But an accusation of sorcery had turned everything sour for Margery and she bitterly resented every moment she had spent in prison. Had John Virley not also been sentenced, she would have suspected him of informing on her. The man had the look of a sneak about him and after all, she had spurned his sexual advances often enough. Though she still glimpsed him occasionally on the streets of Westminster as he went about his business, he had never spoken to her since.
On her eventual release, Margery had been made to give her word, on pain of death, that she would never again have anything to do with sorcery and the black arts. She was only too glad to give that assurance. She was also grateful to William who had readily believed her version of the story, collecting together enough money for her ransom and opening his arms to welcome her back home to Eye.
But she was powerless to stop the malicious, ill-informed gossip, which credited her with being able to raise corpses from the dead and whispered that fiends and fairies were her familiars. Absolute nonsense, of course, but she had been forced to work very hard to restore her own good reputation as a wise woman. Nowadays there were few who had the temerity to call her the Witch of Eye – not to her face, anyway.
Her reputation was still a fragile thing and she couldn’t run the risk of anything like that ever happening again. This plan was her last resort because it involved the making of waxen images and, it if went wrong, she might be risking more than her reputation. She could be risking her life.
Margery had learned the craft of working with wax from a gipsy woman whom she had originally consulted about the Romani techniques of fortune-telling. But she had also been surprisingly adept at shaping softened wax into life-like flowers. Surely, it would do no harm to try to fashion a little poppet in the shape of a baby, its small body of fine linen plumped out with warm wax into which she had mixed all the herbs, spices and minerals which were known to aid conception.
She would strengthen its power by mixing into it some snippets from strands of the Duchess Eleanor’s own hair which she had managed to steal from a comb on Her Grace’s dressing table. And with Jenna working for the Duchess as her personal maid, it might be possible to obtain the most powerful ingredient of all – some of Her Grace’s menstrual blood on a scrap of linen: that was almost a guarantee of success. It wouldn’t be easy but, somehow, she would have to trick Jenna into providing her with that.
Then, having created the little poppet, she would swaddle it in a tiny blanket of the softest lamb’s wool, place it in one of her small wicker baskets and cover it with a scrap of satin, just like a cradle.
No one need know.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Early autumn 1439
Magister Roger Bolingbroke and Canon Thomas Southwell were sitting next to each other on a bench outside the library at the Palace of Westminster. Between them, carefully wrapped in a padded, soft leather bag for protection was the precious astrolabe.
‘Her Grace has surely not forgotten us,’ said Southwell, drumming his fingers on the scrip balanced on his plump knees. ‘How long do you estimate we have been waiting?’
Bolingbroke looked at him over his spectacles. ‘Mmm? I’m sorry, Canon, what did you say?’
‘I said we seem to have been waiting for ... ah, here’s Hume.’
Walking briskly towards them was the Duke and Duchess’s secretary, Canon John Hume, a tall, taciturn man who wore a belligerent expression.
‘Her Grace has sent for you,’ he said. ‘Today, she would like you to attend her in her private withdrawing room. Follow me.’
Southwell turned to Bolingbroke, his eyebrows raised in an enquiring arc as they got up from the bench and prepared to follow Canon Hume. With purposeful strides, Hume led the way, towering head and shoulders above the rotund Canon Southwell who scuttled behind him, anxious to keep pace. Bringing up the rear, the stooped figure of Magister Bolingbroke was bent protectively over the astrolabe he carried.
Hume said nothing and offered no explanation for the change of plan. The two clerics followed him away from the public areas of the palace where these meetings usually took place, and towards the rooms where the royal family had their private accommodation.
‘Your advisers are here, Your Grace,’ said Hume as he opened a door and showed them into the presence of Her Grace, the Duchess of Gloucester.
‘Gentlemen,’ she greeted them, ‘I’m pleased to see you.’ She turned and gestured imperiously to her maid. ‘That will be all, Jenna. You may leave me.’
‘Thank you, Your Grace.’ Jenna curtsied then, picking up a cup, a dirty plate and a basket of embroidery threads, she left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.
The Duchess rose from her chair and took a seat at the head of the table, gesturing to Southwell and Bolingbroke to be seated on either side of her.
‘Now,’ she said, ‘I expect you are wondering why I have decided to receive you here rather than in the library where we usually meet.’
‘It is a pleasure to meet you anywhere, Your Grace,’ said Southwell, ‘and we are very privileged to be invited to attend you in your private withdrawing room. Are we not, Bolingbroke?’
‘Quite so, quite so,’ said Roger Bolingbroke, staring about him at the rich colours of the tapestries, which hung on every wall. He was seldom privy to such obvious wealth.
‘Magister Bolingbroke, I trust you’ve brought the astrolabe with you?’
‘Of course, Your Grace.’ He began unpacking the precious scientific instrument. ‘In fact, I particularly hoped you might want us to use the astrolabe for you today, since I have spent a great deal of time working with the instrument of late, perfecting my techniques, and I feel entirely at ease with it. I seem to have mastered the art of using it for divination.’
‘That is excellent news,’ said the Duchess. ‘Divination is precisely what I have in mind.’
Canon Southwell produced several sheets of parchment from his scrip. ‘I have taken the liberty, Your Grace,’ he said, ‘of preparing a new astral chart, based on the information you have given us about the time and place of your birth. It is unfortunate, however, that you cannot be more precise about the exact time of day you were born.’
‘Is it really that important?’ she asked.
‘The more detail we can put into the chart, the better,’ Southwell replied.
‘But we can obtain a very reasonable reading from the information we already have,’ said Bolingbroke, anxious to allay Her Grace’s fears. Producing the astrolabe from its padded bag with the air of a conjuror in a jongleur’s entertainment, he placed it in the centre of the table. ‘There! Now Your Grace, we can begin whenever you wish.’
Eleanor rested her elbow on the table and cradled her chin in her hand. She was looking intently at Roger Bolingbroke.
‘Just before we do, Magister ...’ she said, hesitating, then with a sharp intake of breath she went on, ‘tell me ... how difficult is it to cast a horoscope for someone else?’
‘For someone else? Well, given that the basic information is available, Your Grace, it is just as easy to cast a horoscope for one person as it is for another. Did you, perhaps, wish us to cast a horoscope for His Grace the Duke, my Lady?’
‘Your Grace.’
‘Mmm?’ Bolingbroke realised his error and blushed. ‘Oh, yes, of course. I’m so sorry ... Your Grace.’
Canon Southwell came to the Magister’s rescue. ‘It is possible to produce an accurate horoscope for anyone,’ he said. ‘Indeed, I myself produced one for His Grace the Duke before he left for Calais two years ago, predicting his great success in that campaign.’
‘Yes, of course, so you did. I remember now.’
‘Do you wish us to produce another one for him, Your Grace?’
‘No,’ said Eleanor. ‘No, not for my husband. But I do want you to use your skills in casting a horoscope for someone else and this is the reason why I wanted this meeting between us to be in private today.’
She paused for a moment, looking at the
two faces fixed expectantly on her own. ‘I must tell you, gentlemen, that I have become more and more concerned recently about the health of my noble husband’s nephew, the King.’
‘The King!’ Southwell’s eyes widened. ‘Surely you do not wish us to cast a horoscope for the King, Your Grace? That might be construed as ...’ he paused, hesitating to add the word ‘treason’ to the end of his sentence.
‘I think merely that it might be a way of finding out exactly what ails His Highness,’ said Eleanor firmly, ‘thereby enabling his uncle, my husband, to help him back to the best of health. The King is prone to melancholia and he is more pale and listless than usual these days. I am very concerned about him.’
‘But what of his learned physician?’ asked Bolingbroke. ‘John Somerset is a doctor of great distinction and he has looked after the King devotedly since he was a small child. Surely Somerset will know what is best for him.’
‘And I’m sure His Highness is very appreciative of that,’ added Southwell.
‘I’m sure he is,’ said the Duchess, treading carefully, ‘he must be. But we have to remember that the King is at an age where his thoughts must surely be turning to young women, to romance and chivalry. A lot of young men are very shy about it. It could be causing an excess of black bile in His Highness and perhaps he does not wish to discuss it with his physician. We must bear in mind that there will soon be the question of a suitable royal marriage for him so, in order to do what’s best for him, we need to know how he feels about things of this nature. Without upsetting him, of course. That’s where I believe the astrolabe might help us.’
Eleanor was watching the way in which her advisers were responding to her suggestion. She was well aware that any attempt to foretell what would happen in the King’s life would be frowned upon by every court in the land, civil or ecclesiastical. It could, in fact, be regarded as a crime, a treasonous act, and would bring down the harshest punishment on the head of the perpetrator. That was why she must be so very, very careful in making sure that neither Southwell nor Bolingbroke would betray her.
But she had reached the point of desperation. King Henry was such a dismal young man, so negative and lacklustre. Now, at the age of eighteen, he should be delighted with life, ambitious for himself and for his country, savouring carnal pleasures, jousting, hunting, wenching and doing all the other things that healthy young men of great wealth would normally want to do. Instead, he immersed himself in his books and spent an inordinate amount of time on his knees in St Stephen’s Chapel or in visiting the Westminster monastery to engage in theological debate.
Irritated and infuriated by the King’s attitude and lack of motivation, Eleanor could not imagine him leading the country into anything but oblivion. He seemed to care not one jot about France, the country his own father and uncles had fought so hard to conquer.
At the core of her frustration was the need to know whether he would survive his troubled teenage years and marry, then go on to become a successful king. She doubted it. Her husband would do the job so much more effectively – with herself at his side as Queen.
That was the future she hoped to see.
***
Margery had spent several days in preparing carefully for the interview she had requested with the Duchess and now, as she waited in the ante-room outside Her Grace’s private withdrawing room, her heart was racing with anxiety. Once she had revealed her plan, she knew her fate would hang in the balance. She’d never be able to retract her words and if she should deny that she’d ever made any such suggestion, the Duchess’ word would count for considerably more than hers. The wife of a stockman would hardly be believed. Either Eleanor would accept her proposal with enthusiasm or she would banish her from court and ruin her. The risk was enormous, but all her dreams for the future were at stake. She must tread carefully.
Startled by the sound of the door opening, she rose from her seat as calmly as she could, smiling as Eleanor beckoned her in. The Duchess was entirely alone, there was no sign of any of her ladies.
‘Come in, Margery,’ the Duchess greeted her, closing the door behind her. ‘I’m glad I wasn’t too busy to see you. That coffer looks very heavy. Put it down over there.’ She indicated a table near the window. ‘So, tell me, what brings you here today? You mentioned some experiments with new combinations of flower fragrances. Were you successful?’
‘Up to a point, Your Grace. I have been looking at the possibilities of angelica. We know it as a culinary plant but the root combines well with lavender. I am still working on its possibilities. I’m not sure yet.’
‘Then what...’
Margery took a deep breath: the moment had come. ‘By your leave, Your Grace, please tell me if you think I’m speaking out of turn but, as you know, I do have your best interests at heart...’
‘And?’
‘And ... well, I wondered ... since you had no success with my recommendations for ... for your attempts to conceive, whether you had ever tried anything else, some St John’s Wort perhaps, though it is difficult to collect in the prescribed manner. I have no great faith in its ability to help you, but...’
Eleanor’s face looked utterly forlorn. ‘No, Margery, I have tried nothing else, though I haven’t quite given up hope. But last week ... my menses, just like every other month.’
Margery already knew this. There were definite advantages in having a spy in the royal camp. Jenna had mentioned a few days ago that she was having to soak the Duchess’s intimate linens in urine overnight to bleach out the blood stains. Wrinkling her nose in distaste, she’d said she felt quite nauseated by the task. Margery, far less squeamish than Jenna, bided her time and managed to purloin a small item of the Duchess’s soiled linen while Jenna’s back was turned. It had been quite easy, really.
‘I’m sorry to hear that, Your Grace,’ said Margery. ‘And His Grace the Duke, if I might be permitted to ask ... is he as...’
‘You know, Margery,’ Eleanor cut across her, ‘I would not tolerate these questions from anyone else and my patience is wearing thin, even with you. My private life with my husband is my own affair. But –’ She broke off, biting her lip before she went on. ‘Margery ... you know how much I still want a child and how I’ll do anything ...’ Tears were welling in her eyes now, and she looked upwards, trying to stem their flow by blinking hard. ‘I’m sorry. Please forgive me.’
‘Yes, yes, of course, Your Grace. I do know how much it means to you.’
Eleanor took a deep breath, shuddered and then looked anxiously into Margery’s face, her hand once again on Margery’s arm. ‘Is there something new? Something ... something else you know of?’
‘Well, perhaps, Your Grace. I’m not sure yet.’
‘Because you know, Margery, don’t you, that if there was a way ... any way to ... oh, dear God!’ She turned away again and covered her face with her hands for a moment before going on, her voice steadily rising in pitch. ‘What have I done, Margery? Have I offended the Almighty in some way that He denies me what I want most in the world? Something every other woman seems to be able to achieve with ease, even the commonest peasant, while I remain barren as a stone. Me, the Duchess of Gloucester, wife of the most powerful man in the land.’
‘Indeed, Your Grace, your husband is second only to the King.’
‘Yes, second only to the King. And if the King should ... no, I must not think like that. But we must consider the possibility that something might happen to His Highness. He doesn’t always enjoy the best of health. And if my husband should become King then I must be able to give him an heir, a legitimate heir who could inherit the throne after his day and secure the succession of the House of Lancaster. So why can I not give him an heir? Eh? Tell me that, Margery, tell me that!’ She was verging on hysteria now, her voice surely audible in the vestibule outside the door. Margery must quieten her.
‘Your Grace ... please, calm yourself. I might be able to help you. But it depends on how much you trust me and how you view certain sk
ills and crafts I have, skills which have been practised for centuries by wise women and cunning men, especially in country districts.’
‘Wise women? Cunning men? Margery, are you telling me that –’
‘Your Grace, please, hear me out. My mother was a wise woman, well respected in the village of Westminster, and from her I learned many, many skills, not only in the use of herbs and flowers.’
‘Yes, tell me, Margery! Please.’
‘There is much knowledge which is beyond the sphere of physicians and doctors. Sometimes women know much more than men give them credit for.’
Eleanor nodded slowly. ‘Yes, yes, I have often thought so myself. But we’re only women.’
‘That shouldn’t stop us taking things into our own hands occasionally, Your Grace.’
Eleanor was listening intently, her eyes riveted on Margery’s face. ‘So what are you saying, Margery?’
‘Well, Your Grace, I am beginning to think that any potion or decoction you might take to help you conceive might be more effective if it is used in conjunction with something else.’
The Duchess Eleanor’s face was a study in doubt. ‘No, Margery, there can be nothing else. I have tried everything...’
‘Please, Your Grace, let me explain. Not many people know this, but I am conversant with a rare technique, one which was taught me by a wise woman, a woman from another country and even more skilled than my own mother. You might not like it, but it could well increase two-fold your chances of child-bearing.’
The Witch of Eye Page 21