The Secret Diary of Eleanor Cobham

by Tony Riches

  So many workmen camped on the fields that the green hillside above the site turned into a temporary village of makeshift shacks and tents to house the labourers who toiled from first light until dusk. At night, their flickering fires looked to me like the light of hundreds of stars. The sound of their gruff voices, talking in several languages and sometimes singing drunkenly carried all the way to the dark-flowing river.

  Each day tan-sailed barges, laden with heavy blocks of stone, jostled for places at the newly rebuilt wharf, where men were busily unloading the daily deliveries from Portland. Carrara blue-grey marble was transported all the way from Tuscany and expert builders travelled from Florence and Milan to translate our vision of a palace into detailed plans. The air of the formerly peaceful fields of Greenwich filled with the musical ringing of stonemasons’ chisels and the shouts of the labourers as they worked.

  Duke Humphrey, restored to his former self, took personal pride in the ambitious scale of the new palace. He rode around the site on a beautiful white horse, followed by his retinue of Italian advisors, checking on the progress of every detail. In no time at all the outline of the buildings emerged from the ground. His tower high on the hill, which he called Greenwich Castle, was finished first and provided the perfect vantage-point from which we could view the work on the house and grounds.

  I was kept busy deciding and arranging the decoration of the house. In the centre was a great hall, where we could have banquets for over a hundred guests. The hall was lit by high chandeliers which could be raised and lowered by chains to light the huge candles, as well as oil lamps set on brackets along each wall. Before the building work had even started, the duke commissioned master tapestry makers from Flanders to weave colourful tapestries, each having some moral aspect for those with the learning to appreciate it.

  The significance of one of the tapestries escaped me at first until Humphrey explained it depicted the struggle between two brothers, Cane and Abel, who became mortal enemies through jealousy, a clever reference to his brother John. Following the death of his wife Anne from the plague in Paris, Duke John had caused something of a scandal by marrying Jacquetta of Luxembourg, who at nineteen years old could easily have been his daughter. Worse still, he proceeded to bring her to London and proved surprisingly popular with the people and parliament, who perhaps saw him as a calming influence and begged him to remain.

  Humphrey had been grateful and surprised at his brother’s support in gaining the annulment that enabled us to be married, yet there was no questioning the rivalry between them. Duke John had been openly critical of Humphrey’s conduct in almost every regard. He always seemed to have the upper hand, greater experience and more influence, despite the fact he spent so much time in Normandy and visited London so rarely.

  My favourite tapestry of all those in our new home was on the wall of our sleeping quarters. Life sized and brightly coloured, it showed the temptation of a noble-looking Adam by a salacious and naked Eve in the Garden of Eden. It was well that only our servants would ever see the tapestry, for the figures depicted bore a striking resemblance to Duke Humphrey and myself.

  The most important room in the whole house for Humphrey was his library, an oak panelled room with shelves filled with the greatest collection of precious books in England. Humphrey retained into our household Roger Bolingbroke , a respected and well-educated scholar, who spent much of his time reading in the duke’s library, although I was almost certain he was there to watch over the duke’s priceless books.

  Ruggedly handsome with a bushy beard, an infectious laugh and a deep, booming voice, Roger Bolingbroke was about the same age as the duke and had been at Oxford with him as a student. I remember he liked to wear a black cappa clausa over his tunic, which gave him an air of authority. The first of many poets, philosophers and writers to reside in our guest wing at Greenwich, he had an incredible memory and seemed to know every detail of all the books in the duke’s collection. He soon became a favourite friend and companion of mine, with his ready wit and charming ways. I would seek his company when the duke was away on business and sometimes wondered if he was in love with me, although he was always a perfect gentleman and his behaviour most correct.

  I also took it upon myself to oversee the creation of the formal gardens, the design of which was the subject of as much discussion and debate as the palace itself. Most of the two hundred acres at Greenwich were open, uncultivated grounds. They were mostly given over to become the duke’s deer park, where he would ride and hunt the stags with his friends and guests he wished to impress. We regularly dined on venison, rubbed with bacon fat and marinated with spices, yet to live so close to so many deer was a mixed blessing. They would find their way into the gardens, damaging the tender young plants and jumping easily over the stone walls we built to keep them out.

  Inspired by the gardens of the archery guild in Mons, my new gardens were rectangular, with straight paths and flower beds leading to an Italian marble fountain which formed the centrepiece. First drawn on a huge parchment, the planned layout was marked out with wooden stakes and lengths of twine before the workmen started digging into the hard ground. Fruit trees, shrubs and flowers of every variety were brought to Greenwich from all over the country for my garden.

  My true purpose was to ensure that the grounds were well-stocked with all the herbs I would need, particularly those which were rare or exotic and had proven so hard to obtain. I sent for Margery Jourdemayne to advise me on the choice of herbs and plants, only to discover the king’s sergeant-at-arms had taken her under arrest to Windsor Castle, to be examined before the Council on charges of witchcraft and sorcery. I at once pleaded with Humphrey to intervene on her behalf, which he did with some reluctance.

  He returned some time later with the news that he had achieved her release following her promise to never again use witchcraft, and payment of a surety. Although he told me he used two gentlemen intermediaries, I am sure his involvement was at some personal risk to his reputation. In the circumstances, we agreed that Margery would not be seen again in Greenwich until the whole incident had been forgotten, something which we would later have good cause to reflect on.

  It had taken nearly two years to complete our grand palace, which Humphrey allowed me to name Bella Court. I chose the name as the Italian foremen would refer to me as the ‘Bella Donna’ when they thought I was out of earshot, which I found was a great compliment. Humphrey pointed out that ‘bella’ was also the Latin word for ‘wars,’ so as the champion of the war party at parliament he liked the pun, however accidental. We celebrated the completion of the work with one of the grandest banquets London, or even England, had seen for many years.

  The guest of honour was no less than the young king, accompanied by a retinue of his royal court followers, the great and the good of England. The only person of note not attending was our old enemy Cardinal Beaufort. Looking back, I realise that was the happiest time of my life. I was the Duchess of Gloucester, married to one of the most influential men in the land, with two beautiful children and a palace which was the talk of London.

  One thing that still saddened me was how my husband’s enemies repeated the lie that he had ‘married a commoner’. It was well known that on his deathbed, King Henry V urged his commanders to fight to the end in defence of his claims to the kingdom of France that would now pass to his son. He had commanded them to keep the Duke of Orleans prisoner in England until the future king was of age. It pleased me greatly therefore, when the Duke of Orleans was transferred from the custody of the Earl of Suffolk, who had been ordered to France, to the care of my father. I knew Humphrey had contrived this to happen, yet word spread quickly, reminding everyone I was the daughter of a respected and worthy knight from a noble family.

  My title of duchess was formally recognised when I was accepted at the royal court on the feast of St George at Windsor Castle. A fanfare of trumpets marked our arrival and Duke Humphrey took my hand and led me into the great hall, where we were wel
comed by the king wearing his gold crown. I was presented with the robes of the Order of the Garter before all the important lords and ladies of England. At last, the troubles of my past seemed to have been forgotten and I had now established my position as the first lady of the kingdom.

  Everything changed when a messenger arrived with the news that the duke’s brother had died suddenly in France. Instead of mourning his death on receiving the news we raised a glass to his memory and began contemplating the consequences. First and foremost, his brother’s demise put Humphrey in direct line for the throne. As the only surviving brother of Henry V he was heir apparent and only the weak young Henry VI now stood in the way of him becoming King of England and France, with me at his side as his queen.

  John had been able to accumulate great personal wealth in addition to the lands and fortune he had inherited on the death of his father and older brother Henry. There had been no legitimate children from two marriages and it was to be expected that many of his titles and estates in England and France would naturally pass to Humphrey. As well as succeeding his brother as Lieutenant of the King in Calais, he was also granted extensive lands in Picardy, Flanders and Artois, all regions under the ambitions of the Duke of Burgundy.

  The death of his brother made Humphrey one of the richest men in the country, so we did not doubt that this widow, Duchess Jacquetta and her family would contest his inheritance where she could. Instructions were given for the work at Greenwich to continue and our children were left in the care of their nursemaids, as they were too young to make the long and potentially dangerous journey to attend Duke John’s funeral at the old cathedral of Rouen in Normandy.

  The sea crossing to Calais was uncomfortable and our ship was crowded with Humphrey’s guards, as well as our servants and my ladies in waiting. I was glad we had provided for our personal security when we arrived in Normandy, as it was evident there was much ill feeling towards the English. We travelled in fear of our safety, despite our armed escort.

  The funeral service was long and dull, being conducted in both French and English, with too many speeches. At one point I looked across at his widow, young and attractive in her mourning clothes. Although I knew she had little say in the marriage, I believed her grief at the loss of her husband after two short years of marriage was genuine. In different circumstances we could have been friends, yet I suspected her husband had turned Jacquetta’s mind against Humphrey and myself. It saddened me that she treated us with thinly-veiled disdain, despite Humphrey’s reassurance she would be well provided for.

  I was innocently pleased, therefore, to receive an invitation to meet with Jacquetta in her rooms that evening. Duke John’s presence still loomed heavily over their house and I could sense I was being watched as I was led through grand corridors to his young wife’s personal chambers. I was surprised to find her there alone, without servants, and she welcomed me with a cool detachment I should have recognised as a warning of the shocking accusation to come.

  Pouring two goblets of wine she handed one to me and, looking directly at me, asked how I thought a man with such energy and life as her husband could have died so unexpectedly. Taken aback, I hesitated to answer and she seemed to read my mind. I recalled the angry glint in Humphrey’s eyes when he had reminded me of the story of Kane and Abel.

  ‘Did your husband have his brother poisoned?’ Her question was an allegation.

  I saw a strength and determination in her I had not noticed before and froze in the act of sipping my wine, although my throat felt so dry I wondered if I would be able to speak. Jacquetta had not even raised her goblet to her lips and I realised she was perfectly capable of poisoning me as an act of revenge.

  Noting my silence, she told me her husband had taken the precaution of retaining a loyal servant in our household, to keep him informed of our actions. It was through this servant they had learned of my regular visits from Margery Jourdemayne, who she called ‘that witch of Westminster.’

  ‘Did you wish my husband’s death?’ This time there was anger in her voice.

  I had never discussed this with anyone, even Humphrey and certainly not with Margery, although the chilling truth was that although I knew I could not confess it, I had many times wished that John, Duke of Bedford, was dead. I also realised why Margery had been arrested for witchcraft. Humphrey’s brother had acted on the information he received, regardless of the terrible consequences for my friend.

  It was with relief that we returned home to Greenwich, sailing on the earliest tide despite the imminent threat of a storm. As I looked back at the dark shape of France disappearing into the distance it appeared strangely threatening. The allegations of John’s widow Jacquetta deeply disturbed me. She was a vengeful woman and I was troubled by the knowledge she might yet seek revenge through threatening those closest to me. I had missed the children greatly and resolved never to leave them again, even though I knew Duke Humphrey would have to return to carry out his duties in Calais.

  May 1451

  Erubescant conturbentur omnes inimici mei

  Writing this journal in a shaft of warm early morning sunshine that comes through my window, my thoughts turn once more to freedom and how I could escape from Beaumaris. My only real advantage would be surprise, as I know my guards have become complacent as I am careful never to give any indication I would even consider trying to escape. Superstitious and simple men, they think I have powers of witchcraft, and fear I will curse them, something I encourage to keep them at their distance. I think that is how I still have my mother’s gold ring and the last of my precious jewellery, sewn into a secret pocket of my old blue dress.

  My difficulty is that this old fortress, which Lady Ellen told me was the last and largest of the castles built by the first King Edward in Wales to keep attackers out, is proving just as effective at keeping me in. When I have been allowed to climb the stone steps up to the high parapet, I have seen how cleverly it is built. With its sixteen towers and double rows of walls, Beaumaris castle is easy to defend and also easy to use as a prison.

  My window is wide enough for my slim body and has no iron bars fixed into the stone that would stop me climbing out. There is no prospect of this, for my room is on the second floor. Even if I were able to plait some rope which could take my weight, I would then have to cross the wide open space of the outer ward, overlooked by the guards who patrol the top of the curtain wall which surrounds the castle on all sides. Outside the wall is the wide and deep moat, which I would not relish crossing even if I could.

  I have learned to find privacy when I need it by standing to the right of the door of my room, out of the field of view of the guards who check on me through the small grill. I am also alert to the metal scrape of the bolt being drawn, as it is loud enough to wake me even when I am sleeping. The door is not always guarded, as I can hear when there is anyone in the narrow corridor outside, yet there is no way of escaping through it without it being unbolted.

  This means I will have to choose my moment with care and wait until the door is opened by the cook with my food or the servants who come to clean my room and change my bedding. I would need to somehow distract their attention. I notice my small store of precious tallow candles, logs and sticks for my fire. It would be an easy enough matter to set a fire which gave off a lot of smoke. It would be best to do this at night, when I expect my guards would be at their least vigilant. A fire would easily be explained away as an accident and I could douse any flames with my jug of water if I am unable to escape.

  I would also need to disguise my appearance in some way. I could blacken my face with the soot from my hearth and fashion a hooded cape from my old dress. It would be even better if I could somehow steal some men’s clothing and cut my long dark hair. I have a sudden memory of when my hair was cut short for my penance. I am certain people would be less able to recognise me without it.

  Once out of my room I still need to find a way through the gatehouse, the only way in and out of the castle. I have
lived in this south-east tower since January, so there has been plenty of opportunity to observe the activity through the south gate. Sailing boats are often moored at the castle quay, noisily unloading as they bring supplies. Once a week the merchants of Beaumaris also set up their stalls and the space in front of the castle becomes a small marketplace. At nights I hear the men shouting and the rumble of chains as the heavy wrought iron portcullis is lowered into place. Without fail it remains until morning, sealing us off from the outside world, presumably on the orders of Sir William Bulkeley.

  Although never used while I have been here, the gatehouse has two more portcullises and several sets of heavy wooden doors, all guarded by armed sentries. It seems impossible that I could ever pass unnoticed through the main entrance to the castle, and even then my island prison is separated from the tantalisingly close mountains of mainland Wales by the fast flowing Menai Strait. I doubt I would be able to stow away unnoticed on one of the boats in the quay. I expect I could find a small fishing boat left unattended on the shore at night, although I am certain I would not be able to make the crossing without assistance from an accomplice with knowledge of the currents.

  There is another entrance to the castle which seems to be disused and therefore not well guarded. On my walks in the inner ward I have observed that the north gatehouse looks unfinished, without any barbican or portcullis, yet from my vantage-point on the parapet I saw behind it an old wooden bridge leading north-west across the moat, with a winding track running inland across open fields. The island of Anglesey is green and fertile, so I imagine it would be possible to hide somewhere inland and find food and water until any search for me is abandoned. Perhaps I could make my way to the far west of the island and then trade the last of my jewellery for a passage across the sea to Ireland, where no one would know or care who I was.