The Witch of Eye (30 page)

In recent years, several members of the King’s Council of advisers had begun to advocate peace with France and the tide now seemed to be turning in favour of releasing the Duke of Orléans. From the English point of view, one advantage of this suggestion was that the payment of a hefty ransom would go a long way towards cancelling the huge debts owed by the English crown. For his part, the Duke of Orléans was keen to be an intermediary in the drawing up of an amicable truce between the two old enemies. But Humphrey of Gloucester was deeply, adamantly, opposed to the suggestion.

‘If Orléans is released and sent back to France, it will only strengthen Burgundy’s position. My poor brother knew how much that rat wanted power in France. That’s why Henry insisted, on his death bed, that Orléans must be kept prisoner in England until the whole of France was finally under English rule.’ Humphrey was becoming more agitated, his voice more harsh. ‘And now this subversive faction on the Council, Beaufort and Kemp and all their fine friends, are trying to change everything. Have they no respect for my brother’s memory?’

‘Perhaps you would do well to write to His Highness,’ Eleanor suggested.

‘Why should I? Why on earth should I go to all that trouble? I’ll talk to him. I have only to request an audience. I am his uncle, his father’s brother. I am heir to the throne. The King would never refuse to see me.’

‘But think, Humphrey, just calm down and think for a moment. If you had an audience with the King, you might easily become emotional about your brother, all your brothers and how they died. You could lose control, forget what you were going to say...’

‘Never! No matter how upset I feel, I’d never lose...’

Eleanor cut across him. ‘But if you wrote to the King, you would be able to enumerate your grievances very clearly, you could express yourself better, you could put your point of view much more succinctly. And if he has a letter to refer to, he can read over the points you make as often as he likes; perhaps even commit them to memory. And he will have a written list to hand if he wants to discuss those points with other people, other members of the Council, perhaps. He is still a young man. He needs guidance.’

Eleanor stopped abruptly, catching Humphrey’s eye. He was looking intently at her with appreciative eyes.

‘You know, Nell,’ he said, ‘I sometimes think I only want you as a bedfellow, because you always please me so much in that regard. But then I realise that you have an astonishingly good brain behind that pretty face of yours. There’s wisdom in those lovely grey eyes. If you were a man, you’d be invincible!’

Eleanor preened herself, pleased by what she was hearing, relieved that she had succeeded in calming him down.

‘I’m very glad I’m not a man,’ she said, lowering her eyes becomingly, ‘otherwise I would have no place in your bed. And I always want to please you, Humphrey, there and elsewhere. You know that.’

‘I do, my sweet Nell, I do. I thank God for a woman like you.’

He rose from his chair and put down his goblet on the table. Then he took her face in both his hands and kissed her fulsomely on the lips, his probing tongue promising later delights. Eleanor tried hard not to recoil from the stink of wine on his breath.

‘That should keep you going until tonight,’ he said, releasing her, ‘because now, my love, I must take my leave of you. I have to find John Hume. I want to dictate a letter and it’s likely to be a long one. I am going to write a complaint to the King, a very serious complaint about my esteemed Uncle Beaufort.’

He spat out the name: he always did.

March 1440

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N
owadays, John Virley took pleasure in the way he made his living because it allowed him the flexibility so essential to a red-blooded man who enjoyed the company of women. His work took him to all corners of the city and he was not averse to crossing the Thames from time to time to seek out the company of a pretty little Winchester goose in Southwark, where many properties owned by the church were rented out as brothels. It was yet another source of income for the rich clergy.

After his brush with authority and his long imprisonment, Virley had emerged from the dungeons under Windsor Castle a chastened man and spent some time considering the options which were open to him. He was hardly likely to be welcomed back into the clerical life with open arms; he couldn’t imagine Abbot Harweden hailing him with a friendly greeting on his return to the monastery at Westminster, as though nothing had happened. Besides, there came a time in every man’s life when he had to make a decision about what lay ahead and Virley was disinclined to return to the monastery, where the working day in the scriptorium could be indescribably dull and monotonous. Even the cheerful sound of birdsong outside the dusty windows was invariably drowned out by the continuous droning voice of the monk who read aloud from the works of St Benedict. There must surely be something more agreeable elsewhere.

In weighing up the advantages and disadvantages of attempting to return to his old life, or something resembling it, Virley had acknowledged that he valued his freedom above all else. But he had also realised that he could turn his experience, and his contacts within the monastic life, to his advantage. Balancing this against his natural desire for self-determination and his instinct to become an independent spirit, he knew he could possibly make a satisfying career for himself in supplying the many monasteries, priories, friaries and convents in London with the materials they needed for producing manuscripts. The more people who were learning to read, the more demand there was for books. Therefore, the more need there was for a reliable service to provide quill pens, vellum, parchment and inks for the clerks and scribes, gold leaf and colour pigments for the limners. He could work up a nice little business for himself by provisioning these religious establishments in this way. All he had to do was work out a fair profit, not too much and certainly not too little, and he had a steady job for the rest of his life. Moreover, he had his cherished freedom and that was crucially important to him. He would become a peripatetic stationer.

His plan paid off and he had soon built a solid reputation as a reliable supplier, work which often took him to St Paul’s Cathedral within the city walls of London where he sourced many of his supplies. The townsfolk made the nave of the huge cathedral their own and the atmosphere was noisy and colourful. More often than not, Virley would see someone he knew among the people who used the north and south transepts as a short cut between Paternoster Row to the north of the building and Carter Lane to the south, particularly when the weather was bad. They would call out greetings to each other and congregate in groups, chatting and gossiping, or they would amble around the walls to browse among the books. Those booksellers and stationers whose main premises were in Paternoster Row would often set up temporary stalls inside the cathedral where they did a roaring trade selling some of their wares at second hand.

In the churchyard outside, under St Paul’s Cross, public announcements were made and sermons were preached to save the souls of the ungodly while urchins played hide-and-seek and leapfrog around the handcarts of the street traders, risking a clip around the ear if they got in the way.

Today, the cool spring air was full of sounds, shouts, street cries and laughter. John Virley loved the hustle and bustle around St Paul’s: it was where he felt most at home. Born and bred a Londoner, he revelled in the opportunity to catch up with friends or to visit one of several welcoming women he knew who lived within the city walls. His narrow eyes shone with pleasure at being a part of all the colour and movement which surrounded him.

He made his way down to St Faith’s Chapel in the undercroft of the cathedral, where he bought two bags of iron gall ink powder. He always mixed his own ink, using wine rather than water for the purpose. In Virley’s opinion, wine gave the finished ink a far greater intensity. He usually bought his vellum in bulk from another trader and was waiting impatiently while the man took his time in counting out the sheets and calculating the bill of sale.

‘I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Master Virley, but we have been very busy this morning,’ the trader grumbled apologetically. ‘Trouble is, there are too many people learning to read these days.’

‘And we have to supply the books for them,’ snapped Virley, ‘so I’d appreciate it if you –’ He broke off at the sudden sound of raised voices from the other side of the chapel.

‘Run out! What do you mean, you’ve run out? You can’t possibly run out of ink powder, man! So what do you expect me to do, eh? Tell me, what do you expect me to do? Tell my master he’ll have to write a letter for the Duke in his own blood?’

Virley knew those stentorian tones, he’d know them anywhere. The pugnacious William Woodham had a famously short temper: he’d always been the same, even when he and Virley were youngsters growing up in Aldgate Street to the east of the city.

‘I’m sorry, sir.’ The trader had taken fright: his back was against the wall and he was cowering away from the onslaught. ‘You see, sir, that gentlemen over there bought the last of my ink powder not a minute since ... and I haven’t had the chance...’

Woodham turned and spotted Virley. ‘Virley,’ he roared, ‘you old dog. You’ve bought the last of this man’s ink, drat and damn you!’

‘Have I? I wasn’t aware that I had. And I certainly didn’t do it on purpose. So calm down, William. You’ll do yourself harm, carrying on like that. There are other traders who sell ink.’

‘Yes, I suppose there are,’ Woodham said grudgingly, his anger subsiding. ‘Well, it’s good to see you anyway, Virley, even though you might have got me into trouble. You know me, I’ve a temper like a tinderbox if I can’t have what I want when I want it. And Canon Hume will be furious if I go back to the palace empty-handed.’

‘Why does he need ink so urgently?’

‘Why does anyone need ink, Virley? That’s a stupid question. My master needs ink because he serves as secretary to their Graces the Duke and Duchess of Gloucester.’

‘And one of them wants to write a letter?’

‘The Duke does. Well, dammit, Virley, Canon Hume can’t do his job without the right tools, can he?’

‘Language, language, Woodham! This is a church, remember, for all that we’re in the crypt.’

‘I don’t care. Well, yes, I do care, of course I do. And it’s my fault anyway, for forgetting to order it. Forgive me, Lord,’ he crossed himself quickly, bending his head. No good would come of offending the Almighty. ‘Anyway, Hume has run out of ink so I’ve had to come all the way up from Westminster to get him some. I don’t suppose you could let me have half of what you’ve just bought, could you? It would save me having to go hunting for it. I’m dying of thirst and I can’t drink ink so I don’t want to waste more time on it. I’d rather be in The Bush. So, will you, Virley?’

Virley appeared to hesitate while he considered the proposal.

‘If the price is right,’ he said.

‘Oh, come on man, for old times’ sake. Split it with me and I’ll give you a ha’penny more for half of it than you paid. I’ll just tell Hume it’s gone up in price. He’ll never know.’

‘Done!’ said Virley, never a man to pass up a bargain.

Not having seen each other for some months, Virley and Woodham decided to walk to Westminster together, Virley heading for the monastery to deliver parchment to the monks and Woodham to take the ink to Canon Hume at the palace. After crossing the Fleet Bridge, just outside the city walls, Woodham stopped on the corner at the entrance to Cock and Key Alley in front of a large, square building, a branch of hawthorn nailed above the door.

‘Ah, The Bush,’ said Virley. ‘Probably the best ale house in London!’

‘No question of that,’ said Woodham. ‘The alewife isn’t bad either! Used to be a Winchester goose when she was younger, one of the prettier ones. I knew her well. Mind you, she’s no gosling nowadays. Must be thirty years old if she’s a day, but she’s still got most of her teeth so she’s not too bad-looking.’

As they entered the low-ceilinged room, Woodham was greeted with shrieks of pleasure by a plump woman with greying fair hair and a greasy apron tied around her ample waist. A table laden with jugs of ale stood at one end of the room and a pall of smoke from a peat fire hung over the dozen or so men who sat talking and laughing loudly, mugs cradled in their hands.

‘William Woodham!’ she shouted above the din. ‘Where’ve you been? We haven’t seen you for ... oh, I don’t know ... I was only saying to the girls last week ... it must be nigh on a month.’

‘Quiet, woman, and give us each a measure of your best ale.’ Woodham seemed not to be a man for polite conversation. He turned to Virley. ‘It’s as well the ale is good. Otherwise I couldn’t abide the noise in here.’ Then he grinned and gave the woman a great thwack on the backside. She cackled with laughter.

‘How have you been keeping, you old jade?’

‘Oh, all right, you know,’ she laughed again. ‘Better for seeing you, though. Where’ve you been? Still working for Good Duke Humphrey, are you?’

‘Why not? It’s as good as anywhere else.’

‘Better than most, I’d say. He’s a good man, that Duke Humphrey. Everybody says so. You should count yourself lucky to be working in his household.’

‘And he doesn’t know how lucky he is to have me!’ said Woodham, pushing away Virley’s half-hearted attempt to pay for the ale. ‘You can get the next ones,’ he said. They were clearly going to be there for some time, which was just as well since they had a lot of catching up to do.

The two had grown up together in a rundown area just to the east of the city walls, the closest of friends. Woodham’s father was the landlord of the Crown Inn in Aldgate Street, just next door to the church of St Botolph-without-Aldgate in which Virley, the possessor of a fine treble voice, had been a choirboy. With his face framed in a collar of pleated white linen, Virley always looked the very picture of innocence and purity as he sang, though under the red cassock and white surplice his knees were as grubby as any other boy’s and he was quite likely to have a few worms in his pocket for an afternoon’s fishing with his friend William.