The Secret Diary of Eleanor Cobham (13 page)

He confessed he had barely been able to control his men, who were hungry and ill-disciplined. They began sacking and burning villages and towns, looting anything of value, raping women and murdering prisoners as they went without mercy. Then, when they reached St Omer, they had nearly been overwhelmed by the forces defending the town. I was simply relieved to have him back safe in England and he confessed that he never wished to lead such an army again.

It was another bright morning on my walk so I asked to be allowed again to climb the high castle ramparts to have a view of the green fields of Anglesey and the deeper blue-green Irish Sea. I watched a
pair of white swans. They seem to be building a nest against the edge of the moat which is far too wide and deep for me to cross, other than by the gatehouse. I looked again for the wooden bridge to the north-west. The narrow path through the fields leads to a stone wall with an unguarded gate. In the far distance the mournful tolling of a bell carries in the still morning air and I wonder if the path would be the way to the friary, so I must find a way to raise the matter with the priest when he next comes to see me.

One guard was ordered to follow me to the top and I recognised him as the man who
reminded me a little of my son, Arthur. He has the same stocky build and unruly dark hair, with eyes that seem a little knowing for one so young. An idea formed in my mind that of all the men who guard me, this
young soldier was the most likely to be able to help me.
I recall how he stands apart from the other local men, as I have heard him speaking in English, rather than the rapid Welsh dialect I cannot understand.

I need more ink and parchment to work on my secret journal and know I cannot rely on the priest, who hasn’t visited me since February. William Bulkeley has forbidden me to have anything that could be used to write letters, yet I decided to risk asking the young guard to help me, as I have little to lose. He looked at me, his face impassive as he seemed to be considering my request. My plan hung in the balance for that moment, and then he scowled at me and said to do so would risk his job. He ordered me to climb back down from the parapet.

As I was about to do so, he seemed to reconsider and said he would offer a trade. He would bring me some ink if I would show him how to read and write his name. I told him I would be happy to but he must keep our arrangement secret. He agreed, and feeling pleased with myself for the first time I can remember, we climbed down to the inner ward as the horses are being taken from their stables for exercise. I returned to my room in good spirits, daydreaming about
riding one of the horses at the gallop out through the south gatehouse to freedom.

Alea iacta est

I woke from a vivid dream that I was back at Bella Court when my children were small. I was happy then, with everything I could wish for. My husband was home safe and my little son Arthur was already beginning to look like his father, with the same determination and interest in learning. I like to think my daughter Antigone was more like me, adventurous and already charming everyone she met. I remember how she would shriek with delight when Humphrey would sometimes sweep her high off the ground and hold her above his head.

My husband returned from Flanders a changed man. Although he had to make occasional visits to Calais, he never spoke of war again and seemed finally content with our life in London. Our house was filled with clever and creative people, scholars and philosophers, who visited for discussions and debates. Humphrey also championed the merchant class of London, who had amassed great wealth through the wool trade and the prosperous new businesses of banking and commerce. This proved to be an astute move, positioning him as an influential intermediary between those who had inherited wealth and the newly wealthy, building his reputation both in parliament and in business.

Almost replacing the Royal Court, which had become sombre and formal under our pious young king, Bella Court had become the place for the nobility to be seen, the social centre of London. We would often hold banquets in the great hall, with music and entertainers of every kind. Humphrey had a particular liking for Italian music. Musicians and minstrels travelled from as far away as Florence and Milan to play for us. These concerts became the talk of London, so each time we tried to make them a grander spectacle, with more musicians and even choirs singing in our gallery.

The greatest banquet held at Bella Court was for our daughter Antigone’s wedding. Many potential suitors had come and gone, now she was fifteen years old and grown into a beautiful young woman. None were good enough for me, of course, and Humphrey would remind anyone who cared to listen that his daughter could only marry an earl. Then he found a husband for her. Henry Grey, 2nd Earl of Tankerville and
Lord of Powys
was handsome, wealthy and charming. Nine years older than Antigone, his father Sir John Grey fought in Humphrey’s retinue at Agincourt, being rewarded with vast estates in Normandy and the post of Captain of Harfleur. Henry inherited his fortune and estates in Normandy and Wales when Sir John was killed at the Battle of Baugé.

Antigone’s wedding was in great contrast to my own. After the formal ceremony in Westminster we sailed down the Thames to Bella Court in the duke’s gilded barge to one of the finest banquets seen in London for many years. The wedding guests were served with wild boar and venison, with the finest sweet wines from the Levant, and the centrepiece of the banquet was an enormous sugar sculpture of the figure of Venus, the Roman goddess of love, beauty, fertility and prosperity, emerging from the sea. As my daughter left for her new home at Powys Castle, Earl Henry’s mansion on the Welsh Border, Humphrey took my hand and reminded me that we could wish no better future for her.

My husband returned to his love of learning once life returned to normal, inviting scholars and philosophers to Bella Court for long discussions and debates. It was at about this time that I was introduced to Thomas Southwell. A
n eminent doctor of medicine
and the Canon of St Stephen’s Chapel in Westminster, he was a close friend of Roger Bolingbroke, who shared his interest in astrology and was knowledgeable about the planets and constellations.

Thomas Southwell was an extremely bright, quietly-spoken and likeable man, always impeccably dressed, with an interesting opinion on everything, so he soon became my personal
physician
,
guide and tutor in the esoteric arts. His one failing was to rarely appreciate the witty remarks of his friend Roger Bolingbroke, who would amusingly often take advantage of this fact. Most interestingly for me, he was always ready to discuss such questions as how the universe came to exist, how it operates and man's place within it. He was also exploring how religion could coexist with the learning and knowledge that had been supressed over the ages.

My curiosity about the magical arts had begun with seeing how Margery Jourdemayne could cure most ailments with her herbs and potions, and the spark that had been kindled by the passion of Friar Randolph now took another turn. My new companions had made a study of a rare and secret handbook Humphrey had procured from astrologers in Germany. I was intrigued at their plan to undertake certain ‘experiments’ to test the truth of the ancient writings.

The book looked disappointingly ordinary when they showed it to me, with a plain brown leather cover, several torn and missing pages and few illustrations. The secret book did not seem to have great age or to have been looked after particularly well. It contained what claimed to be faithful copies of secret astrological and occult arts from ancient times, much of it written in finely printed Latin, with some in Italian. The front part of the book was missing, leaving no details of its author, although some clue to the book’s provenance came from notes in the margins by a Johannes Hartleib, who proved to be a counsellor and advisor to the Duke of Bavaria. These notes were cryptic and in old Germanic script, which Roger Bolingbroke was fortunately able to translate for us.

One of the experiments was supposed to help with gaining favour – and there was one person whose favour I needed more than any other, the young King Henry VI. Now fifteen years old, he was always polite to me, yet I knew it was because my husband had been Regent for as long as he could remember. In truth I suspected his mind had been turned against me by his mother. I had not forgotten that Queen Catherine, a woman of my own age, was Countess Jacqueline’s sister-in-law through her first marriage to the Duke of Touraine, also of the House of Valois. They were close, and I was there when Jacqueline had been godmother to her son, holding the infant king at the font.

I remember it was by a messenger from Queen Catherine that my husband learned Countess Jacqueline had died of consumption, still childless. He took it badly and became drunk, cursing the day he ever met her, swearing that with Jacqueline's death Burgundian sovereignty in the Netherlands was assured, then admitting he had once loved her. I felt a powerful sense of guilt, as the countess had treated me well, given me her trust and shared her secrets with me, yet I had repaid her so badly. Her tearful face as we bid farewell still haunts me to this day.

I knew my place at court would never be secure without the favour of the king. Worse still, the king’s mother and others who resented how I took the place of Countess Jacqueline, would now, with her death, do all within their power to discredit me in the king’s eyes. I thought if the experiment from the secret book proved to work, it could do me great good. If it failed no harm would be done to anyone. We would have to ensure the utmost secrecy, even from my husband, as we could not risk his enemies, or mine, ever learning of our experiment.

We met in the duke’s library during one of the duke’s regular visits to Calais. Roger Bolingbroke, having made certain we could not be overheard, read aloud from the German book, translating as he went, with Thomas Southwell and myself asking questions to make sure we understood the process correctly. The invocation was not a complicated one, although it required me to write a magical Latin formula on virgin parchment in the blood of a white dove Thomas Southwell had procured for the purpose. I took a fresh quill and carefully wrote the secret words in a square, while wishing for the grace and love of the king:

S A T O R

A R E P O

T E N E T

O P E R A

R O T A S

Although I had seen him several times, I heard no more from the young guard regarding our clandestine arrangement for over a week, then one evening the bolt on my door slid back and he was standing there alone, a serious look on his face. He looked behind him to confirm we could not be overheard and produced a fold of parchment from his tunic. He reached inside again and handed me a small flask, which he said contained black ink of good quality, and he had been able to keep it a secret from the other guards, as I had asked.

He had to come in to my room to see what I was writing, so for the first time my door was left unbolted, a small but important step in my escape plan. Spreading out a sheet of the parchment on my small table, I asked the young guard’s name. He told me it was Richard Hook, so I tested the ink with my quill and wrote the letter ‘R’, then handed it to him, asking him to copy it as well as he could. His hand was a little unsteady but he coped well enough, so I then wrote the rest of his name, showing him how to join each letter and he copied it out twice. He looked pleased with the result, so I presented it to him to keep, telling him I would be happy to teach him more, if he wished.

I asked him to tell me how he had come to be at Beaumaris Castle as a guard. He smiled and said he was the third son of a farmer, so could not expect to inherit and had always known he must make his own way in the world. He had travelled from his family home in England to Wales, taking casual labouring work, eventually reaching the island of Anglesey, seeking better regular work. He said he found the routine of a castle guard an easy if unrewarding life, as I was currently the only prisoner. He looked uncomfortable and I knew what it was he wanted to ask me. Was I really a witch, as he had been told?

I explained as simply as I could how I had been used by my husband’s enemies to remove him from power. I didn’t mention how he reminds me of my son or that he is the only one of my guards who treats me with any measure of respect. If they really believed I was a witch, guilty of treason against the king, I asked him, how was it that I am simply held prisoner in Beaumaris Castle, instead of being burned at the stake? He looked a little reassured at this and I realised how important it was that he should believe me.

I lay awake in the darkness after young Richard Hook had left, unable to sleep, his question troubling me. I tried to remember happier times and recalled the excitement on hearing that my daughter Antigone had given us a grandson, Richard. When she was well enough to travel she brought him for us to see. I held this strong healthy boy, my grandson, just as I had held my Arthur when he was a baby, and wondered where all those years had gone.