The Secret Diary of Eleanor Cobham

by Tony Riches

  The captain of the king’s men escorted me out of the chapel and I emerged back into the bright July sunlight to find a sizeable crowd gathered outside. Rows of soldiers armed with long, steel-pointed halberds lined each side of the path and all the way to Westminster Abbey. The captain noticed my surprise and explained it was on the personal orders of the king. He had declared no person was to hinder the bishops in the performance of their task, or to attempt anything against myself or my property in the meanwhile. This could explain why Humphrey and his supporters remained so silent, yet as I slowly walked through the avenue of soldiers I wished he would at least send me a letter.

  I spent a sleepless night in the Sanctuary, which had now truly become my prison, with no appetite for the meal of rough bread and meat offered to me by the monks. I lay on the uncomfortable straw-filled mattress and went through the charges against me in my mind again and again, trying to see how I could defend myself against so many allegations. I realised my only option was to confess. Not to anything treasonable but to some of the lesser crimes, for which I could publicly recant.

  The next morning I was again summoned to St Stephen’s Chapel to face the bishops. I thought it had not taken them long to agree a judgement on me and I wondered what new questions they would now ask. I saw there was a witness waiting to testify against me, standing between two of the king’s men, who looked ready to support him if he could no longer stand. It was barely a month since I had last seen Roger Bolingbroke, yet in that time he had aged ten years. His hair was matted and his eyes bloodshot, with a look of abject misery. He made no sign of recognition as I took my seat in front of the assembled bishops.

  Archbishop Chichele instructed Roger Bolingbroke to repeat his allegation that I had encouraged him to make a horoscope to tell my future. Never once looking at me, he said I had instructed him to find by divination to what estate in life I should come, his deep voice wavering as he spoke. I was shocked at how my strong and intelligent friend had been so reduced by his captivity and wondered again what deprivations he had suffered. Chancellor John Stafford, Bishop of Bath and Wells, asked if I would now confess that this was true. I said it was. After seeing Roger Bolingbroke I had decided to admit the lesser crime.

  If I hoped this would be an end to the matter, I was mistaken. After Roger Bolingbroke was led away, Bishop Stafford’s next question took me completely by surprise. ‘Was it true’, he asked, ‘that I had retained the services of a known witch, by the name of Margery Jourdemayne, as a sorceress, to concoct potions to induce Duke Humphrey to love me?’

  I answered she was not a witch. Her knowledge of natural medicines simply helped the duke and to conceive my son, Arthur, then to relieve pain during the birth of my children many years ago. I added that I had not seen Margery Jourdemayne for several years since.

  Archbishop Chichele asked me to explain how it was Margery Jourdemayne had confessed to the King’s Council that she concocted magical potions to make Duke Humphrey marry me. I was about to dismiss this as nonsense, as I had not even heard of her when I met my husband, who had needed no encouragement from so-called magical potions. I realised what the archbishop was saying. He was offering a way for Humphrey to be excused his association with me, on grounds he was somehow bewitched. There was a chance I might be able to save Margery’s life by admitting what again was a lesser, non-treasonable crime. With great effort, I said it was true.

  Now Henry Beaufort, who had remained silent throughout, declared he had heard enough. He announced that the king had agreed for me to be committed to Leeds Castle in Kent under the custody of Sir John Steward, Constable of the Castle, and John Stanley, Usher of the King's Chamber, until the king and council had decided my punishment. This news seemed to surprise the other bishops as much as me, although some seemed relieved the matter was out of their hands, at least for a while.

  At last the sun has returned to Beaumaris and I am able to have much needed fresh air. I have learnt storms are on the way when the squawking seagulls flock to the shelter of the castle, as they do now. Grey skies confirm that autumn is coming to an end and I can expect the chill onset of winter. One of my guards this day is Richard Hook, who reminds me so much of my son. I asked him if there is any news of the old priest, as I would like to see him. He offered to enquire on my behalf and let me know. I thanked him and said we could resume our writing lessons when he wished.

  As I reached the chapel I entered the arched doorway and sat in silence for a moment, remembering my last bid to evade imprisonment in the Sanctuary in Westminster. I needed to somehow find a way to leave the Sanctuary of Westminster Abbey before my transfer to Leeds Castle, from where I knew I could never escape. My foray down the river had hardened the attitude of my guards, who were probably under threat of their own lives if they allowed me to evade them. For whatever reason, I could not count on a rescue by my husband or his supporters, so I knew it was up to me to find a way and I did not have much time.

  The stress and anxiety of my situation had taken its toll, as I still had no appetite and felt quite unwell. This gave me the idea to feign illness, which could at least delay my transfer from Westminster Abbey and allow time for me to plan my escape. I was visited by a kindly monk who tended the infirmary and served as the apothecary to the abbey, who tried to encourage me to take some broth mixed with herbs. I drank the cup of warm mead he offered but would not eat until the commander of my guard agreed my demand to be seen by a physician.

  It was late afternoon before the man arrived. He seemed wary and I doubted he could be trusted to help me but I had little choice. I hoped it was true every man has his price. As soon as we were alone I unwrapped the precious brooch in the shape of the king holding a golden ball, set with a large diamond and adorned with rubies and pearls. I could see from the look in his eyes he immediately appreciated its value and told him he could have it in return for helping me find a way out of the abbey to safety.

  The physician shook his head, replying that even this fine jewel was not worth the risk of his life. He was aware of the declaration by the king and knew if he helped me, he too could face charges of treason and pay the awful penalty. It is not true, after all, that every man has his price. He was a good man, though, and told me I must eat to keep my strength for the difficult times I would face ahead.

  December 1451

  Pulchra carcerem

  I listen to the angry crackle of unseasoned logs burning on my fire as the flames find the fresh sap. Glad of the warmth they bring to my room, I move my chair closer to the hearth and try to comfort my ageing bones. I have known colder Decembers yet in the middle of the night I wake shivering in the chill air. Once awake, I often find I cannot go back to sleep and lie listening to the howling wind blowing hard from the sea. If it is in the right direction I am sure I can hear distant waves, pounding on the shores of this remote Welsh island.

  Sometimes I am glad to be away from the petty politics of court and parliament, away from the greed and corruption, the noise and smell of London. Even if I were now set free I would not stay in England. My home, my lands and fortune are all gone, confiscated or stolen by my enemies, so I would have nowhere now to stay, no money to last into my old age. My only hope would be to find my daughter Antigone in Normandy.

  My mind returns to the reason I am here and the terrible events of ten years ago that haunt me still. I remember how I abandoned my faith in God and cursed the bishops who sat in judgement over me one by one, wishing them all dead. I think those who know the truth would find it in their hearts to forgive my curses, for these highest men of the church, two of them cardinals of Rome, knew full well the deceit and cruelty of what they did.

  I will never know if it was my curse that finished Archbishop Henry Chichele. He was old and frail. I thought at first, as my husband’s former friend, he simply wished to distance himself from the disgrace being brought on Duke Humphrey. Then I heard the Archbishop had suffered a seizure while at his prayers and breathed his last. I do not k
now what became of John Stafford, Bishop of Bath and Wells, Robert Gilbert, Bishop of London, or Humphrey’s enemy, John Kemp, Archbishop of York. I hope their cruel and vindictive actions rested heavily on their conscience, keeping them awake at nights.

  I shed no tears for the nervous William Ayscough, Bishop of Salisbury, when I learned from Lady Ellen that he was hacked to death by rebels who stormed the Tower. She told me his head was severed from his body and carried through the streets of London on a pike as a grisly trophy. Adam Moleyns, who rose to the position of Lord Privy Seal and Bishop of Chichester, was also lynched by an angry mob. I must confess to taking some small comfort from hearing that my greedy and dishonest old enemy, Cardinal Beaufort, died begging God to forgive him for his sins, his wealth and power no longer any use to him.

  Trapped in my small room in the Sanctuary of Westminster Abbey I had nightmares of being chained in dark, rat-infested dungeons. My feigned illness became real as I still refused to eat or drink everything the worried abbey monks brought to me. If it were not for the abbot, Edmund Kyrton, I fear I would have died on that rough straw mattress in that small, white-washed room. He came to see me, placed his hand on my brow to see if I had a fever, then made the sign of the cross and asked God to have mercy on my soul. I realised the kindly abbot thought I would soon be dead. That was what saved me.

  Leeds Castle in Kent was where my husband’s stepmother, the Dowager Queen Joanna of Navarre, was held for two years on charges of witchcraft. She told me once it had been no real hardship and she was eventually released. This was my first thought as my long and uncomfortable journey from Westminster came to an end. The carriage provided for me was old and found every bump in the road. We travelled faster than I would have wished, each moment taking me further from my husband and my home at Bella Court.

  My first sight of the castle took my breath away. Surrounded by a beautiful, tranquil lake, we crossed a paved stone bridge to reach the impressive gatehouse, emblazoned with the royal coat of arms. I could see why this was where King Edward the first chose to live with my namesake, his beloved wife Eleanor of Castile. I remembered this castle was also where the Dowager Queen Catherine of Valois began her scandalous affair with her lover Owen Tudor, who had given so much trouble to my husband. Now it was to be my prison.

  My jailor, Sir John Steward, Constable of the Castle, was waiting when I arrived and showed me to a well-appointed room, with views over the water and a fine Flemish tapestry of women at work in a vineyard on one wall. An ambitious, self-important yet charming man, he seemed refreshingly unconcerned about the allegations against me. Sir John told me he hoped to make my stay at Leeds Castle a comfortable one. He had served in the king’s household as master of the horse and knew my husband, as well as my father.

  In return for my promise not to try to escape, he offered to send to Greenwich for my servants and one of my ladies in waiting to keep me good company. I was grateful, as I knew they would bring me news of my husband and hopefully a letter from him. It was all quite a change from my bare little room in the Sanctuary at Westminster. I could almost forget I was his prisoner, although he had taken the unnecessary precaution of posting an armed guard at my door.

  In truth, all thought of escape had now left me. I was much closer to the Channel ports and the prospect of a sea crossing to France, yet I knew the next time I was captured I would find myself locked away with my friends in the Tower of London. Despite my reluctance to be moved to Leeds Castle it was by far the most tolerable of prisons.

  I was relieved to be allowed a little freedom, although I was always followed by my guards, something which I knew I would have to become used to. I therefore took the opportunity to explore my new home. Once a Saxon fortress, the castle was built on two islands, each surrounded by a high wall, rising some thirty feet from the water and reinforced with bastion guard towers.

  Far from making me feel trapped, the wide expanse of the lake served to create a sense of peace, with only the echoing cries of distant waterfowl to break the silence. The large walled area in front of the castle contained green lawns, kept short by a flock of little brown sheep, and an oval walkway, where I could take my exercise when the weather permitted.

  Not to be compared with my beautiful gardens at Bella Court, the simple yet well-tended gardens at Leeds Castle had been planted with English roses and supplied the castle kitchens with onions and leeks, as well as fruit and berries from an orchard of stunted trees and shrubs. I was pleased to see a well-stocked herb garden, sheltered from the winds and frost inside the walls.

  I would pick bunches of late flowering French lavender, a favourite of mine for its intense fragrance and violet flowers, to dry for its perfume. A second drawbridge connected the main island to a smaller one with its Norman keep and royal apartments, called the ‘Gloriette’ in memory of Queen Eleanor. I was never allowed to visit this island, although I could imagine it would have been a home fit for a queen.

  My apartments were at the north end of the main island, close to the high-ceilinged great hall, where I took my meals. I was also allowed to visit the adjacent chapel, my new sanctuary, where I could always find peace to think. Each day I would visit the chapel and pray for the souls of my friends, for my husband to contact me, for the safety of my children and for the health of my grandchildren. Although Arthur had yet to find a suitable wife, Antigone now had three children and I prayed for the day when I would see them all again.

  Summer turned slowly to autumn and my life at the castle in Kent settled into a routine. The forty mile journey from London meant news travelled slowly, so in return for his approval of its contents, Sir John Steward allowed me to write a letter to my husband. I found it difficult to find the right words. I told Humphrey how sorry I was to have left as I did, although now I was well treated and eagerly awaited his reply. I was disappointed as the days became weeks with no word from him. I began to fear he was also under arrest or that Cardinal Beaufort had somehow intercepted my letter.

  My servants finally arrived from Bella Court, two maids, a cook, a cleaner and a scullery girl, though none of my ladies in waiting had been prepared to make the journey to Kent to keep me company. One of my maids was Mary, a thin-faced shrew of a girl, only a little older than my daughter. I suspected she had been chosen to spy on me and noted how she eyed me warily as she cleaned my room. The other was a cheerful, buxom woman named Martha, with a loud laugh and a tendency to curse when she thought I couldn’t hear. Martha was much closer to my own age and had been in my service for almost as long as I could remember.

  An inveterate gossip, Martha had entertained me in the past with her colourful stories. Her extensive family seemed to have spread throughout London and she could usually be relied on for an account of what was being talked of in the taverns. She would tell me of scandals and gamblers, swindlers and murderers, the dangerous world of the London poor where life was hard yet somehow strangely exciting.

  At first even she was uncomfortable in my presence but as she settled in to the new routine her naturally talkative nature got the better of her. She told me Bella Court had become a different place after I left. I was not surprised to hear Duke Humphrey had reacted angrily to my flight to seek sanctuary, swearing loudly and drinking heavily, long into the night. Then, after he heard of my arrest and appearance before the bishops, seemed to have fallen into a deep melancholy and began taking his meals alone in his study.

  Martha said he rarely left the house and was refusing to see anyone other than my son Arthur, who was dealing with all his business matters. She had no idea if my letter had been delivered to the duke or if he had tried to write to me. Even when my husband must have known she was leaving to join me he sent no message, and neither had my son.

  I was also disturbed to learn that soldiers of the king had made a permanent camp at the gates to Bella Court and were regularly to be seen patrolling the grounds and guarding our jetty on the river. It seemed my husband was under the closest watch. I knew the
declaration from the king meant he could also face charges if he made any attempt to rescue me.

  Worse still, I learned from Martha the reason none of my ladies in waiting had made the journey with her to Kent. My husband had dismissed them all, sending them packing and telling them never to return. This made no sense to me and Martha was reluctant to explain, but I pressed her to tell me. She admitted it was as if I was already dead. My name was never mentioned and my rooms had been shuttered and declared out of bounds to all the household staff and servants.

  Martha also told me the talk in London was that I had confessed to the bishops of using witchcraft and necromancy. I should have known Cardinal Beaufort would turn my words. In my heart I knew whatever I had said or not said, the bishops would still find me guilty of the charges. Somehow I still hoped that admitting to the lesser crimes would enable them to show leniency, yet now I doubted it.

  I resisted the temptation to give in to the sense of despair that tugged at my heart whenever I thought of my family or prayed for my poor friends in the Tower. Whatever people said in the taverns of London, I was still the Duchess of Gloucester, first lady in the land. Just as Queen Joanne had survived the same cruel allegations, so would I.

  Sir John Steward had not visited me for some weeks, as he had been away in London, so I was pleased when he came to see me on his return. I could tell right away the news he brought was not good. A royal commission had been instructed to enquire further into the alleged plot against the king. The commission included the earls of Huntingdon, Northumberland and Stafford, Lord Fanhope and Lord Hungerford, all members of the King's Council, as well as the mayor, aldermen and several commoners of London.