The Secret Diary of Eleanor Cobham (10 page)

The young King Henry VI was to be brought to London from Windsor, to be officially welcomed by the duke, as his spiritual guardian and protector of his kingdom, at the gates of St Paul’s cathedral. Although Henry was now five years old and perfectly capable of walking, Humphrey made a great show of carrying him through the cheering crowds while the cathedral choir sang popular hymns. The Bishop of St Paul’s led a service of thanksgiving to a packed congregation and there at the centre was Humphrey, with the King of England.

The timing was perfect, as at the grand opening of Parliament the following week it seemed the duke was ready to begin a new life, our sojourn to Hainault almost forgotten. As a sign of his restored influence, the Parliament and Council voted to grant him a generous loan of forty thousand marks. He was also granted the wardship of the considerable estates of the young Duke of York, following the death without issue of Sir Edmund Mortimer, the Earl of March, from plague in Ireland, much to the annoyance of the Chancellor, Cardinal Beaufort.

Even his brother John agreed to a reconciliation, yet although we had escaped the worst consequences, it seemed the ghost of Countess Jacqueline would continue to haunt our lives. The stories of her courage in adversity had gained her unexpectedly sympathetic support and fuelled the fires lit by Humphrey’s enemies. I regret to say my own part in all of this did his fragile reputation more harm than good, as I refused to become an invisible paramour, demanding to live openly as his mistress.

There was also the matter of our mysterious house guest, John Randolph. A Franciscan friar, he had served for many years as the personal confessor to Humphrey’s stepmother, Queen Joanna of Navarre. I visited her with Countess Jacqueline before we set sail for France and knew it was by Randolph’s testimony that she had been found guilty of practising witchcraft. In a twist of circumstance Randolph had been imprisoned in the Tower of London as a heretic, accused of his own treasonous use of ‘the Black Art’. I was therefore astounded to learn Humphrey had ordered Randolph’s release.

When Cardinal
Beaufort heard his prisoner was to be freed, he had his men cause a riot on London Bridge. Beaufort accused the duke of planning to seize the king and threatening his own life. To ‘defend himself’ he fortified the alley-ways leading to the bridge with barricades and assembled an armed force to guard them. The people of London set watches night and day to protect their property from the fighting they expected.

Duke Humphrey ignored the cardinal’s antics and secretly removed Friar Randolph from prison, inviting him to stay as our guest. Of course, news of this arrangement soon reached the cardinal, who saw it as an opportunity to blight our reputation. He publicly demanded that Friar Randolph must be returned to detention in the Tower immediately and accused the duke of exceeding his authority, a call which Humphrey of course ignored.

Randolph was a thin, quietly spoken man with bright, intelligent eyes, who looked at me as if he could read my private thoughts. He was fluent in several languages and extremely well read, so it soon became evident why Humphrey wished to spend time with him. On the evening of his arrival at our home we sat by the fireside in the grand study, listening to his account of how Humphrey’s brother, then King Henry V, compromised his own stepmother for personal gain. The friar seemed hesitant at first, possibly unsure of how Duke Humphrey would react. He pointed out that if there had been any evidence of his treason by using sorcery against the king he would have been executed by now, not imprisoned. Randolph also noted he had been unable to make any comment on Queen Joanna’s words in the confessional. Far from giving evidence against her, he had been forced to remain silent.

This had not, of course, troubled the king’s judiciary, who had been tasked to find the queen guilty, thus forfeiting her fortune to the crown. It was enough for them that he would not deny using astrology to predict the future. There was no bitterness in Randolph’s voice when he described how he had been tortured and half-starved, although he clearly disapproved of King Henry’s treatment of Queen Joanna and the use of his ill-gotten funds to wage further war in France.

Humphrey was intrigued and full of questions. He
owned several rare books on the art of astrology, one in handwritten Latin and others in old French, illustrated with esoteric charts which were impossible to understand. He showed them to Friar Randolph, who studied them with keen interest but said little. It was then I realised why the duke had risked so much in releasing the friar and bringing him to our London house for his personal protection. There was a price for his freedom; he would have to share his secrets.

At first, the friar was cautious and evasive, and then it seemed he had made a decision. He asked for writing materials and for the duke to ensure we could not be overheard. We had no other visitors in the house at the time, so Humphrey dismissed the servants for the night and locked us in his study, bolting the room from the inside. He cleared a space for Friar Randolph at the oak table by the window, lighting several candles so he could see to do his work.

For every question he had a ready answer. Was he really an astrologer? He confirmed that he was well versed in the science. Was he able to foretell the future? Under some circumstances, he believed it might indeed be possible, he told us.
Friar Randolph became a changed man, talking compellingly about the need to be open to new ideas and how cosmology could show destiny is pre-ordained. I remember being captivated with the notion that there could be some way to foretell the future and had many questions of my own. Would Humphrey and I ever marry? Would we have children? Randolph fanned the flames of our curiosity with his knowledge of the wisdom of the Greeks and ancient Egypt.

Spreading a sheet of parchment on the table, the friar took a sharpened quill and began drawing a detailed astrological chart from memory. It looked to me as if he was casting a magical spell. Marking positions with Greek letters and special symbols, he explained this ancient learning was used by Babylonian priests to decipher the will of their gods. This knowledge was adopted by the Greeks, who understood that the arrangement of the stars could predict the seasons. I remember how Friar Randolph lowered his voice when he said it was but a short step to create oracles to foretell the future.

Filioli mei

At last the snow has melted, washed away by spring showers. Now a thick mist hangs over the dark Welsh mountains like an ethereal shroud, turning the view from my window to a swirling greyness. Fat, wild-looking pigs have been released inside the inner castle ward and squeal and hungrily root for scraps thrown from the kitchens. My guards chase the pigs off for sport and, together with the rain and heavy-booted feet of sentries, they churn my courtyard walk to a slippery mud which spoils the hem of my dress.

I am cheered by the sight of bright yellow daffodils, standing bravely against the downpour near the entrance to the chapel, a heart-warming sign of hope that winter is nearly over and spring is on the way. The daffodils are ignored by the feral pigs and I wonder how they know they are poisonous. I also wonder who had the care to plant daffodils in this otherwise gloomy and barren place. I hope, perhaps, it was done in the memory of someone long forgotten, like myself.

Each time on my return from my walk I busy myself cleaning the thick mud from my boots and trying to dry my damp cloak by the fire. Even in mid-afternoon my room is dark in the poor light. I have to conserve my candles, as I have no idea when they will be replaced, so now my log fire sends strange shadows dancing on the cold stone walls. Staring into orange flames I recall again the fervent passion of Friar John Randolph and the glint in his eyes as he found in us a receptive audience.

I knew it was another turning-point in my life, the exciting realisation that, far from wandering as victims of chance events, we could be following a pre-ordained destiny. I wanted to believe what I heard from the persuasive and knowledgeable friar. Humphrey wanted to know how the friar reconciled astrology with his faith. Randolph had eyed us with guarded caution as he made a judgement.

He told us he spent many years studying scriptures and the writings of Friar Thomas Aquinas, searching for answers. He looked directly at me and told us how, in the Book of Deuteronomy it warns, ‘There shall not be found among you anyone who practices divination or tells fortunes or interprets omens, or a sorcerer or a charmer or necromancer.’ Humphrey knew the quotation, for he continued: ‘Whoever does these things is an abomination to the Lord.’

The three of us remained silent as his words echoed round the room. I cannot pretend not to have understood the dangers of what we were discussing. I have witnessed heretics being burned at the stake, an unforgettable, haunting sight. The victims seemed incredibly brave, accepting of their fate. Until the flames reach them. I would look away, although it was impossible to block out the horrible screams or the smell of roasting flesh, yet still people risk all in the pursuit of secret knowledge.

The duke’s London mansion had become my home, although I found it impossible to make my mark on the place. I persuaded him to let me have my own servants and ladies-in-waiting, whom I chose with care, creating further enmity with his housekeeper by ignoring her recommendations. Although I had the rooms once belonging to the countess redecorated, there was no place I could truly feel my own. Then I found Humphrey studying a map of the city in his study and an idea came to me.

Ever since invading Danes anchored their long ships in the mouth of the Ravensbourne at Deptford Creek, visitors to London by the River Thames had their first view of the city at the open fields of Greenwich, a natural camping-ground. Open and easily defended, these green meadows lead to a high hill overlooking a sweeping curve of the river. Merchants and boatmen had built all manner of rickety piers and wooden shacks along the water’s edge and it was not a place for a lady to be alone at night.

Humphrey planned to take control of this vital route to the capital, making himself master of the waterway. He inherited the Royal Manor of Greenwich on the death of Sir Thomas Beaufort, Duke of Exeter, former Chancellor and once Captain of Harfleur. It was not the title that interested him, but the land. Humphrey was now negotiating an exchange of valuable property elsewhere for two hundred acres of what had once been the donation of Princess Elstrudis, youngest daughter of King Alfred, to the Abbey of St Peter at Ghent.

 
Looking at the boundaries marked on his neatly drawn map, I saw they extended from Blackheath to the banks of the Thames and realised at once it was the perfect place to build our new home together. I dreamed of creating a fabulous palace, rather than the fortified castle the duke envisaged. We would turn the pasture and wasteland into beautiful gardens, with orchards of cherry trees and flower-lined promenades, as we had seen when
we visited the gardens of the archery guild in Mons.

Humphrey was captivated by the idea and immediately began planning a design for a new building. He swore it would be the finest in England, with all the latest refinements and a much needed new library for his collection of rare and precious books. As well as my gardens, arranged in long, straight terraces down to walkways alongside the bank of the river, he planned a deer park, fit for a king. On the top of the hill he would also build a fortified tower, high enough so it would be seen from most of the city. I remember how we talked and made notes long into the night, discussing ideas for our new palace.

The next day we sailed down the Thames in his gilded barge, rowed by twelve liveried oarsmen, to view the planned site of our new home. It was a glorious day and our party turned into a flotilla of boats, as we were accompanied by minstrels and musicians, cooks with baskets of food and servants carrying flagons of wine. The duke was accompanied by his personal guard and invited his favourites and supporters, while I was surrounded by my full retinue of ladies, all wearing their finest new dresses.

Climbing to the top of Greenwich hill, we could see the whole of London, with the tall spire of St Paul’s surrounded by a forest of smoking chimneys. Trestle tables were soon laden with our banquet and the music of our minstrels turned heads all the way down to the river. It was easy to forget the hardship we had suffered in Hainault. We had arrived. Our party was the talk of London, which pleased us both well, for the duke was keen to restore his reputation—and I suspected I would soon be with child.

I take my daily walk within the high walls of the castle and feel a sense of loss. The beautiful daffodils are now gone. No trace remains that they ever existed. I hope at least they were picked by someone to brighten a room or even as a gift for a sweetheart. I see one of the feral pigs has also met its end, hanging by its hind legs from an iron ring fixed to the wall outside the kitchens. I stop and stare into the pig’s unseeing eyes, wondering if it had a painless death. A long, deep red slash across its throat tells its own tale.

Moving quickly on, with a nod to my ever-present escort of bored looking guards, I climb the stone steps to have a moment on the high parapet. The wind has picked up and tugs at my threadbare cape, whipping my long hair against my face as if in punishment. To one side the cold Irish Sea stretches into the distance, misty and troubled by white-crested breaking waves. A single fishing boat struggles to reach the shelter of the harbour, making almost no progress against the wind and tide and I feel some empathy with the crew.

There is still a dusting of the last of the winter’s snow on the windswept Welsh hills and I remember how it was snowing when my first child was born. Deeply suppressed memories of my friend Margery Jourdemayne return to haunt me. Despite our long liaison, it seemed the duke and I could not conceive a child. I was unconcerned at first, particularly before the annulment of his marriage to the countess. In fact, I feared a baby could be a step too far for Humphrey and his attentions would soon turn to another. I was painfully aware there were plenty of scheming women waiting for the chance to steal him from me.

When we were established in London everything changed. The duke declared that he wanted a son and heir to inherit his fortune. Although we were yet to be married, each month he asked if there were any signs. It was always false hope I offered him, against my better judgement, as I had to keep in his favour. I confided this to one of my most trusted ladies, who told me of a woman with a reputation for her knowledge of herbs and potions to help women conceive. Thus it was that I first met my true friend and companion, Margery Jourdemayne, known of by the people of London as the Witch of Eye next Westminster.

I felt a bond with Margery from the moment we first met, as if we had known each other for years. There was an ageless quality about her. Although her hair was turning grey and her lined and careworn face told of a life not without hardship, her eyes shone with the vitality of a much younger person. Her voice carried the accent of the poorer parts of London, yet her words showed the depth and breadth of knowledge that usually comes with good education.

Margery Jourdemayne became a regular visitor to our London mansion, always arriving in secret and, at my request, taking care to leave unobserved by the duke or our servants. She brought me a special potion to drink and told me it was made from stinging nettles and red clover, with wild raspberries to sweeten the taste. I still wonder if the real gift she had was to help me know the best days to conceive, as I did soon after following her advice.

Back at the high window of my room, watching a gathering storm on the Welsh hills, I remember the
attic rooms where I was to spend so much time before the
birth of my first child. The duke decided we would spend the
Christmas season in the old Greenwich manor house he inherited after the death of the Duke of Exeter. I was not feeling in a festive spirit, as there
was still no word from the Vatican about the annulment of Humphrey’s
marriage to Countess Jacqueline. Humphrey wrote long letters to his brother, pleading with him to use his influence to support his case. I know John, Duke of Bedford, disapproved of me and hoped to persuade Humphrey to find a more suitable match.

The manor house was not as grand as our London mansion yet I felt at home there. The kitchen was the heart of the house, with steaming cauldrons of water always on the boil under the watchful eye of the good natured cook and housekeeper. Dark oak beams supported low ceilings and narrow, creaking stairways led to unfashionably small rooms, filled with the late Duke’s old furniture and smelling of damp until we had a log fire roaring in the wide grate.

Humphrey retained the services of a midwife, who lived in a nearby cottage and checked the baby’s progress for me each day. I forget her name but recall her as a shrewd, good-natured woman, with sharp eyes that saw right through me without any sign of judgement. She told me she’d lost count of how many babies she had delivered in the parish. When the duke was called away to settle a dispute in the weeks before Christmas, I sent for the midwife and asked her to keep me company.

We passed the long hours with her tutoring me in the mysteries of childbirth. I was shocked at some of the things she told me, yet determined to learn as much as I could. In time our talk turned to knowing when the baby was due. The midwife asked me to remember when I was first aware of the child, then counted the days on her fingers. Between us we calculated that it would be a winter baby. I was also desperate to know if it was possible to tell if it would be a boy or a girl and asked the midwife if she could help me ask the help of Margery Jourdemayne, the one person I knew could have the answer.