‘But we think she’s doing something else as well,’ Hawys interrupted, ‘except she won’t tell us what it is.’
‘Something like what? Tell me! For God’s sake, tell me!’ Jenna turned to Jane who seemed to be the one who knew most and grabbed her by the arm. ‘Jane, what did Kitty tell you in the dormitory?’
Jane shook her arm free then looked down, seeming unwilling to meet Jenna’s questioning eyes. She thrust her hands deep into her apron pockets and shook her head.
‘She won’t say. She wouldn’t tell me anything except that she’s helping Mistress Jourdemayne and two clerical gentlemen with some experiments.’ She looked up again, this time directly at Jenna. ‘And I’m worried about her, Jenna, she’s unhappy. But she won’t tell me why, or exactly what she’s doing. I’ve got a very bad feeling about it.’
Jenna was quiet while the other women watched her face, anxious, waiting for her to react. What they saw there was an expression of white fury. Jenna’s lips were compressed into a hard line and her eyes glinted like tempered steel under the thunderous furrowed arc of her brow. At length she spoke.
‘If that damned witch harms a hair of Kitty’s head, I swear I’ll kill her,’ she snarled. ‘By the blood of Christ, she’d better have a good reason for this.’
Turning on her heel, she slammed the dairy door behind her.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
June 1441
John Virley was looking forward to the reward of a well-earned tankard of ale on his way home. He had already done the best part of a day’s work and the cobbled city streets of London could be hard on a fellow’s feet, especially when he was carrying a heavy bag full of parchment. To be fair, the bag got lighter and lighter as he delivered his orders to different places along his route and, in truth, he didn’t really mind working on a fine spring day like this.
He had already delivered three reams of parchment to St Bartholomew’s Priory, just to the north-west of the city wall, then a dozen quill pens to St Botolph-without-Aldgate, the church he’d attended as a child. Back inside the city walls again, a pleasant stroll down St Martin’s Lane brought him to the collegiate church of St Martin-le-Grand where the canons had ordered only four quires of parchment.
By the time he had delivered an order to the Franciscan Grey Friars, it was an easy matter for a man who knew the area so well to cut through the maze of narrow backstreets to his final destination. Once through Newgate, the churchyard of St Sepulchre-without-Newgate was directly in front of him. The vicar at St Sepulchre’s hadn’t placed a very big order this time, he only needed ink and that hardly weighed anything at all, so Virley’s step was light as he crossed the road between Newgate Jail and the church. It was his last call of the morning and he was glad to get inside the building and take shelter from a sudden, heavy shower of rain.
‘A very good day to you, Vicar!’ he greeted John Stone as he walked up the nave towards the rood screen in front of the chancel. Stone was busying himself re-arranging the chalice, the paten and the other silverware on the altar.
‘Ah, yes, good morning, Master Virley. It’s a lovely day! We must thank the Good Lord for that.’
‘Well, it was a lovely day, Vicar, but it’s just started raining. Still, it’s only a passing shower. Shouldn’t last long. I’ve brought the ink you ordered. Shall I take it through to the vestry for you? And leave it on the table?’
‘Ah, yes. Yes, of course. I’m grateful. Thank you. I’ve nearly finished here.’
Emerging from the vestry after delivering the ink, Virley looked hard at the older man. He seemed unusually edgy, pulling at his earlobe and directing snatched, anxious glances down the nave towards the door. He appeared to be clearing a space at the centre of the altar.
‘Well, goodbye for now, Vicar. Expecting visitors, did you say?’
‘Er, no, I didn’t, did I? No. Well, yes, in a way. Not just yet. A little later.’
‘Anyone I know?’ Virley wasn’t usually so inquisitive. Perhaps it was just that the vicar seemed oddly nervous.
‘Oh, er, no. No, just some colleagues. Canon Hume and Canon Southwell of Westminster and Magister Bolingbroke, late of Oxford. They have been here before.’
‘Ah, Canon Southwell. Yes, I know him from my own days at Westminster. They’ll be saying mass, then?’
‘Er ... yes, yes. Saying mass. Yes.’
Virley looked around him. There wasn’t another soul in sight. The place was deserted. That struck him as strange. Surely members of the congregation should have started arriving by now. The sound of the door being opened distracted him and he looked round. Yes, there was Southwell, brushing raindrops from his dark woollen cloak before strutting, pompous as ever, towards the altar. He’d recognise him anywhere. With him was a tall, stooping man with thinning hair who was removing his spectacles in order to wipe the wet lenses on his sleeve. That must be the Magister, thought Virley.
‘I’ll be on my way, then,’ he said quietly to Vicar Stone. ‘Best get a move on if I’m to be in time for my dinner.’ He didn’t particularly want to stay if Southwell was going to be involved in the mass.
‘Yes, yes. Well, goodbye then. God be with you.’ Distractedly, the vicar made the sign of the cross in Virley’s direction and turned to greet his visitors. Virley moved out of sight behind a stone pillar near the door without being noticed.
Having slipped quietly out of the church, he stopped for a moment in the churchyard and looked back towards St Sepulchre’s. He couldn’t rid himself of a feeling that something was wrong, but he had no idea what. There were three men of God inside the church and there was nothing unusual about that. They were just going about their business, saying mass. He shrugged as he turned towards the path.
Then he saw Margery Jourdemayne and froze.
She was sheltering under the lychgate, peering out to see if the rain had stopped, her cupped hand stretched out in front of her. Margery Jourdemayne, the instigator of his downfall a decade ago, the reason why he had spent those long, dreary months incarcerated in the damp stinking dungeons of Windsor Castle. And here she was again, under the thatched roof of the lychgate. That was the best place for her, thought Virley, a place of corpses and death.
But what, in God’s name, was the damned woman doing here? Wanting to avoid her at all costs, he was grateful that the trunk of the churchyard yew was wide enough for him to duck down behind it, out of sight. Virley’s memories of Margery were still vivid and, to his mind, she was something a great deal more sinister than the wise woman she had claimed to be. She was a witch.
The witch had a child with her, a girl. From this distance, it was difficult to tell how old the girl was, she looked as though she might be ten or eleven but small breasts were evident under her working smock so Virley, with his experience of the female form, judged her to be about thirteen or fourteen years old, but small for her age.
The shower was passing as quickly as it had arrived and Virley watched as the two of them cautiously emerged from the lychgate then hurried up the path towards the church porch. Whatever the reason they were here, the child was clearly reluctant about it because the witch, with a firm hold of the girl’s arm, was having to drag her along the path.
Virley waited until the heavy church door opened from within to admit them. As it closed, he was about to make a dash for freedom when, to his astonishment, the door was opened again. The vicar emerged and walked quickly away down the path. He was clearly not going to be taking part in any mass that was going on inside: if it was a mass.
As soon as John Stone had pulled the lychgate closed behind him, Virley emerged from his hiding place behind the great yew tree and prepared to follow him. He must get to the bottom of this, whatever it was. It looked as though the witch was up to her old tricks again and she was clearly associating with Southwell and Bolingbroke as she had once done with Friar Ashwell and himself.
But, if that’s all it was, what was the child doing there?
***
The Du
chess Eleanor’s dressing room was where Jenna seemed to spend her whole life. It was almost like home. She knew every inch of it, the contents of every drawer and cupboard, the linen press and the laundry basket. The Duchess had been impressed by Jenna’s ability to write and was delighted at the suggestion that she should keep a daily record of which gown and shoes her mistress had worn on what occasion, and which jewellery she had worn to complement the ensemble. Whatever the Duchess wanted, Jenna was expected to know exactly where it was; and she always did. By now, Her Grace would not tolerate anything less.
In the few short years she had been working at the palace, Jenna’s appearance had changed considerably and her clothes were modestly fashionable for a woman in her position. Her hands, always roughened by farm work in years gone by, were softer and smoother, and her trimmed fingernails would never snag the delicate fabric of her mistress’s finest veils. Under her linen wimple, the sun-tanned face of yesteryear had become fashionably pale since she worked almost entirely indoors. But she still harboured a secret longing for the satisfaction of a good day’s toil. Indulging the every whim of a spoilt mistress never seemed like real work to Jenna.
She would have gone back to the farm in a heartbeat, but she knew she couldn’t. Of course, she was very concerned about Kitty, but it wasn’t just that. Now she was no longer honestly exhausted when she went to her bed, she had begun to sleep badly and was often plagued by dreams in which William was angry with her and she didn’t know why. These dreams left her feeling distressed and saddened. Obeying some nameless instinct, she ran her hands over the soft skin of her body, the outline of her thighs, the curve of her breasts, yearning for the touch of a man – but not any man. She ached for the sheer, raw presence of William Jourdemayne, longing to be as one with him. Jenna had never known a desire as strong as this and it didn’t diminish with time. Equally, she knew that her yearning was hopelessly misplaced: she was in love with another woman’s husband. It was a forbidden love, a dangerous love. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s wife, said Moses. No, nor thy neighbour’s husband, either, thought Jenna. However deep it was, hers was a love forbidden by God.
And now her anxieties were heightened by her worry about Kitty. She longed to get back to the farm to find out what was going on. She needed to know exactly what Kitty was doing for Mistress Jourdemayne and whether the other dairymaids’ fears were well founded. Between them, William and Kitty, the two most important people in her life, were causing her deep concern.
‘When did I last wear this gown?’ the Duchess demanded, interrupting Jenna’s thoughts. Mistress and maid had been going through the richly gilded armoire in the dressing room where Her Grace’s best gowns were kept. Both doors of the big cupboard were open and some twenty or so sumptuous garments hung in a serried rank within it. The Duchess was pulling at various hems, inspecting the colours and the fabrics, prompting her memory of individual dresses, trying to make a decision. Jenna had been standing behind her, waiting for Her Grace to choose what she wanted to wear when she went out.
‘Is that the dark blue samite, Your Grace? I’m almost certain you wore it at the reception which His Highness the King gave for the Spanish Ambassador, but I’d better look it up.’ Jenna opened the small leather-bound volume in which she made a note of the Duchess’s social engagements and what she had worn for each.
‘I must have had that one made for me at least five years ago,’ said the Duchess, ‘but it’s still one of my favourites.’ As Jenna consulted her notes, Eleanor draped the fabric of the gown over her left hand, smoothing it with her right, looking at it this way and that. She loved the way the rich blue silk was interwoven with threads of pure gold. Gold: the pinnacle of the alchemist’s achievement, the fabulous metal that would never change its lustre, no matter what man did to it, whether it was used to make a wedding ring or beaten as thin as a leaf, thin enough for a limner to use in illuminating a manuscript.
‘The blue suits you very well, Your Grace, it brings out the colour of your eyes.’
‘Do you really think so, Jenna?’
‘Indeed, Your Grace. And I was right,’ she added, nodding her head as she checked an entry in her note book, ‘you last wore the blue samite at the King’s reception for the Spanish Ambassador and you haven’t worn it since. On that occasion you also wore the diamond and sapphire necklace which was a birthday gift from His Grace the Duke.’
‘Ah, sapphire, the stone of destiny, and as you say, that lovely dark blue does enhance the grey of my eyes.’
‘While I have my notebook to hand, Your Grace, I’m anxious to bring it up to date,’ Jenna said. ‘Have you any engagements I don’t know about?’
‘No, nothing while my husband is away in Wales, except for dinner at the King’s Head in Cheapside later in the month.’
‘Yes, Your Grace. June the twenty-eighth. I have a note of it.’
‘These days,’ the Duchess said, ‘I tell you what has been arranged before I tell anyone. I rely on your little notebook rather more than I rely on Canon Hume. It’s very clever of you to be able to write. I value that ability in a member of my staff.’
‘I’m always grateful I was taught the skill, Your Grace.’
‘Do you read much, Jenna?’
‘Not really, Your Grace. I don’t have much opportunity, nor have I any money to buy books.’
‘No, quite. Books are expensive. But perhaps, one day, I’ll let you read one or two of mine.’
‘That is most generous of you, Your Grace. I would be very grateful.’
‘Yes, I’m sure you’d enjoy them. The simpler ones, of course.’
Jenna hid a smile. ‘Of course, Your Grace. The simpler ones would be best.’
***
Virley followed Vicar Stone at a discreet distance, anxious in case his quarry should happen to glance around suddenly and spot him. Stone walked at a smart pace but Virley, a decade younger, was easily able to keep up with him. By now he was burning with curiosity to know what was going on, even happy to sacrifice his reward in the ale house if only he could find out.
From Newgate, John Stone turned right into Warwyke Lane then kept up his brisk walk until he turned left into Paternoster Row. Virley slowed his pace. Clearly the man had business in St Paul’s and since the cathedral was such a public meeting place, that business was unlikely to be of a private nature. So there would be nothing to be deduced from that. He might as well find an ale house after all.
‘Virley! You old dog!’
He knew that voice. Odd, he thought, that he’d hardly seen the man since they were youngsters, but now he seemed to bump into William Woodham every few weeks. And always in the vicinity of St Paul’s. He turned to see Woodham riding up behind him, leading another horse by the bridle.
‘Collecting some more stationery, Virley?’ bellowed Woodham, slithering down from his mount.
‘No. I’ve just been delivering some. And you? What are you doing round these parts?’
‘Oh, this and that, you know. I’m footloose and fancy-free as it happens, for an hour or so anyway. Time to squeeze in a mug or two of ale. Care to join me? I’ve just accompanied Canon Hume to St Sepulchre’s and he didn’t want me to wait...’
‘St. Sepulchre’s!’ Virley exclaimed, taken aback. ‘But I’ve just come from there. I didn’t see you.’
‘Ah, you wouldn’t have. I didn’t stay outside more than a minute. Just enough time for him to dismount and go inside. He never wants me to wait. This is his horse.’
‘Then you dare not tie up these animals outside an ale house, Woodham. They’re valuable, surely.’
‘I’ll find a boy to look after them. That’ll be worth a farthing to any street urchin. ‘Ere, boy!’ he shouted and was instantly surrounded by a cluster of youngsters, vying for his attention. ‘Who wants to earn a farthing for an hour’s work?’
There was no shortage of willing volunteers and from the small window of the ale house which looked out on to Paternoster Row, William Woodham was
easily able to keep an eye on the two horses and the adolescent boy who had firm hold on their bridles. From the look of pride on his grubby face, he might have been given responsibility for the crown jewels.
‘That’ll be something to go home and tell his mother,’ Woodham said with a smile, turning back from the window. ‘If he’s got a mother, that is.’
‘Who knows?’ said Virley. ‘Probably never had the benefit of a father, though!’
‘Poor bastard. That was you and me twenty years ago, Virley.’
‘Well, at least we both had fathers,’ Virley objected, ‘so you can’t call us bastards.’
‘I wasn’t going to. We were the lucky ones.’
Despite the noise in the small room, they drank in companionable silence for a moment. There was a question Virley wanted to ask and now was the time to ask it.
‘What’s going on in St Sepulchre’s?’
‘How do you mean, “going on”?’
‘Well, I’ve just delivered some ink to the Vicar and he was behaving very strangely. Then that tub of lard Thomas Southwell turned up with a tall, thin fellow wearing spectacles.’
‘That’ll be Roger Bolingbroke. They’re both advisers to the Duchess of Gloucester.’
‘That’s what the vicar said, though he didn’t mention the Duchess of Gloucester. He said they’ve met there before this.’
‘Yes, they do meet quite often, with or without Her High and Mighty Grace. Not always in St Sepulchre’s. Sometimes it’s St Martin-in-the-Vintry ... St Benet Hithe ... could be anywhere, really.’
‘And is the Duchess the only woman involved in these meetings?’
‘As far as I know she is. I’ve never seen any others.’
‘Interesting,’ said Virley thoughtfully. ‘They meet to say Mass, do they?’
‘Yeah. As far as I know. I’m never invited to stay.’
‘Aren’t you ever curious, William?’
‘It doesn’t pay to be. Me? I keep my mouth shut and mind my own business. It’s easier that way.’
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