Margery’s contribution to their mutual pool of knowledge was the skill with plants that she had learned from years of assisting her own mother. She imparted age-old secrets of how each plant might best be used for the healing of ailments. She showed them which medicinal herbs would improve the health of the eyes, the belly, the chest, skin and nails and every other part of the body, as well as which plants fought infectious diseases or eased the pains of childbirth. They in turn taught her what they knew of astrology, showing her how to identify celestial bodies in the night sky. They explained how it was possible to cast horoscopes and predict the future by observing the positions of the stars in their individual orbits, then marrying these observations with what was known about astral influences at the time of a person’s birth.
That was their undoing. Margery, thrilled by her association with men of learning, had been unable to resist boasting to her neighbours in Westminster and to her husband’s family in Acton about her eminent friends. Nobody was ever quite sure how the King’s Council got to know of the association between the three, but the Westminster community was a small one, representing the full spectrum of society from the highest nobility at the palace to the humblest farm labourers on the monastery’s Eye estate, so it could have been anyone. Whoever it was, some blabbermouth reported the unusual fact that a woman of low social standing was consorting with men of learning.
The members of the Royal Council, ever mindful of the dangers posed to the person of the young King by sorcerers, enchanters, necromancers and soothsayers, were very alarmed to learn of Margery Jourdemayne’s connection with Ashwell and Virley. They immediately demanded the arrest of all three, on the assumption that if any respectable clerics willingly associated with a so-called ‘wise woman’ who was the wife of a mere cowherd, then she must be a sorceress who had them in her thrall. Margery was called a ‘python enchantress’ by her accusers and though in pleading her case at her trial she used all the long words she had so recently learned, they impressed no one and did nothing to save her. In the chill of a November morning, the three alleged sorcerers were taken into custody and imprisoned.
John Virley well remembered that long, harsh winter in the dungeons underneath Windsor Castle. He remembered the numbing cold, the dirt and discomfort, the rats, the greasy, inedible food. He vowed then that one day someone would pay for those lost months in his life. He hadn’t been guilty of anything more sinful than consorting with the wrong people. No, the wrong person. The friar was an inoffensive soul, but the same could not be said for the Witch of Eye. Virley swore that one day he’d have his revenge on her.
In the following May, the three miscreants were taken to back to Westminster, this time to appear before an ecclesiastical court. Examined again on charges of sorcery, Friar Ashwell and John Virley were first reminded of their duties and responsibilities as men of the church and then discharged. They were required to sign a bond, which prohibited them from indulging in any further activities of this kind. They were both only too pleased to do so.
Margery Jourdemayne was also made to give her word that she would refrain from sorcerous activity. She was further warned that should she ever violate the law again, she would be shown no mercy and would suffer the most severe punishment. It helped her cause, Virley recalled, that her husband was among a group of men who managed to raise the sum of twenty pounds between them, to provide recognisance on her behalf.
He hadn’t seen her since then, nor had he any wish to. He had even avoided contact with Friar Ashwell, though he’d heard that the friar had accurately forecast a lunar eclipse, a blood moon, a year after his sojourn in the Windsor Castle dungeons. Virley was pleased to know that Ashwell had not abandoned his interest in astronomy, but did sincerely hope his old friend practised his science in a more circumspect way these days.
For his part, Virley kept a very low profile and minded his own business. He’d had enough imprisonment for one lifetime though memories of it were fading, particularly when he was out in the fresh air and plying his trade in and among the many religious foundations in the city of London on a pleasant, sunny afternoon like this.
He couldn’t mistake the rotund figure of the man walking towards him: the portly priest was a familiar figure in Westminster.
‘Canon Southwell,’ he greeted him. ‘Well met! A good afternoon to you, sir.’
Southwell couldn’t avoid the man. He had often seen Virley in and around the cloisters at Westminster, distributing supplies of ink and parchment, keeping the intellectual wheels of the monastery turning with quiet efficiency. Since Virley was not a person of any great significance, Southwell had never had much to do with him, but he couldn’t pretend he didn’t know him.
‘Master Virley, is it not? And what brings you here to the fair parish of St Stephen Walbrook this fine day?’
‘The necessity to have a manuscript bound’ said Virley. ‘There are some very well-established leather workers near the tannery. They have the best choice of fine-quality leathers for book binding and they’re very reliable. And not too costly.’
‘A significant book?’ asked Southwell.
‘A treatise,’ said Virley, ‘and, yes, most significant. It is a copy of Master Geoffrey Chaucer’s treatise on the astrolabe, God rest his soul.’ John Virley closed his eyes briefly and crossed himself before continuing. ‘Not recent, of course, but it is an excellent treatise, from what I understand, if not entirely complete. Though I have not had the opportunity of reading it myself.’
‘And for whom has it been copied?’
‘For Her Grace, the Duchess of Gloucester. She is a woman with an enquiring mind, it seems. I understand Her Grace insisted it should be copied by the monks of Westminster as a matter of urgency, since she wishes to read it before her husband returns from France. Several of the brothers postponed their work on other projects in order to comply with Her Grace’s request.’
As he spoke, he was opening a scrip, which he wore suspended across his body, the better to protect its contents from pickpockets and cutpurses. ‘Look,’ he said, extracting the leather-bound manuscript, ‘see how beautifully it has been finished, feel the quality of the binding.’
‘Indeed,’ said Southwell, taking the treatise into his hands and examining it closely. ‘A thing of great beauty. The quality of the tooled design on the leather is quite exquisite. It’s for Her Grace the Duchess of Gloucester, you say?’
‘It is. I shall deliver it to the palace tomorrow.’
Here was an opportunity. Canon Southwell had no pressing business here in Walbrook this afternoon. As Rector of St Stephen’s, the purpose of his visit had been to check on the progress of work to rebuild the parish church, after which he had planned to purchase a fine fat capon from a merchant he knew in the Poultry. But he had already visited the church and he could forego the pleasure of a tasty spit-roasted fowl for tomorrow’s dinner and make do with something else.
‘As it happens, Master Virley,’ he said, ‘I am bound for the palace this very afternoon. In fact, I have an appointment to see Her Grace on a private matter. Perhaps you know I have the honour to advise her as her personal physician. I could deliver the treatise into her own hand. Would you like me to undertake that small errand for you? It’s no trouble at all, and I’m sure you want to get back to Westminster at your earliest convenience.’
It would have been churlish to refuse Southwell’s offer and yet Virley knew it was his own responsibility to deliver the book. Still, there was the very attractive widow of a cordwainer who lived a few streets away, quite close to the church of St Benet Sherehog, whom he hadn’t visited for some time, and he didn’t have to get back to Westminster immediately. So, why not?
‘I would, indeed, be grateful to you, Canon Southwell.’
‘It will be my pleasure, Master Virley.’
***
‘She wants to see you.’
‘And by “she”, I assume you mean Her Grace the Duchess of Gloucester, do you, Sarah?’
&
nbsp; ‘Yes.’
‘Then accord Her Grace her correct title!’
‘I’m sorry. I meant no disrespect.’ Sarah, the Duchess’s maid, was becoming more than a little tired of trudging back and forth between the Palace of Westminster and the farmhouse at the Manor of Eye. It seemed as though the Duchess couldn’t do anything these days without consulting Margery Jourdemayne.
‘And what does Her Grace wish to see me about?’ inquired Margery.
‘I dunno,’ said Sarah. ‘She sent you this.’
Margery had little time for a slipshod attitude, whether it occurred in a person’s speech, dress or behaviour. She snatched the folded piece of parchment from the maid’s hand.
‘It’s a list of what she wants, I expect.’
It wasn’t. Eleanor had sent a short note in her own handwriting. It was unsigned and there was no salutation.
Please attend me immediately. I have something I wish to discuss. Send S. back with two bottles of Hungary water so as not to arouse suspicions.
‘Can you read, Sarah?’ asked Margery.
‘No, mistress,’ said Sarah.
‘You should learn,’ said Margery. ‘You’d be surprised how useful you’d find it.’
‘No, mistress. It’s too difficult.’
‘That depends on how much you want to learn. I’d recommend you to try,’ said Margery, knowing that Sarah never would. She moved a simmering pot of broth off the kitchen fire and dropped the note onto the glowing embers beneath it, watching until she saw it burn: you couldn’t be too careful. She replaced the pot and wiped her hands on her apron.
‘Now, the Duchess needs some Hungary water. Wait there while I fetch some and when you get back to the palace, tell Her Grace I will attend her within the hour.’
It pleased Margery greatly to realise that she was becoming so indispensable to the Duchess Eleanor, but when she discovered why she had been summoned to see her, she was both surprised and gratified. Her Grace was beaming delightedly.
‘Have you heard the news, Margery?’
‘The news, Your Grace?’
‘Yes, Margery, the most wonderful news!’ The Duchess clapped her hands together in delight. ‘My noble husband has raised the siege of Calais and he is on his way home!’
Margery answered Eleanor’s beaming smile with a smile of her own. ‘Why, that’s excellent news, Your Grace! You must be very happy at the prospect of his return.’
‘What do you imagine, Margery! Of course I am delighted. More delighted than I can say. He has amply proved his point that France should remain under English rule.’
‘So Calais is still an English town.’
‘Indeed it is. And the King is so grateful that he is to hold a ceremony at Westminster to welcome his uncle home.’
‘Most appropriate, Your Grace –’
‘And then, Margery, I have decided that we will have a party at La Pleasaunce to celebrate both my husband’s success in France and my own birthday!’
Margery was beginning to wonder why she’d been sent for with such urgency. ‘Would you like me to help you in any way with your plans for your celebrations?’ she asked.
‘Yes, Margery, I would. I want you to be among the guests at the party at La Pleasaunce, to ... er ... mingle with them.’
‘How kind!’ beamed Margery. ‘Thank you. I’m very grateful to Your Grace...’
Eleanor cut across her. ‘I’ve got a job for you to do.’
‘A job, Your Grace? What kind of job?’
Eleanor hesitated for a moment, as though she was deciding exactly how to explain to Margery what she had in mind. ‘I want you to use your womanly wiles,’ she said. ‘Not a word to anyone but ... I suppose what I have in mind for you is a little bit of, well ... sophisticated spying.’ Margery waited while Eleanor appeared to think carefully how to phrase what she was about to say. ‘As I said,’ she went on, ‘the party will be in celebration of two things – my birthday, and His Grace the Duke’s return from the very successful siege of Calais.’
‘Both are greatly worth celebrating, Your Grace.’
‘Indeed. I plan to invite His Highness the King to join us on this occasion. His uncle, my husband, is so very fond of him. I will also invite his mother, the Dowager Queen Catherine, who is presently at court. That’s a rare thing these days and I would dearly love to know the reason why she stays away so much.’
‘The King himself, Your Grace? And the Dowager Queen? And am I really to be among the guests?’
‘No, of course not, Margery. Don’t be ridiculous. I want you to be among those serving the guests. You know the kind of thing. Someone who circulates constantly with glasses of wine or with sweetmeats on a platter, making sure there’s no one with an empty goblet, no one in need of a chair, mopping up spills, calling for a footman if one is needed. You know the kind of thing.’
‘Why, yes, Your Grace. But ... what of the usual staff? Won’t they resent my presence?’
‘I don’t care whether they do or not. No, I want you to be there for a very specific purpose.’ Margery raised her eyebrows. ‘I want you to listen,’ the Duchess went on. ‘Just that. I want you to glean any information you can, keep your ears open for gossip, the kind of thing people say to each other in unguarded moments when they imagine that servants are deaf. It is stupidity itself to do that, of course. Something I’ve never done.’
‘There is wisdom in what you say, Your Grace. But what if I hear nothing of interest?’
Eleanor shrugged. ‘Then you hear nothing. However, I am curious to know why the Dowager Queen stays away from court for long periods at a time. So make sure you look after her needs before anyone else’s. As I say, don’t worry if you learn nothing. I’d rather you were honest with me and tell me that you heard no gossip at all than that you should make something up, just to satisfy me.’
‘I would never dream of doing that, Your Grace. You know I would never lie to you.’
‘Good. So, I can count on your help?’
‘Always, Your Grace. I will report back anything I hear or see.’
‘And you will keep any such information to yourself, of course.’
‘Naturally, Your Grace. I shall be the very soul of discretion.’
***
The hero’s welcome home was an occasion of pure triumph for Eleanor. Londoners had always liked and admired the man they called Good Duke Humphrey and his popularity had never waned. Sitting beside him in the carriage, smiling and waving at the cheering crowds, Eleanor basked in his reflected glory as they rode together at the centre of a procession through cobbled streets thronged with well-wishers. Running alongside, bare-footed urchins whooped and shouted, trying to keep up with the horses, excited by all the pomp and ceremony accorded to the Duke and his cohorts as they rode out of the city and towards Westminster where a grand reception awaited them.
Descending from the carriage outside the palace, Eleanor placed her hand on her husband’s arm, straightened her back and tilted her chin as they turned towards the entrance. She thrived on the adulation, the applause, the shouts of the crowd as they lined the route to welcome their favourite back from France. News of his triumph had spread like wildfire among Londoners and by now, everybody knew that the Duke of Gloucester had raised the siege of Calais and the French town was safely back in English hands. This was how it should be. The French should know their place and be kept in it. Hurrah for England and St George! Long live Good Duke Humphrey!
Inside the palace, with the shouts of the crowd still ringing in her ears, Eleanor’s eyes sparkled as she moved towards the throne room with her husband, her hand still resting lightly on his arm. Gathered there, and politely applauding their arrival, were the noble lords of England and their ladies, bejewelled and sumptuously attired, who were attending the King’s reception for his uncle.
On the ornate throne at the end of the room sat King Henry himself. As the Duke and Duchess entered the throne room, he rose and slowly descended the steps from the dais to stan
d, waiting until they reached him.
‘Your Graces are both most welcome,’ he said in a monotone. ‘My noble Lord Uncle, I speak not only for myself but for the whole of England when I say that our gratitude knows no bounds. The whole country is deeply in your debt. You are, indeed, the bravest and noblest of Lords.’
The Duke bowed from the waist and Eleanor executed a faultlessly elegant curtsey: she had been rehearsing it for a week. When the Duke straightened up, the King came towards him, stood on tiptoe, then reached up to kiss his uncle gravely on each cheek before extending his hand to help his aunt to her feet.
She gave him her most dazzling smile, but there was no answering smile in the King’s eyes. They were as blank as buttons. He was looking very dispirited today, she thought. He had delivered his short speech of welcome mechanically, with little enthusiasm, and he seemed to have a few more pimples than usual. He looked whey-faced, rather unwell. It was such a pity he couldn’t be a bit more charismatic, more popular with his people, like his uncle.
Suddenly, incongruously, she remembered the astrolabe. In all the fuss and excitement of the last few days, she had completely forgotten to ask Humphrey whether he had managed to find one in France. She really must ask him, and at the first opportunity. Canon Southwell had brought her Master Chaucer’s treatise as soon as the monks had finished copying it, effusively denying that he had gone to any trouble at all in doing so, and she had been able to skim quickly through it while she awaited her husband’s homecoming. By now she had an idea what an astrolabe looked like and understood at least something of the instrument’s capabilities. A little tutoring from Magister Bolingbroke would teach her more of what could be done with it.
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