The Witch of Eye (3 page)

Nothing did change and she was forced to the conclusion that nothing ever would. Sooner or later, she would have to overcome her squeamishness and drink the thick, sticky brown liquid in the hope of conceiving a child. Yet in her heart she knew a child wasn’t the answer: she couldn’t bring a little one into the world to have its bones broken by a drunken father.

Besides, she had no absolute guarantee that Old Mother Morwenna’s brown liquid would have any effect because, wise woman or not, her potions were not infallible. She had not been able to cure whatever had ailed Alice, Jenna’s best friend since childhood. Jenna and Alice. They had been a pair of mischievous little rascals with a deep affection for each other, as close as sisters. Jenna and Alice did everything together, playing games, laughing, singing or running errands for their mothers. They loved nothing better than their weekly visit to the parsonage where Parson Middleton, then an enthusiastic, forward-thinking young clergyman, did his best to teach a group of the village children the rudiments of reading and reckoning.

But tonight, as Jenna lay sleepless beside her snoring lout of a husband, Alice lay silent in six feet of cold earth from whence, a year ago, a stony-faced Parson Middleton had committed her immortal soul to God’s keeping. Gripped by an agony of belly cramps and vomiting, Alice had derived no benefit from Old Mother Morwenna’s decoction of seeds of quince. Undeterred, the old wise woman had intoned some incantations above the bed where Alice writhed in agony, but to no avail. In desperation, her anxious parents had summoned the leech doctor from Newton Abbot, scraping together enough money to pay his extortionate fee. He took the money willingly enough before shaking his head and muttering that ‘right side sickness’ was beyond his help because it was the will of God.

In unendurable pain, poor Alice died, leaving her mother, her father and her dearest friend to mourn her and wonder what sin they had committed that was sufficiently grave to cause such a loss. How had they offended God so much that He took Alice away from them?

Jenna passed a restless night. The sensation of falling from a great height would convulse her from the brink of slumber until, finally, she abandoned all thought of sleep and slid carefully from under Jake’s arm. In the last glow of the dying embers, she lowered herself gingerly down onto the bench by the fire pit, muscle by aching muscle, until she found a moderately comfortable position.

As she sat, she took stock of her situation. In time, she realised, she could become a vexed and resentful old woman, cowed by her husband’s callousness, the teeth knocked from her head and deaf as a post from his blows. While she was still comparatively young, her most precious possession was a lively mind in a God-given healthy body, something Alice would never have again.

By the first light of dawn, Jenna had made her decision. She would get as far away as she possibly could from Kingskerswell and all it stood for. No matter what it took, she would get away from Jake.

And there would be no going back.

Midsummer 1435

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W
illiam Jourdemayne, dependable and honest, excelled in his work as the tenant farmer on the manorial estate of Eye-next-Westminster but, in his wife’s opinion, that was not enough. It infuriated her that he seemed perfectly content with things as they were.

It had taken some persuasion on Margery’s part to get her husband to do what she wanted of him. Though impatient to put her plans in motion, she had realised the value of investing her time and energy over several weeks in pleasing him in every way she could, being warmly receptive towards him in their bed and readily agreeing to help him with the quarterly accounts for Abbot Harweden. She was eventually rewarded with the key to a small room just off the manor farmhouse kitchen for her own exclusive use.

Once Margery took possession of the room, she had cupboards moved into position against three of the walls and filled them with pots and pans, jugs and funnels, bottles and ewers, pestles and mortars. There were small bowls for mixing her ingredients and bigger bowls for washing her utensils; she was scrupulously clean in her work. Above the cupboards were several high shelves where, in a series of small locked coffers, she kept the secret ingredients she used in her recipes. Bunches of summer herbs for winter use were strung up to dry above the hearth while their seeds were stored in meticulously labelled boxes. Beneath the window, a sturdy table was positioned where the light was good and next to that, fixed with great care to the wall, was a large mirror. The mirror had been an indulgence on Margery’s part; William would have been appalled if she’d been entirely truthful about the cost of it, but she had paid for it herself out of money she’d saved from selling her wares so she didn’t think it any of her husband’s business to question her purchase. Next to the mirror was a hook for her apron, but that apron was now tied around her slim waist as she worked at the table.

Raising a phial to her lips, Margery tasted a drop of liquid which was sharp and bitter on her tongue. Good, that was about the right consistency, and the correct balance of myrrh resin to strong, sweet white wine. She couldn’t afford to make mistakes with anything as expensive as myrrh. Reaching for a small flask containing an infusion of mint leaves in boiled water, she tested the temperature of the liquid by letting a little of it drip onto the inside of her wrist. Judging it to have cooled to blood heat, she then held the flask up to the light and measured into it precisely ten drops of the tincture of myrrh, shaking the two gently together, watching the mint infusion become opaque and milky as the two liquids blended.

‘Mmm,’ she murmured, satisfied, setting the flask down on the table. ‘Good. That should do the trick.’

Had Margery been a man, she would certainly have been a noted apothecary, but she had to be satisfied with her reputation as a wise woman, secure in the knowledge that the skills that her mother had handed down to her had commercial potential. As word of those skills spread, it pleased her to realise that people were prepared to pay considerable sums of money for what she sold them. There was profit in presenting these old remedies and decoctions in such a way that they appeared to be something entirely new, something different and exciting to help a woman realise her dreams of beauty and desirability and thus her chances of marriage. Margery possessed a shrewd intellect. She recognised vulnerability in other women. And she took advantage of it.

Fitting a pewter funnel into the neck of a small bottle, Margery carefully poured into it some of the tincture of myrrh she had just made, it was her favourite remedy for easing the pain of toothache. If she was careful, there would be enough to fill six of these bottles and each one would sell for a penny. Sixpence in all and it had cost her one penny to purchase the myrrh from her spice merchant. That meant a good profit for her, since white wine was easy enough to come by and spearmint grew in profusion alongside all the other herbs in her little physic garden between the farmhouse and the nearby brook. Spearmint was such a rewarding herb: Margery loved it for its usefulness in doing everything from treating a lady’s greasy hair to keeping moths and mice at bay.

Methodically, she washed and dried the utensils she had been using and replaced them in a cupboard before setting out for the Palace at Westminster for another appointment with Lady Northumberland. At least she had found time today to stock up on the tooth tincture for the Duchess of Gloucester who was almost certain to need some very soon. She was becoming more and more demanding these days. Margery was very pleased about that.

***

A
young man sat at the head of the long table in the library at the Palace of Westminster, flanked by two very much older men.

‘The problem, Sire,’ said the Earl of Suffolk, ‘is that the French are as wily and dangerous as snakes. The Dauphin will do anything to challenge the English right to the French throne and establish himself as King of France.’

The man sitting opposite the Earl was wearing the deep scarlet cassock of a cardinal and exuded an air of authority when he spoke.

‘In confidence,’ he said, ‘and within these four walls of course, I’m beginning to think we would be better off without them. I must confess to feeling heartily sick of the whole burden of France around English necks. The conflict has gone on for far too long and it’s costing us dear. Too many fine young Englishmen dead, too many children orphaned. There’s little to be gained from holding on to France just to avoid losing face. We’d be well rid of it.’

‘Not everyone agrees with you,’ the Earl pointed out. ‘You’d be hard-pressed to get the Duke of Gloucester to share your opinion.’

‘I’m afraid my nephew and I agree about very little these days,’ said Cardinal Beaufort. ‘Though I would feel more kindly disposed towards him if he would only be prepared to see sense about France.’

‘But, to be fair,’ protested the young man who was sitting between the two, ‘perhaps he is merely concerned about me and my duties towards France. After all, I am the sovereign king of both countries. And I take my responsibilities very seriously.’

‘And as members of the Council, Your Highness,’ the Earl of Suffolk assured him, ‘we take our responsibilities towards you very seriously and we would –’

‘I’m sure the King does not need to be reminded of our loyalty,’ interrupted Cardinal Beaufort. ‘He knows we have always had his best interests at heart. But for the sake of both king and country, we must decide carefully what to do for the best. And this is now an urgent matter.’

Though sumptuously dressed, Henry appeared an unlikely king. He was quite a pleasant-looking boy, with plentiful brown hair, but his eyes held a peculiarly dull expression and his pallid skin often erupted into small, yellow pustules.

Henry VI, King of England and France, was thirteen years old and young for his age.

The Earl of Suffolk, as Steward of the Royal Household, was an adviser to the adolescent monarch. ‘I understand, Your Highness, that His Holiness the Pope has requested this conference,’ he said.

‘Congress,’ corrected Beaufort, ‘an altogether bigger gathering, to be held at Arras, in Burgundy, and I have committed myself to attending. Philip of Burgundy will be there, of course, with a large French delegation, no doubt.’

‘And will Pope Eugene attend?’ asked the King.

‘No, he won’t. His Holiness has informed us that the interests of the Vatican will be represented by two cardinal mediators. They will both be senior men, you can depend upon it.’

Suffolk looked up from the papers on the table in front of him. ‘And is the Dauphin himself to be present?’

‘Very probably,’ said Beaufort. ‘As we know, he will do anything or go anywhere to press his claim to the throne. He seems to have gained a great deal more confidence since the so-called Maid of Orléans went into battle on his behalf and succeeded in getting him crowned.’

‘Not that we acknowledge a coronation brokered by a witch,’ said Suffolk.

Cardinal Beaufort nodded without comment. He himself had interrogated Joan of Arc in France four years ago and had witnessed her death, tied to a stake above a huge fire in the marketplace at Rouen, burning in agony. The sight still invaded his dreams. Joan had died for her religious conviction that the Dauphin Charles was the rightful heir to the French throne.

Looking suddenly startled, the King swung round in his chair to face the Cardinal. ‘But if the Dauphin will be there, then shouldn’t I, too, attend this Congress at Arras?’

‘I would advise against it,’ said Beaufort, aware that Henry, still scarcely more than a child, would be unlikely to contribute anything of any significance to such an important gathering.

‘Good,’ said the King, clearly relieved, ‘because I really cannot understand why we must have all this squabbling. The French throne is mine! I have been crowned in Paris. I am God’s anointed King of France. Why is there all this bad feeling? I don’t understand why we cannot all live together in peace.’

‘I’m afraid, Your Highness,’ said the Earl of Suffolk, ‘that your mother’s French relatives are a good deal less peaceable than you are, and there are several French nobles who have cast doubt on the English claim to the throne of France ever since the Treaty of Troyes, when your parents were married. I really can’t imagine why it pleases them to acknowledge the Dauphin Charles their king: he’s such a dreadful little man.’ Suffolk looked suddenly embarrassed, aware that in speaking his mind, he had possibly overstepped the mark. ‘Forgive me, Your Highness,’ he said with remorse, ‘I know the Dauphin is your mother’s brother, but he is entirely devoid of her charm.’

The King looked wistful for a brief moment then hardened his expression. ‘I understand that my French uncle granted a charter to the University of Poitiers not long ago. So, surely, he must be a decent man at heart, a man who encourages learning.’ He paused, looking wistful. ‘And I would like to follow the Dauphin’s example when I’m older. I, too, will endow a school or a college one day.’

‘Very laudable, Your Highness,’ said the Earl of Suffolk. The two adults exchanged surreptitious glances. Though inclined to be pompous beyond his years, there were times when the King appeared even more of a child than he really was. The finest tutors had done their best in the schoolroom to acquaint the boy with all that had gone before. They taught him the history of conflict between France and England and the way in which his father, King Henry V, had brought the enemy to heel with a string of successes in battle and sealed the agreement by marrying the daughter of the old French king. Yet his son showed no interest at all in anything save the study of theology and the celebration of religious ritual. King Henry VI seemed unlikely to follow in the footsteps of his illustrious father on the battlefield or anywhere else. But these were early days and he was still very immature. Things could change.

‘Of course,’ the Earl of Suffolk went on, ‘the other thing we must consider is Your Highness’s own betrothal to a French princess as a way of consolidating our position.’