by Tony Riches
Although the duke was civil to me, he was doing his best to make his new bride happy and had resolved to remain faithful to her. Although his powers had been limited, he was not without influence at Parliament and ensured his new wife was recognised as Duchess of Gloucester. He made her a citizen of England by a special Act of Parliament, with the full rights of an English subject. She was well known by that time and had already been accepted by the duke’s wide circle of friends. Even his critics, including Cardinal Beaufort, who had confronted Humphrey at every turn, seemed to grudgingly accept the new duchess.
There were plenty of dissenters to the marriage in France, of course, the most significant being the duke’s brother John, Regent of France. John had just married Anne of Burgundy at Troyes to strengthen the vitally important alliance with her brother, the powerful and manipulative Duke Philip of Burgundy. Humphrey was no ambassador and wrote a deliberately provocative letter to the Duke of Burgundy, telling him that he had married the countess and all her territories now belonged to him. Poor Anne died horribly of the plague and all John’s plans died with her, but we were not to know that at the time.
The excitement turned to deep sadness when Jacqueline gave birth to a stillborn child. It was the only child of her three marriages and brought back dark superstitions she had almost been able to forget. She was distraught and told me her family had been cursed. I was starting to believe her. I regret to say Humphrey never seemed to treat Jacqueline the same after he was told the sad news. It was a boy, his son and heir who could have even one day been King of England. He once confided to me that his son would have been christened Humphrey, the name handed down through four generations from his mother’s Norman de Bohun family.
The tragedy meant I had my lover back. I had missed being the centre of his world, missed his loving embrace. We returned to taking risks, back to our secret double lives. The duke needed time to grieve but he wanted me to help him through it. The countess wasn’t well enough to ride, but I went with him to exercise the horses and we would gallop recklessly through the woods to leave our escort far behind, just as I had done with Jacqueline in the London parks.
This time it was different though, as the duke started talking about how we could one day be married. Physicians had told him the countess might not be able to have more children, but he had proved he was capable of fathering them. He began talking of how their marriage may not be legal and how easily Jacqueline would find a new husband in France. I listened, not daring to hope, but knowing my future happiness depended on his wishful thinking.
The duke was a good friend of the powerful Abbot of St Albans, John of Wheathampstead, as they had studied together at Balliol College in Oxford and St Albans was one of Humphrey’s favourite places. On that frosty Christmas Eve I travelled with Humphrey and Jacqueline and our growing retinue in grand procession to the priory of St Albans. The prior made us welcome and formally acknowledged the countess as Humphrey’s true and legitimate wife. I watched as the prior blessed their union and admitted the countess into the fraternity of the abbey, confirming her official acceptance by the church.
We stayed on at St Albans for the twelve days of Christmas, but it was not the peaceful celebration we would have wished. Our household had now grown to over three hundred servants and soldiers, many of them Dutch and Flemish mercenaries who had seen an opportunity and travelled across the English Channel to serve their rich new count. The duke was also building his personal guard of soldiers into a small private army, recruiting good loyal Englishmen who had fought with him on his campaigns in France.
The Christmas festivities were hardly underway when a servant rushed in to tell the Duke that the men of our household had become drunk and rowdy, the English fighting with the Dutch over an argument. Humphrey immediately sent some men of his personal guard to sort it out. They returned some time later, having thrown the ringleaders in irons. They also had more serious news. Others had apparently been caught red-handed, blatantly poaching deer and rabbits in the abbey woods, an offence punishable by death.
I had never seen Humphrey so angry. He said he had to make an example and ordered one of the men put into the stocks. I watched with Jacqueline from a high window overlooking the courtyard as he proceeded to hit the defenceless man over the head and ordered that his dog, a fine hunting greyhound, should be hung as a punishment. It was a side of him I had never witnessed before. He was normally so charming it was easy to forget the sights he must have seen as a soldier fighting in France. I know the countess was shocked at his brutality, although she knew better than to intervene. It was hardly the happy and peaceful Christmas we had expected.
Another surprising side of the duke was his sudden determination to take control of his new territories abroad. His friends warned him to take care and his enemies watched with interest to see what he would do. John, Duke of Bedford, wanted to settle the dispute between the Dukes of Brabant and his brother Humphrey, with himself and the Duke of Burgundy as arbitrators. John had already given French territories to the Duke of Burgundy and Humphrey hesitated to put his case in the hands of judges.
He saw his case as beyond dispute and knew he could be bound by whatever decision they made. Philip of Burgundy was hardly neutral, as he was the heir to Jacqueline’s former husband, John of Brabant. Humphrey insisted that he and Jacqueline had been recognised as man and wife by the laws of the Church in England. His brother John wrote a letter to the pope, urging him to confirm the divorce of Jacqueline and Brabant and pointing out the loss of life that could result if he failed to do so. He was right, as Humphrey was already busily raising an army, strengthening his retinue with good men who had fought at his side in France, as well as mercenary fighters who would be loyal to him at a price.
The man who could most easily finance Humphrey’s claiming his newly acquired lands was Cardinal Henry Beaufort, who was then the Bishop of Winchester and also the man who took delight in stopping any funding from the state. Humphrey had anticipated this but he was still disappointed, as it meant he would have to pay for the campaign from his own income. I am not sure even he knew the full extent of his wealth, as he had been granted huge areas of the country when his brother was king, including the Isle of Wight and estates in Wales. As well as his mansion in London and the castle in Essex he had a castle at Pembroke. The income from these was complex, as he was also responsible for their upkeep.
There was one last visit to make before we set sail for France, to see Humphrey’s stepmother, Queen Joanna at King’s Langley Palace. It was the first time I met Queen Joanna, who had been imprisoned for three years for witchcraft and necromancy, although she had of course never been tried by any court. I travelled with Countess Jacqueline and an escort of twenty-four horsemen, as the Duke was delayed by his work. Word of our approach seemed to travel before us, as we caused quite a stir as we passed through towns and villages.
The countess was surprisingly well informed about Queen Joanna and explained to me that although she had never met her, they were distantly related to both her own mother and her father’s line. Humphrey’s brother King Henry V had seen a way to deprive her of her over generous allowance of ten thousand marks, which he needed to finance his campaigning in France. Jacqueline had heard that Henry soon changed his mind and ordered the restoration of her freedom and her property, so I was not surprised to see the obvious wealth and comfort provided to her.
Queen Joanna kept us waiting in her well-appointed outer chamber room for some time before making a grand entrance, wearing a fine rosary and girdle of gold over a dress of black satin, sparkling with small jewels. She welcomed us both warmly and spoke quickly to the countess in a dialect I found hard to understand, despite my greatly improved French speaking. I think she was questioning Jacqueline about the details of her annulment of her previous marriage. There was clearly a tension between the two women. I suspected it had to do with Queen Joanna’s concern for her stepson, but her manner towards me was engaging and I was intrig
ued by this enigmatic woman.
Later, as we dined in her palatial banqueting hall, Queen Joanna spoke openly about her interest in astrology and how she had come to be accused of necromancy by her own stepson. She was knowledgeable and persuasive, pointing out there was no more evidence to support the Christian faith than there was to deny the ability of anyone to foretell the future. Looking back I can see it was over that first dinner with Humphrey’s stepmother, with the expensive Rhenish wine flowing freely, that set me on the path which led to this cold prison so many years later.
November 1450
Incursio
My days grow shorter now and I am careful to conserve the tallow candles provided to light my room. I have taken to lying awake on my bed in the darkness, planning what next to include in my secret journal. My writing has become so much more than just a way to pass the time. It has become my confessor, my own account of the happiest days of my life – and the saddest. I know I must record these memories while I can, even though I find myself wondering if anyone will ever take the trouble to decipher my code and read this diary.
On one of my walks I found an iridescent feather from one of the noisy magpies that swoop into the castle grounds. I hope it will make a good quill, once I have boiled it in a little of my precious store of salt and left it on the sill of the window to harden in the sunlight. I remember when I only used the finest goose feather quills, discarding them after a single use. Now I take the greatest care to make them last as long as possible. My favourite quill now is this black feather from one of the castle’s sinister crows. This quill is smaller than I am used to but comfortable in my hand and particularly good at making the fine lines of my secret code.
I have become skilled at keeping my writing small to make best use of this fine parchment, as I don’t know if the priest will be able to bring me more. I sharpen the iron blade the priest gave me against the stone of my window-sill with gentle strokes as he showed me to do. Then I trim the smallest of shavings from the worn nib of the quill, being careful to preserve its shape and length. My sight is not as good as it was and I struggle to make out the details of the mainland across the water. I am fortunate though, as I can see close up as clearly as when I was young and the coded words come naturally to me now with little effort.
On his last visit the old priest brought me another small clay pot of the special black ink, sealed with red wax to stop the contents spilling or drying out. He handed it to me almost hesitantly, as if he suspected the real purpose it was to be put to. Taking his old hand in gratitude for his kindness towards me, I was surprised to find it cold to the touch. I looked into his slate-blue eyes and saw acknowledgement, so invited him to take a seat by my good fire and warm his hands for a while. After sitting in silence, looking into the glowing embers, he began telling me something of his circumstances.
‘I am not originally from this island, you know. I was born in the Welsh heartlands beyond the mountains.’ He spoke slowly, with a note of regret in his voice.
I nodded in understanding. ‘I often look out over the mountains and wonder what lies beyond them.’
He looked into the flames. ‘My father was a tenant farmer, raising sheep. We lived comfortably enough,’ he continued, ‘until my mother and my younger brother both fell... victim to the plague.’ He made the sign of the cross on his chest at the memory.
‘I am sorry.’ I could see he was still deeply troubled by his loss.
The priest looked at me. ‘My father was a good man.’ He seemed to struggle to find the words. ‘He fell into dark moods after that. He eventually sailed off to sea. I never heard from him again.’
I looked into his sad eyes. ‘That is why you chose to become a priest?’
He nodded. ‘It was always my ambition. My mother used to say I should have a proper education.’ He smiled, for the first time. ‘My happiest memories are of my time at the seminary, where I learned to read and write, as well as learning the ways and rules of the priesthood.’
I understood. His choice meant sacrificing the things men hold most dear, yet it had been a way out of the hardships of the life his father had led. All the same, I suspected he had lived a lonely life since taking up his parish in Beaumaris all those years ago.
The priest continued looking into the fire, as if deep in thought, before speaking again. ‘Now I dedicate my time to serving the people of Ynys Mon, supporting the poor and the sick as best I can.’
‘It is good work you do, and I am most grateful for your visits.’ It was true. I looked forward to seeing him now.
‘My needs are modest, but,’ he shook his head and frowned, ‘the greater share of the tithes paid by the villagers are... appropriated by the bishop, who lives in a grand palace.’
I found myself recalling the wealth of my enemy Cardinal Beaufort, who used his position in the church to build such wealth and power that he could even bring down the brother of the king. I also remembered the bishops at my trial, in their gold-trimmed robes.
The priest looked at me again. ‘I should tell you, my lady, I am paid a small allowance by Sir William Beauchamp, Constable of Beaumaris, because of your presence here.’ He smiled at me again. ‘It means I am able to eat well in the castle kitchens.’
I had never thought of it before. I realised that I must also provide an easy living for the soldiers who guard me and the servants who wash my clothes and prepare my food. It was comforting to know that even now, locked up in my tower and cut off from the world, I am of some small use.
As I listened to the priest’s story, I wondered if this was my time to risk taking him into my confidence. My only wish is that my daughter Antigone would be allowed to come and see me, or at least send a note to let me know she is safe and well. The priest could perhaps find some way to help. The danger was that he may stop visiting me with supplies, or worse, he could feel obliged to report me to the sergeant-at-arms. I decided to wait a while, for time is something I have plenty of.
I stood at the window and watched the priest as he shuffled back to his lodgings in the gathering gloom, his hunched posture making him look even older than his years. Just as I was about to look away he turned and raised a hand. I raised my own hand back to him, surprised to feel comfort from such a small gesture of companionship after my lonely imprisonment. I hadn’t even asked his name.
Duke Humphrey became preoccupied, perhaps even obsessed with securing his wife’s lands in Hainault. He worked late into the night, sending long letters bearing his royal seal to potential allies in far off Hainault. He spent every spare moment in careful study of the maps he had obtained of the country and questioned the countess about any detail that could be of advantage. I always suspected his motivation was largely because his older brother had forbidden him to even try. There had been no love between the brothers since the premature death of King Henry V in France.
Humphrey watched impotently from England as his elder brother John continued to rule over their French territories, which he seemed to have done remarkably well. For his own part, Humphrey was struggling to act as Regent with most of parliament opposed to him and his uncle Cardinal Beaufort openly challenging his authority.
Raising an army needed all the favours the duke could call on, as Cardinal Beaufort persuaded the government that the state should not finance what they saw as his self-serving adventure. At first it looked impossible to find enough good men, but he had influential friends and was able to persuade Sir John de Mobray, Duke of Norfolk and the Earl-Marshall of England, to support his claims, in return for Sir John’s appointment as commander once the army arrived in France.
I disliked Sir John, a humourless man, who looked at me with an appraising eye, but I was glad of this turn of events, as many years had passed since Humphrey was last in a battle of any kind. I worried for his safety and also for his judgement, as he had little patience for the manipulative politics of the Hollanders. Sir John de Mobray was a valuable supporter, as he had recent and successful experience both
as a soldier and ambassador in France. Although he had not fought with Humphrey at Agincourt, he knew how to command men on the battlefield.
Humphrey took us on the long ride from London to his apartments in Dover Castle. As well as the countess and myself, he ordered our full retinue of servants to accompany us to France, including his personal guard and over a thousand fighting men. More joined us on the journey, so by the time we arrived at the coast the line of marching soldiers, horses and wagons following us stretched back far into the distance, further than I could see. Like never before, this was a reminder of Humphrey’s true wealth and influence.
As warden of the port he had been able to commandeer a fleet of forty-two warships, but mustering good men prepared to sail to France with him had not been so easy. He spent a fortune recruiting men, arming them and securing provisions for what we all knew could be a long and dangerous campaign. I watched from the high window of Dover Castle with Jacqueline as Sir John de Mobray prepared this sizeable but ill-disciplined army. I knew they consisted mostly of mercenaries and opportunists, yet he appeared to regard them as if they were loyal soldiers of the crown.
It was the middle of October and even the elements were against us. Stormy winds and heavy rain made it impossible to sail for many days. Humphrey was frustrated yet well used to the changeable weather of the English Channel, but Jacqueline’s superstition got the better of her. She saw the gathering black clouds as another ill omen and confided to me that she doubted we would receive a warm reception in her homeland. Her people had a deep distrust of the English and she worried they would accuse her of abandoning them, even though it had been far too dangerous for her to stay in Hainault.