by Tony Riches
Now I must write of my own punishment. I had been spared the agony suffered by my friends. I was the first lady of the land, the Duchess of Gloucester, and by seeking sanctuary, had escaped the death penalty. I had been given hope by the Dowager Queen Joanna, yet I had underestimated the cruelty of the bishops. My husband warned me that Henry Beaufort would have his revenge on us, and of course he was right. The blow when it came destroyed me as utterly and completely as if I had been tied to a stake and burned alive.
It was the sixth of November, 1441. A date etched into my memory. Brought before the panel of bishops yet again, I thought I would at last hear the details of the penance for the crimes I had confessed to. I remember Archbishop Chichele had returned to speak for the bishops. The old archbishop looked unwell and unhappy with the task before him. Not so the evil Cardinal Beaufort, who could barely contain his satisfaction at seeing me brought so low.
The archbishop read a declaration, which had been unanimously agreed by the ecclesiastical court. His slow words echoed and I felt my whole world, everything that was important to me, all I cared about, slip away. Archbishop Chichele solemnly declared that, as it had been proven I had made use of sorcery and necromancy to procure his favours and effect my marriage to Humphrey of Lancaster, Duke of Gloucester, Earl of Pembroke. The court decreed my marriage annulled. I had been divorced.
February 1452
Paenitentiam
The long, cold winter nights have set in at Beaumaris Castle with a vengeance. This morning I found a bedraggled seabird sheltering on the ledge outside my window, its feathers fluttering in the relentless, freezing wind. The bird’s bright yellow eye watches me warily as it repeats its feeble cry for a mate that will never hear it. The mournful sound reminds me of my misery and shock on that fateful day in St Stephen’s Chapel.
The old Archbishop of Canterbury, Henry Chichele, continued to read loudly from his papers, hardly bothering to look up at me. I heard nothing, my mind repeating the same questions over and over again. How could the bishops divorce me from my husband? Surely Duke Humphrey would never allow such a thing? Numb and uncomprehending, I have no recollection of the rest of that day, other than being led back to my room in a daze, as if I had been struck a physical blow. I collapsed onto my bed and remained there, unable to talk or even think.
I woke in the middle of the night, my questions answered in a rush of awareness. Alone in the darkness that night in the Palace of Westminster, I knew why my husband never visited me, never replied to my letters, never even sent me a note. The answer was as stark and clear as if it had been written in red blood across a whitewashed wall. It had been obvious all the time, yet I had chosen to ignore the painful truth. After all we had been through together, how easily had he been persuaded it would be better for him to be rid of me?
A memory returned of the time at Leeds Castle when I questioned my servant Martha. She told me it had seemed to her as if I was dead, my rooms in Bella Court shuttered and placed out of bounds. How typical of Humphrey. I had not forgotten how he abandoned poor Countess Jacqueline to her uncertain fate outside the city of Mons, tears in her eyes as she begged him on her knees not to leave her in France. I did not love him less. To do so would only give more satisfaction to Cardinal Henry Beaufort.
My life did change from that moment, though. I finally accepted there would never be a royal pardon, no hope of a compromise or a legal defence that forced them to release me. There was now no prospect of a daring rescue by a band of Duke Humphrey’s armed mercenaries. I no longer had the protection of my noble title but I still had good health and I had always been resourceful. I realised I would have to do whatever it took to remain alive, even though it would almost certainly mean surviving long years of lonely imprisonment.
The punishment ordered by the cardinal’s ecclesiastical court aimed to bring as much public shame on me as was within their powers. The bishops had no authority to order my death, so they tried to make my life as miserable as they could. First they commanded that my long hair must be cut short, saying I must learn humility and know that the sin of pride is considered the original and most serious of the deadly sins, the source of the others.
It was ordered that I would be shamed by making public penances, carrying a candle through the streets of London, to a different place of worship on three separate days. The bishops wished for all to see how I recanted my crimes and how low I had fallen. On each occasion the Mayor of London and the Sheriffs of the City were to meet and escort me with two knights through the streets. After my penance it was decreed I must be imprisoned for life, under the care and stewardship of senior knights of the royal household.
The men who came to cut my hair were rough soldiers, who cursed loudly and smelled of drink. They seemed disappointed when I mutely submitted to their task. I think they would have preferred for me to scream and resist, yet I would not give them the satisfaction. They had it instead by groping my body and unnecessarily holding me down, calling me names and insulting me as they hacked at my head with their blunt scissors until I looked like a newly shorn sheep.
After they had gone I cried for the loss of my beautiful long hair. The bishops had known, of course, it was no evidence of pride. Long, well-kept hair was the sign of a woman of good and noble upbringing. Without it I would look like some poor scullery maid. Worse still, I heard one of the soldiers say he planned to sell my silken locks in the market-place as keepsakes. I looked around me. They had been truly diligent. Not one hair of my head had been left behind.
I was made to wear the coarse black woollen robe of a penitent nun, although they fortunately permitted me to cover my head to hide the poor work where my hair had been so roughly cut off. Then I was taken by my guards down the River Thames on a barge to the Temple Stairs and led to the Temple Bar gate, the most important entrance in the city from Westminster. I had witnessed the custom of the king being welcomed into London at Temple Bar by the mayor and was determined to use this to keep some dignity.
News of my downfall must have travelled throughout the city. The crowds of Londoners jostling noisily to see me recant reminded me of those I had seen at a bear-baiting. There were so many that the king’s soldiers had to hold them back with their long, sharp-pointed halberds to create an open space where I would walk. Street vendors called out hopefully, offering cakes and ale, while urchins with grubby faces and bare feet followed behind my entourage, mimicking the marching soldiers of my escort.
There seemed to be a face at every window of the closely-packed, narrow houses with people leaning out from their overhanging balconies to have the best view of me. The bishops had unwittingly turned my public penance into a rather grand pageant. I recognised the Lord Mayor of London, Robert Clopton, a member of the draper’s guild, who had been our guest at Bella Court when first appointed to his post. An ambitious and unpopular, thin-faced man, he chose to wear his full mayoral regalia, with a red velvet cloak trimmed with cloth of gold.
The sheriffs of London also took the opportunity to show their importance, as if competing with each other to have the finest clothes and the most servants in attendance. Rows of the king’s men in their brightly coloured livery added to the effect of a royal procession. The two knights of the garter proudly escorting me looked more like my guardians than my guards. Wearing swords and shining silver breastplates, they seemed to have forgotten this was supposed to be a humbling punishment for me.
As I approached the formal reception there was a peal of bells from Westminster Abbey and someone in the crowd gave a cheer. ‘Long live the king!’ The cry was soon picked up by others and I have no doubt some thought the king himself had come to the city. The waiting mayor seemed unsure of how he should receive me. No doubt conscious of all the eyes upon him, he bowed and welcomed me to the city in much the same way as he had greeted the king. I thanked him for his kindness, which confused the matter further.
A large white church candle was placed in my hand. I was to carry the heavy candle th
rough the streets for my penance. My arms ached with the weight before I had walked more than a hundred steps. Fortunately the late November breeze soon extinguished the flame, so my candle had to be exchanged for a lighted taper, which burned more easily in the windy streets. Someone behind me carried the symbolic candle, another small victory over the bishops.
The ecclesiastical court had chosen busy market days for my penance, to ensure the population would be increased by visiting merchants and men from the outlying towns, yet they would be disappointed. The people lining the narrow streets as my entourage passed by were not the jeering, accusing crowds the cardinal would have wished for. Instead I felt nothing but compassion from those who came out to witness my penance. They fell silent as I walked past them and I hoped it was because they knew how cruelly I had been treated.
Led by the mayor and aldermen of London, my two knights, and followed by my guards, my procession made slow progress as I walked first to the magnificent cathedral of St Paul’s, with its towering spire. I stopped for a moment as I realised I was in the open courtyard of St Paul’s Cross, where Roger Bolingbroke had been made to recant, seated on his brightly coloured chair. Then I was ushered on through the towering doors of the cathedral.
The heavy church candle was lit from my taper and I carried it slowly through the silently watching congregation, down the long aisle to place on the high altar. As I did so I planned to curse every one of the cruel bishops who divorced me; instead I said a silent prayer for those who died through my foolishness. How could I have ever thought the king’s favour worth such a price?
The people of London who saw me make my penance would have known me still as a duchess, standing straight and proud as I walked in my procession through the narrow, dirty streets. Even though dressed in the rough black woollen robe, my head wrapped in a cloth, I had their respect. In my heart, though, my heart was broken and I was on the verge of the deepest misery, with little now to live for. All that kept me going was the thought of my children and grandchildren, and a new determination not to give Cardinal Henry Beaufort the satisfaction of seeing the truth of my despair.
On the following Wednesday my barge took me to what are known as the ‘swan stairs’ in Upper Thames Street. It has, I think, been a long time since swans were seen in such a place. I saw it is now a favourite spot for Londoners to illegally empty foul-smelling slop buckets into the river. I looked back at the old London Bridge and shivered as I saw the sightless, rotting heads of traitors fixed to poles. The current was running swiftly as it headed out to sea, on its way past Greenwich, Bella Court and Duke Humphrey.
I stared into the dark depths and considered jumping from the barge to take my chances in the murky water. I never learned to swim and knew I would drown before my guards could pull me out. It would be a way to find if it was my destiny to live or drown, yet I lacked the courage. The opportunity quickly passed by as I was ushered up the stone steps to where a new crowd of onlookers waited to witness my disgrace.
Once again, I was made to walk through narrow streets of strangely silent crowds who had come to witness my penance, all the way to the Christ Church in Aldgate, known as the priory of the black canons. There I knelt in prayer in front of the altar while the lit taper I carried was used to light twenty-eight candles, one for each of the charges made against me. I prayed my children would be kept safe and well. I prayed for Duke Humphrey to have the strength to go on without me.
On the Friday I was landed at the old dock at Queen Hythe and walked through the busy streets of Cheapside, where I had so recently been dining in such style when I received the fateful note from Roger Bolingbroke. The third and final destination of my penance was the parish church of London, St Michael’s in Cornhill. Someone in the crowd dared to shout in support for good Duke Humphrey as my procession made its way to the church. Their shout was soon echoed by others and I wondered if it might turn into a riot.
The king’s soldiers ushered me into a carriage and quickly back to the Palace of Westminster. I had made my penance with some dignity, although I knew the ballad writers would already be trimming their quills to note my fall from first lady of the land. The record of history was, as ‘good’ Duke Humphrey once reminded me, always written by the victors. Cardinal Henry Beaufort would personally ensure that, if I was remembered at all, it would be for how I was most publicly disgraced.
My punishment was as nothing compared with the fate of my friends. It was some comfort that I had been able to persuade the disreputable Sir John Holland, Constable of the Tower of London, to promise me that Roger Bolingbroke would not suffer unduly. So far I had not heard of his death in custody, so I asked my maidservant Martha to visit Tyburn on the appointed day he was to be executed, to see that Sir John was as good as his word.
When Martha returned she told me a tale of such horror and sadness I can hardly describe it, and only do so that the truth of how he suffered is not forgotten. Roger Bolingbroke had been a wise and caring man, so full of life and wit he brought out the best in all who met him. He was proud to be a man of the church, steadfast in his faith in God and always ready to help those less fortunate than himself. How could I not love him?
It saddens me to think how he must have suffered at the hands of torturers to make him confess. Once he had, the trial was simply a formality, his execution a certainty. Sentenced to death, he was dragged from the Tower through the streets of London, still made to wear the strange and colourful ‘magical’ garments, tied to a hurdle pulled by a black horse. Martha said Roger Bolingbroke had loudly protested his innocence of treason against the king. He was still shouting as he arrived at Tyburn, right up to the moment he was hanged.
He called to God for forgiveness as the thick noose of rope was pulled over his head. Martha had also known him as a good man, who always treated her more as a lady than a maidservant. She sobbed as she recalled how he had not been calling for his own salvation but for the souls of those who had judged him, for the men who now had the task of ending his life. With his last strength, he cried out for the Lord to show mercy. He called on God to forgive them.
Martha was reluctant to tell me more. I told her I must be told the truth of what happened that fateful day at Tyburn. For whatever reason, Sir John Holland had not been able to keep his promise to me. Roger Bolingbroke had been cut down from the gibbet while he still lived. A bucket of water was thrown into his face to revive him, then he was stripped and held down on a wooden table. They cut him open, removed his bowels and burned them on a brazier while he was made to watch.
This poor man, who would have dearly wished to be laid to rest in his peaceful Oxford churchyard, suffered the worst abuse. His still beating heart was cut out and thrown on the flames, to a cheer from the crowd. His head was severed, carried off to be placed on a spike on London Bridge, where black crows would peck out his eyes. His poor body was butchered into quarters, sent to be displayed on ropes at the gates of Oxford, Cambridge, York and Hereford, as grisly, maggot-riddled warnings to heretics and Lollards.
March 1452
Munus regis
No word had been said by any of the bishops about where I was to be imprisoned, although I had begun to be convinced it would be in the dark dungeons of the Tower of London. Instead I found myself returned to my rooms at Leeds Castle, a place I thought I may never see again. I wondered if this was where I was destined to end my days, in honourable confinement like that accorded to the Dowager Queen Joanna. I even began to hope that, like her, I would one day be released.
I had forgotten my imprisonment was a way to keep my husband out of power. The cardinal must have worried that even Leeds Castle would not hold me, as I was put into the custody of Sir Thomas Stanley, Controller of the Royal Household. Sir Thomas had been chosen to be responsible for me because he was also the Constable of Chester Castle, so it was no surprise that it was there he decided I should be held.
I said my farewell to Sir John Steward and gave him my gold ring with a large, valuabl
e diamond to thank him for making my time at Leeds Castle as comfortable as he could. A good man, he had always been most charming to me. As I was about to leave he kissed my hand, then beckoned one of his servants. Sir John presented me with the beautiful lute, saying he had witnessed how my playing had improved and wished me well for the future.
He told me I was to make the long journey from Kent to Cheshire escorted by a dozen of the king’s soldiers. Arrangements had been made for the sheriffs of each county to be held personally accountable for me. They were under orders from the Chancellor, John Stafford, Bishop of Bath and Wells, that my journey was not to be delayed for any reason, particularly by feigned illness. My last memory of Sir John Steward is when I looked back and saw him watching my entourage leave. He raised a hand and I did the same in return, certain I would never see him or Leeds Castle again.
My first escort was John Warner, a talkative and wealthy landowner and Sheriff of Kent. Accompanied by my servants, including my loyal maidservant Martha, and the young maid Mary, I carried with me only the few possessions I had taken when I sought sanctuary and the lute, a present I was most grateful for. A horse-drawn bier had been provided for our long journey and we had not travelled far when snowflakes began drifting from the sky. It was late January, in the middle of what was to prove one of the worst winters for several years.
The road ahead was soon obscured with the falling snow, which made the going dangerous and difficult for our horses. The sheriff was leading our small procession when he gave a shout as his horse strayed from the track we were following and fell into a roadside drainage ditch. He was determined to rescue his favourite horse, a fine grey mare, and soon all the soldiers were trying to pull the poor creature. It was no good. The ditch was deep and full of icy water and the horse’s struggling made it sink deeper into the slippery mud. The men tried lashing together reins and bridles and almost succeeded, yet despite their best efforts we could see the horse was stuck fast. There was no hope.