The Necromancer Whole Book Read online

  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 littl
e, 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.