‘Jenna, I’m telling you to sit. No ... I’m asking you. Please. I need to talk to someone, someone who understands. So, please sit down. I’d be grateful. Please sit and listen to me ... I think you could help me answer some questions. I don’t know who else to turn to and I’m desperate.’
Jenna lowered herself tentatively onto the edge of a chair alongside her mistress. This felt very wrong to her. She had never sat down in the presence of the Duchess.
‘Tell me, Jenna, when did you become aware that your husband was drinking too much?’
‘Soon after we were married, Your Grace.’
‘Did you never suspect it before that?’
‘No. At least, I don’t think so. He always seemed such good company, so popular. And very handsome. My friend Alice ... well, no, not just Alice, all the girls in Kingskerswell had an eye for him, wanted him for a husband. I was so proud when he chose me. I suppose, looking back, he had been trying to impress me in the days before we were married and I thought he would always be the same. Then when I became his wife, I saw the other side of him, the darker side I hadn’t seen before.’
‘How did that happen?’
‘Well, I had seen him after too much ale several times and at first it didn’t seem to matter. Most men of his age got cidered-up – skimmished – from time to time, on Twelfth Night, May Day, Harvest Home, that sort of thing. Then I realised how much money Jake was spending in the ale house when I needed it to buy food. So I asked him to stop.’
‘And?’
‘He hit me. That was the first time. He told me to stop being such a stupid, interfering bitch ... Oh, I beg your pardon, mistress! I had no wish to give offence!’
‘Don’t worry. I won’t punish you for that. This is just between the two of us. Mercifully my husband has never hit me, but I sometimes find his behaviour very difficult to understand. So, perhaps you can help me come to terms with it. It could be that we have much in common.’
The floodgates, once opened, released a torrent in both of them. Importantly for Eleanor, she felt she was unburdening herself to a friend.
***
‘Is the man mad! What can he possibly be thinking of?’
‘I don’t think my hot-headed nephew is any more mad now than he was six months ago,’ Henry Beaufort said matter-of-factly. ‘He has always been stubborn and he is adamant that Charles of Orléans must not, under any circumstances, be released from English custody.’
The two men were sitting in a pool of candlelight at a table in the sumptuous library at Winchester Palace in Southwark, where a small pile of logs lay ready to be burned in the inglenook fire basket as daylight faded. The table was bare save for a decanter of wine, two goblets and a small plate of sweetmeats placed between the two. They were deep in conversation.
‘Then he must be persuaded to see our point of view,’ said John Kemp, ‘it is imperative. Otherwise England will be bankrupt. Just because the Duke of Gloucester can’t bear to let go of France.’
‘The trouble,’ said Beaufort, ‘is not simply that he can’t bear to let go of France, but that he will not let go of an old concept. Humphrey cannot accept that things are not as they used to be. His brother is dead. For Heaven’s sake, King Henry V has been dead these twenty years. Humphrey can’t hold on to the past. It’s gone. He has to let it go.’
‘And you’re quite certain, are you, Beaufort, that His Highness the King thinks Charles of Orléans should be returned to France?’
‘Certain. Absolutely certain of it. He said so only a week or so ago when he had received that malicious complaint in which Gloucester attacked me – and indeed you, Kemp – implying that we were trying to take over the whole country. That astounded the King.’
‘He didn’t believe it though, did he?’
‘No, of course he didn’t believe it. He dismissed it. The mere suggestion is preposterous and the King has refuted the accusation entirely. He has already issued a manifesto which says that the decision to release Charles of Orléans is his own, influenced by God and reason alone.’
There was a long silence between the two of them. As the April evening set in, so the air took on a distinct chill and Henry Beaufort stood up to close the window himself, rather than summoning a footman to do it for him. He didn’t want any member of his staff to overhear the conversation he was having with Kemp.
‘What do you imagine goes on at those entertainments Humphrey and his hussy of a wife hold in their house at Greenwich?’ he asked, as he returned to his seat.
‘I dread to think.’
‘Well, I’m told that my nephew has always been keen on discussing philosophy, astronomy, astrology, that sort of thing. And I have that information on very good authority.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Many years ago, I invited the Italian Poggio Bracciolini here to London. A charming, intelligent man. Oh, it must be at least twenty years ago, long before Humphrey started renovating his house at Greenwich. But Bracciolini would sometimes meet Humphrey and his friends of an evening and he always said that the talk was of little but books, astrological texts, history, moral philosophy and so on.’
‘In what context?’
‘I’m not really sure, to be honest.’ Beaufort seemed to hesitate before continuing. ‘You know, I’ve never expressed this opinion before and I’d be grateful if you would keep it to yourself and say nothing to anyone else, but ... well...’
‘But what, Henry? You can tell me. It won’t go any further than this room.’
‘Well, just think for a moment, John. I wonder whether the subjects which interest Humphrey of Gloucester most of all sometimes border on humanism.’
‘Humanism!’ Kemp was aghast. ‘Surely not! Humanism runs contrary to all the teachings of the Holy Mother Church. It questions the authority of the Divine. It’s only a very small step from humanism to Lollardy.’
‘Careful! Careful, Kemp. You can’t accuse Gloucester of Lollardy. That is a very serious accusation. Inflammatory!’
‘But Gloucester clearly doesn’t give a tinker’s cuss what he says about you, Beaufort. Just look at the complaint he sent the King.’
‘The King has repudiated it. He does not accept any of the accusations Gloucester made.’
‘That’s a great mercy and let us be grateful for it. But do go on, Henry. What else did Signor Bracciolini tell you about the entertainments your nephew enjoys?’
‘Music plays a part in them, certainly. And since that lutenist fellow, whatever his name is, has become a member of the Gloucester household, it wouldn’t surprise me to hear that he treats the assembled company to some of his compositions.’
‘Oh, you mean Barnstable? Yes, he’s a fine composer. His motets and so on are excellent.’
‘I don’t imagine for a moment that he performs his sacred music at La Pleasaunce.’
‘Well, it’s hardly a church!’
‘Quite. But I’m told he composes some rather fine songs, too, which would make him popular with my nephew’s flibbertigibbet of a wife. A little bird told me that she will get up and sing at the drop of a hat!’
‘But not a cardinal’s hat!’
‘No, never that! A cardinal would have more sense than to drop his hat anywhere in the vicinity of that dreadful woman.’
They laughed. Neither man was impressed by the Duchess of Gloucester.
Kemp looked thoughtful for a moment as he took a sip from his wine goblet. ‘Would it be possible to discredit her in any way?’ he asked.
‘To what end?’
‘To embarrass Gloucester. It’s no more than he deserves after sending that complaint to the King.’
Beaufort paused while he considered Kemp’s question. ‘It could be a means to an end, I suppose. But it might not be an easy thing to achieve. If she were to fall from grace in any way, he would immediately leap to her defence.’
‘Not if he wasn’t here.’ Kemp leaned forward, his elbows on the table. ‘I’ve been thinking, Henry, so hear me out. Now, as it happens, the
matter of charter renewal for the Abbey at St Albans has not been entirely resolved. So, perhaps His Grace the Duke could be persuaded to visit his old friend Abbot Wheathampstead once again.’
‘Ah, I see what you mean,’ Beaufort said. ‘And, of course, in his absence, we would be forced to hold Council meetings without him.’
‘Exactly.’
‘So he would be unable to obstruct the decision-making process.’
‘Precisely.’
‘But it would suit our purpose even better if he could, perhaps, go further afield and visit another part of the country, to keep him out of the way for a few months. That would give us all a welcome breathing space.’
‘Indeed,’ said Kemp, ‘and am I not right in thinking that he has recently been made Chief Justice of South Wales?’
‘He has. That was agreed by the Council back in February.’
‘Well,’ Kemp went on, ‘I understand that there are Assizes to be held in Cardigan and Carmarthen later in the year. So might he, do you think, be persuaded to oversee the administration of justice there during the coming summer? After all, his ability to suppress disturbances is well known. He’s quite famous for it.’
Beaufort was regarding his companion with an exaggeratedly quizzical expression on his face. ‘So, are you implying that he could bring his skills to bear on the unruly Welsh?’
‘I’m sure he could. Particularly if a small grant could be made available to help him,’ suggested John Kemp, a smile tweaking his thin lips.
‘That should not present a problem,’ said Beaufort. ‘No doubt the Council could put aside a sum of, say, around two hundred pounds for that purpose. It shouldn’t be difficult.’
‘Then,’ said Kemp, ‘in Gloucester’s absence, the Council would be able to arrange the repatriation of Charles of Orléans without interference. Perfect!’ he concluded delightedly and both men laughed.
‘And you know,’ Beaufort said after a pause to replenish their goblets, ‘while the field is clear, we might take a closer look at the Duchess’s activities. A few discreet inquiries could yield interesting results.’
Kemp looked doubtful. ‘Wouldn’t she be travelling with her husband?’
‘To the far west of Wales? No, not if I have the measure of the woman. It would be far too uncomfortable for her! And if he should happen to be unexpectedly delayed in Wales for some time while she remains in Westminster, we will have ample opportunity to find out quite a lot about her.’
‘That could be most entertaining!’ said Kemp, and they both laughed again.
***
For the last week or so, Jenna had felt, oddly, as though a weight had been lifted from her mind. Her relationship with her mistress had taken on an entirely different dimension; there was a new honesty between them and Eleanor had begun to treat her maid as though she was a person of some worth, but Jenna doubted that she would ever treat her with respect. Not that she needed that. At least the secret of her unhappy marriage was now out in the open, she had shared it with someone, even though the wife of a Duke was the last person on earth she would have expected to share it with.
The Duchess was keeping another of her assignations that afternoon and was not expected back at the Palace of Westminster for two or three hours. For all that she had begun to confide in Jenna, Eleanor had never shared the information about where she went on these occasions. All she would say was that she had business to attend to away from the palace and would be gone for some time. She never took any of her ladies nor her maids with her, she was accompanied only by Canon Hume, the secretary whose services she shared with her husband, and two guards to provide protection for them both. She dressed circumspectly, too, which was certainly unlike her. Though Jenna’s interest was aroused, she was not inquisitive enough to try and find out where her mistress went on these occasions; it was not her business to know.
With a few precious hours to call her own, she took advantage of the opportunity to visit Eybury farmhouse. It was several weeks since she’d been able to snatch even a few minutes with Kitty.
If she had a little time to spare, Jenna always preferred to take the riverbank route to the farmhouse because it gave her time to think, free and unencumbered by the regulations and expectations of others, almost as though she was totally in charge of her own life. In these rare private moments, it delighted her to catch the occasional glimpse of a shy, blunt-nosed water vole or watch a dabbling mallard upended in the water, industriously fishing, her tail in the air and her busy bill below the surface. It always amused Jenna that the female was a drably brown little duck while her mate boasted beautiful multi-coloured feathers with a proud head of iridescent green. Just like a man, she thought, he’d wait until the dowdy little female was committed to her nest, brooding her young, then he’d abandon her and go off somewhere else with a group of like-minded drakes.
Of course, it wasn’t always the case that men went away and left women to fend for themselves. She herself had made the choice to leave her man and she had never regretted her decision for an instant. Now her life had taken on a rhythm, a routine; she knew where she was and what her duties were and the Duchess seemed to appreciate her work. She wouldn’t allow herself to think about William Jourdemayne.
It didn’t seem to worry the Duchess that her own husband was preparing to go away very soon. It would not be for long, she assured Jenna, so she didn’t think she needed to accompany him. Besides, he was going to the far west of Wales where he was Chief Justice and, surely, nobody went to any part of Wales unless they had to. The place bordered on the barbaric from what she had heard. No, she would not accompany him; she would be content to stay at home. Of course, she would concentrate on making her husband feel very welcome on his return – and she well knew how to do that!
Not only was the Duchess calm in her acceptance of the Duke’s imminent absence, Jenna thought, it was almost as though she appreciated the respite this would afford her. She said she planned to spend a considerable amount of time in reading. Her Grace had an eclectic taste in books. Jenna often looked at their titles as she tidied them away in the library after her mistress had finished with them. Here were the chivalric romances she was so fond of, Geoffrey Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales and The Parliament of Fowls as well as a beautifully bound copy of the same author’s treatise on the astrolabe. Jenna had seen the astrolabe, but had no real idea what use was made of it. That was for men of learning, men like Canon Southwell and Magister Bolingbroke. They spent a considerable time with her mistress and Her Grace appeared to have great respect for their scholarship. The Duchess herself didn’t usually give the impression of being learned, but then a woman had very little to gain by appearing too clever.
Rounding a bend in the path on the way to Eybury farmhouse, Jenna’s heart skipped a beat as it always did at the sight of it. She rarely saw William these days, but he was never far from her thoughts and being anywhere on the Eye estate meant she ran the risk of bumping into him which always made her feel apprehensive. Pushing open the big door of the farmhouse kitchen, she stopped on the threshold for a moment to listen but there was no sound.
‘Hello,’ she called. ‘Is there anybody here? Hello!’
There was no answering call so she crossed the kitchen floor and knocked, cautiously, at the closed door of Margery’s room. Again, there was no reply; Mistress Jourdemayne was clearly not at home. She might be up at the palace, of course, because she still supplied several of the ladies of the court with their essential cosmetic requirements, but the Duchess Eleanor only rarely made use of her services nowadays. Jenna moved to the kitchen window and looked out but, apart from meeting the malevolent stare of a small black cat which had leapt onto the windowsill outside, she could see no clue to Mistress Jourdemayne’s whereabouts.
‘Where’s your mistress, Gib?’
The cat lost interest in Jenna, licked its paw and began washing its face. There was nothing to be gained by remaining in the farmhouse so she might as well go and see her fri
ends in the dairy. Besides, she could hardly wait to see her Kittymouse again.
Having run the length of Willow Walk, she was panting slightly as she pushed open the door to the dairy without ceremony and every head turned towards her.
‘Jenna!’
‘Good Heavens, Jenna! Where have you been all this time?’
There were only three people in the big room, though Hawys looked as though she was about to give birth to another one at any moment. Jane and another girl, a complete stranger to Jenna, abandoned their butter churns, wiping their hands on their aprons as they came to join Hawys, forming an excited, chattering circle surrounding the newcomer. Kitty was nowhere to be seen.
‘Where’s Kitty?’
Churns, butter paddles and skimming dishes lay idle and everyone was talking at once.
‘Where’s Kitty?’ Jenna demanded to know a second time.
‘Oh, Jenna,’ wailed Hawys, ‘we’re all so worried. We didn’t know what to do for the best...’
‘Let me tell her,’ said Jane, elbowing poor Hawys to one side, ‘I know exactly what happened –’
‘So do I!’ said Hawys, indignant.
‘No you don’t, Hawys, you don’t know what Kitty tells me in the dormitory. You sleep in your cottage with Seth so you don’t hear secrets.’
‘Secrets? What secrets? Where is Kitty? What’s happening?’ Jenna was scanning the excited faces in front of her, anxious to know what had happened.
‘Kitty’s working with Mistress Jourdemayne,’ said Hawys, ‘and we don’t know what she’s doing. She won’t tell us.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Mistress Jourdemayne came here to the dairy about a fortnight ago,’ Jane said, ‘and she took Kitty away with her. We haven’t seen very much of her since then.’
‘She’s working with Mistress Jourdemayne?’ Jenna was dumbfounded. ‘Is she doing what I used to do? Labelling containers, packing the orders? Is that what she’s doing?’
‘Oh, yes, of course,’ said Jane, folding her arms and nodding her head, ‘she’s doing that, all right. She’s a bright child, she can read more words than I ever could and she’s very good at reckoning.’
The Witch of Eye Page 26