“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 per
sisted, 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.