The Witch of Eye (40 page)

‘And for what purpose did you use it?’

Bolingbroke hesitated, but not for long. ‘My colleague Canon Southwell and I used it at the request of Her Grace, the Duchess, Sir.’

‘Oh, you did, did you? And I ask you again: for what purpose did you use it? To read Her Grace’s horoscope, perhaps? And to divine the future?’

‘Yes, Sire. It is not an unusual request. Canon Southwell had already read the Duke’s horoscope more than once, particularly before he set sail for Calais five years ago.’

‘Yes, and that was a very successful campaign, my Lord,’ interrupted Archbishop Chichele. ‘The Duke was thanked by the commons in Parliament for his part in it.’ The Archbishop was keen to support the Duke and speak well of him.

‘Be that as it may,’ said Beaufort, ‘but when it came to the Duchess’s request, surely Canon Southwell should have known better than to involve himself in horoscope readings of a frivolous nature such as a woman might want, and he a Canon of St Stephen’s!’

Adam Moleyns cleared his throat. ‘On a point of information, my Lord Cardinal, perhaps you should know that Master Southwell is no longer a canon,’ he said. ‘I am informed that he was relieved of his canonry two days ago and his place has been taken by the King’s almoner, John Delabere.’

That will deflate the wretched man’s ego, thought Beaufort, but aloud he said: ‘Very well. Thank you for informing the Council of that fact, Master Moleyns. We are grateful to you.’ He turned back to the accused. ‘So, Magister Bolingbroke, these are very serious charges which have been made against you. The Council will have to deliberate this case with great care before deciding what’s to be done. So, for the moment, you must be returned to custody in the Tower where you will have ample time to ponder and repent your sins.’

Roger Bolingbroke made as though to open his mouth and make another denial, but appeared to think better of it. He turned quite meekly at Bartholomew Halley’s command and the two left the room with four guards following behind them.

‘We will have to make an example of him,’ said Kemp. ‘This kind of thing cannot be allowed. Everyone should see what happens to heretics like him.’

‘What have you in mind?’ asked Bishop Ainscough.

‘A public trial,’ said Kemp. ‘At St Paul’s Cross, where he will be given a chance to recant his heresies and renounce his sacrilege. It’s the only way.’

***

J
ohn Virley had attended mass at St Benet Hithe on Sunday morning and, on his way home past St Paul’s, he’d been intrigued to see the sheer numbers of people who were crowded excitedly around St Paul’s cross in the churchyard, certainly many more than would usually attend mass in the cathedral itself. He was aware of a droning voice which seemed to be preaching a sermon in the open air, based, if Virley was not mistaken, on the Book of Leviticus.

‘
But I have said unto you, Ye shall inherit their land and I will give it unto you to possess it
...’

Yes, Leviticus it was, thought Virley. Chapter twenty, if he wasn’t mistaken. He wondered why that text had been chosen.

‘
I am the Lord your God, which have separated you from other people
...’

Stretching his neck and standing on tiptoe, Virley strained to see over the heads of those who blocked his view and what he saw astounded him.

Next to the churchyard cross, a tall platform had been erected. On it stood a painted chair in the shape of a throne, a sword tipped with a copper image at each of its four corners. The man who sat on the chair wore a surplice and had a pair of spectacles perched on his long, beaky nose. On top of his head was a ludicrous paper crown. Tears ran down his cheeks and he was unable to staunch their flow since he was clasping a sword in one hand and a sceptre in the other. Grouped haphazardly around him were mirrors, bowls of water and several other curious objects.

At first, Virley couldn’t imagine what was going on, then he saw who else was taking part in this incredible pageant. One by one, he identified them. The man preaching the sermon appeared to be Bishop Low of Rochester. Then Virley recognised Robert Gilbert, Bishop of London, and William Aiscough, Bishop of Salisbury. He was fairly sure that the two men behind them were the Earls of Huntingdon and Northumberland and there was no mistaking the Mayor of London. The men with him were probably his aldermen, thought Virley.

But he certainly recognised the two men at the front of the group. They were among the most famous and familiar faces in the city of London. Standing next to Cardinal John Kemp of York was Cardinal Henry Beaufort. Surely, nearly all the members of the King’s Council were assembled here.

Virley elbowed the man standing next to him. ‘What’s all this about?’ he asked.

Just as the man was about to reply, Bishop Low reached verse twenty-seven of the text and raised his voice.

‘
A man also or a woman that hath a familiar spirit,
’ he intoned, ‘
shall surely be put to death: they shall stone them with stones, their blood shall be upon them.
’

There was a howl of anguish from the painted chair and gasps of horror from the crowd. So, that was it, thought Virley, a public recanting. The poor man was being made a fool of and accused of heresy and witchcraft with the crowd incited to abhorrence and hatred. And all in the name of the scriptures.

His gaze was riveted to the bizarre spectacle as the Bishop closed his Bible with an authoritative snap.

‘And do you, Magister Roger Bolingbroke, now confess your sins and recant your heretical beliefs?’ he asked. ‘And do you renounce your past involvement in the magical arts?’

‘Yes, yes,’ screamed Bolingbroke, ‘I believe nothing of heresy. I believe in the one true, the one eternal God. And I have not sinned. I never sinned. It was not of my doing!’ He collapsed back into the chair, sobbing.

Beaufort turned away in disgust. ‘Oh, take him back to the Tower,’ Virley heard him say.

The Tower! Just like everyone else in London, Virley had heard the rumours, but now he recognised the man who was sobbing under St Paul’s Cross. He had seen him with Margery Jourdemayne and the young girl at St Sepulchre’s.

The realisation that he was close enough to speak to Beaufort shook Virley, almost off his feet. Just a few yards away from him stood one of the most powerful men in the land, a man devoted to his King and known to be dedicated to ridding the church of malign influences. Cardinal Henry Beaufort had the power to send heretics and witches to the Tower, as he had just done with the pathetic, sobbing wretch in St Paul’s churchyard.

This was an opportunity not to be missed. The distinguished members of the Council might well be grateful for a witness statement from someone who could verify certain aspects of the case.

Virley began to push his way to the front of the crowd. The time had come to right an old wrong.

Tuesday July
25
^th
1441

––––––––

N
ormally, Edmund Kyrton discharged his duties with diligence, pleased at his promotion from Sacristan to Abbot following the death of Richard Harweden, proud of his new responsibilities as the head of the Abbey of Westminster. But he had to admit that his rather sophisticated predecessor had been far better at dealing with members of the royal family than he was ever likely to be and he was certainly not looking forward to his meeting with the Duchess of Gloucester this morning. So far, he’d had very little to do with her. What he did know about her had been gleaned from other people and, if what they said was true, she would be an intimidating woman.

As a deeply committed Benedictine, Abbot Kyrton had readily offered the Duchess sanctuary when she’d thrown herself on his mercy a week ago, but since then he’d shied away from having much to do with her while she made her temporary home in the sanctuary cell. Today however, he must face up to his responsibilities.

The Duchess was alone save for the presence of one tiring woman.

‘Good morning, Your Grace,’ he greeted her.

She gave him the ghost of a smile and nodded her head to acknowledge him.

‘Do you bring me news, Father Abbot?’ she asked.

‘I do,’ he said.

The Duchess Eleanor looked pale and tired. Deep shadows under her grey eyes gave her a haunted look. He noticed the tiring woman moving in to stand close behind her, as though to defend her mistress.

‘I trust you don’t mind the presence of my maid, Father?’ she asked. ‘I would prefer her to stay with me. She will help me to remember what you tell me.’

‘I have no objection to that,’ said the Abbot.

Despite the limitations of her accommodation, the Duchess Eleanor still wished to observe the social niceties and had asked Jenna to procure some sweetmeats to offer Kyrton or anyone else who might visit her. He waved away the pewter plate.

‘Thank you, no,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t much time, so I think I should begin immediately.’ He hesitated and took a deep breath. ‘Your Grace, I have been asked to tell you that this afternoon you are again summoned to appear at St Stephen’s to give account of yourself.’

‘Again?’

‘Yes, Your Grace. At the Royal Chapel. And ...’ he hesitated, ‘and, er, I understand that you will be required to answer a charge of conspiring to, er, to bring about the death of His Highness, King Henry.’

‘No!’ said the Duchess emphatically. ‘Absolutely not! I have already sworn before Archbishop Chichele that I only ever had the King’s welfare at heart. I swore on oath before all the bishops, archbishops, all those people who were questioning me yesterday, that I was concerned about the King’s health. That was all.’

‘That is not how it appears, Your Grace, and I’m afraid I also have to inform you that you are not the only person summoned to appear this afternoon.’

‘Who else? Tell me, Father Abbot, who else!’

‘Magister Bolingbroke, Your Grace.’

A loud wail escaped Eleanor and she seemed to withdraw into herself, her hands over her head. Jenna’s heart bled for her mistress and she plucked up the courage to speak.

‘I’m sorry, Father Abbot,’ she said quietly, ‘I know I have no right to interrupt you, but you can see Her Grace is still dreadfully distressed after her experience yesterday. Does she have to appear again quite so soon?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid so,’ said Abbot Kyrton, ‘and there’s nothing I can do about it. The decision is not of my making.’ Then, glancing at the distraught Eleanor, he added more kindly, ‘I’m afraid I can do nothing to help. Her Grace has been ordered to appear before the highest ecclesiastical court in the land so even I, as Abbot, cannot insist that she must remain in sanctuary at the Abbey.’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘Do what you can to comfort your mistress, but tell her the guards will be here at noon to accompany her to St Stephen’s. God bless you, my child,’ he said as he made to leave. Then he looked down at the Duchess Eleanor who still sat with head in her hands, the picture of despair.

‘God bless you both,’ he added.

Jenna did her best to help the Duchess appear self-possessed and dignified for her second appearance at St Stephen’s. Overwhelmed by the thought of what she faced, Eleanor occasionally seemed to sink into herself, so helping her dress and prepare to face another ordeal was rather like trying to dress a big rag doll. There was still half a bottle of Kitty’s headache remedy left but Jenna almost had to force it down her mistress’s throat. Thankfully, it had the desired effect and by the time the guard came to accompany them to St Stephen’s, Eleanor seemed much calmer.

Entering the chapel for the second time was just as awe-inspiring as it had been the previous day. Jenna had never seen such wall paintings, such altarpieces. Neither had she ever seen so many imposing ecclesiastical figures assembled in one place and they were all here again. She couldn’t have named them individually, but their croziers, their mitres and the sumptuousness of their robes marked them out as bishops, archbishops and clerics of the highest rank.

Eleanor knew them, though. There was the hated Cardinal Beaufort, her husband’s arch-enemy and his most outspoken critic. Cardinal Kemp was there, too, along with Archbishop Chichele. She liked Chichele: perhaps, today, he would be kind to her. Humphrey liked Chichele, too, but the others were all men her husband loathed and who probably loathed him equally. If only Humphrey was not away from home. If only he could be here to help her!

Bolingbroke was already on the witness stand, clutching the rail, his knuckles white. He had the look of a man who had buckled under the weight of accusation, defeated and bent. As Eleanor was brought into the room, Henry Beaufort turned and pointed towards her.

‘This is Her Grace, the Duchess of Gloucester,’ he said, before he turned back to address Bolingbroke again. ‘And is this the woman at whose bidding you claim that you and Southwell used the astrolabe to cast a horoscope?’

Bolingbroke hung his head and mumbled something.

‘Speak up, man! The court cannot hear your reply!’

‘Yes,’ said Bolingbroke, louder this time.

‘And for what purpose did she want you to cast a horoscope?

Bolingbroke fixed his gaze on the floor, at a point somewhere between himself and Eleanor. He would not look at her.

‘Her Grace said she was concerned about the health of His Highness the King.’

‘Ah, so this was the
King’s
horoscope, was it? I see.’ He waited several moments, rubbing his chin reflectively, then he said: ‘And what did you and Master Southwell learn about the state of the King’s health?’

‘That he might suffer a bout of illness later this year. No more than that.’

‘An illness, eh? And might that have been a fatal illness?’

‘We sincerely hoped not, my Lord, and we prayed diligently to that end.’

‘Very well. That is all for now, but do not imagine for one moment that we have finished with you. You may step down, but you will be called to face more questions – you may depend on it. We must get to the bottom of this. Take him away! And call the Duchess of Gloucester to the witness stand.’