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a. Copy of the novels review
b. A synopsis of the novel
c. A copy of the original press release
d. The Medieval Bedazzle Advertisement
e. The chapter outline
f. The Prologue
g. Chapter One
h. Chapter Two
i. Chapter Eight
j. Part of the Reference Section
k. The Works Cited
l. The back Cover of the novel
If you find that you are interested then please order the novel, audio book or e-Book at:
http://www.tatepublishing.com/bookstore/book.php?w=978-1-60604-695-1
Thank you for your interest,
Tecoa T. Washington, B.Sc., M.A.

Tate Publishi ng and Enterprises
The Lord gave the Word: great was the company that published it.”
-Psalms 68:11 KJV
________________________________________________________________________
Publisher’s Press Release: For Immediate Release
Contact: T r avis King, Marketing Representative t k ing@tatepublishing.com
Tate Publishing and Enterprises B o o k : M e d i e v a l B e d a z z l e
(888) 361-9473 Author: Tecoa T. Washington
New Fiction Thriller Unearths Shakespearean Mystery
Local author Tecoa T. W ashington, B.Sc., M.A. is a ground breaker in trends of academic fantasy. In her new book that
released nationwide, titled “Medieval Bedazzle,” she combines complex suspense scientific methods and historical mystery.
Medieval Bedazzle is no ordinary historical fiction novel. Tecoa took a preliminary step in helping teachers use a novel that
promotes interdisciplinary teaching and learning across the curriculum. This novel utilizes Benjamin Bloom’s taxonomy and
all four dimensions of higher-order critical thinking from analysis to evaluation. Medieval Bedazzle is intended for students
of grades eight through college level to read for pleasure while unconsciously apply higher-order thinking strategies which
help them construct deeper meaning in their reading. Despite being a highly entertaining novel on many levels, in Medieval
Bedazzle the reader will discover how the heroine of the novel utilizes K-W-L charts to organize her thinki ng. K-W-L is a
strategy in which students manage their le arning by mapping out what they Know, Want to know, and learned. Another
graphic organizer the heroine uses is the Venn Diagram. The heroine categorizes the knowledge she has already gained to
help her logically access a situation.
If you think this is only for the academic crowd, think again. Published by Tate Publishing and Enterprises, Washington’s
book tells the story of an attractive young physics teacher who, r eturning from a vacation in Britain, eavesdrops on a
conversation between five ghastly individuals. As she hears these self-proclaimed ancient spooks discussing a remarkable
Shakespearian cover-up, she is propelled into a world of furtive secr ecy and immense terror as she struggles to uncover all
that was once hidden and unlock s an i ntriguing medieval mystery. Convinced that the Bard has done King Richard III a
disservice, she sets out to prove that the much-maligned ruler was not as evil as history remembers him.
The book is available at any bookstore nationwide or can be ordered through the publisher at
www.tatepublishing.com/bookstore, or by visiti ng barnesandnoble.com, amazon.com or target.com. An a udio and ebook
version of the book also is available from the publisher.
Washington currently resides in Copiague, New York. She earned undergraduate and graduate degree from the State
University of New York at Stony Brook and is a permanently certified teacher of physics, general science and English. She
has been teaching for over a decade and received numerous awards for teaching as well as her poetry.
For more information, please contact Travis Jones, Marketing Representative, at (888) 361-9473 or send an email to “Travis
King" tking@tatepublishing.com.
###
127 E. Trade Center Terrace | Mustang, OK | Toll Free (888) 361-9473 | www.tatepublishing.com | Fax (405) 376-4401

Professional Reviews
Jerolyn E. Blackshear "Delightful sound effects, and a pleasure to listen to on
many levels: powerfully moving story, fascinating historical perspective, compelling
philosophical insight, and mesmerizing characters."- Jerolyn E. Blackshear
Penelope R. Gaylord "Unique and imaginative characters. Truly inspirational
designs that will leave a lasting impression on the reader." - Penelope R. Gaylord
Midwest Book Review History isn't always the whole truth and nothing but.
"Medieval Bedazzle" is a novel about a historical cover up, concerning how the
truth of history around Shakespeare's time is threatening to ruin the careers of
some historians. An English King's true legacy is called into question; opposing
Shakespeare all those years ago may have cast a nasty light on him that is
undeserved. But the fallibility of one of history's most beloved writers makes the
truth unappealing, and it's up to a single young physics teacher to call who is right-
-the bard or history. "Medieval Bedazzle" is an intriguing spin on the world of
Shakespeare, highly recommended! COPYRIGHT 2009 Gale, Cengage Learning
Asian Princess:
Bedazzling piece on king Richard III I read this novel because this highly
interesting author was on facebook. I saw her status as being, "Tecoa T.
Washington is excited that her novel is being released on Saint Patrick’s Day giving
her further reason to celebrate. There really is a rainbow... What a lucky treasure!"
This had caught my interest. Tecoa Washington is an author I wonder what she
writes. So I contacted Tecoa directly on the site and she explained to me what
inspired her to write the novel and referred me to her website---
www.tecoawashington.tw. I was able to listen to chapter one which played while I
was looking at pictures of the characters in the gallery. The website was done
simply beautiful. As I listened to the audio clip, I was so enthralled by the writing, I
purchased the novel. I have to admit that it has been quite sometime since I read
something so intriguing and challenging. I recommend this new authors work to
anyone who has not yet had the opportunity to "BE DAzzled!"
Pamela Guerrieri (literary judge, RWA)“Fresh … provocative …
innovative. Medieval Bedazzle offers a unique look at history with a
creative twist. Be entertained, be educated, be dazzled!” — Pamela
Guerrieri (literary judge, RWA)
Monte Marlowe
Medieval Bedazzle is a treasure and a masterpiece. With breathtakingly
extensive original research, it is beautifully written, in a style both inviting
and impressive. It is the fruit of an successful project that Washington
undertook in an effort to reintroduce science history and literature to the
canons of students in schools world wide.

Medieval Bedazzle
Copyright © 2009 by Tecoa T. Washington, B.Sc., M.A. All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any way by
any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of
the author except as provided by USA copyright law.
Scripture quotations marked “nkjv” are taken from The New King James Version / Thomas Nelson
Publishers, Nashville: Thomas Nelson Publishers. Copyright © 1982. Used by permission. All
rights reserved.
The opinions expressed by the author are not necessarily those of Tate Publishing, LLC.
Published by Tate Publishing Enterprises, LLC
127 E. Trade Center Terrace | Mustang, Oklahoma 73064 USA
1.888.361.9473 | www.tatepublishing.com
Tate Publishing is committed to excellence in the publishing industry. The company reflects the
philosophy established by the founders, based on Psalm 68:11,
“The Lord gave the word and great was the company of those who published it.”
Book design copyright © 2009 by Tate Publishing, LLC. All rights reserved.
Characters designed by Tecoa T. Washington, B.Sc., M.A.
Cover design by Tecoa T. Washington Penelope R. Gaylord
Interior design by Tecoa T. Washington Penelope R. Gaylord
Illustration by Penelope R. Gaylord Jerry A. Gaylord
Published in the United States of America
ISBN: 978-1-60604-695-1
1. Fiction: Christian: Classic Allegory
2. Education: Teaching Methods Materials: Arts Humanities
08.11.24

Acknowledgments
You know that you’re loved when you’re well past your youth, past your
teens, past your twenties, and going beyond thirty; yet grown as you
are, you can always cry without shame on the shoulders of your family
as though you’re no more than a tiny baby. I have been blessed with
the strongest arms, fiercest hearts, and most magnificiant minds that
could be held inside of one family. Brothers that would make anybody
look upon them with admiration they are so amazing … parents who
would melt the heart of saints … grandparents who would cause you to
believe they were best friends rather than wise souls who birthed your
parents … aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews who would turn the
heads of anyone passing them by, for they would be curious to know,
who are those extraordinary people? That is the family life I have been
blessed with, and I would like to express my deepest love and thanks for
all those above who helped inspire and make my writing a possibility.
An extra special thank-you goes to the individuals whose very existence
helped influence the direction of my novel.
Saving the best for last, for this glorious being is never least in my
heart; a tremendous thank-you to God for the blessings, knowledge, and
skills bestowed upon me. I know there is a higher power that loves me, for
in times of trouble I feel that love holding tight to me, offering me plenty

hope even when I don’t seem to trust there is some. When times are good,
I feel the blessings of an amazing being. I know without having to be told
that there is a power so great in the heavens that loves me. I know, for
when I attempted to sky dive for the first time and bit my lip down, trem-
bling all over with fear, I felt that love follow me into the small aircraft
and accompany my fall. I am never alone. Never, for God is always there
loving me and protecting me even in my darkest hour.

Contents
PROLOGUE: Insight into the Author 11
Incognito—Generating Razzle-Dazzle 18
Fight or Flight 38
The Envelope 45
My Ears Hear—My Eyes See—Yet I Do Not Believe 54
A Moment to Myself 65
Conscience Is an Utterance of Cowards 71
White Rose of York 76
All the King’s Horses and All the King’s Men 90
Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of King Richard 103
Behold my Enchantingly Fragrant Dream 114
Dreamed a Little Dream of Me 122
Hidden Dance of Adonis 130
Disfigured Monstrosity—Vicious Reality or Whitewash? 138
Two Can Play at this Game 146

Assassination, Murder, and Skepticism 160
Beauty and the Beasts 176
Humbled by the Mercy of My Savior 200
Sounds Are Sweet, But Those Unheard Are Sweeter 230
EPILOGUE: Anachronistic Razzle-Dazzle
Ultimately De-Frazzled 242
TECOA’S REFERENCE:
(A special gift created just for you, my beloved reader) 245
WORKS CITED 306

Prologue
Insight into the Author
I will never forget my first year teaching in Long Island. I taught
ninth grade Earth science and tenth grade biology at Amityville High
School. My evenings consisted of teaching the tenth and twelfth grades
English at Amityville’s Alternative High School. I spoke with the prin-
cipal regarding a written proposal I had submitted requesting permis-
sion to utilize my idea to teach “The study of Scientific Supernatural
Phenomena” with my English classes. She seemed apprehensive because
I was a young teacher working with “at risk” students. The students had
to attend night school because they were either in danger of failing in
day school or had behavioral problems.
Ultimately, the principal agreed to allow me to break from the tradi-
tional curriculum since I was teaching non-Regents courses. At that time,
New York State mandated the Regents Examinations. Students were
required to complete a mandated amount of work in a given timeframe in
order to pass the Regents. However, this hindered educators, as they were
denied the freedom to conduct tangent projects during the semester.
My experience working in four distinctly different outreach pro-
grams influenced the principal’s decision to allow me to undertake the
11

12 Tecoa T. Washington, B.Sc., M.A.
project. After observing my classes, formally and informally (see Tecoa’s
Reference section), the principal realized that I possessed the skills of a
master teacher. In combining my knowledge of science within the
English curriculum, I used an unusual approach to teaching. Naturally, the
students were apprehensive at first. Not one student welcomed learning
science in an English class.
However, when they realized that science could be combined with
the study of their favorite television shows and movies, they began to
relax. They understood how natural it was to apply science to a piece of
literature they were reading. For clarification, by combining the study
of scientific supernatural phenomena with literature, my students read
Shakespeare’s Macbeth and Hamlet, Bram Stoker’s Dracula, along with
two books based on the TV show The X-Files and Lawrence M. Krauss’s
The Physics of Star Trek.
I assigned students a few science experiments and created fictional
stories to hypothesize what they studied. In one lesson I distributed
to each group of four students an envelope containing sixteen bank
checks, each from a fictitious character. When directed, a group mem-
ber removed four checks from the envelope without looking and placed
them on the table. The group examined the data written on the checks
and tried to formulate a tentative hypothesis to explain the storyline
represented by the checks. This procedure was repeated three times,
adding four checks to the data set each time. This method allowed all
sixteen checks to be slowly removed from the envelope, allowing the
students time to form a hypothesis and revise their original thoughts
based on the accumulating data.
Simulating the collaborative nature of the scientific field, I allowed each
group a few minutes to compare data with the other groups. Since each
group drew checks at random, the data that the groups collected varied. In
an attempt to explain the lives of the characters who wrote the checks, the
members of each group presented their hypothesis when instructed.
After successfully incorporating science with English, I decided to
teach Richard III from a scientific perspective. Shakespeare’s tragedy

Medieval Bedazzle 13
is an unflattering depiction of an evil king who has been the object of
abuse and morbid fascination for many years. Because the storyline is so
outrageously unbelievable to me, this play was one of my favorite
Shakespearian works as a graduate student. After I successfully developed
lessons coupling Richard III with science, I began to write an original book
designed to demonstrate, in an interactive way, how students could apply
the scientific method to literature.
As I was an inexperienced teacher at that time, I naturally made the
mistake of summing up Shakespeare’s play and then allowing the stu-
dents to read it on their own. My intention was to spark their interest, to
excite and stimulate their curiosity, so that they would read each chapter
to learn the true nature of King Richard III. Because their minds were
so focused on my summary of the play, they approached reading it in
the wrong way. The proper way to have them read the play would have
been to allow them to form their own questions before exposing them
to my own interpretations.
I began the lesson by saying, “Picture yourself as the head of your
favorite organization. You received the post following the violent deaths
of three others who were ahead of you in line for the job. Picture a
loathsome man who has worked at the company ten years longer than
you but has fewer credentials. He approaches you and congratulates you
on your new position. He smells, dare I say it, like an animal’s anal sac
fluid. He is physically deformed, with a hunched back and one arm half
as long as the other.
“With the violent deaths of your colleagues, he just happens to be
next in line to head the organization if you decide to leave. This strange
man tells you that although he hardly ever talks to you, he finds you to
be interesting. He tells you that he has traveled to exotic places and met
new and unusual faces, but yours is by far the most extraordinary face
he has ever seen.
“Worried that the tone of his voice implies that he has an unhealthy
face fetish, you take a step back from him. Not accepting your move, he
counters it by stepping closer to you. This time he is practically nose-

to-nose with you. His breath is foul and his face dirty. You cannot help
but wonder how such a filthy man could have secured a position in the
company. He claims he has been watching you and that you do not
deserve a promotion. Then he steps back on one leg and stabs at your
face with a large pocketknife he had previously concealed from you.”
Once the students were hooked, I explained that this was the type of
person Shakespeare created in Richard III. Next, I provided my students
with a brief historical background of Richard III. My intention was to
summarize events in a way that grabbed their attention and compelled them
to want to read about medieval history.
I explained that King Richard III was a man of British royalty
who was deformed from birth in a way similar to Quasimodo in the
Hunchback of Notre Dame. I told them that Richard III was the third son
of Richard, Duke of York, and a descendent of King Edward III. When
Richard was just eight years old, his eldest brother, Edward IV, deposed
King Henry VI and assumed the throne. Richard was then appointed
the Duke of Gloucester and sent to live with Richard Neville, the Earl
of Warwick, for his education. While in Yorkshire, Richard met and fell
in love with Warwick’s youngest daughter, Lady Anne.
Meanwhile, Edward IV had married a commoner named Elizabeth
Woodville and then forbidden Richard and his brother George, Duke
of Clarence, from marrying the Earl of Warwick’s daughters. George
disregarded his brother’s order and married Anne’s older sister, Isabel,
precipitating bad blood in the family. George and Warwick joined
together in rebellion against Edward. They formed an alliance with
Margaret of Anjou (the former queen of Henry VI), killing Queen
Elizabeth’s father and brother and restoring Henry VI to the throne.
Edward and Richard were forced to flee the country for a short time.
Presently they reconciled with George, and the three brothers rejoined
to overthrow Henry VI at the Battle of Barnet. After some time, in a
plot to gain access to the throne, Richard plotted the murder of both of
his brothers. He ordered King Edward killed and drowned his brother
George in a butt of malmsey wine. “  …  Clarence hath not another day to

live  …  ” (Richard III Act I Scene 2). King Edward was survived by two
young princes, a queen, and her daughter.
I illustrated why Richard III would never have become king if his broth-
ers were not murdered. I described how he personally killed a woman’s
husband and declared that her beauty compelled him to do it. I explained
that just moments after her husband’s death, he told her that he had
butchered him to stake a claim on her. This widow, Lady Anne Neville,
was the daughter of Richard Neville, the Earl of Warwick. Richard III
won a sinister bet with himself that he could win her affections.
When Richard III’s elder brother died and the throne passed to
his son,†Richard’s nephew Edward V, Richard was made “Lord High
Protector of the Realm.”†Edward V was only twelve years old and needed
someone to help him rule. As the boy was not stable on the throne,
Richard and the boy’s maternal family battled for control.†Edward V’s
mother hailed from the House of Lancaster, which had waged a one-
hundred-year war for the throne known as the War of the Roses, with
King Edward IV’s House of York.
Not being the loving uncle he should have been, Richard III knew
that he would not become king if his brother’s children grew up to
ascend to the throne. So he had the boy king, Edward V, and nine-
year-old Richard, Duke of York, locked in the Tower of London and
eventually beheaded. Once nobody stood in the way of Richard and
his ultimate goal, Parliament recognized his claim to the throne, and
he was crowned king on June 26, 1483. By killing most of his relatives,
the thirty-year-old king left his mother, Queen Elizabeth Woodville,
distraught with grief.
In hindsight, I should have asked the students to read the play on
their own, without giving them this overview. I should have introduced
the subject of Richard III by saying, “Shakespeare’s Richard III will pique
your interest and stimulate your imagination. If you read Shakespeare’s
play and the history of King Richard III at the same time, you will see
that there are things written in his play that have no satisfactory expla-
nation. You will discover that inaccuracies and contradictions exist in

Shakespeare’s version of events. Several historical aspects of Richard III’s
life remain a mystery and have intrigued historians for hundreds of years,
such as the fate of the two little princes in the Tower of London. Although
several hypotheses have been advanced about what became of Edward V
and his younger brother Richard, Duke of York, there is no definitive
evidence for any of them.
I should have said that discrepancies in the records of King Richard
III have been debated for well over five centuries and none of the theo-
ries have been proven. Richard III is the story of the betrayals perpe-
trated by an evil king during his life and even after his death. As with
any good mystery, the more you study the findings of others, the more
you will find yourself asking, “What is the real truth to the history of
King Richard III?”
Because of the approach I took, Richard III was a hero in the eyes
of the students instead of a monster. My classroom became a Richard III
fan club, and my students seemed to share all their dirty little Richard
III findings with other students outside the class. They were mesmer-
ized by the tale and wanted to hear more about Richard III and even
other plays written by Shakespeare. Students who barely participated in
class wanted to know where they could learn more about Richard III,
and they practically begged me to do a book report on “the man.”
They also referred to Richard as “homey” and “the bomb.” It amused
me to imagine King Richard III turning over in his grave at being
referred to as the bomb five hundred years after his death. The students
even took it upon themselves to rent a movie about Richard III. They
became so enthralled in the story that I was excited and worried at the
same time. Students were researching and learning, but they were find-
ing out all the wrong things. They were misinformed about the history
of King Richard III, because the truth was distorted both by historians
and by Shakespeare himself. Through their research, they believed that
King Richard III represented someone forbidden and daring who did
as he pleased without paying the consequences.
One day after the students left the classroom, I saw a crumbled

piece of paper lying on the floor. I was going to throw it out, but I hesi-
tated when I read the name Richard. I opened the slip of paper and saw
what a student had written. It said, “Yo Octavia, you know, the more I
think about it, you’re right, girl. That king is whack. That dude Richard
must have had mad brains and skills yo; that dude was a pimp, a player,
he was no joke.”
Again, it was clear that the history of King Richard III had a way of
grabbing the attention of the multitudes. I know that when I was in
graduate school, it certainly captured my imagination.

Incognito
Generating Razzle-Dazzle
When clouds are seen, wise men put on their cloaks;
When great leaves fall, then winter is at hand;
When the sun sets, who doth not look for night?
Citizen #3 by William Shakespeare: Richard III, ACT II,
SCENE III, London, a street.
Looking to the sky for answers is human nature. You look up, you stop, you
wonder. At times you even get the sense that all is right with the world.
Your future is bright and promising. Then, as you walk away, thinking
that all is well, fate may step in without warning and cast a dark cloud
over your perfect existence. You may try to inquire about this cloud. How
did it get there? Why did it come? But fate never answers. This is because
man, in his arrogance, has forgotten his history and rarely thinks back to
the major ancient players that many millenniums ago amused themselves
by toying with the minds of mortals, using deliberate ironic intent. Men
struggle through their lives oblivious to one strikingly impressive divinity
that never answers to man. For she is Fate, or the Greek goddess Fates:
such a lovely name for such a consequential force of nature. Her precious
Grecian robes are white, bearing the markings of the most important
18

symbol in Ancient Greece, the Greek fret, symbolizing the meandering
labyrinths of life. Mere mortals unwittingly are at the mercy of the throw of
her dice, for even as she may decree to a man a kingdom, chances are,
eventually, she will blow it away.
For Fate is a high roller who plays dares with a slender hand of
unsurpassed softness and strength. The goddess strokes her golden dice
with her thumb as she stands, majestic and proud, watching and wait-
ing until she deems the time right to rattle and roll her sentence. If you
listen closely, you can hear the golden cubes smashing life-altering deci-
sions together; tumbling endless possibilities inside her palm.
KKKRAACK … Rat-tat-TatLe … cLiCk … SwoOoosh -
CLACK!
Fate lay in wait for me that summer. The vacation months arrived and
thus began my travel to the country that beckoned to me. Great Britain,
home to magic and legends! My sense of wanderlust had caused me to book
the most exhilarating, otherworldly, and perilous adventure I had taken in
quite a while. I had booked a tour, code named “Mythology, Ancient
Sites, Mysteries of Great Britain,” and joined a group of international
men and women who met in London from places as far as Australia and
Inner Mongolia to explore the history, mystery, Celtic teachings, ancient
sites, and more. We journeyed through this incred-ible land—meeting
wonderful people, learning history as it came alive everywhere we traveled.
Naturally, mythic things are bound to happen when you visit mysti-
cal and mythical lands. So abracadabra, with an all-too-perfect roll of
her dice, Fate allowed me two weeks of splendor on my tour of Great
Britain. It was a holiday never-to-be-forgotten, complete with the
visiting of fairytale regions, exploring the mysteries of Inverness and
Cawdor Castle, touring the alluring western highlands and the famed
Loch Ness and laughing in awe as I made a stop in Wales at the world’s
longest-named railway station:
Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch.
One morning during the tour, asleep in my hotel room, I was
awakened by the sounds of Beethoven jingling from my cell phone.

Relatives were contacting me, wanting to know if I were all right.
They hastened to give me details of the latest news flash. Apparently, that
night, whilst I was in deep slumber, there had been a major breach of
security at the nearby Warwick Castle in Warwickshire, England. Past
the drawbridge and beyond the now barren moat, an ominous sealed
envelope had fluttered on the back of a strong breeze in the center of
the Great Hall, “the heart of castle.”
News reports said the note was imperiously addressed to “all citizens
of the United Kingdom.” The puzzling envelope had been sealed with
a thick blood-red wax that depicted several hands anxiously reaching
toward one another but seemingly unable to touch. Experts claimed the
seal represented the bloody cries of Warwick’s past prisoners.
Inside this curious envelope was a letter containing a dismal warn-
ing that spoke of a soon-to-be summoning of ancient spirits belonging
to those who died under King Richard’s reign. The letter warned of a
trial for all of England to bear witness, held by the late great king who
had lived in Warwick Castle. According to these reports, this mysteri-
ous letter mentioned two princes and a sacrificial offering preceding
this ceremony. The warning gave no dates. No times. Only the location:
the Bloody Tower of London.
That came along with a promise that Richard would not be so easily
forgotten. King Richard who? There were several kings by the name of
Richard. The clue given to which king it might have been was the one
saying that the king had once lived in Warwick Castle. Yet again the
question remained, “Which king?” for more than one Richard lived in
the castle. The letter ended by saying, “The bones may be long buried,
but the history is not.”
No fingerprints. No DNA traces. Just a warning! Headlines called the
incident, “The Return of Ancient Spooks.” Thus, from a bygone era, this
letter surely brought chaos to modern-day lives.
It was then that the tranquility of my vacation was shattered. The
whole thing seemed surreal as the newscast urged awareness across the
land. As morning broke into a beautiful day, my cell phone continued

shattering my thoughts. Lying in my four-star hotel bed, head propped
up on two faux down pillows, my family begged me to end my vacation
early. Whether they believed in such marchen or not, they weren’t com-
fortable with the vast media attention the threat was receiving. They
bombarded me with questions. Who was Richard? I did not know, for
I never fully paid attention to the reports. I did not know if they found
which king it was. Who were these two princes? I didn’t know what
princes the media was referring to either. I did know that Warwick
Castle was known for its haunted towers and turrets inhabited by a
swarm of ghouls and unearthly creatures. It wasn’t unusual for ghost
hunters to run experiments using the latest paranormal apparatuses,
testing out some of the castle’s most infamous ghost tales.
There was an eerie sense about the hotel where I was staying and
the surrounding area. Those who visited the Tower of London in the
aftermath of the Warwick break-in claimed that they could hear the
whimpers of the two young princes amidst the howling of the wind that
whooshed through the chilly tower. Many declared they heard the faint
rattle of chains accompanied by the rising, piercing screams of undead
children, said to be the ghosts of the young princes. They claimed the
children were dressed in white nightgowns and clutching each other in
terror. Clearly these child apparitions received news of the letter and
were resultantly aroused. Were they agitated from fear or glee? No one
could say. Witnesses said they were moved to pity and longed to reach
out and console the pathetic specters. But had they done so, the trem-
bling revenants would no doubt have backed slowly against the wall and
faded into the fabric. It had seemed that the “Mythology, Ancient Sites,
Mysteries of Great Britain” tour had given this woman much more
than she had bargained for! I mentally made a note that upon reach-
ing America, I might just rant and rave about this tour to everyone; for
despite it all, the company exceeded my expectations and truly took me
to a sort of mythopoeia.
Few outside the media dared talk about what was happening in
Britain, but it was clearly on everyone’s mind. Then again, how could it

not? Hotel staff brushed it off as “traditional British folklore.” Tourists
waved their hands saying, “Ah, it’s nothing.” Yet their stiff upper lip of
skepticism was all too often betrayed by a fleeting look of worry. The
signs of public distress came in various ways, however. I could hear
fellow tourists on the phone, talking to their families, reassuring them
that there were no signs of terrorism. And the frightened look upon the
locals’ faces did nothing for the spirits of the tourists. I did not quite
understand the overall panic that now seemed to hit the region, but I
knew it was indeed time to cut my vacation four days short.
Nobody was apprehended, although the news spread like an
international wildfire. Obviously it was a hoax. Yet, unless I returned home,
I knew my cell phone would never give me peace. Great Britain was
crawling with dragons, witches, warlocks, psychic healers, water diviners,
and someone just around the corner gazing into a crystal ball, ready to tell
you your future. Britain was all about enchanted tales, yet I did not for a
second believe the hype.
It was while preparing to leave the majestic isle that a sense of fore-
boding drove me to eavesdrop on a discussion between a small group
of strangers, causing my world, as I had known it, to change forever. A
piece of advice: if you cherish your life, it is not a good idea to spy on
individuals who appear menacing unless you are a trained professional.
I am no professional, and it cost me dearly. Fate, learning of my planned
departure from Britannia, rolled her mystical dice, and suddenly things
changed for the worse.
I had scheduled a midnight flight from London’s Heathrow Airport to
JFK, trying desperately to escape the oft-cruel goddess. But I learned that it
is not possible to escape the grasp of Fate. If the goddess likes you, she
will spare your life and reward you with a kiss full of promise and endless
possibilities, but if she does not, she laces her kiss with venom, and your
chances of survival are slim.
Envision yourself standing in a long, slow-moving line at a busy air-
port, growing more impatient by the minute as you wait to check in your
luggage. The airport is jam-packed. Much like all the other international

travelers waiting desperately to get to their destinations, you arrive at the
airport three hours early so that you might pass through all the extra
security measures without missing your flight. You are agitated because,
although the tickets were prepaid months ago, you are forced to stand in a
huge line to scan your passport. The mind-numbing wait is unavoidable.
Making your way to the touch-screen computer, you insert your
credit card to verify information in the system. Naturally, you would
rather speak to an agent than be subjected to a self-service computer, but
you comply with the rules and wait like all the others. You marvel at the
concept of waiting in line just to serve yourself!
Of course, there’s a reason for everything. The self-service mod-
ules are meant to provide you with a smoother experience by helping
you avoid the long lines usually associated with check-in at a counter.
However, after feeding the computer the information and being issued
a receipt, you still have to wait because you have bags that need to be
tagged and weighed. It’s becoming arduous, like going through a maze.
A three-dimensional, figure-eight maze to be exact. Therefore, just
when you go up and around and reach your goal, you’re being sent back
across the way and around the bend to boomerang back to where you
were supposed to be in the first place.
That’s when it happens! Your eyes start to scope the vicinity, looking
for adventure, much the way a bloodhound’s nose sniffs the scene of a
crime. It doesn’t take long. Within seconds you spot a group of five pecu-
liar-looking individuals standing in nearby line. They stand out because
they seem unusually animated and highly strung. Eccentric people are
not that uncommon in a bustling international airport. However, you
must admit, you’re finding it particularly odd that two of the men are
elderly hunchbacks wearing black robes of the type associated with reli-
gious servitude. Another man wears similar robes, but the shade is a sort
of pea green. The fourth man, swathed in a blue robe, stretches the limits
of his garments with an ample belly. You also notice that all four men
are adorned with black top hats, and their robes stop two inches short
of their ankles, exposing black pant legs. The gender and age of the fifth

person is … well … hidden. Unlike the others, this person wears a
menacing hood and bears more than a passing resemblance to the Grim
Reaper. Where is his face? you wonder. You look, but you can’t see it. He
stands at an angle that unimaginably seems to defy the light.
This was my experience, and although I don’t know what you would
have done, I accepted Fate’s challenge. I allowed my curiosity to take
over and began to size up the figures. It was entertaining to say the least,
for they certainly stood out in their ridiculous robes and old-fashioned
black top hats, all of which seemed tailor-made to present an old-world
flair. It was a Sunday, a typical day of ceremonious worship for those
blessed enough to believe in a higher power. More than a few passen-
gers unable to attend their synagogues, churches, mosques, cathedrals,
or preferred place of worship offered up short prayers as they waited to
board their flights. Some wore the clothes of their religion, and others
clutched rosary beads. Yet despite the fact that their robes resembled
those worn by monks, there was nothing about the men that struck me
as typical. Nor did their appearance announce “assassin” or “gangster” or
any other sort of common bad guy. Rather, they presented a haunting
authority and an air of fierce primordial danger.
I couldn’t be sure if my suspicions were warranted or if my overactive
imagination was simply providing me with relief from my extreme bore-
dom. I studied the angles of their frustrated faces not hidden by the rims
of their hats, looking for some indication of normalcy. Likewise I exam-
ined their body language, mannerisms, posture, and facial expressions—
all of which continued to scream, “Don’t dare come near us! Fear us! We
cannot be touched by the law.” Even their unheard conversation appeared
so extremely intense that I felt compelled to find out more about them.
I heard Fate’s rattle. KKKRAACK  …  Rat-tat-TatLe  …  cLiCk  …  
SwoOoosh  …  CL-LACK! Fate rolled her dice, and my attention, no matter
how misplaced, had been irrevocably snared.
I gradually reached the check-in counter and handed over my pass-
port. Placing my bags on the scale, a dizzying blackness crept up on my
senses. I realized I had been holding my breath. Inhaling deeply, I could

feel the air flowing down through my windpipe, past my voice box to
where the lowermost ribs meet in the center of my chest. Feeling as if I
had just performed an incredible magic act, a burst of energy filled me
from within. I completed the check-in process and made my way through
customs. But when I reached my departure gate, there was more waiting
to be done. Routine delays kept us anxious travelers grounded. Bracing
myself for another two hours inside the crowded airport, I looked around
at the other passengers. That’s when I saw them again, the five mysteri-
ous brethren! They had entered the same waiting area and were once
again huddled close together with the same deeply intense facial expres-
sions. ClAsH-ClAM-ClAnK! Fate rolled her dice again.
On closer examination, the men appeared to be shouting as blue neck
veins popped up and their jaws opened wide; yet their voices sounded
quiet and most discreet. Looking intensely at each other, two of them
began to speak in unison while another held up a distressed brown leather
book, which appeared to be the object of their passionate discussion. Like
an old volume discovered in a medieval monastery, the leather seemed
as time worn as old flesh. The man holding the antediluvian book had a
belly that shot out larger than life, and I wondered if he had to purchase
two seats on the aircraft to accommodate his wide girth.
Weary and disinclined to spend the last of my British pounds shop-
ping in the duty-free store, I slid into a nearby seat. I avoided eye con-
tact with the men. Slowly pulling my jacket over my body like a blanket,
I pretended to be sleeping. In actuality I eavesdropped on a bizarre
conversation in the mysterious group, who now appeared to be scholars
of some sort.
Peeking out through partially shut eyelids, I could only catch a glimpse
of one of the men, who happened to be in my direct line of sight. This
was the man with the green robe whose shoulders permanently leaned
forward to meet the tips of his earlobes. One of his eyes was rather gro-
tesque and appeared to be glass. The eye didn’t quite fit properly into its
socket; it rolled oddly and was obviously not a biological part of his body.
There was also a patch of hair missing from the side of his head. The

affected area seemed four times darker than the rest of his scalp. It looked
like burned steak. Upon further observation it was clear that there were
several smaller burned patches under his hair as well. Horrified, I closed
my eyes and tried to put the image of this man out of my mind. I pushed
myself deeper into my seat; my jacket was wrapped around me like a
Kevlar blanket, and sweat oozed from every available pore.
It seemed that these ivory-skinned men were on a mission from the
spouting of accusatory words such as conspiracy, cover-up, false records,
tampering with evidence, and a well-known yet well-kept secret. They
applied the old “see no evil, hear no evil” adage to a cover-up concern-
ing who got to be the king and who got to control the king. King? That
word. I knew that I was in Great Britian, so clearly the locals would
speak not of a president but of a king. Yet that word … the way these
men said it … The word seemed to instill a slight dread within me and
make me wonder about things I couldn’t quite bring myself to take into
account. So instead I listened.
I was able to hear perfectly what the men were saying despite their
soft conspiratorial whispers amid the din of the bustling airport. From
what I could gather, the men were outraged. Apparently one of the men
in the group had discovered that university professors, as well as the
public, were being deprived of information that could reshape history
as we know it, all because of a huge whitewash by historians. It seemed
that many of the things they learned in university about the House of
York and the early Tudor era (see Tecoa’s Reference section) were perhaps
not true. They had since done extensive research in dusty encyclopedias
and new works from several distant libraries and had confirmed what
they had been told about the shocking cover-up.
As far as I could recall, Tudor England was a period of great change
for the British people. I knew that there had been religious turmoil
as the reformation swept through Europe. The conversation held me
riveted; as an ex-scholar of one of the world’s premier research univer-
sities; as a person who holds a double major in British literature and
mathematical physics; as a physics graduate taught by two Nobel Prize

winners, one of whom was a student of Einstein himself; as a scientist
who lives off a solid foundation of fact and is trained to solve equations
and delight in finding proof upon proof; and as an educator who sepa-
rates fact from fiction; this conversation had no choice but to hold my
undivided attention.
What did they mean when they argued that historical and literary
works of that time period were out of print or otherwise difficult to
locate? As I peeked out from under my jacket, I noticed that the lips of
the man in the onyx robe, nearest to my line of sight, were badly mis-
shapen. His lower lip was caked with both fresh and dried blood that
seemed to be a result of persistent biting at the peeling skin. The sight
nauseated me, and I had to control the urge to vomit on the lounge
floor. While fighting with my gorge, I must have missed a key comment
made by one of the men, for by the time I refocused; they were spitting
on the floor and using their antique leather boots to rub their germy
spittle into the floor with an eerie intensity.
Then they began to recite a disturbing and malicious chant:
“Denounce Shakespeare, condemn his spirit to Milton’s merciless pan-
demonium, or cast his soul down to Dante’s infinite circles of hell.”
With the falling pitch of their voices, they switched from chanting to
preaching, making references to John Milton’s Paradise Lost (see Tecoa’s
Reference section). Always at the end of their preaching came the chanting of
the same solemn words, over and over.
One of the men asked another in a conspiratorial tone, as though he
were harboring dangerous secrets, “Would you say you are very proud,
quite proud, not very proud, or not at all proud to be British?” The
men had stepped a bit closer to me, but I still could not see the speaker
clearly from under my jacket. I was only able to see his flat loafers with
crackled burnished leather detailing. Mother always said, “Ah, but dear,
you can tell a lot by a man’s shoes.” She was right! The riveting detail in
these vintage shoes suggested that this was a man who possessed great
wealth and was bewitched by a more pulchritudinous century.

SLAM! My head swelled with possibilities, and I could have sworn I
heard the rattle of Fate’s dice ringing in my ears.
The man he was talking to hesitated as though it would be his last
utterance if he didn’t get his answer exactly right. With a Scottish accent
filled with terror and tremors, he responded in an equally low whisper. “Of
course. Yah-yes. Qui-quite pa-proud; rather ve-very proud. Well, ye bah-
bloody well know I’m proud!”
I wanted madly to get a look at him, however, was afraid to expose
myself and so remained huddled behind my jacket. This allowed me
only to glimpse the man’s tailor-made shoes as he stepped backwards,
away from his accuser. Those shoes! They were shoes that should have
been mounted on a pedestal like a fine sculpture. They were shoes as
antique as his brethren and just as stunning: they boasted a square toe
and asymmetrical two-tone mushroom brown leather. I could tell from
the size of his pant leg that he was a man of notable girth and surmised
that he was the one draped in blue. It was hard to conceive that these
men, wearing such finely crafted shoes, which appeared to have been
made in another time and place, could treasure such wealth.
“Then how can you declare yourself clever yet demonstrate mas-
sive ignorance toward the works of one of England’s literary giants?
Do you even know what ‘pandemonium’ means? Like a foolish child
who doesn’t grasp certain meanings, you’ve used the term improperly!
Superb as Paradise Lost - Book I was, the final part, the construction of
Pandemonium, the capital of hell, was by far the most impressive. As
a member of the order, I’d expect you to know this. Pandemonium is a
Latin term for ‘all devils’ place’ or ‘place of all devils’ and is constructed
to be a sort of chaotic meeting hall for demons.”
The man stopped. I couldn’t see him, but I assumed from the dis-
tinctive angle of his tailored loafer that he had turned to look at the
rest of the passengers in the lounge. Addressing all the men in the
same guileful tone, he said, “Have you each considered that perhaps
Pandemonium is too great an honor to cast upon a degenerate such as
Shakespeare? I’m aware of the saying, ‘There can be no honor amongst

thieves.’ It has also been said that greed is stronger than loyalty, and that
no promise is safe from the corruption of fame and power.”
It was then I realized that they were arguing over the fate of
Shakespeare’s everlasting soul. How intriguing, I thought. Who spends their
time in an airport discussing the fate of Shakespeare’s soul?
“But, my comrades, surely you must agree that even within the
shadows, some order must be held. There in Pandemonium, alliances
are kept through a careful balance of lies. And though indeed there may
be no honor among the mischievous fiends, there is respect amid dis-
trust. I rather wish William to be a damned soul held prisoner, unable
to plead or bargain with his eloquent lies. Tied and chained to the end-
less burning lake in hell is where he ought to be; never again having the
opportunity to lie, and therefore unable to earn any form of respect.”
Without ado the men expressed their agreement and proceeded
to second the wish that the Bard spend eternity in that place of fire
and torture that Milton had described. Their conversation wandered,
incorporating new references to Dante Alighieri’s Inferno, particularly
to Malebolge, from The Divine Comedy (see Tecoa’s Reference section).
“M-maleb bah boge?” asked another voice, more seductive than the
others, in speech that seemed slurred rather than hesitant. Though still
unable to see their faces because of my position under the infuriating
jacket, the speaker stepped forward to reveal a grainy yet glazed forest
green leather box-toed half-boot. I immediately recognized him to be the
man with the pea-colored robe.
“Did you not read The Divine Comedy? Unbelievable! The prefix male
means ‘evil’ and bolgia is a word in the Tuscan dialect for ‘purse’ or ‘pouch.’
Malebolge, therefore, translates to ‘evil pouches.’ Even the term is suitable
for the Bard, for it means a place where he is kept away, held captive for all
eternity. We agree, don’t we, that Shakespeare was the most misleading
writer of all time? Then what could be a more fitting reward for the master
of deception?”
Another of the men spoke in a strong accent, yet his creepy conde-
scending tone suggested he could see things that others couldn’t. “He’s

there, the devil. I know he is because Pandemonium is a sort of honor for
damned souls. It’s too good for Shakespeare, who reshaped history and the
course of study for centuries with his lies. He’s there because fraud is a
form of malice—as explained in Virgil’s Inferno 11.22-7—mal-
ice unique to human beings and, therefore, more displeasing to God than
sins of concupiscence and violence.”
The argument was won! It was unanimous. Shakespeare was not in
the capital of hell. The new debate was whether Shakespeare’s soul was
condemned to the eighth circle of Malebolge for benefiting from mislead-
ing others, or Cocytus, the ninth and deepest circle of hell for promoting
schism with his ideals, or the tenth, Bolgia Ten, because he was an outright
liar who falsified facts in an attempt to alter the course of history.
I continued to listen, managing to get sneak peaks of the men from
underneath my jacket when they weren’t looking. I wasn’t the only per-
son watching these strange creatures. By now, some of the other passen-
gers waiting in the lounge had taken notice of the men and their eerie
chanting. Various people watched the men, though they were all careful
to keep their distance.
Somewhere out of my line of sight came the screeching cries of a
baby. As the sound came nearer, I was able to glimpse a pretty redhead
wearing apple green Mary Jane shoes and a matching plaid pleated
skirt. She held her newborn close to her chest as her red locks brushed
the top of his head. Rocking the child in her delicate arms as she walked
past the men, she made a soft warbling sound that was directed at the
child. Cooing to the infant, she eyed the men with a plea for under-
standing. Her expression spoke volumes. It said, “Could you please stop
shouting? You’re scaring my baby.”
The chanting stopped for a brief moment, but not out of respect, for
the men noticed neither the baby nor the mother. The corners of their
mouths never once rose with any smidgen of expression. Their blank,
cold faces caused the young mother to walk away, leaving them with a
disapproving glance.
Soon after she dashed off, the men started noting other possibili-

ties. Dante, Homer, Milton, and Shakespeare all gave us living and not
literary epics, inspiring those of yesterday and today. Yet as much as we
can bring to life their words and apply them to modern-day circum-
stance, I had never heard anyone speak of the great Bard’s works in the
context of a non-literary argument. I was enthralled by this tantalizing
conversation. So enthralled that when the voices stopped and I looked
out from under my jacket, I found that the sullen man with the artificial
eye was watching me watching him. His left eye, the artificial one that
rolled at queer angles, paused and peered into my soul. The horrific eye
seemed like a nanny cam recording my movements and betraying the
secrets of my location. I immediately closed my own eyes, praying that
this would allow me to continue to sit undisturbed.
In their strange ceremonial preaching, the men recalled that in the
ninth circle, in the round of Antenora, traitors to the homeland are
found. In Dante’s Inferno, the ninth circle of hell is a lake kept frozen by
Lucifer’s six flapping wings. Lucifer has three faces with three mouths,
each chewing on a sinner; Judas is in the middle mouth. So the ninth
circle is the center where the worst punishments are found and is ref-
erenced idiomatically to mean a situation that can’t get worse, hence
“a place befitting Shakespeare’s soul, as a liar who betrayed his entire
homeland by altering history through his lies.”
In which circle of hell is Shakespeare presently residing? This is
the question they asked, then they began to debate over semantics.
Eventually they returned to their chanting, slightly changing the old
phrase: “Denounce Shakespeare; don’t condemn his spirit to Milton’s
merciless Pandemonium. Rather, cast his soul down to Dante’s infinite
circles of hell.”
My head swelled from the pain caused by their gruesome chants,
which sounded like intonations from some ghastly satanic cult ritual.
As their tone became louder and more strident, curiosity got the better
of me, and I opened my eyes again. I noticed that some of the other pas-
sengers were also inquisitive. With all eyes upon them again, the men’s
rage waned, their low chanting died down, and they started speaking

again as though slowly released from a trance. Now they spoke of the
pell-mell they had discovered after reading a mendacious play based
on the last of the medieval English kings and the Wars of the Roses;
a dynastic struggle in the Middle Ages that pitted the Houses of York
and Lancaster against each other (see Tecoa’s Reference section).
My improved view reminded me that these men had clearly come
from a rather peculiar genetic stock. Although stunned and a bit mor-
tified, I nevertheless reminded myself that everything in life happens
for a reason, and since airport delays deemed it so that I had no where
eles to go and nothing else to do, I needed to try to separate my revul-
sion from my curiosity. Pulling myself together, I noticed that as they
spoke, the sum total of their conversation was beginning to seem a bit
topsy-turvy, and pieces of the puzzle did not fit together, for them or
me. Nonetheless, as I rubbed my throbbing temples, it was quite clear
that they were primarily concerned that our right to freely choose what
to think had been limited as historians had taken away some essential
information and made it difficult for us to uncover the truth.
What was this missing information? Despite any possible danger, I was
determined to know. Though, trying to be open-minded, I had to consider
they might be flying to a funeral or maybe even a masquerade party, as
farfetched as either notion seemed. As did the notion that they were
dressed to avoid the chill. For most individuals, a light jacket or perhaps a
scarf would suffice for the British summer. These guys were way
overdressed. Besides, we were indoors now.
Whatever the case, party plus scholarly talk normally equaled a
fraternity and the term “the elders” came to mind and that’s how I thought
of them from then on. I speculated that due to their ages and experience
they might be knowledgeable role models and/or professors who were also
part of a wider British fraternity.
Still, there was something menacing about them that was drawing
me, and I was determined to know more. Silently calling out to my
Heavenly Father, I recited the lines from Psalm 23, “Yea, though I walk
through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: For Thou

art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me … ” I mistakenly
believed that those prayers would give me safe passage to pry into this
conversation. I’m not bad, after all, I told myself, just curious about what
these intellectuals have to say. But whether I was being honest with myself
about my motivations or not, we all had a common interest. Our freedom of
choice had apparently been violated!
Just then my gate was announced. The boarding process had started!
What would you have done at this point? Would you have walked away, or
would you have felt compelled to follow up on this alleged secret that
historians were keeping from the public? I felt obligated to stay, because I
knew that the past affects the future, and this bit of history changing could
affect me. Too often we sit on the sidelines, afraid to speak and afraid to
ask what we truly want to ask.
Why do we do that? We are fearful of what we might not be able
to do, or what people might think of us if we try and fail. We play
follower rather than leader, perhaps because of something our moth-
ers once said we shouldn’t do. “Now you know you shouldn’t  …  Swear to
me you won’t  …  Promise me you will avoid it at all cost.” So we learned
quickly: don’t do it!
Or perhaps it stems from something our fathers wanted us to accom-
plish. “Now if you’re a smart woman, you won’t  …  and instead you’ll  …  But
trust me, if I were you, I’d  …  you gotta think ahead! You’re too old to  …  ” Or
maybe our grandparents wanted us to try, and they had no idea their words
would stick to us like a sort of glue and follow us throughout our lives
with a suffocating blanket of expectations wrapped around our hearts.
We let our fears stand in the way of our instinct and our desires.
Sometimes we have to take a risk, stop living for others, and live for what
we believe. If you choose to walk away from the strange men and their
strange conversation, then you are wise, but I wasn’t that clever. I was never
one to simply stand and wonder; when Curiosity (see Tecoa’s Reference sec-
tion) takes hold of me, I always embrace him and let him lead the way. As
Mark Twain had so graciously put it: “Twenty years from now you will be
more disappointed by the things that you didn’t do than by the ones you

did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the
trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.”
Thus, with those words and Curiosity by my side, I conquered my
immediate reservations, and my choice was clear.
Getting ready to rise, I whispered, “Dear Lord, please guide me and
give me strength and understanding as I approach these strangers.” I then
repeated the mantra that I had nothing to lose and something, anything,
maybe even everything, to gain.
So, I made myself known to the men. Removing my jacket, playing this
silly truth or dare game with Fate yet again, I looked first toward the tall
one whose face remained hidden, then at the others, who were all hideous
and difficult to look at.
“Excuse me, gentlemen. I couldn’t help but overhear a little of your
conversation. Which king are you guys talking about?” My New York Ego
(see Tecoa’s Reference section) and my certainty that they were scholars of
some kind allowed me to step in front of them and boldly inquire about the
topic of their research. I could sense eyes on me from all around, not
just those of the five men. Nearby passengers were also gawking at me. It
was as if I had suddenly thrown off a coat of invisibility and appeared,
“poof,”out of nowhere.
Gaining back their equanimity, the men turned their gaze upon me
like a pack of wolves closing in on their prey. The only difference was that
the men had not stalked me. Rather, they simply towered over me like
massive, hideous pillars, encircling me from all sides. The face of the man
I solicited grew inflamed as he looked at me with his wild eyes. Enraged
as a proverbial bull seeing shades of red, he shook his head along with
the others and demonstrated an authoritative refusal to respond. One of
the infuriated-looking men crossed his arms over his enormous chest as I
turned to look at him. I choked back a scream as I looked directly into his
periwinkle glass eye. All the men were glaring at me with clear, studious
eyes; yet I was strong, and their scrutiny did not force me to concede.
In any group there is a weak link. In this assemblage, the weakest
link also appeared to be the shadiest one. He was the well-fed man,

the one I had seen earlier holding the mysterious leather bound book.
Removing the top hat that shielded his face, he passed it to a man
with long arms and green eyes. Revealing a head of wild red hair shot
through with streaks of white, a chubby face loaded with freckles, and
a red beard, he looked like a fire deity. As if suddenly burning up, he
pushed up the sleeves of his robe, revealing a ghastly prosthetic arm.
Looking at me with pure contempt, he sneered. I could see his undeni-
able hatred for me. With a Scottish accent muffled by a raspy, grisly
voice, he finally responded to my query.
“Why, it’s the dearly departed … ” He paused, his jaw tensed. He
waited for dramatic effect, which succeeded in its intention to daunt me.
Then his eyebrows drew downwards, as if to shield his perfectly blue
eyes, producing vertical furrows above his nose. His reddish-white beard
moved in concert with his brows, which seemed to transform him into the
evil twin of the redheaded Ghost of Christmas Present from Dickens’ A
Christmas Carol. Then he opened his mouth and declared with the scorn
and venom of a native Scottish adder, “King Richard III, love.”
My heart jolted, for it knew what my brain would not allow me to rec-
ognize. The words had serious implications, but their meaning wouldn’t
come to me. My eyes must have deceived me, for I thought my heart
would fall right through my chest as the man suddenly disappeared from
sight. I blinked, and as suddenly as he disappeared, he had returned. I felt
maddened. Then, without warning, the elders, as on cue, chanted:
“Hail and Hither, to our Dark King!
Glory to you, King Richard,
Glory to you, prince of darkness,
We enter into an enchanted realm
Behind and before,we encircle her.”
The elders stepped in directions that tried to enclose me between them.
One man with wildly unnatural facial hair and two dissimilar colored
eyes was closer to me than the rest. I stepped back from him and tripped
on my dragging jacket sleeve. Grabbing a nearby chair for support, I

took another backwards step; my eyes never left the advancing brethren.
Yet my legs were not the sharpest pencils in the box, for they didn’t seem to
get what my heart knew.
He approached. It was high time to get away. Run. Sprint. Flee.
Whatever the heck it took, but those tiny little backwards steps were
not what I needed to do. The legs didn’t get it. They just did these funny
little baby steps backward as my heart pounded against my chest. What
was wrong? I couldn’t figure it out. All I wanted my legs to do was catch
up with my heart. My legs needed to get with the program and get me
out of there.
“We ride on the wild boar
And eat from the tree of life”
It was like a dance. When I moved, they moved. There was a harmony
to our movements, but there was no pleasure in the reverse-role tango.
“Oh Dark King, harness the power of nature
And lead us toward ancient paths.”
Okay, fine, if the legs did not want to work properly, at the very least I
could scream or say something. Say anything. But nothing I attempted
seemed to be working. Just more of those pointless steps backward.
Meaningless steps that got me absolutely nowhere.
“Before us stands a woman for our sacrifice!
Amen.”
Finally, the trigger word: sacrifice! Yes, it was all over the news. I didn’t
know how I could have failed to remember the letter left at Warwick
Castle. The promise that Richard made; and if I could take the men’s
words to be associated truth, then King Richard III would not be for-
gotten. What I thought was sensationalism in the news, I quickly real-
ized was pure truth. Living in a world saturated by lies draped in the

beautiful cloths of truth, I hadn’t recognized it when I first heard it. Yet it
was surely truth. Locals had been quoted as saying, “The facts speak for
themselves. Whilst this tosh and nonsense about a breech in security suits
the public, the fact is England is a place awash in myth and legend. The
letter was left by ancient spooks.”
I was suddenly taken over by a powerful urge to run, run as far as I
could.
“No,” injected the hooded man, whose voice was smooth and flat.
“Leave her to me.”
A woman’s life can twist around the smallest alteration of time. No
moment is without the potential for Earth-shattering change. Each roll of
Fate’s dice can create the sound of her voice whispering a pledge of happi-
ness or a warning of disaster. When I revealed myself to the elders, I took
on Fate’s dare—Wham!—and my life would never be the same again.

Fight or Flight
Conscience is justice’s best minister; it threatens, promises,
rewards, and punishes and keeps all under control; the busy
must attend to its remonstrances, the most powerful submit
to its reproof, and the angry endure its upbraidings. While
conscience is our friend all is peace; but if once offended farewell
the tranquil mind.
Lady Mary Wortley Montagu
English writer and poet
(1689 - 1762)
Thus the tale was begun: an odd story of ridiculous Curiosity run amok.
This was my turning point, my fork in the road. My game with Fate.
But stupid is as stupid does, and the truth is that I should have
known better than to play with Fate. I knew the Greek goddess would
change my destiny if I challenged her, but I had no idea the high price I
would be forced to pay. Prior to that one key moment, I was a woman with
prerogative, free to choose my own path. But from that moment on, I
found myself low on options and full of dread. That bold move was a big
mistake on my part, one I was unable to take back and one I would have to
live with—forever.
The term “fight or flight” suddenly took on a very personal meaning
38

for me. I chose flight and ran. I was terrified to the point of practically
stumbling over my own two feet, trying desperately to maintain some
sort of balance. What I was afraid of I couldn’t properly describe, but
the inhuman flatness of the Scottish man’s voice and his menacing fig-
ure towering over me gave me a terrible sense of foreboding.
I glanced back over my shoulder and saw that the hooded man was
taking long purposeful strides in my direction. He held his head at an
odd angle so that the hood shielded his face, as though it were too
precious for my mortal eyes. He reached out his right arm, moving
his fingers in a frantic upside-down spiderlike gesture, beckoning me.
His conflicted actions confused and frightened me all the more. It was
like the waving in one hand of a surrendering white flag by a man with
razor-sharp machete in his other hand. Ignoring his pleas, I continued
to scamper through the crowd.
Running and panting, carry-on luggage in hand, I succeeded in
increasing the distance between us. Yet Fate did not seem to be on
my side. Whack! The bag in my left hand struck a young boy holding
a drink. My bag knocked him so hard that I wiped the smile off his
freckled face and spilled the soda he was about to drink all over his
Yankees shirt.
As a result, the barely-eaten hamburger he was holding in his other
hand flew in the air and projected sideways, moving in slow motion.
The hamburger, along with an awful combination of ketchup, mustard,
and onions, landed on the open bosom of his mother’s pink silk blouse
and covered it like fingerpaint. The mother picked up the hamburger
with a calculated calmness followed by a calculated breath, after which
she dropped the burger to the floor. As the hamburger splattered onto
the tiled floor, I took a step back and gaped. The woman let out a frus-
trated grunt, yet no spiteful words tagged behind it. She was internal-
izing her irritation, but I could see the color on her face rising like a
pale-yellow tomato ripening unnaturally rapidly to a bright red.
Too many things were happening concurrently, the most important
being that the man pursuing me was closing the distance between us.

The silent yet exasperated mother was now desperately trying to clean
the impossible stain from her blouse, and the soda that had spilled on
the boy’s shirt was still dribbling and fizzing into his nostrils. My heart
went out to him when I saw a little girl standing a short distance behind
him laughing hysterically, as he snorted and wiped his face.
SENSORY OVERLOAD
I didn’t know where to concentrate my attention; my eyes went from
the boy to the little girl to the angry, gray eyes of the mother, then back
to my pursuer. Still wheezing slightly from the frantic run, I stopped in
front of the boy. He was rubbing his wrist. His hands must have been
in pain from the blow.
It seemed like an age since I had confronted the elders then turned
tail and ran. Looking up, I saw the cloaked man still coming toward
me. He wasn’t running or taking long strides, but walking the walk
of victory. He was still a good distance away—he hadn’t made up as
much distance as I thought. I supposed that gaining ground on a busy
airport walkway could be a daunting task at the best of times, even for a
confident, unrelenting killer. The media had it wrong; “ancient spooks”
couldn’t run. It was clear that whatever state that letter was found in at
the castle, it was the work of killers threatening to make a sacrifice. And
this particular killer wanted to make good on his promise.
I wanted to get things revved-up and make my getaway. Yet Conscience
(see Tecoa’s Reference section), being the landlord of my heart, thus having
more power over me than the latest tenant, Fear, was tugging at my heart-
strings. He was eroding my peace of mind, just as Lady Mary Wortley
Montagu predicted. Heeding to the annoying holier-than-thou authority
of Conscience, I quickly reached into my pocket and offered the boy five
American dollars and a handful of my leftover British coins. Winded and
unable to speak, I scampered off, giving the mother a fleeting look of I’m
so sorry without ever uttering the words. Dreading what would come next
from the man behind me, I ran faster.

I could hear the mother calling after me: “How rude! Can’t you even
apologize?”
Running and too breathless to speak, I waved my hand behind me.
It was my own Ebonics sign language for, “My bad, gotta run.” Pathetic,
I know, but what was one soiled blouse compared to one soon-to-be
ruined life?
Perspiring profusely, I wondered if beads of sweat were being shot
directly into the faces of those I passed on my frenetic dash to reach
the airplane.
I thought of the strange men and the hair-raising trepidation their
conversation evoked in me. Then my mind focused on the more press-
ing matter of the man who was relentlessly following me. I felt like you
might if you walk by someone’s house and notice that on the ground by
the mailbox is a wallet full of money, revealing several identification cards.
You bend to pick it up and an angry Rottweiler lunges for you because
you’re touching what clearly belongs to his master. I suppose my mysteri-
ous pursuer, whose face was still obscured and who was the only one in
the group who had remained silent, represented that angry canine who
felt that I had unwisely put my nose where it did not belong.
“Stop! Come back at once!” he barked. The words presented
themselves as a distant shout, a bit muffled by the sounds of the busy
terminal. Adrenaline tightened my skin. My legs started to give way as
though they were jointed violins running and vibrating with fear, and
suddenly the strings representing my ligaments broke.
The Rottweiler, usually not known for being a barker, advances
toward you. You’re certain he is about to take a bite out of you for your
crime; so your nervous system responds by getting all revved up, and
it starts sending impulses to your heart and blood vessels. Your heart-
beat, which normally plays a smooth sounding drumbeat, increases its
rhythm to boost the flow of blood to the muscles in an upsurge to give
you renewed energy.
In the distance the hooded stranger continued his advance. Was I
actually being hunted in an airport filled with people? Had I unwit-

tingly volunteered myself to be a sort of prey? Dare I scream out for help?
If help arrived, what exactly would I say? “Hi, I put myself in a position to
be under attack, and now I want to involve others in my insanity. Wanna
play this deadly game?”
My pursuer’s face remained concealed, his steps getting longer and
his movement more furious with every stride. He once again called out
for me to stop. His outstretched hand beckoned me to wait for him. I
could feel my heart beating and the warmth of the compressed air com-
ing from my slightly parted lips. My heartbeat was chaotic and pain-
ful. You know, it’s like that irate Rottweiler, whose name is probably
Pookykins or Precious or something, is messing up your rhythmic flow,
throwing you off your beat.
My nerves were at full stretch, sending impulses to my adrenal
glands to release adrenaline. Adrenaline speeds up the heartbeat and
increases the flow of blood to the brain (the master disc jockey) and
muscles (the dancers in the club). The changes caused by the adrenaline
allowed me to “haul ass.” This reaction by the body is called the fight-
or-flight response.
With my natural song off beat and my melody a bit off key, I was
running like the fastest coward in London, my bags flapping at my
sides. The only thing that slowed me down more than the bags was the
departure gate where I was forced to hand over my bags to be rechecked
as an extra security precaution. I struggled my way through the traffic of
seasoned businessmen and fashionably dressed jetsetters buried under
piles of duty-free purchases.
“This is the final boarding call for passenger … ”
Out of breath and shaking, I managed to thrust my crumpled ticket into
the gate agent’s hand. “Here you go. I am [heavy breathing] … sorry,
I’m … [deep inhalation] late.”
The gate agent’s malevolent eyes narrowed into slits. The ticket was
shoved back into my hand as the agent hissed in a West Indian accent
completed by a slight British twang, “Clearly you didn’t hear my mes-
sage about boarding the first, second, or third time I announced it.”

Panting and gasping for breath, I shook my head weakly and tried
again to hand the agent my boarding pass. But her arms folded in a
sort of stand-off. The lips on her pitted and pimpled face pursed as her
scornful eyes studied me. I looked away from the agent, back toward my
pursuer. I was afraid that this delay would give the hooded man more
time to catch me, although he was still nowhere near. Could the hooded
freak follow me onto the plane? I didn’t think so; he had no boarding
pass and no reason to be at my gate.
“You must be deaf or just a bit thick. Can you not hear me speaking
to you? Show me your passport.” The agent’s tone was too abrupt and
frankly unrealistic. Unsure if I was actually hearing correctly, I turned
back to the agent with a look of distress on my face. I felt thunderclouds
of indignation crack across my face as my blood pressure spiked. Are
etiquette and civility on the decline when it comes to air travel? Or was
she the hooded man’s accomplice? Were they in this together? Was the
agent slowing me down on purpose?
My panic rose as I watched the hooded man. He was close—more than
close! Standing only a few feet away from the gate agent, he lifted up his
cloak and began fumbling in his pants pocket for something. There was
no way it could be a gun … could it?
Anger engulfed me as this infuriating and perfectly beastly agent,
who could only be identified as a woman because she was wearing a
skirt, was delaying me. I whipped out my passport, looking with dis-
dain at her hair, which was once probably professionally braided into
a wonderful style with unexpected twists and patterns but had since
degenerated into a dirty unkempt mop. She held my travel plans, and
my future, in her sweaty hands. The last thing I needed was to miss
the flight and be stuck in London with these bizarre men! I knew that
she had the power to deny me entry for any reason she saw fit to make
up. Therefore, I had to be civil with her at all costs. I couldn’t go back
and face the cloaked nuts! Swallowing my irritation and switching to
teacher mode and addressing her as though she were a difficult student,
I opted to appeal to the agent’s compassion.

“Sorry … gorgeous [for Mother always said nobody can resist being
called gorgeous even if the title is not earned], I really do apologize,
sweetie. I … [YAWN] fell asleep and didn’t realize until you called my
name that I was late for my flight.” I smiled a half smile, just enough to
give her a bit of dimple, slid the ticket into her hand again, and prayed
that Fate was on my side. Happy with my response, the agent relaxed.
SwoOoosh - CL-LACK!
Fate rolled her magic dice.
I had come up a winner. The agent allowed me to board. Thanking
the beast, I stripped the half-smile off my face, pushed the dimple back
into hiding, and stole one last glance back in the direction of the insane
hooded man. Since he couldn’t follow me, I again wondered if he was
fumbling in his pockets for a weapon. He hesitated as I turned to look
at him and then dismissed me with a furious wave of his hand. His
dismissal seemed to imply that I was a disappointing coward. A hunted
prey, not quite worth a moment longer of the chase nor the effort. His
implications were on target! Off he walked toward a crowd of people in
the opposite direction. My breath came rushing out of me. I was safe. I
had escaped the angry dog, and the rhythm of my heartbeat was on its
way back to normal.

THIS IS A FREE
BONUS SKIP TO
CHAPTER
EIGHT……….
All the King’s Horses
and All the King’s Men
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,
Humpty dumpty had a great fall;
Threescore men and threescore more,
Could not place Humpty Dumpty as he was before.
A Riddle from 1810. The answer is an Egg
Feelings coursed through my body as I questioned whether King Richard
was innocent or guilty. Something unsettling tormented me. I was facing
a narrow scope of reality. Whether I was entering into my own damna-
tion or becoming part of an important cause, this new mystery I had

fish snapping at bait that dangled from the shiny pole of promise.
The deeper I got involved with this situation, the more I came to the
realization that if you don’t have a plan for your life, someone else will
impose theirs. Too often we stand aside and allow others to think for
us because we are afraid of what we might not be able to accomplish.
We let our anxieties stand in the way of our hopes. After all, we only go
….(continued on page 91)…..
90

around once—geez, we’re only human. If you are not zealous, your
willpower will start to break down, and you will feel it all start to slip away.
I wasn’t ready to fade or fail.
Ironically, Sagittarians are supposed to drive human evolution. We
are supposed to be the blueprints for everyone else. The sun was in our
sign when the hierarchy began to stimulate the forms of life on our
planet. The horse half of the centaur symbolizes dominant Atlantean
myths and symbols regarding evolution and the development of the
human soul, with its all-too-human objectives, selfishness, and desires.
My role is the archer, a strictly Aryan symbol that signifies orientation
toward a definite goal. The bow and arrow represent freedom. The staff of
my arrow is the necessary aspiration, which returns to me, the sender, as
the arrow of intuition. I questioned whether I was being true to my nature
or allowing Rat Mann to control me. I couldn’t answer that; but in the
end, I still chose to be his ears and his eyes as he commanded. I continued
to search for the answers that we both longed to uncover.
I needed and wanted to know the connection to the order and this
demented king. I was battling an inner feeling that something was
being kept from me, and unless I found the key to that something, I
would never be free of this order’s demands. It was exasperating because
I wanted desperately to talk to Gabriella, or my folks for that matter.
But I couldn’t risk that and had avoided their calls and listened guiltily
to the messages they left on my machine and cell phone asking if I was
okay and when they might see me. No, I had to keep them out of this.
I was on my own.
Back then, much like biblical Eve, I desired to reach forth and pluck
fruit from the tree of knowledge. What I yearned to find were the secrets
stored within that forbidden fruit. But the fruit I wished to taste did not
belong to Shakespeare. I did not feel he had the right to offer it. Trees
play a role in spreading knowledge. Without trees we would know far
less about our world, because wood chips are often used to make paper,
which in turn becomes books, magazines, and newspapers.
All of these, books, magazines, and newspapers, are considered

forbidden fruit when people do not wish for truth to spread. Books
portrayed Richard as some type of heinous monster who might walk
up to an enemy or unsuspecting young lady and stir her innocence by
exclaiming, “I want to consume your flesh,” with a cunning and calcu-
lating smile on his sinister face. It seemed to me as if the world’s view of
Richard was one of a twisted, vicious, violent man without conscience.
So if this was all I could find, I felt as if I were allowing this doom that
was to take place in the Tower to happen. I had to find something more
to give me leverage over the elders, but what more?
The people of the past buried the tree of knowledge with King
Richard III. The fruits, once full of the seeds of promise, withered away,
dying along with him. Thus, if the tree is gone, if the people of the past
who buried the tree are gone, if Shakespeare left no record of why he
built the character of Richard in such a caustic way, why could I not find
peace within myself?
It was the middle of the week when I returned to the massive col-
lege library where I had received the vibrant white rose and mysterious
poem. This time, instead of returning to the audiovisual section, I sat at a
study table where several researchers were already gathered. Admittedly,
on some level, Curiosity drew me back to the same library where my
mysterious admirer had appeared and where I first began my research.
Curiosity broke into a run, holding a torch well above his head, echo-
ing words that swelled the walls of my head with his grim voice, “You’re
single, and you’re yearning to know.” At times tripping and at times rac-
ing like an Olympic torchbearer, Curiosity made his way to the cerebral
cortex and burned into memory images of the unexpected blossom.
Yet my return to the library wasn’t entirely full of fond memories.
It so happened that, when I rose from the chair to visit the Medieval
Reference Collection, I was overcome with a sense of danger and unease
as I scanned the volumes of literary works. Anxiety filled me, render-
ing me powerless to shake the feeling that I was being watched. With
extreme caution I made a point to scan the books, looking up and look-
ing around, keeping my back close to either the wall or the bookshelf.

Not sure why I was being tailed by the elders, my efforts to research
Richard’s true nature proved to be an effort in keeping my composure.
After some time my eyes laid sight upon an old-looking hardcover
reference book that may have been rebound because the front hinge was
splitting, revealing traces of regluing from some time ago. The book was
called The Humpty Dumpty Conspiracy, by Dr. O. Arroyo LÛpez, Jr. It was
part of the Special Collections and as such could not be checked out.
Standing there, I thumbed through the text, until I came across an
interesting line.
“  …  Celtic forces appear in Shakespeare’s plays from the beginning to the end
of his career.” Glancing farther down the lightly soiled page, my eyes hit
target phrases such as, “Shakespeare was a true Celtic Bard  …  ” With my
fingers on the page, I glided my hand down the page.
“[P]ower to alter history with his charming words alone  …  ” Sliding down
some more, “Richard represented a different sort of truth Shakespeare despised.”
I heard a scuffle. Swift movement from the shelf behind me was
supplanted by words that sounded like—it was hard to tell because of the
thick Spanish accent—“Some things are best left unfound. Leave it alone.
You’ve gone too far.”
With so many students browsing bookshelves in the library, was
it paranoia to think that the warning was meant for me? I asked, but
Instinct wouldn’t reply. She only waited tentatively in the corner with
her precious hallowed feathered boa pushing against my beating heart.
Fear stood idly by, numbing me with her injection of anticipation.
Neither dared make the first move. I was on my own to decide, without
guidance from my allies.
I chose to call upon the comfort of my faith. My Lord, even when
walking my fingers through dark pages with words of death, even when
surrounded by the sounds of my enemies, I will not be afraid, for you are
close beside me. I know thou art with me. Thy rod and Thy Staff comfort
me … guarding and showing the way all the way … I scanned on, feeling
audacious in my faith.
Flipping through the pages, I stopped on page 176. The corner of

the page was creased, indicating that someone before me had found this
page of interest. The author, Dr. O. Arroyo LÛpez, Jr., was speaking about
Richard III: “[A]s dramatically rendered in Shakespeare’s play ‘Richard
III’: A horse! A horse! My Kingdom for a Horse! Richard was
surrounded by enemy troops in the battle, and was butchered right there, his
body hacked to pieces.”
My eyes again scrolled down a smidgen.
“The Witches of Shakespeare’s Macbeth tossing bats’ wings into
bubbling cauldrons, and Druid priests raising gleaming blades above
the bodies sprawled across the ‘Slaughter Stone’ at Stonehenge.”
I, of course, knew of Stonehenge. Gabriella and I had seen countless
advertisements around Britain over the summer, promoting trips to see
the summer solstice. The ancient rocks were remnants of a sequence of
circular monument stones built between 3000 BC and 1600 BC. They
align directly with the rising of the sun on the longest day of the year. The
event that was advertised was special because Stonehenge had always been
a place of ritualized worship, thus not often open to the public. We did
not attend the event, but I knew that it took place just three nights before
I met the elders. The local newspapers ran headlines claiming that the
summer solstice drew a crowd of over eighteen thousand to the ancient
site of Stonehenge, including Druids and New Age followers.
Not entirely understanding what a Druid was, I spoke aloud,
“Druid?” The word was more of a question than a statement. I searched the
index and found the reference. The author, Dr. O. Arroyo LÛpez Jr., was
quite informative.
The members of the Ancient Brotherhood of Druids were
said to be the most learned men of their time. There are three
traditional areas of Druidic practice, those of Bard, Ovate, and
Druid. In the Story of Taliesin, the Bard receives three gifts from
the Cauldron of Inspiration brewed by the goddess Ceridwen:
poetry, prophecy, and shape-shifting. Thus, since Christian
times, Druids had been identified as diviners (or Oracles),

wizards with magical skills (Hence the legend of Merlin, Druid
Wizard) and soothsayers.
From the corner of my eye, I saw a shadowy figure sort of flitter past my
section. The air around me felt momentarily chilly, though my shiver wasn’t
entirely due to the change in temperature. Absorbed by the contents of the
book, I dismissed the breeze and continued exactly where I left off.
When men spoke of Druids they spoke about a remarkable class
of men and women with great wisdom and strength. They spoke
of scientists ingeniously capable of making new poisons for
tips of arrows and other archaic weapons. When men spoke of
Bards they spoke of artists, poets and musicians; skilled enough
to cleverly seduce the world with their fine gifts and hide great
secrets within their work. Hidden from all eyes … yet … there!
Presenting all those who wished to see with art and words that
triggered belief from within. Presenting a Belief that all around
us was nature’s inexplicable beauty. As Bards, the Druids were
the guardians of secrets and the sacredness of the ‘word.’ They
were the keepers of the ritual memories and the poetic warders
of their tribe.
A faint mist began to rise in the air around me, causing me to feel a bit
lightheaded as I read.
Roman emperor Gaius Julius Caesar offered the world a sort of
understanding in his Commentarii de Bello Gallico [see Tecoa’s
Reference section]. Biased as it may be, it gives insight into the
beliefs and practices of the ancient Druids. However, of their
oral literature and sacred songs, formulas for prayers, rules of
divination and magic, not one verse has survived.
Caesar’s third-person commentary gave his account of his
nine years in the battlefields of Gaul. Julius reported that anyone
suffering from a serious disease, or about to face the perils of
battle, would offer, or vow to offer, a human sacrifice, which

would be carried out by the cruel and savage Druids. He painted
the Druids as creatures of the dark, stating that their calendar
was constructed on the principle that each night belongs to the
day before it (not to that after it, as was the theory amongst the
Mediterranean nations), and they reckoned all periods of time
by nights, not days, as we still do in the word “fortnight.” He
cited this practice as the mystical reason that the Druids were
the Children of Darkness.
This time there was no mistaking it: there was something wrong.
Gaping, I witnessed a thick white fog forming around my feet. Then
again I saw the flittering movement of someone, and I felt the undeni-
able presence of someone or something watching me. Slowly I circled
my eyes to the right, lifting my lids from the smoky ground to look for
my stalker. However, what I saw shocked me. The entity standing there
was not at all what I had expected. It was the librarian! Turning my
neck to better see her, she stopped me before I could speak.
“Young lady, come with me.” Her vocal cords croaked with age, and
I wondered if I would sound that way when I got that old.
“Why?”
As suddenly as I spoke the words, two security guards came to her
side. One held a small, heavy-looking device. The other had his hand
on a weapon most of us refer to as a cell phone. He used this most legal
modern-day weapon to speed-dial someone and say, “Situation is under
control. [Pause to listen.] Yeah, that’s right. We apprehended the sus-
pect.” He hung up.
“Suspect?” I offensively demanded, clutching the precious book to
my chest.
“Please come with me before I get the fire marshal and the police
involved. You will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law,” croaked
the old crone.
Never once surrendering the book, I cautiously stepped forward,
looking at the smoky ground fog that was slowly evaporating. As I

approached her, the security guards stepped behind me, and she led us
toward a cramped office.
“Hmm, so you like to have fun with liquid nitrogen, huh?” She was
typing vigorously on a black computer. “What is your name, and what
time do you attend Professor Priggle’s organic chemistry class?”
“Excuse me?” I glanced at the two guards on either side of me, but
they were as motionless and expressionless as Beefeaters.
“This liquid nitrogen smoke machine was the exact model stolen
earlier today from the organic chemistry lab in the east wing right after the
9:00 a.m. lecture.” Her wrinkled finger lingered a bit too long, pointing
at the machine the guard had set on the desk.
“Professor Priggle kept a record of the model number. We found this
machine plugged into an outlet on the other side of your aisle. Are you
aware your actions could get us sued for not only breaking fire marshal reg-
ulations but possibly causing patrons skin irritations, respiratory problems, and
other side effects? If anything happens to one of these students, you will
need to hire a lawyer.” Her aged larynx squeaked out the last word.
I was furious. “I’m being falsely accused. Take a look at your security
cameras and you can see where I was.” Still holding onto the book as
though it were a lifeline, I leaned forward in the chair and shot her an
authoritative and, I hoped, withering look. The librarian glanced at the
guards, and I could tell from her expression of hands being caught in the
proverbial cookie jar that the tapes were not working. Logic, who was
using his strong aboriginal sixth sense to calculate and study their every
movement, deduced that library funds were probably not being used
toward the things they should have been. Once Logic gets started, there is
no point arguing with him. Besides, he was quite funny when he suggested
the reason why the fire alarm had not gone off. “Heaven forbid they change
the battery!” They were probably handling this situ-ation in-house to avoid
questions as to why important safety features were not updated and in
working order.
“Are you telling me it’s not yours?” I could see the vein on her wiz-
ened forehead pulsing. Insulted by the accusation, I allowed rage to

slide over me as I pulled out my wallet to show her my ID. The guards
dropped their “we’re watching you” looks and leaned over to see what I
presented to the librarian. Convinced, they assumed their previous
position with only the trace of smirks on their faces.
“I am not an organic chemistry student. I happen to be a physics
instructor, here as a guest doing research at your library. I did not bring nor
activate that machine. I have no bags with me; only my purse, which as you
can see is too small to hold that device. My seat is over there with those
students.” I pointed toward my area. “Frankly, I’m offended you would
mistake me for some prankster.”
“Then this shenanigance wasn’t you?” The words bore no hint of
conciliation, only an underlying loathing.
“No,” I replied, keeping rage once again at bay, thinking to myself that
a soft answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger. Logic
had taught me well. I spoke calmly, not abruptly.
She looked chagrined, but her reply was gracious, if terse.
“My apologies then. Sorry to bother you. I will look into this matter
immediately.” She took one last glance at my ID, returned it, turned on
her heels, and stalked out of her office. The guards looked at one another
again with those secret smirks then followed quickly behind her. Frankly,
despite the librarian’s long, hard, disdainful look up and down, delivered
with one lip curled under and the other poked out, she had given me a
compliment. I was flattered to be mistaken for a young silly college girl up
to all sorts of mischief.
I paused for a split second to imagine the type of college student that
would break into an organic chemistry lab. Then, paying the incident
no further mind, I went back to the aisle to pick up where I’d left off.
They had a mess to clean up, and I had a book to read.
When men spoke of Druids they talked about men with position
and power that were secretly warriors and openly rebels. They
spoke of scientists from far and wide, like Nicholas Copernicus
of Poland and Galileo Galilei of Italy. Men held in such high

esteem, that some became privileged councilors to kings.
Teachers with intellect so great that they were granted direct
access to the minds of kings’ sons.
As when I first saw the film Looking for Richard, I found my eyes once
again popping from their sockets, and my mouth hung open for all to see.
The author riveted me. From a distance, I heard the old librarian speaking
to someone.
“Excuse me, young man, please accompany us to my office.”
“For what?”
“We have security cameras that have identified you as pulling a very
serious prank.” Rickling to myself at the twist in her approach, I began
flipping through the pages of the reference book again. Dr. LÛpez had
written an entire chapter devoted to the white boar.
The Boar is associated with the Goddess Ceridwen. [More
flipping.] The origin of Richard’s famous heraldic badge or device
of a white boar with golden tusks and bristles has been the subject
of much speculation. It has been suggested that the emblem may
be a punning allusion and anagram … [scrolling an infinitesimal
bit more] …The traditional color of the Druid is white …
I couldn’t tell you why I never returned to my seat after that annoy-
ing incident. Nor could I properly verbalize why I stood transfixed,
searching pages upon pages, never once stopping to read an entire sec-
tion. I believe Instinct wouldn’t allow it. The snowy feathers in her hair
tingled, and she sensed danger in the simple reading of the words. If
love is the language of life, then she spoke to me with many different
tongues and never above a sultry whisper. Each time, my loving Instinct
cautioned me to beware that some things just shouldn’t be read, and this
just might be one of them.
… Legend has it that the original Richard III was written in
blood. The very blood of the Druid Shakespeare. The real-

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