The Witch of Eye

by Mari Griffith

  Eleanor hesitated, but curiosity got the better of her. ‘Then, for God’s sake, Margery,’ she whispered, ‘tell me! Tell me what it is!’

  ‘It’s this, Your Grace.’

  The Duchess watched spellbound as Margery, trying desperately to stop her hands shaking, opened the coffer she had brought with her and took out a small cloth-wrapped bundle, perhaps a foot long and a hand-span wide. She began to unwrap it, then paused.

  ‘We will not be interrupted, will we, Your Grace?’

  ‘No, no. No one comes into this room other than by my invitation. No one.’

  ‘Not even Jenna?’

  ‘No, certainly not, not unless I’ve asked her to do something for me.’

  ‘Then may we be seated, Your Grace?’

  ‘Yes. Whatever you want. Just tell me. Tell me what it is.’

  Pushing the coffer to one side, Margery made room for the Duchess to sit beside her.

  ‘It is something very special, Your Grace.’

  Margery finished unwrapping the bundle and placed a miniature cradle on the table where it was lit by a shaft of sunlight from a nearby window. In a voice barely more than a whisper, she said, ‘It is a small baby.’

  ‘A baby? How can that be? It is so still.’

  ‘The baby has yet to live and breathe, my Lady,’ said Margery, ‘but it is a baby in all but life.’

  ‘Is it of wax?’

  That was the question on which the rest of Margery’s life depended. She answered slowly, choosing her words with care.

  ‘Your Grace, the babe is fashioned with beneficial herbs, precious stones and spices, all combined with strands of your own hair in a special blend of bees’ waxes from carefully selected flowers. All these elements are imbued with a natural power of divinity. The only thing the child does not yet have is a soul. And with the right hymns and praises and sweet sounds it will have a soul in time. And you will have a child of your own.’

  Eleanor’s face was pale, entirely drained of colour, as she bent over the small wicker cradle and the skilfully crafted poppet which lay within it.

  ‘It looks very like a baby,’ she said.

  With her heart thudding slowly, anxiously, in her chest, Margery watched her. She could read nothing in the other woman’s impassive expression and the moment seemed to last for an eternity. If the Duchess was repulsed by the poppet and rejected it, then Margery was in dreadful trouble.

  Slowly, very slowly, Eleanor reached out a tentative finger and stroked the satin coverlet of the small cradle, then pulled it back almost tenderly to reveal the little blanket of lamb’s wool beneath it, swaddling the waxen likeness of a baby.

  ‘Soft,’ she whispered. ‘So soft. It’s beautiful, Margery. I had no idea you had such skills. It’s quite, quite beautiful. Is it a boy?’

  ‘Why, yes, Your Grace. It’s what you want, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ breathed the Duchess. ‘That’s what I want more than anything else in the whole world. A boy. A son for Humphrey.’ She turned to look at Margery. ‘Is it ... you know ... if we keep it secret – is it all right to do this?’

  ‘I have faith that it is, Your Grace. And so should you.’

  ‘Yes, yes I will.’ Eleanor paused. ‘But I should ask Canon Southwell, just to be sure. Just to be on the safe side. He will know. We must not ... must not offend God, the Almighty Father.’

  So Margery wasn’t yet in the clear. She would rather the Duchess had not suggested seeking Canon Southwell’s approval of her suggestion, but she knew full well that the attitude of the Church was ambivalent when it came to drawing divine powers into images, so luck might be on her side. The Duchess was desperate to have a child and she was, after all, the wife of the most powerful man in the country – next to the King – so few people would dare to argue with her or deny her what she wanted. Margery also knew that if Eleanor wanted anything badly enough, then Canon Southwell would be the first to condone it.

  ***

  Of the two chapels dedicated to St Stephen at which Thomas Southwell served as curate, his preference was always for the Royal Chapel of St Stephen within the Palace of Westminster, particularly now that the King was expected to return after his most recent royal progress. The whole palace had an air of excitement about it, something which had been noticeably lacking while His Highness was visiting the midlands and the West Country during the summer. Servants went purposefully about their business, cleaning tapestries, polishing silverware and pewter, opening windows, stocking the larders and generally preparing for the King and his entourage to return. He and the other members of the royal party would be taking up residence in Westminster again after a meeting of the Great Council which had been held at Sheen.

  The first thing the King would want to do would be to give thanks for his own safe return and it was Canon Thomas Southwell’s responsibility to make sure the two-storey Royal Chapel was ready for use. While the King had been away, the members of the household and courtiers who had remained at Westminster had been using the Lower Chapel. The Upper Chapel had been locked up because it was exclusively for the use of the Sovereign with close members of the royal family and members of the clergy, which was why Canon Southwell was anxious to ensure it had been properly prepared.

  He had asked Roger Bolingbroke to meet him since there was something he wanted to discuss and, until the King returned, it was as private a place as any in which to do so. This would be a conversation which Southwell did not want overheard. He found that Bolingbroke had arrived before him and was waiting for him near the stairs to the Upper Chapel.

  ‘Magister Bolingbroke,’ he greeted him. ‘Well met.’ He produced a huge key and inserted it into the door lock, beckoning Bolingbroke to enter. ‘I trust I find you in good health?’ he asked as he locked the door again, this time from the inside. He began to climb the stairs.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Bolingbroke, following close behind him. ‘And you, Canon Southwell?’

  ‘Yes, well enough, thank you, and anxious to get St Stephen’s prepared for the King’s arrival.’

  ‘Confusing,’ observed Bolingbroke, ‘that both chapels in which you serve are dedicated to the same saint.’

  ‘Oh, not really,’ Southwell replied. ‘There’s not much to be done at St Stephen Walbrook until such time as the new building work is completed. It makes few demands of me. To be truthful, I’m hardly ever there. I spend a great deal more time here at St Stephen’s Royal Chapel.’

  ‘His Highness seems to have been away for some considerable time,’ said Bolingbroke, making conversation while Southwell began busying himself with the silver altar pieces, re-grouping them around the heavy silver cross in the centre, making sure they were neatly aligned.

  ‘It was quite a lengthy progress from what I understand, and the Council meeting at Sheen was of crucial importance now that he is getting older and taking on more and more responsibilities.’

  ‘He’ll be tired,’ said Bolingbroke. ‘He’s growing towards adulthood, of course, but he is really still a boy, too young for all the arduous duties of kingship. Young men of his age seem to outgrow their strength very easily.’

  ‘He’s growing up to be a very dignified and well-mannered young man,’ said Southwell, ‘and a credit to his uncle, the Duke of Gloucester, who has been a great influence on him. The King will be eighteen years old come December. Old enough to start making his own decisions, to start taking over the reins of government from his uncle of Gloucester.’

  ‘And from his great-uncle, Cardinal Beaufort,’ said Bolingbroke. ‘But it’s just as well he has older and wiser men to advise him because I imagine he will still need to turn to them from time to time. I don’t think I could have made major decisions when I was his age. Still, I wasn’t a king, so it didn’t matter.’

  Southwell was only half-listening to Bolingbroke. He was behaving like a fussy spinster, moving a chalice here, flicking at a speck of dust there. He was trying to broach a tricky subject and wasn’t quite sure where to be
gin. Perhaps it was as well to get straight to the point.

  ‘The Duchess Eleanor has asked me rather a difficult question, Magister,’ he said, ‘and I have promised to think about it before giving her an answer. I really need to discuss it with another theologian, one whose opinion I respect.’

  ‘And am I that theologian?’

  ‘You are.’

  ‘Then I will do my best to give you an honest answer.’

  Southwell took some time to compose himself and Bolingbroke watched the canon’s face as he framed the question.

  ‘What is your opinion on the use of imagery in the act of worship?’

  ‘Imagery? What sort of imagery? Do you mean paintings, statues and so on?’

  ‘Er, in a manner of speaking, yes.’

  For Bolingbroke, the question hardly merited consideration. He glanced around him at the exquisitely decorated Royal Chapel of St Stephen’s. There was hardly a square inch of the walls which had not been used to illustrate stories from the Bible by means of the most beautiful artwork.

  ‘Well, look around you, Canon,’ he said, ‘and you will see imagery everywhere. That superb silver cross, the delightful portrayal of the Virgin Mother with the infant Christ in that wall painting. The depiction of Job’s children at their banquet is particularly fine. Surely, imagery such as this serves to remind us of whom we worship. There is nothing wrong with imagery if it exists for the greater glory of God.’

  ‘Yes, but...’

  Bolingbroke was warming to his subject. ‘Moreover, few people can read and not everyone has access to the written holy word. Bibles, psalters, missals, prayer books ... these things are beyond the reach of most people. Images of Christ and the Holy Family concentrate the mind of man, the minds of all men, rich and poor, on what is important in the scriptures.’

  ‘And do you believe that these images can take on the ... the essence of what they represent?’

  This time, Bolingbroke did hesitate before replying, weighing the arguments in the balance, his expression difficult to read behind the lenses of his spectacles. Southwell was watching him intently. At length, the magister spoke, but only to pose a question of his own.

  ‘Tell me, Canon, do you believe in the doctrine of transubstantiation?’

  ‘Why, of course!’

  ‘You genuinely believe that when you take Holy Communion, the elements of the Eucharist, the bread and the wine, become the flesh and blood of Our Saviour Jesus Christ at the moment of consecration?’

  ‘Without question, Magister!’

  ‘Then there you have your answer, Canon. If you believe that bread and wine can become Corpus Christi, then yes, you must also believe that with prayer and diligence on the part of the believer, an inanimate object can take on the essence of life. More than one miracle has been recorded in which bread left upon an altar has become as red as blood without the intervention of any mortal. So there can be no doubt. St Thomas Aquinas is quite clear on the subject and he is, after all, our most venerated theologian and philosopher. There, has that answered your question?’

  ‘I truly believe it has, Magister. Thank you.’

  In turning towards the altar, Southwell suddenly found himself face to face with a powerful image of the Lord Jesus Christ. Under the unwavering gaze of the painted eyes, it seemed to him that Christ looked into his very soul and approved of what he was doing. He crossed himself and offered a prayer of thanks for the divine guidance that had come by way of Magister Bolingbroke’s stated belief and the miraculous gaze of the wall painting. Now he could advise the Duchess Eleanor that her little waxen poppet would cause the Almighty no offence.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Autumn 1439

  With the onset of a chilly autumn, it was far too cold to enjoy the delights of the garden at La Pleasaunce. So, having dined in the sumptuously furnished great hall, the Duke and Duchess of Gloucester were entertaining their house guests in their private solar. Fragrant apple logs burned in the huge grate as some twenty of Humphrey and Eleanor’s friends were relaxing, some talking amongst themselves while others were listening to John Dunstable playing skilfully on his lute in the corner of the room as he tried out another of his compositions on his distinguished audience.

  The music was entirely to Eleanor’s taste but, though he liked music well enough, Humphrey’s preference on these occasions was a spirited debate with like-minded friends about astronomy, astrology, physics and mathematics. He admired the great Italian philosophers and had several Italian friends whom he would often invite to join these small, exclusive gatherings.

  ‘La Pleasaunce is a haven for all the senses,’ Roger Bolingbroke remarked, leaning back in his chair after a particularly fine meal. His spare, slightly bent frame was beginning to fill out with the generous quantities of food he consumed at the Duke’s table. Tonight, he had worked his way through an excellent pike stuffed with oysters, followed by a dish of spiced quinces with cream.

  ‘I’m glad you feel so happy here, Magister,’ Eleanor replied. ‘It is certainly an advantage for His Grace to be able to call upon your superior knowledge should the need arise to settle a debate.’

  Smiling at the compliment, Bolingbroke closed his eyes and gave himself up to the twin sensual delights of a warm fire and a particularly charming rondo being played on the lute. Watching him, Eleanor thought it would be rather easier to talk to the astronomer if he always kept his eyes closed since his left eye sometimes led a life quite independent of its companion on the right, especially when Bolingbroke was tired.

  A small, black louse began its leisurely progress between the sparse hairs on the Magister’s head and he suddenly sat up, ramrod straight in his chair, having felt himself begin to drift impolitely off to sleep before feeling the compelling need to scratch. It would never do to fall asleep in the presence of his patron and his wife.

  ‘Forgive me, Your Grace! It is so pleasant in this room and the warmth from the fire is most conducive to sleep. Please, forgive me.’

  ‘Are you feeling quite well, Magister Bolingbroke?’ asked Eleanor solicitously. ‘You are not sickening for anything, I trust?’

  ‘No, no, not at all Your Grace,’ said Bolingbroke, ‘and thank you for your concern. It is merely that my studies kept me from my bed until the small hours last night. I should learn more discipline. I plan to retire early tonight.’

  ‘Very wise,’ said Humphrey, draining his glass of Burgundy wine before beckoning a footman to come and refill it. ‘And what were you studying that proved so fascinating as to deprive you of your sleep?’

  ‘Your Grace, I was re-reading Poggio Bracciolini’s treatise on greed.’

  ‘What, in the Italian?’

  ‘It was not easy, Sire, but I did my best. I understand the treatise is in the process of being translated.’

  ‘That will keep someone busy for a very long time,’ said Humphrey, ‘and then we shall have to wait for it to be copied. Unless that enterprising Gutenberg fellow in the Rhineland can make a copy of it on his new printing press machine. Either way, it will be several years before we see a translation of De Avaritia here in Greenwich. Mind you,’ he added, ‘we saw the author in London several years ago when he was in the service of our esteemed Cardinal Beaufort.’ He rolled his eyes as he spat out the name.

  There was an embarrassed silence in the room though the Duke, concentrating on having his glass refilled, seemed unaware of it. Dunstable’s fingers hovered above the strings of his lute and he looked around expectantly. Several people exchanged furtive glances: no one was anxious for Humphrey of Gloucester to pursue the subject of Cardinal Beaufort. That way lay bitter back-biting. Anxious to lighten the atmosphere, Roger Bolingbroke felt he had to say something.

  ‘I understand that Signor Bracciolini is a very well-travelled man, Your Grace.’

  ‘Well,’ said Humphrey with a short laugh, ‘he’ll never travel in this direction again – the churlish Beaufort had no idea how to treat a man of his prodigious intellect! Poor
old Poggio was bored to tears for most of the time he was here and hared off back to Italy after a few years.’

  Amid the relieved guffaws of the other guests, Eleanor’s tinkling laugh rang crystal clear, an appreciative audience for her husband’s remark.

  ‘Your Grace,’ said Bolingbroke, turning towards her, eager to change the subject, ‘could you, perhaps, be persuaded to sing? After all, it’s not every evening that Master Dunstable can be here with us, so we should take advantage of his presence and I’m sure we would all dearly love to hear you both perform for us.’

  Graciously, amid a scattering of polite applause at the suggestion, Eleanor inclined her head in acknowledgement of the compliment and rose to her feet. She possessed a very pleasant singing voice and was rarely averse to showing off her musical talents. Seated behind his lute, John Dunstable looked up at her.

  ‘You do wish me to play for you, do you, Your Grace?’

  ‘Of course,’ replied Eleanor. ‘Singing unaccompanied is no great pleasure, Master Dunstable. Shall we try “O Rosa Bella”? It is one of my favourites.’

  ‘A favourite of mine too, Your Grace,’ replied Dunstable, positioning the lute comfortably in his lap and checking the tuning. Then, at a nod from Eleanor, he began to play the introduction to the song and everyone turned expectantly towards them.

  As his wife began to sing there was a look of genuine contentment on Humphrey’s face; he always enjoyed listening to her and she was a skilled performer. All he needed to complete his pleasure was the deep, inviting red glow of another goblet of Burgundy wine. He beckoned the footman to bring the decanter yet again.

  ***

  ‘To be honest with you, gentlemen, I might just as well have stayed at home,’ said Henry Beaufort with a shrug, ‘and not bothered to make the journey to France at all, much less stay there for so many months at Gravelines for that interminable, never-ending conference.’

  The Cardinal-bishop shuffled some notes on the table in front of him. In awaiting the arrival of the King at this important Council meeting in Westminster, he had taken advantage of a lull in the conversation to express his opinion about the increasingly worrying situation in France.