The Witch of Eye

by Mari Griffith

  ‘Stop it, Jake! Stop it! Get away from me. You’re not sorry! You weren’t sorry the last time it happened and you’re not sorry now! Get away from me, Jake!’ Jenna was screaming now, pushing him, pummelling his chest. ‘Get away from me!’

  She was no match for his strength. He overpowered her easily, his arms tightening like iron bands around her, pinning her own arms uselessly against her sides, her hands bunched into limp fists. His eyes narrowed as he realised she was not going to be won over this time. He began to mock her then, as he shoved her roughly towards the straw pallet where they slept on the floor in the far corner, an ugly sardonic smile twisting his face.

  ‘So,’ he said, his voice low and threatening, ‘you think you can get away from me, do you, you teasing little whore? Well, you can’t. You’re my wife and there’s no bastard on earth can change that. But they can’t wait to get their stinking little hands on you. I’ve watched them going out of their minds wanting to grab your tits, pull up your skirts. It’s your fault, you’re like a bitch on heat. You set a man’s prick alight. But I’m going to have you now, bitch, I’m going to show you ... show you how it feels to have a real man screwing you ... not a sickly whelp of a man like the Parson ... you want it, don’t you? You want it, don’t you, bitch!’

  Jenna whimpered hopelessly as he pushed her down onto their mattress then dropped to his knees, roughly shoving her skirt up over her thighs, forcing her legs apart. He was inches taller than she was and as strong as an ox, his powerful body honed by years of labour in the fields. She could only pray that this time he wouldn’t leave her skin raw and bleeding, her mind blank with shame and horror.

  ***

  Jenna lay on her back for a long time after Jake had violated her, praying for merciful sleep. His arm lay heavy across her body, pinning her down, and she dared not move for fear of disturbing him. Over the sound of his snoring, she heard a tomcat yowling in the darkness outside the cottage and she pitied the poor queen that would soon have to endure the pain of his selfish penetration. Managing to turn onto her right side so that the weight of her own head on the pillow wouldn’t put unbearable pressure on her swollen left ear, she slowly became aware that, with her damaged ear uppermost, she could hear neither the tomcat’s yowling nor Jake’s snoring with any clarity. It was as though she had pulled the pillow over her head – but she hadn’t.

  Dear God, if Jake had damaged her hearing, what would he do next? Would it always be like this for her, treading on eggshells for fear of annoying him, never knowing when his mercurial temper would flare up? Would she live in terror of her own husband for the rest of her life? And would she have to work her fingers to the bone on her stepfather’s farm each day? She always avoided being alone in the dairy with the dirty old bastard her mother had been so grateful to marry and when there was no alternative but to work alongside him, she tried hard not to mind his drooling leer and his groping hands, if only for her mother’s sake.

  Why did men behave so oddly towards her? In all honesty, she reflected, if her stepfather hadn’t made her so nervous, perhaps she wouldn’t have been so keen to marry Jake, though she had to admit she had thought herself madly in love with him. She should have given herself time to get to know him better, time to discover the jealous temper simmering perilously close to the surface, ready to explode into violence as soon as it was fuelled with drink. How stupid she had been to fall so unquestioningly in love with a beautiful face.

  Nothing was likely to change. If God spared her and she was still alive twenty years hence she would be just like her mother, her back bent with hard work, her face lined with worry. She could see no choice but to go on living with Jake, lying passively under the bulk of him at night, waiting until he grunted his satisfaction then heaved himself off her and began snoring like a bull. Did she really want a child as a result of these bestial couplings? Her mother’s assertion that a baby would be the answer to her problems was of no comfort to her and in any case, although she didn’t want to admit it to Betsy, she had already been to see Old Mother Morwenna to ask her advice. And to pay for it.

  The wise woman of the village had been unexpectedly sympathetic. They talked companionably over a glass of small beer, sitting at the table where the toothless old crone concocted her herbal remedies for everyday ailments, coughs and colds, aches and pains, making medicines to cure constipation or aid conception. Amid much sighing and tut-tutting, Old Mother Morwenna pointed out that failure to conceive did not always mean the woman was barren.

  ‘Look at the Dynhams, up at the Manor,’ she said in her cracked, high-pitched voice. ‘Those men couldn’t beget a son to save their lives, not for all their money and their fancy ways. That’s why the house and the land kept reverting to the King. Yes, for want of an heir. I’m old enough to remember it. Can you believe that? Eh? Can you? Do you know how old I am? Eh? Well, in truth, I’m not sure myself. But I do remember my own mother saying that one or two of the Dynhams’ widows went on to have fine broods after their husbands died.’

  She patted Jenna’s arm with her bony hand. ‘So it could easily be your man’s fault that you have no little ones, my dove. Mind you,’ she added with a cackle, ‘you’d be a fool to tell him so!’

  Before she left Morwenna’s cottage, Jenna had parted with half a groat in payment for a phial of something viscous and brown which the old wise woman assured her would resolve the situation if she drank a third of it exactly mid-way between her menses on three consecutive months. But the phial had remained hidden under the eaves, unopened, while Jenna looked for some sign that things were going to change between her and Jake before she swallowed its vile-looking contents.

  Nothing did change and she was forced to the conclusion that nothing ever would. Sooner or later, she would have to overcome her squeamishness and drink the thick, sticky brown liquid in the hope of conceiving a child. Yet in her heart she knew a child wasn’t the answer: she couldn’t bring a little one into the world to have its bones broken by a drunken father.

  Besides, she had no absolute guarantee that Old Mother Morwenna’s brown liquid would have any effect because, wise woman or not, her potions were not infallible. She had not been able to cure whatever had ailed Alice, Jenna’s best friend since childhood. Jenna and Alice. They had been a pair of mischievous little rascals with a deep affection for each other, as close as sisters. Jenna and Alice did everything together, playing games, laughing, singing or running errands for their mothers. They loved nothing better than their weekly visit to the parsonage where Parson Middleton, then an enthusiastic, forward-thinking young clergyman, did his best to teach a group of the village children the rudiments of reading and reckoning.

  But tonight, as Jenna lay sleepless beside her snoring lout of a husband, Alice lay silent in six feet of cold earth from whence, a year ago, a stony-faced Parson Middleton had committed her immortal soul to God’s keeping. Gripped by an agony of belly cramps and vomiting, Alice had derived no benefit from Old Mother Morwenna’s decoction of seeds of quince. Undeterred, the old wise woman had intoned some incantations above the bed where Alice writhed in agony, but to no avail. In desperation, her anxious parents had summoned the leech doctor from Newton Abbot, scraping together enough money to pay his extortionate fee. He took the money willingly enough before shaking his head and muttering that ‘right side sickness’ was beyond his help because it was the will of God.

  In unendurable pain, poor Alice died, leaving her mother, her father and her dearest friend to mourn her and wonder what sin they had committed that was sufficiently grave to cause such a loss. How had they offended God so much that He took Alice away from them?

  Jenna passed a restless night. The sensation of falling from a great height would convulse her from the brink of slumber until, finally, she abandoned all thought of sleep and slid carefully from under Jake’s arm. In the last glow of the dying embers, she lowered herself gingerly down onto the bench by the fire pit, muscle by aching muscle, until she found a moderately comfo
rtable position.

  As she sat, she took stock of her situation. In time, she realised, she could become a vexed and resentful old woman, cowed by her husband’s callousness, the teeth knocked from her head and deaf as a post from his blows. While she was still comparatively young, her most precious possession was a lively mind in a God-given healthy body, something Alice would never have again.

  By the first light of dawn, Jenna had made her decision. She would get as far away as she possibly could from Kingskerswell and all it stood for. No matter what it took, she would get away from Jake.

  And there would be no going back.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Midsummer 1435

  William Jourdemayne, dependable and honest, excelled in his work as the tenant farmer on the manorial estate of Eye-next-Westminster but, in his wife’s opinion, that was not enough. It infuriated her that he seemed perfectly content with things as they were.

  It had taken some persuasion on Margery’s part to get her husband to do what she wanted of him. Though impatient to put her plans in motion, she had realised the value of investing her time and energy over several weeks in pleasing him in every way she could, being warmly receptive towards him in their bed and readily agreeing to help him with the quarterly accounts for Abbot Harweden. She was eventually rewarded with the key to a small room just off the manor farmhouse kitchen for her own exclusive use.

  Once Margery took possession of the room, she had cupboards moved into position against three of the walls and filled them with pots and pans, jugs and funnels, bottles and ewers, pestles and mortars. There were small bowls for mixing her ingredients and bigger bowls for washing her utensils; she was scrupulously clean in her work. Above the cupboards were several high shelves where, in a series of small locked coffers, she kept the secret ingredients she used in her recipes. Bunches of summer herbs for winter use were strung up to dry above the hearth while their seeds were stored in meticulously labelled boxes. Beneath the window, a sturdy table was positioned where the light was good and next to that, fixed with great care to the wall, was a large mirror. The mirror had been an indulgence on Margery’s part; William would have been appalled if she’d been entirely truthful about the cost of it, but she had paid for it herself out of money she’d saved from selling her wares so she didn’t think it any of her husband’s business to question her purchase. Next to the mirror was a hook for her apron, but that apron was now tied around her slim waist as she worked at the table.

  Raising a phial to her lips, Margery tasted a drop of liquid which was sharp and bitter on her tongue. Good, that was about the right consistency, and the correct balance of myrrh resin to strong, sweet white wine. She couldn’t afford to make mistakes with anything as expensive as myrrh. Reaching for a small flask containing an infusion of mint leaves in boiled water, she tested the temperature of the liquid by letting a little of it drip onto the inside of her wrist. Judging it to have cooled to blood heat, she then held the flask up to the light and measured into it precisely ten drops of the tincture of myrrh, shaking the two gently together, watching the mint infusion become opaque and milky as the two liquids blended.

  ‘Mmm,’ she murmured, satisfied, setting the flask down on the table. ‘Good. That should do the trick.’

  Had Margery been a man, she would certainly have been a noted apothecary, but she had to be satisfied with her reputation as a wise woman, secure in the knowledge that the skills that her mother had handed down to her had commercial potential. As word of those skills spread, it pleased her to realise that people were prepared to pay considerable sums of money for what she sold them. There was profit in presenting these old remedies and decoctions in such a way that they appeared to be something entirely new, something different and exciting to help a woman realise her dreams of beauty and desirability and thus her chances of marriage. Margery possessed a shrewd intellect. She recognised vulnerability in other women. And she took advantage of it.

  Fitting a pewter funnel into the neck of a small bottle, Margery carefully poured into it some of the tincture of myrrh she had just made, it was her favourite remedy for easing the pain of toothache. If she was careful, there would be enough to fill six of these bottles and each one would sell for a penny. Sixpence in all and it had cost her one penny to purchase the myrrh from her spice merchant. That meant a good profit for her, since white wine was easy enough to come by and spearmint grew in profusion alongside all the other herbs in her little physic garden between the farmhouse and the nearby brook. Spearmint was such a rewarding herb: Margery loved it for its usefulness in doing everything from treating a lady’s greasy hair to keeping moths and mice at bay.

  Methodically, she washed and dried the utensils she had been using and replaced them in a cupboard before setting out for the Palace at Westminster for another appointment with Lady Northumberland. At least she had found time today to stock up on the tooth tincture for the Duchess of Gloucester who was almost certain to need some very soon. She was becoming more and more demanding these days. Margery was very pleased about that.

  ***

  A young man sat at the head of the long table in the library at the Palace of Westminster, flanked by two very much older men.

  ‘The problem, Sire,’ said the Earl of Suffolk, ‘is that the French are as wily and dangerous as snakes. The Dauphin will do anything to challenge the English right to the French throne and establish himself as King of France.’

  The man sitting opposite the Earl was wearing the deep scarlet cassock of a cardinal and exuded an air of authority when he spoke.

  ‘In confidence,’ he said, ‘and within these four walls of course, I’m beginning to think we would be better off without them. I must confess to feeling heartily sick of the whole burden of France around English necks. The conflict has gone on for far too long and it’s costing us dear. Too many fine young Englishmen dead, too many children orphaned. There’s little to be gained from holding on to France just to avoid losing face. We’d be well rid of it.’

  ‘Not everyone agrees with you,’ the Earl pointed out. ‘You’d be hard-pressed to get the Duke of Gloucester to share your opinion.’

  ‘I’m afraid my nephew and I agree about very little these days,’ said Cardinal Beaufort. ‘Though I would feel more kindly disposed towards him if he would only be prepared to see sense about France.’

  ‘But, to be fair,’ protested the young man who was sitting between the two, ‘perhaps he is merely concerned about me and my duties towards France. After all, I am the sovereign king of both countries. And I take my responsibilities very seriously.’

  ‘And as members of the Council, Your Highness,’ the Earl of Suffolk assured him, ‘we take our responsibilities towards you very seriously and we would –’

  ‘I’m sure the King does not need to be reminded of our loyalty,’ interrupted Cardinal Beaufort. ‘He knows we have always had his best interests at heart. But for the sake of both king and country, we must decide carefully what to do for the best. And this is now an urgent matter.’

  Though sumptuously dressed, Henry appeared an unlikely king. He was quite a pleasant-looking boy, with plentiful brown hair, but his eyes held a peculiarly dull expression and his pallid skin often erupted into small, yellow pustules.

  Henry VI, King of England and France, was thirteen years old and young for his age.

  The Earl of Suffolk, as Steward of the Royal Household, was an adviser to the adolescent monarch. ‘I understand, Your Highness, that His Holiness the Pope has requested this conference,’ he said.

  ‘Congress,’ corrected Beaufort, ‘an altogether bigger gathering, to be held at Arras, in Burgundy, and I have committed myself to attending. Philip of Burgundy will be there, of course, with a large French delegation, no doubt.’

  ‘And will Pope Eugene attend?’ asked the King.

  ‘No, he won’t. His Holiness has informed us that the interests of the Vatican will be represented by two cardinal mediators. They will both be senior men, you
can depend upon it.’

  Suffolk looked up from the papers on the table in front of him. ‘And is the Dauphin himself to be present?’

  ‘Very probably,’ said Beaufort. ‘As we know, he will do anything or go anywhere to press his claim to the throne. He seems to have gained a great deal more confidence since the so-called Maid of Orléans went into battle on his behalf and succeeded in getting him crowned.’

  ‘Not that we acknowledge a coronation brokered by a witch,’ said Suffolk.

  Cardinal Beaufort nodded without comment. He himself had interrogated Joan of Arc in France four years ago and had witnessed her death, tied to a stake above a huge fire in the marketplace at Rouen, burning in agony. The sight still invaded his dreams. Joan had died for her religious conviction that the Dauphin Charles was the rightful heir to the French throne.

  Looking suddenly startled, the King swung round in his chair to face the Cardinal. ‘But if the Dauphin will be there, then shouldn’t I, too, attend this Congress at Arras?’

  ‘I would advise against it,’ said Beaufort, aware that Henry, still scarcely more than a child, would be unlikely to contribute anything of any significance to such an important gathering.

  ‘Good,’ said the King, clearly relieved, ‘because I really cannot understand why we must have all this squabbling. The French throne is mine! I have been crowned in Paris. I am God’s anointed King of France. Why is there all this bad feeling? I don’t understand why we cannot all live together in peace.’