The Secret Diary of Eleanor Cobham (20 page)

I knew this was all Cardinal Henry Beaufort’s work. He had cleverly distanced himself from this commission yet controlled it through Lord Cromwell. A lay commission would be able to impose the death sentence on my friends and would have done the same to me. Not for the first time I realised how fortunate I was that only an ecumenical court could try me.

It is now almost Christmas in Beaumaris and I am pleased to have had a visit from Lady Ellen, who brought me a gift of a bottle of red wine mulled with precious aromatic spices. The news from London is that the queen is still not with child. Ellen hinted at rumours that the queen is barren and the king is incapable of begetting a new and future king. She well knows such talk could be seen as treason.

I warm a little of the mulled wine in a cup by my hearth and one sip takes me right back to happy times at Bella Court. Then I remember how the Queen of England, Margaret of Anjou, always planned to steal my palace at Greenwich from me and my husband. First she removed me, so I could no longer keep my husband safe from her henchman, the Duke of Suffolk. She had tricked Duke Humphrey and somehow ended his life, as well as that of my precious son, for I know he is dead. Alone in my room I raise my cup of wine and curse the health of the queen and any sons she may one day bear.

Such bitterness had its roots in the long wait as September turned to October at Leeds Castle. The leaves were falling from the trees yet still there was no news from London. It was as if we were cut off from the world, surrounded by our placid lake. I passed the time with my embroidery and learning to play simple tunes on a lute I found in the corner of one of my rooms. It was an old, well-crafted instrument with a gentle and sweet tone. I wondered who once owned and played it in the same room I did now. As a child I learned to play with somewhat basic technique, realising it would take a lifetime to truly master the instrument. Now I had all the time in the world. More than I needed.

My lute became my favourite pastime and my skill improved a little. I was tuning the lute one cold October day when the door opened to reveal the constable of the castle, Sir John Steward. I could see straight away that he was not his usual charming self. Guards followed on each side of him as he entered my room, as if he expected me to attack him. I set the lute to one side and stood, the air between us tense. I braced myself for the bad news I had been dreading those long weeks ever since he had informed me of the royal commission.

Sir John looked serious as he told me my associates Roger
Bolingbroke and Thomas Southwell had been indicted of sorcery and treason. They had been found guilty of using magical figures and invoking demons and evil spirits to anticipate when the king should die. His face was grim. He said they confessed that I encouraged them in this and promised gifts in return. I was to prepare myself for my return to London to appear before the Council at Westminster. Without further discussion he turned and closed the door behind him, leaving me to realise one more chapter in my life was coming to an end.

Veritas vos liberabit

A new year dawns and at last a letter has arrived from my daughter Antigone in France. It was delivered by Sir William
Bulkeley in person when he came to see that I am well. He apologised that the letter had been unsealed, explaining he had to read it under orders from his superior, the Constable of Beaumaris, Sir William Beauchamp. For the first time I saw the trace of a smile from my jailer as he clearly knew how much this simple fold of parchment would mean to me.

I thanked him and as soon as he had gone I read the letter quickly, then slowly and more carefully, hardly able to believe its contents. My daughter and her children had made the long sea crossing from Portsmouth to the harbour of Honfleur in Normandy. When they reached the village of Tancarville, on the banks of the River Seine, they found her late husband’s chateau and estate had been allowed to become too run down to be habitable. Undaunted, they travelled to Paris, where she had met a handsome cavalier, the master of the king’s horse, named Jean d'Amancy, whom she intended to marry.

Antigone wrote that her future husband was a good, honest gentleman, well respected with excellent prospects, who hoped one day to become the French Ambassador to Venice. He had a fine house in Paris and more than enough money for their needs. Most importantly, he wished to marry her not because of who her father was, for her title or fortune. It was that rarest and best of reasons—a love match.

My husband would have been aghast at the thought of his daughter marrying a Frenchman, an alliance utterly against his policy and all he had fought for. Worse still, her intended husband, a servant in the household of King Charles VII of France, was not even of noble birth. I know if Humphrey lived he would already be thinking of ways to prevent this marriage, demanding Antigone’s return to England on the next available ship.

I am simply happy for her. Like me, she has survived through the most difficult times, seen the opportunity and taken it. My only regret was I knew the chances of her ever returning to visit me in Beaumaris were now greatly reduced. I read Antigone’s letter yet again and could tell, reading between the lines, she asks my blessing. I wrote my letter in reply, wishing her every happiness and success in her new life in France and telling her she must follow her heart and marry.

I waited until I saw the young guard Richard Hook, then handed him the unsealed letter, asking him to be sure it reached Sir William, who would have to read it before sending it to my daughter. As I did so I felt a new sense of closure. I no longer needed to worry about what could happen to my daughter Antigone or my grandchildren, Richard, Humphrey and little Elizabeth. They would be safe in France, where no one would know or care who their grandmother was or what she had done in the past.

Once again my carriage made the long, uncomfortable journey to Westminster, this time with my little retinue of servants, escorted by a troop of the king’s mounted cavalry. I wondered if this could be a sign they expected an attempt to rescue me on the road to London. I wished in vain for my husband to send a band of his ruthless mercenaries to carry me away to safety, although my royal escort did help clear a path through the onlookers blocking the busy streets as we entered the gates of the city.

As we neared Westminster I hopefully scanned the faces in the crowd for any of my husband’s trusted men, yet if they were there I could not see them. My carriage drew up in front of the Palace of Westminster, where I was handed over to colourfully liveried soldiers, men of my new jailer, the
Constable of the Tower of London. Fortunately I was not destined for imprisonment in the Tower, as I had feared, instead being shown to a sizeable room within the palace apartments.

I had a restless night’s sleep, waking early, my head full of dread for what lay ahead. I knelt in prayer for the strength and resource to stand up to yet another interrogation by the bishops. These men, supposedly the greatest and most devout in the land, now took on the faces of demons in my troubled mind, holding my life in their corrupt hands.

I was led down a passageway, across a cloistered, cobble-stoned courtyard and through parts of Westminster I had never seen before. I could only guess it was to avoid the crowds I heard already gathering in the streets. In front of me was a heavy wooden door, studded with iron, which opened for me to enter. I f
ound myself back in the high-ceilinged splendour of
St Stephen’s Chapel
. Before, the chapel had been almost empty, our words echoing in the silence. Now I had an audience. People filled the chapel pews, talking amongst themselves as if waiting to be entertained.

An expectant hush fell over them as I entered, a few whispered comments as they realised who I was. I again took my seat in front of the court of bishops, keeping my head high and my back straight, looking neither left nor right. I did not wish to see who had come to witness my shaming and disgrace, my former friends or my husband’s enemies.

Instead of Archbishop
Chichele,
the officious Dean of Salisbury, Adam Moleyns, clerk of the King’s Council, read the lengthy charges against me. I listened in silence to his litany of sorcery, necromancy and treason against the king. Before me were the bishops of London, Salisbury and Lincoln, as well as the Bishop of Norwich and several masters of divinity I recognised only by their robes and golden chains of office. I was not sorry to see no sign of the Bishop of Winchester, Cardinal Henry Beaufort, or his disingenuous henchman John Kemp, Archbishop of York.

When he had finished, Adam Moleyns asked if I would plead guilty. He sounded almost hopeful, as if to save them further inconvenience. For a moment I considered refusing to grace this corrupt court with any response. I knew this would not help my case in front of so many witnesses, so again I decided to admit the lesser charges. As before, I strongly denied any thoughts of treason against the king, reminding them again I was the Duchess of Gloucester, loyal wife of the king’s uncle. The bishops appeared to be expecting this and had no further questions.

It seemed no progress had been made during my long wait in Leeds Castle. Despite having every opportunity to reach their judgement, the bishops had brought no new evidence or even any fresh questions for me to answer. The clerk Adam Moleyns announced that the hearing was adjourned and I was led under escort back through the rear of the chapel to my room in the Palace of Westminster, to be detained to wait once more to hear my fate.

Now I had become a prisoner. I was not allowed to leave my apartment or permitted any visitors, with only my servants and ever present guards for company. I was allowed to write a letter to my husband, yet I sat with the quill in my hand, unable to ask my many questions or to explain how I had found myself in this dreadful predicament. I knew whatever I wrote would be read by the cardinal and used as evidence against me. I also doubted it would ever reach my husband.

Several long and lonely days passed before I returned to St Stephen’s Chapel to face the same bishops, with their spokesman the Dean of Salisbury. I wondered if we were going to repeat the process again until I confessed to all the charges, then I heard a commotion behind me as a soldier shouted at someone to walk forward. I turned to see Roger Bolingbroke and Thomas Southwell being dragged before the court in chains. Behind them staggered an old woman, bent double and hardly able to stand. It shocked me to realise this was my once proud friend Margery Jourdemayne.

They were each in turn brought forward and made to confess their crimes in front of me, although it seemed to me they hardly knew where they were or what they were saying.
 
Adam Moleyns had the task of asking the questions and, each time, the accused would condemn themselves by admitting to be guilty of all charges, which the clerk of the King’s Council duly noted in his ledger.

Roger Bolingbroke swayed unsteadily on his feet and looked a shadow of the strong and clever man I had known. He was told to repeat his assertion that I had encouraged him to use the black arts to find if I would be queen. He said that was true. Then he was asked to say he had tried to foretell the death of the king. When he hesitated to answer as he must have been instructed the guard struck him on the side of the head and he collapsed to the floor. I could see his fingernails had been torn out.

Thomas Southwell was carried forward by two burly guards and sat in a chair, as he was unable to stand. His sad, bloodshot eyes looked at me from a bruised and swollen face and he shook his head as if to tell me he had no choice but to condemn me also. He stumbled through the rehearsed words, his speech slurred as if something had happened to his tongue. I could hardly hear him, yet none of the bishops paid much attention and I realised why the cardinal was absent. This was simply a formality, a show for the record, in front of witnesses, to prove that the condemned were guilty and deserved their fate.
  

Margery Jourdemayne was the last to be brought forward. She tried to stand straight and there was a trace of pride in her voice when she answered that she was the woman known as the witch of Eye. She was no fool and answered the questions well until it came to the question of my own role in her witchcraft. She confessed in a wavering voice that I had employed her to concoct magical potions to induce Duke Humphrey of Gloucester to marry me.

When at last the staged confessions were over I was told I would appear again before Archbishop Chichele to finally receive the sentence of the court. Escorted back to my room I found out from the king’s men guarding they were commanded by Sir John Holland, Duke of Exeter, the Constable of the Tower of London. Sir John is a first cousin of my husband, so I asked my guard if a message might be sent requesting that I could meet with him.

I had not forgotten the questions of t
he chancellor, John Stafford, who had asked where my husband was, why had he yet to visit me or send any message and why he was not defending my honour.
The surly guard looked doubtful but agreed to pass on my request and I allowed myself a little hope for the first time since I had returned to London. Sir John Holland was another of those who had fought at the side of my husband at Agincourt. Now he was my jailor and the one person who could arrange for Duke Humphrey to visit me. Once my husband heard what a travesty Cardinal Henry Beaufort had made of the ecclesiastical court he would soon be able to intervene on my behalf.

I found little appetite for the food provided and spent a sleepless night on the wooden cot in my room, trying not to remember the desperate faces of my friends.
The next day passed without any word or even being allowed out for any exercise, although I was able to eat a little of the beef stew and dry bread I was brought.

On the second day I heard from one of my guards that Thomas Southwell had died in the Tower, supposedly of despair at his crimes. I knew poor Thomas to be a physician, with a skilled knowledge of medicines, so I hoped he had found a painless way to end his life. That night I said a prayer for him, and for the others who would not be so able to escape their terrible punishment.

Then my servant
Martha
returned from a visit to her family with terrible news. Despite publicly recanting her sins, Margery Jourdemayne had been taken from the Tower to West Smithfield and burned at the stake, her awful screams silencing the curious crowd which filled the market square and many of the side-streets. She had been shown the mercy of having tar poured over the faggots piled around the stake, so they burned more quickly.

I know she would have suffered horribly and to this day wish I had asked the bishops that she could be allowed to be strangled first. At the time I stayed silent, yet I had known that Margery Jourdemayne was innocent of any of the charges against her. It rests heavily on my conscience that I did not argue more strongly in her defence. She had no part in our experiments and it had been some time since she even visited me at Bella Court.

I resolved to do what I could for my faithful friend Roger Bolingbroke, who as far as I knew was still held in the Tower of London. My difficulty was that I had witnessed his full confession to the ecclesiastical court with my own eyes, even though I was certain it had been obtained through cruel tortures. The punishment for men was far worse than that for women and now I had little to lose by at least trying to help him.