The Witch of Eye (8 page)

‘Oh,’ said William, remembering suddenly, ‘talking of hens and geese, I meant to ask you whether we had a nice fat goose to send over to the manor house? Abbot Harweden likes to stay at La Neyte for a few days after the day of Obligation and we always send over a Michaelmas goose for him. I’m afraid it slipped my mind this year, with being so busy.’

‘I fattened up a few stubble geese after the harvest, master, as it happens. So I’ll pick out the best of them for him. Just as long as you don’t ask me to kill it.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said William, ‘I’ll do that.’

‘It should taste good with an apple stuffing. I’ll send a bag of apples over to the Manor with the bird. A bunch of sage, too, and some onions.’

‘Don’t,’ said William, laughing. ‘You’re making me feel hungry and there’s an hour to go before dinner!’

‘I’m sorry, master. I didn’t mean to do that.’

She had almost slipped back into the old ways, planning a meal, thinking about cooking for a man and enjoying the prospect of doing so. She must guard against that, however much the thought pleased her.

***

W
ith his Michaelmas duties discharged for another year, Abbot Harweden was delighted to spend a few days relaxing in the manor house on the Eye estate. La Neyte was very much more comfortable and luxurious than his accommodation in the Westminster monastery, or in any other property where the monks had invested their wealth. It gave him the best of both worlds, since it offered close proximity to the monastery combined with all the advantages of a quiet country retreat. An elegant, moated manor house, it boasted fine gardens, an orchard and a well-stocked fish pond. A small permanent staff saw to his worldly needs and the manor house itself was less than half a mile from the Thames. A fast wherry could whisk him the short distance downriver to the Westminster steps in next to no time, which meant he could return to his monastic duties within an hour, should the need arise.

His neighbours at La Neyte were the tenant-farmer William Jourdemayne and his wife who lived only a few hundred yards away at Eybury Farm. They seemed a quiet couple, tending to keep themselves to themselves except when there was some aspect of farm business to be discussed or the quarterly accounts were to be presented for his inspection. Then, at Michaelmas, they would spend a day together going over the figures for the whole year.

It was also a Michaelmas tradition that Abbot Harweden, as titular head of the Manor of Eye-next-Westminster, was presented with a nicely fattened goose for the midday dinner.

Today, he had invited a guest to join him. His friendship with Thomas Southwell, a Canon of Westminster and Rector of St Stephen’s Royal Chapel, was the result of many years in the service of the church and of the royal family. The two often ate companionably together.

‘This goose is excellent, Richard,’ said Thomas Southwell between mouthfuls.

‘I’m glad you’re enjoying it,’ said Abbot Harweden. ‘There are great advantages in having a stock farm attached to the monastery. One never has an empty trencher and we don’t lack for butter or cheese. Or milk, of course. But it’s many a long year since I’ve had a Michaelmas goose as good as this one.’

‘What is your tenant like? What’s-his-name, Jourdemayne, the stockman. Is he good?’

‘Seems a very capable fellow, I must say. He manages the farm extremely well, keeps the stock in good shape. He has even balanced the books for this quarter, though his book-keeping isn’t always perfect.’

‘A man of many parts!’

‘Indeed. I had my concerns about his paperwork, as I say, but he seems to have found someone to help him with that. The profits on our surplus produce run satisfyingly high and the needs of the monastery are amply met. The farm provisions the kitchen here at La Neyte, too. Why do you ask?’

‘Because I met Jourdemayne’s wife not so long ago,’ said Southwell casually, breaking off a piece of bread from the loaf on a board between them. ‘She’s not in the first flush of youth, but she’s a fine-looking woman.’

‘You’re not meant to notice things like that, Thomas,’ the Abbot rebuked him gently with a smile. ‘You’re a man of the cloth.’

Southwell tried his best to look pious. ‘Quite so. Her looks were a matter of complete indifference to me, of course. But she does seem very intelligent for a farmer’s wife.’

‘She’s a clever woman,’ said Abbot Harweden, ‘and no mistake. She’s as shrewd and clever as any wise woman I’ve ever come across.’

‘A wise woman, eh? Ever made use of her services?’

‘No. Well, not in any official capacity, of course, but she was ... er, able to help me with a ... shall we say ... a certain painful embarrassment a year or so ago. She sold me an unguent of lesser celandine ... pilewort, as she called it. It did the trick. I still use it occasionally when the need arises, and she keeps me supplied.’

‘Painful things, piles,’ observed Southwell, soaking up the last morsels of goose gravy on his platter with the remaining bread. ‘Pilewort’s the best thing for them. I always prescribe it.’

Abbot Harweden grimaced and nodded in agreement. ‘Apart from that, I hardly ever see her. So, tell me, where did you meet her?’

Thomas Southwell took a long draught of wine then set his goblet down on the table. ‘She was among some ladies in attendance upon the Duchess of Gloucester. I was waiting to see Her Grace who wished to consult me on a small medical matter.’ Southwell took an inflated pride in his role as personal physician to the Duke and Duchess. ‘Of course, I was able to give Her Grace the correct advice. And she was very grateful,’ he added, nodding his head in affirmation of his statement.

‘Is there any pie in which you do not have a finger, Thomas?’

‘The more pies, the merrier,’ Southwell replied, smiling. He was a man comfortably full in his clothes who appreciated the fact that the Abbot kept a good table.

‘Well, there’s a pie to follow this,’ said Abbot Harweden, ‘a sweet one, of apples and blackberries with honey. But do go on, Thomas. Why was Margery Jourdemayne in attendance on the Duchess?’

‘She wasn’t,’ said Southwell, ‘she was in an ante-room, showing her wares to some of the ladies of Her Grace’s household. Gentlemen, too.’

‘And were you tempted to buy anything?’

‘Indeed not! I went about my own business and I minded it, too!’

‘So why should you be so interested in Mistress Jourdemayne and her abilities?’

‘Because Her Grace has been troubled by a painful tooth but claims to have derived great benefit from Mistress Jourdemayne’s tincture of myrrh, implying that it was rather more efficacious than my own tincture.’ The Abbot hid a smile as Canon Southwell went on. ‘As far as I can see, there’s no evidence of a worm in the tooth itself but, of course, I like to explore every avenue in finding new ways of advising the Duchess on matters pertaining to her health. I thought there might be areas in which the Jourdemayne woman and I could pool our knowledge to Her Grace’s advantage.’

‘Well, I suppose it’s possible,’ the Abbot said, sounding doubtful. ‘But be careful. I should warn you that she got two clerics into trouble some years ago.’

Canon Southwell raised his eyebrows in a query. ‘Really? In what way?’

‘By getting ideas above her station,’ Abbot Harweden replied. ‘She spent more time than she should have consorting with a friar of the Holy Cross and a man by the name of John Virley. He was one of our monastery clerks at the time, which is why I remember the case.’

‘Virley?’ said Southwell. ‘I believe I know him. Isn’t he the one who supplies the scriptorium with vellum and inks and so on?’

‘Yes, that’s the man. Of course,’ the Abbot went on, enjoying the opportunity to impart a titbit of gossip, ‘both men should both have known better. If they hadn’t encouraged her, they wouldn’t have been arrested for associating with her. That’s why they spent a whole winter in prison.’

Southwell was agog with interest. ‘Prison! But, surely they would have known she had a reputation as a wise woman?’

‘Perhaps they did,’ the Abbot said with a shrug. ‘But Mistress Jourdemayne must have flattered her way into their company, to learn from them in order to improve the products she sells to the ladies of the court. She’s an ambitious woman.’

Canon Southwell, himself more ambitious than most, was quiet for a moment. The Abbot glanced at him. ‘Thomas, do have a little more of this excellent goose,’ he said.

Southwell’s face brightened. ‘Thank you, Richard, I will. Indeed,’ he added, picking up his knife, ‘I thought you would never ask!’

***

T
he pale sunshine of early autumn lingered over the Westminster countryside for several more days: plump blackberries still dotted the hedgerows, sloes had ripened to a cloudy blue on the blackthorn and there was little sign of the winter to come. A distant curlew called plaintively from the river as Margery, on her way to the palace to attend her most important client, made her way along the Willow Walk which skirted La Neyte, then followed the path alongside the stream for the short distance down to the Thames. If she ignored the whistles and catcalls from the wherrymen in their boats, it would be pleasant enough to walk along the river bank on a day like this.

She put her heavy basket down for a moment, slipped off her cloak and draped it over her arm. There was nothing to be gained by rushing and getting too hot: looking cool and calm was part of Margery’s game and it would never do to appear otherwise to anyone she might encounter, be they wherrymen, royal household servants or courtiers. Wiping her face with her kerchief, she took a deep breath before picking up her basket and resuming her walk towards the river and thence to the palace.

She expected to find the Duchess Eleanor languishing in her bower, bemoaning the unseasonal warmth or some imagined malady, or demanding to try some new lotion or perfume. So Margery was surprised to be shown into an ante-room by a footman whom she didn’t know and told to wait until she was called. This was highly unusual since she made it her business to be on friendly terms with most of the royal servants, even managing to smile when they occasionally called her Madge, a name she loathed. Whereas she would normally be ushered through to see her client almost immediately, today she was kept waiting for the better part of an hour while footsteps came and went and voices were raised in the next room. Despite straining her ears, she was not quite able to hear what was being said.

At last, the doors swung open and Margery was bidden to enter. The Duchess of Gloucester was alone, standing in the centre of the room, an elegant figure in a gown of blue samite, her dark hair caught up in jewelled cauls on either side of her pale face. Clasping and unclasping her hands, she was clearly agitated.

‘Margery! Where have you been?’ she demanded.

‘I came as soon as I received your message, Your Grace, but I was told to wait until you were ready to see me.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said the Duchess, nodding impatiently. ‘My Lord Duke was here. He has just received some ... some ... news.’ She paused for a moment. Margery thought she looked stunned, surprised, as though someone had slapped her.

‘I trust it was nothing untoward, Your Grace?’

‘I’m afraid it was. It ... it wasn’t exactly unexpected, but it has altered things quite considerably.’

Eleanor of Gloucester stood with her eyes closed, trying to compose herself. Margery waited: it wasn’t her place to ask any further questions. The Duchess started shaking her head as though to ward off a flying insect before opening her eyes and looking at Margery, who raised her eyebrows in an unspoken enquiry.

‘Yes, it was bad news, I’m afraid ... for my husband ... his brother, John of Bedford, has died. News has just come through from France.’

‘I’m very sorry to hear that, Your Grace. Please allow me to express my sympathy.’

‘Thank you.’

‘His Grace the Duke of Bedford was your husband’s older brother, was he not?’

‘He was, yes, a year older than my husband.’

‘Was it sudden, Your Grace?’

‘Er, no. John had been ill, we knew that. But it has still come as quite a shock for my husband. For both of us, of course.’

‘Yes, Your Grace, I’m sure it must have. If I might ring for some hot water, I could make you an infusion of camomile and lemon balm. It will help to calm you.’ Margery opened her medicine coffer, taking out two small linen bags of herbs which were packed in beside the bottles of tooth tincture – but the Duchess seemed to have forgotten all about her toothache. She ignored Margery’s suggestion and began pacing up and down again.

‘There will be a memorial of some kind here at Westminster,’ she said, ‘the monks will arrange all that. No doubt Cardinal Beaufort will insist on conducting the memorial service, it would be typical of him to want to play the grieving uncle. But the funeral has already taken place in the cathedral at Rouen. A very grand affair, by all accounts.’

‘I’m sure that is only right and proper, Your Grace,’ said Margery. ‘As Regent of France the Duke of Bedford must surely have been given a funeral fit for a king. I understand he was very highly thought of.’ She was aware that the Duchess Eleanor had stopped her pacing up and down and was now standing very still.

‘Margery!’

Margery looked up from her medicine coffer, saying nothing.

‘Margery!’ the Duchess said a second time. ‘You know what this means, don’t you?’

Margery did not reply. She knew exactly what it meant, but she also knew the simple statement had to come from her client, not from her. She waited.

Eleanor raised her hand to her mouth, her fist clenched, trying to stop her lower lip from trembling.

‘It means, Margery, that the Duke – my husband – is now next in line to the throne. Now that his older brother has died, my husband is the King’s heir.’ She spoke very slowly, sounding calm, but clearly needing to keep a lid on feelings that were simmering perilously, threatening to come to the boil.

Margery seemed to be expected to say something. ‘And should anything happen to His Highness the King ... Heaven forfend, of course,’ she said, crossing herself hurriedly, ‘your husband, His Grace the Duke, would ... would make a very fine king – he would be wise, and just – and if I may be so bold as to say so, Your Grace, you would make him a fitting consort.’