The Witch of Eye (44 page)

‘Let her go,’ commanded Sir John and the wherryman let the Duchess’s arm fall to her side. ‘Her Grace is coming with us.’

Sir William Wolff turned towards Jenna. ‘And who are you?’ he asked. ‘Are you the Duchess’s maid?’

‘Yes, my Lord,’ she whispered, thoroughly frightened by the turn of events.

‘Then you will accompany us to the palace. Your mistress will be undertaking a journey tomorrow and will be in need of clothes, shoes and ... and, er, so on. Women’s things. You will pack them for her.’

‘A journey?’ Eleanor demanded. ‘A journey? Where to?’

This time it was Sir John Steward who spoke.

‘To Leeds Castle,’ he said.

***

T
here hadn’t been much sleep for either woman that night.

With two guards stationed outside the main door to the Gloucesters’ apartments in the palace, Jenna had spent several hours in her mistress’s dressing room, assembling every item of outerwear, underwear, hose and shoes, plus jewellery, cutlery, silver and plate she thought would be needed for Eleanor’s stay at Leeds Castle. Jenna had been told in no uncertain terms that she would not be accompanying her mistress to Kent: Her Grace’s every need would be met by a group of women chosen by the Earl of Suffolk’s wife, Alice de la Pole.

Eleanor herself had spent the hours of darkness on her knees at her
prie-dieu
, fervently praying for Humphrey’s return, alternately weeping, telling her rosary beads, and cursing her husband’s enemies then praying forgiveness for having done so. In her more lucid moments the Duchess knew she was facing harsh imprisonment. Jenna’s heart bled for her, but all she could think of was that, at last, she could return to Eybury Farm and William’s waiting arms.

The following morning, after initially feigning illness and refusing to leave the Abbey, the Duchess was callously ordered to make herself ready to leave for Kent immediately, no matter how ill she claimed to be. Then, following a tearful farewell to her maid, she was taken away by her captors in a noisy eruption of bellowed commands, whinnying horses, jangling harnesses and rumbling carriage wheels.

After the departure of the cavalcade, the silence had been almost deafening. Jenna, standing alone in the middle of the Duchess’s dressing room, was trying to come to terms with the turmoil of her emotions, an unfathomable mixture of elation and loss. She didn’t quite know what she felt. The moment had finally come when she could fly to William: she ached to see him. And yet, having lived with the Duchess for so long, she felt strangely unnerved by the fact that, suddenly, she was answerable to no one.

Dithering between wanting to leave for Eybury Farm immediately and her ingrained instinct to tidy up Her Grace’s apartment before she left, she wandered from room to room, folding and re-folding clothes, dusting some surfaces, trying to leave things as her mistress would want to find them on her return.

Indecision was her undoing. She hadn’t expected to be disturbed so when the knock thundered on the door, she jumped out of her skin.

‘Open, in the name of Her Grace the Countess of Suffolk!’

Jenna knew of Alice de la Pole’s reputation as a manipulative, hard-hearted woman. The Duchess had hated Alice as much as she hated her husband the Earl of Suffolk. What could she possibly want?

Nervously, Jenna opened the door to admit the Countess of Suffolk, a tall, intimidating woman in her late thirties, her back ramrod-straight, her long, narrow face a mask of disapproval. Jenna curtsied deeply.

‘Were you the Duchess of Gloucester’s maid?’ The question was direct, without preamble.

‘I am, Your Grace,’ answered Jenna, straightening up.

‘You were,’ corrected the Countess. ‘You are no longer in her employ. You were her maid. You are her maid no longer.’

‘Your Grace?’

‘You have been dismissed.’

‘Oh. Er, yes, Your Grace.’

‘So what will you do henceforward, eh?’

‘I ... I don’t rightly know, Your Grace. Perhaps ... perhaps I will be able to return to my previous employment at the Monastery farm.’

‘The Manor of Eye?’

‘Yes, Your Grace.’

‘So, it’s true. I was told you worked at the Manor of Eye before you came here to the palace to work for the Duchess of Gloucester. And I understand she took you on immediately as her maid, with no training. That is highly unusual. Is that the case?’

‘Yes, Your Grace. I worked at the Manor of Eye for some two years, in the dairy and ... er, and elsewhere on the farm.’

‘It’s as I thought. You are in league with the Jourdemayne woman.’

‘In league ... Your Grace? What do you mean in league?’

‘I mean exactly what I say. You know the woman Jourdemayne. You can’t deny that?’

‘No, Your Grace. I do know Mistress Jourdemayne.’

‘
Mistress
Jourdemayne,’ the Countess snarled, her voice heavy with sarcasm. ‘
Mistress
, indeed! The woman is a witch. It has been proven once: it will be proven again. And you knew, didn’t you, that she and the Duchess of Gloucester were as thick as thieves, fellow conspirators.’

Alice de la Pole was slowly circling Jenna as she spoke, poking at her chest and her arms with a bony forefinger. Jenna was very frightened though she stood her ground.

‘You knew,’ the Countess continued, ‘that the Witch of Eye practised the black arts, sorcery, necromancy, magic in all its vile forms. Did you ever perform magic with her? Did you? Did you, eh? Answer me!’

‘No, no, Your Grace. I know nothing of that.’

‘Do you deny that you ever saw the Hand of Glory?’

‘The what, Your Grace? The hand of ... of what?’

‘Don’t pretend. Witches love the Hand of Glory, the mandrake root. They revel in it, they burn candles in it. Don’t deny that the witch grew mandrake in her physic garden. It’s widely known she had one.’

Jenna didn’t know whether she was expected to say something. She remained silent as the onslaught continued.

‘Well, did she or did she not have a physic garden?’

‘Yes ... yes, she did.’

‘And did she grow mandrake in it?’

‘She might have done, to aid sleep, it is said to be effective...’

‘And did you hear the root scream and groan when she pulled it from the ground? Did you? Well, did you?’

‘No ... the Mistress grew all manner of things in her physic garden, borage, marjoram, heartsease ... all the usual herbs.’

‘So, you’re denying that she grew it?’

‘Yes. No ... I don’t know ... she might have. No, I don’t think so. No ... I don’t know.’

Alice de la Pole turned away and beckoned two men into the room. Jenna had seen them before and remembered that she had been advised to avoid them at all costs when they’d been pointed out to her as the Earl of Suffolk’s notorious henchmen, Sir Thomas Tuddenham and John Heydon. They took up positions on either side of the Countess as she pointed at Jenna.

‘This woman is a known associate of the Witch of Eye. Accompany her to the Westminster steps. There is a barge moored there which is bound for the watergate entrance to the Tower. See her to the gangplank and make sure she is taken aboard. She is never to be admitted to the Palace of Westminster ever again. Not under any circumstances; not unless she is brought here under armed guard for further questioning.’

To Jenna she said, ‘You will be taken to the Tower and you will remain there and repent your sins while you hold yourself in readiness for the Court hearing into the activities of the Duchess of Gloucester and her associates. As a known associate of the Witch of Eye, you are a key witness in the proceedings. You will stay in the Tower until you are called. And rest assured – you
will
be called.’

October 1441

––––––––

‘I
’ve thought a great deal about it,’ the Archbishop said, ‘and I’ve come to the conclusion that, with the best will in the world, I cannot go through with this trial.’

The two old men had known one another for many, many years. In some ways then, it came as no surprise to Cardinal Beaufort to hear Archbishop Chichele’s decision.

‘Can I not persuade you?’

‘No, really, you cannot. I’m tired, Henry. I passed my allotted Biblical lifespan nearly nine years ago. I’m an old, old man. I should be in my bed, slobbering milksop down my nightshirt, not tottering around with this wretched stick – I cannot walk without it.’

Beaufort nodded in sympathy. Though he was well over ten years younger than the Archbishop, he often wished he had no need to outwit and outstay men two decades younger than himself. They both sat quietly for a moment, staring into the fire-basket in the hearth where, with the approach of yet another winter, a pile of crackling logs gave out a welcome warmth for old bones.

‘I’d like to think,’ said Beaufort, ‘that you could manage one more attempt to stamp out heresy once and for all, because we have so very nearly succeeded, you and I. We have both given a lifetime of devotion to the Church and to the Crown, and God only knows how hard we’ve both worked to eliminate the heretics and the Lollards from our midst.’

‘Believe me,’ Chichele said, ‘I have not taken this decision lightly. Henry, consider if you will, that I have served under three monarchs – our young King, his father and his grandfather before him.’

‘Then, surely –’

‘No, let me finish. The reason I have made this decision is because I have become very close to the House of Lancaster and I have also come to know the immediate families of each sovereign. During the last year or so, I have worked very closely with Humphrey of Gloucester.’

Beaufort’s jaw clenched involuntarily at the mention of his nephew’s name but his face gave nothing away. Archbishop Chichele continued his explanation.

‘Gloucester and the King are both dedicated to the concept of learning. The Duke has been telling me about some exciting developments which will enable the printing of books by mechanical means. He is keen to see more and more people being encouraged to read, to acquire an education. That is why he has donated much of his own personal collection of books to the university library at Oxford.’

‘Generous of him,’ observed Beaufort, with a slight curl of his lip.

The Archbishop didn’t appear to notice the sarcasm and went on. ‘I share his passion. As you know, the King honoured me with an invitation to join with him in establishing a new constituent college of the university at Cambridge. Our vision is for a foundation which will not only enlighten the lawyers and theologians of the future, but will also commemorate those brave men who have fallen in battle in France.’

‘Ah,’ Beaufort sighed, ‘if only we could guarantee that there would be no more English deaths in that wretched country. I want to see us withdraw.’

‘Perhaps, now that the Duke of Orléans is to be returned to his homeland, things will change for the better. When are the indentures to be signed, Henry? Do you know?’

‘They are in the course of preparation, from what I understand. Orléans will be required to give certain undertakings before he sets sail for France, of course.’

‘Of course. That’s only to be expected. But I would hate to upset the delicate political balance at this precise moment. That’s why I cannot sit in judgement of the Duchess of Gloucester. I am too well-known as a friend of her husband.’

It all made perfect sense to Henry Beaufort. If only he himself could step down. He was tired, too, but he knew he must dig out this canker in the royal household, this taint of witchcraft and heresy. It was dangerously close to the throne and he would do anything in the world to protect the Lancaster dynasty. He had devoted his life to it.

The frightful Cobham hussy and her associates had to be called to account for their behaviour. It was treason, pure and simple, treason against their King. It must be treated as such and dealt with. And it would reflect badly on his egotistical nephew, too – enough to effectively remove him from the Council. Beaufort offered up a silent prayer of gratitude that Charles of Orléans would be on his way back to France very soon.

***

U
sing the south entrance into the Tower of London, John Virley ran the gauntlet of intimidating, heavily armed guards who could have refused him entry on a whim. But several of them knew him as the man who often made deliveries to the office of the Lieutenant of the Tower, Sir Robert Scott, and they greeted him cheerfully enough.

The Tower was a daunting place at the best of times, but with a biting easterly wind gusting up the Thames, it was enough to strike terror into the strongest criminal heart. High, forbidding walls of grey Kentish rag-stone rose sheer towards Heaven, relieved only by arrow-slits for windows. From within, the croaking calls of ravens seemed to bode nothing but evil.

It seemed entirely appropriate to Virley that the Witch of Eye was now incarcerated within this prison, probably with several other women, because there had been a witch-hunt of alarming proportions in recent weeks. The authorities were determined to rid London of any women who might be suspected of indulging in sorcerous activity. The Sheriff’s men patrolled the streets, the markets and the taverns, and several perfectly innocent women had been arrested and locked up on the merest suspicion of having practised the black arts.

This time the Witch would get her just deserts, Virley was sure of that. Her punishment was long overdue and she could contemplate her destiny from the squalid confinement of her cell within this grim prison.

Virley was visiting Thomas Southwell. He had seen him three times in recent weeks. He’d been with William Woodham the first time but, since then, Virley had found his own way into the Tower and had become Southwell’s only visitor – not that the man showed him any gratitude.

No longer the rotund, strutting, pompous figure of old, Southwell spent his days sitting on a bench in the cell he shared with two other prisoners, a murderer and a cutpurse. Iron manacles hanging on the wall were a reminder to the inmates that they could be restrained while unbearable pain was inflicted upon them, if their captors so wished.

The first time Southwell saw his visitor, his expression barely changed. Virley wondered whether he remembered him at all.