The Witch of Eye

by Mari Griffith

  ‘Excuse me, Madam.’

  Old habits died hard but, no, she mustn’t correct the woman. ‘Madam’ would probably be the most polite form of address she could expect from now on. ‘Yes, Maude, what is it?’

  ‘The Abbot would like to see you, Madam, if that is convenient. Shall I ask him to come back tomorrow?’

  Abbot Kyrton. He had been kind to her. He’d invited her to eat with him when she was in sanctuary at the Abbey. Yes, she would like to see him. Perhaps he was still compassionate and she’d appreciate a gesture of kindness. God only knew, she had few enough friends. But how long would it take her to dress to receive him? She looked down at herself, the chamber robe, the feet swathed in bandages, and she ran her hand over her shorn head.

  ‘If Abbot Kyrton is prepared to see me looking like this,’ she said, ‘then I would value his company.’

  Maude smiled. ‘I’ll invite him in.’

  The Abbot had clearly been waiting outside the door because no sooner had Maude opened it than he was in the room.

  ‘My Lady,’ he greeted Eleanor. She smiled. ‘My Lady’ was infinitely preferable to ‘Madam’ and she’d settle for that.

  ‘Father Abbot,’ she said. ‘It is kind of you to call on me when I am proved to be such a sinner.’

  ‘We are all the same in the eyes of God,’ he assured her. ‘The Good Shepherd does not differentiate between his flock.’

  Eleanor gave a rueful smile as she lifted her hand self-consciously to her hair. ‘Then perhaps I will be forgiven for looking as though I am fresh from the shearing bench.’

  The Abbot, unsure how to react to her brave attempt at humour, hesitated for a moment before replying.

  ‘He might well forgive the sin of vanity, my Lady, if you confess it.’

  ‘Then I will be certain to,’ she assured him. ‘But come, Father, and be seated. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?’

  ‘I was concerned for your welfare,’ he said as he took the chair opposite hers. ‘You have been kept here at the Palace for some considerable time now and I imagine your stay will shortly come to an end.’

  ‘Do you know what is to happen after that, Father? Because no one has seen fit to tell me.’

  ‘Well, I understand the third day of your penance will be two days hence, will it not? On Friday?’

  ‘Indeed. I will be required to offer up my last prayers at the high altar of St Michael’s in Cornhill. That is all I know.’

  ‘You must be exhausted, my Lady.’

  The expression of genuine concern on the Abbot’s face made Eleanor feel suddenly tearful. She could be strong as long as she was required to do battle, but sympathy weakened her resolve. Mutely, she gestured as though to brush away his concern. The Abbot wasn’t fooled for a moment.

  ‘I have a suggestion to make,’ he said, ‘and I hope it will please you. When the time does come for you to leave Westminster, I would like to offer you the hospitality of the manor house on the monastery’s estate, should you need it. As abbot, it is within my gift. While decisions are made about your future, you will at least be able to relax in comfort as you recover from your ordeal. La Neyte is well appointed. In fact, several members of the royal family have stayed there in the past for various reasons.’

  ‘That is the manor house on the Eye estate, is it not?’

  ‘Indeed, my Lady. As I say, it is quite luxurious. To be honest, it’s largely wasted on me. I rarely go there except to collect the rents when they become due. I would genuinely prefer to be near the daily routines of the monastery here at Westminster.’

  ‘Is Master Jourdemayne the tenant farmer in charge of that estate?’

  ‘He is, my Lady. Oh!’ The Abbot’s hand flew to his mouth in alarm and his eyes widened. ‘Oh, of course, my dear Lady, I’m so sorry. That hadn’t occurred to me. I should have remembered ... I hope I haven’t embarrassed you in any way...’

  ‘Please, Father Abbot, don’t give it a moment’s thought. Master Jourdemayne’s wife is no longer a part of my life. That was all a dreadful mistake on my part. And I’m more than grateful to you. The thought of spending a little time recuperating at La Neyte will give me something to look forward to. Thank you, dear Father Abbot, thank you for the suggestion.’

  ‘God’s blessings upon you, my Lady.’

  Eleanor thought about Kyrton’s kind offer for a long time after he had left. La Neyte. Yes, the association of the manor house with Margery at the manor farm would bring back some very painful memories, but it might be a way for Eleanor to find the one person who had proved herself a friend rather than an enemy, the woman in whom she had confided so much over the last year or two. She suspected that Jenna would have gone back to the farm because she had friends there, people she had occasionally talked about, like that little girl ... what was her name? Kitty. Yes, that was it, Kitty. Jenna would be sure to go back to the manor farm at Eye-next-Westminster, for that was where Kitty was.

  ***

  They had fallen into the habit of escaping to the hay loft of an evening, just after the fires had been covered and before Jenna retired for the night to the women’s dormitory above the brewhouse and William went to his own bed. It would have been unseemly for her to move into William’s bedroom so soon after Margery’s death, so the hay loft had become the place where they chose to be together, away from prying eyes.

  Here they had re-ignited that flame which had first burst into being in that very place and, since Jenna’s return, they had made love here almost every night. At first, it had been enough to come together to satisfy an urgent passion, but now they had begun to savour their new-found knowledge of each other’s bodies, delighting in their discoveries of what gave each of them the most pleasure. They lay together afterwards in each other’s arms, their passion spent, their legs entwined, feeling part of one whole being rather than two separate people.

  As Jenna climbed up to the loft to keep their tryst on the evening of Robin’s departure, she found William waiting. He had been lying on his back in the hay, expecting her to come and lie down next to him before he took her in his arms, as he always did, and told her for the thousandth time how much she meant to him. So it was the most natural thing in the world to reach for her as she sat on her heels beside him but, to his surprise, she drew back.

  ‘Jenna, my sweet, is anything the matter?’ He scrambled to his knees and she regarded him sternly in the half-light.

  ‘I’ve been talking to Robin,’ she said.

  ‘But he left for home hours ago.’

  ‘Yes, but before he went, he told me that I was to ask you to tell me the news.’

  ‘News? What news? What was he talking about?’

  ‘He said you’d know.’

  ‘I’m sorry, my sweet. I can’t imagine what –’

  ‘He wouldn’t tell me what it was, but I believe it has something to do with ... with my ... well, with something that happened before I came here.’

  ‘Oh, you mean Jake!’

  ‘That’s exactly what Robin said,’ Jenna responded indignantly. ‘How do you know about Jake? I never said anything about him. What are you both keeping from me? Come on, William, I must know. Jake is my husband. I never told you because –’

  ‘It wouldn’t have mattered anyway.’

  ‘But how did you find out?’

  ‘I didn’t. Robin did. He knew how I felt about you because I’d had to tell someone. So he made it his business to find out a bit about your background. He couldn’t understand why a lovely, capable girl like you wasn’t married.’

  ‘And how –’

  ‘He happened to find himself somewhere near Kingskerswell and made some discreet inquiries. He had a chat with the parson.’

  ‘Parson Middleton!’ Jenna’s face brightened. ‘Oh, I wonder how he is after all these years!’

  ‘You must ask Robin next time he’s here. Anyway, the parson told him that Jake, your husband...’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He told him Jake ha
d died. A cut with a sharp scythe. An accident, apparently. I’m sorry, Jenna.’

  So Jake was dead. As she kneeled in the hay, Jenna held her hands together in her lap. Jake was dead. Curiously, she felt nothing: neither grief nor elation. She had suddenly been relieved of a burden she’d carried for the last six years, something she had kept locked away in a dark place at the back of her mind. But now she had no further need to worry about it. Relief was what she felt, an overwhelming surge of relief. Jake no longer had a hold over her. Whereas she had once thought she loved the man with a great passion, she knew now that her feelings for Jake had been based on little more than physical attraction. Jake was dead and Jenna felt nothing except, perhaps, a twinge of regret that she couldn’t feel any deeper emotion than that. Jake was dead. And at last she was free of him.

  She looked at William. ‘So,’ she said quietly, ‘I’m a widow.’

  ‘Yes, you’re a widow. I’m sorry I had to be the one to tell you –’

  ‘And you’re a widower.’

  ‘Yes.’ He paused. ‘And you know what that means, don’t you, my sweet?’

  They had both been kneeling awkwardly, but as he reached out for her they fell back onto the hay, embracing, knowing with certainty that at last they each had what they longed for, and could take complete possession of it. A sudden thought struck Jenna and she laughed delightedly.

  ‘Kitty will be pleased,’ she said. ‘She’s been trying to marry me off for years!’

  ‘Then she shall be your bridesmaid,’ said William’s muffled voice from somewhere between her breasts.

  EPILOGUE

  January 1442

  It was proving a difficult letter to write. The ultimate decision about the fate of Eleanor Cobham lay with the King and the King felt ambivalent towards her. She had often been entertaining company and yet he had always felt slightly intimidated by her determined efforts to charm him. Now, she had been exposed for what she really was, a scheming, manipulative heretic who had bewitched his uncle. So she must be sent away, as far as possible, even if only as a means of protecting his uncle of Gloucester from her malevolent influence. Chester was suggested.

  Adam Moleyns, his quill pen poised, waited respectfully for the King’s dictation. ‘Once Your Highness has made a decision about who should take responsibility for her,’ he said, ‘your mind will be relieved of the problem and you can cease to worry.’

  ‘Sir Thomas Stanley,’ said the Earl of Suffolk with the air of a man who had known the answer all along. ‘He is, after all, Controller of the Household and has plenty of experience in such matters.’ There were grunts of agreement from the other Council members around the table.

  The King breathed a deep sigh. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘Sir Thomas Stanley it shall be. I can think of no one better and I’m grateful for the suggestion. Master Moleyns, please notify the Chancellor of my decision and inform him that he should make immediate arrangements for the lady’s removal to Chester in the care of Sir Thomas Stanley.’

  There, the decision was made. It seemed to the King that everyone had existed in a cocoon for the last two months, since the end of the trial in November. His own birthday celebration had been a very low-key affair, Advent had come and gone, Christmas and Twelfth Night had been curiously muted. But with the New Year came new beginnings and the need to make decisions.

  The sensational treason trial of Eleanor Cobham and her associates had taken the whole country by storm and the King had heard tell of the extraordinary scenes on the streets of London where she had enacted her three penances. He knew, too, of Canon Southwell’s suicide in the Tower and the release of Canon Hume with no more than a caution.

  In looking back on the startling events of the last six months, one of the things that troubled him most deeply was that Roger Bolingbroke, a respected Magister in the University of Oxford and a man of great learning, had seen fit to put his knowledge to heretical use. Throughout the trial, the King had demanded reports each night on how the prosecution was arguing its case. When judgement was finally made and sentence pronounced, he was deeply saddened that a magister, a servant of the Church, had come to this. But Bolingbroke had been found guilty and the King thought it only right and proper that the man should suffer a traitor’s death, however dreadful. After all, an example must be set. Any person who might be contemplating either treachery or heresy would surely have been deterred by the sight of Bolingbroke being dragged through the streets on a hurdle to be hanged at Tyburn then cut down, only to have his belly ripped open and his entrails drawn out while he was still alive. The four quarters of Bolingbroke’s corpse had been sent to Oxford, Cambridge, York and Hereford which must surely have spread the message far and wide. That, without a doubt, would discourage Lollardy.

  All in all, it had been an unspeakably upsetting case, one he could hardly bring himself to think about. Treason. Why would anyone want to kill him? As King, he wished no one any harm, he simply wanted to live in peace and harmony and enjoy the cordial love of his subjects. Sadly, that was not the way of things, so he must do what he could to change the attitudes of his people and encourage them in learning, in worship and scholarship. His school at Eton had already begun taking in poor scholars and his plans for the College Royal of Our Lady and St Nicholas at Cambridge were well under way. He himself had laid the foundation stone last Passion Sunday.

  Having passed his twentieth birthday, King Henry felt daily more confident in his own judgement. The final decision to send the Duke of Orléans back to France had been his and he had never regretted it. The Duke of Gloucester, on the other hand, had made his disapproval embarrassingly obvious. The King had been pleased to attend a solemn service in the Abbey on All Saints’ Day to give thanks for the new accord with the French. The service began with joyful hymns of gladness and thanksgiving, but no sooner had Mass begun than Gloucester got to his feet and marched out with his cronies, making no attempt at quietness, slamming the great west door in an unforgivable fit of pique. After that sensational departure, he had summoned his barge and left immediately for Greenwich, remaining there ever since. Nevertheless, the indentures for repatriation were signed two days later and, before leaving for home, Orléans had given his personal assurance that he would never take up arms against England. For the King, that was enough.

  Moleyns interrupted his reverie. ‘Perhaps, Your Highness, you would be kind enough to sign this instruction.’

  King Henry looked quickly through the document then signed it and dated it the nineteenth day of January 1442. He pressed his signet ring into the warm wax of the seal. There, the deed was done. Eleanor Cobham would be sent to Chester.

  ‘It will take a few days to arrange, of course,’ said the Earl of Suffolk.

  ‘Does that present a problem?’ Having made a difficult decision, the King had no wish to concern himself further. He would never see his aunt again, neither would her former husband. It was for the best.

  ‘No, not really, Your Highness. She has been kept in custody at Westminster since her trial ended and the council is anxious that she is moved elsewhere. Since his return to London, His Grace the Duke has been staying in Greenwich, but he cannot remain there indefinitely. He wishes to return to Westminster and that could cause him embarrassment. So Abbot Kyrton has suggested that the lady might like to sojourn at the monastery’s manor house on the Eye estate for a few days while arrangements for her future are being made.’

  ‘Abbot Kyrton? Oh, that is kind of him. Very well then, the problem is resolved very neatly. Thank you, my Lords.’

  The King inclined his head to dismiss them.

  ***

  William and Jenna were in their favourite place, holding hands and talking quietly. There was to be no lovemaking for them tonight, they were both content to wait until they had taken their vows on the morrow.

  ‘How is Kitty?’ William asked. ‘Is she very excited about it?’

  ‘Oh, what do you think, William? Of course she is! She has a new kirtle and a
new pair of shoes and her two favourite people in all the world are getting married. Of course she’s excited.’

  Jenna studied his face in the half light. ‘You’ve been very quiet these last few days,’ she said. ‘You’re not having any regrets, are you? You don’t think perhaps we’re doing this a little too soon after Margery’s ... Margery’s death?’

  William took a deep breath before replying. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I hated seeing Margery die in the way she did, of course, but if I’m honest, I’d been half-expecting it for years. The sad thing is that she loved mixing with clever, superficial people, but she never saw how ruthless they could be in using her for their own ends. I always thought she was tempting Fate. So no, Jenna, I can’t see that there’s any reason why you and I should wait too long before we marry. I want to spend the rest of my life with you, my sweet, and tomorrow, my most cherished wish will be granted.’

  He kissed her, not with passion, but as though to seal a bargain. She drew back with a smile. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘But I know something’s wrong. What’s really worrying you?’

  William leaned back against the hay. ‘There’s something I must confess. In fact, there are two things I must tell you, and I think they’ll both surprise you more than a little.’

  Facing him, Jenna sat with her knees drawn up to her chest, her arms around them. ‘And are these things you should have told me before?’

  ‘Maybe,’ said William. ‘But you‘re right. I’ve been worrying about how best to commemorate Margery’s death. I have felt very bad about her since ... since that day at Smithfield and I didn’t know what to do for the best. Margery was burned as a witch, so she could never have a Christian burial, nor any recognised period of mourning.’

  Jenna was quiet. The same thought had occurred to her but that was how things were. There was nothing to be done about it.

  ‘I wanted her to have some presence in the churchyard,’ William went on, ‘despite the fact that she has no grave. And Robin suggested a way around the problem.’