Wearing dark, hooded cloaks, the two women left the palace by one of the rear entrances, struggling to carry a heavy coffer between them. Within ten minutes, they had reached safety within the thick, cold walls of the Abbey and the Duchess Eleanor had thrown herself on the mercy of the new abbot, Edmund Kyrton.
During the next few days, after several trips back and forth to the palace to fetch clothes and bedding, underwear and personal necessities, Jenna had managed to make her mistress fairly comfortable. Often, she would return with snippets of gossip gleaned from what was being said among the servants at the palace. No one seemed to know anything positive so what Jenna reported back was mostly conjecture. But one thing was certain, the Duchess Eleanor would have to stay here in the Abbey where no one would dare to violate her sanctuary so she would have at least some measure of security until all the fuss died down, as it surely would as soon as Duke Humphrey returned home.
To all outward appearances, the Duchess was now calm and fully in control of her situation. Inside, she was a seething mess of worry and insecurity. Who had reported her acquaintances to the authorities? How had they got to know about the ceremonies in St Sepulchre-without-Newgate, St Benet Hithe and the other churches? Who had told them? What would happen? As the days went by, she became increasingly jittery and nervous and was growing thin and debilitated. Unable to sleep, she was grinding her teeth at night yet again and the whole of her lower jaw throbbed with a dull ache.
‘Would you like me to summon a leech doctor, Your Grace,’ asked Jenna, ‘to bring you some relief from the pain?’
‘No doctor would attend me. Not here. They dare not be associated with me now, not while I am persona non grata. For what it’s worth, Canon Southwell is my physician and I can hardly consult him, now can I? He’s under arrest and imprisoned in the Tower as far as I know.’
‘Then let me ask Mistress Jourdemayne for something, Your Grace. At least she’d be able to give you some tooth tincture.’
‘But I don’t want you to leave me, Jenna. It’s bad enough when you go back and forth to the palace. Who knows what will happen while you’re away?’ The Duchess, never certain whether she was being spied upon, was whispering so that no one but Jenna could possibly hear her.
‘I’ll be very quick, Your Grace. Eybury farmhouse isn’t any further from the Abbey than it was from the palace and it never took me very long in the old days.’
With a sigh of resignation, Eleanor gave in. ‘Yes, perhaps you’re right. And while you’re there, Jenna, ask Margery for some bishop’s wort. I’ve got a dreadful headache this morning.’
‘I’ll ask her for her special headache remedy, Your Grace. I used to mix it for her so I know she always blends a little valerian root with the wood betony. That makes it twice as effective, she says.’
‘Then ask her for some of that for me, Jenna, please. And make sure you’re not seen. I don’t want to involve Margery in all this. There’s no reason to. Have you enough money to pay for it?’
‘Yes, Your Grace. I think we brought enough with us for that.’
Jenna feared that Margery could already be involved, though she may not have been identified and arrested with the others. She’d soon find out. Pulling her hood around her face, she hurried through Westminster village on her way to the farmhouse.
William was in the kitchen when she arrived. So was Kitty. They both sat at the big table in the centre of the room, leaning on their elbows. Jenna’s heart leaped in her chest when she saw them both together, the two people she loved most in the world. They looked deeply shocked.
‘What –’ she began.
‘They’ve taken her,’ said William shortly. ‘She’s gone.’
‘Mistress Jourdemayne?’
‘They came and took her,’ Kitty said. ‘She was in the garden and I wanted to ask her something so I went out there, but when I saw them, I hid behind the hedge. There were six of them. I counted. And they had horses.’
‘Kitty says they were calling her a witch,’ said William in a low voice. ‘The Witch of Eye. I thought everyone had forgotten that name. But that’s what they called her, so Kitty says.’
‘Where have they taken her?’
William shook his head but Kitty spoke. ‘The Tower,’ she said. ‘That’s what they said. It’s where they always take witches.’
‘Nobody has proved that Mistress Jourdemayne is a witch, Kitty,’ Jenna chided her, ‘so you mustn’t call her that –’
‘Why not?’ William said, cutting across her. ‘She might as well because that’s what everybody else will call her and it’s the second time Margery’s been accused of witchcraft. She got away with it last time, but you can wager your life they’ll make the charges stick this time. They gave her enough warning.’
Still standing between the two of them, Jenna looked at William. He had his elbows on the table and his head in his hands. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking and she must know. What were his real feelings about Margery’s arrest? Did he still care for his wife? The time had come for honesty: she must get at the truth of how he felt.
‘Kitty,’ Jenna said, trying her best to sound casual, ‘how far did Mistress Jourdemayne trust you to make up medicines for her?’
‘Oh,’ said Kitty, brightening up, ‘I used to make up lots of them if I could read the recipes. And I usually could.’
‘Have you ever made the headache remedy? The decoction she makes with wood betony and valerian?’
‘Yes, I made some last week for one of the ladies at the palace.’
‘Then could you go and make some more, please, Kitty? I need some for the Duchess of Gloucester. She has a dreadful headache and she needs it urgently.’
Kitty, proud of being given such a responsibility in the absence of her mistress, slid off her chair and went off in the direction of Margery’s room.
‘That damned Duchess!’ William said. ‘It’s all her fault that this is happening and all you care about is her bloody headache!’
‘William! William, look at me!’ Jenna gripped William’s forearm and pulled his elbow off the table, forcing him to lift his head and look at her as she stood above him. ‘William, don’t ever say that again. I just needed to get Kitty out of the room. The Duchess is not my concern, she never was. For me, she is just the means of making a living. So please don’t ... ever ... say that again! All I care about is you, William. I love you. You are my life. Surely, you know that?’
He was looking at her now, in exactly the way he had looked at her that other time, two years ago under the oak tree beside Willow Walk, looking into her face, as though nothing existed beyond it. Then he whispered her name.
He rose to his feet, facing her, but only for as long as it took to say her name again. Then his arms were around her and he buried his head in her neck with a muffled cry of despair.
‘Dear God, Jenna, what are we to do?’
She stood for a moment in his embrace, clinging to him with her eyes closed, savouring the feel of him, the smell of him, the strength in his arms, aware of her own beating heart. Then she pulled away slightly and put her hands on his chest. His face was ashen and he was looking at her as though he was searching for answers in her eyes. But Jenna didn’t have any answers, any more than he did.
‘My dearest, dearest William. I don’t know what we can do. I don’t know what’s going to happen, but as long as we face it together, we can be strong. I can’t do anything on my own. I’ve tried but I can’t ... I know I can’t.’
‘And I’ve tried to forget you, Jenna. God knows I’ve tried to put you out of my mind. I’ve reminded myself over and over again that I have no right to love you, that Margery is my wife, but ... oh, dear God, what am I to do?’
‘William, come. Let’s sit for a moment.’ Jenna pulled him back towards the table.
‘We have to be strong,’ she said as they sat and she took his hand in both of hers. ‘We must be strong for each other. Things are bad and they could easily get worse.’<
br />
‘They’ll burn her. They’ll burn her this time, I know they will. They came close to doing it last time. I tried to save her ... tried to buy them off...’
‘And you succeeded. So don’t give up hope. Anything can happen.’
‘Jenna, we need to talk.’
‘Yes. We must. But we can’t talk here, not in this kitchen, it’s like St Paul’s Cross in here sometimes with all the coming and going. And Kitty could be back at any moment.’
‘Tomorrow night. Can you come back here? We could talk somewhere, oh I don’t know, I’ll find somewhere quiet. Will you come, Jenna?’
‘You know I will. But I’ll probably have to wait until the Duchess is asleep.’
‘Then it will be dark. That could be dangerous. Can I come to you? It’s a long way for you to walk from the palace.’
‘I’m not in the palace. The Duchess has taken refuge in the Abbey, but it’s not really any further away. So you can’t come to me, not there. I’ll have to come to you. But don’t worry. I will come back here, but I’m not sure when or how. We mustn’t draw attention to ourselves, we mustn’t let people think ... you know ... but I must be able to find you when I do come.’
‘I’ll be here every evening. And I’ll be looking out for you, waiting for you. But don’t take too long, my sweet, please don’t take too long. I’ll be aching to see you.’
‘Hush, William, hush. Here comes Kitty.’
Hearing the latch being lifted on the door to Margery’s room, Jenna let go of William’s hand and leaned away from him as Kitty came back into the kitchen, carrying a bottle with obvious pride.
‘There, Jenna,’ she said, putting it on the table, ‘that should do the trick!’
Jenna and William smiled at each other. Kitty sounded almost grown up.
***
Adam Moleyns, Clerk to the King’s Council, glanced around him, making a last-minute check that everything was in place for the meeting. Council members could be quite tetchy if things were not laid out exactly to their liking, quill pens, ink and parchment within reach, candles in position, ready to be lit at the first request. He pulled out a chair for Cardinal Beaufort as he arrived, then another for Cardinal Kemp.
Most other Council members were already here, the Earls of Huntingdon, Stafford and Northumberland, Archbishop Chichele of Canterbury and Bishop William Aiscough of Salisbury among them.
Finally, Bartholomew Halley, a valet for the Crown, brought in his charge, the man he had been told not to let out of his sight, Magister Roger Bolingbroke.
Bolingbroke was not invited to sit while the charges against him were being read out. He stood, his head bowed, his long neck protruding above his collar, listening intently as Adam Moleyns outlined each of the charges in turn. Bolingbroke stood accused not merely of sorcery and necromancy, but of treason against the King.
‘Do you deny these charges?’ demanded Beaufort.
‘I deny them absolutely, my Lord Cardinal. I am His Highness’s most obedient and faithful servant. I would never commit treason against him.’
‘But you do not deny that you possess an astrolabe, Magister?’
‘No, I do not deny it. I do possess an astrolabe. It was purchased for me by my patron, His Grace the Duke of Gloucester. I would never have been able to afford such a magnificent scientific instrument were it not for his generosity.’
‘And for what purpose did you use it?’
Bolingbroke hesitated, but not for long. ‘My colleague Canon Southwell and I used it at the request of Her Grace, the Duchess, Sir.’
‘Oh, you did, did you? And I ask you again: for what purpose did you use it? To read Her Grace’s horoscope, perhaps? And to divine the future?’
‘Yes, Sire. It is not an unusual request. Canon Southwell had already read the Duke’s horoscope more than once, particularly before he set sail for Calais five years ago.’
‘Yes, and that was a very successful campaign, my Lord,’ interrupted Archbishop Chichele. ‘The Duke was thanked by the commons in Parliament for his part in it.’ The Archbishop was keen to support the Duke and speak well of him.
‘Be that as it may,’ said Beaufort, ‘but when it came to the Duchess’s request, surely Canon Southwell should have known better than to involve himself in horoscope readings of a frivolous nature such as a woman might want, and he a Canon of St Stephen’s!’
Adam Moleyns cleared his throat. ‘On a point of information, my Lord Cardinal, perhaps you should know that Master Southwell is no longer a canon,’ he said. ‘I am informed that he was relieved of his canonry two days ago and his place has been taken by the King’s almoner, John Delabere.’
That will deflate the wretched man’s ego, thought Beaufort, but aloud he said: ‘Very well. Thank you for informing the Council of that fact, Master Moleyns. We are grateful to you.’ He turned back to the accused. ‘So, Magister Bolingbroke, these are very serious charges which have been made against you. The Council will have to deliberate this case with great care before deciding what’s to be done. So, for the moment, you must be returned to custody in the Tower where you will have ample time to ponder and repent your sins.’
Roger Bolingbroke made as though to open his mouth and make another denial, but appeared to think better of it. He turned quite meekly at Bartholomew Halley’s command and the two left the room with four guards following behind them.
‘We will have to make an example of him,’ said Kemp. ‘This kind of thing cannot be allowed. Everyone should see what happens to heretics like him.’
‘What have you in mind?’ asked Bishop Ainscough.
‘A public trial,’ said Kemp. ‘At St Paul’s Cross, where he will be given a chance to recant his heresies and renounce his sacrilege. It’s the only way.’
***
John Virley had attended mass at St Benet Hithe on Sunday morning and, on his way home past St Paul’s, he’d been intrigued to see the sheer numbers of people who were crowded excitedly around St Paul’s cross in the churchyard, certainly many more than would usually attend mass in the cathedral itself. He was aware of a droning voice which seemed to be preaching a sermon in the open air, based, if Virley was not mistaken, on the Book of Leviticus.
‘But I have said unto you, Ye shall inherit their land and I will give it unto you to possess it...’
Yes, Leviticus it was, thought Virley. Chapter twenty, if he wasn’t mistaken. He wondered why that text had been chosen.
‘I am the Lord your God, which have separated you from other people...’
Stretching his neck and standing on tiptoe, Virley strained to see over the heads of those who blocked his view and what he saw astounded him.
Next to the churchyard cross, a tall platform had been erected. On it stood a painted chair in the shape of a throne, a sword tipped with a copper image at each of its four corners. The man who sat on the chair wore a surplice and had a pair of spectacles perched on his long, beaky nose. On top of his head was a ludicrous paper crown. Tears ran down his cheeks and he was unable to staunch their flow since he was clasping a sword in one hand and a sceptre in the other. Grouped haphazardly around him were mirrors, bowls of water and several other curious objects.
At first, Virley couldn’t imagine what was going on, then he saw who else was taking part in this incredible pageant. One by one, he identified them. The man preaching the sermon appeared to be Bishop Low of Rochester. Then Virley recognised Robert Gilbert, Bishop of London, and William Aiscough, Bishop of Salisbury. He was fairly sure that the two men behind them were the Earls of Huntingdon and Northumberland and there was no mistaking the Mayor of London. The men with him were probably his aldermen, thought Virley.
But he certainly recognised the two men at the front of the group. They were among the most famous and familiar faces in the city of London. Standing next to Cardinal John Kemp of York was Cardinal Henry Beaufort. Surely, nearly all the members of the King’s Council were assembled here.
Virley elbowed the man standing ne
xt to him. ‘What’s all this about?’ he asked.
Just as the man was about to reply, Bishop Low reached verse twenty-seven of the text and raised his voice.
‘A man also or a woman that hath a familiar spirit,’ he intoned, ‘shall surely be put to death: they shall stone them with stones, their blood shall be upon them.’
There was a howl of anguish from the painted chair and gasps of horror from the crowd. So, that was it, thought Virley, a public recanting. The poor man was being made a fool of and accused of heresy and witchcraft with the crowd incited to abhorrence and hatred. And all in the name of the scriptures.
His gaze was riveted to the bizarre spectacle as the Bishop closed his Bible with an authoritative snap.
‘And do you, Magister Roger Bolingbroke, now confess your sins and recant your heretical beliefs?’ he asked. ‘And do you renounce your past involvement in the magical arts?’
‘Yes, yes,’ screamed Bolingbroke, ‘I believe nothing of heresy. I believe in the one true, the one eternal God. And I have not sinned. I never sinned. It was not of my doing!’ He collapsed back into the chair, sobbing.
Beaufort turned away in disgust. ‘Oh, take him back to the Tower,’ Virley heard him say.
The Tower! Just like everyone else in London, Virley had heard the rumours, but now he recognised the man who was sobbing under St Paul’s Cross. He had seen him with Margery Jourdemayne and the young girl at St Sepulchre’s.
The realisation that he was close enough to speak to Beaufort shook Virley, almost off his feet. Just a few yards away from him stood one of the most powerful men in the land, a man devoted to his King and known to be dedicated to ridding the church of malign influences. Cardinal Henry Beaufort had the power to send heretics and witches to the Tower, as he had just done with the pathetic, sobbing wretch in St Paul’s churchyard.
This was an opportunity not to be missed. The distinguished members of the Council might well be grateful for a witness statement from someone who could verify certain aspects of the case.
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