The Secret Diary of Eleanor Cobham (24 page)

Martha
was in my thoughts as I made my daily walk around the inner ward in the spring sunshine at Beaumaris. Even now, after all these years, I clearly recall her humour and sense of joy in the smallest things as we found ways to pass the time at Kenilworth Castle. I barely gave it a thought at the time, but she made great sacrifices for me, never marrying and never asking to visit her only relatives in London. Her pay was meagre and
Martha
endured the same poor conditions in Chester crypt as myself, although she did so with much fortitude, which helped me in no small way.

I valued her loyalty above all else, when even my husband abandoned me to my fate. It warmed my heart to know there was at least one person who dismissed the bishop’s cruel allegations. She served me, not truly as a maid but as better company than any of my ladies in waiting had at Bella Court. I loved her stories of the London taverns, a life I could have lived were it not for my father arranging my introduction to Countess Jacqueline all those years ago.

I remember how once she served a fine chicken dinner, a special treat after many weeks of mutton stew. She waited until there was not one scrap of the tasty meat left on the bones before telling me the strutting cockerel ‘Sir Ralph’ would no longer trouble our early mornings with his endless crowing. I truly miss my good friend and servant
Martha
and wonder what became of her.

Our three years at Kenilworth passed all too quickly. In July of 1446 I had a letter from Sir Thomas Stanley, who was still charged by the king to oversee my imprisonment. The messenger had ridden through the night and I broke the seal with a sense of deep foreboding. Sir Thomas wrote he was concerned at rumours of plans to free me, so I was to be transferred forthwith to his castle on the Isle of Man, where he could be more certain of what he called ‘my safety’. Almost as a postscript, he added at the end of the letter that he regretted to inform me my father, Sir
Reynold
Cobham, was dead.

I remember my tears as I sat at my favourite window in the great hall at Kenilworth, the folded letter in my hand. How had my father died? Who was behind these rumours of plans to set me free? I dreaded the prospect of returning back into the charge of the man who kept me in his dark and damp crypt, with barely the chance to walk in the fresh air. The only person I could trust was my servant
Martha
, so I decided she must travel to London right away, with the last of my silver coins, to find the answers for me.

Ad undas

I resisted leaving Kenilworth Castle for as long as I could by claiming I was too unwell to make the long journey to the Isle of Man. In truth, I prayed each day for my servant Martha to return from London, where I had sent her to bring me news of rumours regarding my release, as well as to learn what she could about my father’s death. She had been gone for nearly a month and there was still no word from her. To my regret I never thought to teach Martha to read or write, so she would have had to find a scribe to send a letter to me, something I knew she would not want to risk.

Sir Thomas Stanley was a notoriously impatient man, so as June turned to July, it was with great regret I had to pack my things and prepare to leave. Although I had fled Bella Court with only what I could carry, over the years I had accumulated various possessions. My lute was wrapped in muslin cloth, as I was most concerned it could be damaged on the long journey or on the sea crossing to the Isle of Man.

We departed for Peel Castle at the first light of dawn. My vain hope was that my maidservant
Martha
would somehow be able to join me on the road north. I was desperate now for news and sure she would do her best. In my heart I doubted it would be easy for her to find us, although we drew attention wherever we went. I rode in a high-sided wagon, with an escort of twenty armed soldiers of the royal household in front and my remaining servants following behind. I must have looked like a queen on a royal progress.

It was with sadness that I watched the last of the towers of Kenilworth Castle disappear into the distance. It was there I had learned to put the nightmares of the past behind me a little and to live simply, for the day. Ahead of me now lay nothing but uncertainty. The only thing I could be sure of was that Sir Thomas would not treat me with the same courtesy as shown to me by Sir Ralph Boteler. The thought, nagging at my mind as we travelled north, was that my unwilling jailor would find it more convenient if I were dead.

It had been a dry summer and clouds of dust rose to the skies in our wake. We made good time on the arduous journey to the coast, travelling all hours of daylight. I kept a constant watch for
Martha
, although in my heart I knew there would be no sign of her. I suspected Sir Thomas had ordered the details of my transfer to be kept a closely guarded secret if there were rumours about having me freed. He might not want me as a prisoner, but he would not risk being an unwitting party to my liberation either.

My destination could scarcely be more remote and still be counted as being in England. Peel Castle is in the middle of the Irish Sea, on a small, inhospitable and rocky island connected to the Isle of Man by a narrow stone causeway. Apart from that it belonged to Sir Thomas Stanley I knew little else about the place to which I was now headed. I had never wished to visit the island and expected I would likely now die there, forgotten by everyone I knew.

Dusk was falling by the time we reached the village seaport of Whitehaven, on the Cumbrian coast. I was tired from the long journey and grateful when we rested for the night. I was given a room at the small but well-ordered Benedictine Priory of St Bees, where black-garbed, tonsured monks went about their work without speaking. Fortunately it was not a closed order and the abbot had agreed to accommodate us, although with some reluctance.

I lay awake in the darkness, unable to sleep, listening to the mournful tolling of the priory bell that ruled every moment of the monks’ lives. I wished for my comfortable bed at Kenilworth with its velvet curtains from the king. I missed the company of my maidservant Martha and knew she would never find me now, so far from London. I wondered who could be behind the rumours I was to be set free. I mourned the death of my father and cried myself to sleep.

In the morning I was expecting to sail in a high-masted galleon like Duke Humphrey used to cross the Channel from Dover. Instead, I was worried to see an ancient fishing vessel moored at the quayside, its rigging painted with black tar, the sails mended so many times they were a patchwork of canvas. The crew of rugged, bearded fishermen dressed in grimy rags and their captain leered and made some remark in their Gaelic language, his men laughing coarsely as I was ushered aboard. There was little room below decks and I found myself crammed with guards and servants, nets and wicker baskets, in the open hold which reeked to high heaven of herrings and fish guts.

A freshening breeze filled the tattered sails as we headed out into the choppy Irish Sea and cold seawater soon sluiced over the deck. Larger waves spilled into the hold, where I cowered with my servants in fear of our lives as the boat pitched in the worsening swell. Over the noise of the wind and waves I heard some of the crew complaining loudly that it was bad luck to have me on board their boat. Their captain had no time for such talk and cursed them all and swore it was merely a squall.

Then a crashing wave struck the boat violently on the side and it heeled hard over, throwing us together in the hold. One of my maidservants screamed, the shrill sound echoing eerily as our boat ploughed heavily into a second, giant wave. I tasted salt as freezing water again poured over us, soaking our clothes and stinging my eyes. There was a shudder and the sound of ropes straining dangerously against creaking wood as the helm was pushed hard to turn us into the breaking waves.

I remember preparing myself for the moment when the pounding water would fill the open hold and take us to the bottom of the sea. My mind became strangely calm in the middle of the squall, despite the desperate sounds all around me, ready to accept my fate. I recall thinking that death by drowning would be preferable to imprisonment for the rest of my life. I had never learned to swim and, even if I could, there was nowhere to swim to, no chance of rescue in the middle of this deserted sea.

Then I heard a deep-voiced cry. ‘Land ahoy!’ The Isle of Man was sighted on the horizon and almost immediately the weather began to improve as we entered its sheltered waters. I should have felt immense relief, yet I had a deep foreboding about my new island prison. I sometimes wonder if I can foretell the future, as I sensed this would be the worst place for me to be held. It was not just Sir Thomas Stanley who wished me dead. I had become an inconvenient reminder to all those who so falsely condemned me.

My new room was little more than a whitewashed cell, much as where a monk would live. I looked out through my little window, having my first real view of Peel Castle. This island fortress covers some five rugged acres, with high, embattled walls. Towers of different shapes and heights, made of the coarse grey local stone, are quoined and faced in places with red sandstone. In the middle of Peel Castle is the parish church of St German they call the ‘cathedral’ and close by a building known as ‘the lord’s palace’, neither of which deserve the name.

Much of the enclosed area was turned to a rough pasture of grass too coarse for even sheep to graze and beyond the walls I could see nothing but rocks and the cold blue-green expanse of the Irish Sea. A stone jetty reached out into the sea, providing mooring for boats when the weather permitted, although the prevailing winds meant most sought shelter on the main island. There were almost no visitors, as the people tended to avoid Peel Castle other than when bringing supplies.

My servants soon tired of the harsh remoteness of this windswept place and departed one by one, until I had only my surly guards and a well-meaning cook for company. She did her best to make something of the cod and herring, which were plentiful in the seas around the island and smoked or dried to make them keep. Sometimes she managed to obtain a ham or even a fresh rabbit, although I longed for fruit or anything sweet to eat. There was no prospect of a garden as the soil was poor and I had no money now for plants.

The main problem was I had nothing to occupy my mind, as my lute and other possessions, brought with so much care all the way from Kenilworth Castle, were gone, stolen or lost. My new servants, hard, grim-faced Manx women, were no companions, barely speaking and eyeing me warily as they worked. All I could do was follow the path around the long perimeter wall and watch the fishing boats out at sea as they fought to make a living in the island’s strong currents.

I had learnt to be grateful for small mercies, however. After the crypt at Chester Castle my little cell seemed more than adequate. I lost my few possessions yet I still had my blue dress. It was torn and stained with dirt but still had the secret pocket where I could feel the hidden weight of the last of my precious jewellery. It crossed my mind this could be a way to my salvation, enough to bribe one of my guards and pay for a passage to the Irish coast and freedom.

Now I had a new plan, to watch my guards and choose which to approach. The soldiers of Peel Castle were a garrulous lot, unhappy in their work. At first I thought none seemed worth the risk, until I noticed how one looked at me. His eyes showed curiosity, rather than the contempt or the wariness of one who believes I am a sorceress. While I waited for my chance I carefully unpicked part of the stitching of the pocket in my dress and chose a diamond pendant to use as my bribe.

At last the moment came when the guard I had chosen was alone at my door.
 
Although anxious, I had nothing to lose, so I quickly explained my proposition. He studied the precious pendant and I saw from the glint in his eye he knew it was worth more than he could earn in a lifetime. He said he would need to think on it. All those guarding me had been told it would be considered treason, with the full punishment accorded to traitors, if any helped me to escape.

A week passed before I heard from the guard again. It was a moonless night and he demanded more jewellery if he was to risk his life for me. I handed him the pendant and agreed to make him richer than any man on the island. He seemed to know I told the truth and told me to wrap my dark cloak around me, then led me to a doorway near the lord’s palace. We entered a long narrow passage which he said was for escape if the fortress was under siege. The walls dripped with water and were carved from the solid rock.

I heard waves crashing below as we felt our way down a flight of roughly hewn steps and emerged in a cave facing a rocky inlet. We waited in the still night air for the boat to make landfall until almost dawn before abandoning hope it would ever arrive. It was with a heavy heart that I climbed back up the steps, although we had agreed to try another time. Sadly our plot was discovered before we had the opportunity. The first I knew of it was when I was arrested and locked in the cathedral crypt.

Underneath the transept, the descent into the crypt is by a flight of steep steps some twenty feet below the ground level. The roof is vaulted by thirteen stone ribs, which form pointed arches, supported by pillars. The ground is rough stone and in one corner is an old well, fed from a natural spring, which adds to the gloomy dampness. The only light is from a small window set deep into one wall.

I cannot now bring myself to recall the awful conditions I had to endure as I languished in this dungeon, waiting for Sir Thomas to visit and deal with me. My health suffered in the damp and I developed a wheezing cough that troubled my sleep. Fat brown rats scurried in the small, bleak courtyard where I took my exercise and there was nothing to do, so I waited, with no idea how much longer I would remain there. I began to lose count of my days in this dreadful prison, until I found a rusty nail, embedded into one of the old oak beams and worked it back and forth until it finally came loose. Each morning I scratched another line in the grimy, thinly-plastered wall of my crypt prison, crossing each set of four with the fifth.

My faith in God and my fellow man now gone, I sank into a deep pit of despair, withdrawing into myself until I wondered about my own sanity. At one point I held the rusty nail to the vein in my wrist and tried to take my life. Either it was too blunt or I lacked the strength, although I felt barely alive by autumn when they let me return to my little cell. The row of deeply scored sets of lines in the wall told me I had suffered there for more than two long months. My hair was matted and my clothes dirty. I could not remember when I last had eaten anything other than greasy stew and stale crusts of dark rye bread.

A hard winter passed and it was the following spring before Sir Thomas Stanley finally arrived and brought the worst news. He told me Duke Humphrey had been arrested by the king’s men in February and fell into a state of coma, for three days not moving or ever speaking. At his end, Sir Thomas gravely explained, Duke Humphrey recovered sufficiently to confess his sins and receive the last rites of the Church. I did not believe a word of it. My husband, for such he was to me, was cruelly murdered by his enemies. It was some small consolation that my husband’s death had been followed within six weeks by that of his lifelong enemy, Cardinal Henry Beaufort.