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.
r /> ***
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.