William was silent for a moment, then said, ‘Margery hasn‘t got that.’
‘No. No, she hasn’t. She won’t even have henbane, or mandrake root ... nothing to dull the pain. She’ll have to face it without help. We must pray that God gives her strength.’
The long pause that followed was heavy with questions. And yet those questions were left unasked because there were no answers. The candle at the centre of the table burned down almost to its holder.
‘Will you go there tomorrow, William?’
‘Yes,’ said William. ‘I have to. She is still my wife. I don’t know if I can bring myself to watch her die, but I must try. I must. I owe her that much.’ He drew a deep, deep breath. ‘But God knows how I’m going to face it.’
Gently, Robin clapped his hand on his friend’s back once again.
‘I’ll come with you,’ he said.
***
Friday, the twenty-seventh day of October, the Eve of St Simon and St Jude, dawned much like any other on the manor farm of Eye-next-Westminster. With first light, the muffled scrape of leather boots on the cobbled yard, muttered curses and the creaking door of the byre mingled with the lowing of cows, anxious to be relieved of their milk. In the hay loft above, Jenna lay on her back, listening to the dear, familiar sounds she hadn’t heard for so long. Now, after a night of deep, dreamless sleep, she felt able to face whatever the day might bring.
In London, the sun rose on the Priory Church of St Bartholomew the Great just outside the city wall. William Jourdemayne and Robin Fairweather had not even had to think about how their day should begin; the need for solace in prayer before the onset of their almost certain distress had drawn them naturally to this ancient church. Cattlemen had always had strong links with St Bart’s and many of those who made their living as drovers, cowherds or butchers chose to attend early morning mass there before going about the business of the day.
Inside the nave, the sounds of the marketplace and slaughterhouses of Smithfield were muted, but as the bell rang the hour for the Divine Office of Terce, William and Robin glanced at each other and rose to their feet.
‘It’s time,’ Robin said.
‘Yes. I must face it. God grant me strength.’
‘And God have mercy on Margery,’ Robin added. With his head bowed, he crossed himself. Then, straightening up, he began to steer William towards the door.
They stepped out and into the wall of sound that was Smithfield. Men with withy sticks and whips were herding cattle, sheep and pigs into dozens of small pens, slamming shut the wooden gates behind them. Their shouts and the excited barking of their dogs mingled with the cries of hawkers and street traders against a cacophony of bellowing, lowing, bleating, grunting, and squeaking. Frightened animals jostled each other, stumbling and kicking out with their hind legs, their hooves churning up the mud, their eyes rolling in alarm at the whiff of blood in the air. And over it all hung a powerful miasma, the sharp stink of animal dung.
The market was even more busy than usual, as it always was when there was to be a burning, though William could never understand why anyone would willingly watch the suffering of another human being. Yet a substantial crowd had already gathered, eager to get a good view.
In the corner of the market field, four men in the Sheriff’s livery were adding the last few faggots of sticks to a bonfire they had built under a raised platform. At the centre of the structure was a tall wooden stake with a length of rope lying coiled at its base.
William swallowed hard. So many times he’d been here at Smithfield to sell his animals. And, yes, he’d often seen fires being built for the purpose of burning heretics, but he had never stayed to witness the horror. That was for others, for people with a blood lust.
‘Make way! Make way in the name of the Sheriff!’
A tumbrel was making slow progress through the crowd. Between the shafts, the scrawny horse which drew it seemed destined for the nearby knacker’s yard, but the Sheriff’s sergeant who had hold of its bridle brought it to a halt in front of the platform. The excited shouting and calling of jibes grew in intensity.
And there she was. Margery. She stood in the tumbrel with her hands tied behind her back. William’s jaw clenched as he watched the cart being tilted backwards with a jerk, propelling her to the ground. Unable to use her hands to save herself, she lost her footing and fell in the churned-up filth.
Two sergeants pulled her roughly to her feet, then began thrusting her forward towards the platform. A priest holding an open prayer-book followed behind them, appearing to mouth a prayer, though it was impossible to hear his words under the increasing noise of jeering, catcalling and whistling.
Instinctively, William shoved his way forward, pushing and elbowing people out of his way, with some frenzied idea of rescuing Margery by pulling her away from the fire.
‘William, don’t! Don’t, William. It won’t help her.’ Robin was behind him, trying to grab at his jerkin to pull him back.
‘William!’ Margery screamed as she caught sight of him. ‘Oh please, William...’
‘Here, you – get back!’ A sergeant prodded him hard in the gut with a short stave. William staggered briefly, but regained his balance.
‘I told you, get back or I’ll arrest you!’ The sergeant prodded him again.
‘Come away, William, for God’s sake. They won’t let you anywhere near her. Come away. You’re only making it worse for her. Come on!’
William shook off Robin’s hand and reached out again, frantically trying to clutch at Margery, but the sergeant brought the stave down with a hard thwack on the side of his outstretched wrist and he yelped in pain.
The man’s face was livid. He pointed at William with his stave.
‘This is my last warning. You make one more attempt to obstruct an officer of the law in the pursuit of his duty and you will live to regret it. Now get out of here!’
William fell back, nursing his bruised wrist and Robin made another grab at him.
‘William, come on. You’re only making things worse. She knows you were here and that’s the important thing. Just pray for her soul. It’s all you can do.’
The priest gave the two of them a warning look as Margery was lashed to the stake, then he closed his eyes, raised his voice and began to pray.
‘Domine Iesu, dimitte nobis debita nostra, salva nos ab igne inferiori...’
The huge mob was now baying and braying for the blood of a witch. Margery’s frantic screams rose to a crescendo before she subsided into hopeless tears as two lighted torches were pushed in among the dry faggots at the base of the fire. It hissed into flame. William, his gorge rising at the grim spectacle, staggered towards the fringes of the crowd, clutching his stomach.
‘Perduc in caelum omnes animas, praesertim eas, quae misericordiae tuae maxime indigent.’
The pungent smell of fresh wood smoke was in William’s nostrils as he bent double with Robin’s supporting arm around his waist.
‘In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.’
William was suddenly, very violently, sick.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
October 27th 1441
‘Be upstanding!’
Eleanor rose to her feet as her accusers shuffled silently into St Stephen’s chapel in the Palace of Westminster for what must surely be the last time. She was here to be told the result of their deliberations. Today, she would know her fate.
Their faces were impassive, hard, smug. They were so certain of their ground, these men of the Church, so convinced they were right. Of course, she’d heard the shocking news about Canon Southwell from the women who guarded her day and night and she wondered how these men felt in their hearts now that they had driven him, one of their own number, to die in despair by his own hand, rather than have to face a heretic’s dreadful end. And how could they sleep in their beds at night, having burned an unfortunate, misguided woman to death in a public place?
And with Margery’s death and Southwel
l found dead in his cell, what of the others? Canon Hume was well-connected so he would probably get away with it, she thought, but not Roger Bolingbroke. These clerics had condemned the learned magister to be hanged, drawn and quartered.
Poor Bolingbroke. For all that he had been so ready to testify against her, she couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. She recalled happier days at La Pleasaunce when he’d been so naive and sincerely grateful for the gifts she and Humphrey gave him. The thought suddenly struck her that if Bolingbroke was forced to wear his precious spectacles while they hanged him, then he would be able to see the executioners drawing out his own guts as they disembowelled him. The thought of it almost made her choke on the bile rising in her throat.
And now her turn had come.
Adam Moleyns, Clerk to the Council, banged his gavel. ‘Silence! Silence for His Grace, the Most Reverend Archbishop of Canterbury.’
Despite Chichele’s personal misgivings, it had been decided that, at the conclusion of this crucially important trial, judgement was to be delivered in the highest ecclesiastical court in the land. This meant that it did require the presence of the Archbishop of Canterbury. But had Eleanor’s heart not been thudding so loudly in her ears, she might have heard the old man wheeze painfully as he rose to his feet.
Thank God, Eleanor thought. Henry Chichele, her husband’s friend, would surely do no more than chastise her and point out the error of her ways. She wouldn’t get away with things completely, of course, but the Archbishop’s very presence must surely mean that any penance demanded of her would not be too harsh. After all, she was the Duchess of Gloucester and her husband’s name carried considerable weight. Her heart slowly resumed its normal beat. Chichele had probably been a benign influence on his fellow-members of the Council. He must have overruled Beaufort and Kemp. Those two would have wanted her head on a plate.
Eleanor began to breathe more normally and Chichele fixed his sombre gaze upon her for a moment before he spoke. He looked dreadful, his rheumy eyes sunken in their sockets, his skin parchment pale.
‘You stand accused of grave crimes, my Lady,’ he said sternly. Eleanor nodded her head, shamefaced, looking at the floor. ‘In total, there were twenty-eight accusations made against you and you have tried to deny them all. But in the face of incontrovertible evidence, you have been entirely unable to prove your innocence in relation to five of those accusations. In fact, you have pleaded guilty to them and your guilt must not go unpunished. The Council has considered very carefully what that punishment should be.’
The Archbishop shifted his weight from one foot to another, as though he had already stood for too long. ‘In your privileged position, so close to His Highness the King, you should have known better than to allow yourself to become associated with heretics and sorcerers, witches and necromancers. You do not need me to tell you, madam, that you ran grave risks in having persons such as these anywhere near your household, much less taking an active part in your life. Indeed, it has been proved that not only did you know about their nefarious activities, you positively encouraged them. That, in itself, was heresy. Heretical beliefs are profoundly at odds with the teachings of the Church and go hand-in-hand with Lollardy. And Lollardy must be stamped out at all costs. So I must now ask you this, madam: do you hereby formally renounce your heretical beliefs?’
Eleanor twisted a kerchief in her hands as she held them in front of her. There could only be one answer to that question.
‘I do.’
‘Very well. Then this court will accept your statement of avowed intent.’ The Archbishop moved again from one foot to the other, as though trying to relieve an aching back. Eleanor could only hope he was feeling too uncomfortable to prolong the process of sentencing her.
‘There has, however, been some genuine doubt among members of the Council that you really meant treason towards the royal person of the King. In view of this, the secular aspect of this case will no longer be a consideration. Before we abandon it entirely, however, we must have your assurance, on oath, that never, on any single occasion, did you ever have any treasonable intent towards his Highness King Henry. Can you now give this court that absolute assurance?’
‘Indeed I can, Your Grace,’ she answered with more confidence, wearing her most earnest expression. ‘I have never had anything but the most cordial love for his Highness the King. And I believe that, in return, he had respect for me as the wife of his dear uncle, the Duke of Gloucester.’
‘Hmmm.’ There was silence for a few moments while the Archbishop moved his stick into his left hand and, with his right, gestured to Adam Moleyns. Moleyns put a single sheet of parchment into the Archbishop’s outstretched hand. This was the moment, thought Eleanor. Now she would know.
‘You have been tried and found guilty of five counts of sorcery and witchcraft. Any person, man or woman, high-born or of lowly estate, must be prepared to do penance for grave, heretical crimes such as these,’ said Chichele, looking at her from under his eyebrows. ‘Do you understand that?’
‘Yes, Your Grace.’ Eleanor’s voice was husky.
‘Very well. Your punishment will be as follows.’ The Archbishop held the sheet of parchment at arm’s length as he began to read it from it. ‘You will be required to make three separate journeys, barefoot and with due humility, to three different churches within the city of London to offer up a lighted taper together with prayers of sincere repentance at each of the three. These three journeys will be undertaken on market days, specifically so that as many people as possible can learn from your reprehensible example and see for themselves what fate awaits those who defy the teaching of the Church.’
Eleanor stood with her head bowed, hardly able to believe what she was hearing. Walk barefoot through London? The shame of it! But it could be worse ... They couldn’t force her to do it, of course. No one would dare insist that the wife of a royal duke could be made to do something as humiliating as this. And the King, her husband’s nephew, would be sure to intervene.
Chichele waited until Eleanor raised her head again. Then he spoke.
‘As the wife of a royal duke, you would normally have a certain immunity from prosecution in a case like this. However, it has greatly troubled the Council that you achieved your elevated position by entirely nefarious means, as you yourself have attested. You have admitted under oath that you employed the services of a known witch to help you entice the Duke away from his wife by deceit, in using sorcery, magic potions and drinks to make him love you and want to marry you. This sheds an entirely different light on this case.’
The Archbishop hardly paused before he delivered the final blow.
‘So, since it has been proved beyond doubt that you used sorcerous means to entrap His Grace the Duke of Gloucester, application was made to His Holiness the Pope to have you divorced from your husband and we have recently received his written agreement that, in your case, this punishment is entirely appropriate.’
Eleanor was dumbfounded. Divorced! Dear God, divorced!
‘Madam, know that you are now formally divorced from your husband, the Duke of Gloucester. You may no longer claim his support or his benefaction, and you are no longer entitled to call yourself the Duchess of Gloucester. Furthermore, to ensure that you adhere to the terms of this divorce, you will remain in royal custody for the foreseeable future.’
Divorced. The word rang hollow in her ears. Everything she had ever lived for was now denied her. She was divorced: she no longer had any rights. Naively, she had assumed that once this nightmare was over, everything would be the same as it had always been and she and Humphrey could pick up the threads of their old life together.
This was the one thought that had sustained her throughout the long months of her imprisonment, though there had not been so much as a message from Humphrey in all that time. Surely, surely he must have known something of her plight? Bad news has a habit of travelling far and travelling fast. Wherever he was, Humphrey must surely have heard something by now...
But in any case, she had been divorced and she could no longer look to a husband for protection and support. She had no husband. Humphrey had been at the centre of her universe for more than half her life, and she would never see him again.
***
Kitty had honestly intended to keep her own counsel and say nothing to anyone about the refugee in the hayloft but, during the last few nights, she had lain awake on her pallet in the dormitory over the brewhouse, wondering what best to do for her dearest friend and for the Master. Kitty was utterly certain in her own mind that what each of them really needed was the other, but Jenna had forbidden her to say anything to Master Jourdemayne. Not yet, she kept saying. No, not just yet.
So, what to do for the best? Kitty wondered whether Robin Fairweather would be able to advise her. He was still here on the farm and she knew he was worldly-wise, so perhaps he would know what to do. And Kitty knew he liked Jenna and that he was the Master’s friend. She resolved to ask his advice. But first he had to promise to keep a secret.
‘What sort of secret?’ he asked when she waylaid him the next morning as he crossed the yard, a wicker pannier in either hand. Mallow, sensing adventure, followed close at heel, her tail wagging vigorously. Robin was making ready to return to Devon.
‘It’s a very important secret,’ Kitty said earnestly. ‘Will you promise not to tell?’
‘It depends what it is.’ Robin was tightening the girth on his horse’s saddle as he spoke. He gave her a grave look. ‘It had better be important,’ he said.
‘It is important. It’s about the Master.’
‘And how do you happen to know a secret about the Master?’ She was a funny little thing, this Kitty. He knew William was fond of her, but she had some strange ideas. Of course, she might know something important – or she might not.
‘You’ll have to tell me, Kitty, whatever it is, because your master has had some problems over the last few weeks. He’s got a lot on his mind. You mustn’t bother him.’
‘Yes, I know, but ... but it’s really, really important!’
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