The Secret Diary of Eleanor Cobham

by Tony Riches

  He told me Penmon has barely a dozen monks yet is wealthy, thanks to a good income from the priory lands and from their quarry, the best source of millstones on the island. It seemed the priory was going through difficult times. The tolerant but aging prior, Thomas Godfrey, had fallen ill and was unable to properly carry out his duties. His deputy, an ambitious Canon, William Whalley, was therefore acting as prior but without the proper authority. He had promptly moved into the prior’s house and was making all decisions in his name, increasing the rents, much to the distress of the poor tenants and consternation of the monks.

  The old priest disapproved of Canon Whalley. He must have seen my look and explained that canons were ordained priests who took vows of poverty, chastity and obedience. They lived as monks but had closer contact with the lay community, helping pilgrims and looking after the upkeep of churches in the area. Canon Whalley justified his unpopular rent raising by claiming it was his sworn duty to secure the future of the priory, even if this was at the expense of the hard-working people of Beaumaris.

  As I watched the priest struggle to find his path back through the deep snow of the inner ward I remembered how Cardinal Henry Beaufort used to plot and scheme against Humphrey, always claiming his actions were for the good of the church. I am certain he was the man behind the false accusations that led to my downfall and possibly the murder of my good husband. I will not forget it. I curse his memory and hope his reward was eternal damnation. Not for the first time, I wish I really had the powers of witchcraft I was accused of.

  It was wonderful to watch the coast of France fade into the distance as we sailed for Dover in a freshening breeze. I remember the feeling of anticipation and excitement at the prospect of the new life ahead of me in England. I was no longer the lady-in-waiting to a countess but had the personal protection of the King’s Regent, who promised to marry me as soon as his divorce from Jacqueline had been granted by papal decree. Even now I smile to myself at the irony in the fact that, after going to so much trouble to prove the marriage legal, he was so quickly obliged to claim it invalid.

  I knew this would be impossible to do in any hurry without drawing the criticism of his enemies in parliament, so I would have to live as Humphrey’s mistress. Cardinal Henry Beaufort would be waiting for any excuse to limit Duke Humphrey’s powers as regent and promote his own considerable influence in court and parliament. This meant continuing our assignations in strictest secrecy for as long as possible to prevent further damage to the duke’s reputation. This was no great hardship, as I had become well used to the necessary subterfuge and knew how to avoid the watchful servants in the duke’s household.

  At the same time I longed to live with him openly as his wife yet had to learn patience. Countess Jacqueline still petitioned the pope to recognise her marriage, as her status in Hainaut would depend on the outcome. My last memory of her was a tearful farewell as our ramshackle army rode out of Mons. She had of course expected to accompany us but her mother, the Dowager Margaret, persuaded the nobles of Hainault that she should not leave the country and Humphrey had agreed, on condition they would ensure her safety at all times. We had once been close friends and she confided many secrets to me, including the special code she used to write in secret to her mother. Now, like Duke Humphrey, I had tired of her often repeated stories of her extravagant upbringing.

  Our arrival at the busy harbour of Dover drew more attention than expected and was followed by a hasty departure to Humphrey’s riverside London mansion. Accompanied only by the loyal armed escort of the duke’s bodyguards that had been our company since leaving Mons, we rode hard, late into the night, without waiting for our ships to be unloaded. Duke Humphrey had been increasingly concerned about developments in parliament during his absence and our future together depended on reclaiming his role as regent and protector of his young nephew Henry.

  I should have been happier than ever now my life had changed so much for the better, yet I sensed the disapproval of the servants. The duke’s London housekeeper, a large, red-faced woman, clearly used to having her own way, seemed to particularly resent my presence. She showed her hand when she tried to allocate me to one of the smaller guest rooms on the coldest side of the house, furthest from the duke’s own room. I was young and strong-willed, so I threatened her with dismissal and instructed her to make the countess’s room ready for me. Looking back I see how this mistake cost me dearly. The duke trusted and relied on her and she could have become a good friend. Later she appeared as a witness against me, damming me with her fanciful recollections of my sorcery.

  Duke Humphrey was also not of good spirit, having lost many supporters with our exploits in Hainault. His costly mercenary army was spending the pay they had barely earned in the taverns, regaling shocked Londoners with tales of looting, rape and pillage and painting Duke Humphrey in the poorest possible light. Rumours spread quickly through the city, damaging half-truths and lies, of how he had ‘abandoned’ his wife to her enemies and cowardly ran for home when he should have stood and fought.

  The duke returned from a meeting in Westminster in a dark mood and drank several glasses of brandy before I could console him. As well as incurring the disapproval of his brother John, Duke of Bedford, it seemed he had gained many new enemies at court. There was frustration and sadness in his voice as he confided that he feared the balance of power had shifted too far in favour of the Beaufort faction. He wished to somehow restore his good name, yet I knew it was highly likely they would make some hostile move against him. I was determined to support him through this difficult time so we contrived a plan to remind the people of London of his importance.

  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 p
rotect 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.

  So that was the moment when the seed of my downfall was sown. Was it so wrong of us to be curious, to wish to learn, to have an open mind? The sad postscript to this tale is that Cardinal Beaufort had his way, as he always did. Shouting soldiers came to arrest our friend John Randolph and he was soon returned to his prison. We later heard he had been allegedly murdered there by his cell-mate, another friar said to have gone mad. I remember Humphrey had procured a rare and precious book, written by Randolph, which he treasured above all others. They have killed the man, yet his words live on.

  March 1451

  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.