‘Has Seth built the fires for the neats yet, Hawys?’
‘What? The Beltane fires?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘But what have they got to do with the neats?’
The longer Jenna lived in Westminster, the more she realised that things were often done quite differently here. Back home in Devon, the custom was to build two big bonfires with space between them wide enough to walk the cows through. It kept them safe from harm for the rest of the year.
‘Weren’t they frightened?’ Hawys wanted to know.
‘Well, yes, I suppose they were a bit frightened, but there was always somebody leading them so they were safe enough, really. They’re such sweet beasts, but they don’t think for themselves. They’ll follow wherever they’re led.’
‘True enough,’ Hawys agreed. ‘If they had minds of their own, they wouldn’t let us anywhere near them, much less let us take their calves away from them so we can have their milk.’
‘And use the calves’ rennet to make cheese. Poor creatures. It’s not much of a life for them. There’s no sound quite as sad as a cow lowing for her dead calf.’
‘That’s motherhood for you,’ said Jane. ‘No bond is as strong as a mother’s love for her little one, even if the little one has four hairy legs and a tail!’
As the other dairymaids laughed, Jenna caught sight of Kitty’s stricken face. ‘This isn’t getting the butter churned,’ she said briskly. ‘Come on, Kitty, let’s hear you sing “Come, Butter, Come.” It’s one of your favourites, isn’t it? Or would you rather sing “Summer is a-Coming In”?’
Kitty shook her head mutely then said in a small voice, ‘No thank you, Jenna.’
‘Come on, Kittymouse,’ said Jenna, before the youngster could start moping for her mother again. ‘Come and help me. We need to take this skimmed milk down to the pigsties, then we’ll go to the cow shed and get some more milk for the setting dishes. The cows are back in full milk again now they’ve got good grass to eat so there’s bound to be some milk to be separated overnight. We might as well bring it back with us. Here, help me on with this yoke, please.’
Kitty was immediately diverted from her peevishness. ‘I’ll take the yoke, Jenna! Let me! Oh, please! Let me!’
‘No, Kitty. It’s far too heavy for you. Just hang the buckets on it for me, please.’
‘Oh, but Jenna, I could carry it, really I could.’
‘Perhaps I’ll let you carry it someday, Kitty, but not until you’ve grown a bit more. The pails would be dragging on the ground if you carried them!’
Kitty gave in and they began to make their way towards the pigsties, Jenna with the wooden yoke across her shoulders, trying not to jolt the buckets of skimmed milk which hung on either end of it. Kitty pranced along beside her, singing a springtime song about ewes bleating for their lambs and cows lowing for their calves, having forgotten her brief moment of misery. Jenna joined in, beginning the melody a phrase later than Kitty, each of them holding her own tune and both singing at the tops of their voices.
***
Kitty was the very picture of a happy little girl, thought William Jourdemayne as he watched them coming towards him. She and Jenna had clearly taken to each other and if Jenna was assuming the role of substitute mother for Kitty, well, perhaps Kitty was responding in kind. William had no idea whether Jenna had ever had a child of her own, it was none of his business, but he was a man who liked children and he thought any youngster would be privileged to be brought up by a woman like her.
He was rounding up the younger farmhands to come and help in the Lower Acre where thieving crows were pestering the men who were trying to finish off the late sowing of barley. The birds were brazen enough to perch on the hats of the scarecrows, eyeing their opportunities. Youngsters with catapults were the best way of keeping the birds at bay while the men got the job done. William always tried to include Kitty in activities like this. Her mother, Elizabeth, had been one of his best dairymaids – it was the least he could do.
‘Master Jourdemayne!’ Kitty called to him. ‘We’re going to see the pigs, to take them some skimmed milk. They like that.’
‘And making enough noise about it, too,’ William smiled. ‘Mind you don’t scare them! I’ll have another little scaring job for you to do in a moment.’ Then he turned to Jenna.
‘How are things going at the dairy, Jenna?’ he asked. ‘I haven’t seen you for several weeks. I haven’t had time to check the milk tallies...’
‘You can trust me, master. I promise I wouldn’t cheat you.’
‘I know that. But we did say we’d arrange to get in some more chickens, didn’t we? Something young Kitty here can help you with. We should think about it soon.’
‘Oh, yes, master, yes, whenever you wish. But it was only a suggestion. Thank you, master, thank you,’ Jenna answered, a little flustered and not sure what to say next, conscious of the way he was looking at her, trying not to meet those blue eyes of his. Kitty was tugging at her hand.
‘Kitty and I are off to the shippon,’ Jenna said, ‘after we’ve been to the sties.’
‘The where?’
‘Oh dear, I’m sorry. I’ve done it again! The cowshed ... er ... the byre. A shippon is what we call it in Devon. I’m sorry ... I didn’t mean to...’
Concerned by her confusion, William put his hand on her arm. ‘Please, don’t worry. It’s just that it sounded more like something you’d see on the river. And the Thames is back in that direction!’
‘Ooooh,’ Kitty laughed, ‘Master Jourdemayne thought you meant a ship, Jenna!’
Jenna barely heard her. The touch of the Master’s hand on her arm had unsettled her and she knew that a strong blush was spreading up from her neck and suffusing her face. She stared at her shoes in embarrassment while William determinedly kept up a normal conversation.
‘Well, Kitty,’ he said, ‘there are different names for different things all around England. When you’re as well-travelled as Jenna is, then I’m sure you’ll learn a few more words for things. Now then, Kitty, you know what a catapult is, don’t you?’
‘Yes, of course I do,’ said Kitty, nodding in the way she always did. ‘Would you like me to come and stone the crows for you, Master Jourdemayne?’
‘Yes, I would,’ he said. ‘Most of the other children have started work already. But that’s only if Jenna can spare you, of course. Can you spare her, Jenna?’ He looked down at Jenna, his eyebrows raised, his dark hair falling forward.
Jenna’s heart hadn’t quite resumed its normal beat and his direct gaze didn’t help a bit. Kitty, standing beside him, was looking up at her in excited anticipation of spending the day with her friends.
‘Can I go, Jenna? Please?’
‘Mmmm, well, I’m not sure whether I can spare you,’ Jenna frowned exaggeratedly and shook her head, teasing. ‘We need you in the dairy.’
‘Oh, please, Jenna!’ Kitty tugged at her hand again.
‘Oh, all right then. Of course you can, Kittymouse. How could I refuse either of you anything!’
At last, her eyes met William’s and, smiling, he gave her a broad wink and she smiled back at him, part of a friendly conspiracy. They were entirely unaware that they were being observed.
From a distance, Margery, on her way home after a frustrating afternoon at the palace, trying to please the vain and empty-headed ladies of the court, saw her husband with the new dairymaid and one of the farm children. They didn’t notice her and she didn’t call to them or attract their attention in any way. She merely stopped for a moment, watching them thoughtfully as they laughed together, completely engrossed in their cheerful teasing. Then she frowned. This must be discouraged.
***
Canon Thomas Southwell really had to steel himself to travel south of the river to Southwark with its dirty stews and taverns. He was making the journey today only because the Bishop of Winchester was in residence at Southwark Palace, but having to cross London Bridge with all its rowdy activity of s
hops, huddled together against the clinging stink of the Thames below, was almost more than Southwell’s elevated, ecclesiastical nose could bear.
For him, Westminster was the place to be. It was where decisions were made and Thomas Southwell dearly loved being among the decision-makers.
But needs must cross the Thames this morning, since there was royal business to discuss with Henry Beaufort who, in his capacity as Bishop of Winchester, held the office of Prelate of the Order of the Garter. The Dean of Westminster was responsible for the organisation of the Garter ceremony itself so Southwell, as a Canon of St Stephen’s Westminster, had volunteered to take charge of several details ahead of next week’s ceremony. In fact, these were minor, inconsequential things which could probably have been left until the day of the ceremony but Southwell, bursting with self-importance, thought they merited immediate discussion with His Grace and had requested a meeting with him. Southwark Palace was within view. He was nearly there.
For Southwell, it was a perfect excuse.
For Beaufort, it was an unwelcome interruption. He had a lot on his mind. Things seemed to be going from bad to worse in France since the untimely death of the Duke of Bedford. While he was alive, the Duke had managed to control the volatile French. Now, things had the potential to turn quite ugly. Not for the first time, Beaufort heartily wished that England had never been encumbered by the wretched country.
It worried him greatly that the Duke of Gloucester was keen to keep France under English control. Henry Beaufort had nothing but contempt for his arrogant nephew. And now the King had impetuously invited his flibbertigibbet of a wife to become a Lady Member of the Order of the Garter! Beaufort had little time for the Duchess, either.
His Highness had made another of his impulsive gestures in issuing the invitation to the wretched woman. Rather than take the advice of his ruling Council as he had always done hitherto, the young King appeared to be flexing his royal muscle by making more and more decisions for himself these days and they were not always the right decisions. Still, he couldn’t remain a child for ever; he would have to start making decisions some time. Perhaps the earlier the better, thought Beaufort on reflection, because the King’s decisions would then take precedence over whatever Gloucester decided and that would bring the arrogant Duke down a peg or two. If only the King could be persuaded to withdraw from France, then life would be a great deal more agreeable for everyone. Everyone, that was, except Gloucester. And Henry Beaufort couldn’t give a damn about Gloucester.
Southwell bustled into the room and took the seat offered him. ‘Of course, it is a very great honour for Her Grace,’ he enthused, as he settled himself comfortably, ‘is it not, my Lord?’
Beaufort was not at all sure that he liked this pompous little priest. He grunted non-committally.
‘As perhaps you know, my Lord, I have the honour to serve Her Grace in an advisory capacity as her personal physician and I have observed that His Highness the young King appears very fond of his aunt. So it is right and proper that she should be honoured. She is, after all, the highest-ranking lady in the country.’
Beaufort raised his eyebrows. ‘She ranks below Her Royal Highness the Dowager Queen Catherine,’ he pointed out.
‘Ah, the Queen. Yes, of course. But Her Royal Highness has chosen to absent herself from court. She surely cannot expect the King to honour her under the circumstances.’
‘Perhaps not,’ said Beaufort. ‘But then again, perhaps she doesn’t seek honour; it may not be important to her.’ He kept his own counsel on the subject of the Queen. He had a great fondness for the widow of his late nephew, King Henry V, and would never spread malicious gossip about her. She had enough problems of her own, poor woman, without incurring the disapproval of this bumptious little man. He needed to steer the conversation away from Queen Catherine.
‘Sir Thomas Grey has been approved a Knight of the Garter this year,’ he said. ‘It’s about time: Sir Thomas doesn’t get any younger. Can’t be far off fifty and it’s well known that he acquitted himself admirably at Agincourt.’
‘So I understand,’ said Southwell, who made a habit of learning everything he could about influential people. ‘And you must be pleased,’ he went on, ‘that your nephew is to be honoured this year!’
Beaufort’s stony expression immediately softened. ‘Edmund,’ he said, smiling. The son of his late brother was the nearest he would ever come to having a son of his own and he was immensely proud of him. ‘Yes, indeed. A fine, upstanding young man. And you’re right, Southwell, I am pleased and proud of him, of course.’
‘He clearly takes after his uncle!’
Southwell had found that a little flattery would often grease the delicate mechanism of making an impression on powerful people. He had his eye firmly fixed on a bishop’s mitre as soon as he could acquire one and Henry Beaufort was a man with influence. It was worth keeping on the right side of him.
On the other hand, like everyone else, he was aware of the open enmity between Beaufort and the Duke of Gloucester. Henry Beaufort was without doubt the most important prelate in England; Gloucester was Protector of England and an authoritative member of the King’s Council. He was also heir to the throne. These two formidable characters might personally be at daggers drawn, but Southwell intended to keep on the right side of them both and, this morning, he needed to impress Cardinal Beaufort. He took a sheaf of important-looking sheets of parchment from the scrip he carried.
‘These are my plans for the ceremony, my Lord Bishop,’ he said. ‘I have brought them along for your approval.’
Beaufort yawned.
***
Silk. The sheen on it, the heavenly feel of it! Standing perfectly still, Eleanor felt a purely sensual pleasure in the way it draped over the elegant contours of her body. A royal seamstress knelt on the floor of Eleanor’s dressing room, adjusting the length of the heavy white silk gown which the Duchess would wear under a dark blue cloak at the Garter ceremony on the fifth of May.
The seamstress sat back on her heels and looked critically at the hem which she had been tacking in place. ‘There, my Lady,’ she said as best she could with half a dozen pins between her pursed lips.
‘There, Your Grace,’ corrected Eleanor without looking at her.
Removing the pins from her mouth, the seamstress got awkwardly to her feet. ‘Yes, of course, Your Grace. I’m so sorry. May I ask whether the shoes you are wearing now will be the shoes you will wear at the Garter ceremony?’
‘No, of course not. I shall have new ones, shoes of the finest pale leather, and the cordwainer promises to deliver them this afternoon. I can hardly wait to try them on. Why do you ask about my shoes?’
‘Because, Your Grace, depending on the height of the heels, they could make a slight difference to the final depth of hem required.’
‘So why didn’t you say that in the first place?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry, my L ... er, Your Grace. But might I suggest I leave the final adjustment of the hem until such time as you feel comfortable in your new shoes? Then every detail will be perfect.’
‘Oh, very well,’ said Eleanor with a sigh, waving her away. ‘Go now. Leave me. And tell Sarah to come and help me out of this gown.’
‘Very well, my Lady.’
‘Your Grace,’ Eleanor corrected absently as the seamstress curtseyed and left the room, rolling her eyes heavenward as soon as the door was safely closed behind her.
By re-adjusting the mirror on her dressing room table, Eleanor was able to see almost all of the unfinished gown. Yes, the irritating woman was quite right; it was important that every detail must be perfect. Since the Dowager Queen had absented herself from court, the Duchess of Gloucester was the first and foremost lady in the land and all eyes would be upon her.
She stepped back and twirled slowly, humming to herself, smiling coquettishly at her own reflection, pleased by what she saw. She was a person of importance, wife of the heir to the throne of England.
Be
nding very close to the mirror, she turned her head from side to side and, analytically, noted that her skin was good, with very few wrinkles – she had Margery Jourdemayne’s compound of egg and powdered lily root to thank for that. It was worth every penny she paid for it. Her hair was still quite dark, too, with hardly a trace of grey but, more than anything, her bright eyes shone with all her old zest for life.
Straightening up, she ran the palm of her hand over the fabric of the sumptuous gown, smoothing it over the sinuous curve of her full breasts, her hips, her too-flat belly. If only her hand could trace the contour of a mound there, but hers was still like the flat belly of a virgin.
This overwhelming need to give her husband a child was proving more frustrating with every passing month and her chances of conceiving receded with every successive year. She would be thirty-five years old come summer and, however she looked at it, time was running out. What distressed her most was the realisation that the failure lay fair and square at her own doorstep because Humphrey had succeeded in getting other women with child. No, there was no question of his virility, and Eleanor had to grit her teeth whenever she heard that spoilt little brat Antigone call him ‘Father’.
Antigone Plantagenet. What a ridiculous name for a young woman at the English court! It was neither one thing nor the other, neither Greek nor French. The child had probably been named on a stupid whim of Humphrey’s when he was going through a classical phase. He would never talk about the mother of his children, dismissing the whole affair as a mere liaison, a dalliance with a woman he had met in France during the years of occupation which followed Agincourt. So much for a dalliance, thought Eleanor: it didn’t require an abacus to calculate that it must have lasted at least two years if it survived two pregnancies. Both children had been acknowledged by their father and were living in his household, and all she knew was that they had been born in France. The stern expression on Humphrey’s face warned her not to ask any more questions.
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