The Witch of Eye (45 page)

‘Master Southwell,’ he greeted him. ‘It pains me to find you here, imprisoned like this.’

‘Not nearly so much as it pains me, Virley,’ muttered Southwell.

Ah, thought Virley, so he did remember. ‘I wondered, Master Southwell, whether there was anything I could do for you. As perhaps you remember, I supply inks and parchments to several establishments in London. The Tower is one of them, so I come here quite frequently. I could bring in anything you needed. It would be no trouble.’

Southwell’s face was a blank. ‘No,’ he said, in a hollow voice, ‘I need nothing. I’ll be here until I rot or die of melancholy. I want to die. I have no future.’

‘Oh, come, you must not talk like that. Perhaps you will be proved innocent. You must have faith in the justice system.’

‘Justice system? Faith? Virley, I lost my faith when I lost my canonry. I have nothing to live for.’

‘Then I could bring you some books, perhaps, to help you rekindle that faith. Would you like something to read? I could ask at the monastery if –’

‘Read? In this environment? Impossible.’

The murderer who shared the cell sat, facing the blank wall, saying nothing, but the cutpurse lolled on the bench, listening to the conversation with interest.

‘Tell you what, mate,’ he said, ‘you could bring us all something decent to eat – or drink. The food in this damned place is disgusting. Even swine would turn up their snouts at it. It might as well be poison.’

Southwell’s expression changed. ‘Sometimes,’ he said, ‘I would that it
were
poison. That would solve a lot of problems, don’t you think, Master Virley?’

Virley glanced at him in alarm. Was the man serious? No, surely not. Then again, it might be the least painful way out of an impossible situation. Avoiding Southwell’s meaningful gaze, he bent to gather up his belongings.

‘I’ll come again soon. And next time, I’ll bring in some cheese at least. And a flagon of decent ale, if I can get it past the guard. That should cheer you all up.’

As he rose to take his leave, an insincere smile fixed on his face, he wondered whether Southwell had meant what he’d implied.

***

M
argery Jourdemayne sat on the floor of the cell with her back against the wet wall. The wall always seemed wet, even on the warmest of days, but there was nowhere else to sit. She was forced to share the cell with half a dozen other women, their faces grey from lack of sleep and a poor diet. They looked up as the door opened and another woman was shoved roughly in to join them. When the cell door had been bolted behind her, Margery realised who she was and scrambled to her feet.

‘Jenna! In God’s name, what are you doing here?’ The other women crowded round, demanding to know who Jenna was, why she was there, how she knew Margery.

Jenna was still reeling from the events of the last few hours. With her hands tied behind her back, she had been roughly shoved up the gangplank and onto the waiting barge by Thomas Tuddenham and John Heydon, whose presence terrified her throughout the journey to the Tower. Once through the watergate entrance, she was taken to the guardroom then, after the most minimal formalities, brought to the stinking cell.

‘Well?’ Margery demanded again. ‘What are you doing here? Have they accused you, too?’

‘Yes, mistress. It seems I am accused of witchcraft by association, because ... well ... because I know you.’

‘Every woman is a witch, if they say so,’ said one of the others. ‘All you need is a physic garden, or a bit of a reputation as a midwife or a wise woman, and you’re in here. They bang the door on you and leave you to rot.’

There were snorts and noises of disgruntled agreement from the others. Jenna looked at Margery Jourdemayne. She hadn’t seen her for several months. She had changed, grown thinner, more wrinkled. But she must have been beautiful once, Jenna thought, she must have had some quality that had made William desire her.

‘How is –’ Jenna began and then stopped herself. ‘How is, er, Kitty?’

‘Kitty! Why do you concern yourself about Kitty? You’re in trouble, Jenna. You ought to be worried about yourself.’

Jenna was silent. She’d really wanted to know how William was, but then she’d realised that, in fact, she had seen him since Margery last saw him. And on that night she had committed herself to him in the most fundamental way, with all her heart and all her being. She crossed herself and silently asked God to grant her patience and forbearance if she was to remain locked up for any length of time in this fetid little cell with her lover’s wife.

***

T
he stone facade of London’s newly built Guildhall glistened in the pale sunshine of a late October morning. At one time, Eleanor reflected, she would have been driven in state up to the imposing entrance to the fine new building, alighting from her carriage with a smile, extending her hand elegantly to the Lord Mayor who would bow low before making a speech of welcome. Over the last few years, particularly on her excursions to the King’s Head in nearby Cheapside, she had watched the great building take shape, imagining the lavish entertainments she and Humphrey would grace with their presence when it had been completed, extravagant receptions for dignitaries, diplomats or foreign royalty who would be enchanted to meet her.

Today, she was ignominiously bundled into the crypt, where she would stay until she was summoned to face her inquisitors.

This would be the last trial. Eleanor had already appeared at one ecclesiastical tribunal, held at St Stephen’s Chapel and conducted by Robert Gilbert, the Bishop of London, who had frowned at Eleanor as she stood on the witness stand, not even inviting her to sit. Archbishop Chichele wouldn’t have done that. She wondered where he was: during the long weeks of her banishment to Leeds Castle, she had pinned her hopes on the probability of Chichele’s leniency. After all, he was her husband’s friend.

The huge room at the heart of Guildhall was crowded as Eleanor entered. Hard-pressed at first glance to take in the sheer splendour of her surroundings, she was dimly aware of stone archways and statues, stained glass windows and all the trappings of magnificence. Enormous wealth pertained to the London guilds and it had been spent here without stinting.

The room was noisy with the eager sounds of people pressing closely together, straining to see her as she passed. Eleanor was shocked to catch a glimpse of Jenna among the witnesses who were penned in one corner, like so many animals. Then she realised, of course, that anyone associated with Margery Jourdemayne was likely to be called as a witness, and a proven association with her was almost certainly tantamount to an outright accusation of witchcraft.

Then her attention was caught and riveted by the sight of the three people who were lined up to face her as she took her place on the witness stand: Roger Bolingbroke, Margery Jourdemayne and Thomas Southwell.

They had each changed considerably since she had last seen them. Bolingbroke looked more cadaverous than ever, his back stooped and his long neck strangely vulnerable, as though already offering itself up to the hangman’s noose. Margery had a defiant look about her, but she, too, had lost a considerable amount of weight and her hair, pushed carelessly under a wimple of dingy linen, looked coarse and unkempt. But the one who had changed the most was Thomas Southwell: Eleanor hardly recognised him. A man who had always relished his food, he now looked as though he hadn’t eaten for months.

All three stood behind a table on which were exhibited several items which Eleanor recognised. Here was the astrolabe: Bolingbroke had been so proud of that. There were several books, too, including the Arabic text from her own library which she had never understood, but always thought she might study one day. Next to it was a paper crown, a crystal ball, some silver images she didn’t recognise and the root of a mandrake, the ‘Hand of Glory’, next to what might actually have been a shrivelled human hand. Eleanor felt the bile rise in her throat at the sight of it.

Prominently, in the centre of the display, a half-melted ball of wax lay in a small wicker basket. It was all that remained of what she had so strongly believed would one day become her baby. That was when she broke down.

Impervious to her tears, Adam Moleyns began the proceedings, banging his lectern with a gavel, demanding silence before reading out the charges.

‘You stand accused, madam, of twenty-five counts of sorcery, felony and treason.’

‘No!’

Eleanor’s cry of denial was ignored. ‘It is alleged,’ Moleyns went on, ‘that at various times during the past year, you and the three malefactors who stand accused with you, did, on consecrated ground in the parishes of St Martin-in-the-Vintry, St Benet Hithe and St Sepulchre-without-Newgate, use magical vestments, effigies and instruments to invoke demons and evil spirits to bring about the death of our noble sovereign, His Highness King Henry the Sixth. This is an act of the highest treason. How plead you?’

‘Not guilty. I’m not guilty. It was never my –’

‘It is further alleged that while these vile experiments were being undertaken by Magister Roger Bolingbroke and the woman Margery Jourdemayne, the erstwhile canon, Thomas Southwell, who now stands in disgrace before this court, used a book of necromancers’ oaths from which he chanted protective masses.’

Moleyns turned to the table and continued his litany of allegations.

‘Furthermore, you see here on display before you, a wax figure of His Royal Highness the King. This effigy, it is alleged, was left near a source of fire during the course of these dire ceremonies, melting a little more each day and thus precipitating the King’s death from melancholy, from black bile, a death which was calculated to occur in the twentieth year of his reign, towards the end of May or at the beginning of June in this, the year of Our Lord fourteen hundred and forty one. This is treason at its greatest extreme. How plead you?’

‘No, it was never the King. It was to be my baby! I so wanted a baby! I wished to give my Lord a child. I never meant to harm the King. I only wanted to conceive a child. It was my dearest wish, it is every woman’s fervent prayer. That was the only reason why Margery fashioned the waxen poppet ... it was not –’

‘Silence, madam! You do not help your case by babbling about babies!’

His words seemed to echo around the hushed court. All eyes watched as Adam Moleyns gestured to Cardinal Beaufort, an invitation for him to take up the questioning from this point. Beaufort rose to his feet.

‘Your Grace,’ Beaufort said, ‘the Jourdemayne woman is known to be a witch, she was accused of witchcraft a decade ago. I know that. Every member of the Council knows that. And you knew that. So you, as a member of the royal family, should surely have known better than to use her services in any capacity.’

‘But I –’

‘Because it is widely known that you bought potions and decoctions from her, for the sole purpose of enticing His Royal Highness the Duke of Gloucester into your bed, despite the fact that his lawful marriage to another woman was sanctified in the eyes of God.’

‘No! I did no more than many other women –’

‘Madam, your behaviour in this regard has been well attested by many witnesses.’ He paused and turned towards the witness enclosure in which Eleanor now recognised many more faces. She saw Canon John Hume’s assistant, William Woodham, as well as at least half a dozen palace servants whom she recognised. Could they have testified against her? Surely not!

Beaufort picked up a sheaf of papers and brandished them at her. ‘With sworn witness statements like these, you can offer little argument that will convince the learned members of the Council that you are anything other than guilty. Now, I wish to call another of the accused in this sorry case.’

He turned away from Eleanor and moved towards Roger Bolingbroke.

‘Magister Bolingbroke, you too have made an oath before many witnesses, including myself. You stated some months ago, under the cross in St Paul’s churchyard, that you recant your previous beliefs. You claimed at that time to have renounced all interest in fortune-telling, casting horoscopes and predicting the future by using false means such as this astrolabe and other devices. That is commendable. But, tell the jury if you will, why did you undertake these experiments in the first place? Was it, perhaps, at the behest of the woman who stands before you, Her Grace the Duchess of Gloucester?’

‘Yes.’ Bolingbroke’s reply was barely audible.

‘We cannot hear you, Magister. Speak up!’

‘Yes!’ Bolingbroke lifted his head and gave Eleanor the most malevolent glare she had ever experienced. Then he started to shout, pointing at her agitatedly. ‘Yes, it was her fault! She asked me to do it. I would never have –’

‘Thank you, Magister. You make yourself perfectly plain. That is all for the moment. Have any of my learned colleagues any questions they would like to ask?’ Beaufort stepped to one side and beckoned to the other senior clergy who occupied the bench behind him, indicating that they might like to carry on the interrogation.

One by one, the bishops rose from their seats and moved to up take Beaufort’s position in front of the witness stand and the trial began in earnest. They proceeded to pummel Eleanor with accusation after accusation, question after question. They wanted to know why she had encouraged her advisers to use their black, demonic arts in her service, how they had gone about their satanic practices, which churches they had used, who had facilitated the use of those churches and, crucially, what the conspirators had hoped to achieve with their dark practices. As each of these senior clergymen gradually lost his impetus and retired to his seat on the bench, another was ready to take his place.

After hours of interrogation and impassioned denial, the exhausted Eleanor had admitted to five of the twenty-

five charges, but clung pitifully to her claim that she had only done what she was accused of doing in order to conceive a child by her husband. By the time they had finished with her, she could barely stand and when, at last, she was told she could sit down, no one came to her aid. No final verdict had been arrived at and no formal decision had been taken about her likely punishment. She would be taken back into custody while her fate was decided elsewhere by her accusers.