The Secret Diary of Eleanor Cobham

by Tony Riches

  The servants lit a blazing fire in the hearth and we lay together in the warm bed. His body bore the savage scars of battle, but he was gentle and I was completely and hopelessly in love with him. I felt a powerful attraction the first time our eyes met and a strange feeling I can recall even now, twenty-eight years later. When he touched me, I knew I would spend the rest of my life at his side. I had watched Duke Humphrey closely and saw how he could win over a room with his knowledge and charm. He was more intelligent than anyone I had met before and his new-found power made him seem even more attractive. The most amazing thing of all was that as well as everything else, he was the most sensitive and caring lover.

  We talked long into that special and memorable night, sharing our hopes and dreams, admitting to past loves and insecurities. He told me how he had been out of his mind with longing for me. I told him how I had loved him from the first moment I saw him at his mansion in London. Humphrey said we could never marry but he would keep me as his only mistress. He confessed he had already promised the countess before she even left Valenciennes that he would marry her once her annulment was confirmed. He asked that we could meet as often as possible, but in absolute secrecy. No one must ever suspect I was his lover.

  I had little choice but knew to be grateful for this new life I had chosen, the path my destiny had driven me inexorably towards. For the next few months we lived a happy double life, both of us indulging the countess but secretly relishing the risky excitement of the precious moments we could spend together. There was always the danger of discovery but the more I could have, the more I wanted, and Humphrey’s support in the country seemed to grow in proportion to his happiness. The people had tired of a king preoccupied with war and welcomed him with open arms. I was of course jealous of the countess but was no match for her, except in Duke Humphrey’s true affection.

  After barely six months of this strangely idyllic life, news arrived from France that changed everything in an instant. The king was dead, after nine short years on the throne. He had not died a heroic death in battle, but in his bed at the Château de Vincennes near Paris. The rumour was that, like so many of his men, his reign had been ended by that most un-kingly of deaths, the bloody flux.

  It was the scourge of his long campaigns and had caused the death of many good men in France. King Henry V had suffered the illness during the long winter siege of Meaux. He was only thirty-five years old and never saw his son. The messenger told us the king had named his brother John, Duke of Bedford, regent of France and Duke Humphrey the guardian of the young prince and protector of all England.

  Humphrey told me it was all a matter of chance, for if he had been at his dying brother’s bedside he could have been asked to take command of the war in France and John made regent in England. At first I saw this as a good outcome for Humphrey. The war was proving costly and unpopular and he was learning how to make the best of his temporary role of regent. The heir to the throne was barely nine months old, so the regency would last at least ten years, with him as king in all but name.

  We soon learned how wrong I had been. The real power in England was now with his enemies and Humphrey’s uncle, Cardinal Henry Beaufort, Bishop of Winchester. The title of cardinal had been granted as a favour by the pope, as Beaufort was one of the richest men in England. His deeply lined face betrayed how rarely he smiled and how often he frowned, yet it was his dark eyes that scared me, with their burning hatred of Duke Humphrey and all he stood for.

  The king had allowed the cardinal to take control of the royal council of advisors, in return for large sums of money to pay for the war in France, secured against the royal crown jewels. Henry Beaufort was a skilled and cunning man who had built his experience and support over twenty years, serving for two successive kings and knew this was the opportunity he had been waiting for. He persuaded the Council they should immediately limit the duke’s power in any way they could, for the good of England.

  They started by insisting that any royal functions would be carried out only with the assent of the Council, which made it almost impossible for the duke to do anything. When Humphrey tested the resolve of parliament to back his opposition to Beaufort, his peers voted against him. He knew this was the price for his success in recognising the merchant class despite the warnings from his enemies. He told me later that he considered persuading his brother to establish the regency while he took control of France, but the moment had passed. The sudden and unexpected death of the king had not allowed any time to prepare.

  The final straw that made the duke angry was when Parliament decided his brother John would be made Lord Protector of the kingdom and Humphrey should only be allowed to hold the office when he was not in England. He saw the hand of Henry Beaufort behind the plan to rob him of any power and put his own family forward. Parliament even denied Humphrey the right to be consulted by the Council, except on matters where they would have consulted the king. He had been completely outmanoeuvred by the cardinal and swore to honour the dying wishes of his brother the king, whatever the cost.

  From my tower I can see the wooded hills of Wales turning gold and brown in the setting sun. A skylark hovers high over me, delighting all who can hear its song. Perhaps it is because I am in the autumn of my life, this is my favourite season, the harvest time, the autumn equinox. As a young girl, the harvest festival in our parish church at Lingfield marked Michaelmas, but as I grew older I learned the deeper meaning. Autumn is the time of balance and of sacrifice, a time when the light is defeated by darkness, a time when night takes over and brings the coming winter. The ancient wisdom says that those who long for light must face their inner darkness and overcome it.

  To keep the pretence of my new-found faith I must take time from writing my journal, to copy prayers and psalms from my Book of Hours. The priest has failing eyesight and asked if I would kindly read to him on Sunday. I chose psalm thirty-seven from my little book and was struck by the truth within it. The priest has no doubt heard it many times, so the words are but a litany to him, yet when he heard the vengeance in my voice he almost shrank back in horror. I must learn to be gentle with him, as apart from Lady Ellen, he is my only true supporter in this place.

  I committed the psalm to memory as I copied it out on my parchment:

  But mine enemies live, and are confirmed over me: and they are multiplied that hate me unjustly. They that repay evil things for good, did backbite me: because I followed goodness. Forsake me not O Lord my God: depart not from me.

  Has my God departed from me, I wonder? He has taken my freedom but let me live, taken my beloved husband but allowed my daughter to prosper and bear my grandchildren. My Antigone, married to Sir Henry Grey, Earl of Tankerville and Lord of Powys, is a countess and the lady of a knight, with three children, my grandchildren, Richard, Humphrey and little Elizabeth. I did my best to teach my Antigone as my mother taught me. I live in hope that one day she will visit me. I shall live on through them and pray their descendants remember me, not as a sorceress but as a lady who was wrongly accused.

  October 1450

  Matrimonium

  I take my early morning walk round the inner ward of the castle, trying to shelter from the breeze that whips up from the Irish Sea and chills my bones. Seagulls shriek in alarm and flap into the air as I disturb their vigil by the castle kitchens, where they have learned to wait for scraps. My head is full of the news from Lady Ellen about Richard of York, who has now arrived in London and is recruiting supporters from all over the country. He continues the work of my husband and claims to be a reformer, demanding the king should act firmly with men such as Edmund Beaufort, Duke of Somerset, presently in disgrace for the loss of Normandy. The talk is that Richard has offered to deal with any traitors himself, if the king lacks the will to do so.

  Ellen’s father told her that both he and her husband William have been reported to the king by Duke Richard for their obstruction when he landed here at Beaumaris. These are dangerous times and they are right to fear f
or their safety. It is possible Duke Richard may choose to make an example of them. I hope the king will know they would have acted on his own orders. I must admit I have no love for the dour William Bulkeley, but I do rely so much on his wife Ellen’s visits and they have a young family, so I wish no harm to come to them for their actions.

  I stop to watch the gathering storms over the dark, brooding shape of the mainland of Wales. The wooded hills are shrouded in low clouds, heavy with rain. This name of this place was once the port of savage Vikings and the island is known as Anglesey, an old Viking name. The people here call it by the older Welsh name of Ynys Mon, which Ellen told me comes from long before the Roman times. They call the fast flowing water that makes this place an island Afon Menai. It is no river but the sea that has channelled deep, cutting me off from the mainland. Another impassable moat to keep me imprisoned here.

  Ynys Mon seems to have more than its share of rain and the biting frost lies heavy on the ground even in October. I fear we are set for a hard winter, a worry because I start to feel the cold more each year now. Although there is a good sized hearth to heat my room, I am at the mercy of my captors for my supply of roughly hewn logs and the black Welsh coal, which I am trying to save for when the winter is at its worst. I hope they would not see me die of a chill to save them the trouble of looking after me.

  As I walk on toward the towering southern gate of the castle, I ponder on the consequences for Duke Richard, now he seems to have made an enemy of the young French queen, Margaret of Anjou. I don’t know Queen Margaret. I was imprisoned at Kenilworth Castle when she arrived from Anjou, so never met her, but feel angry with her because she has taken my beautiful home in Greenwich for herself. She was an unpopular choice for the king because, instead of a dowry, the French were given the lands of Maine and Anjou. This was kept secret until it was too late and the people were angry once word got out. I suspect she now sides with Edmund Beaufort, nephew of our old enemy, Cardinal Henry Beaufort, who no doubt ensured his nephew Edmund’s disastrous appointment as Lieutenant of France.

  My mother was a wonderfully tolerant woman and taught me to learn to forgive, but I can never find it in my heart to forgive the cardinal. He did not act alone, but I am certain it was he who directed those who sought to ruin my husband through tormenting me. At my trial I learned the cardinal had spies and informants in my household from the moment I married Duke Humphrey, possibly even before. They had always been enemies but we did underestimate the lengths the cardinal was prepared to go to.

  I have to deduce what I can from Ellen’s second-hand accounts of events at court, but it seems this devious queen is manipulating the simple-minded king to her advantage. Once again there is also an evil Beaufort hand at work, as Richard was sent to Ireland as the King's Lieutenant as soon as Duke Edmund Beaufort came to power. It was easy to see they had wanted to get him out of the way. The king’s orders to arrest him if he tried to return might have been inspired by the scheming queen, who really wanted to make sure he stayed in Ireland. That means she knows him to be a threat as the heir apparent.

  I imagine Richard has ambition and sees a way to claim the throne for himself but fears the dangers of open rebellion. Queen Margaret is still childless, after six years of marriage, so Richard needs to act before someone else does. I still have no idea what this means for me, or if Richard of York even knows or cares that I am here. After nine years in so many dismal prisons you may think I should give up all hope of rescue, but hope is all I really have to keep me going.

  I always knew of course Duke Humphrey must marry the countess, but when he did it felt like a knife had been plunged into my heart. He was my lover and could have married me. He didn’t need her money or influence. He was in direct line of succession to the throne of England and wealthy beyond the dreams of most men. He didn’t have to own her lands in France and Holland. He had more than enough land in England and knew Hainault was a troublesome place. I realise now he was attracted by the sheer adventure of it all. He loved the challenge of claiming his rights by force and longed for the chance to re-kindle something of his victory at Agincourt.

  It was not an arranged marriage, except that it was arranged by the countess herself. She told me it would be the first time she had married for love, to a man of her own choosing. I wonder, though, if it really was chance that sent the duke to meet her at Dover. His now dead brother King Henry V had forbidden the marriage until her previous marriage had been annulled, but he had also seen the chance to bring her lands within his family and knew Humphrey would be a worthy match for her. I think Humphrey probably loved her in his way but showed me little sign of that, so I knew he married her because he had promised to.

  One morning as I helped the countess to dress she was in a bright and carefree mood and told me she was expecting a child. I cannot say I was surprised, as I knew the duke had been going to her rooms late at night and was seeing less of me. The duke hadn’t shared the news with me though, and I realised how innocent I was to think there were no secrets between us. Jacqueline’s condition explained the reason for their haste. There would be no time for a state wedding that could take many months to plan, and there was too much at stake for the child to be born out of wedlock.

  It was a freezing January when we travelled from London to the old Norman church of St James the Less in Hadleigh, where the duke owned a fine castle. The horses slid and stumbled on the icy ground and the men had to dig a path through the snow to reach the church. The white painted church was filled by men and women of the duke’s household. The young priest conducting the ceremony looked like he feared he was committing a mortal sin. He stumbled on his words and nervously watched the door, as if expecting soldiers to burst in at any moment.

  There was no heating in the church and the Duke kept his heavy black cloak on the whole time, but Jacqueline took off her woollen shawl to reveal her beautiful wedding dress. It had been specially made for her in London, from expensive Ottoman white silk, but was poorly suited to the freezing conditions and I saw her shiver as she waited at the altar. Humphrey cast a look back at me as if expecting a nod of approval but I kept my eyes straight ahead, unable to bless their marriage.

  I watched and listened as Humphrey and Jacqueline exchanged their solemn vows, their voices echoing in the cold, half-empty church. They married without waiting for the confirmation of the annulment from the pope. Jacqueline had tired of waiting and simply declared herself free to marry Duke Humphrey. The only guests were a few of Humphrey’s close and trusted friends from good families in Essex. I knew there could be trouble for them both once the word got out.

  Countess Jacqueline had been through two weddings where no expense was spared and confided that she preferred the simplicity of the English ceremony. I was puzzled at first, then realised she thought her wedding in the modest church was simply how we did things in England. I nearly explained that it would have played straight into the hands of Humphrey’s enemies if they had risked a more public ceremony, yet decided to keep my silence. Jacqueline was so clever and worldly wise, with so much experience of life for her age, it was easy to forget she really knew little of our English ways.

  Their first night as man and wife was accompanied by drinking and music in the private apartments of the castle which Humphrey had inherited from the Dukes of York. The countess seemed happy and relieved she had finally married someone of her own choosing, and made good her promise of all her lands to Humphrey on that day. He added Count of Holland, Zealand and Hainault to his many titles but seemed unconcerned of my feelings, merrily singing with his musicians and attentive to his happy new wife.

  I pull my dark woollen cloak more closely around me, thinking of my husband. I miss him most of all when I see the trees turning to the golden brown of autumn and know I have to face another long winter alone. He was my lover, my chivalrous knight, my tutor, my husband. I was so certain he would find a way to free me but the days grew long and I knew he must be gone. Soon it will be winte
r, and I will miss his strong arms to keep me warm.

  I tried so hard to send my husband messages, carefully written in the code only he would understand, but still at great risk. I pleaded with him to find some way to come and visit me. Once, when I still had my own allowance, I sent one of my most loyal and trusted servants to find out where he was, and what was being done to free me. I waited in hope for my servant’s return but never saw or heard from her again. I suppose I will never know if any of my messages reached my husband or how he was stopped from seeing me.

  Writing my journal gives my life new purpose but also dredges powerful memories of times past I would rather forget. Like the recollection of that fateful day the man I loved married the countess. She was my mistress and I was his, a secret tryst that our many enemies would surely one day discover. I would not do it now, but we were young and he was an adventurer. I remember how the duke and I lay in the marital bed, knowing Jacqueline was close, taking the most audacious risks, with everything at stake.

  I have heard it said their marriage was wondered at by the common people, detested by the nobility and abhorred by the clergy. If that is true they hid it well from me. Countess Jacqueline, with Duchess of Gloucester to add to her many titles, had long let it be known they were to marry, so when they did it surprised no one. The common people already knew her as a royal, the nobility may have hoped she would curb the duke’s excesses and the clergy seemed to disapprove of everything he did.

  Countess Jacqueline wasted no time in writing to her match-making mother, the Dowager Margaret, to convene a meeting of the important nobles of her estates at Mons for her marriage to be announced. She also declared that she was with child and wished to return to Quesnoy for her confinement. Jacqueline became excited and full of anticipation at the prospect of returning home and invited me to accompany her. She told me she would order an army of six thousand archers to protect us on the journey and we would be welcomed as royalty.