The Witch of Eye

by Mari Griffith

  ***

  There were still a few people left in the throne room when the Duke and Duchess of Gloucester arrived for an audience with the King. A scattering of foreign dignitaries had contrived to get themselves invited to attend him and this was their opportunity to make a case for grants, offices and cash from the royal purse. The King was rarely known to refuse such requests, indeed granting them seemed to give him great pleasure and he was fast gaining a reputation for generosity in some quarters though his munificence was viewed by others as rash and ill-considered.

  He was looking almost animated as he rose and descended the steps from the throne to greet his aunt and uncle.

  ‘You are both most welcome,’ he said, as the Duchess curtseyed deeply. ‘I’m so glad you were able to attend me today. Come, let us sit for a moment because I am anxious, Uncle, to hear all about Oxford. I understand you paid a visit to the University as well as to your manor houses in the area.’

  ‘I did both, Your Highness,’ said Gloucester, taking a seat next to his wife, ‘and I was delighted to have the opportunity of doing so. I managed to visit both Stonesfield and Woodstock on this occasion and both appear to be running smoothly. The farms are being excellently managed and are most productive.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m pleased to hear it,’ the King said dismissively. ‘But what about the university?’

  ‘The university does well, too. There are plans to build a new library, though that will be expensive.’

  ‘Is it not possible to extend the existing library?’

  ‘It’s really too small. It was built more than a century ago...’

  ‘By one of my ancestors,’ Eleanor interrupted, never one to miss an opportunity to boast. ‘He was Thomas de Cobham, the Bishop of Worcester.’

  Her husband smiled at her indulgently. ‘He was the only bishop the family ever had and they’ve never stopped bragging about him.’

  ‘But that is only right and proper,’ said the King. ‘Any family should be proud to boast of a bishop in their midst.’ The Duchess gave him a grateful smile.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Humphrey agreed, ‘but Thomas de Cobham’s library is woefully inadequate. It must be replaced.’

  ‘And will you be helping in that, Uncle?’

  ‘Indeed, yes, with the gift of some of my books. And that pleases Eleanor greatly, doesn’t it, my dear?’

  ‘Naturally,’ said the Duchess. ‘I am most anxious to pay tribute to the memory of my ... er, my great-uncle.’ She paused, uncertainly. ‘At least, I believe that’s who he was.’

  ‘An honoured ancestor, anyway,’ said her husband. ‘Which is why it seems only right and proper for the library to benefit from the gift of some of my books.’

  The King nodded in agreement. ‘So important ...’ he said, half to himself, then raised his voice and went on: ‘It is so important that students have the opportunity to read the Bible, to better acquaint themselves with the scriptures, with the word of God. It is all that will save the world from perdition. If only books were not so very expensive.’

  ‘Ah, but from what I’ve heard, that is something which may well change in future, Your Highness,’ Humphrey said and his nephew raised questioning eyebrows. ‘Yes, there is some very exciting news from the Rhineland in Germany. It seems that some enterprising inventor is working on a system for a mechanical process of transferring words to paper. I have only recently heard of it but, if the system can be made to work, it could be a very exciting development.’

  ‘But surely, Uncle, there can be no substitute for quill pen and parchment?’

  ‘Apparently there could be. The development is in its early stages, of course, but from my understanding, the device is some sort of press, not unlike the type used in pressing grapes for the wine harvest.’

  The King bestowed one of his rare smiles on his uncle. ‘That would hold an appeal for you, then, my Lord Uncle!’

  Humphrey had the good grace to smile in return. ‘Wine is one of God’s greatest gifts to mankind,’ he said.

  ‘God makes us all gifts in abundance, Uncle: wine is merely one of them. And there are some who will abuse that gift.’ He seemed on the point of saying something else before changing his mind. ‘But tell me more about this new idea for making books.’

  Humphrey was only too pleased to oblige. His pious nephew was known to disapprove of the immoderate consumption of wine.

  ‘As I understand it,’ Humphrey explained, ‘the press is loaded with letters of the alphabet, made of metal, which are coated with ink, formed into words and pressed into paper. Then, when the ink dries, the page bears a permanent record of what was imprinted upon it. The possibilities are endless.’

  The King was quiet for a long moment, trying to imagine what his uncle had described. ‘Could more than one book be made in this way?’ he asked.

  ‘Possibly several could be made,’ said Humphrey. ‘Perhaps even several hundred, which would make the process very cost effective. If it fulfils its promise, this invention is a work of great genius. It could change the world as we know it.’

  ‘Then every student would be able to study the Bible, even the very poorest boys!’ Beginning to see the great possibilities of the new book-making device, the King was becoming excited. ‘By Heaven, Uncle, if what you say is true, then this new invention will be of the greatest benefit to me in my plans for my new school!’

  ‘Your new school?’

  ‘Yes, I have a plan to establish a new school for poor scholars. I wanted to ask your opinion about the idea. I think it so important that I should nurture and care about the education of my subjects. All my subjects,’ he emphasised, ‘even the poorest boys. Now I’m of age, I would like my reign to reflect the comfort and strength I myself derive from my readings of the chronicles, the scriptures and all manner of other writings.’

  ‘Most laudable,’ Humphrey muttered.

  ‘I truly believe education and literacy are of vital importance. I have talked to Archbishop Chichele at length about this and he is in total agreement with me.’

  ‘And I am in agreement with you both,’ said Humphrey.

  ‘Where would you establish this school of yours,’ asked the Duchess Eleanor, ‘here in Westminster?’

  ‘No, my Lady,’ said the King. ‘The only suitable place in the Palace of Westminster would be the chapel of St Stephen’s and I would prefer to keep that as it is.’

  ‘That will certainly please Canon Southwell,’ said Eleanor. ‘He is very proud to be of service to you at St Stephen’s.’

  ‘So he takes every opportunity to tell me,’ said the King, his expression impassive.

  ‘I’m sure it’s no more than the respect he should accord you, Your Highness,’ said the Duchess.

  ‘Be that as it may. But no, St Stephen’s is not suitable. However there is a chapel within a stone’s throw of Windsor which would suit my purpose very well. It’s the chapel of Our Lady of Eton, just across the river from the castle and, of course, I am quite often there so I could keep an eye on it. It could be easily converted into a collegiate foundation for, say, seventy poor scholars. It would give them the opportunity of a lifetime. I would derive great satisfaction from thinking I had helped them in this way.’

  ‘An excellent idea,’ Humphrey agreed, ‘and most generous of you.’

  He was pleased that his nephew shared his own enthusiasm for books and for learning, but he did wish the King would show more interest in other aspects of kingship: in politics, for example, or in bringing France more effectively to heel. Things had been going rapidly downhill in France, ever since that damned woman they called Joan of Arc had been burned at the stake for her nonsensical beliefs. She was clearly a witch, but, from what he’d heard, the French were still talking about her as though she had been martyred in the service of her country. But they should be made to see that their country was ruled by an English king ... ruled, in fact, by this pallid young man who always had his nose in a book.

  Humphrey was worried
.

  ***

  It didn’t seem like a whole year since the last time Kitty had sorted the stones for the catapults. She didn’t really mind being the one who’d been given the task of finding stones: after all, the others had to be armed with missiles in the eternal fight between men and birds when it came to planting seed corn. Kitty’s special friend Jack, who was learning to be a shepherd, had made her feel better about it because he said she was just like a proper armourer at the battle of Agincourt where the old king had won a famous victory. The armourer always had a really important job to do, Jack said, because he had to make sure the knights and the men-at-arms had the proper bows and arrows and hatchets and spears they needed to fight the enemy and win the battle. What Kitty was doing was the same thing except that for Jack and the other boys, the battle was to keep the birds off the newly ploughed furrows in the five-acre field, so that Master Jourdemayne and the other men could get on with the job of planting the seed corn before the birds could eat it.

  But Kitty also knew she’d been given the job of collecting stones because her aim wasn’t very good and she’d managed to kill one of the Abbot’s white doves while she was supposed to be stoning the crows. Jack had covered up for her and said a fox had probably eaten it, because she could have got into real trouble for killing one of Abbot Harweden’s doves, even though the wretched birds were as keen to get at the seed corn as any of the crows.

  She liked Jack. Perhaps he was the one she would marry.

  Though she was growing up rapidly, Kitty was still perplexed by the whole business about who should marry whom and how these things should be decided. She had been watching Master Jourdemayne covertly as she worked, glancing sideways at him from time to time as she sorted through the stones she had gathered in her apron.

  On the day, two years ago, when Jenna left the farm for good, Kitty, rigid with the fear of being caught, and as quiet as a mouse in her hiding place behind the hawthorn bush, had been deeply shocked to see the Master leaning helplessly against the trunk of the big oak tree with tears streaming down his face. The sight had affected her deeply. She had never seen a man cry before but she knew enough about the relationship between a man and a woman to realise that Master Jourdemayne wished he wasn’t married to Old Mother Madge any more and could be married to Jenna instead. Kitty wished that, too, but she also knew this couldn’t happen and it was the reason why she was still worried about him.

  He had the look of a real crosspatch these days, like a man whose shoes were pinching. Perhaps they were, but it seemed unlikely to Kitty, who had noticed that the Master always wore the same pair of stout leather boots every single day on the farm, summer or winter, whatever job he was doing. He was wearing them now as he manoeuvred the heavy iron plough in the wake of eight yoked oxen. A couple of young lads were goading the animals with hazel sticks to keep them moving. Bringing up the rear of this rustic procession were four other men with mallets breaking up any heavy lumps of Westminster clay which the ploughshare had failed to convert into usable topsoil. Everyone had a job to do when it came to ploughing, Kitty reflected, even the girl who collected the stones for the catapults.

  It was quite a lonely job though, because she had no one to talk to. It wasn’t like the old days of working in the dairy a long time ago when Jenna was there, when the dairymaids chattered and gossiped and giggled the live-long day. It had all been such fun. Kitty still worked in the dairy most of the time, but she didn’t enjoy it as much. It wasn’t the same without Jenna. Nothing was the same without Jenna. Kitty didn’t see her at all except when she came back to Eybury farm to see Mistress Jourdemayne, to collect something for the Duchess. Then the two of them would have their heads together, talking about Heaven knows what – but whatever it was, it didn’t include Kitty. Jenna would give her a hug, of course, whenever she saw her, and tweak her nose and call her Kittymouse like she always did, but it wasn’t the same as having her there all the time.

  Kitty still missed her, but she was delighted on those few occasions when Jenna did come to the farm. She looked so pretty these days, dressed in her elegant clothes just like a great lady. Of course, as the Duchess’s personal maid she would have to dress like that all the time – but in Kitty’s opinion Jenna would look lovely in anything. The last time she came on an errand for the Duchess, her dark hair had been caught up in a charming crispinette with a short veil falling to her shoulders at the back, the gift of her royal mistress, she said. Nobody had been expecting her and no one recognised her because she looked so grand – and everybody laughed when they realised who she was, even Sarah, who had been the Duchess’s maid until she’d hurt her ankle so badly. Then, when the Duchess had said she wanted Jenna to work for her all the time, Sarah had been quite upset about it until she took up with Piers. And now she was going to marry Piers so that was all right in the end. Poor Sarah still had a terrible limp but Piers didn’t seem to mind.

  Jenna had arrived at midday, just as the last of the dinner was being cleared away and Mistress Jourdemayne had fetched a bowl and given Jenna some of the left-over broth. Master Jourdemayne muttered something about getting back to work and went out, slamming the kitchen door and Mistress Jourdemayne made a face behind his back, thinking no one could see her. But Kitty saw her and she remembered that Jenna had blushed.

  ***

  At this time of an afternoon it was usually fairly quiet in the farmhouse kitchen and Jenna expected to find Mistress Jourdemayne at work in her own room, making up her clients’ orders. Her heart always quickened as she opened the door but it was only very rarely that she had encountered William and on those few occasions when their meeting was unavoidable, he greeted her briefly and asked after her health, then made a hurried exit as soon as he decently could. Neither of them dared take the conversation any further.

  ‘Is that you, Jenna?’ Margery called, in response to Jenna’s tentative knock.

  ‘Yes, mistress. I have an order from the Duchess.’

  ‘Then come in, come in. I saw you through the window, coming up the Willow Walk. How is Her Grace?’

  ‘She’s well, but in need of some almond and violet oil and another pot of the marigold face cream.’

  ‘Still using it, then, is she?’

  ‘Oh, yes. She still swears by it.’

  Margery had been so convinced that her idea of sending Jenna to work for the Duchess of Gloucester would be to her own immediate benefit that it had not occurred to her that things might not work out exactly as she wanted them to. She didn’t like it when her best-laid plans went awry. The Duchess, far from relying absolutely on Margery’s advice as she had always done hitherto, was now confiding more and more in Jenna. Margery was being consulted less and less. In fact, she had not been summoned to the palace since well before Christmas.

  Moreover, since she was spending more of her time at home, William had actually suggested she should return to work in the dairy. She had given him short shrift in reply to that suggestion but wasn’t in the slightest bit upset by the argument which had ensued.

  William had often challenged her about the wisdom of sending Jenna up to the palace and had made his scorn for the idea quite plain. Margery perfectly understood why, of course, though she had stopped short of accusing him of being in love with Jenna. There was no purpose to be served by that: the most efficient way of dealing with the problem had been to remove the temptation that Jenna represented and she had no regrets about having done so.

  Men – they were so easy to manage.

  But it still irked her that she was less of an influence on the Duchess of Gloucester than she had once been. It had been a prestigious relationship and she needed to find a way of re-establishing it. Taking Jenna into her confidence was a good way to start.

  ‘So how is Her Grace these days?

  ‘She’s well. Demanding as ever, of course.’

  ‘Tell me’, Margery said, ‘has she given up the idea of trying to conceive a child since that tincture of Old Mother What�
��s-her-name’s was such a disaster? Or has she had any success with anything else?’

  ‘Not if her nether clouts are anything to go by,’ Jenna rolled her eyes. ‘And I don’t enjoy having to wash them for her.’

  ‘Ugh,’ Margery made a face. ‘I don’t think anyone would. But Jenna, don’t rush to go back. Sit down for a moment and drink a cup of small beer with me. Or some buttermilk, if you’d prefer it.’

  ‘Neither, thank you. Her Grace doesn’t like being kept waiting.’

  ‘That’s what Sarah always said.’

  ‘Yes, so she did. How is Sarah?’

  ‘Much the same,’ said Margery. ‘She’ll never walk easily again. Still, it doesn’t seem to bother young Piers. He’s keen to marry her.’

  ‘Then I’m pleased for them both,’ said Jenna, picking up the Duchess’s order. ‘I’ll ask Her Grace if I can have a few hours free to attend the wedding. But now, I really must go. I’ll just call in to the dairy on the way and see how Kitty’s getting on.’

  ‘She’s doing well,’ said Margery. ‘William says she’s very good at that Devon sheep’s cheese you taught her to make. Abbot Harweden likes it too.’

  Jenna smiled. ‘I’m glad,’ she said. ‘I’m very proud of her.’

  After Jenna had left, Margery poured herself a cup of buttermilk and sat down. She needed to think. She had one last trick up her sleeve that might help the Duchess conceive a child, but this plan was not without its dangers. If things went wrong she could be in deep trouble. Mindful that she had already been given one stern warning, she knew that if she fell foul of the church authorities a second time, the consequences didn’t bear thinking about.

  Margery had learned the wisdom of keeping her own counsel. That wisdom had been learned the hard way. Her incarceration in the grim dungeons of Windsor Castle nine years ago had made her realise that her gravest mistake had been to believe the flattering words of the men who had wheedled knowledge out of her by making her feel she was their intellectual equal. Eagerly seeking out the company of that clerk, John Virley, and Friar John Ashwell, Margery had assisted them in their experiments with various different medicines, sharing with them her extensive knowledge of plants and herbs. Socially, she was pleased to be able to boast about her scholarly friends to William’s brother, Robert, and his supercilious wife.