by Tony Riches
Later I will look more closely at the narrow passageways which connect my room to the chapel tower. There are tall window openings to the inner ward along one side and at the chapel there are stone galleries that once allowed people to observe those praying. The galleries have fine carving to the stonework and I wonder if these were built for King Edward’s use or even for his young wife, my namesake, Eleanor of Castile, once the Queen of England. If I could somehow evade my captors, these corridors and galleries may offer some temporary hiding place, as they would not expect me to lie low so close to my room.
The risks would be much less if I had an accomplice, although I have no idea who, if anyone, could be taken into my confidence without bringing danger upon us both. The only people I have spoken to since I arrived are Sir William and his wife Ellen, the old priest, the cook who brings my food and the maids who sometimes clean my rooms and wash my clothes. I know Ellen would never do anything disloyal to her husband. The old priest seems a little disaffected with his work, although he has not visited me for three months now and I wonder if something has become of him. This leaves the servants, so I decide to discreetly speak to each when I have the opportunity to learn what I can of them.
I read my Book of Hours and find some comfort in Psalm 6 of the Penitential Psalms: Let all my enemies be ashamed, and very sore troubled: let them be converted, and ashamed very speedily. Memories of life at Bella Court return to my thoughts. Humphrey wasted no time on our return from Normandy and was soon able to identify the spy within our household. He refused to discuss how the man had been punished but I suspect it was most severe and he was never seen or heard of again. From that day on we were always more careful about what we said in front of our servants and there was always an element of distrust. We had learned the lesson that even the most loyal servants would have their price.
We had hardly settled into a routine when word arrived in London that an old enemy, Duke Philip of Burgundy, had invaded the English stronghold of Oye castle and hanged the men of the garrison when they surrendered. He was now advancing with an army and a fleet of warships against Calais and would hold the town to siege. As well as its strategic significance, the town of Calais had a special place in the hearts and minds of the people. It was thought vital to safeguard English trade that our last stronghold in France must be held for the crown, whatever the cost.
Humphrey, now the king’s Captain and Lieutenant of Calais, was ordered to raise an army without delay and defend the town against the Burgundians. An experienced soldier from the king’s household, Lord Welles, was appointed as his commander in the field and sent ahead in advance to reinforce the garrison of Calais. The king ordered every county in England to contribute men and money towards the protection of our interests and even our arch rival Cardinal Beaufort was persuaded by parliament to finance the expedition with a thousand marks.
I remember saying a tearful goodbye to my husband, wondering if he would ever return. He was wearing his best sword with a new breastplate of shining silver and appeared confident about the prospects of delivering a swift lesson to the Duke of Burgundy, although I knew him too well to be fooled by his bravado. He told me his army was to sail to Calais in five hundred ships, the largest fleet assembled in many years, with over four hundred men-at-arms and more than four thousand archers. His retinue included the Duke of Norfolk and the Earls of Devon, Stafford, and Warwick, followed by many of the most experienced knights of the realm.
A worrying wait for news followed. We were well aware the Duke of Burgundy had plenty of time to prepare his forces and rumours circulated in London of a Burgundian army numbering over thirty thousand fighting men. It was reassuring to know the Calais garrison, the only English standing army, included experienced soldiers who had served in the French wars. The enemy army was thought to mainly consist of conscripted Flemish farmers, who could be expected to have little appetite for laying down their lives for the Duke of Burgundy.
I also knew that Humphrey was no military leader. He could hold the respect of his men, yet tended to react to the enemy rather than plan to have the advantage. We had only escaped our adventure in Hainault because of the experience of Sir John de Mobray, Earl-Marshall of England and I feared for my husband’s safety. Worse still, the thousands of archers with him were no battle hardened army. Most of the men had been hastily recruited from towns and villages all over England on the promise it would all be over within one month and many had probably never fired a single arrow in anger.
Fortunately, the harbour at Calais was easily defended with cannons from the castle and the Rysbank Tower. Supply ships sailed every day from Sandwich and Dover, returning with reports that soon reached London. We learned that the Burgundian fleet had attempted to block the harbour entrance by sinking ships full of stone but the garrison managed to pull them clear—and salvaged the stone for good measure.
At last a letter arrived for me, bearing Duke Humphrey’s personal seal. The news was good, as he wrote that when he finally arrived in Calais he found the siege already raised. The garrison had held the town and opened sluices to flood the open fields outside the city walls, making it impossible for their attackers to maintain their encampment. There was no sign of Duke Philip and many of the enemy forces had deserted on hearing the news of the arrival of his army, abandoning their guns, which were promptly captured, along with most of their supplies.
My husband should have returned right away to a hero’s welcome, having never had to fight, yet the whole incident turned unexpectedly to our disadvantage, as rumours quickly spread through the city that he had failed to arrive in time. Calais was safe, yet the siege had been lifted and the battle with the Burgundian army won by none other than Sir Edmund Beaufort, Cardinal Beaufort's nephew and Humphrey’s cousin. Once again, it seemed the cardinal had the upper hand.
Two long weeks passed with no further news, and then a second letter arrived for me from Humphrey. He had decided to take his forces inland through Flanders, capturing much booty. I knew there were risks in such an expedition, as the Duke of Burgundy would be expected to find the English an easy target once they were out in the open fields of his own country. The letter confirmed that Humphrey had already returned to Calais and would be sailing home with rich prizes as soon as he was able to.
Now he was able to parade through London at the head of a victorious army, followed by his knights on their war horses and oxen dragging captured Burgundian cannons, wagons laden high with booty and grim-faced Flemish nobles, who would be held for ransom. The celebrations continued for days, with people cheering whenever he appeared in public and calling him ‘Good Duke Humphrey’. We attended a magnificent banquet at Westminster, where it gave me great pleasure to see the look on Cardinal Beaufort’s face.
When we were finally alone in Greenwich he told me the true story. A Burgundian prisoner revealed to them that Duke Philip had escaped to the city of Lille, where he was forced to wait while he rebuilt his army after so many desertions. This meant the towns and villages of Flanders would offer easy pickings. Humphrey ordered his fleet to follow by sea and chose a route close to the coast, yet although he was confident in the knowledge he could always escape in his ships, they had little sleep after they left the safety of Calais. They lived with the constant threat of being surprised or ambushed by Burgundian forces. Then he realised his captains had disobeyed orders and returned to Calais, leaving him stranded deep in enemy territory.
He confessed he had barely been able to control his men, who were hungry and ill-disciplined. They began sacking and burning villages and towns, looting anything of value, raping women and murdering prisoners as they went without mercy. Then, when they reached St Omer, they had nearly been overwhelmed by the forces defending the town. I was simply relieved to have him back safe in England and he confessed that he never wished to lead such an army again.
It was another bright morning on my walk so I asked to be allowed again to climb the high castle ramparts to have a view of
the green fields of Anglesey and the deeper blue-green Irish Sea. I watched a pair of white swans. They seem to be building a nest against the edge of the moat which is far too wide and deep for me to cross, other than by the gatehouse. I looked again for the wooden bridge to the north-west. The narrow path through the fields leads to a stone wall with an unguarded gate. In the far distance the mournful tolling of a bell carries in the still morning air and I wonder if the path would be the way to the friary, so I must find a way to raise the matter with the priest when he next comes to see me.
One guard was ordered to follow me to the top and I recognised him as the man who reminded me a little of my son, Arthur. He has the same stocky build and unruly dark hair, with eyes that seem a little knowing for one so young. An idea formed in my mind that of all the men who guard me, this young soldier was the most likely to be able to help me. I recall how he stands apart from the other local men, as I have heard him speaking in English, rather than the rapid Welsh dialect I cannot understand.
I need more ink and parchment to work on my secret journal and know I cannot rely on the priest, who hasn’t visited me since February. William Bulkeley has forbidden me to have anything that could be used to write letters, yet I decided to risk asking the young guard to help me, as I have little to lose. He looked at me, his face impassive as he seemed to be considering my request. My plan hung in the balance for that moment, and then he scowled at me and said to do so would risk his job. He ordered me to climb back down from the parapet.
As I was about to do so, he seemed to reconsider and said he would offer a trade. He would bring me some ink if I would show him how to read and write his name. I told him I would be happy to but he must keep our arrangement secret. He agreed, and feeling pleased with myself for the first time I can remember, we climbed down to the inner ward as the horses are being taken from their stables for exercise. I returned to my room in good spirits, daydreaming about riding one of the horses at the gallop out through the south gatehouse to freedom.
June 1451
Alea iacta est
I woke from a vivid dream that I was back at Bella Court when my children were small. I was happy then, with everything I could wish for. My husband was home safe and my little son Arthur was already beginning to look like his father, with the same determination and interest in learning. I like to think my daughter Antigone was more like me, adventurous and already charming everyone she met. I remember how she would shriek with delight when Humphrey would sometimes sweep her high off the ground and hold her above his head.
My husband returned from Flanders a changed man. Although he had to make occasional visits to Calais, he never spoke of war again and seemed finally content with our life in London. Our house was filled with clever and creative people, scholars and philosophers, who visited for discussions and debates. Humphrey also championed the merchant class of London, who had amassed great wealth through the wool trade and the prosperous new businesses of banking and commerce. This proved to be an astute move, positioning him as an influential intermediary between those who had inherited wealth and the newly wealthy, building his reputation both in parliament and in business.
Almost replacing the Royal Court, which had become sombre and formal under our pious young king, Bella Court had become the place for the nobility to be seen, the social centre of London. We would often hold banquets in the great hall, with music and entertainers of every kind. Humphrey had a particular liking for Italian music. Musicians and minstrels travelled from as far away as Florence and Milan to play for us. These concerts became the talk of London, so each time we tried to make them a grander spectacle, with more musicians and even choirs singing in our gallery.
The greatest banquet held at Bella Court was for our daughter Antigone’s wedding. Many potential suitors had come and gone, now she was fifteen years old and grown into a beautiful young woman. None were good enough for me, of course, and Humphrey would remind anyone who cared to listen that his daughter could only marry an earl. Then he found a husband for her. Henry Grey, 2nd Earl of Tankerville and Lord of Powys was handsome, wealthy and charming. Nine years older than Antigone, his father Sir John Grey fought in Humphrey’s retinue at Agincourt, being rewarded with vast estates in Normandy and the post of Captain of Harfleur. Henry inherited his fortune and estates in Normandy and Wales when Sir John was killed at the Battle of Baugé.
Antigone’s wedding was in great contrast to my own. After the formal ceremony in Westminster we sailed down the Thames to Bella Court in the duke’s gilded barge to one of the finest banquets seen in London for many years. The wedding guests were served with wild boar and venison, with the finest sweet wines from the Levant, and the centrepiece of the banquet was an enormous sugar sculpture of the figure of Venus, the Roman goddess of love, beauty, fertility and prosperity, emerging from the sea. As my daughter left for her new home at Powys Castle, Earl Henry’s mansion on the Welsh Border, Humphrey took my hand and reminded me that we could wish no better future for her.
My husband returned to his love of learning once life returned to normal, inviting scholars and philosophers to Bella Court for long discussions and debates. It was at about this time that I was introduced to Thomas Southwell. An eminent doctor of medicine and the Canon of St Stephen’s Chapel in Westminster, he was a close friend of Roger Bolingbroke, who shared his interest in astrology and was knowledgeable about the planets and constellations.
Thomas Southwell was an extremely bright, quietly-spoken and likeable man, always impeccably dressed, with an interesting opinion on everything, so he soon became my personal physician, guide and tutor in the esoteric arts. His one failing was to rarely appreciate the witty remarks of his friend Roger Bolingbroke, who would amusingly often take advantage of this fact. Most interestingly for me, he was always ready to discuss such questions as how the universe came to exist, how it operates and man's place within it. He was also exploring how religion could coexist with the learning and knowledge that had been supressed over the ages.
My curiosity about the magical arts had begun with seeing how Margery Jourdemayne could cure most ailments with her herbs and potions, and the spark that had been kindled by the passion of Friar Randolph now took another turn. My new companions had made a study of a rare and secret handbook Humphrey had procured from astrologers in Germany. I was intrigued at their plan to undertake certain ‘experiments’ to test the truth of the ancient writings.
The book looked disappointingly ordinary when they showed it to me, with a plain brown leather cover, several torn and missing pages and few illustrations. The secret book did not seem to have great age or to have been looked after particularly well. It contained what claimed to be faithful copies of secret astrological and occult arts from ancient times, much of it written in finely printed Latin, with some in Italian. The front part of the book was missing, leaving no details of its author, although some clue to the book’s provenance came from notes in the margins by a Johannes Hartleib, who proved to be a counsellor and advisor to the Duke of Bavaria. These notes were cryptic and in old Germanic script, which Roger Bolingbroke was fortunately able to translate for us.
One of the experiments was supposed to help with gaining favour – and there was one person whose favour I needed more than any other, the young King Henry VI. Now fifteen years old, he was always polite to me, yet I knew it was because my husband had been Regent for as long as he could remember. In truth I suspected his mind had been turned against me by his mother. I had not forgotten that Queen Catherine, a woman of my own age, was Countess Jacqueline’s sister-in-law through her first marriage to the Duke of Touraine, also of the House of Valois. They were close, and I was there when Jacqueline had been godmother to her son, holding the infant king at the font.
I remember it was by a messenger from Queen Catherine that my husband learned Countess Jacqueline had died of consumption, still childless. He took it badly and became drunk, cursing the day he ever met her, swearing that with Jacqueline's d
eath Burgundian sovereignty in the Netherlands was assured, then admitting he had once loved her. I felt a powerful sense of guilt, as the countess had treated me well, given me her trust and shared her secrets with me, yet I had repaid her so badly. Her tearful face as we bid farewell still haunts me to this day.
I knew my place at court would never be secure without the favour of the king. Worse still, the king’s mother and others who resented how I took the place of Countess Jacqueline, would now, with her death, do all within their power to discredit me in the king’s eyes. I thought if the experiment from the secret book proved to work, it could do me great good. If it failed no harm would be done to anyone. We would have to ensure the utmost secrecy, even from my husband, as we could not risk his enemies, or mine, ever learning of our experiment.
We met in the duke’s library during one of the duke’s regular visits to Calais. Roger Bolingbroke, having made certain we could not be overheard, read aloud from the German book, translating as he went, with Thomas Southwell and myself asking questions to make sure we understood the process correctly. The invocation was not a complicated one, although it required me to write a magical Latin formula on virgin parchment in the blood of a white dove Thomas Southwell had procured for the purpose. I took a fresh quill and carefully wrote the secret words in a square, while wishing for the grace and love of the king:
S A T O R
A R E P O
T E N E T
O P E R A
