The Secret Diary of Eleanor Cobham

by Tony Riches

  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.

  It was little consolation but even Cardinal Beaufort knew better than to contrive false charges against the heir apparent to the throne. There still remained the question of what I was to do now. Bella Court would be the first place the king’s men would look for me, so I resolved to go into hiding. There was no time to escape across the Channel, so I planned to ask Humphrey to help me make my way to some remote place where I could keep my identity secret until our difficulties were resolved.

  As my boat neared the Tower of London my thoughts returned to my friends languishing inside those high walls. I wept at the thought that it was because of me they were now facing the most horrible deaths. There was a shout from the battlements. One of the sentries high on the wall called to my boatman to come to the Tower water-gate. I pulled my shawl higher around my head and urged my boatman to make all haste to Greenwich, offering him a gold piece to keep going. For a moment he hesitated, apologising to me and looking up at the waiting sentry, then he snatched the gold coin from my hand and pulled back hard on the oars, steering us on past the castle towards the safety of my home.

  I looked nervously behind us to see if we were being followed as we picked our way through the jumble of boats moored on the ramshackle jetties at St Katharine's wharf. I feared that now, if I were captured, I would surely join my friends in the bleak, rat-infested Tower, a fate I must desperately avoid. It seemed luck was on my side, as I could see no boats pursuing us and we were soon around the bend in the river and the Tower disappeared from view.

  At last the outline of Greenwich appeared through the gloom, with Humphrey’s familiar tower high on the hill silhouetted in the moonlight. On the bank I could see burning torches, and at first thought it was revellers, then I realised they were soldiers. I should have realised that they would be watching for me at Bella Court as soon as my escape became known.

  I could see there were only a few men posted at the jetty but I suspected more were waiting at the gates of my home. I reached the purse around my neck and took a second gold piece, which I handed to my boatman. He looked at it in his hand before thrusting the coin to join the first in his pocket and obeying my request to continue down the river to the jetty at Erith.

  The Abbott of Lesnes Abbey near Erith was indebted to my husband, who was paying for the marshland around the abbey to be drained. I also remembered Humphrey remarking that the abbey's finances were in a dire state, so I hoped to be able to buy his silence and find true sanctuary for as long as I needed. It was as far from Westminster as I could travel in one night yet close enough to Bella Court that I could send a message in secret to Humphrey.

  Gratefully thanking the boatman for his brave service, I skirted around the buildings at Erith and made my way to the abbey. I had only visited once, a long time ago and it was difficult to find my way in the darkness. At last I saw the black shape of Lesnes Abbey. I tried the door of the chapel. It was deserted and in pitch darkness. Exhausted from the night’s exertions, I lay down on one of the wooden pews and, using my bag as a pillow, fell asleep.

  It was light when I woke to find myself being regarded by several elderly monks. I explained who I was and that I had come to seek sanctuary. Then one of them said it was too late, as the king’s men were already waiting for me outside. I was shocked they had found my hiding place so quickly, then realised there was one person who knew where I had landed. My boatman must have told them where I was, perhaps hoping for some further reward for his hard night’s rowing.

  This time those arresting me would not let me escape a second time, although their young commander seemed at a loss to know what to do with me. I had yet to be charged with any offence, so he decided to have me escorted by river back to the sanctuary at Westminster Abbey. Once again I was rowed past the jetty at Greenwich, so close to my husband yet still so far. Again I passed the Tower and on to the now crowded dock at Westminster, where a small army of soldiers were waiting to take me back to the Sanctuary.

  A small, spartan room with a wooden cot and a rough blanket was found for me, so different from the luxury I had grown used to. For the first time since I read the note from Roger Bolingbroke I surrendered to self-pity and cried until my pillow was wet with tears. I cried out for my husband and children, whom I knew I might never see again. I cried for my friends, who would be tortured and were surely certain to be killed. I cried in fear for my life and the horrible fate I now faced.

  I remembered how my husband’s late stepmother, Queen Joanna, once faced the same charges. Her punishment for alleged witchcraft and necromancy was to be placed under house arrest for th
ree years, during which time she told me she had lived in relative comfort. I resolved not to let Cardinal Henry Beaufort treat me with any less consideration than had been shown to Queen Joanna of Navarre. I was not a queen but I was a duchess and that must count for something.

  I was further encouraged when I was visited by Edmund Kyrton, the Abbot of Westminster. A soft spoken, devout man, he seemed concerned at my distressed appearance. He first asked if there was any truth in the allegations made against me. I could see he was watching how I answered as I dismissed it all as a plot against my husband. The abbot gave no clue to his own views yet I sensed he saw the truth of my words.

  The abbot told me he had not been long in his post although he knew the law of sanctuary. He asked if I was aware that by seeking sanctuary, I must now be tried by an ecclesiastical court. He must have seen I had not grasped the significance of this, so he explained that only a secular court could impose the death penalty. I thanked God, for the first time in ages, realising that my bid for sanctuary had not perhaps been quite so foolish after all.

  November 1451

  Damnant quod non intelligunt

  Relentless wind and rain lashes Beaumaris and keeps me from my walks, leaving me to dwell on the events of my trial. I was kept waiting for more than a week, confined to my room in the sanctuary, before I was told I had another visitor. I guessed it was my husband, come at last to offer me some words of comfort. I was sure he would by now have learned where I was, yet I was concerned to understand why he had not been able to send me a letter or even a note. I brushed my hair and tried to make myself presentable, waiting with an unexpected sense of apprehension for him to arrive.

  I was to be disappointed. My visitor was not Duke Humphrey but a self-important clerk of the court, who told me I had to come with him for questioning before the bishops at the Chapel of St Stephen. My escort of the king’s men led me out into the sunshine for the short journey across the road to the chapel. I carried my bag with my precious jewels hidden inside, wary of leaving it unattended, even in the Sanctuary. A small crowd of curious onlookers were already gathered to witness my disgrace and I scanned their faces, hoping to recognise any of my husband’s trusted men, yet there were none to be seen.

  On my many visits in the past I had never thought St Stephen’s to be a remarkable chapel. Now I saw the ancient building through new eyes. As I entered the cool interior I raised my eyes to the vaulting of its wooden roof, which soared nearly a hundred feet above the tiled floor. I could now see why Thomas Southwell had been so proud and once said it was more like his cathedral than a chapel. Every inch of the interior that could be decorated was painted in bright colours of scarlet, green and blue, with gold leaf edging. Bright sunlight flooded the chapel with more colours, filtered through beautiful stained glass windows.

  There, in front of me at a high table sat the most important bishops in England, all of whom were known to me through my husband. Archbishop Henry Chichele of Canterbury sat next to Robert Gilbert, Bishop of London. Humphrey’s enemy, John Kemp, Archbishop of York, was next, then the ill-fated William Ayscough, Bishop of Salisbury and the Chancellor, John Stafford, Bishop of Bath and Wells. Finally, I came face to face with my old adversary, Cardinal Beaufort, wearing his robes as Bishop of Winchester. My eyes went to the large, ruby-studded crucifix on a heavy gold chain around his neck, so I didn’t have to look for any longer than necessary at his self-satisfied expression.

  I was led to a rickety wooden chair and sat facing the bishops, who regarded me with silent curiosity. If their intention was to intimidate me, it was not successful. It was important for me to show confidence in my own innocence and not be bullied into saying something I would later regret. It was the frail old Archbishop of Canterbury who spoke first, his tone revealing his many years as a lawyer, as well as man of the church. He looked at me sternly and asked me to state my name. Although they all knew who I was, I replied as confidently as I could, surprised at how my voice echoed in the high ceilinged chapel. The archbishop said I was required to answer most serious allegations of conspiracy to bring about the death of our king, Henry VI. The archbishop waited for a moment, then with a nod from Henry Beaufort began to slowly read the list of the charges against me, so many I lost count.

  It seemed my friends had done their best to keep secret the truth of our experiments. I wondered what tortures they had endured to try to save me. I tried to keep my mind on what I would say when the archbishop finally came to the end of his lengthy diatribe. I would not be like Roger Bolingbroke. He had played into their hands by staying in the painted chair and keeping the paper crown on his head, as no one in the crowd would take his words seriously. He should have stood and torn the paper crown to pieces in front of them, to show it was a mockery of justice.

  I looked into the stern faces of those who presumed to judge me. Apart from Archbishop Henry Chichele, who barely looked up from the papers he was reading from, only Henry Beaufort was watching my reaction. The other bishops avoided my gaze as if troubled by their involvement in the hearing. William Ayscough, Bishop of Salisbury, looked as if he was in prayer, his eyes cast down.

  Some of the charges were ill-founded yet close to the truth. I was accused of encouraging my accomplices in the making of wax effigies of the king and melting them in a fire during a black mass. I was also accused of making my own horoscope, with the assistance of Roger Bolingbroke, to see if or when I would be made queen. This was something I could confidently deny under oath, if this was the extent of the evidence of my ‘treason’.

  Listening to the allegations made against me I realised another possibility. Someone with no involvement had been piecing together information, filling in the gaps as best they could. I suspected the hand of Cardinal Henry Beaufort, who would not be concerned about the accuracy of the allegations. He could have taken such information from my friends, revealed under threats of torture, and embroidered it to better suit his purpose.

  Then another name occurred to me. I had wondered why our chaplain John Hume had been arrested. Now I knew. He had been made an unwilling accomplice to the cardinal, spying on us and using his position to learn what he could. For some reason he had not wanted to give evidence against us and now he faced the same fate. I thought back to what I knew of the man. He would readily submit at the first threat from the cardinal’s men.

  At last it was my turn to speak. I placed the bag I had been holding on the chair and stood, taking one step forward. They seemed taken by surprise by my changed demeanour. Looking them straight in the eyes, I denied it all. I told them I was a loyal subject of King Henry and faithful to my husband and the church. I swore before God I had never required anyone to prepare a horoscope for myself, or ever been party to the making or burning of wax effigies of the king or anyone. I asked those present to hear the truth of my words and to see I was no witch, no necromancer or heretic. I reminded them I was present at the christening of the king. My husband had given him many years of loyal service as Lord Protector of the realm. I was the Duchess of Gloucester, first lady in the land.

  There was a long silence afterwards. Archbishop Chichele, an old friend of Humphrey’s from his Oxford days, was regarding me with new interest. John Kemp, the Archbishop of York, now also a cardinal and Henry Beaufort’s accomplice, was frowning, as if something in my reply offended him. Henry Beaufort spoke. ‘Was it not true’, he challenged, ‘that as the wife of the heir apparent, I wished to one day be Queen of England?’

  I hesitated, aware that whatever I said could compromise my position. I tried to clear my mind and realised I had already taken too long to give my answer. I replied that I had been aware of the possibility since the death of my husband’s brother John, Duke of Bedford.

  Now John Kemp, who, as chancellor, had once been such a thorn in the side of my husband, leaned forward. ‘Was I not interested’, he asked, ‘to discover when that eventuality would occur?’

  I was being drawn deeper into their trap. If I said no, it wou
ld not have the ring of truth, yet if I said yes it could be taken almost as a confession. I repeated that I was a loyal subject of King Henry VI and prayed every day for his good health.

  Again Henry Beaufort challenged me, this time with the look in his eyes of a man who knew he was going to have his way. ‘Was I aware that a man of my husband’s household, Roger Bolingbroke, had sworn I had asked him to make use of a horoscope to foretell my future?’

  Now I felt the panic rising in my chest. They had persuaded my accomplices to talk and were simply waiting for me to either confess or lie. I said I knew Roger Bolingbroke, who was a faithful man of the church and an accomplished scholar. He had once told me that anyone who said it was possible to predict the point of death using horoscopes was either deluded or a charlatan. Henry Beaufort raised his voice this time, demanding that I confess or I would face the consequences of my unholy actions.

  I sat down on my chair again, not wishing to comment on his outburst. The chancellor, John Stafford, began asking questions I was at a loss to answer. ‘Where was my husband, Duke Humphrey? He had not seen fit to visit me or send any message since I had arrived at the Sanctuary of Westminster Abbey? Why was he not here, now, defending the honour of his wife?’

  I remained silent. The chancellor turned to Archbishop Chichele and addressed his next question to him. ‘Could the absence of the Duke of Gloucester be a sign he believes his wife to be guilty of these charges?’

  Archbishop Chichele considered the question for a moment. I remembered what Humphrey had once said about him. He told me Henry Chichele had been a highly influential advisor to his elder brother, King Henry V, and encouraged his war with France, saying that God was on our side. The man now before me was close to eighty years old, yet he seemed to have lost none of his sharpness. He announced that the hearing would adjourn for deliberation, and I was to be returned to the Sanctuary at Westminster until more secure accommodation had been arranged for me.