The Secret Diary of Eleanor Cobham

by Tony Riches

  We watched as the sheriff took a knife from his belt. I could hardly bear to look as he leaned over his horse and affectionately patted it on the head one last time. Then he sawed through the thick leather straps and salvaged his valuable saddle from the horse’s back. I can still picture the forlorn look in that horse’s eye when we were forced to abandon it to take its chances. It reminded me how I had also been abandoned to my fate by my husband.

  The loss of his horse put the sheriff in a sombre mood as we made our cautious progress to London. He told me his orders were not to delay our arrival in London for any reason, yet we had lost a lot of time. The winter sun set early and it was dark by the time we reached Westminster, sodden through from the melted snow. John Warner looked greatly relieved as he formally handed me over to the Sheriff of London.

  My latest custodian was an arrogant young merchant with the memorable name of Richard Ryche, new in his post and clearly unused to being in command of so many soldiers. We were exhausted from the cold and had to rest for the night, so the sheriff decided to house us at the Abbot of Westminster's manor house at Neyat, within sight of Westminster Abbey. The manor was old and poorly maintained, with moss-covered shingles sliding from the roof and unglazed windows. The poorly fitting shutters did little to keep out the cold, but I was allowed to have my servants light a fire in the hearth.

  As we huddled for warmth by the fire, with only a bowl of oat potage and a crust of rye for sustenance, Martha reminded me of the lavish Christmas banquets we would have at Bella Court, with a roasted boar’s head carried round the tables by carol singers and minstrels. I recalled the menus for our grand New Year’s Day celebrations. I missed the hot mulled wine and longed to taste again the sweet gingerbread, full of rare and precious spices few of our guests could afford, cinnamon and cloves, brought by merchants from the mysterious east.

  Most of all, I deeply missed seeing my family. I missed my husband, who would always be a little drunk on fine brandy by the end of New Year’s Day. I missed my beautiful daughter Antigone, with my grandchildren, all growing up so fast, and of course I greatly missed my son Arthur, the image of his father. I lived in hope of word that they were safe and well and would one day be able to visit me, wherever I was to spend the rest of my days.

  The weather had not improved by the morning, with another fall of snow turning the roads to slippery slush. We had some two hundred miles still to travel before we would reach Chester, so the young sheriff decided we must wait until the weather was good enough to continue. There was nothing to do to pass the time, other than cook and eat, and try to have some sleep. It was little wonder that my thoughts would turn to escape.

  Once inside the castle at Chester there would be a slim chance of evading my ever-present guards, yet in the abbot’s manor there was only one man posted outside our door through the night. I examined the shuttered windows of my room. One was more than wide enough for me to climb through. Unfortunately my room was on the first floor, so the drop to the snowy courtyard below would be too much for me. Looking out into the darkness I saw it was a moonless night, with no sign of my guards in the courtyard outside. This could be my only chance of escape.

  Gathering some of my possessions together into a bundle I tried to plan what I would do and where I could go once I was free. I was not sure exactly where I was although I knew Westminster well and would soon recognise familiar streets and buildings. A greater problem was to decide where I should be going, Sadly there was no point in trying to reach Bella Court, so I resolved to find London Bridge, cross the River Thames and hurry as far from London as I could.

  There would be few people around at such a late hour and I pulled a shawl around my face to keep warm and reduce the chance of being recognised. I opened the old shutters wide and was about to climb through the window when I realised the drop was greater than I had thought. I could break a leg or at the least twist my ankle in the fall to the hard cobbles below. I would need a different plan.

  If I was going to escape, I would somehow have to distract the guard at the door. For a moment I considered trying to bribe him with some of my jewellery or the money I still carried in my purse. There was no sound from outside my door, so I cautiously opened it a crack and saw the hallway and stairs were in darkness. My guards had become complacent and did not expect me to attempt an escape.

  Taking my bundle, I crept out into the hall, stopping as one of the floorboards creaked under my foot, to listen for the guards. Feeling for each step in the dark, I made my way down the stairs to the floor below. I guessed the front door would be locked and barred, so headed through to find a way out through the back. A glimmer of light came from the kitchen hearth, left burning through the night, and I could see an old door. I had come too far to turn back now and tried the handle. It opened and I slipped through into the cold darkness outside.

  I almost tripped over the man guarding the back door. He shouted in surprise at seeing me and I was soon surrounded by soldiers. Sheriff Richard Ryche was angry at having been called from his bed. He reminded me I was the guest and responsibility of the Abbot of Westminster and asked if I had given any thought to the consequences for him if I had succeeded in my plan. I could see from the look on his face that, in truth, the young and ambitious sheriff feared the consequences for himself. He was right, though. I had not spared a moment’s thought for the men who were guarding me that night or how harshly they would have been punished. I promised I would not try to escape again.

  The weather improved a little in the morning and we continued on our way north-west to the old Roman town of Chester. Even though the snow had cleared from the roads, the slush turned them to slippery mud and we made slow progress, being forced to stop often. I was handed from one sheriff to the next and stayed in a succession of inns and manor houses as we made our way through each county, taking nearly a week to complete the journey.

  Sir Thomas Stanley greeted our party as we arrived at his castle. A gruff, portly man with an abrupt manner, Sir Thomas was in a surly mood and made no secret of the fact he was aggrieved to have me in his charge. He complained he had only been granted a hundred marks a year for his duty, one tenth of what he had been expecting, so I was not to expect the same comfort and privileges as the Dowager Queen Joanna.

  Chester Castle stands on a low hill within a bend of the River Dee, a stones-throw from the border with Wales and within sight of the prosperous old walled city. At first I had high hopes, as we crossed a drawbridge over a deep moat through an impressive gatehouse and across an outer bailey. The castle, with walls of reddish-pink sandstone, looked well maintained and I thought my rooms would compare favourably with Leeds Castle. I could not have been more wrong. They thought there was a risk of my attempting to escape, and Sir Thomas Stanley was not a man to take risks.

  The ancient stone gateway to the inner bailey of Chester castle is called the Agricola Tower, after the general who led the Roman conquest. Underneath this high, square building was a vaulted-ceilinged crypt, where I learned Humphrey’s father had imprisoned King Richard II, his first cousin, when he first took the throne of England. With his cruel sense of irony, Sir Thomas decided there could be no more fitting place for him to keep me safe.

  Damp and miserable, the old crypt had bare stone walls and nothing but dirty rushes on the floors. The rooms were small and dark, with only the most basic furniture and a hall which was cold and drafty, despite the fire we lit in the hearth. I did my best with my servants to clean and tidy my new home and hoped it was only temporary, while proper arrangements were made to find somewhere more suitable for my imprisonment.

  Unlike Leeds Castle, I was not permitted by Sir Thomas to explore the grounds, other than to occasionally have some fresh air within the small inner bailey and visit the high ceilinged chapel of St Mary de Castro, on the first floor of the Agricola Tower. The walls of the chapel were decorated with colourful images of saints, painted in red and blue, with gold-leaf ornament. Although by this time I had lo
st my faith, I would spend as much time as I could in the chapel, watched over by these long-dead saints, where it was at least clean and dry, if not particularly warm in winter.

  If I had known I was to be held there for nearly two long years, I think I would have gone half mad with boredom, as there was nothing to do apart from survive from one day to the next as best I could. The distance from London meant there was almost no news. Even when I sent Martha out into the provincial city of Chester with some of the coins from my purse to learn what she could, it seemed I had been forgotten by the world.

  One morning Martha came to tell me that the young maidservant Mary had returned to London, as her father was ill. I was surprised Mary had left without saying goodbye, as she had been in my service since I was first at Leeds Castle in Kent. I had never trusted her though and always wondered if she had been placed in my service to spy on me.

  Something nagged at the back of my mind about Mary’s sudden departure and I pressed Martha to tell me the truth. She reluctantly confessed that it had been Mary who raised the alarm when I escaped from the abbot’s manor house at Neyat. Later when I was tidying my room I found my priceless New Year’s gift from the king was gone.

  I knew right away my servant Mary must have found my hiding place for the beautiful brooch in the shape of the king holding a golden ball, with its priceless diamonds, pearls and rubies. I cursed her disloyalty. My first reaction was to call for Sir Thomas to have her hunted down and punished. Fortunately Martha persuaded me to think on it. I still had the jewellery I had sewn into my blue dress, as well as the gold and silver coins in my purse.

  That night I lay awake and realised the king’s gift would have been of no further use to me. I had abandoned any future plan to escape or bribe those guarding me. Too many good people had already suffered because of my foolish actions. Instead, the golden figure could now change the life of my former servant and her family. If it was true her father was ill she would now be able to provide for them all.

  It was not until the end of the October of 1443 that Sir Thomas Stanley came to see me with news he had received orders from the king to take me to Kenilworth Castle, in Warwickshire. I visited Kenilworth with Humphrey when we were making plans for Bella Court and knew his grandfather, John of Gaunt, had spent a small fortune turning the old castle into a fabulous fortified palace. Kenilworth became the main residence of Duke Humphrey’s father, King Henry IV, and was truly a castle fit for a king.

  At last I was to be leaving the boredom of my dark, damp prison in the crypt, and I wondered if it was a sign the king was finally beginning to have sympathy for my awful situation. I had, after all, been his favourite for many years, so for the first time in ages I felt a glimmer of hope. Perhaps Duke Humphrey had been secretly negotiating for my release and this was the first step towards the granting of my freedom.

  Sir Thomas made elaborate arrangements for my protection on the journey, leaving nothing to chance. As well as the king’s men, my escort was to be led by his own personal guards, sworn to ensure I had no opportunity to escape. He agreed I could take twelve servants with me, including several from his own household, my maidservant Martha and the cooks who had been with me for as long as I could remember.

  The late autumn weather was good and once we cleared the Chester road, busy with over-laden carts and packhorses, we found ourselves in the open countryside. The roads were quiet, with only birdsong to accompany the tramping of the soldiers boots and the rumble and creak of our wheels. My spirits lifted. I have learned that everything is relative. Compared to the crypt in Chester, Kenilworth could only be a happy relief.

  We travelled the hundred or so miles north-west without incident, stopping for the night at Hulton Abbey, where we were made welcome, and arriving at Kenilworth on the fifth of December. Although I was still the responsibility of Sir Thomas, he remained in Chester and I was now to be guarded by the Constable of Kenilworth castle, Sir Ralph Boteler, a Chamberlain of the Royal Household and newly appointed as the Treasurer of England.

  I had known Sir Ralph almost as long as I had known Humphrey, as he had been made a councillor to the infant king. His mother, Dame Alice, had also been chosen by Queen Catherine to be the king's governess. Sir Ralph now held one of the most influential positions in the land, a sure sign he was in league with Cardinal Henry Beaufort. He had also fought at the side of Humphrey’s brother John, who would have had every opportunity to poison his mind against me.

  Like Leeds Castle, Kenilworth had extensive gardens. Built on naturally high ground, the streams that fed a nearby lake were dammed to create the largest artificial lake in the kingdom, over a mile long, surrounding the castle. I was led in to the former royal apartments and shown a surprising gift from the king. He had provided an ornate curtained canopy of red velvet fringed with gold over my bed, as a welcome present to my new home.

  April 1452

  Febris

  Spring has at last returned, bringing new life to Beaumaris. I wake to a bright sunny morning and my spirits are lifted by the cheering sounds of birds singing outside my window. For a moment I keep my eyes closed and imagine I am waking at Bella Court and all this has been a dream. At any moment, my maid will come to ask which of my many dresses I will choose to wear today. I open my eyes and see the same familiar stone walls of my tower, yet I feel no sense of disappointment, for a new challenge occupies my mind now. I am helping my guard Richard Hook with his reading and writing.

  I look forward to the days when he is on duty and I hear his familiar knock at my door. Young Richard is good company for me and it warms my heart to at last be doing something worthwhile. He makes slow progress with his reading and his writing needs much work, yet I admire his determination to improve himself. He is bright and has many questions, not all of which are answered so easily. In return for my lessons he sometimes brings me fresh supplies of ink and parchment I need to write this journal.

  Richard Hook seems to be a man I can trust, so I have also asked him a favour. I took my mother’s gold ring from my finger and asked him if he could sell it for me in Beaumaris, and use the money to buy a good strong box, large enough to hold my secret journal, with a lid that can be sealed with wax. He held my mother’s ring in his hand for a moment and returned it, smiling. He promised to bring me the box, as well as the latest gossip from Beaumaris.

  Occasionally, he also brings news of the world beyond this isolated and remote Welsh island. It seems the Duke of York remains at Westminster and has at last been persuaded to take his rightful place on the King’s Council. I hope and pray this means an end to the corruption and self-interest within the troubled government of this country. The king seems to have accepted this arrangement and, for once, go against the wishes of his wife. Richard Hook tells me the Duke’s cause is popular with the people. Even in the taverns of Beaumaris there is hope for better times ahead.

  Now the king is no longer under the influence of Cardinal Henry Beaufort I can’t help feeling a moment of regret. If only Duke Humphrey lived, he would have found a useful ally in the Duke of York. If it is true, as Lady Ellen heard, that the king is not capable of begetting a son and heir with his scheming French queen, Duke Richard is now the heir apparent. One day, God willing, we could see him rule all England.

  Again I wonder if he will be too busy to remember the injustice done to me. I know I am not foremost in his mind or he would have demanded to see me when he arrived in Beaumaris last year. I have decided not to leave it to chance. I will prepare a letter to the Duke of York, pledging my support and beseeching him to look favourably on me now I have more than served penance for my mistakes.

  Looking back I can say in ten years of imprisonment I found the closest to contentment at Kenilworth Castle, my beautiful, elegant, ornate prison palace. My jailer, Sir Ralph Boteler, was often absent with his duties as chancellor and treasurer in London, so I was left much to my own devices. Although watched over by the ever-present castle guards, they went about their daily dut
ies at a discreet distance, so I began to feel more like Sir Ralph’s house guest than his prisoner.

  I returned to playing my precious lute, my practical memento of Leeds Castle, so nearly abandoned in my reckless escape from the abbot’s manor in Westminster. Encouraged by Sir John Steward’s kind words, I practiced for many hours each day until the notes come without effort. The sweet music kept back the dark thoughts from my mind as, with each passing week in my new home, I began to put the sadness of my recent past behind me.

  My favourite room to play in at Kenilworth was the great hall, every bit as grand as the hall in the king’s own residence at Windsor Castle. The wonderfully carved roof of the great hall is one of the widest and highest in England, soaring cathedral-like with its gold painted stars above me. My lute sounded clear and pure in its stillness of this great open space.

  Towering leaded glass windows provide wonderful views out over the tranquil green waters of the Great Mere. I would sit by the window in my cushioned armchair watching nesting swans as they reared their brood of grey-feathered cygnets in the reeds at the water’s edge. Once I might have envied the swan’s uncomplicated lives yet now my own life was much the same, as I could do as I pleased, apart from leave this beautiful palace.

  After the bleak unpleasantness of Sir Thomas Stanley’s damp and miserable crypt at Chester Castle, I also now had a little hope to sustain my spirits. I could at last be certain the king had not completely forgotten me. His present of my bed canopy a much-needed sign I was still in his favour, his way to let me know he rejects the cardinal’s false charges of treason against him.