by Mike Voyce
The Necromancer
Part I
An answer to the greatest ‘locked-room’ mystery of all time,
What happened to the Princes in the Tower?
Mike Voyce
Copyright 2012 by Mike Voyce
Copyright © by Mike Voyce 2012
Dedication
This book is dedicated to my wife, my daughter and son-in-law, and all those who have helped in its production.
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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
List of Hyperlinks
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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 “Edward, the novel” and then “Edward – Interactive” entered public awareness. 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.
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, I had to enter the realms of Darkness. The forces that lurk there do not want their villainy dragged into the light of day. 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.
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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 Em
erald 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.
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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 an
d 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.