by Tony Riches
R O T A S
Although I had seen him several times, I heard no more from the young guard regarding our clandestine arrangement for over a week, then one evening the bolt on my door slid back and he was standing there alone, a serious look on his face. He looked behind him to confirm we could not be overheard and produced a fold of parchment from his tunic. He reached inside again and handed me a small flask, which he said contained black ink of good quality, and he had been able to keep it a secret from the other guards, as I had asked.
He had to come in to my room to see what I was writing, so for the first time my door was left unbolted, a small but important step in my escape plan. Spreading out a sheet of the parchment on my small table, I asked the young guard’s name. He told me it was Richard Hook, so I tested the ink with my quill and wrote the letter ‘R’, then handed it to him, asking him to copy it as well as he could. His hand was a little unsteady but he coped well enough, so I then wrote the rest of his name, showing him how to join each letter and he copied it out twice. He looked pleased with the result, so I presented it to him to keep, telling him I would be happy to teach him more, if he wished.
I asked him to tell me how he had come to be at Beaumaris Castle as a guard. He smiled and said he was the third son of a farmer, so could not expect to inherit and had always known he must make his own way in the world. He had travelled from his family home in England to Wales, taking casual labouring work, eventually reaching the island of Anglesey, seeking better regular work. He said he found the routine of a castle guard an easy if unrewarding life, as I was currently the only prisoner. He looked uncomfortable and I knew what it was he wanted to ask me. Was I really a witch, as he had been told?
I explained as simply as I could how I had been used by my husband’s enemies to remove him from power. I didn’t mention how he reminds me of my son or that he is the only one of my guards who treats me with any measure of respect. If they really believed I was a witch, guilty of treason against the king, I asked him, how was it that I am simply held prisoner in Beaumaris Castle, instead of being burned at the stake? He looked a little reassured at this and I realised how important it was that he should believe me.
I lay awake in the darkness after young Richard Hook had left, unable to sleep, his question troubling me. I tried to remember happier times and recalled the excitement on hearing that my daughter Antigone had given us a grandson, Richard. When she was well enough to travel she brought him for us to see. I held this strong healthy boy, my grandson, just as I had held my Arthur when he was a baby, and wondered where all those years had gone.
I also remembered the sense of mystery of that first experiment at Bella Court. It seemed so innocent at the time, if only we were to know where it would lead. I carried the small secret parchment everywhere with me, concealed in the sleeve of my dress, even when I attended a mass in the chapel at Windsor Castle in the presence of the young king. He was as courteous to me as ever, yet seemed to pay me no special attention and I wondered if our ‘experiment’ had failed.
When I met again in secret with Roger Bolingbroke and Thomas Southwell, I told them it was my wish to experiment with a more powerful incantation, which we had previously ruled out. The secret book described a method to secure the supreme and undying love of any person with dignity and honour. Most importantly, this was described in the secret text as having been used by the Greek philosopher Parmenides to obtain special favour from the King of Persia. The ‘spell’ was also much more complicated, as it required the casting of two figures in pure silver. We discussed the involvement of others to do this difficult work but decided the only way to ensure secrecy was to share the tasks between us.
Roger Bolingbroke agreed to fashion moulds for casting the silver from the soft Portland stone left over from the building of Bella Court. The book described how the moulds should be made in two halves which fitted perfectly together. Roger professed he was no sculptor, although fortunately a good likeness was not required, as the images were symbolic. One was to be in the form of a man wearing a crown, to represent the king, and the other needed to be recognisably female in shape, one third larger than the first and holding a sceptre. I was to provide the silver from my jewellery, while Thomas Southwell had the task of procuring a small furnace from the London silversmiths.
After several weeks they finally announced they were ready to make the new experiment. The appointed hour for the casting for the first figure was the first hour of a Sunday, under a waxing moon. Roger Bolingbroke told me he had read that since ancient times the waxing moon has represented the goddess Artemis, one of the most widely venerated of the ancient deities. He said we must watch for when the moon grows larger in the night sky, moving from the new moon towards a full moon. That is the best time for spells that attract, bring positive change, spells for love, good luck and growth. It seemed a good omen for our experiment.
I was able to slip away in the darkness to where Roger Bolingbroke was waiting for me as we had secretly arranged. We rode silently in the night through the woods, across the old river bridge then through back streets and alleyways to the small London workshop where Thomas Southwell had been working on the pretext of learning the art of jewellery making. Twice we stopped to make sure we were not being followed, as it was vital to maintain absolute secrecy about our experiment.
I remember how the brilliant heat of the smelting furnace added a surreal sense of occasion to our experiment. Thomas Southwell had built it using charcoal and had to maintain the heat with a pair of leather bellows. It was hard work, and the sweat was running down the poor man’s red face before the silver was molten. Roger Bolingbroke took the crucible of glowing liquid silver in long iron tongs and poured it with great care into the stone mould he had built, while I read the first incantation: ‘I Eleanor, wishing to obtain favour and be revered by King Henry and honoured forever, form this image made and carved in his name, by virtue of which he should love me without measure forever’.
When the mould was cooled we quenched the small figure in spring water, then he handed the figure to me and I could look at it properly for the first time. Roger Bolingbroke had been unduly modest about his skills as a sculptor. I held in my hands the figure of the king and there was a likeness, from the proportions of his body to the pious look on his face. The little crown on his head had been finely modelled and I remember that the gentle warmth still radiating from the silver made it feel like I was holding a living thing. Pleased with their work, I handed the small figure to Roger Bolingbroke who inscribed it with the magic words in the book, before wrapping it in a clean linen cloth until we were ready for the next.
Our plan was nearly ruined when, on the evening of the following Wednesday my husband returned late from a meeting of parliament. He was restless and was barely asleep before I slipped away into the night. The appointed time for casting the silver figure to represent me was the first hour of Thursday, so we reached Thomas Southwell’s workshop with only moments to spare.
As before, the figure was cast with me saying the next incantation: ‘I Eleanor, form my own image according to my likeness, by which I may rule forever over King Henry and be loved by him for all eternity’. This time Roger Bolingbroke had chosen to flatter me with the proportions of his sculpting, for when I held the still warm figure it looked more like a girl in the flower of her youth than my more matronly shape.
On the following day we met together one last time to purify the images with a special potion of aromatic cinnamon, long pepper and the herb agrimony, saying the magic words three times. A prayer was read by Thomas Southwell as set out in the ancient text. Then followed a strange ritual. I had to use a small iron chain to bind the ‘hands’ of the king’s image behind its back.
The arms of the little figure were quite thin, so Roger Bolingbroke was able to bend them in his strong hands without too much difficulty. I took the chain and carefully tied it around the little hands in a knot that would not easily slip off again. The next p
art of the ritual required the head of the figure to be bent to face down. Unfortunately the solid silver neck was too hard to bend, so Thomas Southwell took a small hammer and, while holding the little body firmly on his workbench, had to hit the back of the head until it bent.
Until then I had been happy to go along with the strange ritual, which reminded me a little of playing with dolls as a child. Now, watching Thomas Southwell’s hammer do its brutal work, I felt the first stirring of conscience. I said a silent prayer that no harm would come to the king through our experiments, which were never intended to do anything other than win his favour. There was no going back by then, though, and I placed the figures together, saying: ‘As this image, made in the name of King Henry, stands before me with bended neck, thus may he love me and revere me above all others and strive to praise me’.
The last stage of the experiment required me to travel through the city with the images wrapped in linen to the king’s residence at Windsor Castle, where I was to remain until evening, when I took the small bundle to a secret place and buried it deep in the earth so it could never be found again. Looking back I cannot recall any sense of danger in what we were doing, although if anyone discovered our experiment it could so easily be mistaken for treason and witchcraft.
Throughout the Christmas festivities I watched and waited for any sign of favour. Then we received our New Year’s gifts from the king. To Humphrey he presented a tablet of solid gold with an image of the Virgin Mary suspended by three gold chains, with six diamonds, sapphires and hundreds of pure white pearls. For me there was a beautiful brooch in the shape of the king holding a golden ball, set with five large pearls, a large fine diamond and three hangers adorned with rubies and pearls. As I held it in my hand I was a little shocked at the uncanny similarity to the figure which I hoped was safely buried in Windsor Great Park. These were without question the finest New Year’s presents given to anyone by the king, a certain mark of his grace and favour.
It was of course not possible to say our restoration was linked in any way to the experiments, although my accomplices were content our efforts had not been wasted. I was the favourite of the king—and the duke was now predominant in the country. The sudden death of the king’s mother, Queen Catherine of Valois, on the same day as our gifts arrived, also removed one more person who would most certainly have worked to reduce our influence with the young king.
Another queen was also lost to us that year, as Humphrey’s stepmother Queen Joanna died at Havering-atte-Bower, a village near London, after a short illness. I remembered how I visited her with Countess Jacqueline before we set sail for France. Queen Joanna treated me kindly, even though I was merely a lady-in-waiting to the countess. She had also talked openly about her interest in astrology to foretell the future.
Humphrey’s mother had died when he was young, so he had become close to his stepmother, who would regularly accompany him on his visits to the Abbey of St Albans. On the news of her death he decided he would meet the cost of her funeral and persuaded the king to make it a full state occasion. The same Italian craftsmen responsible for the fine stonework and statues at Bella Court were commissioned to create a life sized effigy of Queen Joanna, not as the old woman she was at her death but instead based on a youthful portrait, looking beautiful in her prime.
The body of Queen Joanna lay in state in Westminster Great Hall, wearing a golden crown under a red velvet canopy surrounded by torches, burning day and night in her memory. A hundred paupers held candles while bishops and priests read prayers for her soul. Many nobles and knights visited to pay their respects to the wife of one of our greatest kings. On the day of her funeral I travelled at Duke Humphrey’s side in a grand procession behind her funeral carriage all the way from London to the cathedral at Canterbury, where she was laid to rest next to her second husband, Henry IV, in St Thomas the Becket's chapel behind the high altar.
I have always found some solace in her story as, like me, she was falsely imprisoned for necromancy and using witchcraft against the person of the king. Having endured her punishment, Queen Joanna was pardoned and released to live the rest of her life comfortably in Nottingham Castle, with a good pension. If I can endure the same, perhaps there is hope for me yet.
July 1451
Honi soit qui mal y pense
Reflecting on my past life and adventures in this secret journal reminds me that, although I have seen much sadness, there are also many things I must be grateful for. I was once the first lady of the land, the favourite of the King of England and France, with everything I could wish for. My children were growing up in a palace, surrounded by beauty, music and learning and, after years of longing for what he could not have, my husband was finally content. He was also very proud when our daughter Antigone gave us a second grandson, and named him Humphrey.
My New Year’s gift from the king was a beautifully crafted garter of real gold, with the motto made with letters of gold: Hony soit qui mal y pense. The buckle was decorated with a flower of precious diamonds, with two large pearls and a bright red ruby on the pendant and two perfectly matching large pearls with twenty-six smaller pearls on the garter. Surely this was the final proof, if it were needed, of the king’s absolute regard for me? It is only now, all these years later, that the significance of the motto strikes me as particularly apt: Evil unto him who evil thinks.
Everything was going so well. I was finally given a beautiful little granddaughter, my third grandchild, named Elizabeth by Antigone and it seemed our lives could not be better. Then an ominous shadow passed over our lives, slowly at first, just as the sun passes behind a cloud and you gradually realise its heat has cooled. I used to look back and try to see what we could have done to prevent it, yet now I cannot help but wonder it was simply our destiny playing out. Perhaps we could no more have changed the course of those terrible events that blighted our lives than stop the clouds obscuring the sun.
My bored guards talk softly in their Welsh language as they wait outside the chapel entrance, more for the summer sunshine than through respect for my privacy. I sit alone on a wooden bench in the cool sanctuary of the castle chapel and read the devotional Book of Hours, brought to me by the kindly priest. I asked the young guard Richard Hook to enquire after him and learned that the priest has left on a pilgrimage to visit a holy place near St Davids in the west of Wales. I have added him to my prayers and hope he is well enough for such a long journey.
Translating the fine print as well as I am able to, I see new meaning in the words of Psalm 142, ‘Enter not into judgment with thy servant: for every one living shall not be justified in thy sight. For the enemy hath persecuted my soul: he hath humbled my life in the earth. He hath set me in obscure places as the dead of the world’. It is true that those who entered into judgement against me were themselves surely guilty of the same beliefs.
I grieve for those who died because of the events I set in place and will remember them always in my prayers, although I wonder why my God must be a vengeful one. Was it our destiny, some grand plan that would have unfolded without regard to my actions or inaction? My life is surely humbled and I have lived these past ten years in such obscure places as I had never heard of.
The question which troubles me now is to understand my true destiny. The psalm says, ‘Make the way known to me, wherein I may walk: Deliver me from mine enemies’. Am I to submit to this unjust imprisonment, so I can dedicate my last few years to prayer? Should I risk my life attempting a reckless escape, knowing this could bring harm and pain to myself and others? I would have no concern for my jailor, Sir William Bulkeley, yet what would become of his good wife Lady Ellen and her family? For now, at least, the decision is not mine to take.
When I witnessed Queen Catherine being laid to rest in the Lady Chapel of Westminster Abbey I remembered her as a beautiful, confident woman of my own age and realised how fortunate I had been with the birth of my children. I thought that was the end of her influence on my life and now she would trouble u
s no more, yet it was not to be. Some ten years before, when still Lord Protector, Duke Humphrey had been concerned over rumours she intended to marry his own cousin, Edmund Beaufort, who had stolen the glory of the defence of Calais from him.
I remember how the prospect of a Beaufort being in a position of such power and influence caused my husband sleepless nights until he formed a plan to prevent it. As Lord Protector it was within his power to propose an Act of Parliament to prevent the Dowager Queen marrying without the king's consent. The true purpose of the act was to ensure that any future husband would face the loss of his lands and possessions. This would be certain to deter the ambitious Edmund Beaufort, who knew Humphrey would not hesitate to enforce the Act.
As we expected, there were those in the parliament who saw this as a move by my husband to protect his own position in the line of succession. His opponents were unable to win the day, although he was forced to concede that children from such a marriage would still be members of the royal family and not suffer punishment. Humphrey told me he was content with this, as the king's permission could only be granted once he reached his majority, and when the Act was passed that was still many years away.
Humphrey had taken the precaution of having the Dowager Queen watched, installing one of our trusted men in her household as a groom in her stables. Through him we learned, less than a year later, that his brother’s widow had ignored the ruling of parliament and married in secret. Fortunately it was not to the cardinal’s nephew, Edmund Beaufort. Our informant told us her illicit husband was a servant, a Welshman by birth named Owen Tudor.
He had the man investigated and found this was no ordinary servant. Owen Tudor was well educated, the same age as the Dowager Queen Catherine and from a noble Welsh family. He had also been a soldier and fought with honour in France, being made a squire by the king, who granted him the right to bear arms in England, the only Welshman permitted to do so. His position as keeper of the Queen's wardrobe had been well paid and placed him in close and regular contact with the Dowager Queen, so it was possible that by forestalling her marriage to Edmund Beaufort, Humphrey had made it possible for their relationship to become more intimate.
