The Witch of Eye

by Mari Griffith

  ‘I didn’t want to employ some young chit of a girl, Your Grace,’ said Margery. ‘Anyone whom I entrust with the interests of my clients has to reliable and mature. It wouldn’t do to have some silly little assistant who would make mistakes in her reckoning and couldn’t read a recipe.’

  ‘You can read, can you?’ The Duchess sounded surprised.

  ‘Yes, a little, my Lady.’

  ‘A little, Your Grace,’ Eleanor corrected her. ‘That’s a rather unusual thing, isn’t it? And where did you learn to read?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t read well, my ... er ... Your Grace,’ Jenna stuttered nervously, ‘just a few words, mostly in Latin. Parson Middleton ... he was our parson back home ... taught us the alphabet so that we could read a little of the Bible.’

  ‘Your parson, you say. Yes, of course. He would have taught you to read the scriptures. How interesting. My husband, the Duke, is very keen that everyone should learn to read, as is his nephew, the King. Of course, that is impossible: books are far too expensive for most people.’

  Jenna didn’t know whether she was expected to say anything in reply and was grateful when Margery stepped in.

  ‘Jenna is quite skilled and quick to learn. She will be able to look after the business when I have to be elsewhere.’

  The Duchess ignored her. ‘You have a very fine skin,’ she observed, looking intently at Jenna. ‘I can’t see a single pock mark. Do you use any of your mistress’s preparations?’

  ‘She is devoted to my marigold face cream,’ said Margery swiftly, before Jenna could open her mouth. ‘I tested the new recipe on her before presenting it to you, Your Grace. As you can see, it has had an astonishing effect. That is the reason why I wanted to see you. I thought you would be interested in trying it for yourself.’

  Jenna’s jaw dropped. Margery had never let her anywhere near the marigold face cream other than to package it. She had certainly never tested it on her. That was a blatant lie, though the telling of it seemed not to bother Margery in the slightest. Still talking, she had hold of Jenna’s chin and was turning her head from side to side so that her flawless complexion caught the light.

  ‘You will observe, Your Grace, the fine texture and colour of the skin, the slight translucence and, rather surprisingly, an amazing lack of wrinkles for a woman who is ... how shall I put it? Not exactly in the first flush of youth. That is entirely due to my marigold face cream.’

  Margery’s face betrayed nothing. Astounded at the entirely false claim her mistress had made, Jenna, her chin still held rigid between Margery’s thumb and forefinger, swivelled her eyes from one face to the other as both women peered at her, examining her skin very closely. She had always had a good skin, it was not uncommon in dairymaids, but she knew better than to say so.

  ‘Where are you from?’ the Duchess demanded to know as Margery finally released Jenna’s chin. ‘What is your accent?’

  ‘I am from Kingskerswell in the county of Devon, Your Grace.’

  ‘Kingskerswell?’ The Duchess thought for a moment. ‘I’ve heard that name before. Is that not the seat of the Dynhams? Not far from Exeter? I know Sir John Dynham, I have met him. He accompanied the Duke on his campaign in Calais. Yes, that’s right. Sir John provided the army with several men-at-arms and a large company of archers. The Duke was very grateful to him. Well, well. What a small world we live in. Kingskerswell. It’s an unusual name.’

  ‘That’s because the manor often reverted to the King in times gone by, Your Grace, for the lack of heirs to inherit it.’

  Jenna almost jumped out of her skin when Margery gave her a hard, warning pinch in the skin above her elbow. Glancing at her, Jenna could see Margery’s bland, fixed smile as she faced the Duchess. Yes, of course, she should never have mentioned heirs or the lack of them, not to the Duchess. She knew what the situation was. She could have kicked herself. ‘Of course,’ she added hurriedly, ‘the Dynhams also own the manor of Nutwell.’

  ‘Yes, yes, but it’s Kingskerswell that interests me particularly. There’s something in the back of my mind ... why does it make me think about teeth?’

  ‘Teeth?’ Margery interrupted, laughing nervously. ‘Teeth! Well, I can’t imagine why that should be, Your Grace.’

  ‘I ... I think I know why, Your Grace,’ said Jenna, deeply relieved that her careless reference to a lack of heirs to the Dynhams’ manorial estates appeared to have escaped the Duchess’s notice. ‘Perhaps Sir John Dynham mentioned St Apollonia, who is honoured with a fine window of stained glass in the parish church.’

  ‘Oh, yes! St Apollonia, yes, of course, that’s it. Yes, Sir John did mention that, now I come to think of it. It must have been in response to something I said about my troublesome tooth. I’m afraid I talk about it rather too often.’ The Duchess gave a little laugh and the tension went out of the situation. ‘St Apollonia. Of course. That’s it. I frequently pray to the dear saint to bring me relief from the toothache.’

  Margery turned to Jenna. ‘Do you, perhaps, know someone who could intercede with the saint on the Duchess’s behalf?’

  ‘I ... er ... well, I’m not sure Mistress. Perhaps Parson Middleton...’

  ‘No, there is no need to bother your Parson Middleton. When I need relief from the pain, Mistress Jourdemayne’s tincture works perfectly well for the moment. But perhaps that is something we might think about one day.’

  She turned away now and began to address herself to Margery. ‘For the moment, Margery, before I bid you good afternoon, I’d like you to arrange to deliver a consignment of the new marigold face cream to me as soon as possible, within the week, before my husband and I leave for La Pleasaunce.’

  ‘Certainly, Your Grace. In the meantime, I will leave this jar of it with you and Jenna will make the delivery in a few days.’

  Jenna was listening to this exchange without really hearing it. All she could think of was that Margery Jourdemayne was a liar, a woman who was prepared to tell the most blatant of lies for the benefit of her business interests.

  The Duchess was waving her hand imperiously. The interview was clearly at an end. Jenna and Margery both curtseyed very low to their royal client.

  ***

  ‘All up!’ the cry went out and William pulled the skiff around quickly. He was no great oarsman, but needs must for Swan Upping. It was one of his responsibilities and swans were valuable creatures, so a record had to kept of their numbers. This was the best time of year to do it, when the cygnets were still young and easy to handle, though the parent swans could give a man a very nasty peck if he wasn’t careful. A nest had been spotted on shore and it was time to count the inhabitants.

  The Manor of Eye-next-Westminster bordered the waters of the Thames along so much of its length that the Monastery, as a major landowner, could claim ownership of the swans that nested on its banks. Abbot Harweden was rightly proud of these stately, feathered status symbols and was anxious to have them counted and marked to identify them as Monastery property.

  Though he complained gruffly about having to undertake this annual chore, William really quite looked forward to it. It always happened, along the entire length of the river, on a specific day in the third week of July so the weather was almost invariably kind to the Swan Uppers and, after the essential work of the farm had been attended to, the estate workers who were not manning the boats strolled down to the river in holiday mood and crowded along the shore. Now they watched as half a dozen skiffs slowly manoeuvred towards the swans’ nest, forming a circle around it from which neither the cob nor the pen nor any of their cygnets could escape.

  It was all very new to Jenna. She had never seen Swan Upping before and, standing on the bank where she had a good view of what was happening, she was having the necessity for it solemnly explained to her by Kitty.

  ‘It looks awfully cruel, doesn’t it, Jenna? But you mustn’t worry because it’s all right really,’ she explained. ‘The baby swans just have to have nicks cut in their beaks so everybody knows who they bel
ong to. It doesn’t hurt them.’

  ‘But didn’t you say they all belong to the King?’

  ‘Well, yes, most of them do, but special people like Abbot Harweden are allowed to have some swans. That’s why Master Jourdemayne has to count them for him.’

  ‘Why? Can’t Abbot Harweden count?’ asked Jenna, teasing.

  ‘Yes, of course he can count! He’s probably very good at counting.’ Kitty was all indignation until she realised Jenna was joking. ‘Oh, Jenna! Abbot Harweden is ever so clever at all sorts of things, but he’s very busy. And Tom the Shepherd said he’d heard the Abbot wasn’t very well. He’s got a pain in his belly. But the swans still have to be counted.’

  ‘I’ve never tasted swan,’ Jenna mused. ‘I wonder what it tastes like. Have you ever eaten swan, Kitty?

  ‘No, of course I haven’t. It’s only very important people who can have swans for their dinner. And you mustn’t steal them or steal their eggs.’

  ‘I wasn’t intending to,’ said Jenna, watching in fascination as William shipped his oars and reached out of the skiff. He made a huge lunge for a big swan which suddenly reared up out of the water, flapping its wings and hissing angrily. Almost losing his footing, William grabbed the bird from behind and managed to haul it into the boat. He held it, still struggling and hissing, while Gilbert the Carpenter tied its legs together to hobble it and prevent it escaping. Wading thigh-deep through the water, Gilbert then lugged the bird towards the shore where he set it down on the bank to be counted and marked along with the others already there. Together in a row, the white, adult birds with their downy brown cygnets in front of them, quietened down, seeming resigned to whatever fate awaited them.

  It had been quite an entertainment and Jenna smiled down at Kitty, to share the moment with her. But Kitty was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Kitty!’ Jenna called. ‘Kitty! Where are you? Hawys, have you seen Kitty anywhere?’

  ‘She was here a moment ago,’ said Hawys. ‘She won’t have gone far.’

  Jenna felt uneasy. Kitty wasn’t a stupid child, but Jenna didn’t like to think of her going too near the water. It wasn’t that she was unused to water, she was learning to wash her clothes in it from time to time just like everyone else, but it was probably quite cold, despite the July heat and, if it was thigh-deep for Gilbert the Carpenter, then it would be waist-deep for Kitty. Anxiously, Jenna moved further up the river bank where she could get a better view of the whole stretch of water.

  And then she saw her, just a little way off to the right, crouching on some stones at the water’s edge. Her wayward hair had escaped its ribbon and was dangling in the river as she bent over something with rapt attention. Jenna called out to her.

  ‘Kitty! Kitty, be careful. Come away from the water.’

  ‘Oh, Jenna! Come quickly. Come and help me. I’ve caught one of the babies!’

  Kitty had something in her hands and, as she turned to beckon to Jenna, so a fluffy brown ball fell from her grasp to the surface of the water, righted itself and started swimming furiously away from her, towards the middle of the river.

  ‘No, Kitty! Let it go. Let it go. You’ll never reach it!’

  Kitty was engrossed in trying to catch the little creature.

  ‘Kitty! Kitty! Come back!’

  Kitty had waded into the water, her hands cupped in front of her in an attempt to reach the cygnet when she stumbled, lost her footing and fell headlong with a scream, her arms flailing above her head.

  Without stopping to think, Jenna scrambled towards the water, looking around wildly for help, but no one seemed to have heard Kitty’s screams.

  ‘William! William!’ Desperation lent volume to Jenna’s voice and, in calling to him, she instinctively used the name she had for him in her private thoughts. No more ‘Master Jourdemayne’: he was William, the man she needed.

  ‘William! For God’s sake, William!’

  Hearing his name, William turned in the boat and saw the little girl floundering helplessly, trying to find her footing but unable to right herself and nearly out of her depth. He grabbed an oar and shoved it hard against the bank to give more impetus to the skiff then began to row strongly towards the spot where Kitty was in the water, screaming loudly, with Jenna wading out towards her. By now, several people on the riverbank were crowding down towards the water’s edge, craning their necks to see.

  ‘Don’t panic, Kitty, I’m coming. Kitty, don’t scream!’ The water felt like heavy syrup around Jenna’s legs and she tried to pull her skirt up and away from it. From the other direction, William was rowing towards them as though the eternal repose of his soul depended on it.

  The child was still struggling to regain her footing but failing miserably when William brought the skiff around behind her. He shipped the oars, leaned out and caught her around the waist, pulling her strongly towards him. Kitty was crying and coughing up river water as he hauled her into the skiff just as he had hauled in the big white swan a few moments earlier. When Jenna reached the skiff, Kitty was lying on her back in the bottom of the boat with William kneeling over her.

  ‘Turn her,’ Jenna ordered, ‘let her cough until she has got rid of all the water from her mouth.’

  William managed to turn Kitty on to her side where she retched and coughed while Jenna, standing waist-deep in the river, reached out over the side of the skiff, to rub her back, soothing and calming her. ‘Hush, Kittymouse, you’re all right now. You’re safe, my dove. We’ve got you safe. Just relax, there’s a good girl. Hush, hush, Kittymouse. Hush now.’

  ‘Well,’ said William, leaning back on his haunches, ‘that was nearly very nasty indeed. What on earth was she doing in the river?’

  ‘Trying to catch a cygnet, I think, to help the Swan Uppers,’ said Jenna, close to tears. ‘Thank God you were here, William. I don’t know what I would have done if...’

  She realised she’d called him William without thinking.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, master!’ Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘I didn’t mean ... that is ... I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have been so familiar.’

  He shook his head slowly before replying. ‘Oh, Jenna, please. Let’s not pretend. William is my name and I would be very pleased and proud if that is what you would call me.’ He watched her as she continued massaging Kitty’s back in silence, broken only by the child’s distraught sniffling. When she looked up at him, he said, ‘But you know, don’t you? You must know how I feel.’

  Jenna looked away again, confused. Her mouth was pulling involuntarily at the corners and she was in the grip of an emotion she couldn’t name. She didn’t know whether she wanted to smile or weep. There were certainly tears in her eyes, but her heart was thudding slowly with something that felt very akin to elation. She hardly trusted herself to speak.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I do know,’ she said quietly. ‘Thank you. Thank you ... William. But I don’t think ...’ she looked down at Kitty, ‘I don’t think we should be talking like this. Not here. Not in front of –’ She broke off as Gilbert the Carpenter waded up to the prow of the boat, to see if he could help.

  The sniffling and retching on the floor of the skiff had subsided into a quiet sobbing as, with infinite gentleness, William lifted up the soaking, shivering Kitty and handed her to Gilbert, who took her weight.

  ‘There, there, girl,’ Gilbert muttered, comforting her, ‘we’ll soon have you home. Soon have you nice and dry.’ He began wading back towards the shore, cradling Kitty in his strong arms. Jenna trailed close behind them through the water while William anxiously watched the little cavalcade.

  At a safe distance from the boat, a fluffy brown cygnet regarded the scene with evident interest.

  CHAPTER NINE

  August 1436

  The atmosphere in the scriptorium in the north cloister of the Westminster monastery was one of quiet industry, the silence broken only by the droning voice of a monk who stood behind a lectern in one corner, reading aloud from the writings of St Benedict. At each of the ten car
rels in the big room monks in dark habits, their tonsured heads bent over their work, were illustrating and copying manuscripts for use in psalters, missals, books of hours and bibles.

  The materials they needed for their work were provided by John Virley, who ensured a steady supply of vellum, parchment, quills, coloured inks and gold leaf. When the work was done, he would then collect the pages of manuscript which the monks so painstakingly produced and collate them correctly before taking them away to Walbrook to be bound and covered. It was a service he provided for several of London’s monasteries, nunneries and priories.

  Virley was an intelligent, educated man who could well have realised his early ambitions within the church had it not been for two things: he was reluctant to forgo the pleasures of the flesh and commit himself to taking holy orders and then, some six years previously, he had been plunged into disgrace. He had earnestly repented his sins at the time and was granted absolution. Nevertheless he hadn’t returned to the monastic life.

  One thing he knew with absolute certainty was that he would not overreach himself ever again nor crave a position above his station in life. And though it pleased him to be at liberty to consort with women, he would never again have anything to do with any women who might, by any stretch of the imagination, be accused of witchcraft: women like Margery Jourdemayne.

  It was thanks to the woman he still thought of as the Witch of Eye that he and his colleague, Friar John Ashwell, had spent many months incarcerated in the dungeons beneath Windsor Castle. Ashwell, a gentle friar of the Order of the Holy Cross, was an affable man, inclined to believe the best of everyone. He had introduced John Virley to Margery Jourdemayne, a woman skilled in the use and preparation of herbs. Virley had been charmed to meet her. In truth, he had been quite smitten with her.

  Judged by any yardstick, Margery was an attractive woman, fair-haired and small-waisted. But the most attractive thing about her was her enthusiasm, her desire to learn from both the friar and the cleric, two men whose education and scholarship were vastly superior to hers. She was eager to know about the rudiments of mathematics, about reading, writing and improving her vocabulary. Wanting to learn everything she could, with her quick mind and natural intelligence she made an able pupil, absorbing knowledge from her willing teachers as a cloth might soak up spilt milk. Though she resisted John Virley’s physical overtures, she made her admiration for both men quite plain and they were flattered by her attention; they never questioned the wisdom of associating with her.