The Witch of Eye

by Mari Griffith

  ‘That is most kind of you, my Lord, but there is no need...’

  ‘Let me finish, Uncle,’ said the King. ‘Now, since you are already a Garter Knight, I cannot confer that honour upon you so I have decided instead to invite you, Aunt Eleanor, to become a Lady of the Garter. As your King, this honour is solely within my gift and I think it entirely appropriate.’

  ‘An admirable idea! Excellent!’ said Humphrey, clearly delighted.

  It took all Eleanor’s self-control to remember where she was. Astounded, she wanted to shout out loud, to lift her skirts and cavort around the big room, singing at the top of her voice. The King appeared to notice nothing, pleased with himself for having made a decision independently of the Council.

  ‘Of course,’ he went on, as confidingly as before, ‘the Garter ceremony will not be held until next May, and the announcement of the names of the new recipients of the honour will not be made public until St George’s Day in April. That is more than six months hence, so I must ask you both to keep the secret until then. I do hope you won’t find that too arduous. Of course, some administrators will need to know, including my esteemed great-uncle, Cardinal Beaufort, since he is Prelate of the Order.’ He paused. ‘Are you pleased?’ he asked.

  Beaming, Humphrey turned to his wife. ‘Are you pleased, my dear?’

  Eleanor had recovered her composure. ‘More pleased than I would ever have thought possible,’ she said slowly.

  She was to become a Lady of the Garter. This was the ultimate accolade.

  ‘Come,’ the King was saying from somewhere in the distance. In her imagination, Eleanor was already wearing a white silk gown under the dark blue velvet mantle of the Order, its badge pinned prominently to the wide sash draped over her shoulder, people smiling, women curtseying to her, men congratulating her and saying how lovely she looked. She had to concentrate hard to bring herself back to the present and listen to what the King was saying.

  ‘...let us call for some wine to celebrate my decision. I know, my Lord Uncle, that you are partial to a glass of Burgundy wine from time to time.’

  The next few minutes passed in a daze for Eleanor. She would have liked to sit for a moment while she came to terms with what she had just been told, but the King and the Duke remained standing, so she contented herself with another winning smile. King Henry’s announcement today was the absolute endorsement of her position as Humphrey’s wife and, until the King himself was married, she was indisputably the first lady in the land. If only she could give her husband a child, she would be unassailable.

  ***

  The decision to join the cattle drove had been made instinctively, but the nearer they drew to London, the more pleased Jenna felt that she had obeyed that instinct. It felt right and she seemed to have found a genuine, dependable friend in Robin Fairweather.

  Conversation between them was sporadic as they walked side by side behind the herd with Mallow, Robin’s dog, at their heels. Leading his horse by the bridle, Robin was keeping an eye open for any bullock that might decide to loiter and graze the grass verge. If he spotted one, he would thrust the horse’s bridle into Jenna’s hand while he and Mallow went after the miscreant to round it up, Robin smacking its rump with his withy stick to persuade it to change its mind.

  The air was filled with the barking of dogs, the shouts of the men, the lowing and blowing of animals disinclined to move any faster and the clopping of their metal-shod hooves on the dry, stony clay of the drove road. Flanking the long line of cattle, keeping them on track, a dozen men on horseback rode back and forth, calling to each other and whistling commands to their dogs. They needed to get the bullocks safely to their destination: they were valuable animals.

  ‘Westminster isn’t far from here,’ Robin said, as they trudged past yet another village green. ‘It won’t be long before we get there.’

  ‘How far is Westminster from London?’

  ‘Just outside. Near enough for the King to be in the city when he has to and still be in his own bed come nightfall.’

  ‘The King!’ Jenna was wide-eyed.

  ‘Yes, the King. His Royal Highness King Henry VI,’ Robin was smiling at Jenna’s innocence. ‘He lives in Westminster, too.’

  ‘But not on the farm!’

  He roared with laughter. ‘No! No, of course not. Not on the farm, though there is a fine manor house on the estate where I’m sure he would be very comfortable. No, the King has a grand palace all of his own with servants and great lords and ladies to look after him.’

  Jenna was quiet for a long time, taking in this unexpected information.

  ‘Will I see him?’

  ‘Who, the King?’ Robin laughed again. ‘Unlikely. He doesn’t go walking around the village streets in Westminster. He lives in the palace. But it’s quite close. We’re making for the Manor of Eye-next-Westminster, the demesne which belongs to the monastery.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The demesne. We’d call it a barton back in Devon. It’s a big estate.’

  ‘That’s a strange name.’

  ‘What is? Demesne?’

  ‘No, not that. The other one. The Manor of whatever you said.’

  ‘The Manor of Eye? Yes, Eye is the old name, apparently. Eybury is the name of the home farm, though the estate is still known as Eye. It’s a huge place, must run to a thousand acres, perhaps more. And there are always droves of cattle coming and going. Sheep, too, but mainly cattle. I bring bullocks up from Devon four times a year.’

  Jenna watched the swaying bovine backsides for a moment. ‘They’re all looking very thin,’ she said.

  ‘Not surprising,’ said Robin, ‘think how far they’ve walked. It’s nigh on two hundred miles.’ He grinned at her. ‘You’re not so fat yourself after walking all that way! How are you feeling?’

  ‘Oh, a bit leary.’

  ‘Weary?’

  ‘No, leary. I could do justice to some bread and cheese. What are you laughing at?’

  Robin was chuckling. ‘You’re going to have to lose your Devon accent if you want to make yourself understood,’ he said. ‘They don’t use words like “leary” round these parts. They’d say “hungry”. You’ll have to start using the right words, or you’ll never find work. You might not even get anything to eat!’

  Jenna laughed, too. She and Robin had become good companions during the course of the journey, easy with each other, and she was pleased by that and very grateful. As he pointed out to her several times, the only reason he’d allowed her to travel with them was that she was a good Devon girl and she should not be traipsing around the countryside on her own, looking for casual work on farms. The other men had been quite respectful towards her too, once Robin had lain down the ground rules on that first morning back in Honiton. Their business was to get the animals to Westminster without mishap.

  ‘Not far now,’ Robin said. ‘Journey’s end is in sight.’

  ‘The girls will be glad of the rest.’

  ‘Aye, they will, and so will the bullocks. They’ll get a couple of weeks’ rest on Eybury Farm, on rich pasture down by the river Thames. It’s good and green at this time of year and not too wet, even though it’s clay soil. They’ll fatten up nicely.’

  ‘And then they’ll be killed.’

  Robin shrugged. ‘That’s what happens.’

  It was pointless getting fond of animals, Jenna thought, they were only there for the convenience of people. So she had been surprised the first time she’d heard Robin calling the six dairy cows his ‘girls’. But Robin was a surprising man, a no-nonsense, responsible head drover with a concern for the herd in his charge and a great affection for his dog, Mallow. Mallow? That seemed strange to Jenna, too: dogs were usually given names like Trojan or Holdfast.

  ‘Why Mallow?’ she had asked him a few days ago.

  ‘Why not? It’s a pretty plant, she’s a pretty bitch.’

  The black and white cattle dog was no prettier than any other bitch, Jenna thought, but her devotion to R
obin was obvious and she had an endearing habit of nuzzling her long nose under his hand until it moved to stroke her head or tickle her ears.

  So there was a soft side to his nature, but cattle were cattle, the commodity he traded in. The bullocks would bring a good profit when they were slaughtered, enough to make it worthwhile for men like Robin Fairweather to spend their lives on the drove roads, satisfying the needs of city folk who had no room to keep animals or grow crops of their own but still needed food in their bellies. Droving was hard, dangerous work: Mallow wasn’t just there to herd the animals, she had to protect her master, too.

  ***

  The sun, low in the sky, was to their backs when the drove arrived at Eybury farm. Robin had sent one of the men on ahead to warn the tenant-farmer to expect them and now the animals had come to a halt, some cropping the grassy bank, the drovers waiting to be told which field they were to use as pasture.

  ‘I told you we’d get here by dimmet-time,’ Robin said with a smile in his eyes.

  ‘And we did,’ said Jenna, wondering why he was so amused.

  ‘This time of day is called “evening” in these parts, or sometimes “dusk”.’

  ‘Not dimmet?’

  ‘No. They’d probably think you meant dinner-time,’ he said, ‘so you’d get nothing to eat. Well, I did warn you!’ Jenna groaned at him but took the advice to heart.

  ‘Hey, Robin!’

  He turned at the shout and waved. Two young cowherds were running up the lane towards them, withy sticks in hand, ready to help round up the animals and head them off into the field.

  ‘Seth, you young dog! How are you? Piers, I’ll swear you’ve grown since I last saw you!’

  ‘Good to see you, Robin,’ panted Seth. ‘The neats are to go here in the upper meadow, Master Jourdemayne says. We’ll drive ’em down to the lower meadow tomorrow, when he’s had a chance to move the sheep. They’ve not been moved since they were sheared three weeks ago.’

  ‘Three weeks ago! A bit late in the year for shearing, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Aye, it’s all been a bit late this year, what with the weather and everything, and then the shearers said the stars were all wrong for shearing so they wouldn’t do it. Said it would bring bad luck. The Master could do with a bit more help, truth to tell. We’re on the go from dawn ’til dusk.’

  ‘No peace for the wicked,’ Piers grinned, pushing open a wide gate just as an errant bullock made a break for freedom.

  ‘Whoa!’ Seth shouted. ‘You pesty bastard of a bullock! Hoop ha!’ He sprinted nimbly up the bank to head off the animal, smacking his withy stick on its rump. ‘Hoop ha!’ he whooped again. ‘You ain’t goin’ nowhere but in that field, my old mate. Hoop ha!’ Mallow, knowing what was expected of her, circled behind the bullock, barking and snapping at its heels to drive it back in the right direction. Once it was safely through the gate, the others, nose to tail, began to trot obediently behind it into the meadow, tempted by the prospect of sweet pasture and even sweeter rest. The drovers and their dogs stood by to deter any other wanderers.

  Jenna had been watching this activity from a distance, not wanting to get in the way. It was only after he had looped the gate back on to the gatepost that Seth spotted her and gave a low whistle.

  ‘A woman!’ he said, surprised.

  ‘Yes, a woman,’ agreed Robin, smiling. ‘Haven’t you seen one before?’

  ‘Aye,’ Seth laughed, ‘I’ve seen a few in my time. But not many as pretty as this one. Not drovin’ no neats, anyhow.’

  ‘I broke the drovers’ code for once and let her travel with us because she needed looking after. This here’s Jenna,’ Robin introduced them then gave Jenna a broad grin. ‘Neats is the name for cattle hereabouts,’ he explained, his eyes sparkling with amusement. ‘I told you you’d have to learn a lot of new words if you want to find work in Westminster. They don’t speak proper English, like what we do in Devon!’

  Piers laughed at that, but Seth looked hard at Jenna, sizing her up. ‘‘Lookin’ for work, are you?’ he asked. ‘What sort of work? Most girls seem to want to work up at the palace for the gentry. Is that what you want?’

  ‘The palace!’ Jenna was astounded. ‘What would I do in the palace?’

  ‘Well, there’s kitchen jobs, for scullions and so on. You don’t need fancy ways for those.’

  ‘Jenna’s a dairymaid,’ said Robin firmly. ‘That’s what she’s told me.’

  ‘Yes,’ Jenna agreed. ‘I’d like some dairy work if I can find it. Is there any going round here?’

  Seth whistled through his teeth. ‘Aye, there might be. We’ve got our own dairy herd to milk twice a day. Then, if the drovers bring any cows along with the fatstock herds, we’ve got to look after them, too. And that’s without all the other work we’ve got on the farm. So when we’re busy, Master needs extra people who know what they’re doing. You should go and ask him. He’s in there,’ he said, jerking his head towards a wooden building a little further along the lane. ‘He’s just finishin’ off milkin’ the last of our own neats.’

  Jenna looked at Robin for approval. ‘What do you think?’

  He shrugged. ‘You’re the one who needs the work,’ he said. ‘And William Jourdemayne is the Master hereabouts, the man you need to see. You might as well go and ask. You’re none the worse.’

  ‘I will,’ said Jenna, ‘thank you. And Robin, thank you for all your kindness. I won’t forget you.’

  ‘You won’t have a chance to forget me,’ Robin smiled. ‘Even if I don’t see you again before we start for home, I’ll be back with another herd in nine or ten weeks, an even bigger one, with animals to fatten up for the Christmas market. So I’ll see you around Martinmas, if you’re still here.’

  ‘If I am, I’ll look out for you, for old time’s sake. Look after the girls for me!’

  ‘Oh, Jenna,’ he called after her, ‘the girls will need milking later. Will you tell Master Jourdemayne? And tell him I’ll be expecting the usual tankard of ale later on.’ He paused. ‘Good luck to you!’ he added, watching as she set off down the lane. ‘And God’s blessings.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  Jenna hesitated at the open door of the byre until her eyes became accustomed to the gloom and she could make out the shapes of empty cattle stalls. She could still hear the muted shouts of the drovers and the barking of dogs in the distance but it was very quiet in here, and very big.

  ‘And what can I do for you?’

  The questioner’s low voice was muffled against the flank of a dun cow as his fingers pulled rhythmically at her teats. After a moment, the cow turned her head and regarded Jenna with an inquiring expression in her dark eyes as though she, too, expected a reply. Milk, squirting into the wooden pail beneath her udder, made the only sound in the warm byre.

  ‘Well? What can I do for you?’

  ‘Beg pardon, sir?’

  The man’s voice came again, louder this time and with a note of tetchiness. ‘I said, what can I do for you?’

  All Jenna could see of the big man who was crouching awkwardly on a three-legged milking stool was the back of his head. She had an impression of strands of grey in dark hair, powerful shoulders. She swallowed, suppressing a sudden wave of anxiety, but she really needed this job. If she said nothing she would likely gain nothing and that was not the way to start the rest of her life. She cleared her throat.

  ‘If it please you, Master Jourdemayne,’ she said. ‘I heard from Robin the Drover that you might be looking for someone to help with the milking and the running of the dairy.’

  William Jourdemayne eased himself up from the low stool, stretching his cramped back as he stood. ‘Off with you, then, my beauty,’ he said, giving the cow’s rump a gentle slap to move her on, deftly removing the pail before she kicked it.

  ‘So,’ he turned towards Jenna, wiping his hands on a clean rag, ‘you’re looking for work, are you? And Robin’s told you I might be wanting some help around here. True enough. I wouldn’t be doing the milkin
g if we weren’t short of cowmen. I’ve got better things to do. What’s your name?’

  ‘Jenna, sir. Jenna Harding.’

  ‘Hmm. And can you milk a cow, Jenna Harding?

  ‘Oh, yes, master. I have done it a thousand times.’

  ‘Good. And what about dairy work? Have you any experience of that?’ He raised his dark eyebrows as he looked down at her.

  ‘Yes, sir, in my stepfather’s dairy, ever since I started to work as a child. And I am now four-and-twenty years old.’

  ‘Four-and-twenty, eh! Is that so? Well, an older woman could be an advantage, I suppose, someone experienced who knows what she’s doing. Have you anyone to recommend you? Someone in Chelsea, perhaps? Knightsbridge?’

  ‘No. No one in any village hereabouts, sir,’ she replied, ‘though you could ask several people in Kingskerswell and I’m sure they would vouch for my honesty.’

  ‘Kingskerswell? And where might that be?’

  ‘Down Devon way, sir. Not far from Exeter.’

  ‘Ah, so that’s your accent; you’re a Devonshire lass. Well, that’s clever of you, Mistress Harding,’ William laughed, showing teeth which were still white and even, though Jenna judged him to be above thirty years old. ‘Do you think I’m going to go all the way to Devon to find someone to recommend you? Eh? Or could Robin recommend you?’

  ‘No, sir. I have only recently met Robin. So you must take my word for it,’ she said quietly. ‘And I’m jonnack.’

  ‘I thought you said your name was Jenna?’

  ‘It is, sir. I’m sorry. I meant I’m jonnack, I speak the truth.’

  He looked down at her again from under his eyebrows, his dark hair falling forward, blue eyes sizing her up. He was amused, but he had no wish to embarrass her.