The Witch of Eye (29 page)

‘I understand that Signor Bracciolini is a very well-travelled man, Your Grace.’

‘Well,’ said Humphrey with a short laugh, ‘he’ll never travel in this direction again – the churlish Beaufort had no idea how to treat a man of his prodigious intellect! Poor old Poggio was bored to tears for most of the time he was here and hared off back to Italy after a few years.’

Amid the relieved guffaws of the other guests, Eleanor’s tinkling laugh rang crystal clear, an appreciative audience for her husband’s remark.

‘Your Grace,’ said Bolingbroke, turning towards her, eager to change the subject, ‘could you, perhaps, be persuaded to sing? After all, it’s not every evening that Master Dunstable can be here with us, so we should take advantage of his presence and I’m sure we would all dearly love to hear you both perform for us.’

Graciously, amid a scattering of polite applause at the suggestion, Eleanor inclined her head in acknowledgement of the compliment and rose to her feet. She possessed a very pleasant singing voice and was rarely averse to showing off her musical talents. Seated behind his lute, John Dunstable looked up at her.

‘You do wish me to play for you, do you, Your Grace?’

‘Of course,’ replied Eleanor. ‘Singing unaccompanied is no great pleasure, Master Dunstable. Shall we try “O Rosa Bella”? It is one of my favourites.’

‘A favourite of mine too, Your Grace,’ replied Dunstable, positioning the lute comfortably in his lap and checking the tuning. Then, at a nod from Eleanor, he began to play the introduction to the song and everyone turned expectantly towards them.

As his wife began to sing there was a look of genuine contentment on Humphrey’s face; he always enjoyed listening to her and she was a skilled performer. All he needed to complete his pleasure was the deep, inviting red glow of another goblet of Burgundy wine. He beckoned the footman to bring the decanter yet again.

***

‘T
o be honest with you, gentlemen, I might just as well have stayed at home,’ said Henry Beaufort with a shrug, ‘and not bothered to make the journey to France at all, much less stay there for so many months at Gravelines for that interminable, never-ending conference.’

The Cardinal-bishop shuffled some notes on the table in front of him. In awaiting the arrival of the King at this important Council meeting in Westminster, he had taken advantage of a lull in the conversation to express his opinion about the increasingly worrying situation in France.

‘Be upstanding for His Highness, the King,’ boomed a deep voice at the door and the council members scrambled to their feet as the King entered and took the vacant seat at the head of the long table.

‘Good afternoon, my Lords,’ he greeted them as he sat and, in chorus, the Council members wished him a good afternoon in return. The King glanced at them.

‘Is my uncle of Gloucester not to be present at our meeting?’ he asked.

‘His Grace does not attend our meetings as regularly as he once did, Your Highness,’ Humphrey Beaufort explained. ‘If he should happen to be staying at his manor house in Greenwich, then maybe he finds it quite a long way to travel.’

‘From Greenwich? It’s not that far, surely! It wouldn’t take him upwards of an hour or so by river barge.’

‘But perhaps, Your Highness, he has not yet returned from St Albans.’

‘Ah yes, very possibly,’ said the King. ‘And the renewal of the charter must be done properly, of course. Yes. Very well.’

‘And now that you are more of an age to guide us yourself, Your Highness, and taking more responsibility, no doubt the Duke of Gloucester feels less compelled to attend our meetings.’

‘Perhaps so,’ said the King, ‘perhaps so.’ He remained silent for a moment, looking around the table to see who had put in an appearance and they were almost all senior members of the clergy. As well as his great-uncle, there was Archbishop Chichele, Bishops Stafford, Lowe and Ayscough, the Earl of Suffolk, the royal physician John Somerset, Adam Moleyns and, on Beaufort’s right, Archbishop John Kemp of York. Ah yes, the King thought, there was something he must remember to say.

‘Before we get down to business then, my Lords, let me start by offering my sincere congratulations to Archbishop Kemp on becoming a Cardinal. And I would like it to be recorded that all members of the Council wished to congratulate you, Archbishop Kemp.’

Two clerks scribbled furiously, trying to take down every word the King said, while the new Cardinal, a broad smile on his face, inclined his head towards the King.

‘Thank you, your Highness, you are most kind. I was of course delighted when His Holiness the Pope agreed to elevate me to the cardinalate. It is a great honour.’

‘And I’m sure the cardinal’s hat will always sit becomingly on your head, John!’ said Beaufort, clapping his friend gently on the back before joining in a restrained round of applause. ‘But we must get on with the business in hand. We need to present our report from the conference at Gravelines.’

‘Was it a complete failure,’ asked the King, ‘as I have been led to believe?’

‘Not entirely, Your Highness,’ replied Beaufort, ‘but it was very hard work to try to persuade the Burgundy delegates to see our point of view. The Duke wants the Duke of Orléans to be returned to France – and that’s the crux of it. Archbishop Kemp ... I’m so sorry,
Cardinal
Kemp and I never succeeded in persuading them otherwise.’

‘What has made Burgundy change his mind?’ the Earl of Suffolk wanted to know. ‘It’s taken him twenty-five years to do it. Charles of Orléans has been imprisoned here in England ever since Agincourt and the Duke of Burgundy hasn’t been remotely interested in him until now. So what’s brought this on?’

‘I understand he wants to create a Council of Princes,’ said Beaufort, ‘some sort of triumvirate at the head of the French nation. No doubt to strengthen the bonds, as it were. Charles de Valois is fairly firmly established as the man at the top, calling himself King.’

‘But he will never really be King of France, so why are we even considering this?’ Suffolk objected. ‘It doesn’t sound like good news for England.’

The King held up his hand. ‘Please, gentlemen, I would be grateful if we could discuss this without a heated argument. I must remind you that Charles de Valois is my uncle, my mother’s brother, and I really have no wish to antagonise him unduly, even though he disputes my right to the French throne. After all, there is a lot to be said for peace, so perhaps the Duke of Orléans should be released.’

‘But not at any price, Your Highness,’ Suffolk insisted, ‘not if it means surrendering anything to France.’

‘Of course,’ Beaufort observed, ‘there is the little matter of money involved. If we agree to French demands for the Duke’s release from his imprisonment, they would have to pay the ransom we have demanded. And, believe me, one hundred thousand marks would greatly ease the financial burden of maintaining a presence in France. I can produce the exact figures for you if you wish but, take my word for it, it is a considerable amount.’

Beaufort was well qualified to comment on this. He had personally lent the Crown significant amounts of money in the past and though he could well afford to do so, he still wanted to have every last penny returned to him, with interest. He was a man who enjoyed his wealth.

Archbishop Chichele knew that the Duke of Gloucester would be certain to object to the proposal and, since Humphrey was not here to speak for himself, the Archbishop felt that perhaps he should mediate on his behalf. Besides, there was always wisdom in putting the other point of view.

‘We do have to remember, my Lords,’ he said, ‘that our esteemed King Henry – your late father, Your Highness – felt very strongly that we should keep a tight rein on France. He certainly would not have agreed to release the Duke of Orléans, not under any circumstances, until the whole of France had been brought under English rule.’

‘I have not got my late father’s taste for warfare,’ said the King, ‘nor yet his skills in battle. I would far rather that the people of France would accept me as their King without objection. After all, I wish them no ill.’

‘How old is Charles of Orléans now?’ asked John Somerset suddenly. ‘Must be around fifty, surely? He can’t pose much of a threat to us, not at that age.’

‘He’s hardly in his dotage!’ Henry Beaufort objected and a low rumble of laughter ran around the table. Every man present knew that Beaufort was well past his sixtieth birthday.

Archbishop Chichele’s expression of amusement creased his already wrinkled face. He
was
burdened by age, being older than anyone else present by at least a decade. ‘The release of the Duke of Orléans is merely a bargaining token at this stage, of course,’ he said, ‘and we do not have to make a decision on the subject in the short term. Let us decide to meet again a month hence and, in the meantime, give the problem our deepest consideration. Are we all agreed, gentlemen?’

The suggestion met with grunts of assent. ‘Agreed,’ everyone muttered as the King rose from his seat, bringing the meeting to a close.

***

‘H
umphrey, that is your fourth glass of Burgundy wine since dinner.’

The Duke and Duchess of Gloucester were sitting in her boudoir, Eleanor in the window seat and Humphrey hunched up in an expensively upholstered chair by the log fire, staring into the flames. As usual, Eleanor had ordered a decanter of wine and two goblets to be placed on a tray, in case Humphrey should call on her in the afternoon. She would have to order another decanter in a few minutes if he was going to go on drinking at this rate.

He rounded on her, a thunderous expression on his face. ‘Don’t criticise me, woman, I know what I’m doing.’

‘Please, Humphrey, don’t be angry with me. There’s no need to shout. I have only your best interests at heart. Why are you so upset? You haven’t told me. I wish you would.’

‘All right. I’ll tell you exactly why I’m upset. And I’m not just upset. I’m furious, absolutely furious. Did you know that a meeting of the King’s Council was held last week?’

Eleanor hesitated. She had no way of knowing the answer to that question and she had a feeling that any kind of guess would be the wrong one. She compromised by looking questioningly at her husband, shaking her head and saying nothing.

‘Well, no, of course you didn’t. How could you know if no one told you? No one told me, either, so it has come like a bolt from the blue. But it seems that His Highness the King was present at a meeting of Council members held at the Palace of Westminster. It was, apparently, well attended.’

‘And you didn’t know?’

‘No, I did not know. Nobody told me. My invitation to the meeting must have been “lost” somehow.’ Humphrey snarled with irony. ‘Now, isn’t that strange?’

‘But are they allowed to hold a meeting without you? Wouldn’t the King forbid it?’

‘That is not the point, Eleanor. Of course, not every Council member is able to attend every meeting. But they never even invited me to this one, and I dare say it’s not for the first time, though it’s the first time I’ve found out about it. And they have also been holding meetings in the homes of individual Council members. No doubt my dear uncle, the Rich Cardinal, will come up with a perfectly plausible reason why the Council members should meet in his London residence from time to time.’

Eleanor watched her husband’s handsome face twisting with fury. She reached forward and put her hand on his arm. ‘Promise me you’ll be careful, Humphrey. It would be dangerous to antagonise Henry Beaufort.’

He shook his arm free of her hand. ‘Eleanor, when I want your advice, I will ask for it. Let me think. I must see the King. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I must see him. I’ll request an audience with my nephew and tell him exactly what a snake his great-uncle Henry Beaufort really is. He needs to know.’

‘But you won’t lose your temper, will you, Humphrey? You know how you can get upset about things like this.’

‘Stop nagging me, woman! I am already upset. I have every right to be upset. The King must be made aware of this. After all, his own father, my brother, gave his life for this cause. My brother Thomas died at the battle of Baujé for the same reason and my brother John always said we should keep hold of France. Damn it all, he even married a French woman!’

‘But John loved Anne of Burgundy, didn’t he?’

‘He’d have married her anyway, even if she looked like a bull’s backside, if it strengthened the English claim to the French throne. And now that arrogant, interfering uncle of mine, Cardinal bloody Beaufort, is again talking about releasing Charles of Orléans! And this time he’s serious.’

Humphrey always pronounced his uncle’s name in the same way, with the emphasis on the initial ‘b’ of the surname, a percussive puff of venom, the soft thud of an arrow hitting a distant target.

Eleanor was only too aware of her husband’s hatred of his uncle. She was also perfectly aware of the argument which raged intermittently about the release of the Duke of Orléans from captivity.

She had once met the Duke, since his custodian was none other than her own father, and she had been curiously unnerved by the Frenchman. Even in middle age, Charles of Orléans was still handsome and charismatic. When they were introduced, he had raised Eleanor’s hand to his lips and kissed it with great reverence, as though he’d been entrusted with a thing of rare beauty.

‘
Dieu!
’ he exclaimed, raising his head to meet her eyes with a look of quiet intensity, ‘
qu’il la fait bon regarder, la gracieuse bonne et belle!
’

Her heart tumbled in her chest at the sensation of his lips on her skin. There was none of Humphrey’s arrogant pushing of his tongue between her fingers, simply a kiss which felt as though an exquisite butterfly had alighted on the back of her hand.

A gifted poet, Charles of Orléans could have been a friend of Humphrey’s had things been different: they were both men of letters who delighted in all manner of artistic endeavours. As it was, the Frenchman had been captured at the Battle of Agincourt, uninjured but lying half-buried in the mud of the battlefield under the weight of his own armour and the bloodied corpses of his compatriots. Brought back to England as a prisoner of war, he had languished in luxury ever since, allowed everything but his freedom, under the watchful eye of minor noblemen like Eleanor’s father. During the course of a quarter of a century of imprisonment, he continued to write his exquisite poetry, but the language of his verse underwent a gradual change from French to English which, nowadays, he spoke rather better than he did his mother tongue. Though he had never ceased to demand his return to his native France, he knew he would only be given his freedom if it was in the political interests of the English to release him.