of God. Here is my first conclusion from experiencing the presence of Thomas Nandyke.

This channelling must have drawn me close to Thomas, I found in myself a rising anger against how he was used. Thomas was not a wicked or deceitful man; his fault was he thought of himself poorly. I saw this lack of self-esteem used against him, to pervert him to Morton's cause. I saw the damage to his body and his mind. I hate the manipulation of others, as I hate bullying. Thomas was coming to serve Morton's will, not his own, and I pitied him.

In 1484 King Richard III passed an Act of Attainder condemning the traitors who rebelled against him in the name of the Duke of Buckingham. In it Thomas Nandyke is named as a "necromancer of Cambridge."

Wikipedia defines necromancy as,

"A form of magic involving communication with the deceased... for the purpose of divination, imparting the means to foretell future events or discover hidden knowledge. The term may sometimes be used in a more general sense to refer to black magic or witchcraft."

I'm sure it was always Thomas' intention to use it for a deeper purpose.

"The oldest literary account of necromancy is found in Homer's Odyssey. Under the direction of Circe, a powerful sorceress, Odysseus travels to the underworld in order to gain insight about his impending voyage home by raising the spirits of the dead through the use of spells which Circe has taught him. He wishes to invoke and question the shade of Tiresias in particular; however, he is unable to summon the seer's spirit without the assistance of others. The Odyssey's passages contain many descriptive references to necromantic rituals: rites must be performed around a pit with fire during nocturnal hours, and Odysseus has to follow a specific recipe, which includes the blood of sacrificial animals, to concoct a libation for the ghosts to drink while he recites prayers to both the ghosts and gods of the underworld." - Again from Wikipedia

Cambridge taught Thomas Greek. I don't think his desire was for knowledge only, what I sensed was he wanted nothing short of his own entry into the Underworld. It was more of a foreboding than a thought; in the Underworld you could hide an army, and find many a classical hero and heroine.

I would not have been in Stansted Hall, or the Sanctuary, or the Arthur Findlay College at all, if I hadn't been interested in the psychic. Everyone is psychic but few people explore it. Those who do usually only look at one level, the awareness of the spirits around them. Let me leave aside trapped spirits, phantoms and poltergeists; when we perceive spirits it's usually because they are bound to us by love. The awareness comes from the pain of our loss of that loving spirit. This is the main doorway into unseen worlds, but very few venture beyond the entrance porch. Mediums simply become aware of spirits bound to other people; usually starting with awareness of the spirits around themselves. Apart from childhood psychism, that awareness is usually prompted by their own bereavement.

Some years ago I was precipitated into seeing some very old events, by spirits you wouldn't expect to find any longer on the 'earth-plane.' That was the story of Edward; it gave me experience of psychic investigation. It taught me to reach much deeper into the unseen, and it left me with the question I posed to Chris in trance; it left me ready for the story you are about to read. I began to journey deeper, even into the Underworld.

What I sensed now was Thomas' enthusiastic readiness to explore, he'd need little coaxing from the Bishop. Paradoxically, in him, this cry of loneliness came from never having known love, not from the death of a loved one. Thomas' family had abandoned him, he had no friends, and the Church and World used him without love or respect.

I went back to Thomas in meditation.

Now the blackness was a little less thick, in it I could make out Thomas' stooped form, you couldn't see features but his emotions were concrete. Thomas stood uneasily before me, slightly shuffling his feet, hesitant and unsure.

I spoke two words,

"The Odyssey."

The brightest of pictures came tumbling towards me; all wisp of blackness was gone.

First were timber-frame houses with wattle, lime-washed walls, all huddled together; ordinary people of many trades, a blacksmith, a tanner in his stinking stained apron, a serving maid carrying bombards of beer, there were horses, dogs and a goat, and blinding bright sunlight.

I backed off, almost physically.

It was as if Thomas had thrown the contents of his mind against me.

Finally there came a more sober scene.

Thomas black clad figure was sat, almost curled up, over a table. There were tears on his face. The room, with its one small window, was cold and dark, the hearth empty. I knew there must be wood to be had and I set about laying a fire. Not till the flames took hold and the wood started to glow did either of us speak.

"How did you know?"

I shrugged.

As a lawyer in court I learned how to question witnesses... and when not to speak.

The fact is I hadn't known, and didn't know. It had been no more than a feeling. I let the pause draw out before I did speak.

"You had better tell me the whole story."

Thomas looked up at me. There was fear in his eyes.

"My lord bishop's men are still close. There is danger."

I simply looked at him.

"Come again. I will tell you then."

Such progress as we'd made hung in the balance, the moment might be lost forever, but I could not force the issue now.

"When I come again you must tell me the story, between your first service to the Bishop and your present condition..."

Thomas finished the sentence for me,

"For the sake of my soul."

I nodded and left. I had only been present in that distant sorry room in my mind.

In my own room there was modern comfort and central heating. For all that, my body still shook; not only had I visited Thomas Nandyke in a room outside Reality, I'd talked with him and lit a fire. That room had been as solid as my own; more than that, I'd called into existence the wood to light a fire.

I snuffed out the candle, burning during my meditation, and went down stairs, out into the garden, to smoke cigarettes.

***

Inside the Sanctuary at Arthur Findlay College, Stansted Hall.

#  Chapter 2 - John Morton, bishop of Ely

 John Morton is a figure recorded by History. He's more favourably than well known, for he was on the winning side and prospered greatly by the usurpation of the crown from King Richard III by Henry Tudor. 'The victors write the history' as I know from a variety of my own historical research. The true student has to wheedle out an accurate picture from the cracks left in the whitewash applied by generations of vested interest, and few professional historians are willing to do that.

His lesser known biography includes:

Imprisonment for treason against Edward IV,

Framing William, Lord Hastings for treason,

Also framing Hastings for complicity in witchcraft, which Richard believed had killed his brother, Edward IV, and threatened both his wife and son; for what it's worth, such witchcraft was practiced by Morton himself,

The suborning of Henry, duke of Buckingham, into the rebellion which cost the Duke his life,

The betrayal of England carried out in the service of King Louis XI of France and, for Margaret Beaufort, in the service of Henry Tudor.

Throughout the time of this story, and for the rest of his life, Morton was spymaster for Henry Tudor and Henry's mother, Lady Margaret Beaufort.

Some of the research which led to these assertions came before that evening in Stansted Hall, some you will find in this story itself, it forms a background which persuaded me; John Morton was a very dangerous man, he was also a very powerful man.

Cambridge lay in the See of Ely. In medieval times a bishopric was the focus of great authority and wealth, and the University belonged to the Church; indeed, it had been formed and was maintained on monastic lines, for the education and studies of the clergy. The modern division between science and religion only coming to its present state after the controversy over Darwin; even into the nineteenth century you couldn't teach in Cambridge unless you were an ordained priest. It was beyond doubt; all knowledge and understanding came from God, and anything else was sin or error.

How active Morton was in Cambridge University may never be known. Control was taken from the Church by the Reformation of Tudor king Henry VIII, and you may be sure any papers which showed Henry's father, his grandmother, or their chief servant, in a bad light were destroyed. Generally, the discontinuity and loss of documents in the Reformation was remarkable.

What is known is Morton maintained at least one post-graduate school. Although his most famous protégé, Thomas More, lived in Morton's own household, we cannot know the full extent of his 'patronage,' and the secret school in magic may be a greater fact than my research shows or rumour suspects.

It was necessary to take a closer look at Morton. Thomas Nandyke's awe of him offended me. It might hold him back from revealing his story, it was more than possible it would prevent his recovery, and it was impossible to do nothing.

I found the bishop's nature at two levels. The World saw his assurance, power and intelligence, but these things were shallow. His intelligence was scheming, based on deceit; it aimed at taking power, without honour or merit. Underneath this was fear, and it was on this I worked, not yet knowing of what the fear might be.

Presenting myself above him would give him no choice but to look up to me or move and reveal himself, I hoped it would give me control. If he let me look down on him it would break his self-esteem, as he sought to break that of others.

I found John Morton where I expected him to be, in a cool and dark room in a bishop's palace; he was stood in front of a table, with brass or gold candle-sticks at each end and scrolls and books between. Morton himself seemed taller than his true height of two or three inches above five feet, church robes hid his body but I guessed him not thin but not yet fat. There was a sense of the effects of over-indulgence in the set of his face and complexion; there was the threat of heart disease in years to come. I started with the seemingly inconsequential.

"Tell me, what did you do as arch-deacon in Leicester?"

"I served."

"Whom did you serve?"

There was a silence.

I prompted him to a time and place, it was impossible for him not to think of it, and I saw buildings I knew, in the autumn of the year 1478. There was a garden and everywhere fallen brown leaves. He was there with the mayor; he still needed the approval of Yorkists and tried to show his skill in courtesy. The mayor was not impressed.

"You may have been a great lawyer in time past, but the men of Leicester have need of a servant honest and true."

The words unsettled Morton; here was a test he did not know how to pass. The mayor was Thomas Towthey, a man who spoke as much for his brother aldermen as himself, a man with his eyes fixed on the narrow horizons of the town, and Morton turned his own eyes, as soon as he could, to higher authority and men of greater ambition.

"And so you came to Ely."

There was no answer, suddenly Morton was gone, and I returned to my room.

It seemed I hit a nerve, but the real point, while he had no trouble looking up to Henry Tudor and Margaret Beaufort; it gave him a crick in his neck to look up to me. I would have to give myself more authority, or approach him more softly. Surely he would be back; I should have to find his weakness, before he could find any of mine. I should have to watch out for him.

It was a good start. I'd met the Bishop of Ely, and he'd run from me, not me from him.

The rest of the day was spent in searching the Internet; that was truly more tiring than channelling Morton or Thomas, what I needed was inspiration.

The Internet gave very little, just maybe a line of enquiry concerning Jasper Tudor, Henry VII's uncle. The trouble is, on figures of this age, the net gives bare and public facts, not the people. Sometimes even the facts are wrong.

So, a question. Morton had received preferment under the Lancastrian king, Henry VI; he'd been taken under the wing of Thomas Bourchier. That's right, a country boy from Dorset, even if he was educated at Oxford! Here's what  Wikipedia) has to say about Thomas Bourchier, archbishop of Canterbury:

"Bourchier was a younger son of William Bourchier, 1st Count of Eu (d. 1420), and through his mother, Anne of Gloucester, a daughter of Thomas of Woodstock, was a grandson of King Edward III of England. One of his brothers was Henry Bourchier, Earl of Essex (d. 1483), and his grand-nephew was John, Lord Berners, the translator of Froissart. Humphrey Stafford, 1st Duke of Buckingham was a half-brother."

Here was connection to the royal houses of England, not just Lancaster. It crossed my mind, if Morton was attached to his mentor, he should have followed Bourchier into good relations with the Yorkist Edward IV. Why had Morton accepted the favours of archbishop and king but not returned them with loyalty?

Morton was an implacable enemy of the house of York. He risked everything to bring it down, betraying both his king and the Church. He'd been arraigned for treason against Edward IV, but he'd been forgiven and promoted. Yet he hung on to his enmity, despite seeming to follow Bourchier's advice. He pursued his own ends in secret. I assumed he put himself in the service of the Tudors in the absence of any legitimate remnant of the house of Lancaster. Maybe it wasn't so – I should have to ask him.

In this meditation there was mist, as there had been on first meeting Thomas Nandyke. Through the mist was Morton, no longer in a palace. Maybe I should not have asked him so directly,

"Tell me of your service to Thomas Bourchier."

I said it kindly enough, with no inflection of accusation, yet his eyes became down-cast. He didn't look at me; it was as if he'd gone inwards. And then he was gone.

It truly seemed John Morton was in retreat and this made me wary. While another man would have turned his power to self-doubt and introspection, I had learned the nature of singleness of purpose from Akmed. It would be now, most of all, Morton could be most dangerous.

What was left for this chapter was a silence.

***

#  Chapter 3 - A Further Meeting and a Mystery

I went back to Thomas, finding him as I left him, all curled up, an unhappy man.

With me I brought two whole smoked mackerel, two loaves of bread, hand baked to a medieval recipe, a cheese, and some olive oil in a small, plain and cork stoppered bottle. When last I'd seen him he'd looked as if he could fade away entirely for lack of food. The first need was to restore his body, before there could be any hope of restoring his mind; and if his mind were not whole there would be no hope of learning anything trustworthy from him. I also brought a knife and a pewter plate, for Thomas' room seemed bare of all such necessities.

I bid Thomas sit on the one chair in the room, as I put the food on the table. He eyed first the food and then me, first in astonishment and then in regret.

"The Bishop instructed me I have no need of food here."

"The bishop has no authority over me. I instruct you and give you leave. If you can eat, do eat."

In meditation there is much in remembrance. I had to remember to make my vision, and everything to do with it, as I said it was, without exception or contradiction. It was not impossible Morton had constructed here a cage in which Thomas was supposed to starve to death. Bringing the qualities of this room into focus and silently expressing my wish might or might not have changed anything. I went a little further, with the wish the room be silent, opaque and unnoticed to all those outside it, till I should wish otherwise.

Thomas poured a little oil onto a piece of bread, he tasted it tentatively. He swallowed, after a few moments he fell to the meal, while I watched in silence.

When he finished he wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his gown. He looked at me.

"Better?"

He nodded,

"What can I do for my lord?"

"I've no wish to be your lord, but I do wish to hear your story. Then we shall decide."

Thomas eyes fell. Again he spoke.

"By your leave, have you brought ale?"

It was a surprise, had I misjudged him? It had not seemed likely he would so quickly make any demand.

"The water here is unclean, there is nothing else."

About me I had a one litre bottle of water; I took it, unscrewed the top and handed it to him. Thomas took it gingerly; he was taken aback by the clear plastic of the bottle and its lack of rigidity. He looked at me.

"It comes from far away."

He examined it more, and the strange writing on the label, and looked at me again.

"Very far away."

He raised it to his lips and drank.

He raised it again and drank more deeply, troubled by the seal his lips created round the rim.

"There's a knack, pour it slowly."

He persisted, and, doing so, showed more trust, or more desperation, than I would have done in his shoes. He handed it back, half empty.

"I will bring ale later."

"What manner of cup is this you use? And the water, it tastes strangely."

I wanted to say it was all too difficult to explain the things I take for granted and he could not even imagine. If there were any rules to this, I'd surely broken a major one.

"God can do many things, in his House there are many mansions, and I come from one you have never seen."

Fear came into his eyes and I could see him edging away from me.

"I am a man such as you, and I mean you well."

But it did no good and his image was fading. I put the water bottle down on the table, quickly, before it could disappear.

Thomas was gone, and summoning him up in my meditation would now be difficult, but I had the sense of him and where he was, he could not keep me away for long.

I smoked a number of cigarettes in the garden, on a fine and lovely May day, listening to Mozart piano concertos, wafting through the open patio doors, wisteria blossom forming little drifts in the irregularities of the ancient paving stones over which I paced.

I needed patience; it would be easy to lose the start made today. Ideally Thomas would come to me; but even if he had the strength, for him to envision me in the modern world, as I had envisioned him, would go beyond his comprehension. I had to step with great care.

First came research on the Internet, this time of micro-breweries. The next day I bought a half barrel of beer, an unusual and expensive purchase, but the brewer assured me it was the nearest I should get to medieval ale. He was guessing; it was very unlikely he knew how medieval beer tasted. I also acquired a medieval robe, from a company specialising in Shakespearian props, I hoped it would be suitable for a cleric of indeterminate importance.

The robe was black, of pure wool, it would be warm. As I presented myself to Thomas, and to Morton, I'd worn white cotton trousers and shirt, brown leather sandals covering bare feet. It might not have seemed too incongruous. The cold of the room hadn't affected me; but, if I were to be drawn into the materiality of Thomas' world, warm clothing might be called for.

Thomas' reaction to my thoughtless water bottle focused my mind; it upset me almost as much as it upset him.

I hoped language would not become an issue; it never had been before, but if it did I'd taught Shakespeare, and read and listened to Chaucer in the original. If Thomas latched on to a difference in dialect or idiom, there could be a meeting of minds, I could adjust. Or such was the hope.

The truth was my unexpected ability to change Thomas' material world upset me. I'd no experience of it, as far as I knew no-one else had either, maybe no-one had ever tried. It could be like lucid dreaming but that wasn't it, and the presence of neither Morton nor Thomas was anything like a dream, especially Thomas.

Spiritualists, or at least some of the older and better mediums, know of "apports)," by which material objects can appear out of thin air or be transported from far away; Sai Baba was famous for bringing heaps of healing ash out of thin air. But mine was not a case of bringing something into our reality; it was a case of bringing something from our reality into a totally different world.

I read and reread the Odyssey; I read what I could about medieval magic. In all my previous meditations I'd been an observer; sometimes I very much wanted to change the course of events, but it was always impossible. In the past I could talk to spirits but not influence them, here it seemed possible to influence Thomas, maybe even Morton. The door to other worlds was open far wider than my imagination had ever conceived, and there was no clue as to why – or as to how this might affect me. It was a mystery, might I draw Thomas or even Morton into the present, or, as seemed far more likely, might it draw me into their reality?

Whatever the questions, I was as prepared as I could be to meet Thomas again.

***

#  Chapter 4 - The Workings of a School of Mysteries

Tentatively I felt for Thomas, he was there in my mind, surprisingly ready to receive me, sitting in the room with which I was now becoming familiar.

"Welcome my lord."

I was carrying the half barrel, which had suddenly become very heavy, together with a spigot and a mallet for knocking it into the barrel. I set these on the floor in a corner of the room.

Thomas eyed the barrel, then me, in my new robe.

"You have brought me the means of life. Better than your strange water of before."

I saw the empty bottle on the table and removed it.

"Yes."

There was a silence before Thomas spoke again.

"You wish my story and I have resolved to tell it.

The day appointed for me to come to the Bishop I had collected my few things excepting my books..."

He paused, expecting my astonishment that he owned books, somehow I'd guessed he did.

"The Bishop was not there but I was greeted by Father James who was a deacon, and given my lodging. It was to be a room in the top of the house, away from the dormitory used by the other brethren. There were candles in the room, a bed, a table and chair, with a window looking down into the street.

When my lord Bishop came he gave me a book, he'd brought it from his travels in Italy, a rare manuscript, the Greek and original working of the story you named to me, 'the Odyssey.'

There was a pause.

"And you read it."

"At the start it was just an extension of my studies. I do not know if the Bishop expected anything of it, he bid me keep it under lock and key and say nothing to any of the brothers. He did not then relieve me of any of the duties expected of the brothers, though he did do so later."

"And these duties were?"

"Many different tasks were set my brothers. Principle amongst these was the scrying of distant people and places."

There was a pause, for it was known scrying was one of the 'dark' arts.

"We were taught to imagine in our minds eye, but to do it we had to have seen the place or the person for whom we looked. Sometimes we used portraits of people too distant for us to attend in person. The portraits are not always reliable."

He spoke with feeling, and I could imagine how working with an inaccurate or overly flattering picture would be frustrating.

My lord Bishop sent us to places at some miles distance, and on our return we had to revisit the place, seeing what there took place. He would set tests, causing actors to rehearse actions as in some theatre play. My brothers would look into these people and places, and their actions, seeing them, as it were, in a bowl of water rather than our minds."

I nodded.

The modern world is more likely to use a crystal ball, I myself have used a clock glass, painted dense dark blue on the outside and it works by looking into the inside of the glass. Some while ago I was asked to lead a spiritualist circle, probably because I was known for psychic investigation. I agreed to do it on a temporary basis, never imagining I'd still be doing it now. The members of the circle are talented enough, in mediumship and other different ways; they are all delightful people, but they lack dedication. I often demonstrate and get them to work in different techniques, more or less as an entertainment. Some day they will work on the rostrum, one or two already do, but hardly with the seriousness of Morton's students.

The way a crystal ball or bowl of water, or clock glass, works is you stare at a point with nothing for the eyes to focus on, eventually the optic nerve becomes tired and the subconscious mind takes over, it projects images into the crystal, or the water, or the glass. These appear to be in the object, but actually they are in the mind; you will see whatever your mind wants you to see.

I would say any reasonably talented student, that is one who does not block the images thrown up by the mind, can achieve reasonable proficiency with practice. Thomas' brothers were amazingly dedicated. You might think that what is seen this way comes from invention; actually the subconscious mind is very literal and invents nothing. It is interpretation by our conscious minds which is full of deceit, and the first rule of mediumship is to give what your subconscious mind tells you, without change or interpretation. If you do this you will usually be right, if you guess, embellish, or 'see what you want to see' you will usually be wrong.

Morton was a spy master, it was his job to learn and report all sorts of things, on both state and unofficial commissions. You might say this work of scrying was the 'bread and butter' of the school. The interesting thing is Morton didn't do it for himself; he got others to do it, was this because it was ungodly work, or because he didn't have the talent?

"And you joined in this work?"

"Sometimes. For me it was like a game; you could look with no danger of being seen."

"And did your brothers do other work?"

The smile which had come to Thomas' face now left it.

"Some did, it made them unhappy. Sometimes they could only be driven to it by fear of my lord Bishop."

He fell silent and I prompted,

"Not reverence?"

Thomas' look was answer enough, and a mist started to form in the room. I had over-stepped the mark again but Thomas went on,

"For some time I was spared that other work. My lord Bishop sent me to attend the Duke of Buckingham."

It was a remarkable statement and by no means the way had I expected Thomas' story to go. I asked him to set it out.

"The Bishop wanted me to learn the Duke's houses for the brothers to scry into them. The Duke suffered from some minor ailment that my lord Bishop said I could treat. My early studies in Cambridge, before the Bishop came there, were in Medicine. Moreover he claimed me to be learned in Astrology, of which I am a little, and I could advise the Duke.

My lord Bishop and his Grace agreed that I should hold a position as chaplain in his Grace's household. I do not think the Bishop thought I should prosper as a chaplain, the Duke and his household came to agree; my stay was little more than three months. I liked the people well, and I believe they liked me, but I had not the authority needed in a chaplain. My stay was enough to serve the Bishop's purpose."

"And was your treatment successful?"

"With the instructions and potion given me by other brothers, yes."

"And the astrology?"

"No my lord, I did not predict the events to come."

"In what year was this Thomas?"

"I returned from the Duke in the autumn of the twenty second year of the reign of King Edward."

This was barely months before the King's death. Did Thomas think it coincidence?

"I did not know how what I brought back to the Bishop would serve him, nor if it ever did. My stay away from the brothers made me question our work. Had I stayed longer I might have quit the Bishop and the brothers altogether."

This was an extraordinary statement, but one I could not now explore.

"It was on a day shortly after my return, the Bishop had me bring my few books to him. He examined them. He picked up the Greek book he gave me on my first coming; he reminded me he instructed me to read it, he asked me if I'd done so. I told him I had. I told him it troubled me, and there were in it many deep matters of which I wished to learn more."

"Did the bishop ask you about the Duke of Buckingham? Who he saw? The members of his household?"

"Err, no. He asked me no more than I told him on my first return. If I had not told him enough, it would be he lost interest in the reason why he sent me. He directed me to make many drawings, of all the places and people I'd seen; on many costly pieces of paper, with the help of a brother skilled in drawing. When it was done, my lord Bishop gave the drawings to another brother; not looking at them himself, except for drawings of Brecon Castle which he studied only once."

"So he talked to you about the Greek book?"

"It was written by Homer; in time so long past it is lost even to history.

I'd read it away from the brothers, when I could ask no-one about it. The Bishop said 'Good,' I was to go on reading it, and he bid me read nothing else, till I mastered its deep matters. Nor was I to do any other work in the house. It caused resentment among the other brothers."

I could imagine the suspicion of the scholars; Homer was a pagan who worshipped false gods. His book was rumoured to be full of witches, spells and curses, heathen practises, and none of it sanctified by the Church. There would be those who told Thomas he risked his soul by reading it.

"My lord bishop called us all together, in the largest room in the house; he held the book of Homer's Odyssey aloft, he told us all it had been sanctioned by universities in Italy and sanctified by the Holy Father himself. He told us its study was nevertheless dangerous and secret. He told the brothers I alone must undertake the risk, the book itself being kept in my sole charge, and that none other should speak of it."

Morton had hand-picked all the brothers. He had selected them, as he selected Thomas, on completion of their studies, he had directed their work, and he had sworn each one to oaths of silence, secrecy and loyalty on their entry to the house. The penalty for breach of these oaths was death and consignment to Limbo. He invoked these oaths now. The company was awed and subdued, even after Morton left.

No wonder Thomas was set apart from his brothers. He was used to isolation but this was now greater than he had ever known before, yet he was still their brother, and a special member of my lord bishop's school.

I thought of the unregarded copies of the Odyssey and the Iliad scattered around my house, of the two English editions I downloaded, freely and easily, onto my iPad, for ease of handling and search. What a contrast! But with that modern facility what have we lost?

So far the story had not gone as expected. I resisted the temptation to question further about the Duke of Buckingham; maybe the bishop had simply wanted Thomas out of the way while he read this precious book. Here I already had enough to think about, not wanting to take any more false steps.

"I will leave you now, but I will return. Enjoy the ale."

***

#  Chapter 5 - In Meditation

None of this would have been possible without a life of leisure; true, I would occasionally be called to spend a day teaching, but mostly the World left me to my own devices.

Thomas' news of his time as a chaplain moved me to further research. It's my practice to find information psychically and then check the facts on the Internet, but it was highly unlikely there would be a record of Thomas short appointment in Buckingham's household, still less of his spying on the Duke. What I did have was Thomas' name amongst the conspirators in the Buckingham Rebellion, recorded in the Act of Attainder passed by King Richard in January 1484, in which he was named as a necromancer. It was little enough; even so, what Thomas told me did not fit with his being with the Duke, roughly a year later, at the time of the Rebellion.

The need for patience set me speculating on Richard's suspicion of magic; it seems he brought it into the centre of politics; it's what drew my attention to Thomas in the first place.

Richard blamed the death of his brother on magic. Of course, History blames Edward IV's death on a sudden chill, caused by a fishing party on the Thames. Both explanations are singularly poor in evidence.

Richard also believed he himself, his wife, Anne, and son, Edward of Middleham, were subjected to attack by witchcraft. It is true both his wife and son died not long after, but perhaps most interesting is the following passage from Shakespeare:

"Then be your eyes the witness of this ill:  
See how I am bewitch'd; behold mine arm  
Is, like a blasted sapling, wither'd up:  
And this is Edward's wife, that monstrous witch,  
Consorted with that harlot strumpet Shore,  
That by their witchcraft thus have marked me."

From Shakespeare's play, Richard III, Act III scene 4.

You can find the whole of Lord Olivier's film – if you have a taste for it, on YouTube.

Shakespeare's play is state sponsored Tudor propaganda; yet even these enemies could not deny the accusations of witchcraft Richard made. Modern historians prefer to ignore them entirely. The pity is, Richard blamed Elizabeth (or Jane) Shore, Edward IV's long term mistress, together with Edward's queen, Elizabeth Woodville; a classic misdirection which might have been contrived by Morton himself. Morton was even present in this scene from Shakespeare.

Serious authorities of the time suggested Elizabeth Woodville ensnared Edward into marriage by witchcraft; but I know of no authority to involve her in witchcraft to cause his death. As to Mistress Shore, not only does common sense deny her guilt but also this strange little episode:

Many years ago, on a visit to Bramall Hall, in Cheshire, my wife, a truly outstanding spirit medium, and I met the spirit of Mistress Shore; she wouldn't leave us, and Christine insisted we should hear her. Mistress Shore seemed to think I should know her. Christine had to persuade her not only that I didn't but also to let the matter drop. When we asked her about Shakespeare's play, Mistress Shore denied witchcraft; she was genuinely fond of Edward and tolerant of his weaknesses. According to her, the magic she practised was that she "knew how to please men." I found this singularly persuasive. That night she visited my wife and I again, to tell us how to make love. We found it 'off-putting' and it didn't happen that night. We never saw or heard from her again.

Bramall is a magical place, with magic in its very long history; it was no surprise to find a spirit there, it's why we went, but it was a surprise and a mystery to find this incident.

That witchcraft was alleged, and that the accused ladies were innocent, proves nothing. If it was practised, there was no link yet to Morton's school. What the allegation does is raise the question.

The scrying to which Thomas freely admitted was neither necromancy nor 'High Magic,' there was no talking to the dead nor casting of spells. You could believe he saw it as a game; by contradistinction I could feel the darkness adhering to other part of Thomas' life, and other members of the school. I decided to explore the feeling.

I found myself in a cold and dark place, there was a dry wind. Somewhere not far off male voices were chanting. I went towards the voices.

As I came nearer I made out words; "The blooda of Edward, the blood of Edward, the blood of Anne, the blood of Richard." It was repeated over and over.

Still I could see nothing. Moving cautiously now I felt for a barrier. I felt there must be a barrier to contain the energy which was being built up here, and I had no wish to cross the boundary of a magic circle.

My foot missed a step; there was no ground under it. Coming down to all fours I felt around me, and felt the edge of a ditch. Slowly I came to sense a smell; it was the smell of blood. Somewhere there was the lowing of a cow or bull; suddenly it became a cry of distress, then silence...

"The Blood of Edward, the Blood of Edward, the Blood of Anne, the BLOOD of RICHARD." The chanting reached a crescendo.

It was replaced by a voice reciting in Latin. The voice was rhythmic but without inflection. The words were unfamiliar and indistinct; they were carried away by the wind.

My hand slipped into the ditch and came out sticky; I wiped it on the grass.

Suddenly there was a light, to my imagination, unnaturally bright. Then there was the sound of a single clap, and then complete silence: no voice, no animal and, now, not even a wind.

Seeping towards me was a chill, and the image disappeared.

Returning to the light of a bright, sunny day cheered me. Looking at my left hand, which had slipped into the ditch, there was dried blood between skin and finger nails.

I was thoughtful as I washed the blood from my hand, and felt foolish as I poured sanctified water over it before drying. One thought remained with me, the order of the names in the chant was the order in which Richard III and his family died.

By way of postscript, I went back, in meditation, to where I thought that ceremony took place. I found a green field with a group of figures in religious habits, with spades. They seemed to be filling a circular trench with soil, and over the top they scattered straw. In the centre of the circle was a bare patch of earth, they scattered straw over this also.

***

#  Chapter 6 – A Rebuke to Thomas

I was cross when I came again to Thomas Nandyke, but in all conscience I could have done no other.

I stood before him in silence.

He looked at me, and I remained in silence, let him read my mood.

He cast his eyes down.

"I attended one of your brothers' ceremonies."

He began to shake.

"Do you think it fitting you should attack the lawful King of England with witchcraft?"

He was white as a corpse, and I do not think he could have spoken if he wanted to.

"Is your true purpose treason against the Will of God, joining with those who would damn themselves?"

This time I let silence draw out until it became unbearable.

Thomas struggled visibly to master his voice; in the end he managed two words,

"You knew?"

"Of course I knew. The ceremony had Odysseus in every word of it. No-one but you could have given John Morton that spell."

"I had no choice."

"We always have a choice. In this the Law of God is the same as the Law of Man."

His trembling was now extreme, such that I feared he might injure himself. I found a second chair and sat on it.

"You will be named and condemned as a traitor in an Act of Parliament. It cannot be helped. Will you go on to condemn your own soul?"

For all Thomas Nandyke cut a contemptible figure in the World, he was intelligent and had courage, greater than many a bold knight of his day, to enter the Underworld and seek control over 'demons.'

"You truly had better tell me your story. Start with where we are and how you came here."

"As you must know my lord, we are in the Underworld the Greeks called Hades."

My reaction would be closely observed, it had to be careful, and I raised an eyebrow.

"My Lord Bishop... John Morton left me here. Any who stay here long enough are doomed to join the dead, but you brought me tokens of life: warmth, food and drink. It gives me hope."

If I'm to return you to the living I must know your story, has Morton ever ventured into Hades? Has he any agent here?"

"He has never been, though I cannot tell if he has any agent through a privy conjuration."

Good, though it didn't mean I could let my own guard down completely. I settled to hear the story as Thomas presented it, remarkably coherently, in the following words.

"I studied in my room, seeing my fellows little beyond meal-times, even then I only spoke if I must, but I listened. In the end I took meals in my room and studied Homer's book. For two weeks it remained so, I reread it three times through, making separate notes, not daring to write on the book itself. Each time of reading it became easier and I could recite entire passages by heart. I worked as I think you work, my lord; I conjured images in my head so the Odyssey became alive in my mind's eye.

After two weeks John Morton came into my room; locking the door, he examined me on what I learned.

I told him the entire Odyssey was a voyage of the mind. It was so strongly starred in the minds of those present it became the life journey of Odysseus and all his crew. What made it so was that Odysseus himself caused the fall of Troy. After very many years of siege the Greeks had tired and wanted to return home. Odysseus was inspired by the gods with the idea of building a wooden horse and retreating out of sight into the sea. The Trojans took the wooden horse into their city and rejoiced, believing the siege was over. There were Greeks inside the wooden horse, they broke down the city's gates and walls, the Greeks came back from the sea and great burning and great slaughter followed, the entire city of Troy was destroyed.

Seeing this angered many of the gods and Odysseus, knowing in his heart he did a terrible wrong, knew he must be tested. The minds of his crew, being too weak, as test followed test, they fell away to many powers and temptations; most greatly they fell under the spells of the witch, Circe. But always Odysseus saved them, until finally they succumbed, through their own sin, to death and the ending of all flesh in Hades. Odysseus, without the care of his crew finally returned to the World of Men, there too he resolved the ravel of his affairs; though he never quite came back to ordinary mortal life."

I was amazed at Thomas' grasp of the plot, without resort to modern psychology.

"Did Morton understand any of this?"

"I think not. He asked many questions, did we need a ship to sail to the Underworld? Once there, how could anyone return? Were there spells which would protect?

I told him spells strengthen the mind. I told him we did not need a ship, and the way of return is to retrace your steps but this is not made easy."

"Thomas, you did all this without magic, you did it by reading a book."

"No my lord." There was a pause, "I followed Odysseus into his trials and tests. I followed him into the Underworld."

"And there you learned the spell I heard cast against King Edward IV, Edward, Richard's son and Prince of Wales, Anne, duchess of Gloucester, King Richard's queen, and finally Richard himself."

Thomas' eyes were downcast,

"The cause why the spell worked so well is it came from Circe herself." A shudder ran through Thomas, "I don't think the Bishop believed it."

I didn't know if I believed it.

"Go on."

"I hadn't intended it. When Odysseus found himself bewitched in Circe's bed, and his men turned to beasts, I upbraided her. I told her a saviour of men would come hereafter; those who served mortal men would be blest, and those siding with demons would be consigned to the eternal flames. I made the sign of the Cross and recited the Lord's Prayer; I did all this from inside a circle, proof against all her spells."

I was dumbfounded.

"You preached Christianity to a high witch, beloved by the gods, in ancient Greece?!"

He nodded.

"And it worked?"

"When she found her spells could do nothing against me she started to fear me.

When I explained I meant not to hurt her but to free Odysseus she pitied me.

When I prayed to God for her redemption she thought me deluded.

When I pleaded for the help of one such as she, not for myself but for others, she thought it strange. I think she loved me for it.

If ever a man such as I could love a woman it would be she who would bewitch me."

The silence was a long one but I didn't press him. Thomas was entitled to some privacy.

"Circe gave me the spell you saw, and I have ever since regretted it. My Lord Bishop held it over me as commitment to the further practises which have brought me to this place. I have confessed it to you, and I hope you will be my redemption as I once hoped to be Circe's."

It was time for a change of subject and I brought him back to Morton.

"The Bishop was grateful for all you'd done?"

"I didn't tell it all. When I gave him the spell and told him of Odysseus I don't think he trusted or believed me. He required proofs of me that I could not give. After much importuning and threats I had an idea.

You could build a well, and if a rope were thrown down it you could climb down to the other world, if you cast such spells as would change your mind such that, by degrees, as you descended, you would slide between the worlds."

"And Morton accepted this?"  
"Yes."

Thomas deserved some admiration for all he hadn't told me, as well as all that he had. I quoted,

"Son of Laertes, seed of Zeus, Odysseus of many devices."

He blushed.

The silence was awkward, finally Thomas almost stuttered,

"And you, my lord, have you always known that which others cannot understand?"

It was my turn to blush, but he was partly right, that's how I came to be doing what I was doing now.

"Do not make me the seed of Zeus, I have enough assurance already."

***

#  Chapter 7 – A Plan of My Own

Do not make predictions. It is a rule of the Universe, whatever the conscious mind devises will never actually come to pass, at least, not as we expect it to do.

Never make judgements. It is in the nature of the human ego to require reality to fit in with the patterns it makes; but the truth is not answerable to our demands, and when it goes against them we judge against what is. We're particularly prone to reject the behaviour of others, defining it as sinful, wicked, or evil as it displeases us; causing us to call on retribution, human or divine.

I could judge against Thomas: that he may, or may not, have been responsible for the deaths of the English royal family in the 1480s, that he had sinned against the teachings of the Church in his liaison with Circe, that he was guilty of delusion according to the theories of modern Psychology, his experiences all being explicable by twentieth century metaphor.

It would even be possible to find myself guilty of such delusions.

Any of this could massage my ego with the warm glow of being 'Right' and I could justify any course of action. Unfortunately none of this would help me deal with what IS, or perhaps I should say, what WAS.

There was at least an answer to the accusation of my own delusion, the barrel of beer, spigot and mallet had all disappeared; while an empty plastic water bottle had appeared in a pocket of the robe I bought.

Under medieval law, Thomas Nandyke, on his own testimony, had done enough to be hanged, perhaps burned at the stake, or to have been hanged drawn and quartered for killing the King. By contrast, John Morton, the cause of all this, as a bishop, was more or less immune to such punishments.

We had not yet started on the crime I set myself to investigate, and already there was such a mass of possible judgements. On top of that there was such an evident danger of being drawn in. It took deliberate effort to remain open minded. My concern was to know; certainly it would be nice to know how matters might be made better or even reversed, but equally certainly the first step was to establish the whole story. It would be wrong to predict or judge, but entirely reckless not to prepare.

In the first psychic investigation I ever undertook I kept a journal. The investigation was a long one, taking many months, and the journal turned into a book. Making that journal fit for publication took an astonishingly longer time, it kept the events fresh in my mind when otherwise they would have slid into memory, it fixed the exact facts as I saw and heard and researched them. As the book took shape a strange thing happened, albeit in minor details, but the exact nature of facts changed, conflicting with my carefully prepared and sealed notes. As I came to this present task at least I knew the nature of reality is not fixed. In my book I remained true to my notes; my notes now should be impeccable, a premonition told me they might need to be.

My second preparation was a simple one, to clear my diary. It may be simple, but it was very hard to explain why and not always easy to do.

The third preparation was to set such psychic defences as I could devise, an important aspect of which is, forgive me, to tell no-one what they are.

Lastly, I did what I could to make my peace with God and the World.

Only after that did I set any targets or objectives; these, after all, were obvious, and would unfold of themselves.

***

#  Chapter 8 – On Eavesdropping

There is an old saying amongst trial lawyers, "Don't ask a question to which you don't know the answer."

In truth you could call this part of my preparations, but it deserves a chapter to itself.

I was horribly ignorant of Bishop Morton's school, and its members were not the only ones who could do a little scrying. In fact you don't even have to gaze into a crystal ball. All you have to do is sit quietly and meditate, the World will unfold naturally at your feet, it has no choice, and all you have to do is ask.

I saw the house in Cambridge, occupied by the school, when Thomas was installed there. "This is a house of brothers." It was at Morton's insistence the members called each other 'brother,' though no-one ever called the Bishop that. There were about a dozen of them; it gave a sense of exclusivity, almost as if they were disciples, of Morton rather than Christ. In fact two of them were known as 'the disciples,' these were brothers John and Bartholomew. It wasn't just from their names, unlike as they were; they followed Morton and each other in word and deed. Thomas was also named after a disciple but he was always separate and isolated, fortunately for him he was never labelled 'doubting.' One other biblical name caught my attention, it was Matthew. It seemed Matthew was everywhere, he was a far greater eavesdropper than I, always on the edge of every conversation; he was Morton's eyes and ears, for the Bishop didn't trust his own students.

And the brothers would talk, mostly with enthusiasm for their 'distant seeing.' They had other less serious activities; one of these was tripping people up. Whether it was by suggestion or telekinesis, they would pick on a victim as he walked and cause him to catch his moving foot behind his standing foot. The trick was not to let him know what had happened, and their amusement was the look of bewilderment on their victim's face as he stood back up.

Morton would seldom teach in his own school, by teaching he would have revealed too much of his thoughts and that was not his way. What he would do was suggest lines of enquiry and activity, afterwards asking brilliant and incisive questions about the results. On one subject he made an exception; I would call it the art of suggestion, putting thoughts into a victim's mind, as if the thoughts were the victim's own. At this he was a master.

One afternoon Morton called the brothers together. As they crowded into the refectory he ignored them, craning his neck to peer closely into the topmost corners of the room. When he turned to them he said,

"I will cause you all to stand on the table, without my bidding it."

He looked back at the ceiling.

"It would be very strange if you all decided to stand on the table together."

And with that he walked out.

After a stunned pause the brothers looked at each other. Then they looked at the ceiling, in the topmost corners of the room. One by one they climbed onto the table, to get a better view; all of them.

I think part of the suggestion was the inflection in Morton's voice, but I can't be sure.

After that I looked again at what I'd seen and assumed in these scenes. It dawned on me, most of the incisiveness in Morton's questions was judicious silence; most of the brilliance was pure suggestion.

None of this was High Magic. Here were parlour tricks you could find right now. For much of the 'Cold War' and, for all I know still today, both the Russian and American governments spent a fortune investigating and researching 'distant seeing.' If anything, their efforts were less sophisticated, and certainly less successful, than those of Morton's school. Maybe it is wrong to underestimate 'low magic' and certainly I was taught a lesson. But, for all that, it was irresistible to look for high sounding ritual and portentous incantations; surely Thomas was not the only necromancer in the School of Magic.

The place to look for High Magic is the study of books. To be transmitted spells have to be written down. Very often part of the magical working involves writing, frequently the destruction of the object on which the spell is written. Throughout the ages magicians and alchemists have been fascinated by formulae, as if these were the inner workings of Creation. The most famous of these magicians, about the time of Christ, was Simeon Magus, against whom the Church so ruthlessly set its face.

Perhaps it's this tradition which makes me so dislike High Magic; though I will argue what I don't like is applying a lever to Reality and trying to move it by force, what really happens is the ritual applies force to the magician's mind and, as always, it is the mind which works the magic.

Of course, the writings themselves are not easy,

"All the masters who write of this solemn work,

They make their books to many men full dark,

Through poetry, and parables, and metaphors also,

Which to scholars cause much pain and woe..."

I remembered reading Eliphas Levi, very many years ago, and reread some of his work now, if you're as dedicated as the brothers you can read a free download of 'Dogma and Ritual of High Magic' – though I don't recommend it. I needed the books the brothers read.

There were many grimiores or demonologies, and fragments floating through the hand of the brothers; many no more than the nightmares and overheated imaginings of ignorant and fearful people. Morton was dismissive of these, "I want sharp steel, not minds blunted to stone and madness." But there was one magical book which could not be ignored, the "Liber Juratus" or 'The Sworne Booke of Honorius.'

It was said it came from a conference of magicians who decided to condense all they knew into one book, and it's further said it came down through the ages under the authority of Pope Honorius. The brothers were understandably secretive about possessing such a manuscript and Morton, who invested it with awe and reverence, would not discuss its history.

The brothers studied it for months and years, arguing about its working. At least in their hands it seems to have worked poorly or not at all. It taught them humility. Not that I wanted to work High Magic but, looking over their shoulders, I couldn't resist going a little closer.

Here I've somewhat rendered one short passage into English,

"Take the natural seed of the fish called a whale,

lignum aloes, costus, musk, saffron, armoniac, with

the blood of the foul called a lapwing, and make a

confection thereof. With this said confection make a

fumigation in a convenient place, and you shall see

visions in the air. Take of the said confection, and

make a fumigation about the sepulchre, and visions

of the dead shall and will appear.

And note and mark all this well, that these said

matters have times and due observations perfectly to

be done, and kept properly under the true frame and

concourse of the heavens, according to their proper

qualities and influences, in each degree, for the which

you may work as in the chapters before written."

You'll understand, if you want to learn to talk to the dead, I suggest it's a good deal easier to attend an open circle at any Spiritualist church where, after a few sessions, you will be shown how: without the need for any whale, lapwing or phase of the Moon. The seeing of visions is optional.

***

#  Chapter 9 – King Edward

It would have been easy to think, in the first years of the 1480s, that Bishop Morton's magic school was going nowhere; but two things took it beyond the farce of ritual and the powerful charisma of Morton himself. The second thing can wait till the next chapter; the first thing was the sudden and unexpected death of Edward IV, on April 9, 1483, just short of his 41st birthday. Had the conjuration I saw, using Thomas Nandyke's spell, caused the King's death? The modern mind would deny it, but I have found, over many years, all 'coincidence' is just a relationship where the cause is not known or is denied.

Edward's older son and heir was only 12 years old at the time of this premature death, and in his will the King had named his own younger brother Richard, duke of Gloucester, as protector of the realm.

Without further magic, this was enough to throw the realm into consternation. Henry, duke of Buckingham and Richard, duke of Gloucester, hastily set aside what they were doing in their separate domains and rushed to Stony Stratford, to intercept the late king's sons Prince Edward and his younger brother Prince Richard, who were being brought to London by their uncle, Anthony, Earl Rivers.

Buckingham and Richard represented the old nobility, whose prime concerns were order and stability. After the long years of war in France and then the Wars of the Roses in England; these were anybody's reasonable concerns. The first problem was not Prince Edward's age, it was his legitimacy.

It was known in a very close circle, some members of the royal family and senior bishops, that Edward IV was not a legitimate heir to the throne but the product of an adulterous affair between the wife of Richard, duke of York, and a common archer in the Duke's army. Edward's mother, Duchess Cecily, freely admitted it; but the Duke declared Edward his lawful son anyway. This was enough for most purposes under Common Law, but not enough for a claim to the throne. When Edward went on to avenge the unlawful killing of Duke Richard, killed at the battle of Wakefield, by men serving the wife of Lancastrian king Henry VI; when his victories at the battles of Mortimer's Cross and Towton were so unexpected and devastating, no-one, certainly not Parliament, was going to argue against his right to be king.

It wasn't just that Edward IV's actions, no matter how decisive, could not legitimate his own heirs, there's something more. When Edward became king, in 1461, he was unmarried. The powerful Earl of Warwick, called 'King Maker' for the way he supressed continuing Lancastrian opposition, took time out for negotiations to give Edward a royal bride, in the usual way of the Middle Ages. As he was doing so, it came out that Edward was already secretly married, to a widow, a woman outside the royal nobility, and a woman it was said who practised witchcraft to ensnare the King. Further, the marriage was clandestine and therefore illegal; it was also illegal because Edward was already betrothed, married in the eyes of the Church, to Eleanor Butler, daughter of the earl of Shrewsbury. Even without witchcraft, the betrothal was enough to make the King's marriage illegal. The woman the King purported to marry was Elizabeth Woodville, the mother of princes Edward and Richard. The Pope would have set the betrothal aside for marriage to a princess, but for marriage to Elizabeth? It wasn't even worth asking, even when it all came out.

When the marriage became public Duchess Cecily was so furious she threatened to reveal Edward's bastardy. Warwick the King Maker went so far as to remove Edward from the throne, briefly restoring the weak-minded King Henry VI. Unfortunately for Warwick he had done too good a job supressing the Lancastrians, Warwick and Henry VI's son were killed at the battle of Tewkesbury and Henry VI was killed in the Tower of London.

So matters stood between 1471 and 1483, but that is not quite all, Richard and Henry had a second concern.

At a time before Edward became king he, his brothers and William Lord Hastings, later head of Edward's civil service, berated Elizabeth's family as 'popinjays,' light weight and of no consequence. Nevertheless, Edward gave Elizabeth's family, including the children by her previous marriage, preferment; her brother becoming Earl Rivers. In 1483 they had so much power it might have seemed possible the popinjays would take over England; it may have seemed essential to take the Princes out of their hands. Earl Rivers was arrested together with Richard Grey, the Queen's son by her first marriage, and Thomas Vaughan, all on a trumped up charges, and so matters stood on 30th April 1483.

On this date there is no evidence the future Richard III had any intention but to protect the Princes, keep them out of the hands of their family, and protect his own position as duke of Gloucester.

On this date in Cambridge there was great activity and more of that later. The death of Edward IV set light the fuse of a bomb which had been waiting to explode for many years.

The truth of Edward's birth was finally made public, in a sermon to a huge multitude, in London, on Sunday, 22nd June 1843, by Dr Ralph Shaa; a priest of the Church and brother of the Lord Mayor of London. It would be nice to think Bishop Morton was responsible, but he wasn't, he merely knew what would happen. The true author of Dr Shaa's sermon was Robert Stillington, an expert in Church law, former Lord Chancellor of England, and the priest present at Edward IV's first 'marriage.' Stillington was also bishop of Bath and Wells, the bishop whose duty it would be to crown Prince Edward as King Edward V.

Stillington's position should have been obvious, not only to Morton (generally historians overlook it, they are very easily deceived). He had been charged with treason against Edward IV for supporting the rebelliousness of Edward's brother, George, duke of Clarence; precisely because Edward's bastardy made George the lawful king. George was eventually executed while Stillington was returned to favour. The text of Dr Shaa's sermon exactly gave the reasons why the Bishop of Bath and Wells would not crown Prince Edward.

It is very difficult to know how confident Morton was about what would happen next. He was joyous over Edward's death, but this was only the first step in his plan.

It may be the Shrewsbury family would bring pressure on Stillington, to honour the memory of the now dead Eleanor, but Morton could not rely on it; Richard, the Prince's uncle, might bring still greater pressure to see his nephew crowned. The former Lord Chancellor, having dared treason for a principle, was unlikely to be moved by pressure but, if Richard wanted Edward crowned, he had one strong argument. If he, Richard, as the next heir in line, was content for the crown to go to Edward, so should the bishop be. For what it's worth, in my opinion, it was an argument which would move some men, but not a bishop like Stillington.

Also, Edward's children had one other powerful friend, William Lord Hastings. How Morton dealt with Hastings, and how he persuaded Richard to withdraw support for his nephew, will appear in a further chapter.

***

#  Chapter 10 – Hatfield Palace

I would like to think I bring insight to the facts of the last chapter; the historical record is open to all – at least, for those with eyes to see. When, in 2004, the B.B.C. broadcast a serious documentary confirming Edward IVs illegitimacy, and showing how the crown of England should have passed, the academic community ignored it. You could say, even today, the careers of too many professional historians are bound up in peddling Tudor lies; whatever acrobatics they have to jump through to explain the behaviour of historical figures. In fairness to these historians, there is another reason they cannot believe the obvious, a reason I will reveal at the conclusion of the book, after the end of Part III, and after dealing with other loose ends.

Much less has been written about John Morton's palace at Hatfield, either at the time or since. The best you may find is that at some point between 1480, when he was installed as bishop of Ely, and 1486, when he became arch-bishop of Canterbury, John Morton carried out great building works.

Let's go much further back.

Around 970 King Edgar gave 5,000 acres of land at Hatfield to the monastery of Ely. Ely being then an island surrounded by marsh, the reason given for the gift was, " _because, since the country is wooded, the brethren can find timber for the fabric of their Church and wood sufficient for their other purposes_ ". Even 500 years later, more than a third of England was oak forest; surely wood could have been found closer than the 58 miles distant Hatfield.

Hatfield lay on the Great North Road, between York and London, and not far from the abbey of St. Albans, commemorating the site of the martyrdom of England's first saint, a useful site; but by the late 1300s the monks' house had fallen into disrepair. It was repaired and supported by a large timber frame, covered by shingles, and this is the building Morton would have found when he inspected his See.

I searched for something special in Hatfield, having caught Morton's excitement about it. Whatever there was, I didn't find it. Perhaps its importance always was that it was 'away from prying eyes.' Yet, for all the ritual and corruption in the Church, it was normal for church buildings to be sited in places of power; even today you will find relics of power in high church alters. From Hatfield I turned to Ely and the sainted princess Etheldreda who founded its abbey. Whatever was there was also too distant for me to catch, and I turned to Morton's building work.

Only one range of what he built still stands, but this is enough to suggest a massive scale and richness. From the beginning there had been great ambition in the Bishop's mind, and one detail caused me to catch my breath.

Scrying or distant viewing, if you can master it, is wonderful; you can go to any place, at any time, without physical limitations. I walked round Morton's new palace, I even visited as it was being built; looking for secret places and any explanation of what the building was for.

What caused me to catch my breath? In an inside angle, between the ranges, was a stair tower. It could not be exactly like anything at the Tower of London but, in some sense, it was an echo of what was there. Was Morton modelling the Tower? If so there could only be one reason, the scrying of the students of his school.

At times it's possible to eavesdrop conversations, I've done it in this book, on this occasion it was easy. Morton was at the new palace, close to completion, he was talking to the builder, Wilfred,

"I told you it is scaled!"

And the Bishop tapped the drawing in his hand for emphasis.

"Under each architrave we must have 4 points, not 3."

Wilfred, who in modern times would have been the architect not the builder, looked grave. He thought better of arguing.

"Yes my lord Bishop."

You will strip out all you have done and do it properly. Your men will work double time for no more pay. I require it complete and correct when next I visit in 4 days."

The word 'require' had been stretched out to encompass all the terrible consequences of the work not being made right. It left Wilfred speechless, and me wondering what exactly were Morton's plans for distant seeing.

I went back to see how the work was completed; there was something else to check also, and for this I had to find a different time. You remember Thomas had told Morton to build a well, had it been done?

At first I couldn't find it. I looked outside, in the courtyard, then around the outside of the entire building. It wasn't there. Then I looked in the main great hall. There it was; the floor, already laid, was dug up. In the middle of the room a well was sunk, it was somewhere between 6 and 8 feet across and I guessed it went down more than 20 feet. It was dry, of course, and to ensure it stayed so I saw it dressed with cut stones, mortared together.

I saw another builder; this one was called Nathaniel Buttery, a man of slow and careful deliberation. He always pronounced his name in full, and would suffer no man, not even the Bishop, to call him 'Nat.' He was a master stone-mason, and proud of his craft. Nathaniel supervised the building of the well; he was proud of his understanding, but he never questioned the building of a dry well in the hall. He was not one of the brothers, but stood close to them; a man to watch.

One other thing, which I'm sure you guessed. As I wandered round the Bishop's new palace; the building itself and the landscape in which it was set, I recognised many scenes. I recognised them from watching the scrying of the brothers, the place at some miles distance, of which Thomas spoke, was none other than this.

Seeing all this gave me a new insight into the Bishop. He had started these building works as soon as he held the See of Ely. He had made Hatfield almost more important than control of Cambridge University or the politics of Court. The Bishop was a driven and busy man.

For myself, as I was doing this, I still picked at the siting of Hatfield. The people of the Middle Ages are not to be despised because they didn't have cell phones or motor cars; they had faith, and it sometimes gave them perceptions lost to our age.

You may think it strange that I looked at reports of ghost sightings, maps of ley-lines, and records of witchcraft in Hatfield and in Hertfordshire generally. Certainly nothing spectacular affects our story, for my conclusions you will have to wait, if I give them at all.

***

All that's left of Morton's great palace at Hatfield.

#  Chapter 11 – A Little More of the School

News of Edward IV's death galvanised Morton. He needed to be both at Court and supervising the school at the same time, he tried to do both, but his absence from Cambridge and Hatfield brought to light another of the brothers.

By April 1483 the school had been established at Hatfield for nearly a year, but some of the brothers still remained at the old house in Cambridge. These remaining brothers packed up, bringing all the school's possessions, carrying them in carts along the long road. They came in ones and twos so they should not draw attention to their departure, but they left the old house bare and empty. It seemed as if the Bishop wanted no evidence they'd ever been there.

It was in the last eighteen months Brother Gilbert became more and more active and assured. He was to the school's distant seeing what Thomas was in talking to the dead. The brothers respected his skill; they came to believe, if he said a thing was so it was so.

Gilbert was a lean man, above medium height, perhaps five foot four inches, despite his saturnine looks he wasn't gaunt, as Thomas had become. What disturbed you when you looked at him was his eyes; deep-sunken eyes that seemed always to be looking into other worlds.

Brother Gilbert had regularly visited Hatfield even from before the building was finished, and Morton would consult him often. He had been the first brother to move there permanently and, in the Bishop's absence, he took charge.

I remembered, in the early days of the brothers' scrying, it had been fun, almost a joke. I remember Thomas seeing it as a game. Under Brother Gilbert it became earnest; his waspish tongue would tolerate no laziness, inaccuracy or inattention. He fell into the habit of speaking, at least partly, in Latin; it reminded the brothers that this work was the most serious part of their devotions.

The Bishop's palace was a different world from the cramped streets of Cambridge. None of the brothers had known such luxury. Each had his own room and there were hangings on the walls; the great hall was a cavern, rising high above their heads. As they craned their necks to look up at the great beams which carried the roof, I wondered, did any of them remembered the day the Bishop got them to stand on the table? Perhaps it was the beams of this hall at which he was looking.

There were servants, a cook and kitchen staff, against the need to entertain, but no-one believed that need would ever arise. The local people taken into service looked no further than their own villages. Their learning went no further than the sermons of their priest, given in the monks' church of Saint Etheldreda which stood nearby. The brothers never delivered a sermon in that church, it wasn't their office.

Amongst the craftsmen and tradesmen round about, one man stood out. He was a blacksmith, by the name of Jacob, and he was a mute. A surprising number of people around Hatfield were dumb, and not from vows of silence as could be found around an abbey. Jacob was squat; it seemed as if all his growth had gone outwards rather than up, a mark of deprivation in childhood. His living as a man must have been healthy enough, his torso and arms rippled with muscle; but for all that, his large hands had a delicacy of work fit for the finest of jobs. There was enough work for a smith round the palace, but his services were much in demand, as far away as Hertford, and he travelled regularly. He would not question, but followed direct orders diligently, I marked him as someone of whom there might be need one day.

The brothers would practise, under the direction of Gilbert, according to the instructions left by Morton. They knew great change was coming, there was a rising sense of expectation, but they didn't know what, at this stage the brothers had no idea what plans were stirring. All they knew was that they should be part of it.

Maybe it was this which made the brothers restless and disturbed their sleep; perhaps it turned their minds to superstition. Could it have been the landscape, full of woods and empty fields, which unsettled them?

Light winds would arise from nowhere; stronger winds would keen through the woods, catching at the brothers' robes, almost as if there were voices and hands alive in the trees; then to be replaced by still air and bright sun-light, as if nothing should ever stir. The strangest place was the ground around the church. None of the brothers would linger there, and some started to wonder if their work displeased Saint Etheldreda.

Some of the brothers spoke of that distant Saxon princess, who knew and turned her back on the world of politics.

The land was green, soft and fruitful, gently undulating, with little hillocks and secret places, under tree roots which had never felt the touch of a plough. At some small distance was a river, with a mill-race and good fishing. The land hadn't been hunted, perhaps for centuries, and wildlife was plentiful and tame. It was as unlike Cambridge as it was possible to get.

The brothers had brought their books, and many which had not been in their own house. The palace had a large and well lit reading room, with benches, chairs and bookshelves. Here there was no need to chain the books, as there would have been in Cambridge; for all the collection, even then, might have been priceless.

I wanted to know to what study the Bishop had set them. The work was from grimiores, as if the brothers were concocting curses. Yet these curses did not seem intended to kill, more to take away reason and judgement. I listened to the brothers talking,

"No brother, too strong."

"See," said Brother Geoffrey, as he pointed to a passage he was reading, "This causes men to forget themselves, but only in a little."

It seemed Morton meant to sow contention and I could easily guess where. There were wax dolls, as yet unattached to any mortal being, and other paraphernalia of ritual. It seemed the work was still in preparation, not yet in operation.

I looked for Thomas who was nowhere to be seen; I guessed he was at work on the spells which would carry him between worlds. It would confuse him to see me now and I resisted the temptation to visit his room.

It was time to eavesdrop on Morton.

***

#  Chapter 12 – London and the Great Council

Ely Palace, or Ely Place, in Holborn, London, was administered by the See of Ely and was outside the jurisdiction of the City of London. In the 1200s a little oratory had been planned, in 1290 an increasingly grand church, dedicated to Saint Etheldreda, was built and became a place of pilgrimage; that church still stands. From 1316 were added a palace, orchards, vineyards, gardens and plough-lands until the whole estate spread over an area of 58 acres. Bishops of Ely lived in some comfort.

An 18th century plan of Ely Palace

This was Morton's base while he was in London, and not an entirely easy place to penetrate.

Being 'a fly on the wall' is not a good image, flies do not see or hear as we do, they can't read, or understand what they do see. I had to visit Morton in human form, but while it was one thing to eavesdrop on the brothers in Cambridge and Hatfield, I thought it quite another to eavesdrop on Morton. I feared he would detect me. If it was to be so it was to be so, I went there anyway.

Surprisingly, I found Morton making notes. They were not to help him remember, but by drawing out his thoughts and setting them on paper he could make them clearer. By externalising his mind he gave me a way in. There is, let me call it, a trick of mediumship; if you are faced with a subject who has closed his mind to you try, as it were, going round the back, you can get into his head from behind. This is what I did with Morton, his thoughts giving a running commentary as he wrote.

The first note read, "Prince Edward, not to be king."

More than the note, his thoughts said,

"Robert Stillington.pdf) will never let Edward become king, it would be unlawful. He is a man of Law and of Honour and he is obdurate. The only way for Edward to be king is for Stillington to be removed – neither Richard nor anyone else must be allowed to think of it.

The note read simply, "The Queen."

"Our Lady Elizabeth is a foolish woman, she is so preoccupied with her own pride and scheming she does not see the schemes of others, she can be led by the nose by flattery and her own sense of importance. But she is right, if Edward is to be king it must be done quickly or it will never be. We are in a time of uncertainty, the longer it goes on the more our foes can be made to exhaust themselves against each other.

I must tell my Lady Margaret to distract the Queen with schemes and fears. My Lady must have the Queen's trust or there will be danger.

The note read, "The Dukes"

"Both Gloucester and Buckingham are royal and Plantagenet. If they stand apart now if one falls the other will rise, by the Grace of God out of reach. They must be seen to stand together so that one may turn against the other later; that way they both may fall.

Richard of Gloucester has no taste to be king. He followed Edward through bastardy and temptation; he would follow into the jaws of Hell, but will run from leading. It will serve us well, he will delay long in hope against hope Stillington will change his mind.

I shall portray Richard's ambition privately and on all sides. Both men and women too, believe others guilty of their own sins. All shall believe poor Richard would kill to be king, the very last thing in the World he wants – I shall try to make it the last thing in the World he gets.

 Henry of Buckingham also has no taste for the Crown, he fancies he is a minister yet he is none; he cannot read men's hearts. I must lead him into politics.

Richard thinks he is a soldier, and he is. I must lead him into fighting for a bad cause, or not fighting at all."

The note read, "Earl Rivers."

"Anthony Woodville is the most able of all the family, he is charming, intelligent, he can fight and he is educated.

He is imprisoned. Richard does not trust him, and nothing is needed from me."

The note read, "William, baron Hastings."

"He was with the brothers, King Edward, George of Clarence, and Richard; through good times and ill, it made them all as brothers. He is known to be loyal to the king and the Princes. Officers of the Crown will follow him whether he be in office or not. If I can bring him down it will start to make government unmanageable.

Then again, if I can bring him down it is one less friend for the Princes, and Richard will start to see enemies everywhere.

He shared the royal pleasures, and Edward's former mistress. Richard never quite liked this fornication, and never took part in it, for his morality is prudish. If I can make out Mistress Shore as a witch this might bring Hastings down."

Morton's thoughts were fascinating; did they cause me to let down my guard? I'd edged into Morton's thoughts in silence and stillness, that he not guess I was there. Now a question escaped me,

"And the Princes?"

There was a start, I withdrew immediately, lest he recognise the thought as not his own. Even so, there had been an instant answer,

"They're of no account without Hastings."

I stayed out of Morton's mind for a time, such proximity was unhealthy and unpleasant, and the effort was tiring.

I did eavesdrop some of those he mentioned, but there is a good deal more in the outward events. A startling story and one which speaks greatly of Morton's skill, that the World has been made to believe what happened was something totally different, for all these years.

He had been planning manoeuvres which would have the Great Council at its centre and it is of the Council I must tell you.

In his will Edward IV named his son Edward as heir to the throne and, because of Edward's age, named his brother, Richard as 'Protector of the Realm.' This seems simple enough, but it hides an assumption, and an ambiguity: first that Edward's accession would go unchallenged and second, the ambiguity, when would Richard's right as protector end? When linked together these left Richard de facto ruler until Edward's coronation, which he was under a duty to facilitate.

Richard did not assume rulership, he merely accepted leadership of a Great Council, called by the Queen and others; the membership of this council does not seem ever to have been properly defined, certainly not by Richard.

He started with possibly excessive force, arresting Rivers; it caused the Queen to take flight to sanctuary, and made those who attended the Council nervous. With Buckingham's support he could have asserted the authority of the 'old' nobility and tamed any council. Hastings had advised him to bring force, anticipating he would do so. Of course, Richard did not impose authority, leaving the various factions to compete and quarrel.

As to the accession, responsibility fell to Robert Stillington, the Bishop of Bath and Wells to confirm it by coronation and Richard did nothing to change this. Stillington privately made clear to the dukes, Richard and Henry; he would not crown Edward; his reasons being first the paternity of Edward IV and second the illegality of Edward IV and Elizabeth's marriage.

The dukes' consternation at this was deep and profound. They had assumed he would simply do their bidding. They did their best to persuade him; in the end Stillington's response was so forceful as to leave no more to be said,

"I will not crown the Bastard Prince, even for the sake of the bastard father!"

Either, or both, the dukes would have knocked him down and had him carried off in chains for saying so; except that he was a bishop, and not just any bishop. The moral force and personal authority of the Bishop of Bath and Wells were great.

It was some time after this, only two days before the date set for the coronation, Dr Shaa gave his famous sermon; perhaps the Bishop was unready to commit himself despite his strong words. It is a pity he didn't make his views public, it might have forestalled Tudor plotting and the abduction of the Princes, but Richard had implored him, in memory of Edward IV and for his family honour, to say nothing in public, and the Bishop had agreed.

It is interesting to note, one of the first acts after the killing of Richard III was the arrest of Bishop Stillington; he would still less have crowned the bastard Henry Tudor, dispossessed earl of Richmond, than he would crown the bastard Edward Plantagenet, Prince of Wales.

When Stillington challenged the accession Richard could have referred it to a Church council, hoping Thomas Bourchier would exercise control; if Bourchier failed there could then have been an appeal to the Pope, in any case, responsibility would have lain with the Church. With the Woodvilles constrained, it would have only left Hastings to be convinced by reason. In fact, Richard seems to have spent the whole of May and part of June in what a modern psychologist would call denial. The sum total of Richard's fault was that he failed to rule, as he failed to secure the succession for his nephews; the fact is he never thought he should.

I could understand Henry, duke of Buckingham's disbelief and frustration!

It all left fertile ground for Morton to nurture intrigue and suspicion.

Morton's second coupe was sprung on Friday, the 13th June 1483. According to Sir Thomas More, who is not always to be trusted but who in this I believe to be correct, what happened was as follows: Richard arrived at the Great Council late but in good humour, he was called away for a considerable time; coming back in a black rage he accused Hastings and others of conspiracy against him. After some violent tumult, Morton was knocked down and received a gash to his head, Hastings was arrested and taken away, charged with treason.

Two strands went into this and a good deal of planning.

***

#  Chapter 13 – The Conspiracy against Hastings

Before we come to Morton's plot we must first come to his co-conspirator and mentor, Margaret Beaufort, countess of Richmond.

Margaret was the daughter and heiress of the disgraced Duke of Somerset, who lost by illegal tax collecting and extortion almost all that was left of Henry VI's empire in France. He fortuitously died before he could be brought to justice, while Margaret was still very small. Somerset, in turn was heir to John Beaufort, the illegitimate son of John of Gaunt, conceived in double adultery and barred from the throne by Act of Parliament. Despite everything, all the Beauforts had been treated with outstanding generosity by the Lancastrian kings, notably Henry IV and Henry VI. Margaret had been given a choice of suitors and had chosen  Edmund Tudor; Edmund's mother was  Catherine de Valois, the adulterous widow of Henry V and an heiress to the French crown, while his father was one of Catherine's servants. The marriage of Edmund's parents was, of course, entirely illegal.

Contrary to law and practice Edmund made Margaret pregnant while she was still a child; she gave birth to Henry Tudor at the age of thirteen, by which time Edmund was already dead.

The last stages of the Wars of the Roses had killed all legitimate Lancastrian claimants to the throne and Margaret developed an insane obsession that her son should become king. She sacrificed all decency, honour and human feelings to this passion, using 'religious' devotion to mask what must be amongst the darkest desires ever known in England. By using successive husbands and their families Margaret had given herself considerable standing and had come to be the leading Lancastrian at Court, her latest husband, Thomas Stanley, was a notable Yorkist magnate.

There arose an unholy and long standing alliance between Morton and Margaret, with the object of overturning the English monarchy and making Henry Tudor king. It was not, of course, even suspected that this was the case, and as to why Morton should have devoted himself to this alliance you will have to wait.

As I'd eavesdropped Morton's thoughts, in his note making, there had been no assessment of Margaret Beaufort, but she'd been there in the background. He was confident of their alliance and that she would fulfil her part. Her part was to dupe the Queen and cause her to implicate others in indiscretions, which could then be revealed to Richard. Duping the Queen would not be difficult, but concocting a plausible and damning implication against  William Hastings would be much more so.

One other innocent needed to be made use of. Henry, duke of Buckingham was himself an heir to Edward III, his dukedom was incredibly wealthy and extensive and he had a sense of his own importance. Instead of being recognised by Edward IV he had been more or less forcibly married to the Queen's sister, and kept out of government. The King's reason was that Henry was not very bright or subtle, but Henry blamed his marriage for his treatment. He tried to make up for his lack of political experience by lengthy, 'wise' pronouncements on practically every subject in the Great Council. William Lord Hastings was intelligent, swift and subtle, it had been he who forestalled a Woodville take-over before Richard reached London, and by June it had become impossible for him to hide his irritation at Henry's ponderousness. The Duke reacted in hurt and offence.

Nothing had changed in Hastings' mind since he, Richard, George and Edward IV rebuked the Woodvilles as 'popinjays.' In particular he had fractious and contentious relations with Elizabeth throughout her marriage to Edward. Even so, when Warwick rebelled over it, Hastings had gone into exile with Edward and the others.

If Hastings had a fault it was his openness and easiness. The Queen was so horrified at all that happened, so terrified that Richard would take over the kingdom and usurp her son, Hastings saw no reason not to give her reassurance. As he knew Richard as a friend, there was no possibility of this, and he told her so.

Hastings actually had written to the Queen,

"...if the Duke should prove a tyrant he would be removed."

He thought he was writing about an impossibility; even so, perhaps they were unwise words, they had been suggested to him.

What Hastings did not know was that Margaret Beaufort had established a secret correspondence with Queen Elizabeth through their shared physician. Margaret had created the fears Hastings tried to still, suggesting Richard would kill her sons, her brother, and take the Crown for himself. She had done it cleverly, using Morton's tactic of putting ideas into the Queen's head; Elizabeth had been too distraught and unperceptive to notice.

Margaret's next suggestion was that the situation was so desperate there was only one solution, an armed rising to take and kill Richard. She suggested Woodville forces could do it, with the co-operation of William, Lord Hastings. She suggested that William felt put out of place by Buckingham, that he was consumed with jealousy. Elizabeth believed it, and wrote back to Margaret Beaufort as if all this was so, she even sent Hastings letter of reassurance, suggesting Hastings had already joined the conspiracy.

Margaret went to see the Duke of Buckingham, giving him a confection of letters, the most damning, to support a web of lies she spun for him. She did so for "the kinship between us," she had been married to the Duke's uncle, Sir Henry Stafford, and "for your great importance to Richard, duke of Gloucester." To strengthen the letters was an absurd plot, implicating Bishop Morton. It seemed that Hastings was going to replace the guard at the Council's meeting on 13th June and arrest Richard there and then. There would be a signal from Hastings to Morton, "might I have some of the strawberries from your garden." Morton was to leave the room, ostensibly to order the strawberries but in fact to check Hastings' soldiers were in place.

Buckingham was easily duped, asking no pertinent questions, and not knowing the absurdity and improbability of a conspiracy between Hastings and Elizabeth Woodville. He rushed to lay it all before Richard, claiming only that it came from his own spies rather than Margaret Beaufort.

Richard was not so easily taken in. He could afford to wait and see, simply making sure that the guard of the Great Council would be his own men, not replaced by Hastings.

This was the first strand of the conspiracy.

The second was this,

Morton went privately, the next day, to see Richard.

The Bishop presented himself with the dissembling of a subdued and repentant man.

"Your Grace, I hardly know how to say what I must tell you.

You know I am concerned that my brother bishop, Robert Stillington, opposes the accession of your nephew, Prince Edward. I must tell you my lord Hastings petitioned my aid to hasten his crowning, fearing it is being delayed at Your Grace's behest by the Great Council.

He asked my assistance to give him a certain signal that his men might arrest Your Grace and keep you in confinement until the Prince be crowned and your power be ended. I confess such Worldly action troubled me but I assented.

I repent it bitterly, but now I must reveal a terrible thing, anathema to the Church and a grave charge against Lord Hastings, which makes it impossible I serve him further.

It is known that Your Grace charged Lord Hastings to investigate the untimely and unexpected death of your late brother the King and the rumour it was brought about, in resentment, by the King's discarded mistress, a certain Shore. It is also known that Lord Hastings has taken this Shore to his own bed, sharing the licentious tastes; forgive me Your Grace, of your late brother.

It has come to my ear that this Shore confessed, she practised witchcraft against the late King; and further, and most urgently Your Grace, is now practising the same Devilish art against your own person, your wife and your son.

I submit myself to Your Grace's judgement, for treason is a terrible thing and I will serve the sake of Lord Hastings no further."

Richard listened with seriousness; Morton's demeanour gave him no choice.

"May I ask Your Grace, have you suffered any injury or illness of late? How is your arm? For I thought I noticed you favouring it in Council."

Richard contained his emotions, reactions and judgement wonderfully, as Morton intended he should. There was just one more element to put in place before Morton left,

"I implore Your Grace, do nothing in haste, wait and see; that Lord Hastings' actions may more clearly reveal themselves."

Richard wasn't as easily taken in as Buckingham had been. He'd even remarked to Henry,

"Beware of Greeks when bearing gifts."

It had affronted the Duke that he'd been too quick to believe Margaret Beaufort, and he'd argued for the truth of the allegation more strongly.

One circumstance added plausibility. Two days before, the dukes had privately explained the difficulty with Stillington to William Hastings. His response had been right but was possibly open to interpretation,

"It was to be expected, but the boy is the heir until anyone disproves it, confirmed in the King's will, and Edward became king on his father's death. No man can deny it."

Had these words really meant he, Hastings, had anticipated the dukes would follow Stillington and that he had prepared against it?

For all the unravelling going on around him, Richard was confident, others were coming to him, there would be a resolution against either Hastings or Morton on 13th June, and he, Richard, understood military force.

There was just a little more suggestion before that fateful day.

On the Thursday Morton made two casual remarks to Hastings,

"The gardens at Ely Place are full of fine strawberries, if it please you my lord, bid me fetch you some when next we meet."

The other comment was also solicitous,

"Keeping the good order of the Council against outsiders troubles me, do you check the security of the guard for tomorrow."

For the Great Council meeting Richard was late. He'd been checking the guard, the soldiers were his own and there was no risk of arrest as threatened in the Queen's letter. He was not to know his good humour would be spoiled by a further ruse of Morton.

Richard was called away as he had arranged to be. In a private room he was received, solemn faced, by his own agents. He had ordered a raid to be made on Lord Hastings' house, to take place as soon as the Council began. The agents were very thorough, they found hidden, where Morton's agents had planted them, 4 wax dolls with pins in them, one with a pin in its arm exactly where Richard had lately been experiencing discomfort. There was other paraphernalia which might have been of witchcraft and there were verbal reports from servants of the house who, while loyal to Hastings, had no love of Mistress Shore. On top of this was a scrawled note, which might have been in Hastings hand, with imprecations against Richard himself.

After this, another agent stepped forward. Richard had set him to keep an eye on the Council's guard and he reported that, before Richard's arrival, Hastings had inspected the soldiers and recognised some of Richard's men.

So, there would be no coupe attempted against him today, but the evidence of witchcraft put Richard in a rising black mood. He went back into the Council as Sir Thomas More described.

In one particular Shakespeare and the other Tudor propagandists are in error. Shakespeare alleged Hastings was arrested and summarily executed that day. There is evidence of a letter, lately come to light, signed by Hastings and dated a week later.

What actually happened was, after his arrest, Hastings was speedily brought to trial by due process of Law. There was, of course, the concocted evidence against him; there was also Richard's undoubted anger and sense of betrayal, which may have swayed the court. He was condemned to death and executed shortly after the date of that new found letter.

***

#  Chapter 14 – The Coronation that never was

In the days after the springing of the plot the Great Council went further. By unanimous agreement, the Queen's letters were evidence enough against Earl Rivers, Richard Grey and Thomas Vaughan, whom the Dukes had arrested at Stony Stratford. The Dukes' action was vindicated and the execution of all three was ordered.

By being enticed into treason, and by writing her fantasies in the letters she put into Margaret Beaufort's hands, the Queen not only accomplished Hastings death but that of her own brother and her son, had she not been queen it would have been her own death also: a foolish woman in deed.

Two things are to be remembered; no voice on the Council dissented: while Richard and Buckingham are often accused of self-interest, that could not be said of the arch-bishops of Canterbury and York.

The second thing is that Dr. Shaa's sermon was not given till after this, maybe it was the Woodville treason which tipped Shaa and Stillington into speaking in public; maybe, but for the Queen's foolishness and Beaufort and Morton's conspiracy, Edward V might still have been crowned.

The Great Council, which at the start had only discussed the new king's coronation, all other business being secondary, in the end simply cancelled it. The 24th of June, the day London should have seen Edward V confirmed on the throne, instead heard the greatest speech of Henry, duke of Buckingham's life.

The Dukes had decided and at last taken control, admittedly forced into it ignominiously, and with the loss of an invaluable and innocent friend in Hastings.

Prince Edward could not be king on two grounds: first, the double illegality of his claim and, even if Stillington had gone too far, it would now be impossible to overcome his opposition; secondly there was an evident danger to the realm that Edward, by his age, would be used as a pawn by the Queen's faction. It would have reminded many of the disastrous days when Henry VI's incapacity put England in the hands of a queen's faction, and the French empire was lost as the result.

I looked into the minds of as many on the Great Council as I could, whatever their position, wherever they came from, I could find none who would disagree with this. The Queen's treason, and her previous reputation for family ambition, left Prince Edward with not one supporter outside his mother's family.

As to Richard himself, I found him struggling with memories of his father. Richard, duke of York, had a better claim to the throne than Henry VI; as with all the nobility, Richard had tried to be loyal for the sake of the realm, yet he was forced into confrontation and in the end he was killed by the queen's faction. A terrible civil war resulted. I saw it through the young Richard's eyes in frightening, violent scenes, full of the smell of blood and the cries of the dying. He closed his eyes against them. He thought of his love for his brother, he thought of his own fears of being king. In the end he faced the fear and decided for duty; Richard, as he had been trained to do, always decided for duty.

This was hardly a feat of mediumship, the slightest training in counselling and empathy, in transference and counter-transference, the slightest knowledge of psychology, should have taken anyone to this understanding. Unless you believe in the inhuman monster historians write about, it could not have been otherwise.

The first step was to take Prince Edward's younger brother, Prince Richard, out of the hands of Queen Elizabeth, who was in sanctuary at Westminster Abbey. A party of Great Council members, led by Thomas Bourchier went to persuade her to give him up. It has been suggested she was threatened with force, the truth is this was as unlikely as it was unnecessary, with the Council's decision, in the words of our times, Edward and Richard were no-longer 'players' and neither use nor danger to anyone. Richard would be far more comfortable with his brother in the royal apartments in the Tower. Reluctantly Elizabeth assented.

It is a speculation from having seen Duke Richard, he was thorough and careful. He distrusted Elizabeth, and it is no surprise he would take no step further until he knew his nephews were safe and secure. Perhaps he would have used force if he'd had to.

From the time news of Edward IV's death spread across England lords and M.P.s had flocked to London, first for the King's funeral, second for the new king's coronation. Many were there still, and a Parliament had been called, with the original intention of welcoming the new king. Shortly the Great Council would find itself superseded, by design or default, this was the setting for Buckingham's great speech; he could hardly have had a fuller audience, the lords, bishops and commons of Parliament, the corporation and guilds of London, and the swelled populous of the city, all were represented at the Guildhall.

Buckingham restated the central point of Shaa's sermon, "Ye well remember substantially declared unto you at Paul's Cross on Sunday." But he did it softly, on Richard's insistence, for the sake of the still living Duchess Cecily, and no mention was made of Edward IV's illegitimacy. If Richard had allowed it, public knowledge might have saved Richard's own life at Bosworth and the Princes, presently, from abduction. According to Sir Thomas More Buckingham was, "marvellously well spoken" and set the scene for the meeting of Parliament the next day.

Unanimously Parliament assented to a document, following the lines of Buckingham's speech, which petitioned Richard to take the crown of England. A multitude took themselves to Baynard's Castle, to press Richard to accept, and the nobility pressed forward to take the oath of allegiance.

At this point Morton may or may not have changed the succession to the crown of England, but he had certainly strengthened it. His plan was not yet completely unfolded.

***

#  Chapter 15 – Placing the Princes

No-one could be unaware that a very great deal has been written about the 'Princes in the Tower' specifically about their disappearance and supposed murder. It isn't possible to live in England, or many other places, and not know the Tudor propaganda of Shakespeare's play.

It is my habit to investigate psychically and then check my facts against History. It is my experience that if I do it the other way around it interferes with the objectivity of the investigation. On the Princes historians, from the earliest times, have mixed a few facts with a lot of opinion, the facts have been stretched to match the opinion and, even then, some of the facts are untrue. The simple fact, then as now, is nobody has ever known what happened to the Princes.

What can be said for certain is Princes Edward and Richard were sporadically seen in the Tower of London, where Richard III installed them, until sometime in July. With the Princes supposedly safely 'tucked up,' Richard and Buckingham set out on a royal progress round the country, leaving from Windsor, not London, on 20th July.

From all this uncertainty, I took my mind back to Hatfield.

The events of 1483 seemed to go with such a rush. In fact there was well over two months between Morton's first coupe, with the death of Edward IV, and his second coupe, with the death of Hastings. I found Morton back at Hatfield, in the Great Hall, talking to Gilbert, some time before the 13th June. On the table between them lay a map:

"Can your mind take you into this, Gilbert?"

Brother Gilbert couldn't answer. He had never seen the Tower of London, let alone entered the White Tower at its centre.

"I have never seen London."

"I can take you there, and I can have sketches made of the great keep that stands at its heart. I cannot take you into the Royal Apartments; even I cannot go there freely.

My patronage of your devotions to blest Saint John may give you entry, if my tongue can conjure it, to the chapel that stands even at the heart of the Great Tower."

Gilbert simply nodded.

For you, dear reader, I can do almost as well. There were no guide books in John Morton's day, the earliest I can find comes from the beginning of the 1900s courtesy of Project Gutenberg. You can find it here:  Guide to the Tower of London.

It's worth taking time with the guide, I knew very little more than Brother Gilbert, I studied it with care and fascination. Beyond the Edwardian drawings, and the ancient architecture they show, one drawing struck me: it is a plan of the middle floor of the White Tower, showing the Chapel of St. John.

Several things stood out: firstly the sheer scale of it, according to the guide the Chapel measures 55 feet 6 inches long by 31 feet wide, and 32 feet high; secondly its great age, having been completed in 1080 in the reign of the Conqueror himself, but third were the staircases.

You will see from the plan the staircases are made of stone and are circular, excepting one which, according to the guide, is narrow and straight. These had nothing to do with the staircase I caught from Bishop Morton's mind and which he so carefully reproduced at Hatfield.

Morton held a second conversation, this time with Thomas Nandyke.

"Your charge Thomas is to enter the Underworld from here. From there you must go to another place. Brother Gilbert will guide you, and from there you must come back here. Can you do that?"

Thomas was more forthcoming than Gilbert had been.

"I have been to the Underworld and returned. I could do it by clearly seeing the places to which I must go. There is more than I have said in that, I must be able to feel the place if ever I'm to conjure its entry.

The places to which you bid me must be exact and certain."

"I shall ensure they are, but there is more. I shall charge you with the key and crown of all our endeavours. You are to bring with you other persons, and more on your return. I bid you to conjure the greatest entry and leaving of the Underworld since Odysseus."

Perhaps Morton had not read the Odyssey; the hero's whole company did not return, only Odysseus himself made it home. Thomas was silent.

The Bishop was thoughtful also; it would require exact and certain placing of those who were to be moved.

***

#  Chapter 16 – A Call to Confession

Bishop Morton's life might not have been as much of a rush as it seemed. Mine was. It seemed to me my eavesdropping had me dashing about from one great person and event to another, with hardly more pause than was needed to eat and to sleep.

I declared a holiday of idleness in which, by design, there should be nothing to report. After that, and a little preparation, I would revisit Thomas Nandyke, in the room where I first met him.

I put several things into a bag; an old ceramic inkpot, securely sealed, with ink in it, a quill pen, paper, modern but of parchment quality, a reproduction of a very old painting of Christ on the Cross with Mary and St John standing by him, this was enclosed in an ancient wooden and glass fronted frame, together, finally, with two loaves of bread. With these I took another half barrel of beer; I had no idea how much time would have passed for Thomas, when I saw him next.

Thus equipped, and dressed in my theatrical robe, I presented myself to Thomas.

"I have been waiting my lord."

I put my bag on the table and the barrel in the corner of the room.

"I've been learning, and now I wish to learn more."

Drawing the painting out of the bag, I passed it to him. It had been painted in 1482, but in Germany, Thomas could not previously have seen it.

"The figure you see on your right is St. John the evangelist. Does this mean anything to you?"

Thomas looked at it for a long time, giving no expression. Finally he spoke,

"Saint John travelled to other worlds. You have read his book of Revelations. He was also there at the translation of Christ, back into this World, and away from it again."

"And do you have any link to him in this World?"

Thomas sighed.

"You know of his chapel in the Tower of London, you know I was to take Brother Gilbert and several others through Hades and into the Chapel. You know my Lord Bishop set me many other tasks in the same cause."

Drawing the paper, quill and ink from the bag I placed them on the table.

And now I wish you to set out for me the conjurations by which you achieved the Bishop's will."

I pushed the pen and paper towards him, but he shook his head.

"The conjurations are not for mortal man.

But I will tell to you the history of the Bishop's bidding and what came to pass. It will ease my soul and you and St. John shall be my confessors."

I raised an eyebrow.

"I will tell all this to you, for you are not a mortal man."

My eyebrow rose still further.

***

#  Chapter 17 – The first Part of Thomas' Confession

"After the well was made in the Great Hall a winch was built above it. This supported a wooden cage or platform, held by ropes, which could be lowered down into the darkness. They offered a candle but I wanted none and lay on the platform while my brothers lowered me, at an even pace so that there be no jerking. I recited my rituals to myself, at times calling on the brothers to stop, to be sure of every stage of the journey. At last the bottom was reached but I no longer had any sense of the wooden boards under me. There was no stone floor beneath me; standing up in the darkness there was a feeling of a wind too soft to move my hair, and a light, as if moonlight, but too pale to see by. I took ten paces away from where I'd laid, but then returned, fearing I might not again find the wooden platform. Lying as before I prayer and recited my rituals and called to the brothers. After a space they pulled me up as from a distant place, stopping again at my bidding.

At the top I was pulled onto the solid floor of the Great Hall. It was bright but so cold. The brothers wrapped me in a blanket and sat me by a fire; they fed me venison broth and asked me questions.

They told me, after lowering me to the bottom of the well, after a space they called to me. When there was no answer they lowered Brother Gilbert. He told me there was no sign of me in the well. He had felt all around the walls, and used his skill in seeing, but could not find me. On being pulled up, at various stages, he felt around the walls again, all was clean stone and mortar, with no sign of me. All the brothers were together talking, at the top of the well, wondering what they should do, when they heard me calling and pulled me up.

The brothers crowded round me, congratulating me and declaring it high magic; they wanted the conjuration by which I disappeared. They wanted to know the place where I had gone and I told it to them as much as I could.

After, Brother Gilbert told me he had the Bishop's instructions, I was to take him with me next time I went down the well. For all my reverence for Gilbert and the Bishop, I went down twice more before I consented to his accompanying me, even Gilbert could not see in the Limbo I first entered."

"And your conjuration, did you use blood sacrifice and a circle?"

Thomas looked at me in a certain way,

"No my lord, but when he came, the Bishop made clear to me there would be a time for these."

"And the next times you went down the well?"

"It seemed to me, if I wished to go to a place from that Limbo, I would go there. It was fear of not getting back that stopped me the first time.

I knew where the keys to our old school in Cambridge had been left, still in the building. I would go to Cambridge and fetch back the keys.

The next time was easier than the first; my belief in what I knew supported me. As I touched the floor that was not stone I remembered my room in Cambridge and I was there. It was now bare, every stick gone, and so it was as I went through all the house. Yet, when I came to the main door, hanging on a nail at the side of the doorway, where I knew them to be, there were the keys. I put them in a pocket and thought of the floor which was not stone and called for the brothers to pull me up.

They pulled me into the daylight, and there stood Brother Gilbert. I presented the keys to him.

The first time I came back half dead, this time I was alive with success. But it made it harder to resist Brother Gilbert, that he should still not come with me on the next time; for all that, I persuaded him. First I'd gone nowhere, next to a place I knew well; before his safety could be risked I had to go to a new place, one previously unknown to me.

Gilbert told me the Bishop was making arrangements for his pilgrimage to the Chapel of St. John in the Tower of London. The Bishop had drawn sketches but they were hurried and poor and Gilbert had not been able to see the Chapel, which was why the pilgrimage was necessary. If I could get there I could report it to him.

Gilbert said the Chapel was a populous place and I could not go at any time of worship or observance. It would have to be an exact time of night, and I was to take a knife and cut a corner off the alter-cloth; so that when he was there, under warrant, in daylight, he could see from where I had taken it.

I studied the Bishop's sketches given me by Gilbert and settled my mind the next day. So it was, at dead of the next night, the brothers gathered in the Great Hall and in the dark light of candles lowered me into the well.

Coming to the Limbo at the bottom I put the remembrance of the sketches into my mind and recited, 'The Chapel of the blessed Saint John in His Grace's Tower of London.'

The next thing I felt was the coldness of hard, smooth stone against my back.

I was in a vast flagged space retreating into absolute darkness, seeming to have no ceiling. In the distance was light but the way to it was blocked by enormous columns. There was reflected light from the floor and from gold ornament and silver thread in wall hangings. By their aid I picked may way to the great candles burning on the high alter and the white cloth on which they stood.

The knife I held in my hand shook almost out of my control, searching the edges and corners of that cloth for a place from which I could cut some small piece that Gilbert would recognise but others not notice. Eventually it was done but my mind was troubled at the sacrilege of cutting the cloth in that holy chapel. My heart stopped at the moment of return, for in searching the cloth I had forgot my way.

I found it again, by counting the columns and by turning at the exact point, so that I came to my starting point.

The return was troubled only by guilt at what I'd done and I handed the cloth to Gilbert as my first act on coming out of the well.

***

#  Chapter 18 – Of Thomas' Comings and Goings

I asked a casual question,

"Were you frightened as you descended into the well?"

Oh no. I was too busy forgetting myself."

There was a pause. Thomas had told me he would not reveal his conjurations; now he realised he'd let slip a key, and that I understood it. Even so I had to prompt him,

"Go on."

"The brothers believe you can work any spell in the grimiores by exactly following the instructions written; or an exact correspondence when this is not possible. If it works it does so by the faith and love we bear to Our Lord; and that He, in his infinite mercy, grants our supplication. When this does not work, or if the working is forbidden by Mother Church, the brothers believe they can compel its working by the rules of High Magic, as some in the ancient World declared.

I learned as a student my conjurations worked the better when I forgot my faith in God. When I read the book of Odysseus I forgot myself. In my mind I travelled the Aegean, and pictured the seas and felt the sun and the rain. When I came to the court of Great Circe I was dazzled. When she could see me and I hear her; then began my true learning.

Then I learned the remembrance of where and what I am blocks all magic but that which is proper to who I am, and then I realised the proper need to forget myself.

The Great Circe schooled me in forgetting. I learned from her that I can be nothing; that my being can disappear in a great cloud of pleasure. Then I learned that who I am can disappear as an act of my own will. But this act of will is not easy!

Circe taught me through all the stumbling and difficulty of forgetting myself. She taught me though all the pleasure of becoming someone else, or all the will to be nothing at all; there is still a corner that remains as it was, to call me back to the World. Yet she taught being nothing is awareness of everything; an awareness so keen that all things become knowable and all things become possible. She taught me that those who can keep the littlest awareness of themselves and the greatest awareness of Nothing are the gods; that Great Zeus weakens himself by his passions and even so, has more of Nothing in him than any mortal man.

It is so, and yet I am frightened of divine judgement for knowing such a heresy."

"It is not heresy, it is but truth bishops and popes do not know."

I smiled at him, but gave no voice to my thoughts, "Awareness of Nothing is the 'Emptiness' Buddhists seek, few will find it, for it is the most terrifying state a human being can know. Pure awareness is the nature of God, and if you achieve it you cease to be."

"My lord, I fear great danger in Circe's teaching, for in it lies the danger that even my soul will be lost for all Eternity. It was my fear in being cast into this place by the Bishop, here is the antechamber to final damnation, beyond all the levels of Hell. Are you, in truth, an angel here to examine me?"

"I'm not here to examine you, nor to judge. Be at ease Thomas, I told you before, I'm not here to hurt you."

Slowly the fear which had come into his face faded away.

"Circe told me I was not yet close enough to the gods. She gave me conjurations to bring me back to this World. When I beseeched her for them she gave me the conjurations you saw the Bishop work against the King: and yet, as I worked in the Bishop's palace, my nothingness increased so I felt, in my journeys down the well, I no longer have need of conjuration."

I waited with an eyebrow raised. I thought of the modern mediumship, "The mental medium believes the living can hold conversation with the dead, and anything can be made known and none of it affects physical reality. The physical medium believes that manifestations can be brought into reality by spirit; it is not done by the medium. In all this all that is needed is the mind of the medium should 'stand back,' an outside spirit does everything else. The personality of the medium is at all times intact and 'comes back' as it was before. Anything communicated or done comes from spirit; all of it is made possible by allowing awareness of spirit, and any block or error comes from the intrusion of the medium's mind."

"You come to me without conjuration. You already know what Circe taught."

Thomas made it a statement, not a question, and I thought it better to distract him.

"And as you went down the well, and as you came back again, you held the wish of where you wanted to be?"

"Yes, as Circe taught me, but still full of fear that my wish must be exact."

"And is this not proof the mind of Thomas Nandyke was still present?"

There was a pause.

This time it was Thomas' turn to give a wordless smile.

"I shall leave you again for a space. There is that which I must do. Yet I shall return."

That which I must do was because, knowing it or not, Thomas had shot an arrow true enough to give me pause for thought. It wasn't that I was unaware of it, I'd simply shelved it. Now I had to ask questions about my own comings and goings.

***

#  Chapter 19 – Of my Mind and Thomas' Situation

The Spiritualists' National Union aims to 'prove' the survival of death, but very little more. I put prove in parenthesis because proof, as I know from forensic work, is a belief state, not a matter of fact; in the Middle Ages the authority of the Church 'proved' the World was flat.

I've enjoyed some sort of relationship with the Spiritualist movement for very many years, without all that much commitment. For me the survival of death, together with certain mental powers and the existence of non-physical beings, has been an obvious fact for as long as I've ever thought about it – or experienced it. But you grow to form a working relationship with other people's beliefs and operate within the limits you're given. One of those limits comes from mental mediumship; you can know and you can communicate but you can't change reality. What nonsense, communication changes reality.

What was troubling was that I had brought physical things into Thomas' reality. True, I'd started with direct physical correspondences, but I hadn't troubled to buy the last barrel of beer, I created it. What is said about apports earlier in this book is true, despite Wikipedia, but they're also very rare. Had I developed the power to cause apports, casually and at will? The answer, in our normal world, is obviously not. I could no more put a barrel of beer in your living room, psychically, than you could in mine. If I could do it in Thomas' world there were two possible explanations: first it was all a dream and you can do anything you want in a dream, second that Thomas' world was real but separate from ours and the rules of this world did not apply to his; at least, not for me.

A dream world could be dismissed straight away; dreams do not alter reality outside themselves, nor are they stable.

In fact Thomas inhabited more than one world: there was the world of Cambridge and Hatfield in our distant past; there was the world of Odysseus' Odyssey in which he found the great witch Circe; and there was the world in which, of late, I'd been talking to him. The terms and qualities of each were different.

If habit convention and belief stopped me bringing apports into the normal world, but allowed me to do so in Thomas' world, what did this tell me about these worlds?

The problem is there are very good reasons why apports, miracles and wish fulfilment are rare, or at least rarely seen; the very first is more than sufficient, such interference with Causality would play havoc with our sense of reality, and with Time itself.

Were it not so chaos would be the result.

I saw this, at last, when Thomas reported bringing the keys from Cambridge to Hatfield. This is a short move in the same reality and in the same moment of time. A quantum physicist might declare this possible but very few others would. And could you or I do it? Of course not. Neither had Thomas, he'd taken the keys from Cambridge into Limbo; then he'd taken them from Limbo into Hatfield.

Could I psychically introduce a barrel of beer into the Bishop's palace at Hatfield? The answer is almost certainly not, any more than I could put one in your living room, at least I couldn't unless I'd first taken it into Limbo, as Thomas did with keys. Why so? Hatfield is subject to the same causality which affects us here and now. Its reality in the time of Morton and the brothers was as certain as yours and mine is today, but not the place where Thomas now found himself. I realised, if it was so easy to change, its instability would make it very like a bomb ready to go off, and I had been merrily shaking that reality with my apports. Not only that, this Limbo, this 'other' place, could easily translate into our reality, past or present.

I went back to Thomas quicker than intended.

He looked at me in surprise.

"I have reason to think it may be unsafe for you to remain here too long.

But before I can assist you to move elsewhere it is necessary for me to hear the whole of your story."

"Right gladly will I leave this place; what more must I tell you?"

"All of it.

But first, if anything should happen..."

I searched for words,

"If you should doubt this place or anything happen here to cause you surprise; if you cannot go back to Hatfield, you must straight away return to Circe. Do you understand?"

"But nothing could have surprised me more than you my lord."

Thomas looked at me and gradually his expression changed. Finally he nodded.

"You should not have been able to give me the gifts you brought me. I was amazed and I wondered."

"No Thomas, I should not have been able to do that. Nor should you have been able to bring the keys to Hatfield; you did what I did, then you did the same in reverse."

And now there was fear once more in Thomas' eyes.

"Ah!"

We both held a silence for a very long time.

To break it I sat down in a chair, ready to hear the next chapter.

***

#  Chapter 20 – The Second Part of Thomas' Confession

"My lord Bishop sent urgent word to Hatfield. Brother Gilbert was to attend him in Holborn as quickly as horse could carry him. The viewing of St John's Chapel had to be accomplished before 13th June. Some of the brothers laughed at his discomfort, for Gilbert is a poor horseman. Brother Matthew reported Gilbert's ride left him sore in places which made it difficult for him to sit down.

Yet Gilbert was given to ride to the Tower of London in the Bishop's carriage, and a written warrant to enter the White Tower. A warden guarded him all the time he was in the Chapel, yet he was able to kneel at the altar, and inspect the place I cut. After praying he was allowed to leave the castle. It took him so long to return that we had news of the Bishop's arrest before he did.

From the Bishop's own hand, Gilbert carried a sealed letter to be read to the brethren on his return. Dinner being over, Gilbert broke the seal and read to us.

'Be not alarmed brethren.

It shall be the will of the Great Council that I depart from you for a space. It is my fancy I shall sojourn with His Grace the Duke of Buckingham for several months before my return.

I appoint our good brothers John and Bartholomew to guide our workings, and I bid you all obey their instructions as you would my own.

To brothers Gilbert and Thomas fall particular duties that I doubt not they shall fulfil.

To you all, blessings and quiet observance of our great purpose.'

We all sat in amazement.

Gilbert rose from his chair at the head of the table and went to where Brother John sat,

'My place is now yours.'

But Brother John waved him back,

'Are we not all brothers? The charge given me by the Bishop will cause Bartholomew and myself to be away, and we are all to continue in the hands of you Brother Gilbert, but when we call for you to follow the will of the Bishop it must be done quickly and without question.'

I saw Gilbert nodding and he resumed his seat.

The next morning Gilbert came to me, the Bishop had written other letters and one was to me,

'...It will be necessary for you to take others with you on your travels.

Your first task is to take Brother Gilbert to the Chapel you visited before. You are to arrange it so he returns with a token of the visit.'

I had been troubled by the thought of taking Gilbert ever since it was first mentioned. I explained all to him which the Great Circe taught me and which I explained to you. It seemed to me that if I took hold of Gilbert and he cleared his mind, it could work. If he believed in the power of certain rituals which I made up for him it would comfort and distract him.

We tried at the same hour of night as my visit before. The brothers at the top of the well lowering Gilbert and I down into it.

We came to the not stone bottom and I told Gilbert to imagine the place at the side of the nave in the Chapel of Saint John where I had entered. Still holding tight to him I went... and he came with me. We stood in the darkness, amazed at what we'd done.

It came only now to debating what we should bring away with us as a token of our visit. We wandered round in the dark, taking elaborate care to make no noise, and coming together to discuss in whispers. We settled on taking an unlit candle from a pile of candles which stood on a table by the alter.

Our coming back was as it had been for me before, this time, again, making sure to keep tight hold of Brother Gilbert.

As we emerged out of the well in the Great Hall the brothers had lit the space with a prodigal number of candles so the light almost dazzled. The brothers wanted to see in what condition Gilbert returned, and what we brought back. I held the candle aloft, and they were amazed as they had been when I brought the keys.

Without the discipline usual to Brother Gilbert, the brothers decided on a brief holiday, we drank beer, all crowded round the long table. All of us were loath to go to our beds at last but, as Gilbert returned to his usual manner, the candles were extinguished and we went our ways.

We repeated this journey on two more nights before Brother Gilbert declared himself ready to report to the Bishop; there now stood three candles on the long table and we were fearful of taking more. We had been fearful to venture outside the Chapel, for all we explored its interior, for neither of us could think of any plan in the event of discovery. I was fearful also to let go my hold on Brother Gilbert during our coming and goings, for all my grip relaxed, I could not bring myself to let go entirely.

Reporting to the Bishop was now most difficult.

The events of Friday the 13th day of June, which took place in the White Tower of the Tower of London, only came to us by degrees. We were now entirely cut off from Cambridge by the orders of John and Bartholomew, and Gilbert agreed. We had little news from Holborn or London and relied on Brother Matthew, who was now our spy and only link to my lord Bishop himself.

Matthew told us there had been a great disturbance at the meeting of the new king's Great Council. The Lord Hastings had been arrested for high treason and for witchcraft and taken away, as also had been the Bishop and certain others. Lord Hastings was after times tried and beheaded, while the Bishop was taken into the custody of the Duke of Buckingham and sent, under close guard, to the Duke's stronghold of Brecon.

It would become Brother Matthew's great work to find entry to the castle at Brecon, and entry to the Bishop's presence, but we were told Brecon lay a long way off, in the principality of Wales, and the journey there was both long and difficult. Matthew would be given special licences and favours through the offices of the arch-deacon in Holborn, and should have horses and messengers at his service, together with a purse of money for what the See could not supply.

We also learned, at the end of June, that all London was in turbulence and that, by popular demand, the new king's uncle, Richard Duke of Gloucester, would be king, and the new King would be king no more.

It was an anxious time for the brothers, and all would now have to wait for the Bishop and Brother Matthew."

***

#  Chapter 21 – The Next Step

There was hardly any pause before Thomas resumed his story.

The Duke of Buckingham's absence with the new king, distracted his household, and many of the Duke's officers went with him. Perhaps if Buckingham had been present in Brecon the Bishop would have been more restricted. As it was Brother Matthew was able to masquerade as a traveling merchant, with urgent business with the Bishop, and with papers from the palace at Holborn to be signed. Within two weeks the Duke's officers had accepted him as a visitor to the Bishop, they even accepted the exchange of papers. On separate occasion's both Gilbert and Thomas were allowed to go there also; they were not allowed to see Morton himself, but they came close enough for the practice of their skills.

It would be wrong to say Matthew boasted, but he grew and shone in the admiration of his brothers.

Messages were conveyed from Brecon to brothers John and Bartholomew, who left Hatfield for more than a week. When they came back, the brothers brought two boys. These two were to be called 'the Young Gentlemen' but were never to be named; the boys were clean, and they were dressed in fine silks and velvet. The brothers were strictly ordered not to talk to the boys beyond what was necessary, and not to talk about them at all. Speculation arose that these two were the princes who had lately been lodged in the Tower, and somehow Bishop Morton had managed to extract them.

"For myself I did not know what to think or even know for certain the boys concerned my own and Brother Gilbert's working until I was summoned to receive the Bishop's instructions.

First I was asked a question,

'Can anything, or anyone, be taken from the Underworld without being replaced by an equivalent?'

This had been a speculation and debate within the School, as part of our Magic studies of correspondences and substitutions. From the keys and the cloth I knew some things could be taken, but not whether this could be true of people and spirits.

I answered that I thought it possible, but most of the brothers and the Bishop himself disagreed. By authority of the Bishop of Ely we were not to take the chance. It became clear to me my lord Bishop's plan was the Young Gentlemen should be taken into the Tower of London, to be left there in substitution for the sons of the late King Edward IV, who would then be taken out."

There was a silence.

"You did not approve?"

"Brother John pointed out that substitution would delay the moment of discovery, and it was likely the Gentlemen would be well treated, and it would increase the safety of bringing the Princes here. What could I do?"

Thomas' voice acquired a whining tone which surely, even in his own ears, was sufficient answer to the question.

"And it made your task the harder?"

"This was not all. It seems I was to take others, perhaps John and Bartholomew.

I prayed for guidance. Yet I was so afraid that my steps had already strayed too far from the path and there was no way now except into further damnation. My sleep was disturbed by terrible dreams and I prayed even more to the Great Circe than I did to Our Lord."

Tell me of your work in the well."

"It was Gilbert as well as I who schooled the Gentlemen in what they must do. And we went into the well to the bottom which was not stony. There was little room and the cramping of our bodies together made me feel unsafe and dizzy. When I felt so my purpose would unbalance and we would all find ourselves on the stony floor of the well when we should have been elsewhere.

The problem was at the foot of the shaft, where the space was narrowest and I explained it all to Gilbert, and then to John and Bartholomew. I was told to rest and that I was tired and I was prescribed other work to do."

It seemed to me it was not just this carrying of others which tired Thomas, but the recounting of it, and I offered him a pause from telling his tale. Thomas would have none of it.

"It seemed that weeks passed, but I cannot tell whether days or weeks or how many. I could no longer keep my mind even to reading my beloved books and there were days I spent sat in the garden. The brethren were solicitous and encouraged me in quiet voices.

It seemed to me it would have been sufficient to alter the space at the bottom of the well, and the mason who made it was called in. They told me the difficulty of widening the space would be more work than digging another shaft.

Gilbert, John and Bartholomew had all been lowered down the well, separately and together. They had tried to repeat my journeys, but even Gilbert, who had travelled to the White Tower with me, could never leave the well in the Great Hall.

After a time Brother John told me the Bishop had ordered a solution, which was even now in hand, and I should be patient while it was made ready. It lifted my spirits, though I did not yet know this solution."

Now I intervened more firmly, telling him we must pause this story so I, also, could do other work. I wanted to look at the Bishop's solution through my own eyes, and I told Thomas he must be patient.

***

#  Chapter 22 – Morton's Solution

Brothers John and Bartholomew were in the Great Hall when masters Nathaniel and 'Legley' arrived. They were sitting at the long table with a freshly opened letter before them, the ribbon dangling from it still with the Bishop's seal attached. The stone-masons were left to stand.

"Masters, we may have a commission for you from my lord bishop.

First I must learn something from you. It is rumoured the society of masons keeps it secrets, will you also keep the secrets of our bishop?"

John spoke with more authority and less courtesy than Gilbert would have done. Nathaniel, ever mindful of his own dignity, did not like it but his companion spoke first, he spoke with a French accent,

"Is it not well known milord?"

John looked at him,

"Master Nathaniel we know, and you sir?"

"Mon nom, c'est Pierre, 'the Rock,' mon cher confrere, he calls me Legley."

The Frenchman's manner was well judged, a combination of urbane authority, John answered his smile,

"I see why."

Legley had the spare height you saw in Thomas, but his back was straighter and he carried himself with confidence and purpose Thomas did not have.

"The commission Brother John."

Nathaniel did not wish to stand too close to Legley, and that was something into which I should look.

"We have instructions to build a mine, with a large chamber at the end of it. It must stand some way from this house, but not too far, and it must be out of sight. The whole must look like a barrow from ancient times when it is finished."

Legley resumed,

"And it must be a barrow, covered with grass, from the time it is builded? Yes?

John nodded.

"Then you must find us a small hill."

It was normal for Nathaniel to let Legley negotiate and no more would be settled until the site was chosen and agreed upon.

None of the brothers knew the land around Hatfield. There were many untrodden and closed places in the woodlands, possible places in riverbanks where spoil could be removed by barge, and the brothers' survey took many days.

Finally a place was found, beyond the palace itself, close to a small river, to the northeast and hidden in woodland. It did not include a hill.

"If it is to be, it is to be; we shall build a hill. What we dig from the ground we shall use for the roof. It makes it easy for the inside to be bigger."

It was very much a surprise to find Legley speaking so positively. John and Bartholomew were dubious, and Nathaniel would certainly have turned the commission down. Legley encouraged the others, almost a dynamo of energy, and I wondered why.

"If you set yourself to do a thing, you should do it. Not so?"

By any standards the work went quickly. It was done by day labourers brought in by Legley. They were not local men; they were silent and worked hard, camping on the site itself. Even so, the work took weeks. Thomas was brought to the site. At first he just looked around; then he sat against a tree and seemed to go to sleep. After that he was energetic, encouraging everybody, enthusiasm reborn.

The site was not close to the palace, anyone going from one to the other should have to walk, and there were no paths. Even if you could find the way it might take an hour, at night even longer. Brother Gilbert thought of a solution to finding the way. A beacon should be mounted on a platform so it could be seen from afar. Jacob was set to make a large iron brazier to hold the beacon.

Work went with imagination and with no fuss. I couldn't help feeling, had it been done today, it would have been done much less well, with inferior results. Everyone worked from one very large plan, drawn by Legley and agreed between him and Nathaniel. The wooden beams which formed the internal structure were not cut to exact measurements, they were measured against each other, without question, and they fit together without difficulty. The cutting of the timber was the one part left to village labour, even then the beams were carried away from the saw-mill by servants of the palace, firstly by cart and then on foot.

It was with no little pride that Brother John wrote to the Bishop, to announce completion of the work. Wanting to show his part, Gilbert added his own letter; both being careful that no-one but the Bishop, and Matthew who carried the letters, would understand their meaning.

***

#  Chapter 23 – Brother Thomas returns to the Work

It was nothing short of a miracle so much should have been accomplished while the Duke was still away with the King, but all was still far from ready for Morton's next coupe. Now everything depended on Thomas. After that it would still all come to nothing without the work of John and Bartholomew, with the Young Gentlemen. Feeling powerless, Bishop Morton sat in comfort and ease in Brecon Castle, sending his instructions and waiting.

"In Cambridge and in Hatfield I have no concern with kings and princes."

These were Thomas' first words when I returned to him.

"It was clear the Young Gentlemen, brought by brothers John and Bartholomew, were to do with the Princes who were the sons of the late King. The favours of the Gentlemen agreed with the reports that came to us of the Princes, most greatly with he who was said to be King Edward V. It troubled me, for I sensed the Princes were roaming the whole of the Great Tower, though mostly within the Inner Ward. I never saw them, but servants spoke of them. Gilbert agreed. We stayed, one night, in the Great Chapel, till after the break of dawn. From what he saw by first light, and the torches still burning, Gilbert learned to visit the Tower through his great gift in seeing. He heard the talk and once, by the light of day, saw two boys playing happily in a garden.

If the Gentlemen were not the Princes it came to me that our lord Bishop meant them no good and would leave them in the Tower in place of the true Princes. I resolved that this should not come to pass.

I hoped when I could not carry more than myself and Gilbert to the Great Chapel the Bishop would let go his plan. Then the masons created a great work and wonder in the woods and I knew the Bishop would never let go. Then it was I began to form my own plan.

It came to me I would follow the Bishop in all his designs but, when it came to leaving the Young Gentlemen, I would do none such. I would carry them to the well in the Great Hall while all others would be watching for me at the hole in the woods. When I came to the woods I should tell some story for my delay and the Gentlemen should make their escape.

"Why not just refuse to do it, say you've lost the power."

It was plain I thought Thomas plan unsatisfactory.

"Do you not know the Bishop?"

Um, yes it was one thing for me to say 'resist the Bishop,' I realised it would be quite another for Thomas to do it. He confirmed it for me.

"Even from prison, my lord Bishop could reach me."

So it was Thomas went back to work.

"My first task was to learn the new place in the woods. The masons had covered it with earth and had cut turf from elsewhere which they laid over the bare earth of the roof. Master Legley had instructed you shouldn't see it unless you knew it was there, even in this deserted spot, and the entrance is masked by a fold in the land, a little turned away from the river. The way in is guarded by an iron gate commissioned from Jacob the smith, and you have to stoop as you go in. After moving five awkwardly paces you come to the larger space; at the deepest place it is nearly seven feet from top to bottom and its circle is nine feet across. The walls are lined with brick clay and the brothers covered it with a lime-wash; around the edge is a trench which can be drained to the river.

The trench brought to my mind we were to describe a magic circle, and the trench would be filled with the blood of sacrifice as the Great Circe taught in the first spell I gave to the Bishop. I told the Bishop that sacrifice is not needful, but I bethought me he wouldn't listen.

It was loathly I carried out my first task, to take brothers John and Bartholomew to the Great Chapel of Saint John.

All the while of building this new place I was told it was to take John and Bartholomew, as I took Gilbert before times. Gilbert and I schooled them in what they must do but they were not as ready as students as Gilbert had been.

On first going to the new place I took only myself. Where else should I go but the Chapel of St John? I found it easy and familiar but without reason to stay. I found going and coming to the floor I should now called 'the floor which isn't earth' is so very like it was in the well of the Great Hall my mind needed to make no difference.

On the second going to the new place I took brothers John and Bartholomew. We set out from the Great Hall, then across the fields, I could see well by the candles in the hall. The brothers each carried long knives. I asked for what purpose they could have knives nearly as long as swords. Bartholomew answered,

'We do the Bishop's bidding Thomas, not yours. We are instructed to bring these and other things.'

And he drew from his robe a vile. The tincture inside the glass was indistinct but it must be some poison or potion for use in the Tower. Bartholomew smiled,

'We also have special skills of use to the Bishop.'

I set my face to show no feelings but led the way to the new place, showing our footing by torchlight.

The going and coming was as it always is. John and Bartholomew did as they were told, following my instructions at all points.

The brothers set out with a swagger they seemed to have lost in the Chapel of St. John. I led them to the high alter, to better see their faces.

'Must we stay here brother, in the sight of Our Lord?'

I surprised myself, and told them with a boldness not my own,

'In Hatfield you may be confident. Here I am master, and it is by my art you may come and go.'

It was an over boldness, regretted as soon as spoken. We left shortly after.

We were forbidden to bring the Gentlemen to the Chapel, for they should come but once.

It being so, for my part, all was in readiness for my lord Bishop's next pleasure.

***

#  Chapter 24 – A Tudor Riot

You may be sure Morton's spies, from outside the mystery school, were watching the Princes. You may also be sure Morton no long needed plans of the Tower and its guards, or a schedule of guards' movements; he knew them by heart. It must have been frustrating to him, the Princes would not settle for any single point in the eighteen acres of the Tower complex. They had spent time in the Garden Tower, they liked its pretty green and yellow floor; they stayed for a while in the Lanthorn Tower, close to where Henry Tudor would later make his home. None of these places were in safe reach of the White Tower, where Thomas had made his entry, and where Morton expected the Princes to be.

Somehow they had to be brought within reach. Morton could not dare commit his thoughts to writing, his thoughts could not be disguised on paper and discovery would end everything. I found him explaining everything most carefully to Matthew, his earnestness and anxiety conveying itself to his acolyte.

"You must explain it carefully to my lady Margaret Beaufort, she is my patron and mentor, and you must be certain she understands. You must speak to none other."

Matthew nodded his understanding. It would be to Margaret Beaufort he next went, and that in some hast.

When I turned my attention to London I found Tudor agents hard at work. Margaret Beaufort had listened to Matthew with care, and certainly she understood. She gave instructions the same day: a mob was to be raised, demanding the Princes be brought out of the Tower. In Richard's absence agents were already working to undermine the decision of the bishop of Bath and Wells and the pronouncement of Parliament, now it was, "Edward is the true king and in danger from his uncle."

Neither Margaret Beaufort nor John Morton thought there was any real chance of taking the Princes. The mob was allowed a little way into the Tower's defences; then the gates to the Inner Ward were lowered tight shut. The crowd could shout and throw rocks but little more. It would have taken a serious military campaign, with siege engines and thousands of trained soldiers, to threaten the Tower. Nevertheless, the Princes, out in the open, could have been surprised by a sneak attack; the decision was taken, the Princes must withdraw to the safety of the royal apartments in The White Tower. It was what Margaret Beaufort and John Morton wanted.

The historical records are sketchy. After the riot which put the Princes under closer protection there was a wider plot, that the Princes be brought out again. King Richard heard of this plot at the end of July and it seemed likely the brothers must have completed their work by then or Morton and Margaret Beaufort would not have wanted the Princes displayed. Thomas' notion of the passage of days had become confused by this time, and I never pressed him on it.

***

#  Chapter 25 – The Going Out

Thomas came at last to the fateful night the Princes were taken from the Tower of London.

"It was late at night and we were all abed when Brother Matthew arrived at the palace. He roused us with the Bishop's urgent instruction.

'We are to do Brother Thomas' working tonight.'

It seemed the Princes had been brought to the royal apartments in the White Tower, just one floor above Saint John's Chapel. The Bishop knew the way and had sketched it for John and Bartholomew; they had been schooled in their part and waited only the Bishop's word.

All the brothers made our way to the new place, bringing the Young Gentlemen with us, dressed in their fine clothes. It made a strange torchlight procession, and the beacon was lit against our return.

The order of our going was that I should take John and Bartholomew leaving the gentlemen with the brothers, we should all then return bringing with us the sons of King Edward IV.

'They will be of no trouble and shall be obedient to our will.'

Brother John showed me the vile I saw before.

'They shall stay with me in the chamber while you and Bartholomew take the Young Gentlemen to the Tower. By the Bishop's rule balance shall be maintained, nothing shall disorder the seeming we bring.'

Brother John's voice rang clear and stern and, in the half light, I saw sweat on his brow.

I heard him and stood mute.

Before we were allowed to enter the chamber, Brother Stephen and as many of the other brothers who could fit carried out their own ceremony.

First they slit the throat of an ox on the riverbank; they did this with words of dedication and ritual that the rest of us could not hear. Then they carried the blood to the trough in the chamber of the new place and conducted a further ceremony. There were high words carried away on the wind, and at the end of it was a light and a loud clap and smoke. The brothers came forth from the chamber, standing around us in a half circle. Brother Stephen said,

'There is blood still in the trough, take care not to touch it. The workings of my devising and the Bishop's approval are set and shall guide what comes to pass.'

When he had said this he looked about him, with the look of one who has done a great and terrible thing.

We three entered the chamber silently, holding hands in a circle with a single alter candle at the centre.

I did not like it but there was now no choice, I bid my companions do as they had done before and we found ourselves on the floor which is not earth and then we found ourselves in the Chapel of Saint John. We were there all safe. I was told to remain while John and Bartholomew checked the way to the Princes' apartment, up the stairwell the Bishop had directed, out of the Chapel they went and were gone.

All was silence as I waited.

Time stretched as if for hours. Then there were noises from above, coming down the stairs.

Before me stood Edward, Prince of Wales, and Richard, duke of York. Young Richard looked as if he were still asleep and stood with his eyes half closed. Prince Edward was under the power of Bartholomew and there was fear in his eyes. I found myself speaking,

'Your Graces we shall all hold hands with me in the centre between you. You shall feel no fear, and we shall all pass from this place to another.'

Straight away I closed my eyes and gave my mind to passing back to the chamber at Hatfield. Again there was the floor which was not earth and then, at last, there was the floor which was earth.

Without time for thinking, the Young Gentlemen were brought in, and Brother John spoke,

'Your life depends on sitting still while our brother returns these gentlemen to your place. Do not try to move as you sit here, as your lives depend on it.'

Seeing the need for hast, I took the Gentlemen's hand and began and they responding as they were told they must.

We came to Saint John's Chapel and I kept hold of their hands,

***

#  Chapter 26 – The Coming In

As we found ourselves in that venerable place I spoke earnestly and in a whisper,

'Listen! If you stay in this place I am afraid for your lives, you must come with me. Our going away will be as our coming."

But before I could say more there was the sound of footsteps and I ushered them onto a staircase which I knew led to the outside world of the Inner Court.

The footsteps came on. There was a large chest at the head of the stairs and I gestured them to climb into it, thinking I could hide down behind it.

The footsteps came closer and I bethought me; if they came onto the stairs I could fly, but leaving the Gentlemen. I should not know what became of them. I seized hold of the chest, as if I had the boys in my arms, I closed my eyes, to envisage the well in the Great Hall, and I closed my mind, seeking the bottom which is not stone.

It seemed to me we then collided with the World. There was a great rush and a falling, and all I could see was a rushing up of hard packed earth. The chest slipped from my hands, falling from me out of sight; I raised my empty hands to protect my eyes, and then I was in the well.

I called out for the Young Gentlemen but there was only silence. I felt around the bottom of the well for the chest, but there was only emptiness. I did not know what then to do.

After a time I took thought and took myself to the chamber in the new place, taking myself there as if I had only now come from the Chapel. I arrived to consternation.

I was told there had been an earth tremor, the chamber shook while I was not there. Prince Edward lunged forward, to get out. Brother Bartholomew, thinking it was an escape, pushed him firmly and roughly back, and he fell against the trough, putting his hand out to steady himself, his hand slipped into the sacrificial blood and he grazed it badly. The Prince sat thereafter staring and shaking. Brother Stephen has taken him back to the palace.

Brother John asked,

'Where are the Young Gentlemen?'

And I confessed.

All the brothers were silent as John led us back through the woods. I was told to clean myself and go to bed. All went to bed; Prince Richard was put in a fine room with his brother, the door locked and the window barred.

The next day I was summoned to Brother John.

He told me Gilbert had scried for the Young Gentlemen; at first they were nowhere to be found. Gilbert examined the stairs where we had been; feeling something odd there he looked into the stairs and beyond, it was the first time any of us attempted distant seeing into the earth. He found the boys deep buried dead and lost to all men's sight.

No time was given for my consternation and guilt.

'Did you not hear Brother Stephen cast the spell, that none should break the course Bishop Morton set? The magic circle and the sacrifice set the limit and your traveling could not overcome the conjuration set by all the brothers.'

There was silence as my mouth hung open.

'The brothers are in morning and I have written to Brecon. I expect you to be called there by the Bishop.'

Only one thing else happened that day, as I tried to make peace with my own spirit. I was called again to the Great Hall and stood to one side by Brother John as we waited for Master Legley.

I recognised him as the mason who organised our special building works. He always had command, and so today.

'This is the man of whom you spoke? I leave him to your bishop.

The Prince Edward is dying, he stares before him with empty eyes and his fever rises. Il est mort.

I take the young one to my masters. It will not please them to have only Richard. I have ordered horses. We go to La France; we take ship from your palais d'Ely. I leave you now.'

He turned to me, his eyes daggers,

'You will be taught not to meddle with your betters. If you still believe in God then pray, tout de bon, sérieusement; adieu.'

It was true. Prince Edward wonderfully quickly took a fever from his cut. Not cold water, not bleeding; nothing could reverse its course. It ended in delirium and shaking. The Prince died the next day."

***

#  Chapter 27 – The Bishop's Retribution

Thomas was tired by recounting all this story. I was tired also; the way to meditate is by relaxation, but maintaining that state of mind, and contact over so long, was profoundly draining. Neither of us would let go.

"The next day Brother Matthew and I took horse in the early morning. I should never have found my way by ordinary means without Matthew's guidance. I could have gone there by my mind's art, but it was no longer allowed. By order of John and Bartholomew I was not to be left unaccompanied and Brother Matthew tied a rope between us to prevent my leaving. For all that ride we travelled in almost silence and I caught sight of Matthew giving me strange glances. From the way he kept watch on me he made it plain I was his prisoner. It prepared me for what was to come.

We came to the village or town of Brecon, all overshadowed by the great stronghold of the great Duke. Matthew had lodgings here, but he bid me go straight to the Castle; nor did he come with me, saying it was not to be known he was in Brecon.

With Matthew watching from a distance I presented myself at the gate, announcing myself as Dr Thomas Nandyke having urgent business with my lord the Bishop of Ely. The guard was literate and wrote my name in a book, having me spell my name letter by letter. I was conducted into the castle by another guard, who seemed to be waiting. I thought it odd and wondered if my name would be remembered."

I thought it odd also, and wondered if this announcement had caused the entry in the Act of Parliament which alerted me to Thomas, all that time ago. If so, it might yet prove the saving of his life, but that has to do with plans I was only now starting to form.

"The Bishop was kept in great comfort. He received me in a brightly lit room with furnishings, wall hangings and ornament. He was sat by a large window which looked down on a garden within the Castle walls. There was a bowl of fruit on a table near him, and I came to stand before him.

My lord Bishop did not look at me as he carried on slicing an under-ripe pear.

"Brother John has written to me. You may take it I know what has come to pass."

There was a pause while he worked with the knife.

'The boys supplied to me by the King of France are dead. Why did you put them in a box?'

He paused, knife in hand,

'I am told Prince Edward Plantagenet is also dead.

Have you anything to say?'

The Bishop applied himself to his fruit, giving it all his attention, and I stammered.

'I have lately discovered your conjurations against King Edward IV, and against King Richard and his family. It seems, Thomas, despite my best care and the teachings of the Church, you are guilty of witchcraft.'

Almost, as if talking to himself,

'It is said King Richard has a very quick temper.'

He looked at me directly; and then he went on, in an almost kindly voice,

'I shall leave you for a moment to think. If you jump from the window it is thirty feet to the ground, if you survive I shall make sure your suffering is short. If you stay I shall hand you over to my guards.'

He rose to leave, but before he went he turned, almost as an afterthought,

'Of course, with your great skill in traveling you could return to the well in the Great hall and feel its smooth stones. I'm sure the brothers will keep your secrets.'

With that he was gone.

I sat in the Bishop's chair, not daring to look out of the window. I dared not stay, and some caution told me I must not go to the well or the chamber in the new place. I thought of Great Circe and wished myself with her.

I found the bottom which is not stone and I searched for the isle of my mistress, but I could not find it. I searched with desperation, and only when I thought all was lost, I found this place from which I have not stirred till you found me.

Yet that is not quite all. I practised Gilbert's great art of seeing. I saw the new place, with blood on the floor and the sense of a curse on it. I saw the well in the Great Hall, and labourers tipping earth and rubble into it; if I went there I should be buried alive, like the boys in the Tower."

Thomas now looked truly drained, but there was one great effort I must demand of him.

"Do not blame yourself. What is done can yet be partly saved. Can you get to Circe from here?"

Thomas looked at me blankly.

"Remember, when I became concerned for your safety I told you to go to her, you did not say you couldn't. Will you try again?"

I got up and paced the room, stretching my arms and legs; I turned my back on Thomas. When I turned to him again he nodded.

"How did you know I could do it?"

"Morton wanted to limit your choices. You had the wisdom to avoid his choices but you lost your belief in your own. I can't see how he could stop you going to her.

Now I want you to do something to help in your own redemption.

Legley has taken Prince Richard to Ely Palace in Holborn. They will spend just one night there. Before Richard is taken out of reach you must take him to Circe. Have you ever been to Ely Palace?"

Thankfully Thomas nodded.

"You must find Prince Richard there. At your first clear opportunity you must take him to Circe."

I could see hope and the wish for redemption battling with tiredness, despair and uncertainty as they each crossed his face. I could see Thomas running his mind through all the requirements and difficulties. We had gone passed the point he would raise any but the most insurmountable problem. Finally he nodded.

Then he was gone.

I sat and waited for Thomas' return, needing to know it was safely done. Sitting in that chair, in that impossible room, I fell asleep.

I was wakened by the sound of his return. Thomas was coughing, discretely, by my ear. Consciousness returned with a rush.

"Is it done?"

He grinned from ear to ear, nodding vigorously.

With that I took my leave, telling him there would be a great deal more to do. It made me smile to think of that Frenchman Legley, searching the palace in vain; 'adieu' in deed.

For now it was time to return to my own world.

***

The outside of 'Ely Tower' at Brecon Castle

#  Chapter 28 – History

It happens, often times what I experience in my mind is clear, direct and simple, while the historical records I research are misleading confused and wrong. Such a case was my research now, into the 'murder' of the Princes in the Tower. Shakespeare has it that they were smothered and stabbed in the Bloody Tower, many authorities, including Major-General Sir George Younghusband (keeper of the Jewel House at the Tower), who should have known better, agree. In the first place; in 1483 the Bloody Tower was known as the Garden Tower, the later name not being acquired until the 1500s and nothing to do with the Princes; second, the apartment in which they were said to be killed did not exist in 1483, it was constructed to house Sir Walter Raleigh in the reign of Elizabeth I; third, to extricate the bodies and bury them in the fashion prescribed by later legend could not have been done without discovery.

Here begins the historical mystery surrounding the Princes in the Tower. We ought to be lucky that modern historical writing began not long after these times. Two important early 'histories' should be looked at by any serious historian, the first is by Sir Thomas More who was the greatest protégé of Morton himself. More is suspect not only because of Morton and because he spent his life in Tudor service, but for a greater reason. It is said he couldn't make any statement without mockery and irony, such that you might never understand him without first knowing the truth. The second history is by Sir George Buck, who wrote at the beginning of the 1600s and who had access to secret papers. The following hyperlinks will take you to free downloads of their books, but be warned, they're not easy reads and you must click settings to download Buck:  The History of King Richard the Third by Sir Thomas More and  The history of the life and reigne of Richard the Third by Sir George Buck .

There are something like seventeen 'towers' in the Tower of London, in which the Princes could have been housed, the Wakefield Tower, the Lanthorn Tower, and the White Tower being the most likely, but it could have been anywhere in the Inner Ward. I am indebted to Donald MacLachlan's presentation to the Richard III Society for making this confusion clear.

Many people will confuse the Bloody Tower, which is a real building, with the White Tower, which is the great keep at the centre of the Tower of London complex. Those who are confused are right by mistake.

This chapter is a warning against believing historians. The point about Younghusband is this; all he had to do was take a short walk from his office and compare what he saw with what Sir Thomas More wrote, if he'd done that he would have known what he stated categorically was categorically wrong; perhaps he didn't read More. While there undoubtedly have been people who deliberately and knowingly stated untruths, More might well have been one of them, I cannot think the majority of historians set out to tell lies, though some of them are negligent and many are far too trusting of earlier writers; the simple fact is it is terribly easy for historians to get their facts wrong.

Many people will continue to believe that which has been disproven, simply because it was written in a well-respected book. It cannot be helped. Whether there be consensus or not, were I on a jury my verdict on the historical fact alone would be the Princes disappeared from the White Tower.

What presents a more difficult problem is the staircase. Deep in my memory might well be reports of the discovery of two skeletons under a staircase at the Tower, during the reign of King Charles II. The discovery and later investigations of it are hardly secret, and I might have known and forgotten. For all that, I unearthed the details, with much debate about the discovery and about the skeletons, only after hearing the story from Thomas Nandyke.

At least there is agreement here. The staircase in question was within a building which no longer exists but which, at the time of the Princes was on the outside of the South face of the White Tower, below St. John's Chapel. However, there is a most definite problem about these stairs, the staircase was, as I gathered from Thomas, made of stone.

It's one thing to bury bodies under a wooden staircase, once the stairs are opened all that is needed is to dig into the floor. A labour, I grant you, but a possible one. To bury bodies under a stone staircase would involve moving as many tons of stone and rubble as King Charles' labourers, and then replacing them without the appearance of any disturbance. The stairs long pre-dated the disappearance of the Princes, a good cause to doubt the bodies were interred in 1483. On the other hand, the reason the workmen who demolished the staircase dug down below the floor was that the ground was already disturbed, why and how should that be?

I've already given you one Ricardian source, let me give you another. One fact makes members of the Richard III Society so much better than mainstream professional historians; the Ricardians are more willing to question: here is  Helen Maurer.

What is remarkable is that no historian can offer any explanation of what happened which is not fatally flawed. What happened to the Princes, and how two bodies were secretly interred in solid ground ten feet beneath a stone-built staircase in one of the strongest fortresses ever devised remains the greatest 'locked-room' mystery of all time – unless you believe Thomas' story.

***

A detail from  Richard III: His Life & Character Reviewed in the light of recent research [in the 1890s], by Sir Clements E. Markham; showing the standard image of Richard III

#  Chapter 29 – Magic and Other Issues

Modern historians will not discuss magic. They mostly don't even want to write about its history, let alone its practice. They will absolutely deny that it worked, and they will totally disregard whatever the evidence might be to the contrary. This closed mindedness makes it as impossible to argue with historians, as it makes it impossible for them to know the truth. By the way, historians would apply the same mental processes they apply to their subject as well to the contents of the New Testament as they would to any historical story of magic, Richard III's, Thomas Nandyke's or anyone else's. What would historians make of the book of Revelations, credited to St. John the evangelist, to whom the Chapel in the White Tower is dedicated?

From Classical Times through the annals of Christianity and in folklore there are any number of stories of levitation, people (often saints) appearing and disappearing and of people travelling to other worlds, or other parts of their own worlds. What is missing is any good explanation of how these things happened.

In England we think of the 1600s, with magic and witchcraft being the superstition of the poor; we find King James I presiding over the prosecution of wrongdoers. On the continent of Europe there was the hysterical Malleus Maleficarum, written as early as 1486, by the German Heinrich Kramer. Always witchcraft is associated with the ignorant, resentful poor. At the very best Magic is brought down to fortune telling and Queen Elizabeth I's ludicrous astrologer, Dr. John Dee. It would be wrong to dismiss so much so lightly.

Behind this trivialization serious and powerful people were at work. One of them was King Louis XI, the architect of modern France.

What brought me to Louis was his reputation for collecting religious relics; he is almost more famous for this than he is for creating the French nation. He always seems to have believed he could bribe his way into Heaven, with the most extravagant gifts to religious houses and shrines. It also seems he believed he could use relics in working magic. However, at least, where it came to saving his own life, he failed. Funnily enough this is explained by a story dating to 1430, recounted in Johannes Nider's Formicarius; it seems you can appeal to self-willed magic or to God, but not both at the same time. You will find Nider's story on screen 6, page 389, of  The Disenchantment of Magic if that link is broken you will find it  here.

As to Louis' personal character, let me start with Wikipedia:

"Shrewd and often vicious, he spun webs of plot and conspiracy which earned him the nicknames the Cunning (Middle French: le rusé) and the Universal Spider (Middle French: l'universelle aragne ). His love for scheming and intrigue made him many enemies, including his father, his brother Charles de Valois, Duc de Berry, as well as his cousins Charles the Bold, Duke of Burgundy and Edward IV of England."

John Morton met King Louis not later than August 1475 when Thomas Bourchier brought him, with King Edward IV, to the negotiations at Picquigny, for a peace treaty between England and France. King Edward, with many of his ministers, was bribed into withdrawing the English army, Richard, then Duke of Gloucester, was reportedly disgusted. Morton may have met Louis as early as 1470 or 1471, as a supporter of Margaret of Anjou and Warwick, seeking aid for their rebellion against King Edward.

He met Louis again in February 1477, when he was appointed ambassador to the French court. In England Morton might have felt handicapped by his lack of nobility; this would not have mattered to Louis, who looked only to how useful people might be to him. Morton might have been flattered. What seemed to others as ugliness in Louis, his underhandedness as well as his appearance, may have appealed to Morton. It seems he was played like a fish, by a man more cunning than he, possibly over years, before he became a fully committed traitor to England, as well as God, the Church and King Edward.

It is said Louis was a master of poisons and potions, even that he poisoned his own father. He played the same games of suggestion and intrigue as Morton, but it is difficult to see what attraction there could be to supporting the blood-line of the de Valois rulers of France and betraying the royal house of Plantagenet; yet certainly this is what came about.

Pondering all this I wandered round the garden, smoking far too many cigarettes; I raided the fridge, played windows games and argued with myself. 'Walking' meditations are sometimes the most effective. Something told me Louis XI was Morton's puppet master, but there were many questions; principally, who played the strings for the King to control his English ambassador, and who gave Morton his interest in and knowledge of magic? I searched the Internet, having in my library plenty of English history but few books of French history. That evening, again in the garden, a conversation came to me:

"Come my English friend, you will eat with me."

Morton was taken aback.

"Not here, we eat in the palace."

Louis set off and Morton followed. The two of them ate well and alone, Louis insisting on sampling several fine wines. He sprawled casually, complaining of this nobleman and that, the stupidity of town councils, the burdens of government. It sounded indiscrete, and it was entirely of no consequence. Suddenly the King lent forward, placing his fist on the table for emphasis.

"In England you still have a great grand-daughter of John, Duke of Lancaster. There was a man, no? She has a husband with royal French blood. Morton's mind snapped back to alert. It took a moment or two, the King waited.

"You mean Lady Margaret Beaufort; she's married to Thomas Stanley."

"Not he, her true husband was Edmund, the father of her child."

This time it took longer.

"Henry Tudor?"

"That is the man!

He has the de Valois blood! And the English eh?"

Such a man could be King; not, pardon me John, like your troublesome King Edward."

Morton could see no likelihood of that coming about.

Louis put his finger to his nose, he spoke confidentially, leaning closer still to Morton,

"I wager you a cardinal's hat, in England or in France, if you put 'Enry Tudor on the throne of England; it shall be yours."

In the jocular conviviality of the dinner, could the offer be taken seriously? How could it be accomplished? For all that, the seed was sown.

I was wrong to think Louis needed an intermediary, or Morton a tutor of magic. The magic Morton made by modelling himself on his idol, 'the Universal Spider.'

Even so, Louis needed to keep the idea alive; he mentioned it more than once. The last time he saw Morton he did not neglect to say,

"Remember me to the lady, Margaret Beaufort. We must all attend to the lady."

And he put his finger to his nose and winked at Morton.

***

The 'Universal Spider,' King Louis of France

#  Chapter 30 – Morton's Final Coupe

When King Richard left London, with Buckingham, he left as a hero. He had saved England from a queen's faction, which would inevitably have followed the crowning of a boy king. How easily most people are led; as Morton was about to prove.

When I saw Louis so easily manipulating the man who was now a bishop I knew for sure how much Morton was hooked. He set about destroying Richard exactly as Louis set about destroying Charles the Bold of Burgundy, and most of his other enemies. The king of France might even have given lessons in it.

True, Morton could not bribe the malcontents, of Church and nobility, or the soldiers of Switzerland, as Louis did; though money was found when it was needed. To start with Morton's agents were street urchins and minor officials, with a smattering of the following of the queen he'd so comprehensively defeated. Queen Elizabeth started to realise what a false friend she had in Margaret Beaufort, but she never quite realised the extent of Morton's skill or enmity.

Now the Bishop focused on raising rumours and everywhere raising contention against every possible action the new king might take. Who knew what might become of any minor fear; like Louis, Morton became a 'snapper up of trifles.' What was needed was rapid action, and that meant splitting Richard and Buckingham. Always Morton aimed at influencing Buckingham's agents, retainers and officials. They never suspected a thing.

The big story was that Richard killed his nephews; they disappeared because the King killed them. How easily people were diverted from asking how or why. Richard's honour was never questioned, that was a lie too far. His love and duty for his nephews could not be denied and was always evaded. That England would not have a boy king was always turned by "Brave Prince Edward is glorious King Edward's son."

England did not like the murder of any child, let alone 'Good King Edward's sons.' The ground that no-one could deny or explain, and Morton's agents constantly put, was the Princes had in fact disappeared. It was denied or forgot the Princes were withdrawn because of the threat of Beaufort violence. "Let the King answer me this, how did the boys disappear from the strongest castle in Europe?!"

The mood of the commoners of London moved to thinking it neglect and a wrong that shamed King Richard. It moved from there to "Maybe the rumours are right, maybe the King killed the Princes." The former open and joyous support changed to sullen resentment.

Foreign diplomats and merchants, where they could be reached, were given even more exaggerated stories, about 'wicked' King Richard under whom England 'groans.'

Those loyal to Richard, those who knew him, did not understand what was happening. They did the worst thing they could have done, they ignored it; some even came to wonder if the rumours were true. It was a long time before anyone told Richard what was being said; out on his royal progress round the country he was still received as a hero.

Time came when Richard and Buckingham parted, still in high spirits and still the best of friends. Henry, duke of Buckingham, would return to his castle of Brecon, not yet knowing it had become the lair of the new 'universal spider.'

It is not often I quote myself. This part of Morton's dealings I already knew, from my first psychic investigation of history. The best way to tell you what happened next is to give you a passage from my book about it, Edward – Interactive.

'When he arrived home he was greeted by John Morton.

"How fare the Princes your Grace? I have been concerned for young Prince Edward. Tell me, did he seem pale when his coronation was cancelled?"

"Why yes. As well he might, it was an astonishment to all of us."

"I have concerns for him, for other causes, since his brother was torn from the sanctuary of Holy Church."

Bishop Morton pursued it no further, but he came back to it the next day and the next.

There came a feast day when the Bishop was asked to bless the family meal. Almost as soon as he sat down he asked the Duke,

"Your Grace, have you received news of her ladyship's nephews?"

Lady Katherine looked to her husband, he was by now annoyed at this pestering.

"Why, should I?"

"My agents report they are no longer to be seen in the Tower; that is all."

"Henry."

Lady Katherine caught hold of her husband's arm. It was the tone Morton used, rather than his words, which made her fearful.

"You had better tell me what you know."

"It may be nothing but it has almost been my second profession to know the minds of men even before they know themselves. For my former master I had ears everywhere. Those ears still inform me quicker than the ears of any man in England."

Duke Henry would have made a joke of it.

"Your agents have fast horses then."

Bishop Morton would allow no joke. He looked at the Duke for a moment in solemn silence.

"Yes my lord."

The Duke and Duchess were about to take the bait.

There had been a Tudor attempt to take the Princes from the Tower by force. King Richard had feared it was an attempt at assassination and had ordered his nephews to stay more securely indoors. Morton painted the Tudor attack as a rescue attempt; the Princes withdrawal into hiding was painted as imprisonment. He claimed to have reports that made him believe the King would murder the Princes on his return to London.

Lady Katherine gasped in horror but Duke Henry was less credulous.

"Why should he."

"King Richard sits on the throne by the decision of my brother, the bishop of Bath and Wells. If my other brothers in the Church persuade the Pope he was wrong what will then become of King Richard's coronation?"

"They won't do that!"

Morton looked at the Duke with just the right measure of condescension and confidence.

"Your Grace may know the will of the Holy See better than I."

"Oh! Henry."

Lady Katherine was hooked.

It took many days more to convince the Duke. Morton resorted to instructing Tudor agents to inflame certain of the Duke's retainers and minor officials. Fighting even broke out and there were protests at the Princes' murder. Reports reached the Duke from his own agents. When they did Morton expressed further concern.

"These are black days your Grace. It is reported to the King, by your instruction your men are stirring up feeling for the Princes. Even I cannot say the sources of these rumours but if Richard believes them he may think you a traitor.

It may be others have heard what my agents have told me. Those loyal to your household would cry out for the Princes, for they know how close you stand to the throne yourself."

Reports were coming in daily, made up reports from Morton and genuine reports from the Duke's own men.

Morton reminded the Duke of every hasty or violent act Richard had ever committed. He reminded Henry of Lord Hastings. He even invented,

"I cannot remember, your Grace, was the King at Tewkesbury? It is said that he killed there Edward, Prince of Wales [son of Henry VI], after the battle was finished."

In fact Richard had fought at Tewkesbury but left before the Prince was killed, Duke Henry hadn't been there and it's unlikely he would have known. Strangely, Morton's lie is still told today, in Shakespeare's play.

What finally decided it was that the Princes had indeed disappeared. The population of London became increasingly anxious about it, but Duke Henry was never to know by what contrivance they were whisked out of sight, or how close to his own home lay the cause of it. It was enough.

"Brecon is too far from London. Shall I trust your agents? Will you keep me in their confidence?"

The Duke was hooked. He was now in the hands of Tudor's most dangerous servant.

"Your Grace, I will now confess, I still have communications with the Earl of Richmond. He is as concerned as any honest Englishman for the honour of England."

Duke Henry suffered agonies of doubt still. It was impossible not to listen to Morton but he needed time to think...

He was almost absolute ruler in the west, he could act now, by joining with Henry Tudor; the quarrel then would be the murdered princes, not his own claims to the throne. He had to decide, he had to move, his mind turned through all the labyrinth John Morton set for him.'

Henry, duke of Buckingham, was sucked into rebellion almost in a dream. Through the raising of musters, calling for support, Margaret Beaufort's son promising to bring soldiers from Brittany, all slid him into open treason against his best friend. Of one thing he was certain, Richard had killed his nephews, he was therefore unfit to rule and must be removed.

The Duke knew nothing of warfare. His estates and following were a sleeping giant, spread right across England and Wales, but his rebellion was disorganised. His followers were unready and faced by a choice between loyalty and good sense. It took just six weeks to quash the rising and bring the Duke to summary execution. But the consequences for Richard were devastating.

First was a truly huge hole in England's administration, from the top to the very most local level. Not only had those who followed the Duke now run, but those who were left were not keen to serve their lord's enemy. Not only that, those who ran went to Margaret Beaufort's son, Henry Tudor, in Brittany. They made Henry, for the first time, look a serious opponent to King Richard.

A worse problem was this; if Henry Buckingham, the man who put Richard on the throne, believed Richard killed the Princes what man in England would not? The English hated child murder, they hated abuse of guardianship. The Buckingham Rebellion ended English loyalty to Richard, at least in south and central England. It no longer mattered how good a king Richard was. It opened the door to Henry Tudor's invasion less than two years later.

***

#  Comment So Far

If there were not to be a second part to this book I'd very much like to answer some questions here and now; but to do it properly requires Part II.

Given Thomas breached the security in the White Tower, and given the success of Morton's propaganda, without any evidence of murder; why were the Princes not simply killed in their beds? If the corpses were left, perhaps with incriminating evidence, would this not have served Morton and Margaret Beaufort better?

Why did King Louis want the Princes alive and in captivity in France?

And why were there to be doubles substituted? Indeed, why did the Young Gentlemen consent to play such a role?

It goes further:

What became of Thomas?

What became of Prince Richard?

The Tudor vilification of King Richard went on long after he was killed, why did they need to keep placing the blame on him so actively?

A rather profound question is how was Thomas Nandyke able to move between worlds? When I asked this I got no magic answer. I did get a simple answer, but it wasn't High Magic. Perhaps it wasn't magic at all and perhaps, one day we will all be able to do it, and know we can do it. If that day ever comes you may reasonably expect a degree of confusion; but 'reason' has very little to do with this particular skill.

I hope, in Part II, to answer these questions. I hope you may already think Part I fits the facts. Does it answer some of the puzzles set by the mystery of the Princes' disappearance? Or the added mystery of the discovery of the bodies found under the stone staircase in the reign of Charles II? Did you know; the distance to the point below the stone stairs where the bodies were found, from the point where Thomas dropped the box, was the same as from a corresponding point above the floor in Hatfield's Great Hall to the bottom of the well?

***

#  The Necromancer - PART II

#  Chapter 31 – Making Ready

I left Thomas in this condition of instability, while I heard his complete story, up until he felt himself trapped in Hades, and at the same time I explored for myself. I could not act, beyond the urgent need to take Prince Richard out of King Louis' clutches: that is, I could not act until I knew where my course should be.

It isn't lightly you should meddle with the course of what has been; it alters what is and will be. Of course, this alone makes it rare for any of us to have the chance. I had already intervened, over Prince Richard, but this merely ensured History could be as I knew it: Sir George Buck has it that Perkin Warbeck, who appeared on the European stage in the 1490s, was Prince Richard. By sending him to Circe I had merely retained that possibility.

Now I contemplated something much more radical; the changing of History from what I knew it to be.

If philosophers are right, that there is no such thing as a single-pointed external or objective Reality, it follows there must be an uncountable number of contradictory realities of which we are not aware. We could not be aware of alternate realities precisely because they contradict the reality in which we find ourselves and in which we believe. The whole question is a matter of belief and love.

What keeps us fast within the World we know? It is a combination of the bonds of attachment to those we love and the wish to experience the events and feelings that arise in our lives. There is a large and growing literature on this; psychologists, counsellors and some academics have been exploring life beyond Life for decades, and it appears, before we are born, we agree, with quite a number of people, what the reality of our lives will be. There is just too much for me to suggest further reading, I'll mention just one book which happens to be on the shelves above my desk as I write; Caroline Myss, 'Sacred Contracts.'

It is an enormous wrench for anyone to depart from their attachments, what they have made and experienced in life, and, above all, what they believe – even if their 'sacred contract' provides for it, for the normal person in a normal life it is just too much. Beyond this, in all humanity, there is a deep and inbuilt fear of anything unknown.

I KNOW the Princes in the Tower disappeared, I know, in 1485, Henry Tudor invaded England and King Richard was killed. I know England did not support the lawful king and chose an unlawful one instead, and all the history that followed. Could I depart from all that into a reality in which it never happened, with all the awful uncertainty of the unknown?

However terrible our history has been, and much of it has been very terrible, I defy anyone to give a simple 'Yes' to that question.

For Thomas, none of this history had been. True, he knew of the deaths of King Edward IV and Prince Edward; but for him none of the other deaths which made our history had yet happened. He, at least, might yet be saved from the consequences of his own actions.

I devised a plan.

The first step was to practice a little masonry.

I found it remarkably easy to go to the well in the Great Hall at Hatfield, and to go there while the stone lining was still being constructed. I went there at dead of night with a very narrow beamed torch and certain other tools besides. I went to the northernmost point of the part built lining and started with hammer and chisel to knock out the stones, a cloth between hammer and chisel to deaden the noise. It was easy enough to break the mortar where it was still soft, but an enormous labour to draw out the stones to the height and width of a man. I do not think I could have done it in my normal reality but here will and urgency gave me the strength.

The next step was paradoxically easier. With my mind I cut out a space in the earth and stone behind the lining; big enough to hold my body, with enough space to spare for movement and work. The debris I sent to the spoil tip created by the builders themselves. That done I rebuilt the lining, using exquisite care to make my mortar, and the wall itself, look as it had looked before.

It was a prodigious labour and by the end of it I was exhausted. The whole work had to be completed between the end of one day and the beginning of the next; but now I could work at my leisure. The new lining had to appear strong enough for normal purposes, but be weak enough that it would give way under the desperate efforts of someone buried alive. This was not something I could test, but I believed it would work.

The next step was to go back to the space behind the well and carve out a tunnel or entrance; in fact, I created three.

The first entrance simply led to another spot in Thomas' ordinary reality of 1483, at the same time he had left the Bishop's room in Brecon. I debated, geographically, where it should come out. In the end I opted for the Bishops garden at Ely Palace in Holborn, it had the advantage of allowing Thomas to go wherever he wanted, he could even take ship for Europe, from the Thames, but it had the disadvantage that it had to be constructed only to work one way. I could not run the risk of Legley discovering it by accident.

The next entrance was to the world described by Odysseus, it was a way back to Circe, should Thomas need it.

Of the last entrance I am particularly proud. It was a 'time- door.'

I had to calculate how much of his recent life Thomas would be able to give up.

It is all very well for people to say, 'I wish I hadn't done that, that I had done this: I wish I could have my time over.' However strong the wish, if you could go back in time, the subconscious mind would take you back to the state of mind you had at the time; you are overwhelmingly likely to repeat the behaviours you did before: that way none of your life is given up. What was needed was some very strong magic to stop this natural process from happening. Even so, go far enough and the subconscious will insist; it simply will not let you give up what you deliberately did.

My calculation was decided by necessity. Edward IV had to die sometime, and there was still a chance to reverse the spell cast against the others. I would have to guide Thomas back to the latest point, before that fateful night at the Tower, when he still had a choice. He had to go to the last time he used the well before the construction of the 'new place.'

I did not think he would be able to 'time-travel' directly. For my scheme to work he must go to the well, knowing it to be full of rubble; he must then push through the wall and find the three entrances I constructed. If he chose the third entrance, and my magic worked, he could then confront his own past. I thought him courageous enough to be buried alive, but was he brave enough to confront that past?

The third entrance contained my best effort to give Thomas the will and ability to do it; containing spells to keep Reality at bay and to stop his subconscious mind scrambling what he now knew

Perhaps this is the only time I ever really practised High Magic, at least with such a high degree of will and wish. The conjuration was one of my own devising which, forgive me, I will not repeat; it would be all too dreadful if people took to reversing their immediate past actions, the consequences for Reality would be devastating. Let me simply reveal it included the use of what I will call a 'poppet,' a physical device to act as a 'virtual memory' of the wish and purpose of the spell. The power of the subconscious mind, and the tendency to restore what was, could not be overcome by any other means.

The complexity of the third entrance does not end with introducing the present Thomas into his own past. What of the Thomas who was already there? That Thomas had to be moved to another place, out of the way. It needed a stronger suggestion than that practised by Morton; in fact a further step in High Magic, but at least this one was easier.

Here the physical vehicles of virtual memory were two small crosses, 'programmed' so Thomas could not ignore them; the first said, 'Notice me – behind the wall is the way to take,' the second, placed by the first tunnel behind the wall, 'Notice me – this is the way to your true Brothers.'

My hope was the younger Thomas would emerge into the garden at Holborn, not having taken the Princes, wondering what had happened to all the lost time. Perhaps the two little crosses would lead him back to a more godly life.

And as to the older Thomas, now back in his previous life? He could dissemble to Morton he had now lost the gift, or he could use the entrances behind the well. He could do anything at all, except, ever again; go to Saint John's Chapel in the White Tower of the Tower of London.

Such was the hope, but for it to happen the present Thomas had to choose the third entrance, he had to appear in the well and guide his younger self. All that would be needed would be a gesture; either to the cross, or to the wall.

And if all or any of this failed I had, at least, created an escape route from the well; one Thomas could use at any time, and be presented with the three choices.

***

#  Chapter 32 – The Scheming of King Louis

At the end of Part I of this book I raised some questions and here I would like to answer the first two.

The reason the Princes were not killed in their sleep was because King Louis would not allow it. Why not? The reason is in the answer to the second question. And why did King Louis want the Princes alive and in captivity in France? The short answer is one word, Calais; though it may go much further than that.

After dealing with his enemies in what we now call France, particularly Burgundy and Brittany, Louis turned to 'the old enemy,' England. While England held the strong and defended port of Calais, an English king could mount an invasion at any time he liked, even the lazy and luxurious Edward IV had done just this, and had to be bought off by large bribes in 1475.

What was needed was that an English king should give up Calais willingly. There seemed no chance of that, and even if a deranged king were willing, the people of England would not allow it.

First, Louis needed an English king over whom he had secret and complete power, next he needed to arrange events with that king that made the people of England, particularly the nobility, believe there was no choice.

There was no chance of gaining such power over a legitimate, Plantagenet, king. But if the Plantagenets were removed, and a king with no right to the crown was put in their place? And if King Louis had in his prison the son of a former much loved king? Then the new King of England would do anything to keep his crown, especially if that former king's son were released, quietly, into his hands to be killed: he might even connive to surrender Calais. And after that, if it were revealed what he'd done?

The illegitimate Princes in the Tower presented no threat to the legitimate Richard III, the whole of the nobility, the Church, Parliament, London and the country had unanimously proclaimed Richard above the Princes. It is true many did so out of fear of a queen's faction, but any idea of the Princes being preferred to Richard is fantasy.

For all Margaret Beaufort's insane obsession that her son be king, it is equal fantasy that England would prefer Henry Tudor to either of Edward IV's sons. To dismiss Henry Tudor from the throne of England all King Louis would need to do would be produce either Prince Edward or Prince Richard to the nobility, the Parliament, or the people of England. To turn England into a province of France, therefore, all that was needed was to put Henry Tudor on the throne and keep hold of the Princes.

The willing treason of Morton and Margaret Beaufort made it seem simple. Morton had almost fallen into Louis' lap, so eager was he to please.

Louis' only fear was that he might not live long enough to bring this 'glorious' victory about. He had suffered from ill health, from a variety of causes, for some time. On the other hand, Edward IV was in glorious health, despite his prodigious and prodigal lifestyle. Louis took care not to be offended by this; his resentment was well hidden, while the frugality of his own lifestyle was proclaimed a virtue.

I realised Louis XI envied King Edward IV. I think he may have hated him.

Was Louis the inspiration for Morton's spell against King Edward?

Of course it was a speculation. One of the rules of psychic investigation is to avoid going too far; otherwise facts start to be fitted to imagination, and you fall into the picture instead of staying outside it.

King Louis is not part of what I set out to investigate; but, for all that, there is one impression I have from him,

"Ah, these English! They think themselves above la France."

He tapped his nose and smiled broadly,

"We shall show them, eh?"

It made me uncomfortable: so, too, did the assurance and competence of 'Legley.' It was as if Master Pierre believed England was already bought and sold; and how was it he was so quickly and easily inside Morton's most secret workings?

In one thing Louis was right, not Richard, not Margaret Beaufort, not even Morton himself saw the threat to England's future from across the Channel.

***

#  Chapter 33 – The Young Gentlemen

The first two questions were remarkably easy. The third question, about the Young Gentlemen, was remarkably difficult, frustrating and depressing.

I started with the simplest part of it, their names. In the training of spirit mediums you will often hear it said that finding names can be impossibly difficult; the reasons being that names do not matter to spirit, possibly or sometimes this is true, and that the rate of vibration of spirit, being higher than that of the living, makes the sounding of names too quick to catch accurately. The second reason is more like an excuse; I have known mediums that have no difficulty with precise and accurate facts, including names. I have taught the members of my own circle to find names without thinking. If you can hear conversations you can hear names.

Not getting even a foothold psychically, I turned to Internet investigation. The number of genealogies which include boys who may have died at the age of ten or twelve in 1483 is daunting; and these are only the boys from well-known families. Obviously the numbers for which records do not exist make the task, at best, a guess.

In the end I had to confront King Louis himself.

"C est l'omme que..."

He continued in French. Normally the mind translates any language, often even the idiom and grammar, to modern English. The fact I have a smattering of schoolboy French allowed Louis to talk schoolboy French to me, to his own advantage and my disadvantage. I put a stop to it, but it was quite remarkable he was able to influence my mind in this way.

"You do not like the language of France?"

"I do not like you hiding your meaning in any way."

The King shrugged.

The way with Louis had to be direct.

"Why did you have doubles of the Princes put in the White Tower?"

"It is only fair, you take you replace, not so?"

I waited, and so did he.

"The truth."

"Many English do not like Richard, especially those who had to flee to France."

"And?"

"They would kill him of course."

"Not too many children dislike Richard enough to kill him; and at the price of their own lives."

"You have heard of my cages perhaps? They can be used for the parents as well as the sons.

They change the mind."

I had indeed read of Louis' cages, specially made of iron or sometimes wood, not unlike those which caused such outrage when the Americans used them at Guantanamo Bay, but Louis' cages were much more cramped. He also used specially designed heavy shackles, designed to make all movement difficult and painful. Many victims were caged for months or even years, Louis once caged his best friend and companion, Philippe de Commynes, for nine months. Afterwards Philippe served him loyally for the rest of the King's life.

Louis did not use conventional torture in the conventional way. His torture was mental, and he played mind games.

It was as far as I would get with the Young Gentlemen. I hadn't found their names because they had truly lost them, perhaps they had even lost their souls. I returned my attention to Louis, promising myself I would return to him again hereafter.

"You did not trust Morton to work on the Duke of Buckingham?"

"Only a fool trusts."

King Louis XI started to laugh, and continued to laugh until the image faded.

***

#  Chapter 34 – Return to Thomas

The next priority was also a relief from being in the company of Louis. After that last interview I needed a shower, the longest shower I've ever taken. There was one advantage, for me, over the French king's contemporaries, I could go out, and listen to the music of Duke Ellington, while I smoked in the garden. At least, for the time being, it washed the taint of the man clean away.

It was a pleasure to return to Thomas, and I brought a feast with me; since I could, why not?

"Thomas, it is now time to make choices. Do you wish to leave this place?"

I spoke after our main course principally of chicken, accompanied by grape juice. He looked at me. The answer was obvious, but my intention was to bring his mind to the matter in hand.

"My lord, after you showed me I need not stay, the only reason I'm still here is I knew you would return.

While you were not here I studied the painting you left, of Our Lord, Saint Mary and Saint John. I will face my fate, but first I wish to hear what ingenious device you bring."

I returned his smile, and admit taking some pride in what I laid out for him.

"You will have realised I am not from your world. The easiest way to put it is my world grew, after very many years, from what has been done, by you and the brothers, in the present world."

Before I could go on Thomas interrupted,

"So what we have done, the death of the King and the Prince, ends well?"

"No, it most certainly does not end well. England loses France, lawful rule and the Church. England goes on to great power in the world, bringing many good things, but also a blight caused by the bad. In the world there is a loss of honesty, honour and a sense of God's presence; there is and has been very great suffering. There always has been great suffering, of course, but it is no exaggeration to say hundreds of millions of people have died in war in the last hundred years."

Thomas sat open mouthed.

"Then there cannot be many left."

"To the contrary, more than ever before. But the world is greatly troubled. Some even fear the end of days.

I bring you the chance to undo what you have done. If you do take that chance it must be your choice and for your reasons: not for the future or for me."

There actually were tears in Thomas eyes,

"So much have I prayed. Tell me, how can I go back?"

"It will not be easy, if you follow my scheme it starts with you being buried alive."

I laid out for Thomas what I had arranged in the well.

Thomas muttered soundlessly, his lips moving but no sound came out. He rocked back and forth and made tiny gestures with his hands such that I began to worry for him.

At length, his eyes came back into focus and he looked at me calmly.

"I have seen what you have done. It is ingenious my lord, but what of you?"

"I will wish you give me less reverence. I shall stay with the reality I have, the world from which I came."

"But it will no longer exist if I do not take the Princes."

"You already have taken the Princes. If you go back and do not take them the World will go both of two ways; it will carry on to where I came from and it will go a new way, with you in it. Worlds are not only made by cause and effect, they are made by belief. What is a miracle but the triumph of belief over cause? The world from which I came will continue as long as people choose to believe in it."

We both sat silent for a while.

"I will go back, I will direct myself out of the way, I will not take the Princes, and I will do all this because it is right that I should. If it were not right I should die under the rubble, but I have seen this will not happen."

With the decision made a weight lifted from me.

"I have another delicacy to offer. It's made of a layer of shortbread, topped by a layer of strawberries, topped by thick cream, topped by shortbread, and so on. When you leave them for a few hours each layer seeps into the others."

And I produced this sweet like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat.

When we finished there was yet one more delicacy.

"You will not have experienced this before, it's called coffee."

And I poured him a large cup, black, strong and sweet.

"It is best to sip it."

"There is one more thing I must ask."

I produced the paper, ink and pen from my bag which he had declined before, when I asked him to set out his ritual.

"I want you to write down the conjuration by which you took Prince Richard to Circe. I want you to explain it in such a way that a man of fair understanding and good courage will be able to bring him back. Make this into a letter to be delivered to Margaret, duchess of Burgundy, that she shall be able to bring him back."

"This 'coffee' wonderfully clears the head."

I nodded and waited.

"But where is the need for the conjuration to bring the Prince back if the Prince was not taken?"

"In my world, where you did take the Princes from the Tower, he was brought back, and by Duchess Margaret. We must now see to it she is able to do so. I ask you to write the letter out twice. The first copy I ask you to give to Jacob the smith with instructions to take it to Hertford Castle, from there a messenger may take it to Burgundy; or if you prefer you can take it to Holborn, from where you can find a messenger yourself. You must do this before you do anything else.

The second copy I ask you to give to me, so I may send it if any mischance befalls the First.

For your means to pay I give you these."

I handed Thomas twelve coins, they were 'Angels,' minted by order of Edward IV and worth 6/8d, half a mark or a third of a pound. In 1483, £4 would buy nine months labour of a skilled craftsman, it would give Thomas some freedom.

The symbol of the coins was not lost on Thomas, and he looked at me with due solemnity. He began to write without another word. It took four more cups of coffee before Thomas declared himself satisfied.

I took a stick of sealing wax from my pocket, sealed both letters with a flame from a candle, and returned one letter to Thomas. I'd impressed the wax on both letters with a seal which had been in my possession for many years, one for which there'd never before been a use. The seal was masonic, and called for the aid of any who recognised it; I did not know if it would be recognised at this early date, but I thought it might be.

As I handed one letter back I made a point of great importance,

"You must send this letter on its way before you take any action what so ever to change the course of what you have done. There is power in intention and in the course of events. This letter must stay in the world where the Princes were taken from the Tower. If you do not send it soon enough Duchess Margaret may never be able to bring Prince Richard back to my world. Do you understand?"

Thomas nodded and took the letter; I could see he did understand.

Before we parted, Thomas asked me once again,

"Will you not come with me?"

I'd thought about it carefully, and answered him truthfully,

"In the world from which I come I have a wife, and I have a daughter. Even if no-one else cares for me I care for them... and I have a book to write.

Thomas simply said,

"If you have need of me you will know where to find me."

We embraced and the scene was gone.

The next day I returned. The room was empty, exactly as it had been before, but now there was no Thomas. I sat on his chair and meditated. He had done as he said he would. There would be no need for the letter in my pocket.

***

#  Chapter 35 – Return to King Louis

It is much easier to change history to what you know has happened than to change it to what you know has not. There was still one thing to be done to secure the world we know, before I should give my mind to the world we don't know.

History records King Louis XI died on 30th August 1483. I wanted to be sure it happened.

I went to Plessis-les-Tours, in Touraine, 'the spider's nest,' earlier in the month of August. Louis had been ill since 1480, and I'd watched him implore the traveling hermit, _Robert of Calabria, to save his life. Robert's answer was to assure the King that in God alone lay the power to lengthen his days._ It reminded me of the story in Johannes Nider's Formicarius and gave me the line I should take.

In the last weeks Louis was closely guarded but alone except for Philippe de Commynes, who had become his constant companion. I had only to avoid Philippe to have Louis on his own.

I found the King sat in bed, the windows were covered by thick drapes but the room was well lit by many candles. He saw me immediately.

"You remember me, the man who was in your head?

I have come to warn you, you will not live beyond this month."

Louis clutched his cap, fondling the metal badges of saints set all around it.

"The saintly hermit, Robert of Calabria told you, only God can save you. Yet you prefer magic and witchcraft such as you practiced against King Edward IV. Your idols will not save you now.

"That Edward, I hate him, I destroyed him, and soon I shall take his country."

"You shall not live long enough."

"I have the ring of  Saint Zenobius."

"Not even the great bishop of Florence can help you while you trust in magic. Yet you cannot turn to God with so many sins in your heart, can you Louis? What terrible thing happened when you were a small child, to turn your heart from God to the Devil?"

The King had begun to tremble and I pressed closer.

"You practise deceit when honesty is the virtue.

Remember your murdered father,

Remember Charles the Bold you cheated and destroyed, simply because you could, against your honour and duty,

Remember the good people you caged,

Remember the innocent noblemen you executed,

Remember the son you neglected.

Remember my words; they are the last thing you will remember when you die."

His face was twitching now, his whole body shaking, convulsed in a seizure, I had done enough. Even so I added a little more before I left the room,

"Your relics turn to ashes; you cannot use the power of good against Goodness itself. You are as a child shouting against the darkness you yourself have chosen.

Remember my words Louis, they are the last you will remember when you die."

Lest it be suggested I did too much, it is said of Louis:

"Cruel and unsympathetic in disposition... he had more than 4,000 people put to death during his reign. One of his political enemies, Cardinal de Balue, was kept shut up for many years in an iron cage as a punishment for his offences. Both his first and second wives suffered much from his harshness and neglect, and he made but little effort to bring up his son Charles in a way befitting the future King of France."

"A cry of thankfulness", it is said, "went up from every heart in France when his death was known..."

From 'The Death of Louis XI of France.'

Louis was indeed dead by the end of the month. With his going, with the Princes out of reach of the French, and the assassins programmed to kill King Richard no longer in the Tower; History could go the way we know it to be.

***

#  The Necromancer - PART III
#  Chapter 36 – A Brave New World

Some philosophers think, in every moment, countless choices are made by all of us. Each of these choices, so they say, creates a new world; the reality of each world being slightly different, according to the consequences of the choices we made. Some choices make greater differences than others, but mostly we aren't aware of the differences and, as consequences unfold, we think the reality of the world we are in could never be otherwise. We most certainly do not think it already is otherwise, in countless ways, in countless different worlds, each with their own realities and, at least to start with, countless different versions of ourselves.

The idea is too big, and the brain rebels against it; much better, much easier, to think of a single-pointed sole reality in the one and only world which exists, the one we experience now.

Thomas daydreamed his way into the world of Odysseus, brought to life in Homer's Odyssey. Ever after, the power of the great witch Circe stuck to him, making it possible for him to move outside his single-pointed world.

Each of us does the same in our dreams. In dreams our subconscious is the master and each subconscious mind knows the true nature of reality and the many worlds. Our conscious minds hide from this; otherwise we would never see through to the end the consequences of our own choices. These consequences are very often bitter and always end in death.

Perhaps this is why we like stories and storytelling. We truly would like to escape the consequences of our choices, at least for a short time. Please just remember the writers of history are also storytellers; the one thing of which we can be sure is that our pasts are never quite as we suppose them to be. What of science, that purports to give us the inner workings of a single-pointed World reality? Have you noticed the world given by science constantly changes? It works well enough at a big enough and crude enough level, so long as it works as a story in which we can all believe – ask any quantum physicist. How about the contradictory realities of the worlds of religion, with differences between each other, and each giving a somewhat different set of realities of the single-pointed world than the realities of science.

You do need to deal with the consequences of your choices: but what if you find yourself in a world full of deceit, selfishness and dishonour; all the consequence of choices made by other people long ago?

Yes, it was your choice to be here; but is it not rather too much to ask you to cope with so much error and wrongdoing, which never truly was yours?

So ran my thoughts about the brave new world Thomas created by not taking the Princes out of the White Tower. He would be his own redeemer, and perhaps the redeemer of any who chose to go with him. How appropriate it was he should carry the portrait of Christ on the Cross, with saints Mary and John.

Yet it worried me there were still problems in that world, problems posed by the still dangerous Bishop John Morton, and by the French agent Legley. There was also another matter, the execution of the innocent William Hastings, and the disgrace of the equally innocent Mistress Shore; I hadn't mentioned this to Thomas since he had taken no part in their downfall.

It is in human nature to dislike injustice. I am not so evolved that I can rise above it and ignore it. Whether it was wrong of me or reaching too far, this part of the book is about tinkering with Thomas' new world and trying to right the wrongs which I very much feared were still there.

***

#  Chapter 37 – An End for Bishop Morton

I could not bring an end to Bishop Morton in the reality of my past. In my world I already knew he went on to be Archbishop of Canterbury and Lord Chancellor, he would even get the cardinal's hat King Louis had promised; and I knew the year of his death. In the new world opened by Thomas not taking the Princes it was a very different matter. Here there was as much freedom as in my own present, maybe more.

First I had to go through the entrance I made for Thomas, down in the space behind the well in Hatfield; I went through the first entrance there and found myself in the Bishops garden at Holborn. My thoughts had to stay narrow: this new world had to become real; maybe not too real, the entrance at Ely Place went only one way.

The garden in summer was full of scents and the buzz of insects. There had been rain that morning; although the sky was now clear, droplets still clung to the petals of a white rose as I studied it intently. There were gardeners in another part of the grounds, they might have been a hundred yards away and they didn't disturb me, as I concentrated on the rose. There was the brown mark of rot on one of the petals: I set my mind to removing it, by this my influence over the new world could be told.

After a time I took my mind to the Duke of Buckingham's castle at Brecon, I took my mind to the room where Morton interviewed Thomas. This time I was careful neither Thomas nor the Bishop should be there. Fixing the details in my mind I went back to the garden.

Now there was a bee on the rose petal, it climbed over the flower, intent on pollen.

If it were to be done, it were best it were done quickly; I went back to the room in Brecon, this time with Morton sat by the window, this time with no fruit before him and no Thomas standing guiltily by.

Morton was already disturbed. He saw me and he asked me instantly,

"Why was Hastings not at the Great Council?"

The question disturbed me as much as it disturbed Morton, I answered safely by instinct,

"Why do you think?"

"If he knows does Richard know?"

"Your lies need your victims to act without thinking. Now there is time for Hastings and Richard to think."

My mind had raced to catch up, now it was almost there; Hastings had not gone into the carefully laid trap of the 13th June 1483.

Morton looked at me with dawning horror, and I pressed it.

"They tell me witchcraft to kill a king is treason, or does His Holiness the Pope now approve his bishops practicing the dark arts?"

"Richard's men will find the poppets. That will make all clear against Hastings."

"The poppets will not be there."

It was a promise to myself as well as the Bishop.

The silence had to last long enough for Morton's mind to work so far and no further.

"You have made yourself a lie. Not only have you worked against Richard and England you have worked against God and yourself. Did you think it would go unnoticed?"

This time his mind could be allowed to work for longer.

"You know about King Louis."

I gave no answer.

"Does Richard know?"

"Does it matter whether you are known to serve the Devil in Hell or the Devil on Earth? You cannot now keep Richard blind."

Now the horror in Morton's face had grown. It wasn't so much what I might say to him. It was the realisation of the awfulness of all he had done, and how it would be seen by others.

"There is still Buckingham."

"You will be dead before you can work on Buckingham."

He was beginning to show desperation.

"'It is said King Richard has a very quick temper.'"

More silence.

"Something yet may be saved, if you are dead before they come for you.

You could leave by the window."

I turned my back and waited.

There was a sound by the window and I turned again, the Bishop was no longer there, only a short scream and a dull thud as his head struck the ground.

Sternly I resisted satisfaction that Morton had taken for himself the offer he once made to Thomas.

I withdrew from that place as quickly as I could, but as I did so one impression came with me from the future,

On his return to Brecon at last, I could see Henry, duke of Buckingham, lamenting Morton's 'accidental' death.

"It wouldn't have happened if he hadn't been put in such a high tower."

For all his dullness of wit, Henry was a good and well-intended man.

For all the care in preparation for my return to the world where the Princes had been taken, my room was cold and colourless when I got back. Outside, there was plenty for me to think about. It was on the third or fourth cigarette the sky returned to a full blue and the many colours came back to the garden.

***

#  Chapter 38 – An End for Legley

An agent of King Louis XI should have no place amongst English masons, not even at the bishop's palace in Hatfield. The next planned step was his removal.

On my next visit to the garden of Ely Palace I came with greater preparation for my return to my ordinary world, including two thoroughly incongruous bars of chocolate. The day was duller than before; in July 1483 the weather was not entirely settled.

Legley had come here, with Prince Richard, not long before me. Now the Prince was gone and Legley searched with increasing desperation. He could already see the cage Louis would put him in; he tried not to think of worse. As he knew Richard's escape was impossible, he knew the search would be fruitless. At length he went back to Hatfield; he did not dare return to France.

The Brothers were surprised to see him. His work done they had not expected his return.

He enquired cautiously about Prince Richard. These English, they did not seem to understand him. They asked him if he wanted to see the younger Gentleman, and when he cried 'Mon Dieu' and pulled at his hair they thought him mad.

One piece of sanity stuck to him. The King had instructed him, with his arm round Legley's shoulder and his breath in Legley's face,

"My friend, if all should fail you will remove any trace we ever worked for the ignorant English. You will keep them ignorant. Yes?"

Now Legley went to 'the new place' where he worked so hard to design and organise the labour for the chamber, for that lazy magician. It wasn't there! Not a blade of grass was disturbed from the very first he'd seen it. Legley threw himself on the ground in distraction, rolling round, hitting his head and pulling his clothes.

I was disturbed also. If this were Thomas' new world, and not my old one, this Legley should not have known of the chamber, he should have known the Young Gentlemen were still here, and he should not have missed Prince Richard. Somehow the Frenchman had been switched between worlds. Was it some gift from Thomas, I didn't think so. Was it something done by me? Thinking of taking Richard from the Legley in the history of my world I'd brought him to this one; and made him mad.

With my plan lost to astonishment I simply watched.

After a while he recovered himself, at least enough to remember the well. He went back to the Great Hall. The well, of course, was still there as it had been. Without stopping, he rushed to find Nathaniel Buttery; did the Brothers know where he was? The Brothers saw his madness but told him, anyway, where to find Nathaniel.

By now he should have been exhausted, but he found the mason and physically dragged him to the Great Hall, gibbering all the while in French. Nathaniel, slow to judgement and slow to action, had concluded with the Brothers.

With a superhuman effort Legley controlled himself,

"My brother, we must now fill-in this hole."

Nathaniel looked at him, and looked at the well.

"Without payment?"

It was too much for Legley, he became abusive, but this time his rantings were in English,

"You worthless English, I lead you by the nose. You pig-dogs, you shall be slaves to the King of France! You shall work HIS magic. That Louis, He is the Devil. I, his servant and so I your master."

And he strode across the room to look out of the window, his fists clenched, trying to control himself.

Nathaniel's eyes followed him, and then he looked at the well.

"And this is French magic?"

"Yes!"

Slowly the mason drew a knife from his belt, stepping up behind the Frenchman. His left hand grabbed Legley's hair, jerking his head back, with the knife in his right hand Nathaniel slit Legley's throat.

The deed done, he dragged the dying body and pushed it into the well, first wiping his knife on the Frenchman's clothes. Next Nathaniel went for a mop and buckets of water. He spent a very long time washing the stone floor. After that he, himself, brought barrow loads of rubble, from the spoil which first came out of the well, and dumped it back in the hole. He carried on till the body was more than covered; only then did he call in labourers to finish the work.

Nathaniel spent amazing pains to fill-in the well as if it had never been there, calling in his best masons to complete the relaying of the floor.

***

#  Chapter 39 – A New Beginning for William Lord Hastings

The well at Hatfield had been given a blood sacrifice, as the Bishop would have wished. With the washing away and erasure of all it stood for, as in some absolution, I turned my attention to another matter. Yet Legley was not entirely erased from my mind.

I thought of the name, 'Legley,' was it an English rendering of 'Le Glace'? Still a nickname, perhaps he was indeed called 'Ice.' If it was so, and he'd been truer to his name, perhaps Nathaniel wouldn't have killed him.

I should have picked up the misplacing of Legley instantly. It worried me I hadn't. With this next chapter very much more care would be called for. I had to deal with the fact Lord Hastings had not gone to the White Tower on 13th June. Hastings, along with Rivers and his party, was another oversight.

Maybe, Thomas, having learned to travel in Time, had created these anomalies. I doubted it; it didn't fit with my assessment of his character. What I expected of Thomas was he would go back to Circe, with whom he was plainly in love; I only hoped he understood the risks and implications.

Yet I had to allow the possibility it was caused by Thomas. I also had to consider the possibility the world was, of itself, unravelling Morton's machinations.

It is an old concept that Time is an illusion. It is easy to say it, with absolutely no understanding of what it would mean. If all events happened everywhere at once, isolating the meaning of any individual event would become impossible.

It is a more difficult concept, but not unheard of, that Time can move backwards.

What I had to do was create a chain of causation which would save the life of William, Lord Hastings and, by extension, the lives of Anthony, Earl Rivers, Lord Richard Grey and Sir Thomas Vaughan: and I had to do it in such a way as would create as few further anomalies as possible.

To be honest, I wasn't sure I could cope with any more anomalies.

I decided I would see Hastings and give him a verbal message. I would keep a watch on his house and remove any wax dolls, or other poppets, planted there. And I would give him a letter; a forgery that would look as if it came from Morton.

Of the three, the last was the most exacting and time consuming to achieve. I had to get examples of Morton's writing, these exist in historical records but they had to be located and acquired; then by tracing and using a light box and with other devices I had to write just the right message: and I had to do it on the right paper. I would not attempt to copy a seal.

As I studied his writing, and for the first time, I realised how shallow Morton's scholarship actually was; here's his signature:

The message was simple,

"There is evidence of witchcraft against Richard, duke of Gloucester newly found in Calais. His Grace bids you see it with all hast.

John Morton."

This would not be enough to make Hastings go to Calais, but when he did it would be enough to involve Morton in his going.

I needed one more thing, a bauble, not to persuade Hastings about the message, but to persuade him about me. I needed a symbol Hastings would accept, a universal symbol and that meant it had to be of the Church; it had to be gorgeous enough to show importance and that I was not in need of a bribe; it did not have to be priceless, just look it.

I searched the Internet, and came up with something suitable,

Quite small, yet easily visible. I threaded it on a cord and hung it round my neck. Thus equipped, and as prepared as ever I might be, I set off.

I admitted myself to Hastings house in darkness, knowing he had not yet returned. I lit candles and seated myself to wait. No-one in the house stirred.

It was a longer wait than anticipated, but eventually Hastings came in with Mistress Shore on his arm. I stood to present myself.

"And you are?"

"A messenger my lord."

"So what is your message and who from?"

He did not take or offer a chair.

"This is for you, it is a forgery but it will cover your absence."

Hastings took the 'letter from Morton' to a candle.

"This is no forgery, I know the hand."

"I assure you it is, though none but the Bishop might think so."

He crossed the room to me, sending Mistress Shore to bed, and as he came closer he saw the reliquary and lifted it from my chest. I slipped the cord over my head and he took that also to the light.

"And here we have the tears of Christ?"

"No my lord; you have crystal, adorned with jewels and centuries of reverence."

He came back to me, returning the bauble, and this time he offered a seat.

Putting the cord back over my head, I sat, and answered his raised eyebrow.

"There is a plot against you, and also against Mistress Shore. It is not by Richard, but by several others who are no more friends of yours than they are of his. They will have Richard arrest you on trumped-up charges and through you they mean to attack him."

"Well, tell this to Richard."

"Not only would he not believe me; if he did believe me he would take action against others who must now be left unmolested."

"And those others are?"

"The Queen, Margaret Beaufort, Morton himself, Earl Rivers, Lord Richard Grey and Sir Thomas Vaughan. As you know, the last three are already in prison."

Hastings still showed no expression.

"What do you gain from telling me this?"

"Your life and Mistress Shore's. It is a promise to a friend.

Mistress Shore is accused of witchcraft against Richard; but you already know that."

Hastings sat thoughtful, still not decided.

"And what would you have me do, apart from going to Calais?"

"Go there or anywhere else out of reach. If you go to the White Tower on the thirteenth day of June you will be dead that day or within ten days thereafter, with or without process of Law."

"And what will happen at the Council if I don't go?"

"Morton will be arrested."

Hastings smiled.

"You use the Bishop of Ely against himself."

"As he and Margaret Beaufort are using you and the Queen. Did you not know that?"

Hastings was now very thoughtful, you could see him calculating every indiscretion he might have made, and there were many. No, he hadn't seen those two spiders as a threat.

"Go on."

"Margaret Beaufort can think of nothing but that her own son should be king. That is the end to which they both work."

His first inclination was to wave me away as ridiculous, but then he thought about it.

"Set it out for me."

"Stillington serves nobody but what he believes to be the Law. England will not have the Queen and her family, and Morton will make sure of that. Richard would like to serve the Princes but cannot, Buckingham bends to anyone who twists his mind, and that leaves only you as the Princes' friend. Remove you; remove the Princes, blame Richard, and the way is open for Henry Tudor to claim the crown."

"Not while the Princes live."

"It is no part of Beaufort and Morton's plan the Princes stay alive."

"Is it that easy to kill a prince?"

"Yes, my lord. I have seen Morton's plan."

Hastings was moving to enough understanding to save his life. He was intelligent enough not to deny what I told him.

"Tell me again, if I am arrested the Princes will be killed?"

"Richard will not hurt them, but if you are arrested their lives hang in the balance. Morton thinks he has a way into the Tower. If that way is stopped another will be sought. If Morton is stopped that still leaves Beaufort."

Hastings nodded.

He smiled.

"Messenger, for a priest you have an uncommon disrespect for nobility, and for bishops."

I smiled back.

"Yes my lord."

Hastings almost sprang to his feet, shouting for Mistress Shore,

"Come my dear, we're going to Calais."

I stopped him before he could leave the room.

"Leave the forgery out of sight, but where it will be found when the house is searched."

He looked at me, nodded and left.

Now I could relax but not yet leave. I took myself out of sight and waited. It had been touch and go; I had in my pocket a copy of a letter signed by Margaret Beaufort, signed as 'Margaret R'. It was not only a modern facsimile, it was from a time she was the king's mother. To have revealed it would have been to reveal I came from the future.

Lord Hastings left within the hour of our conversation, taking Mistress Shore with him.

Then I waited much longer. I waited seven or eight hours.

I was alerted by a softly opened door. From the daylight two nondescript men crept in carrying a bag. They knew where they were going and they went up the stairs. When they came down the bag was empty. As the door closed behind them I retraced their steps up the stairs. Lying on a bed, in what I took to be Hastings chamber, were four wax dolls, with pins stuck in them. I put these in a bag of my own and went back out of sight.

Within two hours came the clatter of soldiers. They showed little respect as they started to search. Sundry members of Hastings' household came in, drawn by the noise; they were put or knocked out of the way. The letter from Morton was found but nothing else. As the search drew to a close the soldiers showed a good deal more respect, even righting furniture they'd knocked over. One of them bowed before they left.

***

#  Chapter 40 - Checking for Anomalies

The last chapter was exhausting. Having got myself back to my meditation room, it was as much as I could do to take a long, hot bath. Afterwards I slept.

There were two things left for me to do. First, deal with the wax dolls I brought from Hastings house, and second, check on the state of reality as it now stood in Thomas' world.

At dawn, on 13th June 1483, I went down to the Thames, not far from where Tower Bridge now stands. I drew the pins from the dolls and, taking hold of the pins and the dolls I mentally and physically cleansed them. It was like wiping a computer memory stick, erasing whatever virtual memory was on them. I threw the pins in the river, followed by the dolls.

Unfortunately I didn't know if these were the poppets used in the ceremony against Edward, Richard, his wife and son. At this point the Thames is tidal, I took four stones from the margin between high and low water; I also took a small metal hammer with a very large foot and a cloth.

One of the problems with high magic, no matter how compelling you make the ritual, is that very few single impressions on the human mind endure for very long. Quite simply the magic wears off. Even where you supplicate outside support, let's say from God in spiritual healing, the subconscious mind has to maintain some sort of link. Without external support the problem is much worse. This is why poppets are used as virtual memory. All physical matter retains an imprint of what it has experienced, but you can see a wax doll will retain an impression less well than something more durable. Little is more durable than stone. While wax takes an impression easily, it is possible to achieve the same impression with stone, hence the hammer.

With one for each of Morton's victims, in turn I placed the stones under the cloth; I built up the strongest mental picture I could of the person for each stone, together with a field of protection and source of strength. At the moment of most intense concentration I whacked the stone with the hammer through the cloth. You may say this couldn't help King Edward, but it couldn't hurt either.

By the way, anyone using the ideas in the last two paragraphs will find they may work perfectly well for good but anything negative or destructive will simply leek away. Being mindful of human nature, I could not have made it otherwise.

Lastly I took the four stones to Saint John's Chapel in the Tower, using the equivalent route of that used by Thomas in our other reality. Once there I sneaked up the stairs to the royal apartments, here I secreted the stones in a place where they would never be found.

My hope was this was the last manipulation I should do for King Richard or the Princes; but there was a nagging fear; had History got back on track?

In the following days I eavesdropped.

On the 6th July 1483 Richard, duke of Gloucester was crowned king of England. In the press of people in the Abbey, in the White Hall and even at the banquet in Westminster Hall, it was difficult to find all the people for whom I looked.

At different dates in August and September I found Prince Edward and Prince Richard in the grounds of the Tower. One afternoon I found them arguing about the workings of the portcullis in the Garden Tower. Robert Brackenbury, the newly appointed Tower constable, had taken a special liking to the children and ordered compliance with their wishes. I saw his amusement at their continued argument, as the portcullis went down and up three more times.

I went as far as 9th April 1484. It was the anniversary of the death of Edward IV, not marked in any history book I've read. I wanted to find a public gathering of historic figures, but not one which would attract large crowds. In 1484 the people of London were content with their new king and his government, and felt no need to look back.

I organised for myself a carriage, not grand, and had it stop within sight of the west door of Westminster Abbey where the Bishop of London led a service. It was a bright and fair spring day and I watched as people emerged from the Abbey, I thought myself discretely out of sight.

There came out and lingered by the door King Richard, Queen Anne and their son, Edward. It was on this date, in our own history, that young Edward, who had been ill for some time, finally died. History has it he died suddenly, and at Sheriff Hutton in Yorkshire. It was good to see him fully recovered and here, in London, with his parents.

I wondered if this ten year-old Prince of Wales would join with his cousins in the Tower of London, and form the bonds which would shape the next generation.

Out on the steps came more people, some of whom I thought I recognised. One of them was Anthony Woodville, Earl Rivers. He talked with the King and another man, possibly his nephew, Lord Richard Grey, a man I never met; as people came and went they moved on. Two more people I recognised came out, and, even hidden in my carriage, one of them recognised me! Out of the Abbey came William Hastings, still with Mistress Shore on his arm; she looked radiant, happy and beautiful. William and the King embraced and began to walk off together. Mistress Shore, still on Hastings arm, turned toward my carriage and blew me a kiss.

I was astonished.

It hadn't seemed possible for her to see me.

As I sat, still amazed, the doors of my carriage simultaneously flew open. Before I could react Earl Rivers and Lord Grey were sat opposite me!

The Earl had a grin all over his face.

"Did you think you'd be the only one watching the Abbey today?"

He was right, I did. I was so used to watching and listening without being seen, it hadn't crossed my mind.

He lent forward and fingered the bauble, which was still round my neck.

"William told me it was this first made him believe you. When he came back from Calais the King told him he would have been arrested if he had stayed in London."

He slapped my leg,

And I said, "Er?"

"The Guardian of the House of York.

William also said, if he had died so would we."

"Well, I'm pleased to see you all still alive."

If you want to keep credibility you learn to react quickly.

"Tell me, what happened to Margaret Beaufort, I haven't seen her."

"Oh, she went to Brittany to join her son, but Richard will winkle them both out of there. Stanley has gone very quiet; he's disowned Margaret as a wife."

"And your nephews, and your sister?"

"Elizabeth took it badly, Richard as king. But she accepts it. I'm now the boys' guardian again, it's a mark of the King's trust, and I've learned a lot, Guardian."

"I'm pleased that so has he."

At last Lord Grey spoke,

"Messenger, you never told Lord Hastings your name."

Before I could speak the Earl answered for me.

"You don't ask Fate for a name. Come."

And with that their lordships were gone, as quickly as they came.

Was I getting too old for this sort of thing?

I decided I'd learned enough, at least from this time and this reality. Let it go forward happily; at least there was now a lightness which had been utterly missing when I first saw the world dominated by Bishop Morton.

***

West door, Westminster Abbey.

#  End Notes
#  After Word on Magic

I've looked at so many tracts on magic from the Middle Ages, and I'm reluctant to recommend any of them. But if you do look at them there's more to their ponderous slowness and turgid language than meets the eye. Any teacher, or actor, or politician, let alone writer will tell you there's a great deal to pace and rhythm. Try reading aloud, it may take practice but you'll notice the difference.

The 'feel' of these, and of all magic, is primary. Without exception, these books convey their own self-importance, and noticing this, and overcoming your modern resistance, is a good first step.

The second step is to avoid getting lost in the words. Again without exception, if you don't avoid it the books will drag you down to dullness and you'll come away with little or nothing.

What was so admirable in Thomas Nandyke was his perfect attention to these steps. He so lived Homer's story of the Odyssey that it moved him, quite literally, into another world. No amount of searching the text or analysing the Language will do this.

So many people look for a rational account, if you physically do this, you will physically get that. Such is the province of physical sciences. The province of Magic is the same as the province of Religion; they both and identically require you to leave the rational, the physical and the self behind – at least, if you are to achieve any real and charismatic results.

One great advantage that Thomas had, he had very little 'self' to give up. It allowed him to accept the reality of other worlds without insisting on the truths of his own. He said as much in Part I.

What I have against High Magic, medieval or modern, is this rational element of forcing reality by a trick. Physical manipulations, when not properly understood, can so easily set up a tension and resistance such that, when released from the will of the magician, reality snaps back into unintended consequences – as we have seen in this book.

How good a magician was Morton? He wasn't remotely in Thomas' league. But, as is so often the case with the obsessively ambitious, he had an uncontrolled charisma, capable of a great deal. Could he have worked magic and got his hands on the Princes without Thomas? Not in the way it was done, but my assessment to Lord Hastings was truthful; there was cause for concern while he remained in play.

Is there evidence of anyone else moving between worlds and changing reality? Certainly, but if I give you too much evidence, so you treat this book more seriously than mere fiction, those with fixed minds will fight like 'demons' against that which threatens their certainties – let me not threaten needlessly.

I will give you just one link to a medieval story in which reality was changed: 'Tales of the Virgin.' This was accepted by the authorities, in its day, because reality was changed by the Virgin Mary, not by the workings of human magicians.

Any miracle is, of course, by definition, a change of reality. For my students I identify two types of miracle: the 'demonstration miracle' and the 'operative miracle.' In the first case, such as the miracle at Fatima, the point is precisely that people should notice reality is being changed (see Wikipedia). The second case is where, before the miracle, what would happen should be clearly impossible; after it happened, any other outcome would have been equally impossible. In our less religious age, I would like to suggest such tinkering with reality has always been a very human, as well as a divine activity.

As to merely visiting other worlds and places, my witness is the great and unimpeachable Emanuel Swedenborg.

As to the working of magic today, if you want a modern book, I shall disappoint. There are a number of respected writers on magic; many of their books are still in copyright, not only would I not infringe their ownership or prefer one to another, I would not invite you to spend your money on my recommendation. Besides, magic is very personal; what one student will find inspirational will leave another unmoved, and at the same time, a third will be led into dark and unprofitable ways.

In the modern age we have largely lost sight of magic which stayed the right side of medieval law. This was the ancient science of Alchemy, 'the great work,' and in it is much that would be recognised as magical. Let me offer two references: the first is a basic, ancient and profound source, let me offer a link to what you may find a rather fanciful rendering  'The Emerald Tablet of Thoth'

Here and far less fanciful, courtesy of Wikipedia, is Sir Isaac Newton's translation of the Emerald Tablet:

  1. Tis true without lying, certain most true.

  2. That which is below is like that which is above that which is above is like that which is below to do the miracles of one only thing.

  3. And as all things have been arose from one by the mediation of one: so all things have their birth from this one thing by adaptation.

  4. The Sun is its father, the moon its mother,

  5. the wind hath carried it in its belly, the earth its nurse.

  6. The father of all perfection in the whole world is here.

  7. Its force or power is entire if it be converted into earth.

    * Separate thou the earth from the fire, the subtle from the gross sweetly with great industry.

  8. It ascends from the earth to the heaven again it descends to the earth and receives the force of things superior and inferior.

  9. By this means ye shall have the glory of the whole world thereby all obscurity shall fly from you.

  10. Its force is above all force. for it vanquishes every subtle thing and penetrates every solid thing.

    * So was the world created.

  11. From this are and do come admirable adaptations whereof the means (Or process) is here in this.

  12. Hence I am called Hermes Trismegist, having the three parts of the philosophy of the whole world.

  13. That which I have said of the operation of the Sun is accomplished and ended.

The other is 'The Ordinal of Alchemy,' which was written by a courtier of Edward IV, one Thomas Norton, in 1477. You can find the Ordinal at Google Books, but I know of no source from which you can download it free.

***

#  After Word on Reality

As you know, I've no wish to threaten those who need fixed certainties, but for those who wish to use their reason and are willing to face uncertainty, try this link; it is a modest submission on the subject.

Actually it makes little difference what we think, what counts is what we believe.

It also matters what we are.

Things, forces, qualities and attributions will be true to their natures and conceptions, in this they have no choice and, to that extent, their realities are fixed.

A defining quality of a living being is that it does have choice (this may well be unconscious and I refuse to get into a definition of 'choice' for lower orders of life). Even in humans the overwhelming majority of choices are made at a subconscious level. However made, and at whatever level it operates, the election of a choice selects reality from as greater range of possibilities as there are choices.

It will rapidly appear that the enormous number of choices which could be made in any moment would create an almost infinite number of realities. On practical grounds this would be unworkable and there are constraints. The first constraint is that one person (or frame of reference) should not be able to hold conflicting choices. I say 'should' because the dishonesty of the conscious mind or ego facilitates rather a large number of conflicting choices. The presence of these conflicts in an individual is sharply disempowering, as they cancel each other out, there are also resulting failures of perception, and dis-ease which can very much shorten life.

Although it is possible to manipulate things, forces, qualities and attributions; unless this is done choices in conflict with them will be disempowered. It is for this reason the laws of physics are thought to be fixed.

Without question, the strongest force in Creation is Love. This holds the normal, 'well balanced' individual in approximate harmony and in designated place and context with those around them. In such individuals disruptive choices are simply disempowered. There are, of course, tyrants and fanatics who have an overwhelming love of themselves or some 'cause' and little or no love for humanity: such aberrant creatures as Morton, Beaufort, Louis XI, like Hitler, Napoleon or Mao Zedong, can do enormous damage precisely because their destructive choices are not limited by Love.

Coming back to choice, at least at the conscious level, for it to be powerful and effective it must be intended and accompanied by true belief. This is why the prayers of the devout, even for miracles, are answered; while the hopes of the buyers of lottery tickets are usually disappointed.

A law identified at the level of atomic physics applies to choices. At some point the level of conflict between realities (being the sum total of one set of choices as against the sum total of another set) will make the two mutually exclusive. In this there is a power gradient or resistance which can similarly be observed in sound, between notes and between octaves, which has fascinated philosophers from ancient times. It has always amused me that this concept, even when applied to the possible tracks of an electron in an atom, is called "sum over histories."

***

#  After Word on Truth – A Prayer to Ma'at

When I mentioned the existence of alternative realities; that every time a choice is possible reality follows all the choices which can be made, that idea left each of these realities equally valid. It allows there is somewhere a reality in which Thomas did not take the Princes from the Tower and that world followed a different course from the world in which the Princes did disappear and Henry Tudor became king of England. It left the comforting thought the world in which you and I think we live really does exist. In chapter 40 I checked Thomas' world for anomalies and found none. Having returned to this world I found it is we who have the anomalies, they are the very problems that started this story.

This idea gives me no comfort but honesty requires it must be stated, and this postscript follows necessarily therefrom.

You will have seen the acts of stage hypnotists, who persuade their victims they are chickens or some other impossible thing. The 'humour' is that the victim thinks he is living in a reality which we know does not exist. It is wonderfully absurd that he should not notice the impossible contradictions of what he believes to be the truth.

After I saw and set out the contradictions you read in Part I, there was one awful thought kept repeating itself; 'Why have we not all noticed?'

It couldn't be ignored. Thomas didn't have the answer, I'd concentrated on him and maybe that's why I missed it. I hadn't asked Morton and he hadn't volunteered it. Now I asked again, giving Morton the suggestion he had to think about it, so clearly I could see and hear. It wasn't easy to pry it out of him.

I found the Bishop in a room in Ely Palace in Holborn. The room was the most hidden and secure part of the whole building, there were no windows and only one door, to which only Morton had the key.

In the centre of the room was a small table, covered by a plain white cloth and on which stood a seven branched candlestick. The room was brightly lit, with further candles in each corner, and there was Morton, kneeling on a stool before the table. The stool was necessary; it allowed him to reach each of seven vessels on the table, the contents of which he poured into a large and open cup. As he did this he recited from a sheet in front of him, most of it was a rhythmic chant which he muttered under his breath and I could not catch the words. After each time he poured liquid from a vessel his voice rose and there were repeated phrases I could hear; there were two sets of phrases, "All believe" and "All Deny," the second set was "All Forget" and "All Remember."

He stood, bowing to what I took to be the four quarters of the compass, each time he did so he poured liquid onto the floor, carefully always slightly to his side. I noticed for the first time he was walking round the inside of a magic circle, and the liquid was poured onto the outside. As he came back to what I took to be the south he bowed again and threw the cup out of the circle.

This was the end of the ceremony and I retired back to my own room to think about it.

It was after two glasses of whiskey and an uncertain number of cigarettes I came to a conclusion.

The ancient Egyptians raised the idea of truthfulness to divinity. They had a goddess they called Ma'at. This much I knew, but little more. I resolved to seek the help of the Goddess.

It seemed Morton had used High Magic to cast a spell of suggestion that the world should only know and only think what he wanted it to think. For me this was the most diabolic of all deceits. It made concrete the worst of all possible fears, that nothing I knew, possibly nothing I'd ever known, was true. Morton had falsified the whole of my life, possibly the whole of everybody's lives, from the moment he completed that spell.

I turned to the Goddess appalled and still in a state of shock.

Knowing no ritual, or offering, or the correct form of address, I presented myself, in a vast chamber, the wall made of huge unmortared slabs of rock, the whole space lit by high windows through which light streamed; here there was no need of candles. Before me was a seated figure with guardians on either side.

I bowed deeply. With no offering to give, I offered my mind, into a softness and silence. I could offer no ritual; any I could make up would be cheap and shoddy in such a place.

After a time there was a word,

"When?"

And I simply knew Morton had cast his spell at dawn on the 13th June 1483, barely two hours after my conversation with Lord Hastings.

"And What?"

Again I simply knew, Morton's spell affected all the changes to reality he made, or thought he made; it applied to that, and only that.

There was more silence, and then there were more words,

"Truth is water that soaks into the cloth of your life. Where it is lies cannot be."

It had seemed, as the Goddess spoke, I was covered in a fine spray of cool water.

And that was the end of my meditation.

On my return it seemed my skin was itchy and dry. I took a cold shower, but it didn't hit me as evenly or softly as it had in the presence of Ma'at.

What had happened? What would happen?

All I could do was guess and hope; that such truth as I discovered about the Princes would spread from this book, clearing the sight and understanding of my fellow dwellers in this reality. It seems to me important. John Morton, Bishop of Ely, was not the first to bring deceit into our world, but I fervently prayed to the Goddess, that the heavy blanket of lies, which so weigh on all of us, might gently be washed away.

The problem was my skin was still dry and itchy.

It was necessary to go back to the nature of Ma'at, and to the nature of reality.

Ma'at, you see, is not only truth. The fact is not you, not I, none of us could really stand to look at the plain, unvarnished actuality of who we are; it would destroy us. We justify ourselves, we find external excuses for how we live and what we believe: this is not just a result of Morton's lies, we've always done it; if it were not so Morton's lies would never have been able to take hold and he would never himself have fallen into such great error.

Ma'at is also the concept of balance, order, law, morality, and justice. If you take all these together and mix them thoroughly enough you will find the mixture only coheres in the form of compassion, understanding and forgiveness. In short the truth is not enough; people will not be able to take it without those other elements.

As I sat in the garden, fiddling with another cigarette, seemingly random thoughts crossed my mind:

Thinking of my meditation in the temple of Ma'at, I was reminded of the fine spray of water, Edward IV had been surrounded by the water of the Thames when the conjuration against him first took hold, and water is the medium of life,

After more than five centuries so little of the world before 1483 survives, everything has changed, for good as well as bad; I would not want to undo all that came out of Tudor England, for one thing, the wrench would be too great,

Finally, what was wrong with what Morton did, worse than the lies; it was utterly empty of love and compassion: he'd substituted blood-sacrifice, selfishness, fear and hate for order, law, morality and justice; it's these poisons from which our world is still reeling.

These poisons were always there of course, but in my meditation I had only asked for the lies to be taken away. I had yet to ask for the removal of the associated poisons; it's these 'booby-traps' over which I'd ridden rough shod, and which might catch me yet if the poisons were not taken away. It isn't enough to chastise historians for not telling the truth, they have to be forgiven for following Morton's suggestion before they can be free of it. And that is only the start of putting right this world of ours.

It seems I broke Morton's self-willed conjuration against Richard and his family in Thomas' reality. Could Morton's stranglehold over us be broken? By returning to the lawful magic of supplication to deity Ma'at could restore the truth to all of us.

An image arose unbidden to my mind, I saw Morton's magic circle at Ely Palace penetrated by shafts of light. I saw a great body of water with a circular hole in it; the water round the hole began to fall into it, rushing with irresistible force, the greatest waterfall in the world. The process has already started.

It had been raining for days, and my lovely, sensitive, spirit medium wife lay, unaccustomedly, ill in bed as I walked up and down in the garden. But now the sky had cleared and the sun started to dry the water from the ground and the benches.

I undertook another meditation.

This time I went with a prayer,

"Let John Morton's lies have no power over human minds, let all believe that which is True, let all deny that which is untrue, let all forget that which is untrue, let all remember that which is True.

Let the demand to control all minds be sucked back into the mind that would control. Let the poison of Morton's error return to its source. Let Truth, Balance, Order, Law, Morality, and Justice grow ever stronger.

Let Love, Compassion, Harmony, Balance, Justice, Order, Understanding and Forgiveness come back into the World.

So Mote It Be."

The temple of Ma'at was as I'd left it, but this time I did not just offer myself; with my outstretched hands I offered not only my prayer but also my love; even for Morton, Margaret Beaufort and King Louis.

The light in the Temple became astonishingly bright; and for all my wish to stay in that light, I found myself back in the garden. My skin no longer itched and I had the feeling of the closing at last of all Morton's manipulations.

Maybe, in all this story nothing has happened in the real world. I hope and I watch, believe me, with the greatest possible interest, to see how the World's understanding, and how reality shall change.

***

On completion of The Necromancer, I'm due to return to Stansted; really with no idea what if anything will happen next.

#  List of Hyperlinks

Part I

Prologue

Edward – Interactive

Margaret Beaufort

King Henry VII

King Richard III

Introduction

Sir James Tyrell

Chapter 1 – The Reverend Doctor Thomas Nandyke

Stansted Hall

Great Saint Mary's Church

Bishop John Morton of Ely) (1)

Wikipedia (Necromancy 1)

Wikipedia (Necromancy 2)

The Odyssey

Chapter 2 – John Morton, bishop of Ely

 John Morton (2)

 Wikipedia) (Archbishop Bourchier)

Chapter 3 – A Further Meeting and a Mystery

apports)

Sai Baba

Chapter 4 – The Workings of a School of Mysteries

scrying

Chapter 5 – In Meditation

YouTube (Olivier's film, 'Richard III')

Bramall Hall

Mistress Shore

Chapter 8 – On Eavesdropping

Dogma and Ritual of High Magic (Eliphas Levi)

Liber Juratus

Chapter 10 – Hatfield Palace

Etheldreda

Chapter 12 – London and the Great Council

Ely Palace

 Robert Stillington.pdf) (1)

 The Queen (Elizabeth Woodville)

 Henry of Buckingham

Anthony Woodville

 And the Princes

Chapter 13 – The Conspiracy against Hastings

 Edmund Tudor

 Catherine de Valois

 William Hastings

Chapter 15 – Placing the Princes

 Guide to the Tower of London

Chapter 18 – Of Thomas' Comings and Goings

grimiores

Chapter 28 - History

 The History of King Richard the Third by Sir Thomas More

 The history of the life and reigne of Richard the Third by Sir George Buck .

Donald MacLachlan (Richard III Society)

 Helen Maurer (Richard III Society)

 Richard III: His Life & Character

Chapter 29 – Magic and Other Issues

 The Disenchantment of Magic

 here (extract of above)

Wikipedia (Louis XI)

Picquigny

Chapter 30 – Morton's Final Coupe

Edward – Interactive

Part II

Chapter 35 – Return to Thomas

 Saint Zenobius

 The Death of Louis XI of France

End Notes

After Word on Magic

 Tales of the Virgin

miracle at Fatima

Wikipedia (on the same)

Emanuel Swedenborg

 'The Emerald Tablet of Thoth'

Wikipedia (Emerald Tablet)

After Word on Truth

Ma'at (1)

Ma'at (2)

Ma'at (3) ***
