The Witch of Eye (34 page)

‘Where’s your mistress, Gib?’

The cat lost interest in Jenna, licked its paw and began washing its face. There was nothing to be gained by remaining in the farmhouse so she might as well go and see her friends in the dairy. Besides, she could hardly wait to see her Kittymouse again.

Having run the length of Willow Walk, she was panting slightly as she pushed open the door to the dairy without ceremony and every head turned towards her.

‘Jenna!’

‘Good Heavens, Jenna! Where have you been all this time?’

There were only three people in the big room, though Hawys looked as though she was about to give birth to another one at any moment. Jane and another girl, a complete stranger to Jenna, abandoned their butter churns, wiping their hands on their aprons as they came to join Hawys, forming an excited, chattering circle surrounding the newcomer. Kitty was nowhere to be seen.

‘Where’s Kitty?’

Churns, butter paddles and skimming dishes lay idle and everyone was talking at once.

‘Where’s Kitty?’ Jenna demanded to know a second time.

‘Oh, Jenna,’ wailed Hawys, ‘we’re all so worried. We didn’t know what to do for the best...’

‘Let me tell her,’ said Jane, elbowing poor Hawys to one side, ‘I know exactly what happened –’

‘So do I!’ said Hawys, indignant.

‘No you don’t, Hawys, you don’t know what Kitty tells me in the dormitory. You sleep in your cottage with Seth so you don’t hear secrets.’

‘Secrets? What secrets? Where is Kitty? What’s happening?’ Jenna was scanning the excited faces in front of her, anxious to know what had happened.

‘Kitty’s working with Mistress Jourdemayne,’ said Hawys, ‘and we don’t know what she’s doing. She won’t tell us.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Mistress Jourdemayne came here to the dairy about a fortnight ago,’ Jane said, ‘and she took Kitty away with her. We haven’t seen very much of her since then.’

‘She’s working with Mistress Jourdemayne?’ Jenna was dumbfounded. ‘Is she doing what I used to do? Labelling containers, packing the orders? Is that what she’s doing?’

‘Oh, yes, of course,’ said Jane, folding her arms and nodding her head, ‘she’s doing that, all right. She’s a bright child, she can read more words than I ever could and she’s very good at reckoning.’

‘But we think she’s doing something else as well,’ Hawys interrupted, ‘except she won’t tell us what it is.’

‘Something like what? Tell me! For God’s sake, tell me!’ Jenna turned to Jane who seemed to be the one who knew most and grabbed her by the arm. ‘Jane, what did Kitty tell you in the dormitory?’

Jane shook her arm free then looked down, seeming unwilling to meet Jenna’s questioning eyes. She thrust her hands deep into her apron pockets and shook her head.

‘She won’t say. She wouldn’t tell me anything except that she’s helping Mistress Jourdemayne and two clerical gentlemen with some experiments.’ She looked up again, this time directly at Jenna. ‘And I’m worried about her, Jenna, she’s unhappy. But she won’t tell me why, or exactly what she’s doing. I’ve got a very bad feeling about it.’

Jenna was quiet while the other women watched her face, anxious, waiting for her to react. What they saw there was an expression of white fury. Jenna’s lips were compressed into a hard line and her eyes glinted like tempered steel under the thunderous furrowed arc of her brow. At length she spoke.

‘If that damned witch harms a hair of Kitty’s head, I swear I’ll kill her,’ she snarled. ‘By the blood of Christ, she’d better have a good reason for this.’

Turning on her heel, she slammed the dairy door behind her.

June 1441

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J
ohn Virley was looking forward to the reward of a well-earned tankard of ale on his way home. He had already done the best part of a day’s work and the cobbled city streets of London could be hard on a fellow’s feet, especially when he was carrying a heavy bag full of parchment. To be fair, the bag got lighter and lighter as he delivered his orders to different places along his route and, in truth, he didn’t really mind working on a fine spring day like this.

He had already delivered three reams of parchment to St Bartholomew’s Priory, just to the north-west of the city wall, then a dozen quill pens to St Botolph-without-Aldgate, the church he’d attended as a child. Back inside the city walls again, a pleasant stroll down St Martin’s Lane brought him to the collegiate church of St Martin-le-Grand where the canons had ordered only four quires of parchment.

By the time he had delivered an order to the Franciscan Grey Friars, it was an easy matter for a man who knew the area so well to cut through the maze of narrow backstreets to his final destination. Once through Newgate, the churchyard of St Sepulchre-without-Newgate was directly in front of him. The vicar at St Sepulchre’s hadn’t placed a very big order this time, he only needed ink and that hardly weighed anything at all, so Virley’s step was light as he crossed the road between Newgate Jail and the church. It was his last call of the morning and he was glad to get inside the building and take shelter from a sudden, heavy shower of rain.

‘A very good day to you, Vicar!’ he greeted John Stone as he walked up the nave towards the rood screen in front of the chancel. Stone was busying himself re-arranging the chalice, the paten and the other silverware on the altar.

‘Ah, yes, good morning, Master Virley. It’s a lovely day! We must thank the Good Lord for that.’

‘Well, it
was
a lovely day, Vicar, but it’s just started raining. Still, it’s only a passing shower. Shouldn’t last long. I’ve brought the ink you ordered. Shall I take it through to the vestry for you? And leave it on the table?’

‘Ah, yes. Yes, of course. I’m grateful. Thank you. I’ve nearly finished here.’

Emerging from the vestry after delivering the ink, Virley looked hard at the older man. He seemed unusually edgy, pulling at his earlobe and directing snatched, anxious glances down the nave towards the door. He appeared to be clearing a space at the centre of the altar.

‘Well, goodbye for now, Vicar. Expecting visitors, did you say?’

‘Er, no, I didn’t, did I? No. Well, yes, in a way. Not just yet. A little later.’

‘Anyone I know?’ Virley wasn’t usually so inquisitive. Perhaps it was just that the vicar seemed oddly nervous.

‘Oh, er, no. No, just some colleagues. Canon Hume and Canon Southwell of Westminster and Magister Bolingbroke, late of Oxford. They have been here before.’

‘Ah, Canon Southwell. Yes, I know him from my own days at Westminster. They’ll be saying mass, then?’

‘Er ... yes, yes. Saying mass. Yes.’

Virley looked around him. There wasn’t another soul in sight. The place was deserted. That struck him as strange. Surely members of the congregation should have started arriving by now. The sound of the door being opened distracted him and he looked round. Yes, there was Southwell, brushing raindrops from his dark woollen cloak before strutting, pompous as ever, towards the altar. He’d recognise him anywhere. With him was a tall, stooping man with thinning hair who was removing his spectacles in order to wipe the wet lenses on his sleeve. That must be the Magister, thought Virley.

‘I’ll be on my way, then,’ he said quietly to Vicar Stone. ‘Best get a move on if I’m to be in time for my dinner.’ He didn’t particularly want to stay if Southwell was going to be involved in the mass.

‘Yes, yes. Well, goodbye then. God be with you.’ Distractedly, the vicar made the sign of the cross in Virley’s direction and turned to greet his visitors. Virley moved out of sight behind a stone pillar near the door without being noticed.

Having slipped quietly out of the church, he stopped for a moment in the churchyard and looked back towards St Sepulchre’s. He couldn’t rid himself of a feeling that something was wrong, but he had no idea what. There were three men of God inside the church and there was nothing unusual about that. They were just going about their business, saying mass. He shrugged as he turned towards the path.

Then he saw Margery Jourdemayne and froze.

She was sheltering under the lychgate, peering out to see if the rain had stopped, her cupped hand stretched out in front of her. Margery Jourdemayne, the instigator of his downfall a decade ago, the reason why he had spent those long, dreary months incarcerated in the damp stinking dungeons of Windsor Castle. And here she was again, under the thatched roof of the lychgate. That was the best place for her, thought Virley, a place of corpses and death.

But what, in God’s name, was the damned woman doing here? Wanting to avoid her at all costs, he was grateful that the trunk of the churchyard yew was wide enough for him to duck down behind it, out of sight. Virley’s memories of Margery were still vivid and, to his mind, she was something a great deal more sinister than the wise woman she had claimed to be. She was a witch.

The witch had a child with her, a girl. From this distance, it was difficult to tell how old the girl was, she looked as though she might be ten or eleven but small breasts were evident under her working smock so Virley, with his experience of the female form, judged her to be about thirteen or fourteen years old, but small for her age.

The shower was passing as quickly as it had arrived and Virley watched as the two of them cautiously emerged from the lychgate then hurried up the path towards the church porch. Whatever the reason they were here, the child was clearly reluctant about it because the witch, with a firm hold of the girl’s arm, was having to drag her along the path.

Virley waited until the heavy church door opened from within to admit them. As it closed, he was about to make a dash for freedom when, to his astonishment, the door was opened again. The vicar emerged and walked quickly away down the path. He was clearly not going to be taking part in any mass that was going on inside: if it was a mass.

As soon as John Stone had pulled the lychgate closed behind him, Virley emerged from his hiding place behind the great yew tree and prepared to follow him. He must get to the bottom of this, whatever it was. It looked as though the witch was up to her old tricks again and she was clearly associating with Southwell and Bolingbroke as she had once done with Friar Ashwell and himself.

But, if that’s all it was, what was the child doing there?

***

T
he Duchess Eleanor’s dressing room was where Jenna seemed to spend her whole life. It was almost like home. She knew every inch of it, the contents of every drawer and cupboard, the linen press and the laundry basket. The Duchess had been impressed by Jenna’s ability to write and was delighted at the suggestion that she should keep a daily record of which gown and shoes her mistress had worn on what occasion, and which jewellery she had worn to complement the ensemble. Whatever the Duchess wanted, Jenna was expected to know exactly where it was; and she always did. By now, Her Grace would not tolerate anything less.

In the few short years she had been working at the palace, Jenna’s appearance had changed considerably and her clothes were modestly fashionable for a woman in her position. Her hands, always roughened by farm work in years gone by, were softer and smoother, and her trimmed fingernails would never snag the delicate fabric of her mistress’s finest veils. Under her linen wimple, the sun-tanned face of yesteryear had become fashionably pale since she worked almost entirely indoors. But she still harboured a secret longing for the satisfaction of a good day’s toil. Indulging the every whim of a spoilt mistress never seemed like real work to Jenna.

She would have gone back to the farm in a heartbeat, but she knew she couldn’t. Of course, she was very concerned about Kitty, but it wasn’t just that. Now she was no longer honestly exhausted when she went to her bed, she had begun to sleep badly and was often plagued by dreams in which William was angry with her and she didn’t know why. These dreams left her feeling distressed and saddened. Obeying some nameless instinct, she ran her hands over the soft skin of her body, the outline of her thighs, the curve of her breasts, yearning for the touch of a man – but not any man. She ached for the sheer, raw presence of William Jourdemayne, longing to be as one with him. Jenna had never known a desire as strong as this and it didn’t diminish with time. Equally, she knew that her yearning was hopelessly misplaced: she was in love with another woman’s husband. It was a forbidden love, a dangerous love.
Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s wife
, said Moses. No, nor thy neighbour’s husband, either, thought Jenna. However deep it was, hers was a love forbidden by God.

And now her anxieties were heightened by her worry about Kitty. She longed to get back to the farm to find out what was going on. She needed to know exactly what Kitty was doing for Mistress Jourdemayne and whether the other dairymaids’ fears were well founded. Between them, William and Kitty, the two most important people in her life, were causing her deep concern.

‘When did I last wear this gown?’ the Duchess demanded, interrupting Jenna’s thoughts. Mistress and maid had been going through the richly gilded armoire in the dressing room where Her Grace’s best gowns were kept. Both doors of the big cupboard were open and some twenty or so sumptuous garments hung in a serried rank within it. The Duchess was pulling at various hems, inspecting the colours and the fabrics, prompting her memory of individual dresses, trying to make a decision. Jenna had been standing behind her, waiting for Her Grace to choose what she wanted to wear when she went out.

‘Is that the dark blue samite, Your Grace? I’m almost certain you wore it at the reception which His Highness the King gave for the Spanish Ambassador, but I’d better look it up.’ Jenna opened the small leather-bound volume in which she made a note of the Duchess’s social engagements and what she had worn for each.

‘I must have had that one made for me at least five years ago,’ said the Duchess, ‘but it’s still one of my favourites.’ As Jenna consulted her notes, Eleanor draped the fabric of the gown over her left hand, smoothing it with her right, looking at it this way and that. She loved the way the rich blue silk was interwoven with threads of pure gold. Gold: the pinnacle of the alchemist’s achievement, the fabulous metal that would never change its lustre, no matter what man did to it, whether it was used to make a wedding ring or beaten as thin as a leaf, thin enough for a limner to use in illuminating a manuscript.