The Secret Diary of Eleanor Cobham (17 page)

My worst fears were realised. They were all accused of conspiracy to bring about the death of the king. We knew too well that anyone convicted of treason would suffer a most horribly painful death. It was but a short step to have them confess that their plan had been to put my husband on the throne in Henry’s place. This was the work of Cardinal Beaufort. By arresting our known associates, he knew people would readily believe they were acting with my husband’s full knowledge. The cardinal could easily pay for ‘witnesses’ to say whatever he wished them to.

There followed another long and difficult wait for news. Another of Humphrey’s riders returned to tell us Thomas Southwell was now also facing a specific charge. It was being said he was accused of celebrating a mass unlawfully at the lodge in Hornsey Park. Our man could tell us little more, other than there was talk of Southwell being in possession of what were called ‘strange heretical accoutrements’. I hoped this showed they had no knowledge of the truth.

Thomas Southwell was no heretic. We had known him for many years. He was Canon of St Stephen's Chapel in the palace of Westminster, Rector of St Stephen's in Walbrook and the Vicar of Ruislip. At the same time it was a serious allegation. Humphrey had been present at the burning at Smithfield of a priest who denied the sacraments of the church. During his time as Regent my husband also oversaw inquisitions concerning heretics, traitors, and rebels, many of whom were executed for threatening the House of Lancaster.

Similarly I was at a loss to understand why our secretary and chaplain, John Home, also a man of the church and the Canon of Hereford and St Asaph, had been arrested with them. I could not tell my husband but to my knowledge he was innocent of any involvement in our experiments. Home was serious and scholarly, a tall, thin man with deep-set eyes and a strange habit of pausing over long before answering, as if weighing up all the possibilities before speaking. He did his work well enough yet I had never felt at ease in his company and would never have contemplated involving him in any of our secret experiments.
 

Then Humphrey’s man told us the awful news that my poor gentle and innocent friend Margery Jourdemayne had also been arrested at her home in Westminster, accused of witchcraft and sorcery. I remembered how she was warned, last time we secured her release, that she would be shown no mercy if she was ever caught using witchcraft again. Although she played no part in our experiments and I had not seen her for some time, I was starting to realise the cardinal’s plan.

Margery Jourdemayne was one of my ‘known associates’, not Humphreys. One way or another, Cardinal Henry Beaufort would find a way to accuse me, and through me bring down my husband. Too late, I recalled a quote from the Greek philosopher Antisthenes:
Pay attention to your enemies, for they are the first to discover your mistakes.

The autumn rain I predicted has finally arrived in Beaumaris, quickly turning the paths around the inner ward to mud again. Instead of taking my walk outside, I passed through the passageways that link my room to the castle chapel. Once there I said a prayer for the souls of my friends and lit three new candles. One for the good-hearted Thomas Southwell, who was so swiftly removed from his proudly held position of Canonry of St Stephen's in Westminster. One for the deep-voiced Roger Bolingbroke, who had so patiently shared his knowledge of the heavens with me. One for my good friend Margery Jourdemayne, who never showed anything other than kindness to all she met.

I do not light a candle for John Hume but no longer curse him as I have done so many times. Sitting alone in the contemplative peace of the chapel, I wonder if John Hume knew the harm he would do by his glib allegations, made so easily. Did the cardinal put the words into his mouth, or was the falsehood all of his own making? He might not have been a spy for the cardinal, yet all the time he had been putting together his own distorted view of what was going on in secret at Bella Court.

John Hume spent much time in the company of Thomas Southwell and Roger Bolingbroke. In his slow, shrewd way, apparently innocent questions in an unguarded moment could have led my friends to tell him more than they really should have. I can imagine John Hume’s fear when the cardinal’s henchmen threatened to tear his limbs on the rack or worse, unspeakable tortures, unless he spoke of what he knew. With his own life at stake, I cannot blame him for sharing his ill-informed theories or agreeing to bear witness against my friends, as others also did. I wonder, though, if he is still alive, and if the lives of those who were once his trusting friends rest heavily on his conscience.

Sanctuarium

It is hard for me to recall the details of how events unfolded during those dreadful weeks ten years ago, the reason I am here now, in Beaumaris Castle. It is also painful for me, as one who was once so proud of my reputation, to remember how the whole of London was soon buzzing with talk of our misfortune. My hope is that writing this story as well as I can may put my troubled mind at rest and leave those terrible times behind me.

The people love a scandal and the scheming Cardinal Henry Beaufort had given them one, a twisted, ill-informed version of events that would appeal to the superstitious and horrify the devout. We heard that Thomas Southwell was imprisoned in the Tower and, in addition to the charges of treason, Roger Bolingbroke, John Home and Margery Jourdemayne, had all now been formally charged with heretical practices and divination with magic and the black arts. Necromancy.

The good men and women of London were calling for my friends to suffer the harshest punishment before any trials had even taken place. Roger Bolingbroke warned me once; such is the fear and superstition of something which people don’t understand, their only wish is to see it swiftly crushed, like a bed bug, without a moment of pity or remorse, no thought or care for its place in our world.

I knew there was nothing my husband could do to have them freed and no prospect of a pardon from the king. Shunned by even those who once supported us, our own position was under great threat. I argued with Humphrey that we should make urgent and secret preparations to go into hiding, somewhere far from London, until we could clear our name. He angrily refused, saying he had no reason to hide and to do so would confirm our guilt in the minds of our enemies. He swore he would remain at Bella Court unless there was no alternative.

Then we received disturbing news which took the decision from my hands. We heard of a declaration that Roger Bolingbroke was to publicly recant his crimes at St Paul’s Cross, h
is revelations to be made before the King's Council. It was known that heretics could be shown leniency if they were to publicly recant their misguided ways, yet I found it impossible to believe Bolingbroke would do so before even a trial. I feared he had already made a confession, and had been somehow persuaded to reveal my own involvement and details of our experiments.

My husband was relieved he was not invited to attend the spectacle, so again he sent one of his trusted men on the appointed day to witness events and report back as soon as he could. It was during that awful wait that I secretly visited my husband’s library and found the book we used in our secret experiments. Hiding it in the folds of my dress and making sure I could not be seen, I took it to my room. I did not even dare to open the book one last time and threw it on the fire, cursing the day I even knew of it as the parchment pages burned brightly in the orange flames. I covered the ashes with hot coals so no trace remained.

If events were to turn badly for me I needed to be ready. I wrapped my priceless golden brooch
set with pearls and a large diamond, together with
my gold garter, in some fine cotton cloth. They were gifts from the king but could also serve to pay for my safe haven somewhere no one would find me. I placed them in a bag with a change of clothing, my comb and a small but precious silver mirror. I took a needle and thread and sewed the best of my jewellery into a secret pocket in my favourite blue dress. As a final precaution I found my purse on a silk cord which could be worn under my clothes and filled it with as many gold and silver coins I could. My preparations made, I could only wait for the news I was certain would come.
 

Humphrey’s man returned with a strange and worrying account of what had happened at St Paul’s Cross. Crowds of curious onlookers gathered to first hear a sermon by Bishop John Low of Rochester, who spoke of the dangers of heresy and the foolishness of those who would claim to use magic. Our friend Roger Bolingbroke was placed high on a wooden platform, so everyone present could see him. Humphrey’s man told us he looked dazed and seemed unable to stand without help. Instead of his black cappa clausa, the sign of his role in the church, he wore a colourful robe daubed with supposedly magic symbols.

Roger Bolingbroke was made to sit on a brightly painted throne-like chair, a wooden sword placed in one hand and a sceptre in the other. On his head they had made him wear a paper crown to mock his treason against the king. Cardinal Beaufort himself presided over the Council’s questioning, surrounding himself with the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Bishops of London and Salisbury and the powerful earls of Huntingdon, Stafford and Northumberland. The sign to the people was clear, the great and the good would prevail and justice would be seen to be done.

 
Our informant told us how Bolingbroke recanted his diabolical activities. His deep voice faltering as he confessed his actions were unlawful and against the teachings of the church. My husband urged the man to recall exactly the words he had heard. He remembered that there were jeers from the crowd and calls for him to speak the truth when he tried to argue he had never been a heretic and was a faithful servant of the church. The crowd had fallen silent as he prayed, his words echoing around St Paul’s, for God to take pity on his mortal soul, and to have mercy on those who would condemn him.
 

I will never know what Roger Bolingbroke suffered before he agreed to take part in this carefully staged mockery of justice. I did know it was planned by Cardinal Beaufort to prepare the people of London for what would come next, a further confession that would set out the involvement of Duke Humphrey and myself. It was three long days and two sleepless nights before we had word that he claimed his actions were on my behalf. It was being said I had asked him to foretell my future, an act of treason if it could be shown I wished the death of the king, with charges of witchcraft and necromancy likely to be proven. I knew the terrifying punishment for such crimes. Men would be taken to Tyburn, where they would be hanged, drawn and quartered. The punishment for a woman was to be burned alive at the stake.

My one regret is I did not feel able to confess to my husband what I had done or discuss with him the true nature of our experiments. He deserved to know the extent of our actions and why I had to escape while I could, yet at the moment of truth I simply said I was going out to clear my head. Too many people were already suffering as a result of my curiosity and I had no wish to add my husband to the list of those accused as conspirators. I also knew there was no way I could say goodbye to him, even though there was a danger I could never see him again.

I put my purse, heavy with gold and silver coins, around my neck, with a light shawl over my shoulders to hide my face and, carrying the bag I had prepared, left without saying a word to anyone. It was a warm July evening as I took my last walk through my beautiful gardens at Bella Court in the setting sun. I remembered how the workmen had toiled to transform the rough pasture into my garden, one of the finest in the whole of England.

The borders were a riot of colour with flowers brought all the way from Holland and Zeeland; lands which my husband still claimed were his by right. It had been a good early summer and my fruit trees were already heavy with ripening apples and pears, purple plums and bright red cherries. Last of all I stopped to visit my herb garden and quietly said a prayer, not for myself, but for Margery Jourdemayne, now so fatally caught up in my misfortune.
   

I made my way through our private avenues to the jetty on the Thames where boatmen were always waiting and paid one to take me upriver to Westminster. Looking back I know I should have asked him to row down the river. I could have escaped to one of the Channel ports and found a passage on a ship bound for France, where I could somehow have lived in exile until it was safe to return. There would have been dangers for a woman travelling alone and a good chance I could be robbed or worse, yet it would have been better to risk this than simply accept my fate. I decided instead to seek sanctuary in Westminster Abbey.

My husband called
me a naive and stupid woman and perhaps he was right, for at the time I believed
there was a right of sanctuary, where a person could seek protection, even from the cardinal and agents of the king, within consecrated ground. I knew the penalty for anyone forcibly removing people or committing violence against those in sanctuary was excommunication by the church. This would surely be enough to deter even the cardinal.

I was glad of a light breeze as I was rowed up the river Thames. The tide was in our favour and we soon passed the Tower of London, where my friends were imprisoned. I said a prayer that they would not suffer too much, yet even as I did so I knew how easily they could be made to betray me. I pulled my shawl over my hair and this simple disguise meant I drew no attention as we reached the busy jetty at Westminster. I made my way through the familiar, bustling streets of London. For once I was glad of the hard times I spent in the area, making a living as best I could before becoming lady-in-waiting to Countess Jacqueline all those years ago.

The sun had set and it was growing dark as I made my way as fast as I could to St Peter's Sanctuary, at the north-west corner of Westminster Abbey. The Sanctuary was a large square keep, two storeys high, with thick stone walls and a huge door made of heavy oak. It was built to withstand an attack and I thought was the safest place for me to escape from my immediate danger. My knocking on the door went unanswered, so I tried the handle and it opened to reveal a small chapel, with wooden pews and a simple altar lit by cheap tallow candles.

A surly looking man appeared from one of the rooms to the side of the chapel and demanded to know my business at such a late hour. I explained I was the Duchess of Gloucester, seeking sanctuary. He looked at me with ill-disguised contempt. Word of the allegations made against me had already reached even into this sacred place. After a moment of consideration he said sanctuary was not permitted for the crimes of which I was accused. He told me I could use the chapel to pray for my soul while he consulted with the abbot.

There was nothing else I could do but take a seat in the chapel and contemplate the sorry situation I now found myself in. I was not expecting the warmest welcome but was shocked to learn I could be denied admission to the sanctuary. I did not have long to wait. The man had notified the authorities of my presence and the door banged open as two armed men entered to make my arrest. As they led me through dark, verminous streets with stinking, overflowing sewer channels, I heard a shout ring out that the Duchess of Gloucester had tried to evade the king’s justice. The sanctuary I hoped for had turned into a trap from which there was no escape.

As we passed through a busier area of the city I noticed the men escorting me had been drinking and had an over confident swagger. It was late now and perhaps they had thought their work was over for the day, taking a quick drink in a tavern before turning in for the night when they were called to seize me from my supposed sanctuary. I let them walk ahead of me and watched for my chance. A heavily laden wagon which took up most of the narrow street approached us from behind. I waited until it was level with us and darted down a side street, clutching my bag with its precious contents as I ran.

The sound of shouts and heavy boots on the hard cobbles urged me to run faster until I started feeling out of breath. I stopped in a dark doorway and held my breath. My prayers were answered as they pounded straight past my hiding place and on into the night, still shouting to each other and calling my name. A heavily built woman in a grease-stained dress came out of the house opposite my hiding place and stated down the narrow street after the running men. I was certain she would see me and shout to raise the alarm. For once, luck was on my side. The woman muttered a curse and went back into her house, slamming the door behind her.

When I thought it was safe I found my way to the nearest river jetty, where there was a solitary boatman hoping to pick up his last fare for the evening. I paid him extra to take me to Greenwich as fast as he was able to. As his oars splashed rhythmically in the dark, fast-flowing water I pulled my shawl around me and worried how I would explain to my husband that I was now a fugitive.

He would be aware by now that I had misled him, although I hoped he understood I would not have done so without good reason. I was expecting to face some difficult questions about my part in what had happened and knew he would be angry with me. My only saving grace was that I had shown the sense to keep him out of any part of our experiments.