Impervious to her tears, Adam Moleyns began the proceedings, banging his lectern with a gavel, demanding silence before reading out the charges.
‘You stand accused, madam, of twenty-five counts of sorcery, felony and treason.’
‘No!’
Eleanor’s cry of denial was ignored. ‘It is alleged,’ Moleyns went on, ‘that at various times during the past year, you and the three malefactors who stand accused with you, did, on consecrated ground in the parishes of St Martin-in-the-Vintry, St Benet Hithe and St Sepulchre-without-Newgate, use magical vestments, effigies and instruments to invoke demons and evil spirits to bring about the death of our noble sovereign, His Highness King Henry the Sixth. This is an act of the highest treason. How plead you?’
‘Not guilty. I’m not guilty. It was never my –’
‘It is further alleged that while these vile experiments were being undertaken by Magister Roger Bolingbroke and the woman Margery Jourdemayne, the erstwhile canon, Thomas Southwell, who now stands in disgrace before this court, used a book of necromancers’ oaths from which he chanted protective masses.’
Moleyns turned to the table and continued his litany of allegations.
‘Furthermore, you see here on display before you, a wax figure of His Royal Highness the King. This effigy, it is alleged, was left near a source of fire during the course of these dire ceremonies, melting a little more each day and thus precipitating the King’s death from melancholy, from black bile, a death which was calculated to occur in the twentieth year of his reign, towards the end of May or at the beginning of June in this, the year of Our Lord fourteen hundred and forty one. This is treason at its greatest extreme. How plead you?’
‘No, it was never the King. It was to be my baby! I so wanted a baby! I wished to give my Lord a child. I never meant to harm the King. I only wanted to conceive a child. It was my dearest wish, it is every woman’s fervent prayer. That was the only reason why Margery fashioned the waxen poppet ... it was not –’
‘Silence, madam! You do not help your case by babbling about babies!’
His words seemed to echo around the hushed court. All eyes watched as Adam Moleyns gestured to Cardinal Beaufort, an invitation for him to take up the questioning from this point. Beaufort rose to his feet.
‘Your Grace,’ Beaufort said, ‘the Jourdemayne woman is known to be a witch, she was accused of witchcraft a decade ago. I know that. Every member of the Council knows that. And you knew that. So you, as a member of the royal family, should surely have known better than to use her services in any capacity.’
‘But I –’
‘Because it is widely known that you bought potions and decoctions from her, for the sole purpose of enticing His Royal Highness the Duke of Gloucester into your bed, despite the fact that his lawful marriage to another woman was sanctified in the eyes of God.’
‘No! I did no more than many other women –’
‘Madam, your behaviour in this regard has been well attested by many witnesses.’ He paused and turned towards the witness enclosure in which Eleanor now recognised many more faces. She saw Canon John Hume’s assistant, William Woodham, as well as at least half a dozen palace servants whom she recognised. Could they have testified against her? Surely not!
Beaufort picked up a sheaf of papers and brandished them at her. ‘With sworn witness statements like these, you can offer little argument that will convince the learned members of the Council that you are anything other than guilty. Now, I wish to call another of the accused in this sorry case.’
He turned away from Eleanor and moved towards Roger Bolingbroke.
‘Magister Bolingbroke, you too have made an oath before many witnesses, including myself. You stated some months ago, under the cross in St Paul’s churchyard, that you recant your previous beliefs. You claimed at that time to have renounced all interest in fortune-telling, casting horoscopes and predicting the future by using false means such as this astrolabe and other devices. That is commendable. But, tell the jury if you will, why did you undertake these experiments in the first place? Was it, perhaps, at the behest of the woman who stands before you, Her Grace the Duchess of Gloucester?’
‘Yes.’ Bolingbroke’s reply was barely audible.
‘We cannot hear you, Magister. Speak up!’
‘Yes!’ Bolingbroke lifted his head and gave Eleanor the most malevolent glare she had ever experienced. Then he started to shout, pointing at her agitatedly. ‘Yes, it was her fault! She asked me to do it. I would never have –’
‘Thank you, Magister. You make yourself perfectly plain. That is all for the moment. Have any of my learned colleagues any questions they would like to ask?’ Beaufort stepped to one side and beckoned to the other senior clergy who occupied the bench behind him, indicating that they might like to carry on the interrogation.
One by one, the bishops rose from their seats and moved to up take Beaufort’s position in front of the witness stand and the trial began in earnest. They proceeded to pummel Eleanor with accusation after accusation, question after question. They wanted to know why she had encouraged her advisers to use their black, demonic arts in her service, how they had gone about their satanic practices, which churches they had used, who had facilitated the use of those churches and, crucially, what the conspirators had hoped to achieve with their dark practices. As each of these senior clergymen gradually lost his impetus and retired to his seat on the bench, another was ready to take his place.
After hours of interrogation and impassioned denial, the exhausted Eleanor had admitted to five of the twenty-
five charges, but clung pitifully to her claim that she had only done what she was accused of doing in order to conceive a child by her husband. By the time they had finished with her, she could barely stand and when, at last, she was told she could sit down, no one came to her aid. No final verdict had been arrived at and no formal decision had been taken about her likely punishment. She would be taken back into custody while her fate was decided elsewhere by her accusers.
Bolingbroke was subjected to a similar barrage of questioning and staggered down from the witness stand at the end of it. Then Thomas Southwell was summoned to reply to another bombardment of cross-examination against which he seemed to shrink further and further into himself, saying almost nothing in his own defence.
Finally, Margery Jourdemayne was summoned to face her accusers but they gave her short shrift. Her appearance at this hearing was largely a formality: she was here simply to be told the final verdict of an ecclesiastical court, which had met the previous day in St Stephen’s chapel. As a proven heretic, Margery had been found guilty of sorcerous practices. Once a witch, declared the court, always a witch. She had been warned a decade ago that if she transgressed again, then she could expect the harshest penalty. And she had transgressed. Now, all that remained was the requirement for a signature on the death sentence.
Margery Jourdemayne, the Witch of Eye, was to meet her death by burning. Bolingbroke and Southwell were both condemned to suffer the agonising death of a traitor. They would be hanged, drawn and quartered.
Given her past relationships with both Margery Jourdemayne and the Duchess of Gloucester, Jenna had been on tenterhooks throughout the entire proceedings, expecting that at any moment she would be called to give evidence against one or both of them. Anxiously, she’d watched every single step of the trial, riveted by every question asked and every answer given. As the final verdicts were read out by Adam Moleyns, she had felt shocked beyond belief, her heart in turmoil. She didn’t claim to know either Bolingbroke or Southwell other than to open the door to them occasionally when they came to see her mistress, but her heart bled for them.
Margery Jourdemayne was different, though. Jenna knew her very well. She knew her deviousness, her weaknesses, her vulnerability. She also knew her husband. Intimately. How would William take the news of Margery’s death sentence? And how could she help him to accept his wife’s fate?
Once the co
urt had pronounced its verdicts on everything except the fate of the Duchess, the condemned prisoners were escorted back to the Tower. The witnesses, no longer needed to testify, were released from their big pen in the courtroom like so many animals and Jenna’s first instinct had been to run, to get away, back to the farm, back to William. But though she desperately wanted to see him, she hesitated now, not knowing what to do for the best. After all, he was facing the most extraordinary ordeal. She had no way of knowing how he would be, how she herself would be when she was with him, whether he would want to talk about Margery or keep his feelings to himself. It would not be wise to rush back to Eybury. It was after Margery’s death that William would need her and even then it might take him some considerable time before he could come to terms with what had happened.
If it would help him, perhaps she would be able to tell him about Margery’s last days, her stoicism and resignation when she finally accepted her fate. But she could never describe for him the hysteria, the screaming, the crying, the desperate pleading and the despair that had gone before. Margery would be burned: it was a gruelling prospect to face.
Margery had recanted, of course, though much good did it do her. And she had sworn a solemn oath that, when the time came, she would face her Maker with a pure heart. In the confessional, she received the blessing of a priest and had begged him to be the one who would read her the last rites.
It had been a deeply shocking and distressing time, not only for Margery, but for Jenna and the other women who shared the same cell, perfectly decent women, persecuted simply because they knew Margery.
They, too, had been held in readiness to be called as witnesses and their relief at their sudden release after so long in captivity was tinged with uncertainty. Shivering, they all stood huddled together in the street outside Guildhall, rubbing their arms in a fruitless effort to keep warm. It wasn’t long before they said their farewells and went their separate ways.
For Jenna, the chilly walk from the centre of the city all the way to Eybury Farm seemed never-ending, but she had nowhere else to go. She wouldn’t be welcome in either the palace or the Abbey, and the farm was the only other place she knew. Besides, what she wanted more than anything, was to feel near William. Yet she also wanted time to think, time to plan, time to herself. So when she reached the farmyard, she moved as silently as a shadow between the farm buildings, easing herself around corners and hiding behind tree trunks, at great pains not to be seen by anyone, intending to make a run for the steps up to the hay loft.
Then she saw a girl crossing the yard towards the dairy, two milk pails suspended from the yoke across her shoulders, and realised with a slight shock that it was Kitty. But how quickly she had grown tall enough to carry a yoke! Jenna took the risk of sidling along the wall to follow her to the open door and waited until she’d seen Kitty put the pails down safely near the skimming bench.
‘Kitty!’ she whispered hoarsely.
Kitty nearly jumped out of her skin. Turning, she saw Jenna in the doorway and her face lit up in a huge smile. She ran towards her.
‘Jenna! Oh, Jenna, thank God! We’ve all been so worried about you.’ The two hugged each other delightedly. ‘Wait until I tell the Master you’re back home. He’ll be so –’
‘No, Kitty! No, not yet. Don’t say anything to him yet. He’s got a lot of problems. We need to give him time to ... well, to come to terms with them in his own way. You know, do you, that Mistress Jourdemayne has been ... has been on trial?’
‘Yes, we all know. But we don’t know what to do to help the Master. He’s been looking so worried. Robin Fairweather is with him and now that you’re here –’
‘No, Kitty, please. It won’t help him just at the moment, so you mustn’t say anything. Don’t tell him I’m here. Don’t tell Robin either. Can you keep me a secret, Kitty? Hide me? Just for a couple of days. It’s for the best, but you’ll have to help me.’
‘Yes, Jenna. Anything. What do you want me to do?’
‘Please find me something to eat. I’m starving. And I must sleep. I’m so tired, I can’t think. Can you fetch me some bread and cheese, perhaps? And a blanket, anything to warm me up a bit. Then tomorrow, perhaps, a pail of water to wash the stink of that cell off my skin. Ugh! But tonight I’ll go and hide in the hayloft and sleep. There’s no one else sleeping up there, is there?’
‘No, not these days. You’ll be safe there. I’ll find some food for you. Oh, Jenna, it’s so good to see you. I want to tell everyone you’re back!’
Jenna pressed her finger to Kitty’s lips, just as she used to do when Kitty was a little girl.
‘Hush, Kittymouse,’ she said. ‘Let this be a secret between the two of us, just while I work out what to do for the best. For all of us. You understand?’
‘Oh, yes, Jenna. Our secret. Of course I understand.’
Jenna hugged her again, but couldn’t lay her cheek on top of Kitty’s head, the way she always used to. She smiled: her little Kittymouse was nearly grown up.
Mercifully, the hayloft was empty and peaceful. While Kitty scuttled off to find some food and a blanket for her, Jenna was alone with just the gentle memory of William’s being, his warmth as he lay beside her, holding her tenderly in the sweet aftermath of love.
Dropping to her knees in the hay, she muttered a fervent prayer of thanks for her deliverance from imprisonment in the Tower and from the shackles of her old life at the Palace of Westminster. She had a strong feeling of having come home. She knew that tonight she would sleep as she had not slept for many, many weeks. Then tomorrow, and for the rest of her life, she vowed to do everything in her power to help William.
***
Robin Fairweather hesitated with his hand on the latch before opening the door to the kitchen. In a bid to help William, he had been to the alehouse, but more to learn the latest gossip than to slake his thirst. He’d found out what he needed to know but now he had to break the news to his friend and William was distraught enough already. Still, he’d have to tell him.
William looked up as Robin closed the door against a draught of cold autumnal air.
‘Well? Did you find out anything?’
‘They’ve passed sentence,’ Robin said. ‘The two clergymen were condemned to preach at Tyburn Cross.’
William nodded silently. He knew that meant the gallows for them. He couldn’t bring himself to ask the next question but he didn’t have to.
‘I’m sorry,’ Robin said, ‘but I heard she’s to burn tomorrow.’
A huge sob escaped William. It came from somewhere deep within him and rose up through his body to end in a great shudder. From where he sat at the kitchen table, he looked up at the ceiling, partly out of the instinct to turn to his God and partly to prevent his brimming tears spilling over. Closing his eyes, he shook his head slowly, back and forth.
‘Such a waste,’ he said. ‘Such a waste of a life.’ Putting his elbows on the table, he dropped his head into his hands, his fingers laced in his dark hair.
Lowering himself onto the bench next to him, Robin put his hand on his friend’s back in a gesture of solidarity and let it remain there. Expressions of sympathy and affection between men were always difficult, he thought. Had William been a woman it would have been easy to hold out his arms, embrace him and let him weep, but perhaps that would not be a welcome gesture. So he moved his hand to William’s shoulder, rubbing it awkwardly while his friend regained control of himself. Eventually, with a deep sigh, William straightened up.
‘I’ve been expecting this day,’ he said, still shaking his head. ‘I’ve been expecting it for ten years and now it’s here. And I won’t be able to buy them off, like last time.’
‘You mustn’t blame yourself,’ said Robin. ‘God knows, you’ve done your best to get her to change her ways, to stay away from the palace and accept her lot in life.’
‘Ours could have been such a good marriage,’ William said, ‘if only...’
‘Margery was always a determined w
oman. She wanted things her way, so don’t torture yourself with thoughts of what might have been. Look to the future. It might seem very bleak just now but, after tomorrow, there’ll be new beginnings, new opportunities. Let the past lie, William. You can’t change it.’
William was quiet for a moment while he seemed to consider this. Then he had to ask the next question.
‘Have they said wh ... where it’s to be done? Do you know where?’
Robin had been dreading that question. There could have been several places where Margery might die but they both knew which would be the most likely.
‘It’s Smithfield, isn’t it?’
Robin nodded. Smithfield. A place they both knew so well, the biggest cattle market in London, where they’d both been countless times to sell neats for slaughter. Now the slaughter would be of an entirely different kind. This would be where William’s wife would meet her end in the flames. The thought was unendurable. Robin didn’t know what to say, how to distract him, without sounding dismissive. But he must try.
‘From what they were saying in the tavern, they‘ll only be able to hang one of the clergymen. The other one is already dead. The Canon. They say he died of sorrow in the Tower.’
William roused himself and turned to look at Robin.
‘Sorrow?’ he said. ‘Sorrow doesn’t kill men. Not that quickly anyway.’
‘Well, melancholy was what they said, but I reckon he couldn’t face the kind of death they reserve for traitors. Being hanged, drawn and quartered isn’t much to look forward to. He must have poisoned himself.’
‘How?’
Robin shrugged. ‘He was a physician, wasn’t he? Not just a canon of the church. He’d have known how to do it, given that he could get hold of some means of doing it.’
‘An accomplice, perhaps? Someone to smuggle poison in to the Tower for him?‘
‘Who knows?’
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