by Tony Riches
On a sultry day in late June I was dining with several of my ladies at The King’s Head in Cheapside. The old inn had always been a popular place in the heart of the city, particularly on busy market days. On the upper floor was an overhanging gallery where I could often be found dining with my ladies. It became a favourite vantage place from where we could view the city's comings and goings, see and be seen by those who mattered. I felt in good spirits, finally beginning to put the troubles that had afflicted my husband behind me.
Humphrey’s reputation had been undermined by his enemies at parliament and the royal court, yet was it truly a sin of pride for me to not let people forget I was the Duchess of Gloucester, married to the heir apparent to the crown? The king remained unmarried, with no prospect yet of a wife, and his mother long dead, so I was the first lady of England. My husband continued to build our fortune through astute investments in land around Oxford and our palace at Bella Court could claim to be the grandest in London, rivalling even the king’s own apartments.
I remember we were excitedly discussing how the ambitious Duke Richard of York was said to be crossing the Channel with an army of five thousand men. The much contested town of Harfleur had been besieged and re-taken for the king. I was hopeful that more victories in France would soon tip the balance back in my husband’s favour. Even Cardinal Beaufort would have to admit he had been wrong to let our hard won territory be negotiated away so easily. The prospect of this restored my spirits and gave me hope that all would be well for us soon.
A breathless messenger interrupted our meal, handing me a folded note. I was drinking good wine and laughing at some silly joke as I broke the wax seal, without even looking to see who had sent the note. As I read the hurriedly scrawled words, I felt a chill run through my veins, a premonition of what was to come. I re-read the note, half hoping I had been mistaken but I had not. I recognised the distinctive signature of Roger Bolingbroke. We had been betrayed and he was about to be arrested, together with Thomas Southwell, on charges of treason against the king.
There is a sense of impending rain in the autumnal breeze drifting through my window. As I watch, relentless grey clouds cover the last small patch of bright blue sky. The hot dry summer has made this place more bearable, yet I fear another long winter, as I suffer in the cold which chills my bones. I see from this journal it was one year since that same Richard, Duke of York disturbed the peace of Beaumaris Castle with his unexpected visit. It was not for me he came, but to challenge the king and his scheming French queen.
Although now ten years ago, I still feel the shock of that dreadful moment in Cheapside when I read the note from Roger Bolingbroke. So this was how a respected man of God, a Cardinal of Rome, Bishop of Winchester and chief advisor to the king, attacked my husband, who had retired to his innocent studies. The cardinal had found the weak spot in the duke’s defences, and it was me, his foolish wife.
Our enemies did their work slowly, with care and cunning, first arresting my friends. I ran from the inn and, followed by my escort, rode as fast as I could over London Bridge, all the way to Bella Court. Humphrey was waiting for me. The king’s men had not only arrested Roger Bolingbroke and Thomas Southwell. Humphrey’s personal secretary and chaplain, John Home, had also been taken to the Tower. My husband seemed to think it was a hollow threat dreamed up by the cardinal that could be easily resolved. We had, after all, he said, survived worse things in the past.
I was torn between believing him and telling the truth of the real danger we were now in. I was sure of the loyalty of my friends and knew they would do everything in their power to keep my secrets safe. I also knew the cardinal would not hesitate to use torture to make them talk if he thought it could bring down my husband. He would have already fabricated the case against them, so his aim would not be to extract a confession but to make them admit the names of their co-conspirators. I wondered how even the strong-willed Roger Bolingbroke would cope when shown the dreaded rack.
All we could do was wait, knowing Cardinal Henry Beaufort would make sure all of London soon knew about the arrests. Nothing travels faster than bad news. Tongues would wag, and the damage to our reputation done, even if the charges were eventually dropped. Neither of us could sleep that night. All I could do was pray for my friends in our private chapel. Humphrey could bear the waiting no longer and sent a dozen trusted men to Westminster to find out what they could. Some hours later one of his riders returned with details of the charges against our men.
My worst fears were realised. They were all accused of conspiracy to bring about the death of the king. We knew too well that anyone convicted of treason would suffer a most horribly painful death. It was but a short step to have them confess that their plan had been to put my husband on the throne in Henry’s place. This was the work of Cardinal Beaufort. By arresting our known associates, he knew people would readily believe they were acting with my husband’s full knowledge. The cardinal could easily pay for ‘witnesses’ to say whatever he wished them to.
There followed another long and difficult wait for news. Another of Humphrey’s riders returned to tell us Thomas Southwell was now also facing a specific charge. It was being said he was accused of celebrating a mass unlawfully at the lodge in Hornsey Park. Our man could tell us little more, other than there was talk of Southwell being in possession of what were called ‘strange heretical accoutrements’. I hoped this showed they had no knowledge of the truth.
Thomas Southwell was no heretic. We had known him for many years. He was Canon of St Stephen's Chapel in the palace of Westminster, Rector of St Stephen's in Walbrook and the Vicar of Ruislip. At the same time it was a serious allegation. Humphrey had been present at the burning at Smithfield of a priest who denied the sacraments of the church. During his time as Regent my husband also oversaw inquisitions concerning heretics, traitors, and rebels, many of whom were executed for threatening the House of Lancaster.
Similarly I was at a loss to understand why our secretary and chaplain, John Home, also a man of the church and the Canon of Hereford and St Asaph, had been arrested with them. I could not tell my husband but to my knowledge he was innocent of any involvement in our experiments. Home was serious and scholarly, a tall, thin man with deep-set eyes and a strange habit of pausing over long before answering, as if weighing up all the possibilities before speaking. He did his work well enough yet I had never felt at ease in his company and would never have contemplated involving him in any of our secret experiments.
Then Humphrey’s man told us the awful news that my poor gentle and innocent friend Margery Jourdemayne had also been arrested at her home in Westminster, accused of witchcraft and sorcery. I remembered how she was warned, last time we secured her release, that she would be shown no mercy if she was ever caught using witchcraft again. Although she played no part in our experiments and I had not seen her for some time, I was starting to realise the cardinal’s plan.
Margery Jourdemayne was one of my ‘known associates’, not Humphreys. One way or another, Cardinal Henry Beaufort would find a way to accuse me, and through me bring down my husband. Too late, I recalled a quote from the Greek philosopher Antisthenes: Pay attention to your enemies, for they are the first to discover your mistakes.
The autumn rain I predicted has finally arrived in Beaumaris, quickly turning the paths around the inner ward to mud again. Instead of taking my walk outside, I passed through the passageways that link my room to the castle chapel. Once there I said a prayer for the souls of my friends and lit three new candles. One for the good-hearted Thomas Southwell, who was so swiftly removed from his proudly held position of Canonry of St Stephen's in Westminster. One for the deep-voiced Roger Bolingbroke, who had so patiently shared his knowledge of the heavens with me. One for my good friend Margery Jourdemayne, who never showed anything other than kindness to all she met.
I do not light a candle for John Hume but no longer curse him as I have done so many times. Sitting alone in the contemplative peace of the c
hapel, I wonder if John Hume knew the harm he would do by his glib allegations, made so easily. Did the cardinal put the words into his mouth, or was the falsehood all of his own making? He might not have been a spy for the cardinal, yet all the time he had been putting together his own distorted view of what was going on in secret at Bella Court.
John Hume spent much time in the company of Thomas Southwell and Roger Bolingbroke. In his slow, shrewd way, apparently innocent questions in an unguarded moment could have led my friends to tell him more than they really should have. I can imagine John Hume’s fear when the cardinal’s henchmen threatened to tear his limbs on the rack or worse, unspeakable tortures, unless he spoke of what he knew. With his own life at stake, I cannot blame him for sharing his ill-informed theories or agreeing to bear witness against my friends, as others also did. I wonder, though, if he is still alive, and if the lives of those who were once his trusting friends rest heavily on his conscience.
October 1451
Sanctuarium
It is hard for me to recall the details of how events unfolded during those dreadful weeks ten years ago, the reason I am here now, in Beaumaris Castle. It is also painful for me, as one who was once so proud of my reputation, to remember how the whole of London was soon buzzing with talk of our misfortune. My hope is that writing this story as well as I can may put my troubled mind at rest and leave those terrible times behind me.
The people love a scandal and the scheming Cardinal Henry Beaufort had given them one, a twisted, ill-informed version of events that would appeal to the superstitious and horrify the devout. We heard that Thomas Southwell was imprisoned in the Tower and, in addition to the charges of treason, Roger Bolingbroke, John Home and Margery Jourdemayne, had all now been formally charged with heretical practices and divination with magic and the black arts. Necromancy.
The good men and women of London were calling for my friends to suffer the harshest punishment before any trials had even taken place. Roger Bolingbroke warned me once; such is the fear and superstition of something which people don’t understand, their only wish is to see it swiftly crushed, like a bed bug, without a moment of pity or remorse, no thought or care for its place in our world.
I knew there was nothing my husband could do to have them freed and no prospect of a pardon from the king. Shunned by even those who once supported us, our own position was under great threat. I argued with Humphrey that we should make urgent and secret preparations to go into hiding, somewhere far from London, until we could clear our name. He angrily refused, saying he had no reason to hide and to do so would confirm our guilt in the minds of our enemies. He swore he would remain at Bella Court unless there was no alternative.
Then we received disturbing news which took the decision from my hands. We heard of a declaration that Roger Bolingbroke was to publicly recant his crimes at St Paul’s Cross, his revelations to be made before the King's Council. It was known that heretics could be shown leniency if they were to publicly recant their misguided ways, yet I found it impossible to believe Bolingbroke would do so before even a trial. I feared he had already made a confession, and had been somehow persuaded to reveal my own involvement and details of our experiments.
My husband was relieved he was not invited to attend the spectacle, so again he sent one of his trusted men on the appointed day to witness events and report back as soon as he could. It was during that awful wait that I secretly visited my husband’s library and found the book we used in our secret experiments. Hiding it in the folds of my dress and making sure I could not be seen, I took it to my room. I did not even dare to open the book one last time and threw it on the fire, cursing the day I even knew of it as the parchment pages burned brightly in the orange flames. I covered the ashes with hot coals so no trace remained.
If events were to turn badly for me I needed to be ready. I wrapped my priceless golden brooch set with pearls and a large diamond, together with my gold garter, in some fine cotton cloth. They were gifts from the king but could also serve to pay for my safe haven somewhere no one would find me. I placed them in a bag with a change of clothing, my comb and a small but precious silver mirror. I took a needle and thread and sewed the best of my jewellery into a secret pocket in my favourite blue dress. As a final precaution I found my purse on a silk cord which could be worn under my clothes and filled it with as many gold and silver coins I could. My preparations made, I could only wait for the news I was certain would come.
Humphrey’s man returned with a strange and worrying account of what had happened at St Paul’s Cross. Crowds of curious onlookers gathered to first hear a sermon by Bishop John Low of Rochester, who spoke of the dangers of heresy and the foolishness of those who would claim to use magic. Our friend Roger Bolingbroke was placed high on a wooden platform, so everyone present could see him. Humphrey’s man told us he looked dazed and seemed unable to stand without help. Instead of his black cappa clausa, the sign of his role in the church, he wore a colourful robe daubed with supposedly magic symbols.
Roger Bolingbroke was made to sit on a brightly painted throne-like chair, a wooden sword placed in one hand and a sceptre in the other. On his head they had made him wear a paper crown to mock his treason against the king. Cardinal Beaufort himself presided over the Council’s questioning, surrounding himself with the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Bishops of London and Salisbury and the powerful earls of Huntingdon, Stafford and Northumberland. The sign to the people was clear, the great and the good would prevail and justice would be seen to be done.
Our informant told us how Bolingbroke recanted his diabolical activities. His deep voice faltering as he confessed his actions were unlawful and against the teachings of the church. My husband urged the man to recall exactly the words he had heard. He remembered that there were jeers from the crowd and calls for him to speak the truth when he tried to argue he had never been a heretic and was a faithful servant of the church. The crowd had fallen silent as he prayed, his words echoing around St Paul’s, for God to take pity on his mortal soul, and to have mercy on those who would condemn him.
I will never know what Roger Bolingbroke suffered before he agreed to take part in this carefully staged mockery of justice. I did know it was planned by Cardinal Beaufort to prepare the people of London for what would come next, a further confession that would set out the involvement of Duke Humphrey and myself. It was three long days and two sleepless nights before we had word that he claimed his actions were on my behalf. It was being said I had asked him to foretell my future, an act of treason if it could be shown I wished the death of the king, with charges of witchcraft and necromancy likely to be proven. I knew the terrifying punishment for such crimes. Men would be taken to Tyburn, where they would be hanged, drawn and quartered. The punishment for a woman was to be burned alive at the stake.
My one regret is I did not feel able to confess to my husband what I had done or discuss with him the true nature of our experiments. He deserved to know the extent of our actions and why I had to escape while I could, yet at the moment of truth I simply said I was going out to clear my head. Too many people were already suffering as a result of my curiosity and I had no wish to add my husband to the list of those accused as conspirators. I also knew there was no way I could say goodbye to him, even though there was a danger I could never see him again.
I put my purse, heavy with gold and silver coins, around my neck, with a light shawl over my shoulders to hide my face and, carrying the bag I had prepared, left without saying a word to anyone. It was a warm July evening as I took my last walk through my beautiful gardens at Bella Court in the setting sun. I remembered how the workmen had toiled to transform the rough pasture into my garden, one of the finest in the whole of England.
The borders were a riot of colour with flowers brought all the way from Holland and Zeeland; lands which my husband still claimed were his by right. It had been a good early summer and my fruit trees were already heavy with ripening apples and pears, purple plums and bri
ght red cherries. Last of all I stopped to visit my herb garden and quietly said a prayer, not for myself, but for Margery Jourdemayne, now so fatally caught up in my misfortune.
I made my way through our private avenues to the jetty on the Thames where boatmen were always waiting and paid one to take me upriver to Westminster. Looking back I know I should have asked him to row down the river. I could have escaped to one of the Channel ports and found a passage on a ship bound for France, where I could somehow have lived in exile until it was safe to return. There would have been dangers for a woman travelling alone and a good chance I could be robbed or worse, yet it would have been better to risk this than simply accept my fate. I decided instead to seek sanctuary in Westminster Abbey.
My husband called me a naive and stupid woman and perhaps he was right, for at the time I believed there was a right of sanctuary, where a person could seek protection, even from the cardinal and agents of the king, within consecrated ground. I knew the penalty for anyone forcibly removing people or committing violence against those in sanctuary was excommunication by the church. This would surely be enough to deter even the cardinal.
I was glad of a light breeze as I was rowed up the river Thames. The tide was in our favour and we soon passed the Tower of London, where my friends were imprisoned. I said a prayer that they would not suffer too much, yet even as I did so I knew how easily they could be made to betray me. I pulled my shawl over my hair and this simple disguise meant I drew no attention as we reached the busy jetty at Westminster. I made my way through the familiar, bustling streets of London. For once I was glad of the hard times I spent in the area, making a living as best I could before becoming lady-in-waiting to Countess Jacqueline all those years ago.