In Search of Early Tudor Magicians

By Lizzy Drake

Rattan-monodosico: An English magic sigil or device found in the Devil's Dyke.
Photo from Tumblr (The Broom Cupboard)

Most students of Tudor history are familiar with Elizabeth I's pet magician, John Dee, but they might not be familiar with where the earlier ideals of the magician originated from. While most of his work revolved around his Angelic Manuscripts and attempts to conjure and communicate with angelic beings, there is an older, some would say much darker, form of 'magical science' that helped to bring him to the position of authority he is now known for. While Dee was obsessed with contacting angels, previous magicians are known for their attempts to summon demons to do their bidding.

I would however, like to point out here that evidence for early Tudor magic in regards to demon summoning is scarce. John Dee wanted to classify the difference between higher spirits (angels) and lesser (demons) and go on to make his Angelic Manuscripts. His work was based much on what Edward Kelly (seen as a charlatan by most historians) saw in his visions, but there are hints in his books that his research has also come from others who have claimed to summon or have a story about a demon visiting. Witchcraft was well known and understood to be a force of evil at the time, though 'cunning women' were seen as helpful forces (it wasn't until 1542 that the practice of witchcraft was deemed a capital offence punishable by hanging – unlike popular fiction, burning of witches was not practiced in England as it was in Scotland and Europe).

Just to differentiate, the magician or astrologist (some would put alchemist in this category too) was a completely different kettle of fish than the witch or cunning woman. These men (I have yet to come across a record of a woman within this category) were individuals who view themselves more as scientists and scholars than people users of magic. Henry VIII had several court astrologers, though they kept getting their predictions so wrong that he eventually lost faith in them. Despite this, they were still viewed as acceptable at court.

It is important to remember that what we as modern minds consider as 'magic' is very different than the 16th century individual. For one, religion, science and magic were intermingled. There was not yet a great understanding of why or how nature worked. Heaven and Hell were real places in the thoughts and beliefs of 16th century men and women, and the same belief went for angels and demons. If a horse went lame and no obvious source was found, it would often be blamed on witchcraft. If a plague swept through London, many would assume it was God punishing them. Though the fear of eternal damnation would keep many on the straight and narrow, there were also those with a drive to gain more power by any means necessary. And there was the same natural drive that mankind has to understand his/her world. It may be difficult to swallow, but these might be considered as some of the first 'scientific experiments' in England.

The later 16th century saw a surge in 'magical' research and publications. It was separated from witchcraft (as mentioned earlier, which had become a capital offence) and no longer in Henry VIII's or Mary's dangerous reign, students of this new form of rough 'natural science' were accepted. In Robert Turner's book, Elizabethan Magic (Turner, p. 4), he kindly lists just a few texts that he worked from. It gives us some insight into the new revolution of thought, which I would argue, held its seeds much earlier. The list is as follows:

Libri Mysteriorum, Books I-V (1581-1583)
Liber Mysteriorum Sextus et Sanctus (1583)
Libri Mysteriorum, Books VII-XVIII (1583-1587)
48 Claves Angelicae (1584)
Liber Scientiae, Auxilii et Victoriae Terrestris (1585)
A Book of Supplications and Invocations (date unknown)

Simon Forman, 1611
[Public Domain] Wikimedia Commons

Simon Forman (1552-1611) was a highly respected physician, astrologer and necromancer, showing once again how science had still not broken away from what we might now consider unscientific and downright superstitious. But he would not have been allowed to flourish without the change in monarchy. As Turner writes, 'Had fate allowed Mary more than five short bloody years to pursue her relentless persecution of all that she considered heretical, a very different Simon Forman may have emerged. For during his life Forman was to become notorious as a necromancer: expert in the arts of conjuring spirits; communication with the dead; and the manufacture of philtres; charms and talismans; aphrodisiacs and even poisons. In high places his trusted – and perhaps, feared – reputation was to earn him the title 'sweet Father Forman' (Turner, p. 91). Would Forman have abandoned his desires to pursue astrology and raising spirits if he were born half a century earlier? I seriously doubt it. Instead, he may have hidden his works and carried them out in secrecy. After Cambridge University awarded him a licence to practice his art in 1603, he was still imprisoned for a year with a heavy fine for breaking some rules put upon his 'illicit' ministrations as he was harassed by the Guild of Barber-Surgeons and the Royal College of Physicians (Turner, p. 92). This example shows how his passion for his subject overcame any restrictions put upon him by the law. Despite his dubious practices, he was the first to have noted how rats may have been responsible for the spread of plague.

Witchcraft might not have been a capital offence until 1542, but heresy was different. Texts before this Elizabethan revolution were dangerous and if found, were probably burnt. What evidence remains, can be found within the archaeological strata; wall carvings and portable antiquity. At least, that is for the English texts pre-Elizabethan era. Anna Marie Roos lists many European scholars from the medieval era onward, which used sigil and angels to perform feats of magic, Marsilio Ficino (1433–99) and Peter of Abano (ca. 1250–1316), only two of them.

Roos states further evidence in the early use of sigils and angels that has been used and seen in medieval Spain, something that would probably have been familiar to Catherine of Aragon. Although there is little evidence for English texts supporting the uses of cabalistic magic, the fact that it was about previously throughout Europe shows distinct possibility that it would have been accessible for those pursuing it. She writes: 'Inscribing the names of angels on sigils was also thought to be efficacious, a tradition begun in the thirteenth century by the increasing influence of Jewish cabalistic texts such as the Sefer Yezirah and the Sefer Razi'el. These works were used by Jewish astrologers who served as courtiers in medieval Spain, and were later incorporated in Pico della Mirandola's cabalistic theses in 1486.

Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa (1486–1535), in his Philosophia occulta siva magia (1531), also writes detailed instructions for the use of Hebrew symbols and numerology in magical sigils. At this time, nobody was awarding themselves with the title of 'magician' yet they were setting the foundations of what would become popularly known as 'Elizabethan Magic' as scholars see it today.


References:

Agrippa, Heinrich Cornelius; Philosophia occulta siva magia, 1531 (as cited by Roos)

Biggs, Robin; Witches and Neighbours, London 1996

Macfarlane, Alan; Witchcraft in Tudor and Stuart England, London 1970

Roos, Anna Marie; ‘Magic coins’ and ‘magic squares’: the discovery of astrological sigils in the Oldenburg Letters, The Royal Society (online) 2008

Turner, Robert; Elizabethan Magic, Dorset 1989

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Lizzy Drake is the author of the Tudor era Elspet Stafford Mysteries. She is currently working on book 2 of the series which involves an early Tudor 'magician' at Framlingham Castle. She has been studying Tudors for over 15 years and has a MA in Medieval Archaeology from the University of York. 

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Conversations with Angels: The Strange Life of Edward Kelley

By Nancy Bilyeau

The castle of Hrad Krivoklat, built forty kilometers west of Prague in the 12th century, possessed a Gothic chapel known for its statues of the twelve apostles, gazing at worshippers from high above. Also of note was a statue of Jesus at the altar, flanked by angels with golden wings.

Hrad Krivoklat: 

In 1591, a lone Englishman of middle age and cropped ears, Edward Kelley, was confined in this castle, which began functioning as a prison in the 16th century. Kelley, held in a cell at the command of Holy Roman Emperor Rudolf II, had decisions to make. He was no doubt forbidden to avail himself of the castle chapel while making his decisions. But if he had, those winged angels might have carried special significance to him. Perhaps they would have comforted him.

Or perhaps not.

Edward Kelly, from a 19th c drawing

After months of imprisonment, Kelly was due to be released  but for a single purpose. The emperor expected much of the man who came to Prague with the renowned John Dee in 1586. Rudolf had favored him, enriched him, spoiled him. The English commoner even held an imperial title: He was Sir Edward Kelley of Imamyi, "Baron of Bohemia," and he lived in high style in Prague.

Why did this bounty rain down on Kelly? Because Rudolf, an emotionally erratic Hapsburg obsessed with art, philosophy and magic, was convinced that Kelley possessed a secret of alchemy. There had been tantalizing glimpses of his power. However, Kelly had not come through as yet with what the emperor sought. He'd been arrested for dueling. But it was believed the true reason for his imprisonment was to force him to produce what Prague wanted to see.

While deciding what to do, Kelley reflected. This is only speculation--but might not these be the turning points that flitted through his mind:

March 1582: John Dee, scholar, astrologer, mathematician, physician, and philosopher, was in residence at his house, Mortlake, when a knock at the door produced a young man who called himself Edward Talbot, in the company of a Dee friend, Mr. Clerkson. Talbot was a name used by Edward Kelley.

John Dee

They had arrived at a prestigious address. Dee had a unique relationship with Queen Elizabeth. He was her personal astrologer--Dee selected her date of coronation--and adviser, but their meetings were discreet and their communications guarded. Courtiers at the pinnacle of her court--Robert Dudley and Christopher Hatton--also believed in Dee. But endorsement could not be open because Dee's methods skirted heresy. During the reign of Elizabeth's half-sister, Mary I, he was arrested under suspicion of casting the horoscopes of Queen Mary and Princess Elizabeth with an eye to predicting the succession. This was treason. He managed to exonerate himself, and found favor with Elizabeth but she did not financially reward him to the extent that he wished. Money worries dogged Dee for his entire life.

As for "Talbot," he was born in St. Swithin's, Worcester on August 1, 1555, according to a discovered astrological chart. Kelley may or may not have attended Oxford. He always wore his hair long or donned a monk's cowl or cap with hanging flaps to conceal the fact that his ears were missing. It was said he had been pilloried for "coining" (forging or adulterating coins) and lost his ears as punishment.

Mr. Clerkson brought Kelley to Dee because he had heard that the Queen's conjurer was in need of a new "skryer," or crystal gazer.  Such men were not uncommon. "Almost every parish, and apparently several aristocratic households, boasted a 'cunning man,' who for the price of a beer or a bed would summon spirits or tell fortunes," says The Queen's Conjurer: the Science and Magic of Dr. John Dee, Adviser to Elizabeth I.

Elizabeth I, Dee's patron

Dee had lofty motives for wanting to communicate with spirits of the other world: to elevate and unite mankind in an era of religious wars, hunger and disease. He sought to understand the universe. On his next visit to Mortlake, Kelley gave him what sounds like a winning audition. After looking into one of Dee's crystals for a quarter of an hour, Kelley said he'd made contact with an angel named Uriel, "the angel of light." Uriel had a number of messages for Dee.

Kelley was hired.

1583: A boat sailed from England, carrying Dee, Kelley and their respective families. Destination: Poland. Dee had a much younger wife named Jane and small children; Kelley had recently married a widow with children.  The trip was paid for by Albert Laski, a Polish count who came to England as an envoy to Elizabeth and was introduced to Dee and Kelley by Robert Dudley, earl of Leicester. Laski was a known dabbler in the occult, and soon spent much of his time at Mortlake.

Dee and Kelley had been focusing a tremendous amount of time on their "conferences" with angels. Kelley acted as medium, and Dee pondered the communications, which had to be decoded. The language that the various angels--Uriel was joined by Michael as well as other celestials--used was "Enochian." These were the pure words God spoke to Adam, before the Fall.  Dee sought to decode the entire language and capture the wisdom of the angels in a book.

In recent weeks, the angels, through Kelley as medium, had begun to urge Dee to leave England, at the same time that Laski was making his offer. Dee was also worried that Elizabeth's support of his work was wavering. Rumors abounded that Dee and Kelley were practicing necromancy,  which was communication with the dead. Dee did not want to clarify to anyone that it was actually angels they spoke to. Not yet. So it was time to leave England.

Dee & Kelley, raising the dead?

March 1587: Dee and Kelley, full of dread, were summoned to appear before the papal nuncio Germanico Malaspina, bishop of San Severo, in Prague, the cosmopolitan city of Bohemia.

The last four years had been difficult ones. Laski ran out of money almost the instant they arrived in Poland, and the two men and their families wandered through Central Europe, conducting their "actions" with the angels as they sought aristocratic sponsors.

They finally were given permission to present themselves in Prague, where Emperor Rudolf held court. Although Rudolf was intensely interested in magic, his court was dominated by papal and counter-Reformation forces. It was a treacherous climate. Dee had managed to obtain an audience with the reclusive Rudolf but that didn't prevent him from falling under suspicion of necromancy again. It also didn't help that Rudolf's uncle, King Philip II, was planning to declare war on Elizabeth I and all English Protestants were anathema.

Dee acquitted himself well under questioning by Bishop Malaspina, professing himself a pious man who would never cause religious discord in Prague or traffic in the black arts. Then it was Kelley's turn to speak. What he chose to say was astounding:

"It seems to me that, if one looks for counsel or remedy that might bring about a reformation in the whole church, the following will be good and obvious. While there are some shepards and ministers of the Christian flock who, in their faith and in their works, excel all others, there are also those who seem devoid of the true faith and idle in their good works. Their life is so odious to the people and sets so pernicious an example that by their own bad life they cause more destruction in the Church of God than  they could ever repair by their most elaborate, most long and most frequent discourses. And for that reason their words do not carry the necessary conviction and are wanting in profitable authority."

The papal representative remained calm. But he said later, privately, that he had wanted to "throw Kelley from a window"--a common way to resolve conflict in Prague. For a time Kelley and Dee were able to evade arrest or formal censure. But eventually the emperor turned on them. The order came to leave Prague within six days.

Vilem Rozmberk

May 1587: Dee and Kelley found a new sponsor: the wealthy Bohemian noble Vilem Rozmberk. He had a passion for alchemy and had set up several laboratories for experiments--Dee and Kelley now had one of their own. Although Dee was less than enthusiastic, Kelley threw himself into this work. Alchemy was the quest to transform base metals into noble ones--silver and gold--through the  Philosopher's Stone, a legendary elixir.

Kelley had brought with him from England a mysterious red powder he said he'd discovered buried in the ground. As a demonstration before dignitaries visiting the laboratory, Kelley dropped a speck of it into mercury held in a crucible. To all who witnessed it, shimmering gold appeared. Soon the news spread across Prague, Europe and even back to England: Kelley had discovered the Philosopher's Stone and could produce gold.

Now the balance of power between Dee and Kelley shifted. Dee wanted Kelley to communicate with the angels and obtain the wisdom of the universe. But his skryer wanted to focus on the alchemy experiments that were earning him fame. This was the time, when the angels communicated something new and shocking: Dee and Kelley must share wives.

With great reluctance, Dee's young wife slept with Kelley. Nine months later, Theodorus Dee was born. In 1589, the Dees returned to England. Kelley would never see them again.

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Emperor Rudolf II

It was not long after Dee's departure that Kelley reached his height of riches and renown. The Emperor's interest in alchemy went deeper than filling the imperial treasury. Rudolf was as unusual a ruler as Elizabeth I. He never married, recoiled from religious mania, and maintained a cautious stance among war-crazed relatives. "Wise hesitation" is what his supporters called it. His enemies found him inert and unfit to rule a Catholic empire.

One aspect of Rudolf's personality was fear of death. Alchemy's ultimate promise was immortality. He threw money, property and titles at Kelley, but there was a catch. The Englishman must deliver. He must turn base metal into gold. Despite his tantalizing experiments, Kelley could not prove his abilities to the emperor's satisfaction.

And so Kelley was imprisoned in Hrad Krivoklat. After his release, he was again given a chance to perform successful alchemic experiments. He failed. Kelley tried to flee Prague, but was captured and jailed in another imperial castle.

It is said that Edward Kelley died in 1598 after he crawled out of a Bohemian prison window and fell to the ground. Other reports say he survived to see 1600, but maintained a low profile.

He is considered a charlatan today, someone who was able to convince wise and astute people of mystical abilities ... until his tricks ran out.

But that is incorrect. Edward Kelley did perform an act of alchemy. It was on himself.


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This post is part of a continuing blog series on necromancy & prophecy in history:

From Homer to The Hobbit, the History of the Necromancer

The Duchess and the Necromancer

Prophecy: The Curse of the Tudors

U.S.: On sale $2.99 on amazon and Kindle

U.K. publisher: Orion

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Nancy Bilyeau is the author of The Crown and The Chalice, historical thrillers set in 16th century England. The protagonist is Joanna Stafford, a young novice of the Dominican Order. The next book in the trilogy will be The Covenant. To learn more, go to www.nancybilyeau.com

Henry VII and the Curse of Prophecy

By Nancy Bilyeau

The Yorkists were a hard-headed lot, basing their right to rule on bloodline. When their last king, Richard Plantagenet, was slain at the Battle of Bosworth on August 22, 1485, his devastated Yorkist supporters--as well as the rest of the country--waited to hear what claim to the throne the victor, Henry Tudor, earl of Richmond, would put forth.

It was a delicate question.

Henry VII

Tudor was the leader of the Lancastrian house, but strictly by default. Stronger claimants had been mown down a while ago. Yes, he'd won the crown in battle but there were laws in England. To hold the crown, he'd have to convince everyone he was the legitimate king. Tudor's father, Edmund, had not a drop of English royal blood; he was the son of French Queen Dowager Katherine of Valois and her Welsh servant, Owen Tudor. (And so half-brother to the last Lancaster king, Henry VI.) Through his mother, Margaret Beaufort, Henry Tudor had a stronger claim, as she was in direct descent from Edward III, but the Beauforts were barred from the succession.

We can imagine there was a certain level of suspense as the country waited. Most assumed that the newly declared Henry VII would swiftly marry Elizabeth of York, oldest living child of the dead Edward IV, and attach his weak claim to her greater one. But he did not marry her right away--it was important to him to claim the right to rule on his own.

When he invaded England with French-financed troops, Tudor had marched through his family stronghold of Wales, gaining support and men, under the banner of the red dragon: the battle standard of King Arthur and other Celtic leaders. Now it was announced that Henry Tudor was descended from Arthur himself through Cadwaladr and the Welsh chieftains who were ancestors of Owen Tudor. Genealogists had confirmed this, the skeptical court was informed. Henry's ascension was the fulfillment of prophecy.

Despite such grandiose claims, Henry married Elizabeth of York. But he did not drop the Arthur business. Far from it: He insisted that his first child be born in Winchester, sometimes identified as Camelot in legend. And when that baby boy was born, he was named...Arthur.

Le Morte D'Arthur

What could not be accidental is that in 1485 something else happened in England besides Bosworth. The first printing of Le Morte d'Arthur appeared, a compilation of tales by Sir Thomas Malory of Arthur and Guinevere, Launcelot, Mordred, and the magician Merlin. The tales were so popular, they were reprinted.

Henry VII would not be the first ruler to seize on the romance of Camelot to bolster his regime. But the direct connection of his legal claim to rule to a work of mythic entertainment is bold indeed--if not bizarre. It was as if, in 1977, the year Star Wars hit theaters, a president appeared who announced himself descended from Luke Skywalker.

But there were darker elements to this claim to Camelot. In legitimizing a mystical prophecy, Henry VII was unleashing a certain kind of power that would reach across the entire 16th century and into the 17th, bedeviling his great-great-grandson. Rebels against various Tudor regimes would repeatedly use their own prophecies to rally support. They effectively co-opted Henry VII's modus operandi, down to the symbolic banners. A frustrated Henry VIII sought to ban prophecy from his kingdom after he was nearly engulfed by seers, witches, and necromancers spouting predictions, many of them derived, allegedly, from Merlin and yet coded and obscure, open to many interpretations.

The Pilgrimage of Grace, and its many banners

"The craving to gaze into the future arises naturally in times of great danger and distress," said Madeleine Hope Dodds in the paper "Political Prophecies in the Reign of Henry VIII." It would be hard to imagine more distress caused than the Reformation and Dissolution of the Monasteries. Some of the rebels who rose up in the Pilgrimage of Grace spouted the "wisdom" of Merlin to lead them. Henry VIII was certain it played a part in the rebellion. In the same letter in which he ordered the Duke of Norfolk "you must cause such dreadful execution upon a good number of inhabitants, hanging them on trees, quartering them, and setting their heads and quarters in every town, as shall be a fearful warning," he commanded the duke "send to us the Witch of York."

Again and again, strange prophecies emerged in times of political distress in the Tudor era. After a young nobleman named Anthony Babington was arrested for a treasonous conspiracy to murder Elizabeth I and replace her with Mary Queen of Scots, a book of Merlin prophecies was found in Babington's London home.

John Dee and Edward Kelley

More than any other Tudor ruler since Henry VII, Elizabeth tried to harness prophecy, to understand it through her consultations with Dr. John Dee and his colleague, the bizarre necromancer Edward Kelley. She is the hard-headed queen, the ruler who said she had no desire for a "window into men's souls." However, she picked her coronation date based on what Dr. Dee told her to do.

It is with James VI that the brew of prophecy and the occult overflows. James was a Stuart king of Scotland, but part Tudor too, descended through both his parents--Mary Queen of Scots and Henry, Lord Darnley--from Margaret Tudor, the oldest daughter of Henry VII. 

Scotland was already a place uneasy with such fears before James VI was born. The Act of 1563 forbade anyone to use witchcraft, sorcery or necromancy or to claim any of its powers, the penalty for both witch and client being death.

James VI overseeing witch trials

As a young man, James VI became convinced that witches were trying to kill him, specifically creating storms to drown him and his bride, Anne of Denmark, as he tried to bring her to Scotland. Afterward he oversaw witch trials, ordering torture of suspects, that led to a flurry of executions. In 1597 James personally wrote an 80-page book called Daemonologie expounding on his views on the dangers of sorcery and magic. Shakespeare drew from it when writing Macbeth, considered by many a tribute to King James, with its three witches spouting eerie prophecy that would change men's destinies.

His entire life, James VI was tormented by fears of a violent death. In the end he died in his bed, the king of England and Scotland. But fears of prophecy and of witchcraft, which he'd done so much to whip into a frenzy, did not die with him; instead, the frenzy led to the deaths of more English victims, and traveled to America with the Puritan settlers, before finally loosening their hold.

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Nancy Bilyeau is the author of the historical-mystery trilogy The Crown, The Chalice and The Tapestry. To learn more, go to www.nancybilyeau.com.