The Witch of Eye (31 page)

This early career as a choirboy meant that, of the two, Virley was by far the better educated, having been taught to read and write by a minor canon of St Botolph’s who had taken an unhealthy interest in him. Woodham, on the other hand, was the son of a brutish bully who normally got his way simply because none of his neighbours wanted to antagonise him. Whereas he could see the sense of reckoning up the number of tankards of ale he’d sold and the profit he’d made, there didn’t seem to him much sense in spending that profit in educating his son. Woodham’s education came much later, when he’d gone into service and realised that the ability to read was a very valuable skill for someone with ambition. The friendship between the two boys had been an unlikely one and yet it lasted throughout their childhood until they eventually went their separate ways in search of employment.

‘So, what’s it like working for the Duke of Gloucester, then?’ Virley asked as they sat on a bench near the fire. ‘It can’t be bad. He certainly seems very popular around here.’

‘Oh, aye, he is. Londoners love him,’ said Woodham. ‘Mind you, they aren’t so keen on his wife.’

‘No, so I’ve heard.’

‘An arrogant bitch,’ said Woodham, never one to mince his words. ‘She loves showing off, riding around town in her carriage so everyone can see how elegant she is, how rich her clothes are. It’s no wonder people think she’s too big for her boots.’

‘Boots? Surely not!’

‘No, of course she doesn’t wear boots, blockhead! Only the finest leather shoes from the best cordwainer in London will do for Her High and Mighty Grace! But you know what I mean. Everyone thinks she’s just a little upstart who married well.’

‘Came from Kent, didn’t she?’

‘Yeah. A place called Sterborough. Her father’s Sir Reginald Cobham. He’s fairly low down the pecking order as these things go. Mind you, he has the care of the Duke of Orléans at the moment. He’s his custodian, so someone must think something of him.’

‘I thought the Duke of Orléans was being sent back to France. That’s what I heard, anyway.’

‘Not if Duke Humphrey has anything to do with it. He’s dead against it. I overheard him talking to Canon Hume about it the other day, when he was dictating a letter. To the King I think it was. Anyway, he was damned furious when Hume ran out of ink, I can tell you!’

‘Then shouldn’t you be getting back to the palace with it?’

‘All in good time.’ Woodham leaned his back against the wall, stretching his legs out comfortably towards the fire. ‘I’ll have another mug of this excellent ale first. For my trouble. You can get this one, Virley. And don’t take all day buying it!’

He wiped his mouth on the back of his wrist and burped loudly.

***

‘U
ncle, tell me for pity’s sake. What have I done to deserve this?’

King Henry paced up and down on the luxurious Persian carpet in the private royal solar at the Palace of Westminster, a roll of parchment in his hand. Every now and then he would stop his pacing to shake the letter aloft, in the direction of his great-uncle Cardinal Beaufort, who stood impassive, watching him.

‘I mean,’ the King went on, ‘why does my uncle of Gloucester see fit to sign his name and include all his titles? Look at it. He styles himself
Duke of Gloucester, Holland, Zeeland and Brabant, Earl of Pembroke, Hainault and Flanders
...’

‘To be fair to him, you must allow that he has been all these things in his time. That is to say he was all these things while he was married to the Duchess Jacqueline, but since he divorced the poor woman, I doubt he has a right to use those titles any longer. Perhaps he’s included them because the document is to be read out in Parliament, just to remind everyone exactly how important he is.’

The King turned down his lower lip in a pout and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Be that as it may,’ he said. ‘But, my Lord Uncle, he says some dreadful things about you.’

‘That’s nothing new,’ Beaufort responded with a hollow laugh.

The King began his pacing again, looking down at the roll of parchment in his left hand, flicking at it with the back of his right hand as he enumerated each of the many points Humphrey of Gloucester had noted in his complaint.

‘He says you shouldn’t have been allowed to become a cardinal, that my late father forbade it. Then he says that you and Cardinal Kemp are taking over the council and thereby the running of the country instead of me ... 
in derogation of your noble estate
, he says. And he’s at pains to denounce the whole Congress of Arras as a complete waste of money. He states quite plainly that you are stripping the English crown of its assets and manoeuvring to get the Crown Jewels into your possession. He demands to know how you have come by your wealth!’

He looked up from the letter and was surprised to see his great-uncle appear quite calm, a slightly sardonic smile on his lips.

‘Is that all he says?’ asked Beaufort mildly. ‘Can’t he think of anything else? Hasn’t he got any bigger sticks to beat me with?’

‘Oh yes, plenty.’ The King continued reading from the lengthy document. ‘He professes himself profoundly surprised that you procured the release of James of Scotland from English captivity without the consent of Parliament and turned this to your advantage by marrying your niece to him.’

‘I can’t see how that benefits me personally,’ said Beaufort, brushing an unseen speck of dust off his sleeve, ‘though it’s true, Joan did become Queen of Scotland.’

‘Then he goes on to accuse you of selling benefits and offices in England and France which were not yours to sell and says that by these ill-gotten gains, you have assumed the pomp and magnificence of royalty.’

‘I was conceived on the wrong side of the blanket for that,’ said Beaufort, drily.

‘You can’t be blamed for that, Uncle. At least you were legitimised when your parents were finally able to marry.’ The King turned his attention back to the letter in his hand. ‘But listen to this: my uncle of Gloucester goes on to say that you and Cardinal Kemp have estranged me from the Duke of York, the Earl of Huntingdon and the Archbishop of Canterbury, who should be counted among my chief advisers. I would disagree most strongly with that! I rely heavily on their advice, but I also rely on yours.’

Beaufort sighed deeply before replying. ‘It’s a nasty, malicious little missive, is it not?’ he said.

‘Indeed it is,’ agreed the King. ‘And I wonder what my uncle of Gloucester hoped to achieve by writing it.’

Henry Beaufort had another question to ask. ‘Does he make any mention of Charles, Duke of Orléans?’

‘No, he doesn’t. Would you expect him to?’

‘Oh yes. Your uncle is fervently opposed to the release of the Duke of Orléans, on the grounds that it would strengthen the position of the Duke of Burgundy in his claim that Charles de Valois is the rightful King of France. That is the fundamental disagreement between us.’

‘That is nonsensical,’ said King Henry. ‘I am King of both England and France and everyone should acknowledge the fact. But I wish there was not so much enmity between us.’

‘Of course, if you renounced your claim to the French throne, life would be a great deal more peaceful.’

The King hesitated for a moment before replying. ‘Peace is what I aspire to,’ he said quietly. ‘It is what I crave more than anything.’

‘Even to the extent of renouncing the throne of France, Your Highness?’

‘No, of course not. And, with God’s grace, it will not come to that. But for the present, I can see nothing to be gained by holding the Duke of Orléans in captivity against his will.’

‘Even though your late father decreed that he should be held at all costs?’

‘Uncle, the Duke of Orléans was taken prisoner at the Battle of Agincourt. That was many years before I was even born. You know better than anyone how greatly I revere the memory of my late father, but I am King now. I am old enough to make my own decisions and I would dearly love to see peace between France and England. Surely it would be wise to pursue a peaceful foreign policy?’

‘Certainly the ransom, which France will have to pay for the Duke’s release, will ease the debt which burdens us.’ Money was invariably a major consideration for Beaufort. If the full ransom was paid, then he himself might stand a reasonable chance of being repaid the money he had lent the crown. Perhaps even with a decent rate of interest.

‘Then he must be released. And I will issue a manifesto to assure my people that the release of such an important prisoner from captivity is entirely my decision and my responsibility,’ said the King decisively. ‘Everyone must understand quite clearly that I am doing this on my own initiative for the sole purpose of bringing to an end the war in France.’

‘There is both wisdom and bravery in that decision, Your Highness.’

‘The war has gone on too long, it has killed too many Englishmen and has been too great a drain on the resources of the English crown. If the best way to secure peace is to release the Duke of Orléans, then so be it. After all, he is not privy to any of our state secrets so he can do no harm. Besides,’ added the King with typical piousness, ‘it is immoral to keep a prisoner of war in perpetual confinement.’

‘Quite so,’ agreed Beaufort. ‘Quite so.’

There was no more to be said, particularly since he seemed easily to have won the King around to his way of thinking. That made him the victor in this, the latest skirmish in the ongoing battle between himself and his nephew of Gloucester.

***

F
rom where she sat at her dressing table, the Duchess of Gloucester could see a perfect mirror image of Jenna’s face. It was a study in concentration as she stood behind her mistress, pinning up her hair to make certain it would stay in place under the elaborate hennin that perched like an exotic bird on a wooden block on the dressing table, ready to be placed in position on Eleanor’s head.

‘You know, Jenna, no one would ever know that you had no experience of hairdressing at all when you started working for me.’

‘I’m glad you’re pleased with my work, Your Grace.’

‘Very pleased. You’ve always been adaptable and you’re prepared to work hard.’ The Duchess watched her again, for a long minute. Grudgingly at first, she’d come to admire Jenna more and more as time went by, appreciating the way she applied herself to the job in hand, whatever it happened to be.

‘But I do wish my skin was as good as yours,’ Eleanor went on. ‘Margery Jourdemayne insisted it was all due to her marigold face cream, but I’ve been using it for nearly three years now and my skin still can’t compare with yours.’

‘I think I’m just lucky, Your Grace.’ Jenna smiled: she couldn’t be disloyal to Margery, even now. The woman was a liar but, apart from anything else, she was William’s wife, though the fact still stuck in Jenna’s craw and, in her most despairing moments, it threatened to choke her.

William still trod the byways of her mind. The memory of the agonised expression on his face the day she had left the farm and walked out of his life was often the stuff of her bad dreams. She had seen him since, of course, but they’d both been stiffly formal with each other, neither wanting to meet the other’s gaze, neither wanting to open up old wounds.

Almost as though she was reading her maid’s thoughts, Eleanor said suddenly: ‘I’m surprised you’ve never married, Jenna. You’re pretty enough and with your skills, you would surely make some man a good wife. You do like men, do you?’

‘I ... well, I ...’ Jenna met the straightforward question with an embarrassed laugh.

‘I understand there are some women who prefer the company of other women for, well, you know, that sort of companionship. Though I’ve never understood it myself.’

‘No, Your Grace, I like men well enough. Women too, of course, but only as friends. I was very fond of my childhood friend Alice when I lived in Devon.’

‘And what happened to Alice? Did she stay in Devon?’

Jenna looked away for a moment. ‘She died, Your Grace.’

‘Oh. Oh, I see, yes. I expect you missed her, did you?’

‘Very much, Your Grace. I still do. She was a good friend.’

A good friend. Eleanor had never had a good friend. While she was younger she had concentrated all her energies on finding herself a rich, titled husband rather than a friend. And once she had ensnared the Duke of Gloucester, she regarded any other woman who came within two yards of him as a potential rival. She took nothing about Humphrey for granted. After all, he had been eager enough to desert his first wife’s bed in favour of hers and she dared not run the risk that he might repeat that performance. So she had never let down her guard: she kept every other woman at arm’s length and the greatest triumph she had ever known was when she walked out of church on her new husband’s arm, secure in the knowledge that she was now the wife of one of the most important men in the land. By implication, therefore, she herself had become one of the most important women in the land. She revelled in the realisation.

Now, having devoted the best part of her life to him, she was beginning to wonder whether she had become too blinkered in her attitude, seeing neither to the left nor the right, with nothing on her horizon except Humphrey.

It wasn’t as if Humphrey could be the kind of good friend she sometimes needed, certainly not these days, and that was plain. He wasn’t rude or unpleasant towards her – on the contrary, he always appeared to be charm itself. But he seemed preoccupied and distant. He didn‘t come to her boudoir of an afternoon as he had always done in the past; she would have to go in search of him. More often than not she found him at the writing desk in his study, behind a pile of heavy books on weighty subjects like mathematics, astronomy and the Greek philosophers, almost as though he had built himself a literary fortification against the rest of the world.

The truth was that her urbane, debonair husband was becoming something of a recluse, and when he did spend time with her, the talk soon turned not to the light-hearted topics she enjoyed but to subjects she found tedious and tiresome: the situation in France and how best that country should be ruled, how much he hated his uncle Henry Beaufort and, more than anything, how everyone was forgetting the good old days of England’s glory, when his brother was King.