‘The Manor of Eye?’
‘Yes, Your Grace.’
‘So, it’s true. I was told you worked at the Manor of Eye before you came here to the palace to work for the Duchess of Gloucester. And I understand she took you on immediately as her maid, with no training. That is highly unusual. Is that the case?’
‘Yes, Your Grace. I worked at the Manor of Eye for some two years, in the dairy and ... er, and elsewhere on the farm.’
‘It’s as I thought. You are in league with the Jourdemayne woman.’
‘In league ... Your Grace? What do you mean in league?’
‘I mean exactly what I say. You know the woman Jourdemayne. You can’t deny that?’
‘No, Your Grace. I do know Mistress Jourdemayne.’
‘Mistress Jourdemayne,’ the Countess snarled, her voice heavy with sarcasm. ‘Mistress, indeed! The woman is a witch. It has been proven once: it will be proven again. And you knew, didn’t you, that she and the Duchess of Gloucester were as thick as thieves, fellow conspirators.’
Alice de la Pole was slowly circling Jenna as she spoke, poking at her chest and her arms with a bony forefinger. Jenna was very frightened though she stood her ground.
‘You knew,’ the Countess continued, ‘that the Witch of Eye practised the black arts, sorcery, necromancy, magic in all its vile forms. Did you ever perform magic with her? Did you? Did you, eh? Answer me!’
‘No, no, Your Grace. I know nothing of that.’
‘Do you deny that you ever saw the Hand of Glory?’
‘The what, Your Grace? The hand of ... of what?’
‘Don’t pretend. Witches love the Hand of Glory, the mandrake root. They revel in it, they burn candles in it. Don’t deny that the witch grew mandrake in her physic garden. It’s widely known she had one.’
Jenna didn’t know whether she was expected to say something. She remained silent as the onslaught continued.
‘Well, did she or did she not have a physic garden?’
‘Yes ... yes, she did.’
‘And did she grow mandrake in it?’
‘She might have done, to aid sleep, it is said to be effective...’
‘And did you hear the root scream and groan when she pulled it from the ground? Did you? Well, did you?’
‘No ... the Mistress grew all manner of things in her physic garden, borage, marjoram, heartsease ... all the usual herbs.’
‘So, you’re denying that she grew it?’
‘Yes. No ... I don’t know ... she might have. No, I don’t think so. No ... I don’t know.’
Alice de la Pole turned away and beckoned two men into the room. Jenna had seen them before and remembered that she had been advised to avoid them at all costs when they’d been pointed out to her as the Earl of Suffolk’s notorious henchmen, Sir Thomas Tuddenham and John Heydon. They took up positions on either side of the Countess as she pointed at Jenna.
‘This woman is a known associate of the Witch of Eye. Accompany her to the Westminster steps. There is a barge moored there which is bound for the watergate entrance to the Tower. See her to the gangplank and make sure she is taken aboard. She is never to be admitted to the Palace of Westminster ever again. Not under any circumstances; not unless she is brought here under armed guard for further questioning.’
To Jenna she said, ‘You will be taken to the Tower and you will remain there and repent your sins while you hold yourself in readiness for the Court hearing into the activities of the Duchess of Gloucester and her associates. As a known associate of the Witch of Eye, you are a key witness in the proceedings. You will stay in the Tower until you are called. And rest assured – you will be called.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
October 1441
‘I’ve thought a great deal about it,’ the Archbishop said, ‘and I’ve come to the conclusion that, with the best will in the world, I cannot go through with this trial.’
The two old men had known one another for many, many years. In some ways then, it came as no surprise to Cardinal Beaufort to hear Archbishop Chichele’s decision.
‘Can I not persuade you?’
‘No, really, you cannot. I’m tired, Henry. I passed my allotted Biblical lifespan nearly nine years ago. I’m an old, old man. I should be in my bed, slobbering milksop down my nightshirt, not tottering around with this wretched stick – I cannot walk without it.’
Beaufort nodded in sympathy. Though he was well over ten years younger than the Archbishop, he often wished he had no need to outwit and outstay men two decades younger than himself. They both sat quietly for a moment, staring into the fire-basket in the hearth where, with the approach of yet another winter, a pile of crackling logs gave out a welcome warmth for old bones.
‘I’d like to think,’ said Beaufort, ‘that you could manage one more attempt to stamp out heresy once and for all, because we have so very nearly succeeded, you and I. We have both given a lifetime of devotion to the Church and to the Crown, and God only knows how hard we’ve both worked to eliminate the heretics and the Lollards from our midst.’
‘Believe me,’ Chichele said, ‘I have not taken this decision lightly. Henry, consider if you will, that I have served under three monarchs – our young King, his father and his grandfather before him.’
‘Then, surely –’
‘No, let me finish. The reason I have made this decision is because I have become very close to the House of Lancaster and I have also come to know the immediate families of each sovereign. During the last year or so, I have worked very closely with Humphrey of Gloucester.’
Beaufort’s jaw clenched involuntarily at the mention of his nephew’s name but his face gave nothing away. Archbishop Chichele continued his explanation.
‘Gloucester and the King are both dedicated to the concept of learning. The Duke has been telling me about some exciting developments which will enable the printing of books by mechanical means. He is keen to see more and more people being encouraged to read, to acquire an education. That is why he has donated much of his own personal collection of books to the university library at Oxford.’
‘Generous of him,’ observed Beaufort, with a slight curl of his lip.
The Archbishop didn’t appear to notice the sarcasm and went on. ‘I share his passion. As you know, the King honoured me with an invitation to join with him in establishing a new constituent college of the university at Cambridge. Our vision is for a foundation which will not only enlighten the lawyers and theologians of the future, but will also commemorate those brave men who have fallen in battle in France.’
‘Ah,’ Beaufort sighed, ‘if only we could guarantee that there would be no more English deaths in that wretched country. I want to see us withdraw.’
‘Perhaps, now that the Duke of Orléans is to be returned to his homeland, things will change for the better. When are the indentures to be signed, Henry? Do you know?’
‘They are in the course of preparation, from what I understand. Orléans will be required to give certain undertakings before he sets sail for France, of course.’
‘Of course. That’s only to be expected. But I would hate to upset the delicate political balance at this precise moment. That’s why I cannot sit in judgement of the Duchess of Gloucester. I am too well-known as a friend of her husband.’
It all made perfect sense to Henry Beaufort. If only he himself could step down. He was tired, too, but he knew he must dig out this canker in the royal household, this taint of witchcraft and heresy. It was dangerously close to the throne and he would do anything in the world to protect the Lancaster dynasty. He had devoted his life to it.
The frightful Cobham hussy and her associates had to be called to account for their behaviour. It was treason, pure and simple, treason against their King. It must be treated as such and dealt with. And it would reflect badly on his egotistical nephew, too – enough to effectively remove him from the Council. Beaufort offered up a silent prayer of gratitude that Charles of Orléans would be on his w
ay back to France very soon.
***
Using the south entrance into the Tower of London, John Virley ran the gauntlet of intimidating, heavily armed guards who could have refused him entry on a whim. But several of them knew him as the man who often made deliveries to the office of the Lieutenant of the Tower, Sir Robert Scott, and they greeted him cheerfully enough.
The Tower was a daunting place at the best of times, but with a biting easterly wind gusting up the Thames, it was enough to strike terror into the strongest criminal heart. High, forbidding walls of grey Kentish rag-stone rose sheer towards Heaven, relieved only by arrow-slits for windows. From within, the croaking calls of ravens seemed to bode nothing but evil.
It seemed entirely appropriate to Virley that the Witch of Eye was now incarcerated within this prison, probably with several other women, because there had been a witch-hunt of alarming proportions in recent weeks. The authorities were determined to rid London of any women who might be suspected of indulging in sorcerous activity. The Sheriff’s men patrolled the streets, the markets and the taverns, and several perfectly innocent women had been arrested and locked up on the merest suspicion of having practised the black arts.
This time the Witch would get her just deserts, Virley was sure of that. Her punishment was long overdue and she could contemplate her destiny from the squalid confinement of her cell within this grim prison.
Virley was visiting Thomas Southwell. He had seen him three times in recent weeks. He’d been with William Woodham the first time but, since then, Virley had found his own way into the Tower and had become Southwell’s only visitor – not that the man showed him any gratitude.
No longer the rotund, strutting, pompous figure of old, Southwell spent his days sitting on a bench in the cell he shared with two other prisoners, a murderer and a cutpurse. Iron manacles hanging on the wall were a reminder to the inmates that they could be restrained while unbearable pain was inflicted upon them, if their captors so wished.
The first time Southwell saw his visitor, his expression barely changed. Virley wondered whether he remembered him at all.
‘Master Southwell,’ he greeted him. ‘It pains me to find you here, imprisoned like this.’
‘Not nearly so much as it pains me, Virley,’ muttered Southwell.
Ah, thought Virley, so he did remember. ‘I wondered, Master Southwell, whether there was anything I could do for you. As perhaps you remember, I supply inks and parchments to several establishments in London. The Tower is one of them, so I come here quite frequently. I could bring in anything you needed. It would be no trouble.’
Southwell’s face was a blank. ‘No,’ he said, in a hollow voice, ‘I need nothing. I’ll be here until I rot or die of melancholy. I want to die. I have no future.’
‘Oh, come, you must not talk like that. Perhaps you will be proved innocent. You must have faith in the justice system.’
‘Justice system? Faith? Virley, I lost my faith when I lost my canonry. I have nothing to live for.’
‘Then I could bring you some books, perhaps, to help you rekindle that faith. Would you like something to read? I could ask at the monastery if –’
‘Read? In this environment? Impossible.’
The murderer who shared the cell sat, facing the blank wall, saying nothing, but the cutpurse lolled on the bench, listening to the conversation with interest.
‘Tell you what, mate,’ he said, ‘you could bring us all something decent to eat – or drink. The food in this damned place is disgusting. Even swine would turn up their snouts at it. It might as well be poison.’
Southwell’s expression changed. ‘Sometimes,’ he said, ‘I would that it were poison. That would solve a lot of problems, don’t you think, Master Virley?’
Virley glanced at him in alarm. Was the man serious? No, surely not. Then again, it might be the least painful way out of an impossible situation. Avoiding Southwell’s meaningful gaze, he bent to gather up his belongings.
‘I’ll come again soon. And next time, I’ll bring in some cheese at least. And a flagon of decent ale, if I can get it past the guard. That should cheer you all up.’
As he rose to take his leave, an insincere smile fixed on his face, he wondered whether Southwell had meant what he’d implied.
***
Margery Jourdemayne sat on the floor of the cell with her back against the wet wall. The wall always seemed wet, even on the warmest of days, but there was nowhere else to sit. She was forced to share the cell with half a dozen other women, their faces grey from lack of sleep and a poor diet. They looked up as the door opened and another woman was shoved roughly in to join them. When the cell door had been bolted behind her, Margery realised who she was and scrambled to her feet.
‘Jenna! In God’s name, what are you doing here?’ The other women crowded round, demanding to know who Jenna was, why she was there, how she knew Margery.
Jenna was still reeling from the events of the last few hours. With her hands tied behind her back, she had been roughly shoved up the gangplank and onto the waiting barge by Thomas Tuddenham and John Heydon, whose presence terrified her throughout the journey to the Tower. Once through the watergate entrance, she was taken to the guardroom then, after the most minimal formalities, brought to the stinking cell.
‘Well?’ Margery demanded again. ‘What are you doing here? Have they accused you, too?’
‘Yes, mistress. It seems I am accused of witchcraft by association, because ... well ... because I know you.’
‘Every woman is a witch, if they say so,’ said one of the others. ‘All you need is a physic garden, or a bit of a reputation as a midwife or a wise woman, and you’re in here. They bang the door on you and leave you to rot.’
There were snorts and noises of disgruntled agreement from the others. Jenna looked at Margery Jourdemayne. She hadn’t seen her for several months. She had changed, grown thinner, more wrinkled. But she must have been beautiful once, Jenna thought, she must have had some quality that had made William desire her.
‘How is –’ Jenna began and then stopped herself. ‘How is, er, Kitty?’
‘Kitty! Why do you concern yourself about Kitty? You’re in trouble, Jenna. You ought to be worried about yourself.’
Jenna was silent. She’d really wanted to know how William was, but then she’d realised that, in fact, she had seen him since Margery last saw him. And on that night she had committed herself to him in the most fundamental way, with all her heart and all her being. She crossed herself and silently asked God to grant her patience and forbearance if she was to remain locked up for any length of time in this fetid little cell with her lover’s wife.
***
The stone facade of London’s newly built Guildhall glistened in the pale sunshine of a late October morning. At one time, Eleanor reflected, she would have been driven in state up to the imposing entrance to the fine new building, alighting from her carriage with a smile, extending her hand elegantly to the Lord Mayor who would bow low before making a speech of welcome. Over the last few years, particularly on her excursions to the King’s Head in nearby Cheapside, she had watched the great building take shape, imagining the lavish entertainments she and Humphrey would grace with their presence when it had been completed, extravagant receptions for dignitaries, diplomats or foreign royalty who would be enchanted to meet her.
Today, she was ignominiously bundled into the crypt, where she would stay until she was summoned to face her inquisitors.
This would be the last trial. Eleanor had already appeared at one ecclesiastical tribunal, held at St Stephen’s Chapel and conducted by Robert Gilbert, the Bishop of London, who had frowned at Eleanor as she stood on the witness stand, not even inviting her to sit. Archbishop Chichele wouldn’t have done that. She wondered where he was: during the long weeks of her banishment to Leeds Castle, she had pinned her hopes on the probability of Chichele’s leniency. After all, he was her husband’s friend.
The huge room at the h
eart of Guildhall was crowded as Eleanor entered. Hard-pressed at first glance to take in the sheer splendour of her surroundings, she was dimly aware of stone archways and statues, stained glass windows and all the trappings of magnificence. Enormous wealth pertained to the London guilds and it had been spent here without stinting.
The room was noisy with the eager sounds of people pressing closely together, straining to see her as she passed. Eleanor was shocked to catch a glimpse of Jenna among the witnesses who were penned in one corner, like so many animals. Then she realised, of course, that anyone associated with Margery Jourdemayne was likely to be called as a witness, and a proven association with her was almost certainly tantamount to an outright accusation of witchcraft.
Then her attention was caught and riveted by the sight of the three people who were lined up to face her as she took her place on the witness stand: Roger Bolingbroke, Margery Jourdemayne and Thomas Southwell.
They had each changed considerably since she had last seen them. Bolingbroke looked more cadaverous than ever, his back stooped and his long neck strangely vulnerable, as though already offering itself up to the hangman’s noose. Margery had a defiant look about her, but she, too, had lost a considerable amount of weight and her hair, pushed carelessly under a wimple of dingy linen, looked coarse and unkempt. But the one who had changed the most was Thomas Southwell: Eleanor hardly recognised him. A man who had always relished his food, he now looked as though he hadn’t eaten for months.
All three stood behind a table on which were exhibited several items which Eleanor recognised. Here was the astrolabe: Bolingbroke had been so proud of that. There were several books, too, including the Arabic text from her own library which she had never understood, but always thought she might study one day. Next to it was a paper crown, a crystal ball, some silver images she didn’t recognise and the root of a mandrake, the ‘Hand of Glory’, next to what might actually have been a shrivelled human hand. Eleanor felt the bile rise in her throat at the sight of it.
Prominently, in the centre of the display, a half-melted ball of wax lay in a small wicker basket. It was all that remained of what she had so strongly believed would one day become her baby. That was when she broke down.
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