The Nonsuch Lure

by Mary Luke

  Timothy put the teacup aside. "Andrew, I want to talk to you now as your doctor—and as your friend. You are, or were, one of the most normal people I know. You had a childhood experience, much of which was repressed for years, which we can hardly call traumatic. It took a newspaper clipping to revive a dormant interest in a fairly mundane subject—excavation. Nothing new there in your life. But this particular excavation suddenly became of primary importance to you. Then you discovered a journal, and it became an obsession. Since then you've disregarded almost every pursuit of normal life: your friends, your profession, your responsibilities back in America. You've been on this witch-hunt—and I use the word advisedly—for a long time now, and it is consuming you. I've seen the difference in your personality—and now I see the toll it's taking of you physically. Either you have to accept what you know so far and leave it at that—or decide to go further and then accept whatever transpires. If you don't find what you're looking for—and at the moment, it seems to be the Lure, for we know what happened to Julian and Chloe—then you must put it aside and start living in the twentieth century again. You've got to make a decision one way or the other. Last night you were protected by what you call a power. It could have gone another way—it almost did twice before—just the same as it did for Julian."

  Andrew looked out the window. "You're right, of course, Tim. I accept everything you're saying. But you seem to think I have a

  choice—to accept what we know now or go further. What do you mean by going further?"

  "That's why I asked you here this afternoon. I want to explain carefully to you, as a medical man and also as one who's shared this adventure with you. The world won't come to an end, Andrew, if you don't find the Lure. Whatever it is, and if it's at Nonsuch, it's been there for several hundred years, and outside of killing once, it's hurt no one else. That letter you found at Cuddington House, written in the 1730s, about someone being killed—"

  "That, I'm positive, was a reference to Julian's death, written years after it happened."

  "All right, so it's killed once, but it won't kill anymore. You got rid of it last night. Now you can close the subject."

  "Well, I don't want to, God damn it!" Andrew rose and began to pace around the room. "I've come this far, and I want to finish this whole thing. But we still don't know where the Lure is—and we still don't know whether Chloe Cuddington was a devil or an angel. I'm opting for angel, of course, but who knows? I want to clear up her part in this whole mysterious little saga. Just as we did with Chloe and Julian. There's got to be a way. The answer's got to be somewhere."

  "Well, that's the other part of my little speech, Andrew," Timothy replied. "You have an alternative. I said you could decide to go further—but"—he raised his hand—"now don't interrupt! We can go further, but if we do, you must accept whatever we find. And it may not be to your liking, remember! It might change your life, just as your experience so far has certainly changed a good many of your values. Are you willing to take that chance, Andrew?"

  "Hell, Tim, I'll take any chance. I think I know what you're driving at. You mean another dose of hypnosis?"

  "Exactly—there's no other way. I'm sure by combing the attics of Cuddington House and Sparrow Field you might conceivably come up with a few more clues, but if the true answer hasn't been known for four hundred years, I doubt if it's in either of those places in its entirety. Do you feel equal to another dose of hypnosis, as you so respectfully put it?"

  "Oh, sure, but tell me why?"

  "I'm not going to tell you anything, Andrew. If I told you, it'd be there in your subconscious when I want to question it. I want to

  find out what already is there, not give it any suggestions. Another cup of tea before we start?"

  But Andrew was already on his way to the couch. "I presume this is the throne?" He turned and laughed. "Tim, you are a good friend to go through this with me, and I'm damn grateful. But tell me, did you ever expect to see me here?" He lay down, settling his long frame into position. "Mighty comfortable, old boy."

  "We aim to please— and comfort." Timothy was busy setting up the tape recorder. "No, Andrew, I never thought to see you there. We've come a long way—both of us. Remember, this experience so far has shaken a few of my own medical certainties. You might become something of a cause celebre if this experience were ever published." Aware of Andrew's disdainful look, he concluded, "Which it isn't going to be, I know."

  "You'd better believe it," Andrew muttered. "Let's get going, Tim. I'm liable to fall asleep if you don't do something fast."

  Timothy rose and pulled the curtains shut, for the late-afternoon sun was distracting. Returning, he spoke to the recumbent form. "Still with us?"

  "Just waiting for you, Tim."

  "All right, Andrew, take a deep breath and relax. That's good. Now another. That's just fine. Another deep breath—and relax. You should be beginning to feel drowsy by now. Let that feeling go all through your body. Just relax. And let your eyelids feel heavy. Can you feel them becoming heavier? You're getting sleepier and sleepier, and your eyelids are heavier. Your whole body is relaxed and comfortable. It's harder and harder for you to stay awake. Now you know you must sleep. Sleep long and deeply. Stay very relaxed. Be sure you are relaxed and sleepy. Think of nothing else. I'm going to count to five now, and when I'm finished, you'll be asleep. Here we go. One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . relax deeply now . . . you are asleep . . . four . . . five."

  As before, there was complete silence. Andrew's breathing was deep and normal, his color good, though his expression was still tired. He was completely asleep. Timothy spoke into the recorder, giving the time, place and date, and then stopped the machine. He made several notes on his yellow legal pad, rubbed his forehead as if to stimulate his thought and then, with the air of one knowing he's reached a point of no return, clicked on the recorder and spoke to the sleeping figure.

  "Now, Andrew, we're going back in time . . . back quite a long way. This will be a long journey for you. You needn't answer if you don't want to. You don't need to go either. Do you understand?" He was gratified by the slight nod from the inert figure.

  "All right, then, Andrew, come with me, back to a time long, long ago." Patiently, with great care, Timothy regressed Andrew again to his youth—to a happy time with his parents on safari in Africa, to a birthday party when he was ten, to a tiny toddler learning to walk. It was possible to regress a consciousness to a time within a womb, a feat popular with many doctors at the moment, but Timothy bypassed the opportunity. Instead, he said, "Andrew, this is now the time for our long journey. You'll pass many milestones as you go, yet I want you to take it slowly. Don't stop to examine any experiences along the way. Visualize them if you wish, but don't relive them. They're only memories, remember. Do you understand?" Again, the slight nod.

  "Then, Andrew, this is now the year—about—let's say—1536. Yes, I'm sure that's the year, and that's all I know. Perhaps you weren't alive then; perhaps you'll see nothing. But can you go back and tell me if you were there and if you saw anything? It's a long way back, Andrew, so take your time. . . . I'll wait."

  Timothy clicked off the recorder, settled back in the chair and watched his friend closely. This was always one of the most interesting parts of hypnosis, as the mind in the sleeping body took off on its journey into time—perhaps even into space. Somewhere— wherever the mind was going—there had to be a spatial unit. But what was it? Infinity? Timothy wondered.

  As he watched, Andrew stirred several times. Shifting his position slightly, he unclasped his hands. A muscle in his jaw throbbed for a moment, then quieted. Clearly, he'd started on his journey, and his body was reacting to whatever he was visualizing. But he was not participating. No expression or change in position lasted for more than a moment. Eventually, he seemed more settled and more—Timothy sought the word—in repose. His hands were clasped, as if holding something. A book? He seemed quite comfortable, very relaxed and . . . waiting. . . .

/>   Timothy spoke. "Are you there? In 1536?" He avoided using Andrew's name. If there was to be an answer, any name would be unfamiliar at the moment. "Do you wish to tell me, my friend, what you see?"

  "Yes, I can tell you. . . ." Again Timothy experienced that little shock when a regressed patient spoke for the first time. The voice was always different. As it was now. Andrew's words were pleasant, even-timbred, not unlike his own, except his speech was dissimilar. "Yes, I can tell you," Andrew repeated, "it's most pleasant. I am in a garden reading my book." It was pronounced "ga-a-a-r-den." Was it Scottish? Irish?

  "And where is the garden, my friend?" Timothy waited, pencil poised.

  "Why, right here, in this beautiful Surrey!" The man's enthusiasm was noticeable. "And only in England in May do we have so many flowers in bloom! It's a sight to see. You cannot see it, my man?"

  "No, I can't see it . . . perhaps you'll tell me where it is so that if I get the chance, I could always—"

  "Oh, but of course—you must come! The Priory does not admit visitors, which I'm sure you know, but you can see the garden from the road. Even the king has seen the garden from the road—but, of course, he took no notice of us."

  "The king?" Timothy was busily writing. "What king?"

  "Our good King Henry the Eighth—the only king in England! I think you must really be a stranger here if you have not heard of King Henry. Why, he hunts hereabouts very often! Many times, I'm afraid"—here the voice become conspiratorial—"even on the Sabbath." Andrew's lips were pursed in disapproval.

  "You do not hunt on the Sabbath then?"

  "Of course not! I think you must be blind, my man! Do you not see this habit I wear? Do you think monks hunt? We labor—oh, yes, we labor for God and for man. But we do not hunt."

  "You are a monk, then, my friend?" Timothy sighed with relief. It was as he had thought. "A monk—and would your name by any chance be Thomas? And the Priory you speak of—would it be Mer-ton Priory?"

  There was a moment's silence, and then a beatific smile spread across Andrew's face, which had somehow become rounder and fuller as he spoke. His eyes were closed, but Timothy knew, had they been open, they'd have been alight with pleasure and welcome.

  "You did know! Yes, Thomas is my name. How kind you are to come and see our beautiful garden. We work very hard here. But

  tell me, my man, how did you know my name? I am no one important."

  "Oh, you are important, Thomas. Does not our Lord say all souls are important? I will tell you how I knew, Thomas. But first, I want you to tell me your story. It's such a beautiful day and such a lovely place to talk . . . here in this garden. Would you mind telling me your story, Thomas?"

  There was a moment's pause. Timothy could almost picture the monk looking around, wondering whether they'd be overheard. He waited several moments, and then Andrew spoke again.

  "I have told Father Felix I am going to meditate in the orchard for some time." Andrew bit his lip. "It was a bit of a fib, you understand, my man, but you seemed so eager." Then, as an afterthought: "I like to be helpful."

  "That was kind of you, Thomas, and land of Father Felix. Now let's sit down, you and I, and make ourselves comfortable. I'm just going to listen, and I won't interrupt. Will you begin?"

  With that, Timothy checked the recorder, put his pencil and paper aside and sat back to hear what Brother Thomas of Merton Priory in Surrey had to say on that May morning in the year 1536.

  Qhapter ^fourteen

  Later Thomas often wondered what his life might have been like had the king not ridden through Cuddington village to hunt on that fine May morning.

  Thomas lived—in what he hoped was a state of God's grace—in the holy house of Merton Priory. He watched now with his brother monks as dust, disturbed by the royal party, wafted over the roadside hedge and settled on the herbs they'd later distill for medicines. The king rode at the head of the group—still a fine-looking man despite the rumors of dissipation and excesses from which they all prayed daily he might be delivered. Several of the party shouted greetings, and the monks bowed their heads; the king did not favor them with a glance. Most religieux were in bad repute with royalty. Rome had not been understanding about a divorce from his good wife, Catherine, of unhappy memory.

  It was 1536, the twenty-fifth year of the eighth Henry's reign. It would have been difficult, indeed almost impossible, for even the monks of Merton Priory not to know of the drastic events occurring at the Tudor court. Cloistered they might be, with much time spent in good works, manual labor, prayer and meditation. Yet Thomas and his brethren were still worldly enough to listen to the gossip that arrived at the Priory gates with the delivery of those materials they didn't provide for themselves. Thomas worked with the monks in baking bread, brewing ale, growing vegetables and herbs, but they did not weave, tan hides, keep a piggery or chicken house or slaughter animals. Thus, almost daily, someone from the outside

  world clanged the great bell and, in a few moments' conversation at the back gates, brought the world to the cloister.

  So they'd learned that the king's first wife, Catherine of Aragon, had finally been exiled after a quarter century of marriage. They were shocked and saddened at the death of Sir Thomas More, her great friend and supporter, who went to the scaffold rather than swear that the king, and not the pope, was the head of the English church. And they were fearful of the Machiavellian Cromwell—by his own admission a "ruffian"—who had successfully dissolved many monasteries and abbeys. While Thomas Cromwell and Henry insisted such measures were only to limit papal jurisdiction in England, still they hadn't hesitated to confiscate the churches' revenues and keep its considerable treasure. Schism, they'd found, was quite rewarding.

  As the royal party passed by, Thomas laid aside his hoe and went to the cloister to dip in the cool rain barrel hidden in the shade of an old wisteria bush. Watching as the dust settled on the dry road, he remembered the three Carthusian friars dragged to Tyburn to suffer the monstrous death of hanging, drawing and quartering, whose mutilated sections were later exhibited at London Bridge and over the gate of their own Charterhouse. A stern and stubborn man, the king, thought Thomas. No sooner had Catherine been exiled than he'd married Anne Boleyn—just in time to make the birth of their daughter, Elizabeth, legitimate (if one didn't count too closely). Thomas crossed himself at the disrespectful thought of his sovereign Lord on earth.

  And yet since that time it seemed even his sovereign Lord in heaven had taken matters into His own hands. The union of Henry and Anne hadn't been fruitful where a son was concerned, and the highly volatile and basically selfish personalities of the two made for discord in the royal bed. Now the queen was in the Tower, accused of things no right-thinking monk should even know about. It was ironic, too, for she'd encouraged the king in his heresy. Indeed, Thomas knew, could the church blame anyone for the religious "troubles," they'd blame the Boleyn. Yet Christian principle demanded they pray she be dealt with according to God's will. God, so far, had seen fit to leave her in the Tower, and Thomas was relieved to let it go at that.

  As he walked to his cell, Thomas saw Father Felix, the Prior of Merton, hurrying toward him along the cloistered walk. A tall, frail

  man, with luxuriant white hair and a long, white, forked beard, the prior had the darkly burning eyes of the ascetic; their piercing gaze seemed to emphasize the waxy transparency of his skin. He smiled and acknowledged Thomas' deferential bow.

  "Thomas, I was just coming to find youl A good excuse to exercise these old bones and find a moment in the fresh air." He, too, dipped into the rain barrel and watched the royal party now almost out of sight. "Who goes to Cuddington?"

  "It was the king, Father."

  Father Felix's face darkened. "The king—I'm sorry to hear that. Perhaps what I've heard is true. He's going to look at the land, his messenger said. Come into my chamber, Thomas."

  The young monk followed dutifully, the soles of his sandals making a comfortable shuffling sound on the stone
walk. He was untidy from working in the garden; there was dust and dirt on his gown and feet. But he knew Father Felix wouldn't notice. The prior was a man wise with the span of his many years—years that had only increased his faith and dedication to a life of service. Thomas knew how fortunate they were at Merton, for Father Felix's sanctity, godliness and devotion permeated every crevice. Their house lacked much of the dissension, pride and corruption—and certainly the outright sexual abuses—of which the king and Cromwell had complained. Unfortunately, such conditions existed in only a few holy houses, but it had been enough to condemn many. No one with any real understanding, however, doubted that the tranquillity and merit of Merton was due to anyone other than its prior. Thomas found the thought comforting as he closed the great carved door and waited for Father Felix to speak.

  "It has come," was all the prior said. And he held out a parchment from which dangled an official seal.

  Quickly, Thomas crossed himself. He felt stunned—almost ill— and wondered what to say. "For Merton? I can't believe they would. . . ." The prior's one great dread was that their beloved house would suffer the fate of those other religious houses closed by the king's orders. Their one consolation was that Merton was small and insignificant. They possessed no great treasure, no holy relics like a bone of St. Andrew's arm. Their holdings were respectable, but not impressive, a few hundred acres. Merton's real value lay elsewhere—in succoring those unfortunates in Cuddington who were poor and ill. Bread and ale were doled out daily at the gate,

  and much of the garden's produce went to the poor. Those who showed promise were taught to read and write; a few had even entered the Priory to serve God and man. What could Cromwell and the king want with so modest a holy house? Even the food sent to the Priory by such as Sir Richard Cuddington—fat capons, molds of sweet butter and baskets of fruit from his orchards—were always shared with the villagers. Whatever was consumed by the brothers provided the energy they used for one another's welfare. There were no fat monks at Merton.