The Witch of Eye

by Mari Griffith

  Jenna continued her packing in silence for a moment, remembering what Old Mother Morwenna had once said.

  ‘Could the fault lie with the Duke?’ she asked.

  ‘No. It can’t possibly be the Duke’s fault. He fathered at least two bastards long before he met her, and his daughter, Antigone, has just given him a grandson – so that probably makes the Duchess even more desperate. Her husband is a grandfather before he’s a father – a legitimate one, that is. No wonder she’s going mad with frustration.’

  Margery put down her pestle and mortar and wiped her hands on her apron before asking, ‘What makes you think it might be the Duke’s fault?’

  ‘Oh, it was just something our local wise woman once said to me, a long time ago back at home in Devon. I had a ... well ... I haven’t told you, but I had a very unhappy marriage and my mother thought my husband was angry because he had no children. She had some idea that a child would make things better between us. But, as things were, I really didn’t want to have his children.’

  Margery had never encouraged Jenna to talk about her past and had been wise enough not to probe. But now that her new assistant had confided in her, she felt at liberty to be nosy.

  ‘I can understand that,’ she said in a conversational tone, ‘and I tend to agree. Why go through all that agony if it doesn’t achieve anything? And child-bearing is very aging. Once you start having children, you might as well bid farewell to opportunity. You know, I often think a woman’s main problem is that she has both a womb and a brain. Society dictates that her womb is the more important of the two. But I’m not sure that’s true.’

  Jenna listened to this cynical viewpoint with disbelief. ‘Really, mistress? But – surely it’s a woman’s place to bear children!’

  ‘That’s because women are the only ones who can bear children. If men could, imagine the fuss they’d make!’

  Jenna laughed. ‘So that will always keep us in our place.’

  ‘It will. But just think, Jenna: Eve was the first to eat from the Tree of Knowledge, not Adam. The woman, not the man. So why can’t women use their knowledge?’

  ‘Eve was tempted by the Devil. What she did was evil,’ Jenna protested, worried at having her beliefs challenged.

  ‘And women have been made to pay for it ever since.’ Margery picked up her pestle again and started pounding the contents of the mortar with renewed vigour. ‘I can’t see that knowledge is a bad thing for women. And any woman with half a grain of common sense knows she can run rings around a man ... and very often does!’

  Jenna forced a smile, not wanting to become embroiled in an argument. ‘Old Mother Morwenna said much the same thing. She said it could well be Jake’s fault that I was barren, but I’d be a fool to tell him so.’

  ‘That’s the biggest insult to any man’s pride. You were wise not to say anything about it.’

  They had broached a subject of great interest to Margery, who wanted to explore every avenue in her quest to find a solution to the Duchess of Gloucester’s predicament.

  ‘Did the wise woman give you anything to help you conceive?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, yes. But it looked so vile, I never took it.’

  ‘And do you still have it?’

  ‘Yes, I do. It was expensive – Mother Morwenna charged me half a groat for it, so I wasn’t going to leave it behind in Devon.’

  It had been nearly two years since Jenna had brought the brown liquid with her to Westminster. Perhaps it had curdled or dried up, she had never opened it so she had no way of knowing. But she had no need of it any more, not now that she no longer needed to please a husband. So perhaps she could make her money back by selling the bottle to Mistress Jourdemayne. And she could always find a use for half a groat.

  Margery was watching her face, reading her mind.

  ‘A penny for your thoughts,’ she said. ‘And a whole groat for your medicine if you’re prepared to sell it to me. That’s half as much again as what you paid for it. Quite a handsome profit!’

  ‘Are you sure, mistress? It’s quite old by now. It might have dried up!’

  ‘Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it. But importantly, Jenna, do you remember how Old Mother What’s-her-name told you to take it? What dose she recommended?’

  Jenna smiled. ‘Morwenna,’ she said. ‘I’m fairly sure it was three times a day. Yes, that was it, over three consecutive days exactly half way between my menses.’

  ‘Three times a day, over three consecutive days ...’ Margery was repeating the words, committing them to memory, ‘exactly half way between the menses. Well, that should be simple enough. So, will you sell it? You could buy a fardel of very pretty broadcloth and pair of shoes and you’d still have change from a groat.’

  It didn’t take Jenna long to give in to temptation. ‘Thank you, mistress,’ she said with a broad grin. ‘I’ll go and fetch it for you. It’s in the dormitory.’

  Margery felt pleased with herself. If the tincture was still usable, it shouldn’t be too difficult to identify what was in it. And it was high time to try out something new on the Duchess. She felt for the small leather pouch she always wore at her waist. Aware it could make her a target for cutpurses, she kept it tightly closed at all times, its drawstring knotted securely and tied to her belt. The bulk of her money was elsewhere and she was most certainly not going to tell anyone where that was, but there were always a few loose coins in her pouch. She undid the drawstring now and counted out four silver pennies.

  If Jenna’s medicine did the trick, the investment of a groat would be nothing compared with the financial reward she could expect to receive from a grateful, pregnant Duchess. Perhaps she and William would be able to buy that farm rather sooner than she had planned.

  ***

  Leaving the Abbey after the funeral, small groups of sombrely dressed people gathered outside the Chapter House. The King and other members of the royal family and their attendants were following Abbot Harweden in a subdued procession towards the monastery, where they had been invited to a funeral repast after the requiem mass. Those who had not been included in the invitation stood, awaiting their carriages, talking in muted voices, their breath a ghostly mist on the cold air. Cardinal Beaufort stood waiting with them, one foot tapping impatiently on the first step of the mounting block. Canon Southwell spotted him there and came bustling up, pink with pleasure at the opportunity of cornering him in a position where he was unlikely to move away.

  ‘It was such a great pleasure to see you again, Your Grace, despite the sadness of the occasion,’ he said, forced to step to one side when the Cardinal’s valet approached and proceeded to help his master buckle on his sword under his heavy woollen cloak. ‘I must say,’ Southwell went on, standing on tiptoe and talking over the valet’s shoulder, ‘I thought Abbot Harweden conducted the service this morning with just the right degree of deference.’

  ‘Deference? Deference to whom?’ demanded Beaufort.

  ‘Well, to His Highness the King and to you. And ... and of course, to His Grace the Duke of Gloucester,’ said Southwell obsequiously.

  Beaufort didn’t like this plump pigeon of a parson any better now than he had a year ago when he’d been obliged to work with him in planning the Garter ceremony. ‘Harweden knows he should defer only to Almighty God when he’s conducting a requiem mass,’ he said shortly, ‘or any other mass, if it comes to that. You would do well, sir, to follow the King’s example. His Highness made a gesture of great humility this morning when he insisted that every man in church should remove his sword, thereby demonstrating his own belief that the Almighty is greater than any mortal man. That is something we would all do well to remember when we are in God’s house, whoever we are.’

  There was an embarrassed pause as Southwell realised he’d said entirely the wrong thing, then the Cardinal went on, ‘But we do have reason to be grateful to Abbot Harweden for providing the royal mourners with a good dinner. It’s a pity I can’t stay to partake of it.’


  ‘A great pity, indeed,’ agreed Southwell, ‘there must be many demands on your time.’

  He moved to one side to allow a groom to lead a large black stallion into position in front of the mounting block, holding its bridle while the Cardinal put his foot in the stirrup and swung himself over into the saddle like a man with little time to waste. As it happened, Beaufort had no engagements at all for the remainder of that day, but he would do anything to avoid sitting down to eat at the same table as his nephew Gloucester.

  Southwell felt the need to get back into the Cardinal’s good books again after his sacrilegious gaffe. ‘So, fare you well, my Lord,’ he said, stepping back smartly as the huge horse began tossing its mane and pawing the ground, ‘and may Almighty God grant you a safe journey home.’

  Beaufort curtly nodded his acknowledgement and pulled his horse’s head around without another word, striking out for London Bridge and thence to Southwark, the men of his guard guiding their horses to close protectively around him for the journey.

  Southwell watched them ride away then he turned and, smiling and inclining his head in greeting here and there as he went, made his way towards the refectory where the royal mourners had gathered for a warming glass of mulled wine as they waited for the meal to be served.

  This was an impressive gathering of the English aristocracy and Southwell took a moment to assess his opportunities. Hearing a tinkling laugh behind him, he turned to see the Duchess of Gloucester smiling delightedly as she extended her hand to be kissed by the elderly Lord Tiptoft. Southwell wasn’t at all surprised to hear her laugh, he hadn’t really expected her to be in the least bit saddened by the sombre mood of the occasion. He had been her personal physician and adviser for long enough to have a shrewd knowledge of what motivated Her Grace. Joining the fringes of the group, he waited until she noticed him.

  ‘Canon Southwell!’ That silvery voice. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I am well, thank you, Your Grace,’ he replied with a bow as she came towards him. ‘As are you, I trust? But we meet on a sad day and it is difficult, is it not, to be unmoved by this morning’s requiem mass. It is a distressing occasion.’

  The Duchess Eleanor re-arranged her expression. ‘Dear Catherine,’ she sighed, ‘such a very great loss for all of us in the royal family, particularly for His Highness the King. He is so young, too young to have lost both his parents. It is as well for him that he has my husband to advise and protect him.’

  ‘Indeed, Your Grace. The Duke of Gloucester is known to be a very considerate uncle to His Highness,’ said Southwell. ‘Everyone at court is aware of that.’

  ‘What was that?’ Duke Humphrey turned towards them. ‘Someone mentioned my name?’

  ‘I was saying, by your leave Your Grace, that you have proved yourself a loyal and caring protector of His Highness the King. It is a fact widely recognised at court.’

  The Duke smiled and inclined his head in acknowledgement of the compliment, though he recognised it for what it was. He had never been able to warm to Canon Southwell and he couldn’t really understand why Eleanor set such store by what he said. She had remarked only last week that Southwell had cast a profoundly auspicious horoscope for her and she had been very pleased by that. From what Humphrey knew of him, Southwell was much like any other churchman, well versed in the disciplines of theology, astrology and medicine, a man worthy of respect for his scholarship. But much as Humphrey admired a fine intellect and a sound education, that didn’t mean he had to like the man. He turned away again.

  Neatly snubbed, Southwell nevertheless smiled at the Duchess. ‘And I’m sure the Duke relies heavily on you, Your Grace, for support in his care for the King.’

  ‘We both have His Highness’s welfare close to our hearts,’ replied Eleanor with a wintry smile, beginning to move away. Aware that her husband had no great wish to talk to Southwell, she was a shade less inclined to continue her own conversation with him.

  ‘Your Grace!’ Southwell raised his voice slightly, then dropped it conspiratorially when she turned back to him. ‘Your Grace, I have been talking to Master Bolingbroke – as you know, your welfare is what is very close to our hearts – and he tells me that he has recently been using the new astrolabe to make a particular study of your astral chart ...’

  Now he had Eleanor’s full attention. She leaned towards him and whispered, ‘He’s using the astrolabe? Really? Are the stars particularly propitious for me at the moment?’

  ‘It seems so, Your Grace. Master Bolingbroke wondered whether we three might have a meeting about it sometime next week so that we can check a few facts with you before we complete our study of your current astral influences.’

  ‘Indeed, Canon Southwell. I look forward very much to hearing what you have to say. I will ask Canon Hume to arrange a meeting for us. I trust you would be prepared to travel south of the river for such a meeting? Master Bolingbroke will be going to Greenwich with our other staff when my husband and I return there in a few days.’

  ‘Your Grace, it will be my pleasure to attend you there and I will count it no distance at all.’

  ‘Thank you, Canon Southwell.’ Eleanor turned away from him again to join another group of people where Duke Humphrey was the centre of attention, just as Abbot Harweden entered the room to summon his guests to take their seats in the upper chamber where the midday dinner was about to be served. Tantalising smells drifted up from the monastery kitchen and Southwell, thinking that, generally speaking, he had done a good morning’s work, savoured his imminent reward. The King was known to enjoy a dish of Alows of Beef. Southwell, too, was very partial to it and the evidence in his nostrils suggested that neats from the Eye estate had provided the main ingredient for yet another excellent meal.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  July 1437

  There had been some research to do before Margery was able to offer the new tincture to the Duchess. Trying her best to avoid what William saw as her duties on the farm, she had spent hours poring over her precious books in the hope of finding some clues about the formulation of the tincture. It was a time-consuming, difficult process because Latin had never been her strong suit. Someone like John Virley might be ready to help her, but she immediately rejected that idea. It would have been different if they had parted the best of friends after their last association, but they hadn’t. Quite the opposite, in fact.

  None of this studious activity had improved her relationship with her husband, but she couldn’t run the risk of making her client ill. Margery’s two-pronged objective was to help the Duchess conceive a child so that she herself could become the wife of a landowner when William bought his own farm. It was a long-term strategy. There was no use rushing things.

  Her text books yielded very little information to help her so there was nothing for it but to try and work out the ingredients of Old Mother Morwenna’s tincture for herself. Again, she opened the bottle and inspected it closely. There was nothing recognisable about it, in fact there was no aspect of it which looked at all familiar. She held it up to her nose. Curiously, it had no obvious, recognisable smell. She inserted her little finger into the neck of the bottle and, withdrawing it, looked at the liquid on her fingertip then licked at it with a cautious tongue. The taste was piquant, spicy, not at all unpleasant but impossible to identify.

  This was outside her experience. Jenna had brought it with her from Devon, so perhaps it came from some plant or herb which only grew in the south-west. Or might the decoction be derived from a seaweed? She was familiar with bladderwort but this might be something else. Was it samphire, perhaps? Impossible to obtain in Westminster though common enough on some sea shores. Or could it perhaps be Lady’s Mantle? The root was known to stop all bleeding and aid conception but, try as she might, she couldn’t get it to grow readily in her own physic garden.

  The sound of the latch being lifted on the outside door to the farmhouse kitchen startled her. Then voices, men’s voices, a calm female voice above the sound of loud wailing. />
  ‘Bring her in here.’ That was Jenna. ‘Put her down there on that bench. Careful! Keep her weight off that foot. I’ll fetch the mistress, she’ll know what to do.’

  Hurriedly, Margery replaced the stopper, put the bottle of tincture back in a coffer and locked it before opening the door into the kitchen to see what was going on. Seth and Piers were struggling in from outside, carrying the Duchess of Gloucester’s maid between them. Sarah’s arms were around their necks and they lowered her down gently onto the bench near the fire. Her skirt was covered in mud up to her knees and she was crying piteously, in obvious distress. Jenna was trying to soothe her.

  ‘Why, Sarah!’ said Margery, closing the door to her own room. ‘What on earth has happened to you?’

  Sarah’s sobs grew even louder.

  ‘She fell, mistress,’ said Seth. ‘Slipped in some mud. Piers and me found her in the ditch. She couldn’t move.’

  ‘She’s probably broken her leg,’ said Piers, gloomily.

  ‘No, she hasn’t,’ Jenna said briskly. ‘You’d soon know if she had. But she’s certainly turned badly on her ankle. It’s very swollen already.’

  ‘All right, I’ll take charge of this,’ said Margery, pushing up her sleeves. ‘Thank you, boys, you can go back to your work now. I’m sure Sarah is very grateful to you for rescuing her.’

  Sarah gulped her thanks, turning a pathetic, tear-stained face towards them as they left. At least she had stopped the caterwauling noise she’d been making when they brought her in. Jenna fetched a stool and propped Sarah’s leg on it while her mistress gently removed the girl’s hose and shoe. Examining the distorted, badly swollen ankle, Margery frowned and drew a sharp breath between her teeth.

  ‘Yes, that’s bad,’ she said. ‘Poor Sarah. I’m afraid you aren’t going to be walking on that for at least a few weeks, possibly more.’

  ‘But I’ve got to get back to Her Grace! She’s in a foul temper and she’ll be furious if I don’t take the order back for her. She has to have everything in good time...’