The Witch of Eye

by Mari Griffith

‘Don’t you want to know why?’ she asked, after a long pause.

  ‘Oh, all right then. Why?’

  ‘She was in prison!’ Kitty said, dropping her voice dramatically.

  Jenna twisted herself up to face her. Now it was her turn to be wide-eyed.

  ‘In prison! Really? What had she done?’

  ‘Well, it was never really proved, but I just remember it. Not many people do these days, because it was ... oh, I don’t know, a good few years ago. But I remember my mother saying she came out of prison in May. The ninth, I think it was. Or perhaps it was the tenth. Mind you, my mother’s dead long since, so I could be misremembering. But I can just remember her coming home to the farm, even though I was only a very, very little girl. I remember I was ever so frightened...’

  ‘Kitty!’ By now, Jenna was shaking Kitty’s arm. ‘What had she done? What was she accused of?’

  Kitty paused again, a little too long, for the greatest dramatic impact.

  ‘Tell me, Kitty!’

  Kitty took a deep breath and composed herself.

  ‘Witchcraft,’ she whispered in the darkness.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  September 1435

  September was one of the busiest months of the year on the monastery’s manor farm. The harvest was barely home when Michaelmas was upon them. Hiring fairs were in full swing and not only were the quarterly rents due to be paid, but Abbot Harweden would also want to see the accounts for the whole year, and reckoning was not one of William Jourdemayne’s greatest talents. He hated doing it so much that he always found something else to do instead, putting it off until the very last moment, then becoming agitated about it. So he was more than grateful the new dairymaid had proved her claim to be able to keep account. Surprisingly, she appeared to be quite at ease with reckoning.

  For her part, Jenna had been delighted to help, pleased to be entrusted with the responsibility of helping the Master in this way, even though she had only been working at the farm for little more than two months. Though the old days at Kingskerswell were slipping further and further into memory, she would always be able to use the skills she’d learned under the enthusiastic tuition of Parson Middleton. She could read moderately well, but her real talent was for figures and she was easily able to add up simple numbers in her head. But these days, when it came to more complicated calculations, she relied on using an abacus. Since she had never had occasion to use one before arriving at Eybury farm, it had taken more than a little determination to master the techniques required. But, having been shown the basic principles, she could now achieve correct answers to the most complicated calculations with impressive speed and unfailing accuracy.

  In the small room behind the brewhouse which served as the tenant-farmer’s office, she sat across the table from the Master, a small frown of concentration on her forehead and a quill pen held awkwardly in her hand. The abacus lay on the table to one side and she was checking a column of figures on an accounts roll in front of her, her lips moving silently.

  William watched her for a moment. ‘I do appreciate you doing this, Jenna,’ he said. ‘I confess it doesn’t come easily to me.’

  Jenna looked up from her work. ‘That’s all right, master,’ she said, ‘though it’s much more difficult reckoning than I’m used to. The milk tallies are easy compared with this. But it does make sense eventually.’

  She took a breath, hesitated a moment, and then spoke again. ‘You know, master, looking at what you’ve got here, I’m sure we could do better with the hens and geese. I do know about those. Each hen should be laying enough to give you four silver pence a year at market and if you were to buy another four dizzen –’

  ‘Dozen?’

  ‘Yes, four dozen hens, that would be a profit of one hundred and ninety-two pence a year for the farm, not for the monastery. The monks keep their own hens up there to provide for the refectory.’

  ‘Haven’t got time for hens,’ William said.

  ‘But ... just another three or four dozen birds...’

  ‘Neats are our main concern,’ he said, ‘then sheep. We only keep hens to provide eggs for the kitchen.’

  ‘Well, I’d look after them for you, and maybe I could take the extra eggs to market in Chelsea each week. Young Kitty could help me. It would teach her a bit of responsibility.’

  ‘Perhaps, one day,’ William said. ‘We’ll see.’

  That seemed to be an end to it. But William’s expression softened. ‘By the way,’ he asked, ‘how is Kitty? I haven’t seen her lately.’

  ‘Kitty seems very happy,’ Jenna said, putting the abacus away tidily in its box. ‘She’ll make a fine dairymaid when she’s a bit older.’

  ‘Her mother was a good dairymaid. And if Kitty is half as good as Elizabeth was, she’ll do well. Perhaps she’ll be nearly as good as you are.’

  Jenna smiled. She’d had to concede the argument about hens, but it didn’t really matter. William Jourdemayne was an agreeable man, easy to work for and appreciative of what she did. She was settling in well at Eybury Farm and beginning to forget the reasons why she had fled her old life – though she was still a little hard of hearing in her left ear, so she could never forget Jake.

  ‘Oh,’ said William, remembering suddenly, ‘talking of hens and geese, I meant to ask you whether we had a nice fat goose to send over to the manor house? Abbot Harweden likes to stay at La Neyte for a few days after the day of Obligation and we always send over a Michaelmas goose for him. I’m afraid it slipped my mind this year, with being so busy.’

  ‘I fattened up a few stubble geese after the harvest, master, as it happens. So I’ll pick out the best of them for him. Just as long as you don’t ask me to kill it.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said William, ‘I’ll do that.’

  ‘It should taste good with an apple stuffing. I’ll send a bag of apples over to the Manor with the bird. A bunch of sage, too, and some onions.’

  ‘Don’t,’ said William, laughing. ‘You’re making me feel hungry and there’s an hour to go before dinner!’

  ‘I’m sorry, master. I didn’t mean to do that.’

  She had almost slipped back into the old ways, planning a meal, thinking about cooking for a man and enjoying the prospect of doing so. She must guard against that, however much the thought pleased her.

  ***

  With his Michaelmas duties discharged for another year, Abbot Harweden was delighted to spend a few days relaxing in the manor house on the Eye estate. La Neyte was very much more comfortable and luxurious than his accommodation in the Westminster monastery, or in any other property where the monks had invested their wealth. It gave him the best of both worlds, since it offered close proximity to the monastery combined with all the advantages of a quiet country retreat. An elegant, moated manor house, it boasted fine gardens, an orchard and a well-stocked fish pond. A small permanent staff saw to his worldly needs and the manor house itself was less than half a mile from the Thames. A fast wherry could whisk him the short distance downriver to the Westminster steps in next to no time, which meant he could return to his monastic duties within an hour, should the need arise.

  His neighbours at La Neyte were the tenant-farmer William Jourdemayne and his wife who lived only a few hundred yards away at Eybury Farm. They seemed a quiet couple, tending to keep themselves to themselves except when there was some aspect of farm business to be discussed or the quarterly accounts were to be presented for his inspection. Then, at Michaelmas, they would spend a day together going over the figures for the whole year.

  It was also a Michaelmas tradition that Abbot Harweden, as titular head of the Manor of Eye-next-Westminster, was presented with a nicely fattened goose for the midday dinner.

  Today, he had invited a guest to join him. His friendship with Thomas Southwell, a Canon of Westminster and Rector of St Stephen’s Royal Chapel, was the result of many years in the service of the church and of the royal family. The two often ate companionably together.

  ‘This
goose is excellent, Richard,’ said Thomas Southwell between mouthfuls.

  ‘I’m glad you’re enjoying it,’ said Abbot Harweden. ‘There are great advantages in having a stock farm attached to the monastery. One never has an empty trencher and we don’t lack for butter or cheese. Or milk, of course. But it’s many a long year since I’ve had a Michaelmas goose as good as this one.’

  ‘What is your tenant like? What’s-his-name, Jourdemayne, the stockman. Is he good?’

  ‘Seems a very capable fellow, I must say. He manages the farm extremely well, keeps the stock in good shape. He has even balanced the books for this quarter, though his book-keeping isn’t always perfect.’

  ‘A man of many parts!’

  ‘Indeed. I had my concerns about his paperwork, as I say, but he seems to have found someone to help him with that. The profits on our surplus produce run satisfyingly high and the needs of the monastery are amply met. The farm provisions the kitchen here at La Neyte, too. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because I met Jourdemayne’s wife not so long ago,’ said Southwell casually, breaking off a piece of bread from the loaf on a board between them. ‘She’s not in the first flush of youth, but she’s a fine-looking woman.’

  ‘You’re not meant to notice things like that, Thomas,’ the Abbot rebuked him gently with a smile. ‘You’re a man of the cloth.’

  Southwell tried his best to look pious. ‘Quite so. Her looks were a matter of complete indifference to me, of course. But she does seem very intelligent for a farmer’s wife.’

  ‘She’s a clever woman,’ said Abbot Harweden, ‘and no mistake. She’s as shrewd and clever as any wise woman I’ve ever come across.’

  ‘A wise woman, eh? Ever made use of her services?’

  ‘No. Well, not in any official capacity, of course, but she was ... er, able to help me with a ... shall we say ... a certain painful embarrassment a year or so ago. She sold me an unguent of lesser celandine ... pilewort, as she called it. It did the trick. I still use it occasionally when the need arises, and she keeps me supplied.’

  ‘Painful things, piles,’ observed Southwell, soaking up the last morsels of goose gravy on his platter with the remaining bread. ‘Pilewort’s the best thing for them. I always prescribe it.’

  Abbot Harweden grimaced and nodded in agreement. ‘Apart from that, I hardly ever see her. So, tell me, where did you meet her?’

  Thomas Southwell took a long draught of wine then set his goblet down on the table. ‘She was among some ladies in attendance upon the Duchess of Gloucester. I was waiting to see Her Grace who wished to consult me on a small medical matter.’ Southwell took an inflated pride in his role as personal physician to the Duke and Duchess. ‘Of course, I was able to give Her Grace the correct advice. And she was very grateful,’ he added, nodding his head in affirmation of his statement.

  ‘Is there any pie in which you do not have a finger, Thomas?’

  ‘The more pies, the merrier,’ Southwell replied, smiling. He was a man comfortably full in his clothes who appreciated the fact that the Abbot kept a good table.

  ‘Well, there’s a pie to follow this,’ said Abbot Harweden, ‘a sweet one, of apples and blackberries with honey. But do go on, Thomas. Why was Margery Jourdemayne in attendance on the Duchess?’

  ‘She wasn’t,’ said Southwell, ‘she was in an ante-room, showing her wares to some of the ladies of Her Grace’s household. Gentlemen, too.’

  ‘And were you tempted to buy anything?’

  ‘Indeed not! I went about my own business and I minded it, too!’

  ‘So why should you be so interested in Mistress Jourdemayne and her abilities?’

  ‘Because Her Grace has been troubled by a painful tooth but claims to have derived great benefit from Mistress Jourdemayne’s tincture of myrrh, implying that it was rather more efficacious than my own tincture.’ The Abbot hid a smile as Canon Southwell went on. ‘As far as I can see, there’s no evidence of a worm in the tooth itself but, of course, I like to explore every avenue in finding new ways of advising the Duchess on matters pertaining to her health. I thought there might be areas in which the Jourdemayne woman and I could pool our knowledge to Her Grace’s advantage.’

  ‘Well, I suppose it’s possible,’ the Abbot said, sounding doubtful. ‘But be careful. I should warn you that she got two clerics into trouble some years ago.’

  Canon Southwell raised his eyebrows in a query. ‘Really? In what way?’

  ‘By getting ideas above her station,’ Abbot Harweden replied. ‘She spent more time than she should have consorting with a friar of the Holy Cross and a man by the name of John Virley. He was one of our monastery clerks at the time, which is why I remember the case.’

  ‘Virley?’ said Southwell. ‘I believe I know him. Isn’t he the one who supplies the scriptorium with vellum and inks and so on?’

  ‘Yes, that’s the man. Of course,’ the Abbot went on, enjoying the opportunity to impart a titbit of gossip, ‘both men should both have known better. If they hadn’t encouraged her, they wouldn’t have been arrested for associating with her. That’s why they spent a whole winter in prison.’

  Southwell was agog with interest. ‘Prison! But, surely they would have known she had a reputation as a wise woman?’

  ‘Perhaps they did,’ the Abbot said with a shrug. ‘But Mistress Jourdemayne must have flattered her way into their company, to learn from them in order to improve the products she sells to the ladies of the court. She’s an ambitious woman.’

  Canon Southwell, himself more ambitious than most, was quiet for a moment. The Abbot glanced at him. ‘Thomas, do have a little more of this excellent goose,’ he said.

  Southwell’s face brightened. ‘Thank you, Richard, I will. Indeed,’ he added, picking up his knife, ‘I thought you would never ask!’

  ***

  The pale sunshine of early autumn lingered over the Westminster countryside for several more days: plump blackberries still dotted the hedgerows, sloes had ripened to a cloudy blue on the blackthorn and there was little sign of the winter to come. A distant curlew called plaintively from the river as Margery, on her way to the palace to attend her most important client, made her way along the Willow Walk which skirted La Neyte, then followed the path alongside the stream for the short distance down to the Thames. If she ignored the whistles and catcalls from the wherrymen in their boats, it would be pleasant enough to walk along the river bank on a day like this.

  She put her heavy basket down for a moment, slipped off her cloak and draped it over her arm. There was nothing to be gained by rushing and getting too hot: looking cool and calm was part of Margery’s game and it would never do to appear otherwise to anyone she might encounter, be they wherrymen, royal household servants or courtiers. Wiping her face with her kerchief, she took a deep breath before picking up her basket and resuming her walk towards the river and thence to the palace.

  She expected to find the Duchess Eleanor languishing in her bower, bemoaning the unseasonal warmth or some imagined malady, or demanding to try some new lotion or perfume. So Margery was surprised to be shown into an ante-room by a footman whom she didn’t know and told to wait until she was called. This was highly unusual since she made it her business to be on friendly terms with most of the royal servants, even managing to smile when they occasionally called her Madge, a name she loathed. Whereas she would normally be ushered through to see her client almost immediately, today she was kept waiting for the better part of an hour while footsteps came and went and voices were raised in the next room. Despite straining her ears, she was not quite able to hear what was being said.

  At last, the doors swung open and Margery was bidden to enter. The Duchess of Gloucester was alone, standing in the centre of the room, an elegant figure in a gown of blue samite, her dark hair caught up in jewelled cauls on either side of her pale face. Clasping and unclasping her hands, she was clearly agitated.

  ‘Margery! Where have you been?’ she demanded.

&nbs
p; ‘I came as soon as I received your message, Your Grace, but I was told to wait until you were ready to see me.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said the Duchess, nodding impatiently. ‘My Lord Duke was here. He has just received some ... some ... news.’ She paused for a moment. Margery thought she looked stunned, surprised, as though someone had slapped her.

  ‘I trust it was nothing untoward, Your Grace?’

  ‘I’m afraid it was. It ... it wasn’t exactly unexpected, but it has altered things quite considerably.’

  Eleanor of Gloucester stood with her eyes closed, trying to compose herself. Margery waited: it wasn’t her place to ask any further questions. The Duchess started shaking her head as though to ward off a flying insect before opening her eyes and looking at Margery, who raised her eyebrows in an unspoken enquiry.

  ‘Yes, it was bad news, I’m afraid ... for my husband ... his brother, John of Bedford, has died. News has just come through from France.’

  ‘I’m very sorry to hear that, Your Grace. Please allow me to express my sympathy.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘His Grace the Duke of Bedford was your husband’s older brother, was he not?’

  ‘He was, yes, a year older than my husband.’

  ‘Was it sudden, Your Grace?’

  ‘Er, no. John had been ill, we knew that. But it has still come as quite a shock for my husband. For both of us, of course.’

  ‘Yes, Your Grace, I’m sure it must have. If I might ring for some hot water, I could make you an infusion of camomile and lemon balm. It will help to calm you.’ Margery opened her medicine coffer, taking out two small linen bags of herbs which were packed in beside the bottles of tooth tincture – but the Duchess seemed to have forgotten all about her toothache. She ignored Margery’s suggestion and began pacing up and down again.

  ‘There will be a memorial of some kind here at Westminster,’ she said, ‘the monks will arrange all that. No doubt Cardinal Beaufort will insist on conducting the memorial service, it would be typical of him to want to play the grieving uncle. But the funeral has already taken place in the cathedral at Rouen. A very grand affair, by all accounts.’