Epitaph for Three Women

Chapter XVI THE WITCH OF EYE

THE young King was excited. For the first time in his life he was going to leave England.

The Cardinal had come to him with much solemnity and had explained to him that he was going to his land of France and would there be crowned as King.

But I have already been crowned once, thought Henry. He remembered well the weary ceremony and the weight of the crown they made him wear and all those people coming up one after another and kneeling to him. There were times when he heartily wished they had made someone else King.

But to go to France! That might be exciting.

He looked at the Cardinal, an old, old man he seemed and very serious. He had heard his uncle Gloucester refer to him as ‘that old rogue’. That puzzled him. It was hard to think of the Cardinal as anything but one of those good men for whom the gates of Heaven would open wide when he made his journey there, which, thought Henry, judging by his age must be imminent.

In the meantime he was on Earth and appeared now and then to make sure that the King did his duty.

Henry missed his mother and Alice and Joan. Life had been very different when he was with them. But apparently people like himself who were born with the burden of kingship already on them could not be brought up by women. They had to have people like the Earl of Warwick and the Cardinal of Winchester around them – and occasionally his uncles, stern Bedford and jolly Gloucester, both of whom, in spite of their different natures, alarmed him more than a little.

‘There will be a service at St Paul’s Cathedral,’ the Cardinal was saying, ‘and you must remember that God will be watching you – and so will the people.’

It was rather frightening to be so spied on; but if God loved him as much as the people obviously did, he thought he might be as welcome in Heaven as the Cardinal would be. ‘You will understand,’ went on the Cardinal, ‘that a great deal of preparation has gone into this visit so it remains with you, my lord, to make sure that no one is disappointed in you.’

Henry replied brightly: ‘The people shout a lot and cheer me and say “Long live the little King”.’

‘That is because you are a boy. But at the same time they expect a great deal from you. The higher the position the better you must be. You must never forget that you are King of this realm.’

‘People are always telling me,’ commented Henry, ‘so I could not easily forget.’

‘That is well,’ said the Cardinal. ‘After the service we shall go to Kennington and we shall be in Canterbury on Palm Sunday, where we shall celebrate Easter which will be fitting. Then we shall make our way to Dover.’

‘Will my mother come with us?’ asked Henry.

‘No, no, indeed no,’ said the Cardinal quickly. He did not wish to be reminded of the Queen Mother. There were some unpleasant rumours about her, some connection with a Welsh squire. There were anxieties enough without her adding to them. Things were not going well in France and the Duke of Bedford was deeply concerned about the abandoning of the siege of Orléans.

So the journey began as they had arranged it should. From Kennington to Canterbury where the people came out to cheer the little King. They remained there over Easter and all thought it was a good omen that Henry should set sail for France on St George’s Day.

It was exciting to land in a new country. It seemed he was its King as he was in England. His father had won it. Henry was always a little disturbed when people talked to him of his father because the admonition usually followed that he must learn to be like him; and Henry was beginning to think that it was not going to be very easy to do that.

They rode across the country which was rather flat and not unlike England in many ways except that the people did not seem to love him so much. They came out of their houses to look at him but they did not cheer as they did in England and some of them looked as though they would rather he had stayed away.

He heard a good deal of talk about Joan the Maid. The servants were always whispering about her. ‘Who is Joan the Maid?’ he asked. ‘She is a witch,’ he was told.

A witch! His eyes were round with horror. Where was she now?

She was where she should have been long ago. In prison. They had caught her. Now she would have to pay for her wickedness.

He thought about her a great deal. That was because she seemed to be in everybody’s mind.

She had used her witchcraft against the English, it seemed, and consequently they had lost some battles. They had taken that very badly. Battles, Henry had always thought, were won by the English. He was constantly being taught about Crécy and Poitiers and Harfleur and Agincourt. Nobody could withstand the bowmen of England – unless it was by witchcraft.

They were going to Rouen and soon he saw the towers of the capital city of Normandy which had been for so long the dominion of the English. William the Conqueror had made it so when he came to England; Henry had learned that years ago.

His uncle Bedford was at Rouen. Henry was greatly in awe of him. He was always so stern and never failed to remind him of his wonderful father. The Duchess was different. She was kind and friendly and seemed to remember quite often that although Henry was a King he was also only a boy.

Henry realised that they were all very concerned about Joan of Arc. They seemed to talk of nothing else. There was a sort of trial going on and his uncle Bedford was in close conference with the Bishops of Winchester and Beauvais and other men; they were all very grave.

They told him little. All he knew was that there was a wicked woman who was a witch and she had come to some arrangement with the Devil to crown the Dauphin of France who thought the crown of France was his although it really belonged to the English through the conquest of Henry’s great father and something called the Salic law which the French followed and was no true law at all apparently.

Well, he had to prepare himself for his coronation and there was a great fuss about that too. The Kings of France were crowned at Rheims and owing to the witchcraft of Joan of Arc Rheims was now in the hands of the French and as the Dauphin had been crowned there it was hardly possible for Henry to be crowned there as well.

His uncle fumed about it. He had heard him cry out: ‘The woman must be proved to be a witch.’

So then Henry knew that it had something to do with Joan of Arc.

He asked one of his squires about the witch. It was exciting – and frightening too – to contemplate that she was actually a prisoner in this very castle. Sometimes he would wake up in the night and wonder whether witches had special powers and that they might break out of their prisons. Surely that was a small thing to do. Suppose she came to him? She would be particularly angry with him because, as he had learned, it was due to her that the Dauphin had been crowned. She wouldn’t like the true King very much.

One day his squire said to him: ‘There is an aperture in her prison. People watch her through it. Would you like to take a peep?’

He hesitated. He was afraid of what he would see. He imagined an ugly old woman with warts all over her where the Devil had kissed her.

But he wanted to see. He wanted to be frightened and horrified.

He accompanied the squire into the tower and up a flight of stairs.

The squire lifted him and he put his eye to the aperture. He was looking into a dark room, bare as far as he could see of all furniture except a straw pallet. Seated on this, her eyes on the window high in the wall, which was the only place where any light came through, was a woman. She was not old. She was pale and her eyes looked large and luminous. He could not help staring at her. There was a quality about her which even he in his youth must recognise.

He could not have described her. The only thought that came into his mind was: She is not like a witch. She looks good.

Then he saw that there was another table in this room, which he had not seen at first. Seated at it were three men whose appearance was so rough and cruel that they made an outstanding contrast to the girl seated on the bed.

As he looked there he felt suddenly a wretchedness which he could not understand. He signed to the squire to lift him down.

He wanted to burst into tears.

He said nothing as he was taken back to his own apartments, but he could not forget the sight of her. She haunted his dreams as she had before, but differently. Previously he had thought of an evil witch breaking into his apartments and putting some fearful spell on him. Now he thought of her quiet and sad … staring up at the light as though she were talking to God.

There must be good witches as well as bad ones, he thought and he was convinced that she was a good one.

There came a day when the excitement in the town of Rouen had reached fever point. It was impossible to shut it out of the royal apartments. They were whispering together – from the highest to the lowest. Everybody wanted to be out in the streets on that day.

‘It is the day when they will burn Joan of Arc at the stake,’ he was told. ‘You are not to go out to see it.’

He did not want to. He clenched his hands together. He did not want to see her burn.

But the tension had permeated the castle. One might not be there to see … but one could feel.

The English were burning her. His uncle Bedford had said that was what must be done because she was a witch. She brought great harm to the English and had changed the course of the war. There would be no hope for England if she were allowed to live and lead French armies.

He could smell the acrid odour of burning wood and the oil they poured on it to make it burn the faster. And she was in the centre of it. The girl he had seen through the aperture in the wall.

He wondered if he would ever be able to forget her.

Uncle Bedford was brisk and obviously relieved. So was the Bishop of Winchester. Now they could go ahead with the coronation.

But it seemed that was not easy. It was all due to the fact that traditionally Kings of France should be crowned at Rheims and because of Joan of Arc the French were now in possession of that town and they believed that the true King was the French one who had already been crowned, once more due to Joan of Arc.

His uncle Bedford came to him one day and told him that shortly he would be leaving for Paris. He was going to be crowned there. It was a great pity that it had to be Paris but they could not wait until they had recaptured Rheims so he was to be crowned there and return to England for the people there would not want him to stay away too long.

He was glad that his aunt Bedford was there too. He liked her; she reminded him of his mother. She was kind and seemed the only one to understand what an ordeal a coronation could be to a boy of nine. That was it; she thought of him as a boy while these important men thought of him as the King. He was able to tell her that he had looked through the aperture at Joan of Arc.

‘They should never have taken you to see her,’ said the Duchess.

‘But I was glad they did. I wasn’t frightened after that. I used to dream that she came into my room at night and she was old and ugly and cast wicked spells on me. Then I saw her and I didn’t dream after that … except to be very sad because they were going to burn her.’

‘Hush,’ said the Duchess. ‘You should not speak of her to your uncle or to any.’

‘People do speak of her,’ he said. ‘I heard someone say she was a saint.’

‘No … no … no. That is treason.’

‘Treason,’ said Henry solemnly, ‘is to speak and act against the King and the country. I am the King, so I can’t speak treason against myself, can I?’

‘Oh,’ laughed the Duchess, patting his hand, ‘you are going to be a clever one, I can see. Listen. It would be better now if you did not disturb yourself with these matters.’

But try as he might he could not forget Joan of Arc, even when they rode to Paris, that wonderful city of towers and turrets which enchanted him. He wished that he was going there to stay with his mother as they used to at Windsor and there were just the two of them with Alice and Joan and of course Owen Tudor. Then there had not been the anxieties of what he would have to do and whether he would perform it to the satisfaction of these solemn old men.

The people had hung out flags and banners for him, and they cheered him as he entered by the Porte Saint Dennis, but they were the English conquerors of course. The French remained silent and sullen. He felt that he wanted to say to them: It is not my fault that I am here. I am the King but I still have to do what I am told.

He was to be lodged at Vincennes until the coronation, which, said his uncle Bedford, should not be delayed. The situation had been uneasy since the coming of Joan of Arc and now she was dead her influence remained. She was a martyr now and Henry had heard it said that martyrs were as much to be feared as the greatest generals.

Two days before the coronation he was taken to the Hôtel de St Pol to visit his grandmother.

It was an alarming experience. Isabeau, ravaged by the violent life she had led, was still beautiful but her grandson was repelled by her. She put down a hand which he thought was like a claw and drew him to her. He stared at her with solemn eyes. Her face was painted and she looked like some powerful goddess who would have the power to turn him into stone if he displeased her.

‘So, grandson,’ she said to him, ‘you are to be crowned King of France. That is well … that is well.’

‘I am not sure that the people of France think so,’ he answered.

She laughed. ‘You are a clever boy, I see that. Stay clever, little one. There are two things which will bring you what you want … beauty and cleverness. Once I had them both.’

He did not know what to reply so he looked at her steadily thinking she was magnificent although somewhat grotesque.

‘Tell me of your mother.’

‘She is well,’ answered Henry.

‘They have taken you from her care.’

Henry agreed that this was so.

‘Tell me, grandson, did you know the Tudor squire?’

‘Owen?’

‘Was that his name?’

‘Yes, he was Owen Tudor, grandson of Sir Tudor Vychan ap Gronw, and his father, Meredydd, was an outlaw accused of murder.’

‘You concern yourself greatly with the affairs of a squire.’

‘Well, this was Owen …’

‘A rather special squire I believe. Did your mother think he was a rather special squire?’

‘Oh yes. She said there was none like Owen.’

His grandmother began to laugh.

‘Your mother was my youngest child,’ she told him. ‘She became the Queen of England and the mother of its King! That is good … considering the condition we were in. Beaten to our knees by your father, grandson.’

‘Yes, I know about Harfleur and Agincourt.’

‘I’ll swear you do. The English boast of their successes. As all do. Now tell me more of your mother. Tell me of life at Windsor … when you were with her. Tell me about Owen Tudor …’

She made him talk a great deal and although she smiled kindly at him he was very glad when the visit to the Hôtel de St Pol was over.

Two days later he was crowned at Notre Dame by Cardinal Beaufort. It was not a happy ceremony. There was a brooding atmosphere of discontent throughout the proceedings and the people of Paris complained that there were too many English present. Surely, thought Henry logically, this should have been expected since the King was English, but the French did not like it. Moreover Kings of France should be crowned at Rheims and there was a King of France in any case. There was further complaint because many of the customs that accompanied a coronation were ignored. Certain prisoners usually received an amnesty and money was distributed to the needy. All this was forgotten by the English, so it was an odd kind of coronation from every point of view and one calculated to bring little comfort to the French.

The Duke of Bedford was aware of the discontent. He was a very worried man these days. He had been shaken by the exploits of Joan of Arc; and his alliance with the Duke of Burgundy was far from sound. The Duke blamed him for the loss of Orléans. If he had allowed the people to surrender to Burgundy the town would not now be in the hands of the French. It had been a great disappointment to Bedford that Henry could not be crowned at Rheims. In fact the position in France had not been so uneasy from an English point of view since before Agincourt. And to think it was all due to a peasant girl who had heard voices infuriated the Duke. He would not have been nearly so infuriated if it had been due to superior fighting strength and strategy, but this was incomprehensible and even now that the Maid had been burned at the stake he was still bemused and uneasy.

He said to the Bishop of Winchester: ‘The King should leave for England immediately. I cannot rest in peace while he remains in France.’

The Bishop agreed. ‘But you will see that everything will change now. The witch is no more. Her influence has gone. It will be as it was before she came to disturb us all. Charles is a weakling – no Maid of Orléans can alter that. He is lazy, indecisive, not meant for war.’

The Duke nodded. ‘I think of Burgundy …’

‘Your Duchess will make sure that the peace is kept between you and her brother.’

‘Oh yes. Thank God for Anne. But her health gives me some anxiety, Bishop.’

‘She is young. She is devoted to you.’

‘I thank God for that. I pray for a child – so does Anne. She longs for it.’

‘He will grant your wish in time,’ said the Bishop.

The Duke found it difficult to shake off his gloom, and the Bishop thought: This affair of the Maid has unnerved him … as it has us all.

On the Duke’s orders the young King left Paris for Rouen, but it was the end of January before he landed at Dover where he rested for a while and by slow stages made the journey to London, where a great welcome awaited him and although it was cold February the people came out in their thousands to greet him. He looked very handsome in his robes of State with the crown on his head. ‘The dear little King,’ they called him. Banners fluttered from every possible place and the procession was halted again and again as it made its way through the streets of London. Young girls recited poems on the virtues of their King and they did not fail to stress the fact that he was King of France as well as of England.

It was all very pleasant and one of those rare occasions when he was glad he was the King.

Humphrey of Gloucester was there to welcome him back. He was never sure of Uncle Humphrey. He knew that Uncle Bedford, stern as he was, was a man of great honour and virtue. He was not certain what Uncle Humphrey was.

Humphrey had been Regent during his absence and he saw at once that there was a change in his uncle’s attitude towards him. He was a little more deferential.

Ah, thought Henry wisely, it is because I am growing up.

When Humphrey had told him how pleased he was that he had returned safely and how delighted that the people of London had welcomed him so warmly – both sentiments of which Henry with growing shrewdness was a little suspicious – he then began to tell him about the iniquities of Cardinal Beaufort.

Something would have to be done about that old rogue, said Uncle Humphrey.

To hear the dignified Cardinal referred to in such terms was bewildering. But then life often was to a King who was taking such a long time to grow up.

The Duchess of Gloucester was very pleased with life. From comparatively humble origins she had risen high, for who would dispute the fact that while the Duke of Bedford was absent from England engaged on the French wars, the Duke of Gloucester was the most important man in England – King in all but name; and as she held a powerful influence over him, this meant that the Duchess was a lady of great consequence.

It had been a great triumph to get Humphrey to marry her. As plain Eleanor Cobham she had enchanted and enslaved him and there were few, apart from Eleanor herself, who believed that she could continue to do so and with what effect. But Eleanor had complete confidence in herself. Humphrey had never met a woman like her. As deeply sensual as he was himself she could continue to excite him in that field which had always been important to him; but there was more than sexual accomplishment to Eleanor. She was as wily as any statesman; and she knew how to play a waiting game. There was nothing impulsive about her. She had her eyes well on the future.

There was a little King – a minor for some years to come – malleable as clay in the clever hands of those who knew how to mould him. He had two uncles and one was engaged in the French wars. That left the field clear for the other – Gloucester … or would have if those who tried to impede him were swept away.

She was waiting for her husband when he returned from greeting the King.

Humphrey came bursting into their apartments. She went to him and removed his cloak, then putting her arms about his neck gave him a deeply passionate kiss on the lips. He responded as he could never resist doing and said: ‘Oh, Eleanor, Beaufort’s back with the King.’

‘That snake,’ she said. ‘It’s time someone finished him.’

‘We must.’

‘Come,’ she said. ‘Will you eat? Will you rest? What do you wish, my love?’

‘To be with you … to talk and talk … This thing’s on my mind. He’s got Bedford’s confidence.’

‘We’ll eat first,’ she said, ‘and then go to bed … and you can talk as you will.’

Later they lay side by side in the bed they delighted to share and they talked about the Cardinal … and Bedford.

‘My brother has aged. This woman has upset him.’

‘One would not expect him to be upset by a woman.’

‘No ordinary woman, I assure you, but one who heard voices … a virgin no less.’

‘And Brother Bedford would respect that!’

‘He proved her a witch and burned her at the stake but she haunts him. I can see that. He’s not sure. She was so convincing at her trial … she confounded Beauvais and the lot of them. And how could a peasant girl do that? That’s what they ask themselves. I can tell you that girl is responsible for more than the loss of Orléans and the crowning of the Dauphin.’

‘But now she’s dead.’

‘She lives on in a way. The French thank Heaven she was on their side and that idea can’t be shifted.’

‘To let the girl burn at the stake! Heaven’s help wasn’t much use there.’

‘It’s made a sort of legend of it. After all they are saying Christ was crucified. If the girl had gone back to her flocks she would have been forgotten in a few months. Now they will never forget.’

‘So Bedford suffers, does he?’ The Duchess was smiling.

‘He looks older.’

‘And he is happy with his Duchess? You brothers are lucky in your marriages. Henry enjoyed Katherine. By the way, there is still scandal about her frolicking with the Welsh squire.’

‘Let her,’ said Gloucester. ‘She’s no threat to us.’

‘No, and we waste time to consider her. Humphrey, if Bedford were to die …’

‘He is a young man yet.’

‘In battle perhaps. After all your brother Henry died at thirty-five.’

‘Yes, if he were to die what then?’

‘What then indeed, my Humphrey. Do you realise that you would be next in line to the throne?’

‘Young Henry is a healthy enough boy.’

‘H’m …’ she murmured and there was speculation in her beautiful eyes. ‘We must hope the way remains clear. Bedford may live for years yet. His Anne may have a son … which God forbid.’

She was deeply thoughtful; ideas had come to her which she would not share even with Humphrey.

She had become a Duchess and no one would have believed she ever could. Was it possible for her to be a Queen?

There was one man who would ruin their plans if he had a chance and that was Humphrey’s uncle, Cardinal Beaufort.

He must go. Humphrey had tried hard enough to get rid of him and had failed so far. It was a pity that the old Cardinal held such power. It was a pity that he was of a royal strain. It was all very well for Humphrey to call him Bastard. So might he have been born but old John of Gaunt’s paternal instincts had been strong and he had cared so much for Beaufort’s mother that he had insisted on her children being legitimised. And Henry Beaufort, Bishop of Winchester and now Cardinal, had shown his loyalty to the crown all through his life. It was hard to unseat such a man.

‘I think we have him this time,’ said Gloucester. ‘We’ll get him on praemunire. I have it on good authority that he has bought an exemption from the jurisdiction of Canterbury. He has given bribes. And look how rich he is. How did he come by such possessions?’

‘To get him removed would be a great triumph,’ said Eleanor.

‘Never fear, my love, I shall do it.’

‘I never doubted that you would. Tell me more of Bedford.’

‘He is as ever … determined to carry out my brother’s death-bed wishes. A little upset about Burgundy though. He made a mistake over Orléans and should have let the town surrender to Burgundy. Wasn’t going to beat the bushes to let someone else get the birds, ha, ha. He thought he was clever. And Bedford doesn’t like to make mistakes.’

‘You would say matters do not go well in France.’

‘I would indeed say that.’

She put her arms about him and drew him towards her. ‘We have matters here in England with which to concern ourselves,’ she said.

It was May when Henry opened Parliament and a very unpleasant session it was because of the quarrel between Uncle Humphrey and Cardinal Beaufort.

During it the Cardinal rose and confronting him and his Uncle Humphrey demanded to know what accusations were being brought against him.

There was a great deal of recrimination and talk which Henry could not understand but he was well aware of the hatred between his Uncle Humphrey and his great uncle the Cardinal.

He gathered that the Cardinal had made treaties with the Pope and that by so doing he had acquired special privilege; he had amassed great wealth; and above all his Uncle Humphrey would not rest until he had confiscated the Cardinal’s vast wealth and exiled him from the country.

It was all very distressing for Henry who was afraid of both of them. He was glad they did not expect him to take any decisions as yet. That was all for the Parliament to do.

He was relieved when the Parliament told him to declare his faith in the Cardinal; but it was all very bewildering and it seemed that the Cardinal was not very happy about the proceedings. Henry had heard his Uncle Humphrey say that the Bishops would be rather excited at the prospect of the See of Winchester being vacant and that would be helpful. Henry could not understand that at all. It seemed to have nothing to do with the Cardinal’s guilt.

After that they discussed seizing his jewels, which was also difficult for Henry to understand. Later he heard that the Cardinal had lent the crown a great deal of money so that seemed to settle the matter.

But Henry young as he was knew that his uncle would continue to hate the Cardinal and try to harm him; and the Cardinal would always be Humphrey’s enemy.

As the Court was at Westminster for the session of the Parliament, it was easy for Eleanor to go on a little errand which had long been in her mind. Divesting herself of her jewels and her fine velvet robe, she put on the clothes of a merchant’s wife and with one of her attendants likewise clad she slipped out into the streets and the pair mingled with the crowd.

They made their way in silence to an inn in one of the narrow streets. The innkeeper came out, his eyes lighting up at the sight of Eleanor, and he was about to bow obsequiously when a look from her restrained him.

‘The horses?’ she said.

‘Ready and waiting …’ he answered promptly.

She nodded and with her attendant went out with the innkeeper to the innyard where two horses were already saddled. The innkeeper helped Eleanor to mount and did the same for her attendant. Then the two women rode together out of the yard.

It was not very far to the Manor of Eye-next-Westminster and having reached the little hamlet they went to an inn to leave their horses. They were received there with the same respect.

Although these precautions irritated Eleanor at the same time she was elated by them. An intriguer by nature she enjoyed the thrill of mystery. She wanted no one to know of her visits to Margery – not even Humphrey. Eleanor had great faith in Margery, and she had suffered a certain shock not so long ago when Margery had been sent to Windsor, suspected of sorcery.

Trust Margery to extricate herself from that, but even she could hardly hope to do so again if another charge was brought against her and it would not be advisable for the Duchess of Gloucester to be connected with her.

They came to the house; it was small, in a row of such houses, but there was something exciting about it because it was the home of Margery Jourdemayne, the Witch of Eye.

Eleanor rapped imperiously on the door. It was opened cautiously and there was Margery herself, her eyes bright with welcome.

‘Come in, my lady. It warms the cockles of my heart to see you again.’

‘Ah Margery, let me look at you. The same as ever. You don’t seem to have suffered much from your ordeal.’

‘That’s nigh on three years back, my lady. And right glad I am to see you … and to learn by hearsay that our little tricks worked. My lady Duchess now … no less. A very great lady … one of the finest in the land, they tell me. But what do we here? Come in, my lady … and you too, my lady. There’s always a welcome for you at old Margery’s fireside.’

They were in a small room very sparsely furnished with a table, two chairs and a few stools. This was where Margery received her clients and it was scarcely different from other rooms in houses of its kind.

‘Pray be seated,’ she said and offered a chair to the Duchess. Margery herself sat on the other. The Duchess’s attendant was given a stool.

‘And what did you wish from me, my lady?’

‘I believe you have a good complexion milk, Margery. You supplied it to me in the past. I miss it.’

‘I know the one, my lady, my own special brew. ’Tis made from … Ah, but I must not give away my secrets. ’Tis more than the herbs that goes into it. It’s the wisdom and blessings of wise women culled over the years and passed down to their own.’

‘It softened my skin and made it like velvet,’ said the Duchess. ‘Margery, take me to your workroom a while. I would select my own pot.’

‘Assuredly, my lady.’

A covert understanding had passed between Margery and Eleanor. It meant they were to be alone.

The attendant rose and Margery said: ‘Nay, my dear. You will stay here.’

It was an order. Eleanor turned to her attendant and shrugged her shoulders as though to say: We must humour the old woman, and then she followed Margery through a door which was firmly shut behind them.

‘You know the way, my lady,’ she said with a little laugh.

Eleanor nodded and Margery led the way down a flight of steps. With a key which hung about her waist Margery opened a door. They were in a kind of cellar with a barred window high in the wall through which a faint light came. From the beams hung herbs of many kinds all in the process of drying. There was a fire burning and on this stood a cauldron from which steam rose and the air was filled with the pungent smell of whatever was simmering. Eleanor recognised the appliances on a long bench which could be used for cutting, slicing, pounding and such like operations for she had seen it on previous visits.

‘My lady’s complexion milk. I have but to decant it,’ said Margery. ‘I made this for you before I went to Windsor. That’s three years ago but it is of such fine stuff that it will last forever.’

They both knew that it was not for this that Eleanor had come. But naturally the Duchess did not want even her intimate friends and attendants to know the real reason. They were enough in her confidence to know that she visited the Witch of Eye, for Eleanor could not very easily have come alone. However that was as far as they should be in the secret.

Eleanor said: ‘Margery, what happened at Windsor?’

‘I was arrested you know with Friar Ashewell and the clerk John Virley and we were all charged with sorcery.’

‘And you were released.’

Margery smiled slyly. ‘’Twas a surprise to all in Eye I can tell you when I came back. They were all set for Smithfield to see me in smoke.’

‘Don’t talk so, Margery.’

‘Oh my lady, ’twas truth. But I had good friends … and to my amaze as well as others, I was set free.’

‘And came straight back and continued to sell your love potions.’

‘There’s no harm in them. They be good … as you yourself have reason to know. It was like being tickled with ten thousand feathers when I heard you’d married the Duke. I said, “Ah, reckon she owes something of that to old Margery.” Though mind you you’re one of them ladies as a man finds hard to escape from once she makes up her mind she wants him. ’Tis good to see you so riz in the world.’

Old Margery had a respectful manner of speaking which nevertheless contained a reminder of Eleanor’s spectacular ascent in the world. The old woman was telling her she remembered young Eleanor Cobham coming to her for a love potion or some aid to beauty, when she was no more than a woman of small consequence and thought herself so lucky to get the task of lady-in-waiting to Jacqueline who was then the Duchess of Gloucester.

Margery remembered well the elation of the lady when she became the Duke’s mistress and how they had put their heads together and tried to work out a way of making her his wife.

Fate had favoured them with the wars in Holland and foreign parts but when the moment came, with Margery’s help, Eleanor was ready – and Margery hoped the proud Duchess would not forget it.

‘And the Duke is as loving as he ever was?’ asked Margery wondering why Eleanor had now come back to her. After all it needed a little courage – not that Eleanor had ever been short of that – for Margery had been accused of sorcery once and had escaped by the skin of her teeth. There was no saying that she would not be taken again – in fact it was very likely. It would not look well for a high and mighty lady like the Duchess of Gloucester to have had traffic with her. So the inference was that Eleanor must want something rather badly to have come in person to the Witch of Eye.

‘Yes,’ answered Eleanor, ‘as loving as ever and I know how to keep him so.’

Margery nodded slowly. ‘Then …’ she began.

Eleanor burst in: ‘We have no child. It seems strange, Margery … that all this time …’

Margery nodded. ‘It is sometimes so … Nature be a very odd critter.’

‘I want you to make me fertile. I want a child.’

Margery nodded sagely. ‘It is not easy,’ she said.

‘Not easy! I thought you could do these things.’

‘I can be of help. But lady, there’s others in it. There’s nature and there’s the man.’

‘What do you mean, the man?’

‘The Duke’s first Duchess had no children.’

‘He was hardly ever with her. She didn’t appeal to him. I can assure you it is different with us. Besides there have been children of his – outside marriage.’

‘I can use my art … and if it be possible you will get your child … But you must remember … there be other elements in this … elements such as my kind can have no hold on.’

‘You said you could help me to marriage.’

‘Aye … and so I did. I gave you special unguents and lotions as few men can resist. But you was no night crow. You was a beautiful little singing bird. ’Twas part you, part me. There was only the two of us in it.’

‘There was Humphrey.’

‘And he could have stood out against it. But he was already half way there, now wasn’t he?’

‘Well, are you telling me I need not have come?’

‘Indeed no, my lady, we can do all we can … and it’ll be a help.’

She took a piece of wax from a cupboard and putting it in a pan held it over the fire. When it was melted she took it off and left it to cool for a few minutes. Then skilfully she formed it into the shape of a child.

‘There,’ she said. ‘There is our baby. We will cherish him. We will tell him not to be so shy.’ She held up the figure and breathed on it. ‘I breathe life into you, little child. Awake. You are wanted in this world. There, Duchess.’ She held the figure out to Eleanor. ‘Hold him tenderly. Kiss him. I will keep him here for nine months and whisper to him every day. At the end of that time if you have not conceived I will give him to you and you shall keep him and cherish him and assure him that he will be very welcome if he would but come.’

‘Thank you, Margery,’ said Eleanor, and she put a purse on the table.

Margery’s eyes glinted as she looked at it. Wise witches managed to snare the noble in their nets. It was from them that the money came and help often in difficulties. A woman could just about live on the charms and love philtres she sold to humble folk but for the real prizes go to the gentry; and glory be, they were just as ready to consult the witch as the humbler folk.

‘I’ll give you the skin lotion, my lady, and a little something to slip in the Duke’s wine … just to keep him merry and loving.’

Eleanor nodded, took the bottles, slipped them into the pocket of her gown and went to rejoin her attendant in the room above.

Chapter XVII THE DEATH OF BEDFORD

QUEEN KATHERINE awoke every morning to a sense of excitement. She would stretch out her hand to make sure that Owen was still beside her. He laughed at the habit. His hand would curl about hers and they would both remember to be grateful for what life had given them.

‘Still here, little Queen?’ he would say.

‘I shall never be so accustomed to being happy that I forget it could pass.’

‘Why should it?’ asked Owen.

‘Because … Oh, but you do not need me to say. You know that we live here … in secret …’

‘Secret … when at any moment your servants will come in and see us here together?’

‘Our servants … Owen.’

‘No,’ he said, ‘you are the Queen. I am your squire.’

‘You are my husband.’

Owen was silent. Would they recognise him as such? Would they say that a marriage conducted in a garret was no true marriage for a Queen?

No. They would not care. They did not want to think of Katherine. Men like Bedford and Gloucester were so concerned with their own ambitions that they would not think the Queen a danger to them and therefore what would it matter to them that she had taken a Welsh squire for a husband. Let her beget children … they would call them bastards if they wished.

Bastards! Little Edmund, baby Jasper. Oh no, they were born in as holy a wedlock as the King himself.

He turned to Katherine and kissed her gently.

‘Let us be happy,’ he said. ‘We have had much to be thankful for and shall continue to enjoy it.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Let us do that. It is what I want.’

Then she talked of the cleverness of Edmund. He was already babbling away … nonsense mostly but there were words here and there. And baby Jasper was going to be as bright.

She loved her babies and all she wanted was to be allowed to live in obscurity with her family. Surely that was not asking too much?

So they talked of domestic matters and a servant came in to bring them wine with salted fish and bread which they would eat before rising.

Katherine was merry. It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining. Owen was beside her. When they had eaten and dressed they would go to the nursery and see the children. It was a lovely way of starting the morning.

But the next day she would awaken with the uneasiness upon her.

It was due to her strange childhood, Owen told her. Then she had not known from one day to the next what would happen to her. Awakening at Hadham was quite different from awakening in the Hôtel de St Pol. There she was governed by the madness of her poor father and the harsh rule of her rapacious mother. Here in Hadham she was the Queen, though living in obscurity; and she had her children to care for and a devoted husband to protect her.

‘You are right, dear husband,’ she said. ‘Each day I thank God for you. Do you remember our first meeting …’

Then she was happy again, recalling how they had tentatively approached each other, knowing in their hearts what joy they had brought one to the other, until that day when dancing he fell into her lap …

‘Let us thank God for what He has given us,’ she said.

‘And show our trust in Him by accepting that it will last all our lives,’ added Owen.

‘Amen,’ she murmured.

It was only to be expected that Henry should visit his mother, even though he had been taken out of her care. Messages arrived at Hadham to announce the fact that the King was on his way.

This threw the household into a panic, not because of the King himself but all who would come with him. It was hardly to be expected that Henry would travel without a considerable entourage. After all he was not the boy Katherine had handed over to Warwick. He was growing up. He had been crowned King not only of England but of France.

As a mother Katherine longed to see her son, but as the wife of Owen Tudor she was afraid of what his visit might mean.

She talked long with Owen about it and they decided that Edmund and Jasper should stay in their nursery. After all, who would think to look for them and they were too young to understand that they were being put out of sight. Owen would return to his squire’s quarters and they could rely on the discretion of their servants.

Katherine was tormented by her doubts and longings.

She was at the topmost turret to watch Henry’s arrival. She saw him coming in the distance, pennants waving and his standard-bearers riding ahead of him. She was filled with emotions, remembering her pride when he was born and that faint twinge of apprehension which she felt then because she had disobeyed her husband’s wishes and had borne their son at Windsor.

And there he was riding at the head of the cavalcade – her son, her little King. Oh yes, he had changed. She saw that at once. He had assumed a new dignity. Poor little boy. Did he realise the weight of the responsibilities which would be laid on his shoulders?

She went down to greet him, and when Henry saw her he forgot everything but that here was his mother whom he had loved so dearly in those days before he understood the difficulties of being King.

‘Dear lady!’ he cried and ran into her arms.

The Queen smiled at stern Warwick who of course did not approve of such conduct.

‘Ah, you have not forgotten me then, my son.’

‘Oh Mother,’ he said, ‘I am so happy to see you. Is Joan here still? Is Alice?’

‘Oh yes …’ Katherine hesitated for a second or so and this was not lost on Warwick. She could not say that they had stayed with her to care for her other children. ‘They will be delighted to see you …’

‘So they stayed after I went,’ said the King.

‘They had grown accustomed to our household.’

They walked side by side into the house.

‘Do you like being shut away here, dear lady?’ asked Henry.

‘It serves me well,’ she said.

‘And how is Owen? Is he still here?’

‘Yes … he is still a member of the household.’

‘I want to see him.’

‘I doubt not you will.’

They were listening, all of them. She was aware of it. How much did they know? How much would they discover? Was this not so much a visit of the King to his mother as an investigation to discover the true state of affairs at Hadham?

She was delighted to see Henry again, although he did not seem her child now in the same way that Edmund and Jasper did. He had when he was their age, of course. I hope, she thought, that I shall be able to keep my Tudor babies with me forever.

She and Owen had been right when they had agreed they could rely on the loyalty of their servants. Joan and Alice were delighted to see their charge. They marvelled at his growth and his grasp of affairs. They questioned him and there was no doubt that Henry was happy to be treated as a child again.

He went to see Owen and they talked of horses and Henry kept recalling those days when Owen had helped him master a horse.

There was an occasion when Katherine had a chance to speak to her son alone. She wanted to know whether he enjoyed his life now as he did long ago.

‘It is so different,’ said Henry a little sadly. ‘I am so rarely alone. Do you know, dear Mother, when I lived with you everybody did all they could to make me forget I was King; now they do everything to remind me of it.’

‘Is the Earl good to you?’

‘He is good for me, they tell me.’

He was developing a sharp wit, this Henry. Her father had been like that in his lucid times. A sharp fear shot through her. No … no … there was no resemblance between this solemn little boy and her deranged father.

‘It is not quite the same thing,’ she said quickly.

Henry agreed with that. ‘He is a good and honourable man. Sometimes I wish he were not quite so good and honourable. He is reckoned to be so chivalrous. He has done so much that is worthy.’

‘It is why your father commanded that he should be your guardian. I hope he is not too hard a taskmaster.’

‘No. Perhaps not. I had been used to you and Joan and Alice …’

‘They did not always spare the cane …’

‘But it never really hurt, dear Mother.’ He was thoughtful for a moment. ‘I went to France, Mother. I saw my grandmother.’

The Queen felt her heart beginning to beat uneasily as it always did at the mention of her mother. Her name brought back so many memories. She remembered the beautiful face distorted with rage, the cold aloofness when she ordered her children to be sent to the Hôtel de St Pol; she remembered one occasion when Michelle had clung to her skirts in an effort to plead for them all to be allowed to stay at the Louvre and not to be dispatched to that cold palace where they could hear the sounds of their father’s madness. She could see, in her mind’s eye, her mother angrily slapping Michelle’s clinging fingers while her sister cried out in pain and let go of her mother’s skirts.

‘What thought you of your grandmother?’

‘She was very kind to me. She is very beautiful.’

‘She must have changed though since I knew her. Her life is very different from what it was.’

‘She asked for you. She hoped you were well.’

Katherine was silent.

‘And I saw the Maid, Mother. I saw Joan of Arc.’

Katherine caught her breath. ‘When? You did not …’

‘No, I did not see them burn her. I looked through a hole into her cell. I saw her there with her guards. They looked … brutish … and she, my lady, she looked like a saint.’

‘You have been listening to rumours and gossip. It’s never wise to do that, my son. They tell me she was a peasant girl who had learned the witch’s craft.’

‘She was no witch, Mother. And then I was crowned in Paris because we could not get to Rheims. I think of her a great deal. She did not want me to be crowned King. That was why she came from her village to fight. Do you believe that saints can … can harm those who go against their wishes?’

‘Saints would not harm, my son. They do nothing but good. That is why they are saints.’

‘Then she will not harm me for I know her to be good.’

Yes, indeed he had grown up. He had not only been crowned King of England and France but he had seen Joan of Arc, and her fame had travelled far and wide. People even talked of her in England. She was a witch, they said, who had fought with the French and won a few successes.

If King Harry had been alive she would never have succeeded; he would have captured her as soon as she appeared on the scene, tied her up in a sack and thrown her into the Seine.

But she had impressed Henry. She had made him thoughtful. But perhaps that was just the burden of kingship.

The stay would not be long and Katherine’s feelings were mixed. She was not sure whether she wanted the King to go or stay.

Warwick talked to her after dinner while they listened to the minstrels. He asked her if she was satisfied with the quiet life she led. She told him that it filled her needs. They had agreed that it was not suitable for the King to be brought up by his mother and as her son’s upbringing and education were in his capable hands she was sure that she need not concern herself on that account.

He said: ‘You are well served, my lady? You are served as is fitting for the King’s mother to be?’

‘I am indeed well served. I have no complaints,’ she answered.

‘You have good menservants, bodyguards and the rest?’

‘The best,’ she answered.

‘I see Owen Tudor remains in your service.’

‘I see no reason to rid myself of a good squire,’ she said. ‘No reason at all.’

‘Tudor has been long in your service.’

‘Oh yes. The late King noticed him at Agincourt.’

‘Ah, his place in the household was no doubt a reward for good service. Mayhap the late King would be pleased could he look down from Heaven to see that you treat well one who served with him at Agincourt.’

‘He would be pleased to see Owen Tudor rewarded I doubt not.’

She was in no doubt that there were rumours about her and Owen. Warwick had come down to probe, and although she was sorry to lose her son she could not help being relieved to see the party ride away.

Then she could return to that cosy domesticity which meant so much to her.

John, Duke of Bedford was not a happy man. He could not understand why since the meteoric rise of Joan of Arc everything had seemed to go wrong. Ever since his brother’s death he had been wishing that he had lived, but never more so than at this time.

What had happened? Since Agincourt the star of the English had risen high and there seemed no reason why it should not continue to dominate the sky over France. A vacillating King, son of an imbecile father and the Jezebel of the age, a country ravaged by war, powerful allies against it … what chance had it? And then suddenly that peasant witch had changed everything.

It had been a terrible day when they had burned her at the stake. He had not gone near the square in Rouen. That would have been unwise. He had remained – some would say skulked – behind closed doors and heavily curtained windows. He did not want to hear how she had gone bravely to her death, how someone said he saw a white dove rise from the burning pyre at that moment when she called the name of Jesus in one last shuddering cry before the silence. He did not want to hear that people – even the English soldiery – were saying that they had burned a saint.

He did not want to hear the name of Joan of Arc again. But what was the use? The witch had appeared and that was the beginning of the end of English power in France.

But how could he help hearing her name? She was still spoken of and if he forbade her name to be mentioned what good would that do? It still went on repeating itself in his mind.

A curse on Joan of Arc! A curse on misfortune! What had happened to the victories, the successes?

They had just lost Chartres. Why should they lose Chartres? He had been so incensed that he had determined to make a great attempt to reverse this tide of misfortune. God help us, he said, we shall lose all that Henry gained if we go on in this way.

There was another matter which gave him cause for great uneasiness. Anne was looking ill these days. Sometimes he thought the witch of Arc had laid a spell on her.

She tried to soothe his anxieties by assuring him that she felt well, a little tired perhaps, but that was due to the heat, the cold or that she had perhaps ridden too far. Excuses which he did not believe.

Sometimes he thought she was more ill than she let him know.

Those were happy times he spent with her.

Once he had said to her: ‘It is a marvel to me that we who married for State reasons should have been so singularly blessed.’

‘I always determined that I would make a happy marriage,’ she told him.

‘And to be determined on something is the best way to succeed at it. Oh, Anne, I wish we could end this fighting. I wish we could be more together. I wish I could be more sure of your brother.’

She had been thoughtful. She knew her brother well. Proud, haughty, royal, he had always deplored the fact that the French throne had not descended to him and thought often how different life would have been for the French if it had.

Burgundy was not a man easily to forgive his enemies. When Charles as the Dauphin had been with those who murdered the old Duke of Burgundy he had made that Duke’s son his enemy for ever. A feud was in progress which had almost cost Charles his throne … and would have done but for this peasant girl about whom everyone was still talking.

But Philip of Burgundy loved his sister. He would listen to her, she knew, and whatever his own feelings towards the Duke of Bedford were, he was pleased that Anne had found happiness with him.

Anne had said: ‘I shall do everything I can to keep that friendship between you and my brother warm, dear husband.’

And she had, comforting him as she always did. No, he had reason to rejoice in his marriage. He had a wife whom he loved dearly and the marriage had served its purpose which had primarily been to strengthen the alliance between Bedford and Burgundy.

And now her health gave him anxiety. But he had a great many causes for anxiety. He was afraid of the subtle change which was creeping over France. Surely the powers of witchcraft were not as great as they seemed? And yet it had all begun with the Maid.

It was always the same. It came back to the Maid. It seemed as though in spite of the fire the witch lived on. As he brooded messengers came to him. Eagerly he awaited what they had to tell. Good news, he hoped, from Lagni-sur-Marne to which he had sent out a strong force to take the place.

But alas it was not good news. Everywhere the French were showing a stubborn resistance. The Maid seemed to have imbued them with a new spirit. They were holding out and the English troops were getting short of provisions. If help did not come soon they would have to retreat.

He was in a quandary. The place was of no great strategic value but the English could not afford another defeat.

He made up his mind with a speed which was characteristic of him. He would have to go to Lagni-sur-Marne in person.

By God’s Holy Writ, he thought, I will attack these French so fiercely that they will think twice before they put up such a resistance against us in future.

In a few days he was at Lagni. He went through the camp. There was something wrong, he knew. The English had lost the certainty that no one could beat them. The siege of Orléans had been demoralising and so had the French victories which had led to the crowning of Charles at Rheims. If only Henry had lived; he would have known how to deal with this strange influence which had affected both sides. He, Bedford, knew that he was a good soldier, he was a great general; he served his country with devoted loyalty, always had and always would; but there were times when a special genius was needed, and such genius did not appear in every generation. If only Henry had lived! Everything would have been satisfactorily settled. He would have known from the beginning how to deal with Joan of Arc. Bedford had made few mistakes in his military career but there were two vital ones, he saw now. He should have let the Orléannese surrender to Burgundy. Burgundy would never forgive him for refusing to do so. Thus he had given the Maid her chance to save that important town for the French. That was the first mistake. An even greater one had been to burn Joan. That act had made her live forever. And for the rest of his life he would be haunted by it.

It seemed as though she had laid a curse on all the English, for fiercely as they fought they could not break the siege of Lagni. And then … the shame of it … French reinforcements – cannon and cavalry – came to relieve the town.

Where were the bowmen of England? They had lost heart. They believed that Joan of Arc was possessed of some Divine power and that in burning her they had burned God’s elect. Heaven was against them. Many of the soldiers had been present in the square at Rouen on that day. They would never forget.

They retreated before the French and Bedford had the mortification of seeing his troops defeated.

He was even more discomfited when he learned that the victorious French were on their way to Paris.

He rode there with all speed and as he came through the Porte Saint Antoine the people were sullen. He was their master at this time they knew, but in their hearts they did not believe he would be so for long.

There was one consolation. Anne was in Paris. He went straight to her and even there horror awaited him. She could not disguise from him now the fact that she was very ill indeed.

‘Anne,’ he cried, ‘Anne, my love. What is it? Why was I not told?’

She smiled at him wanly. ‘You did not want to hear of my petty ailments,’ she answered. ‘It is nothing. I have had a bad day.’

He was desolate. God has indeed turned against me, he thought.

He spent a great deal of time with her. He tried to forget the dismal state of affairs. We are going from bad to worse, he thought, but he could really give his attention to nothing but Anne.

When he heard that some of the nuns of St Antoine, including the Abbess, had been in communication with Charles and were working to bring him to Paris, he was angry and ordered them to be imprisoned. He knew that the Parisians would turn against him to a man when and if the time was ripe to do so.

He could not speak to Anne of these matters. She lay still in her bed, her eyes closed, her fingers twined about his. He had married her for expediency but that did not mean that his love was any the less.

It did occur to him that if she died – and he greatly feared she would – his alliance with Burgundy would have suffered a great blow. Only he and she knew how very much she had worked to keep that friendship alive. It was an unnatural friendship – a Duke of Burgundy, member of the Royal House of France, to be an ally of the English conquerors! But for Burgundy’s intense hatred for the murderer of his father it could never have come about.

But it must be kept green, that friendship. It was the pivot on which success revolved. Henry had known it. He had mentioned it on his death bed. ‘Do anything … almost anything … to keep Burgundy on our side.’

He had tried, as he had endeavoured to carry out every wish of the late King. He had always known that his dead brother was the great architect of success in France, and he greatly feared that without his skill in keeping it the firmly built victory would collapse into defeat.

November was a dreary month. He would hate Novembers forever more, for on the thirteenth of that month, Anne died.

She looked at him sorrowingly as though begging his pardon for dying. She knew how important her brother’s friendship was to her husband and she knew that ruthless, brilliant and shrewd as Philip of Burgundy was, he would be ready to break that friendship at the first opportunity if it suited him to do so; it was her influence which had kept it alive.

‘John,’ she said, ‘be happy. Tell my brother that it was my dearest wish for you to remain friends. I am sorry I must leave you.’

He could not speak. He was too overcome with emotion.

She was buried as she had wished to be in the Church of the Celestins. The people turned out in their hundreds to mourn her. She had been noted for her goodness and her beauty and being but twenty-eight years of age, she was young to die.

They even warmed to the Regent Bedford when they witnessed his grief.

He seemed much older, bowed down with sorrow and anxiety. He had no wish to stay in Paris. He left at once for Rouen.

How he missed her! Although it had been impossible for them to be together a great deal, he realised that she had always been in his thoughts. During his dilemmas which had been frequent of late he had often said to himself: ‘I will ask Anne that’, or ‘I will tell her that’ or ‘I wonder what Anne would think of that?’

So there was a great gap in his life. People thought him cold and aloof, but he was human after all; he was more than soldier, more than Regent. He had been, though briefly, a devoted husband.

Now of all times he needed her. Everything was going badly and he longed to talk to her, ask her advice, to get her to speak to her brother. He knew he could never forget her.

He was not popular even in Rouen where heavy taxes were demanded of the people in order to pay for the occupation. The people were sullen. They had hoped for better times when England took France, and what had they found? They were poorer than ever.

It was necessary to inflict heavy penalties on those who defaulted and what was even more disconcerting was the fact that some of the soldiers were talking of mutiny. They wanted to go back to England. They were tired of being away from their homes.

John knew that there was only one way of dealing with such people for they could undermine a whole army, and he dealt with them in that way. The severe penalties he inflicted increased his unpopularity.

Oh, for the comfort of Anne during those dark days. One day the Bishop of Thérouanne came to Rouen and in his company was his young niece, a girl of seventeen. Bedford welcomed them warmly for the Bishop was Louis of Luxembourg, and the Luxembourg reigning family was very rich and powerful. For some time Bedford had sought to make an alliance with them for the coolness in Burgundy’s attitude since the death of Anne was becoming more and more apparent.

Moreover it was pleasant to be in the company of young Jacquetta. She was not only extremely pretty but very vivacious; she could sing charmingly and although she was young she had a certain grasp of affairs which seemed to Bedford admirable in a girl of her age.

He found that he was seeking her company a good deal and she seemed not averse to this. She took a great interest in the war and discussed the influence of the Maid, who, she was sure, was a witch.

‘People remember now,’ she said, ‘but they forget quickly, do they not?’

That seemed to him a wise comment. Moreover it was something he wished to believe himself. He thought: We are always impressed by those who speak our own thoughts.

But she was an enchantress. She soothed the aching need for Anne.

He supposed it was inevitable and he was not surprised when the Bishop approached him.

‘I have always wanted an alliance between our two countries,’ said the Bishop.

Bedford admitted that he would not be averse to such an alliance either. He needed all the friends he could get.

‘Jacquetta is a charming girl,’ said the Bishop, and Bedford could not deny that either.

‘I know that an alliance between the English Royal House and that of Luxembourg would give us great pleasure.’

And watching Jacquetta and seeking to assuage the terrible void made by the loss of Anne, he decided that to marry Jacquetta would be a good move whichever way it was looked at.

There was great rejoicing in Rouen. All citizens, even those who had grown sullen on account of too much taxation, loved a royal wedding. John sent to England for five fine bells to be made for the Cathedral. They were his gift to the town and they were meant as a thanksgiving for his newly found happiness.

So only five months after the death of Anne of Burgundy Louis, Bishop of Thérouanne, married the Duke of Bedford to Jacquetta of Luxembourg.

The Duke of Burgundy was incensed. Bedford had married within five months of Anne’s death. That was a slight on Anne and therefore on the House of Burgundy. And he had married Jacquetta of Luxembourg which meant he had formed an alliance with a rich and important ally. There was an even greater cause for anger: Jacquetta was the daughter of Pierre, Comte de St Pol and Regent of Luxembourg, who was a vassal of the Duke of Burgundy and the Duke’s permission for the marriage had not been asked.

‘By God’s eyes,’ cried the Duke of Burgundy, ‘indeed I was not asked! They knew full well that if I had been I should have refused permission for the match.’

He would make his displeasure felt by withdrawing all communication with the Duke of Bedford. If the Duke wished to convey his regrets to him he must be the first to move.

To hell with Burgundy! thought Bedford. He would marry where he would. It was no disrespect to Anne that he had married so soon after her death. It was because he had missed her so sorely that he had done so. Anne, my dearest, he thought, you gave me a taste for marriage. It was because I could not bear your loss that I sought so soon to try to fill the gap you left in my life.

Yes, Anne would understand. He could not expect Burgundy to. Burgundy could only see marriage as a political move and he naturally did not like the alliance with Luxembourg.

Perhaps he would come round, though. There had been disagreements between them before.

Cardinal Beaufort came to him and expressed his regret at the disunity between them and their important ally.

‘I know, I know,’ said Bedford. ‘But I cannot consult the Duke of Burgundy on every detail of my private life.’

‘I believe he feels this marriage to be some concern of his since the Duchess’s father is his vassal … and Burgundy’s sister was your first wife.’

Bedford put a weary hand to his head and did not speak. Watching him closely, Beaufort was alarmed. What had happened to his nephew? Bedford had always been so alert. He had done well in France. The late King would have been pleased with him. But of late he had changed. It was since the coming of Joan of Arc. No, it must be something more than that. A peasant girl could not affect great men so strangely. Perhaps Bedford was past his first youth, and he had lost a wife to whom he had been devoted. Bedford must not tire now. There was so much to be done and so much gained could be easily lost.

‘There should be a reconciliation with Burgundy,’ he said gently.

‘I have no intention of crawling humbly to him,’ retorted Bedford.

‘I did not mean for one moment that you should. There must be a rapprochement on both sides. I believe it would be a good idea for me to attempt to bring this about.’

Bedford wanted to shrug his shoulders and cry that he was tired of the whole affair. If Burgundy liked to sulk, let him. But of course Burgundy was not sulking. He was incensed as he always was when he believed there had been some attack on his dignity. He was a man obsessed by his own importance and his power; but it had to be admitted that that importance and power were very great.

The wise thing of course was for Beaufort to try to bring about a reconciliation.

‘Perhaps you should make that attempt,’ agreed Bedford.

Beaufort was relieved. Like everyone else he was disturbed by the way everything was going in France. He knew that his old enemy Gloucester would take advantage of his brother’s discomfiture. How he hated Gloucester! A self-seeker; a man whose immediate ambitions came before everything else. He was even worse since he had made that mésalliance with his first wife’s attendant. Bedford must regain his hold on affairs in France; and there must soon come a time when he could leave those affairs to a deputy for his presence was greatly to be desired in England where Gloucester had far too much power when his brother was out of the country.

The first step was to patch up the quarrel with Burgundy.

‘I will make immediate arrangements for a meeting,’ he told Bedford.

Bedford nodded wearily. At least he could trust his uncle.

The Duke of Burgundy with a certain condescension agreed to meet the Cardinal at St Omer.

From the first moment of the meeting the Cardinal knew that he was facing difficulties and that the breach was going to be very difficult to heal.

Burgundy said that the English appeared to be losing their skill in battle. ‘It became noticeable after the siege of Orléans,’ he said. ‘If the Duke had not prevented the town surrendering to me, he would not be in such dire straits as to need an alliance with Luxembourg as a temporary measure to bolster up his strength.’

‘My lord, the Duke of Bedford deeply regrets the matter of Orléans. If it had not been for the witch …’

Burgundy shrugged his shoulders. ‘Everything is blamed onto the witch but you, my dear Cardinal, a man of experience, do not believe for one moment that a simple peasant girl could have changed the course of events.’

‘It was the effect she had on the people, not what she was, my lord, but what the French and the English believed her to be. Her influence is waning and if you two mighty lords forget these little minor irritations and are seen to be united, all that is lost will soon be regained.’

The Duke was silent. He is wavering, thought the Cardinal. God help us. It is true then … this rumour that he is thinking of breaking his alliance with us and joining with France. That would indeed be disastrous.

‘It would seem to be a most unfriendly act to marry into Luxembourg,’ said the Duke stolidly. ‘And if the Duke of Bedford regretted his act why does he not come to me in person? Why send an emissary … even one so important as yourself, Cardinal.’

‘I was not exactly sent by him, my lord.’

‘You mean he is unaware that you have approached me?’ The Duke was looking more haughty than ever. That would not do.

‘Not so, not so,’ said the Cardinal quickly. ‘He was deeply grieved by your displeasure and when I suggested I should convey that sorrow to you he did not forbid it.’

‘I see,’ said the Duke. ‘He was too proud to come himself. Let me tell you this, my lord Cardinal, if the Duke came to me in person it might be possible for us to dissolve our differences … who shall say … In the meantime …’

The Duke paused mischievously. He knew that the rumours about the feelers the French were sending out towards him would have reached the English and he could well understand their anxiety. Let them be anxious. He had never forgiven Bedford for Orléans and it had been borne home to him then more strongly that it was unnatural for Burgundians and French to be fighting on opposite sides in a war of such vital consequences. It was all very well to conduct strife between factions in the country. The feud between the Burgundians and the Armagnacs was natural enough; but to fight a war against a foreign enemy and not to stand together … Yes, it was indeed a bizarre situation.

Charles was being very meek; he was dissociating himself from the murderers of the old Duke of Burgundy. He might not have intended to murder. That could be well believed. He was a mild man, not given to violence by any means. Perhaps that should be considered.

‘It is a pity that there should be this discord,’ said the Cardinal. ‘It puts heart into our enemy even though Charles knows that you have sworn not to make a separate peace with France.’

So he had been correct in divining the Cardinal’s thoughts. They were worried, were they? It was true he had sworn not to make a separate peace with France, but he was getting very tired of Bedford’s going against him and the marriage into Luxembourg had really damaged their relationship. Anne was dead and he now no longer had to consider her. She was not there to plead with him and explain her husband’s motives. Bedford owed a lot to Anne – yet as soon as she was dead he was off with this young girl from Luxembourg.

Burgundy had no desire to mend the quarrel. It suited him well at this time to keep it going.

He knew Bedford’s pride so he made the gesture which he knew would not be accepted by Bedford.

He said: ‘If the Duke of Bedford wishes to say he regrets his actions let him come himself to tell me so.’

The interview was at an end, and the Cardinal knew that he had failed.

Would Bedford go cap in hand to Burgundy and say he was sorry? How could Burgundy ask him so to humble himself? Why should the Regent of France do such a thing even for the sake of an important ally? Burgundy knew he would not come. That was why he had asked him to.

Humphrey of Gloucester was in a rage. His brother was coming home. Eleanor was sympathetic. She knew exactly how to handle him. He had not swerved in his devotion to her, and she undoubtedly had the power to hold him. She sometimes wondered how much she had to thank Margery Jourdemayne for that, but the fact remained that with Margery’s aids and her own overwhelming sexuality she could appeal to the Duke – and what was more important, preserve his need for her – as no other woman had ever been able to do.

So far, though, she remained infertile. She could not understand it. She had paid several visits to Margery and had seen the waxen image. It looked very beautiful to her. Margery kept it in a tiny cradle lined with velvet. A beautiful article although so small. Margery said that she spoke to the image every day and she felt she was on the verge of getting a response.

‘Any day now,’ she said. But she had been saying that for months and still there was no sign of a child.

Eleanor knew that she could afford to wait a while. There were important matters always on hand and life with the Duke was never dull.

And now Bedford was coming home. She was sure he would strongly disapprove of her.

‘There’s nothing to fear from him,’ she said blithely. ‘He hardly comes home as a conqueror, does he?’

‘It is disgraceful the way he is mismanaging things in France.’

‘They should have let you handle them.’

He smiled fondly at her. She was always amazed by how childishly he responded to flattery. His military career had been without renown but he always saw himself as a great commander. She should not complain of that trait in his character. It made him more easy to manage.

‘He will probe into the way things are at home.’

‘Oh yes, no doubt, and find fault with everything.’

‘You can be sure of that.’

‘Well, let us begin by finding fault with him. That should not be difficult. You could tell the Council that you are not at all happy about the way he is conducting the war. Since he was so ignobly beaten at Orléans things have been getting worse and worse over there. A word in the ear of certain members of the Council …’

‘You are right,’ said Gloucester.

‘Most carefully dropped as you know so well how to do … dropped on fertile ground. There are many who are not over fond of your noble brother, Humphrey.’

So they talked. Gloucester said that perhaps he should offer to go to France to set matters right.

Go to France! It was the last thing she wanted. What a terrible thought! Trailing from town to town, living in camps! No, she preferred the castles and palaces of England. But there was no harm in agreeing with him. She could be sure no one would take such a suggestion seriously.

When she saw Bedford she was struck by the fact that he had aged considerably since she had last seen him. The sight of him sent little quivers of excitement running through her lively imagination. That affair of Joan of Arc had upset him more than seemed possible. And he had this merry little wife of half his age. He was still a man of distinction. He was very like his brother the late King, so it was said. He did command respect as Humphrey, bless him, never could. John was a fine figure of a man; not her taste really; no one would be able to tell him how to behave. He would never be the slave of his senses. He had been a virtuous married man with Anne of Burgundy, and now he had married this pretty little creature. But that was, of course, for Luxembourg.

No, she need have no fear that he would let Humphrey go to France; and the ageing looks of the great Duke and a certain unhealthy tinge in the colour of his skin did set her mind working.

Bedford faced the Parliament, well aware of the criticism of events in France. When things went wrong the leader was always blamed, he accepted that. He said that if any complaints against him had to be made this must be done before the King and the Parliament.

John Stafford, the Bishop of Bath and Wells, rose immediately to reassure him, saying that he and the Council had heard no such charges and that he had had word with the King who wished to add his personal thanks to those of the Parliament for the manner in which the Duke had conducted the war.

At the next meeting of the Parliament when the finances were discussed Bedford offered to give up a large part of the money paid to him for his services that it might be example to the people showing them how it was necessary to make great sacrifices in order to win great victories.

There were certain members of the Council who hinted that Bedford’s presence was needed in England. This was an indication of Gloucester’s unpopularity and Bedford was well aware of this. He had no confidence in his brother; he knew that he was rapacious and ambitious and even more so since his marriage. All the same it was quite impossible for him to stay in England, he pointed out. In view of the way in which the war was going his presence was needed over there.

Gloucester then offered to go to France in his place and he made boastful remarks to the effect that he would soon set matters to rights so that the English would be successful again.

Bedford was naturally furious at what this implied. He said that Gloucester must write down what he had said that Bedford might present it to the King.

Gloucester had no wish to indulge in an open quarrel with his brother so he withdrew his remarks, and his offer to go to France was not even referred to again.

But there was a meeting of the Parliament to which the young King – now thirteen years old and solemn for his years – had to attend.

Henry was more accustomed to these occasions now and he invariably pleased the Earl of Warwick by his demeanour during such sessions. He did not tell them that his attention often strayed and he had to concentrate hard to remember what they were all talking about. But on the whole he did not find them too taxing, though of course they would become more arduous as he grew older.

Often he thought of the easy days with his mother and Owen. He wished he could see more of them. There was a certain amount of whispering about his mother and Owen. Apparently their being so much together was not considered seemly. Henry thought it must be very pleasant to be them – living quietly in the country, being together and not having to attend long dreary sessions which were intruding more and more into his life.

He listened to his Uncle Bedford droning on about the setbacks in France which had begun with the unlucky siege of Orléans. ‘Taken in hand,’ he said, ‘by God knows what advice.’ Everybody knew then that he was talking about Joan of Arc and Henry’s mind went back to that day when he had looked through the aperture and seen her. He found it hard to forget her completely and now and then the memory of her would flash into his mind.

Uncle Bedford was a very noble man – different from Uncle Humphrey he knew. Now he was saying that he would return to France and prosecute the war and that he would give up to it the whole proceeds of his estates in Normandy.

It was clear to Henry that those who had listened to the sly hints of the Duke of Gloucester were ashamed and now wholeheartedly applauded the Duke of Bedford.

A few days later he came to see Henry to say good-bye before he left for France.

‘It rejoices me to see you growing fast, my lord,’ he said. ‘Why within a few years you will be able to take your rightful place and govern this land.’

Henry was glad Uncle Bedford was pleased with him but he was not really looking forward to when the crown should become a reality instead of a terrible burden to be worn on his head on State occasions.

There was no doubt that all parties were growing tired of the war and it was agreed that there should be a conference over which the legates of Pope Eugenius should preside. This was to be in Arras and it should not be a matter for the French and English only, but several of the European states should join in. The war between England and France for the right to govern France had been going on for nearly a hundred years. There had been times when it had seemed to be near conclusion with victory for one side or the other; then there would be more victories, more reverses and the tables would be turned. A short while ago it had seemed that the war was over with victory for the English, but then a peasant girl had appeared and there was change again.

It was a splendid occasion that took place at Arras in the July of that year 1435. The Papal legates arrived with great pomp and there were also ambassadors from Castile, Aragon, Portugal, Sicily, Denmark, Brittany and other states. But the principal parties were those from the King of France, the Duke of Bedford and the Duke of Burgundy.

The Duke of Burgundy arrived on the thirtieth of the month looking very splendid and escorted by three hundred archers all wearing the Burgundian livery. He caused some concern by riding out of the town to meet his brothers-in-law, the Duke of Bourbon and the Comte de Richemont, because naturally these men were fighting on the side of the French. Burgundy seemed to be drawing attention to the incongruous situation in which he, a member of the French royal family, should be in conflict with his own people. This seemed significant to those who were aware of the strain which existed between Burgundy and Bedford and which had never been healed since the latter’s marriage because neither Duke would suppress his pride sufficiently to approach the other.

It was to be expected that an agreement would be difficult to come by. The English did not want to make peace, which would have surely meant giving up all that had seemed to be in their hands before the coming of the Maid. They suggested a truce and perhaps a marriage between their King Henry and a daughter of Charles VII.

No, said the French, there must be peace; there must be an end to the war and English claims on France.

‘We have no right,’ said the English ambassador, ‘to despoil our King of a crown to which he has a right.’ He pointed out to the Papal legates that unless they agreed it was not possible for Burgundy to make peace with France for he had sworn not to do so without the consent of his allies.

As far as the English were concerned this seemed to settle the matter. They would agree to a truce only. Their claim to the crown of France could not be waved aside, and since the French would not agree to a truce merely the conference might never have been called for all the good that had come from it.

All thoughts were now turned to the Duke of Burgundy. His brother-in-law, the Comte de Richemont, talked to him very earnestly.

‘You are French in blood,’ he said. ‘You are so in heart and wishes. You belong to the Royal House. You have seen this kingdom all but destroyed; you have seen the suffering poor. You do not love the English. You have often said how arrogant they are. Even at this time you are not on friendly terms with Bedford. He has insulted you and our sister. You went into this alliance because of the murder of your father. Brother, my lord, you do not fit into it.’

Burgundy listened with attention.

‘You speak truth,’ he said. ‘But you know I have made promises. I have entered into treaties with the English. I do not wish to forfeit my honour.’

Richemont was persistent. He went to the Pope’s legates. ‘While the Duke allies himself to the English the war will go on,’ he said. ‘If we could break that alliance it would mean the English would have no alternative but to return to their own country. Burgundy wants to break it. It is unnatural. I beg you to help.’

As a result the legates spent hours talking with Burgundy.

‘For the love of Jesus Christ,’ they said to him, ‘put an end to this strife. Put your country out of its misery. We are ordered by the Holy Father to beg you to forget your vengeance against the King of France. You must no longer seek vengeance for the death of your father. Nothing would add more to your fame and standing in the world than if you forgave and forgot the injury you have suffered. The King of France is close to your blood. He is your kinsman … yet for the sake of revenge you have joined his enemies and the enemies of France.’

The Duke, who had always prided himself on his honour, was deeply disturbed. He greatly desired to put an end to his alliance with England, yet he did not see how he could extricate himself from the dilemma in which he found himself.

‘I must have time to ponder this,’ he said. ‘It is a matter which deeply concerns my conscience.’

The Comte de Richemont said that he should have several days to consider.

‘He is a wise man,’ he said to the Papal legates. ‘He will see what is best.’

The Duke of Bedford rode back to Rouen. He felt old and tired. The conference now in progress at Arras was an indication of how much had been lost since the ill-fated siege of Orléans. Ever since then his health had declined with his spirits. It was as though a curse had been put upon him.

God knew that he had tried to keep his word to his brother, and he had always acted in a manner which he believed would please him. That noble image had been before him always and at first it had seemed that he could not falter.

And then … the tide had changed, so swiftly, so unaccountably that one could almost believe in supernatural influences, and in spite of all his skill and dedication he had been fighting a losing battle ever since.

He would never understand it, but he would never forget that fearful day in Rouen when he had stayed behind stone walls but in spirit was out there in that square.

By the time the towers of Rouen came into sight he was exhausted. What had happened to him? Only a year or so ago he could spend hours in the saddle and hardly knew the meaning of fatigue. Affliction had come to him swiftly. He thought often of Henry, who had died so young. He had been but thirty-five years of age. And he, Bedford, well he was forty-six – not exactly young, ageing perhaps but not yet old surely. Young enough to lead his armies for a few more years.

The Cardinal was watching him anxiously. There was something wrong. Bedford was the last man to betray any weakness and now he was too tired to attempt to disguise it. The Cardinal, too, was remembering how suddenly Henry the Fifth had died.

‘It has been an exhausting matter,’ he said. ‘There is so much anxiety about Burgundy.’

‘He is a man of honour,’ said Bedford. ‘He will not find it easy to break his word to me.’

‘Nay,’ said the Cardinal, ‘but methinks it is only this one point of honour that keeps him with us.’

‘If he breaks with us,’ replied Bedford, ‘we must perforce count him among our enemies.’

‘He has always been an uneasy friend,’ answered the Cardinal.

There was small comfort in the contemplation of a break with Burgundy. The last King had said his friendship was essential to them and that was as true today as it had been when he said it.

It was a period of great anxiety and Bedford felt too exhausted to consider it in all its menacing possibilities.

As soon as he reached the castle he went straight to his apartments and remained there. The next day he felt too weak to rise.

His young wife came to him in consternation. He had always seemed very mature to her but now he looked like an old man.

‘My lord,’ she said, ‘you are ill.’

‘Tired,’ he said, ‘just tired and disappointed.’

She knelt by the bed.

‘Oh, my lord, what can I do?’

‘There is little anyone can do,’ he answered.

She said: ‘I can send for the physicians.’

He lifted a hand to protest but dropped it again. He was too listless to care whether they came or not.

The next day he was asking for news from Arras. There was none.

The Cardinal came to see him. God help us, he thought. He has the stamp of death on him.

He went back to his apartments in a state of gloom. He prayed fervently for the health of Bedford. He dared not contemplate what the future would hold if Bedford were not there to apply his sane and steady judgements.

A few days later Bedford was in a fever. His thoughts were muddled. He was not sure where he was. He kept thinking that Anne was near him and that he could not quite reach her.

His eyes wandered round the apartment. It was in this very chamber where he had waited, while the crowds gathered in the square. He thought it was happening now. He could picture Joan with those calm clear eyes raised towards the skies as though she saw something there which was denied to the rest of those who were with her. What was it in those clear, limpid eyes? Innocence, he thought. Yes. Innocence of guilt, innocence of the world, innocence of evil. It was a beautiful quality.

‘We should never have burned her as a witch,’ he muttered.

And I … am I to blame? I could have stopped it. They gave her to the English and we burned her as a witch.

Dear God, I had to do it. She was a menace to my armies. With what power had You endowed this girl that she could affect us so. We burned her; but it was her own people who betrayed her. And the King of France for whom she had done so much deserted her and allowed her to die … miserably … horribly. And yet they had said that when she cried out in her final agony they saw her soul in the form of a white dove ascend to Heaven.

I did it … I did … but what else could I have done? Forget her. She is dead. What of the future? Burgundy … Burgundy … will you break with us? Anne … Anne won’t let it happen. But Anne was gone and he was trying now to reach her.

‘We should send for the priests,’ said Jacquetta.

The end was very near, they all knew it.

The Cardinal felt a sudden despair. What would happen now … not only to him but to England? It seemed that the future of both was very bleak.

Gloucester would now be next to the throne. If only Henry were older; if only he had a wife and an heir. But he was but a boy yet. It would be necessary to keep an eye on Gloucester.

The death of the Duke was received with a shocked silence throughout Rouen. People began to talk about the Maid. Was it not strange that the Duke had died here in the very town close to the very square where Joan the Maid had been burned at the stake?

Was it a curse on Bedford? Was it a curse on the English?

They buried the great Duke in the Cathedral at Notre Dame and they wondered gloomily what would happen now that he was dead.

‘Dead!’ mused Burgundy. His old friend and enemy!

Who would have believed it possible? Bedford with those ruddy healthy looks had seemed far from death.

And now he was gone and that, of course, made all the difference to Burgundy. His alliance had been with Henry the Fifth, a man whom he had admired as much as any other he had ever known; Bedford had followed his brother and he had admired him also. It had seemed good to ally himself with such men. But now they were dead and surely that could be an end to an alliance which had always seemed an incongruous one.

He understood Bedford well. An astute man, a far-seeing man. He would have realised at once that if he, Burgundy, signed the treaty of Arras and his old friend became his enemy that would be the end of English dominance in France.

The French were wooing him with sweet promises. Charles disowned the murder of the old Duke of Burgundy. It had been no wish of his, he declared. He would deliver up the murderers to the Duke; he would pay fifty thousand crowns of gold for the property which had been taken from Burgundy at the time of the assassination; he would place certain towns in the Duke’s hands. This would compensate him for what he had lost in the war.

Yes, thought Burgundy, I will sign the treaty of Arras. The English have left the conference and now the only one to whom I owed allegiance is dead. Why should I not join my own kinsman?

This unholy alliance should be brought to an end.

There were scenes of joy throughout France. In the streets of every town Armagnacs were embracing Burguandians. The King of France called together the States General at Tours and there, kneeling before the Archbishop of Crete, after Mass had been celebrated, he swore on the Bible to keep the peace with Burgundy.

All the nobles in the land from both sides of the dispute swore with him.

‘For long,’ said the King, ‘I have prayed for this happy day. Let us thank God for it.’

The streets were ringing with the cries: ‘Long live the King. Long live the Duke of Burgundy.’

The Cardinal returned sadly to England.

There could not be a greater blow for England, he thought.

There could also not be a greater blow for the Cardinal himself.

Thus the power of his old enemy Gloucester was increased.

God help England, thought the Cardinal. And God help me.

Chapter XVIII THE END OF AN IDYLL

ELEANOR, Duchess of Gloucester, was on her way to Eye-next-Westminster to visit Margery Jourdemayne.

Margery’s efforts to make her pregnant had come to nothing, but she had not lost her faith in the witch for all that. There were other elements to be considered, Margery had always pointed out, and Eleanor accepted that.

She had been in close contact with Margery for some time now and she had been in extremely good spirits ever since she had heard of the death of Bedford. She could feel almost dizzy with delight when she contemplated the future. Her husband was next in the line of succession to the young King and until Henry married and acquired an heir he would remain so.

The worst fate which could befall Humphrey and, through him, her, would be if the young King produced an heir.

She had a feeling that Margery was going to be very useful to her in the future.

It was very gratifying. Who would have thought that sober old Bedford would take to his bed and so obligingly die! Margery could not have arranged it better although no witches had had a hand in that happy demise … unless it was that one they were always talking about … the peasant witch of Arc.

Never mind how. She must just accept the good fortune. Bedford dead and Humphrey one jump from the throne.

Margery had guessed why she had come. Margery would know of Bedford’s death. There was very little Margery missed. And she would already be considering possibilities, for Eleanor had always been a valued client even when she was nothing more than a higher servant in the employ of the first Duchess of Gloucester. But how quickly she had climbed out of that! And when she became the Duchess it was Margery’s triumph as well as Eleanor’s. Margery always hoped she would not forget that. She liked her clients to be grateful – and not only materially so, although of course that was of the utmost importance.

She could not complain. Eleanor was generous and Margery was becoming quite rich because of the connection.

Eleanor was taken down to the quiet of Margery’s kitchen where the cauldron boiled and the black cat with the malevolent green eyes opened one of them to study Eleanor for a moment and then closed it again.

A seat for Eleanor and one for Margery – hers a sort of throne with cabalistic signs on it to remind high-born clients that Margery was the Queen of her own domain.

‘My lady,’ said Margery tentatively, ‘I trust you are in good health.’

‘Could be better,’ said Eleanor shortly which was a reference to her inability to announce her pregnancy.

No more of that, thought Margery. The child is stubborn. He won’t get himself born.

‘You must be happy with the way things are, my lady,’ she went on. ‘Your lord has risen in the world since I saw you last, eh?’

‘Bedford is dead …’ said Eleanor. ‘That makes my husband one step from the throne.’

‘Close,’ agreed Margery. ‘But one step is as far as a mile if it’s never taken.’

Eleanor sighed. Then she looked full at Margery. ‘He must take it, Margery,’ she said firmly.

Margery looked stubborn. She shut her mouth tightly and nodded her head.

‘It could never be done, my lady …’

The best way to send the price up was to declare first the impossibility, reasoned Margery. And, by my spells and potions, I should need to be well paid to meddle in the ways of royalty.

‘It could be done,’ said Eleanor. ‘There are surely ways.’

‘My lady, you could bring us all to ruin. The stake for me and what for you, my lady? Not that perhaps … but a terrible fate I wouldn’t be surprised.’

‘Oh stop talking such nonsense, Margery. If Humphrey were King I should be Queen. I would see that you were protected, and who would dare touch a Queen?’

Margery was silent. Madame’s ambitions surprised even her sometimes. She had become the Duchess of Gloucester. Wasn’t that enough for her? No, it seemed my lady had her eyes on the crown.

‘Everything will be different now,’ went on Eleanor eagerly. ‘Already it has changed. Can you feel it, Margery? It’s in the air.’

‘Oh yes, I feel it,’ said Margery. ‘I can also feel the flames creeping round my legs. They say they put oil on it to make it burn the faster.’

‘What ideas you get. There shall be no question of trouble, I promise you that.’

‘With all respect, my lady, I can’t see how you could help it. You know … as well as I do … what would happen if you were found, say, with aught that might mean you were working against the King. The King, my lady. Our very own King.’

‘He is a foolish child … nothing more.’

‘He’s a boy who will grow up. We were all children once.’

‘Yes and some of us knew what we wanted right from the start.’

‘Mayhap he does, my lady, just as you do.’

‘What matters that? I know what I want now. And I want Humphrey …’

‘You want your lord to be the King of this country.’

‘Don’t look so shocked, Margery. He is next in line. He is the son of Henry the Fourth.’

Margery was silent, looking down at her large-boned hands which were lying in her lap.

Then she sighed and went to the wax. She placed it near the fire and began to mould it.

Eleanor watched her avidly.

When Margery had finished the figure bore a fair likeness to the King.

She would tell no one – not even Humphrey – of her visit to Margery. He did not know of her connection with the witch so there was no need to tell him now. Humphrey was unpredictable. Who knew what he would say if he discovered that he had married Eleanor partly because a witch had helped him fall into the trap laid for him.

He was delighted now, of course. He would no longer be overshadowed by an elder brother whom everyone thought was such a virtuous and noble fellow. He was free. He would not have to answer to Bedford for anything again.

People were more subservient to him even than before. He had taken a step up the ladder. It was not an impossibility that he might one day be the King of this country. People had to step warily. They might be talking to the future King.

His vindictive nature set him looking round to see if he had any slights to avenge. The greatest of his enemies was his Uncle Cardinal Beaufort. He wondered how Beaufort was feeling about the death of Bedford. A little uneasy, he was sure. Let him remain so. The Duke of Gloucester was a very powerful man now.

The Cardinal had come back weeping and wailing because of the breaking of the alliance with Burgundy. Gloucester raged against the Duke, calling him traitor. But never mind, they would show him that the desertion of the Duke of Burgundy meant nothing to the English.

‘We shall go in and win back all we have lost,’ he declared.

His Council was uncertain. Beaufort, on whose judgement many of them relied, was of the opinion that they should seek peace. ‘Think of our position there,’ said Beaufort. ‘We have lost a great deal since the siege of Orléans,’ he said. ‘The tide has turned against us and this has ended in the major calamity of the loss of Burgundy’s friendship.’

‘It was not worth much,’ said Gloucester.

‘Your late brothers were of the opinion that it was worth a great deal,’ answered Beaufort.

‘Well, it has proved worthless. Burgundy has deceived us.’

‘He never deceived us. He made the treaty with your brothers, not with England. They are both dead – God help us – and therefore Burgundy can honourably release himself – which he has done. Because of this it is time to think of making peace in France.’

The Cardinal was a traitor, Gloucester declared to the Council. He was working with France. Perhaps he was taking bribes from the French since he was so eager to bring about a peace.

The councillors shrugged their shoulders. There would never be an end to this feud between the Cardinal and his nephew until one of them died.

Gloucester himself wanted to go to France. He would take an army with him, and he promised them that in a short time he would win back all they had lost.

Did any of them believe him? Perhaps not. But it was decided that he should go.

Eleanor was secretly angry. To go out of England was scarcely the way to secure a throne. Moreover she was sure he would not shine as a military hero. He always thought he would, she knew, but there was a world of difference between dreams and reality.

He was delighted to be going to France. Well, let him. He had once again to learn the lesson.

Why did he want to go to France? she mused. Quick recognition? Military glory? Did he really think they were easily acquired? His brothers had been exceptional men – great soldiers, great statesmen. None knew more than Eleanor that her Humphrey was neither. She had to plan for them both. But let him have his game. He would never be satisfied until he had.

He had to snap his fingers at Beaufort. Beaufort thought there should be peace. Therefore Humphrey thought there should be war.

Bedford had won acclaim – in the days before the siege of Orléâns – therefore Humphrey must win fame.

But it would not last.

At least Warwick and Stafford were with him so it might not be a complete débâcle. Perhaps they would save him from that. It might even be a glorious victory. In that case the services of Warwick and Stafford would be forgotten – only to be remembered if there was defeat.

Eleanor was right. There was a quick skirmish in Flanders from which Gloucester emerged without much triumph; then he decided that he could not conduct the war in that fashion. He must go home to consult with the Council.

It was clear that he had had enough of war. He would never excel at it. He wanted to return home to the possibility of becoming King of England and the warm bed of his still attractive wife. So a few months after his departure he was back in England.

It was a very pleasant existence at the manor of Hadham. The passionate love between Queen Katherine and Owen Tudor had developed into a steady devotion. They were completely contented with each other and their happy little family which Katherine had said understandably grew with the years. There were now six-year-old Edmund followed by Jasper a year or so younger, and Owen and Jacina. They lived quietly and simply and it seemed that visitors came less frequently as time passed.

‘Which is how I like it best,’ said Katherine. ‘I must confess, Owen, that I am just a little frightened when people come to Hadham.’

‘They have forgotten us now,’ replied Owen. ‘As long as we do not interfere with the plans of ambitious men, no one thinks of us.’

He did not know how true were his words.

The manor was pleasant, well off the beaten track. Katherine had become the lady of the manor house – she never thought of being royal now. Royal days had not brought her the happiness of this quiet existence. She took great pride in supervising her household. It seemed of the utmost importance whether they should have leyched beef or roast mutton for dinner; and whether it should be fresh or salted fish for Fridays. She always rose at seven and went to the chapel to hear matins in the company of Owen. As soon as Edmund was old enough he should accompany them, she told Owen. He laughed. Their eldest was little more than a baby yet, he reminded her. ‘He will soon be a young man,’ she told him; confident that this quiet life would go on for ever. She had learned to weave and to make up the results of her work into gowns for herself and her family. She could spin like any matron, she said; and she could embroider like any noble lady. She could use the kembyng-stok machine for holding the wool to be combed as efficiently as any of her servants; she could be happily occupied in the still room and exult over her triumphs there and mourn over her failures, of which she proudly stated there were very few. She tended her children as few noble ladies did and rejoiced in the fact she could spend so much time with them. Often she thought of her own bitter childhood, and compared her children’s lot with her own.

‘Lucky lucky little Tudors,’ she thought. Ah, she could have told them of the terrors of listening to the cries of a mad father, of the horrors children could be subjected to through the cruel negligence of a wicked mother.

But I trust they will never know aught of that kind, she often said to herself.

And Owen, he declared he was the happiest man on earth. He was the squire and he was her husband and they had come to terms with their positions so that it did not matter in the least that she had been born a Princess of France.

There were times when she thought of her first-born. Poor little Henry. He was fifteen years old now and they were already thinking of marrying him. She hoped it would not be just yet and that his wife would make him happy when she came. He had been a good and docile boy, and she was quite certain that the Earl of Warwick had made sure he remained so.

So the happy days passed with little news from the outside world. Nor did they want it. All they asked was to go on living in their own little world, enjoying each day as it came to them; content in their love for each other and their growing family.

It was springtime and the blossom was beginning to show on the fruit trees in the orchard and there were black-faced lambs playing in the fields. Katherine and Owen rode out together in the woods and remembered the early days when they had begun to know each other.

Under the trees the bluebells bent their heads to the light winds and the fragrance of damp earth was in the air.

This was happiness, thought Katherine. Everything that had gone before was worth while to have come to this.

She had drawn up her horse and Owen had brought his to wait beside her.

She turned to him and smiled. He understood. It was often thus and there were occasions when they did not feel the need of words.

They would ride back to the house where the smells of roasting meat would tempt their appetites and they would go to the nursery and play awhile with the children and listen to the accounts of nursery drama and comedy. How young Edmund had astonished his tutor with his grasp of reading; how Jasper had written his own name; how young Owen had thrown his fish and eggs onto the floor; how baby Jacina had walked three steps unaided.

All these matters seemed of such moment. Katherine loved the significance of little things. The household affairs seemed to her to be far more important than all those struggles she remembered from her childhood: feuds between noble houses and the ascendancies of the Burgundians over the Armagnacs, her father’s incapabilities and her mother’s lovers.

‘I shall never, never forget,’ she told Owen. ‘And I shall never cease to compare Now with Then.’

He understood as he always did.

‘My love,’ he said, ‘I shall do all in my power to make that so until the end of our days.’

‘Let us go together, Owen,’ she said in sudden fear. ‘That’s what I ask of the saints. Let us stay like this until the time comes and then go together.’

That was what she said that day in the bluebell wood.

She had something important to tell him.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Again. Another little one. Not for some time. I only knew for certain yesterday.’

‘The child will be as welcome as the others were,’ he said.

‘I sometimes think our children are the luckiest in the world,’ she answered.

A cloud crossed his face then. ‘Katherine … love,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t tempt the fates.’

She laughed aloud. Oh she was happy then. So sure of happiness.

When they returned to the Manor a messenger had arrived.

The King was on his way.

They embraced warmly. This was an informal visit, as far as anything Henry did could be informal at this time. He was now fifteen years old; he was leaving boyhood behind him; and the days when he had lived in that sheltered nursery presided over by Joan, Alice and his mother seemed very far away, although he still remembered them with a loving nostalgia.

Katherine was delighted to see him – although he had grown away from her and now seemed remote compared with the importance in her life of the little Tudors.

‘I would come to see you more often,’ Henry told her, ‘but they are always wanting me to be in different places and I am often in Westminster because I have to attend the Parliament and the meetings of the Council.’

‘You must be becoming very learned in matters of State.’

Henry lifted his shoulders. ‘I am still scolded when my attention strays … as it does often. They talk so much, dear lady. Sometimes they all but send me to sleep.’

Katherine laughed and with every minute in her company Henry seemed to become a boy again.

His stay could be only for one day, he told her. He would leave on the next.

‘You are welcome, my son,’ said Katherine. ‘But you must forgive us if we do not accommodate you as you are accustomed. We are not used to entertaining royalty here at Hadham.’

‘I come as your son, dear Mother, not as the King.’

‘Oh, then,’ said Katherine gaily, ‘mayhap we can manage.’

In the kitchens they were preparing a special banquet. ‘I doubt not,’ said the cook, ‘we shall have the King here often now that he is growing up and can please himself more.’

It was a good sign, was the general opinion. The King visited them and that surely meant that he accepted his mother’s union. The members of the household were understandably a little disturbed because of all the secrecy that had to be practised and although as time passed that had been considerably relaxed, the marriage of the Queen and Owen Tudor had not been officially acknowledged.

Henry, however, until this time had not been aware of the nature of his mother’s relationship with Owen. His visits were so rare and so brief and when he came he was invariably in the company of some powerful and notable men.

This time he was with a very small band of friends and Katherine soon learned the reason for this. Henry himself told her.

‘Warwick is going to France. He has been appointed Regent following the death of my Uncle Bedford.’

‘Ah, that was a tragic matter. I liked your Uncle Bedford …’

She was going to say better than his brother Gloucester, but Owen had warned her to be careful what she said in the presence of the King. It was not that Henry would mean to harm her; he was a devoted son; but he was only a boy and if she said something indiscreet, it might slip from him. ‘You cannot be too careful,’ Owen had added.

‘He was a great man,’ said Henry. ‘But he never was the same since they burned Joan of Arc.’

‘That is long ago.’

‘No … no … dear Mother. It is only five years … but it is something not easy to forget.’ He wrinkled his brow suddenly. ‘I saw her … briefly. They showed her to me in her cell. She did not see me for I looked through an aperture. Just for a short time … yet I remember.’

‘It was a very strange affair,’ said the Queen. ‘You were telling me that the Earl of Warwick is going to France. You will miss him.’

Henry nodded. ‘He was very stern. So different from you and Alice and Joan, but I grew fond of him. He is a very great man I believe and he had to try to make me worthy of my crown,’

Katherine drew him to her and kissed him suddenly. He seemed in that moment her little boy.

She laughed – that rather childish laughter which had echoed through his childhood and which he did not realise until now that he had missed so much.

Katherine drew herself away from him though still holding him by the shoulders. ‘I am forgetting,’ she said. ‘This is our King … not my own little son any more.’

His royalty dropped from him; he put his arms about her. ‘Dear Mother,’ he said, ‘I like it well when I am just your little son.’

She was wiping the tears from her eyes. ‘You must forgive me, my dear little lord,’ she said, ‘it is my nature. Owen says I am too easily moved to tears and to laughter …’

‘Owen?’ he said. ‘Ah, Owen. He is here still?’

‘You liked him, didn’t you. I am glad, Henry. I am so glad because …’

‘Yes, dear Mother?’

‘Later,’ she said. ‘Later.’

But she could not keep it to herself. She was so happy. Why should they not – here in this safe refuge – all be together like one happy family?

‘Henry,’ she said, ‘did you ever wonder why I was so contented living here alone?’

He shook his head. He did not say that he had been so busily occupied in learning to be a King that he had had no time to wonder about her.

‘I have been so happy, Henry. I am so happy. And why do you think? Why?’

‘Tell me.’

‘You always liked Owen Tudor, did you not?’

‘Owen. Oh yes indeed. I loved Owen.’

‘That delights me. So did I, Henry. So do I.’

He looked at her in disbelief, and she went on: ‘Owen is my husband. It is because of that I have been so content all these years.’

Henry broke into a wide smile.

‘Oh … my dear lady mother … what an intriguant you are.’

She caught his arm. ‘Henry, you are not displeased?’

‘Displeased! You and Owen! I love you both. Where is Owen?’

‘You will see him soon. He does not forget that you are the King. He holds himself aloof from royalty until he is summoned to the presence.’

‘He is my stepfather now.’

‘I can see the thought does not displease you.’

‘I must congratulate you … and him.’

‘Oh, Henry, how happy I am that you have come. How I have missed you, and how I wish that we could all be together !’

‘You must be very happy here.’ Henry’s eyes were wistful. He thought of the Court which surrounded him. The important men who bowed so obsequiously and yet were always telling him what he must do. It must be a wonderfully free life here in the country.

‘We are. And Henry. There is something else. Come with me.’

She led him to the nursery. The children were all there. Young Edmund immediately came to his mother and stared up at Henry. Jasper toddled after him.

Katherine laid her hands on Edmund’s head and picked up Jasper. ‘The little Tudors,’ she said. ‘Your half-brothers, my lord.’

Henry was bewildered for a moment or two until the truth dawned on him. Then he was smiling; he was kneeling down to talk to Edmund. He was clearly delighted with his brothers.

‘And you must not neglect Owen and even baby Jacina. They will be most put out.’

‘Dear Mother, and all this time you have been here in the country raising a family!’

He admired the children. He was clearly amused and delighted.

‘Now we have no secrets,’ said Katherine. ‘I always hated to have secrets from you.’

‘Dear lady,’ he said, ‘why is it that this marriage is kept a secret?’

‘But surely you know. They would say it is a mésalliance … I Princess of France, Queen of England, mother of the King, to marry a squire!’

‘But Owen Tudor …’ began Henry.

‘They always told me that I had a very clever son. Yes … Owen Tudor. That is the answer. The best man that ever lived, that is my Owen. Come, Henry, you know he is your stepfather now. I will ask him to join us.’

Owen was disturbed, as she had known he would be, to discover that she had divulged their secret.

‘It is time my son knew he had a family,’ said the Queen.

Henry had always liked Owen; and he was very ready to accept him as his stepfather. He talked freely and much restraint dropped from him in the company of his mother and stepfather.

He told them about his life under the guardianship of the Earl of Warwick. How the Earl had insisted on his excelling at equestrian sports and how when he went overseas he had had a harness garnished with gold made for him. He told them a great deal about his stay in France and how he hated being crowned in Paris. ‘It is depressing to feel the people don’t really want you. I didn’t want to be King of France. They already had a King in any case. He was crowned at Rheims which is the proper place for Kings of France to be crowned. Joan of Arc arranged that.’ His expression darkened, and his mother knew that he continued to be disturbed by Joan of Arc. They should never have allowed him to see her. The woman was a witch and had clearly laid a spell on him.

But his melancholy did not last long. He was so delighted to find himself in the centre of a family.

It was a sad King who took farewell of his mother and stepfather.

Humphrey of Gloucester was delighted that Warwick had been sent to France as Regent. He might have gone himself. No, that wouldn’t have been wise. Eleanor had said that he should remain in England now and as usual she was right.

The King was only fifteen – a minor still; and as the next in succession he was closer to him than any.

They had one great interest in common. Many people had been amazed at Humphrey’s love of literature. When he was surrounded by literary men his character seemed to change. He loved discourse and he seemed to throw off his arrogance and his obsessive ambitions in their company. He had amassed a collection of rare books and now and then would shut himself away to read. The scholar seemed quite apart from the sensual man of the world. It was as though two people lurked behind that countenance once so handsome and now considerably debauched.

Humphrey had undertaken the education of his nephew and had imbued him with a love of literature. It was the one ground on which they could meet, and Humphrey was delighted to discover in the King a willing pupil. Henry enjoyed the study of books rather than outdoor sports and on these grounds he and Humphrey were in tune.

‘When you have the power,’ Humphrey had said, ‘you must do all you can to promote learning. You must keep the universities rich and able to perform their function. You must encourage men of letters.’

Henry fervently assured his uncle that he would.

They had visited the universities together. They went to Oxford, Cambridge and Winchester; Henry was very interested in the new university at Caen which his uncle Bedford had founded.

So he and Humphrey could be happy together with their books, for Henry loved to handle books, loved the thrill of opening them and discovering their contents.

But he too was already aware of the other side of Humphrey, and he seemed less interested in his books since his marriage to his new Duchess.

Henry did not like Eleanor. Sometimes he felt really uneasy when she was near. He would look up suddenly and see her eyes fixed on him and there would be an expression in them which he did not understand.

It was during one of those friendly sessions with Uncle Humphrey when he spoke of his visit to Hadham.

They were in Humphrey’s library and Humphrey had talked for some time about a book which he wished Henry to read.

‘When you have read it I think you will agree with me that the author should be encouraged. Perhaps a small pension …’

Henry agreed with enthusiasm.

‘He lives in Hertfordshire,’ went on Humphrey. ‘I have sent for him to come and see me. There are one or two points I want to talk over with him.’

‘I was in Hertfordshire recently,’ said Henry. ‘I wish I had known. I might have sent for him. I was visiting my mother.’

He did not notice that Humphrey had become more alert.

‘And how was the Queen?’

‘Very, very happy …’

‘Indeed.’

‘I don’t know why there should be this secret. Owen is a good man … He is worthy in every way.’

‘I heard some talk of the Queen and Owen Tudor.’

‘He is my stepfather.’

‘Ah, there was a rumour. I knew that he was the Queen’s devoted friend … but marriage. There is a law, you know, about the marriages of people like the Queen.’

‘The knot is tied now. They are so content. They have children, too. Four of them. Young Edmund is a very bright boy and I think Jasper will be too.’

The Duke of Gloucester seemed to have forgotten the author in whom he was so interested.

‘So … you have accepted your … er … stepfather.’

‘Accepted him? Oh it was not a matter of accepting him. He exists. And he is a most interesting man. I was telling them about my coronation in France and how the people were … and he said that they love me here and that is important.’

‘It is indeed. But equally important that your French subjects should love you too.’

‘Owen said they never will do that. They see themselves as French and French they will remain. He says it is the same in a way with the Welsh. He is Welsh, you know.’

‘Your uncle Bedford never trusted the Welsh.’

‘Uncle Bedford never trusted anybody.’

‘It is often wise not to be too trustful.’

‘Owen says …’ Gloucester was not interested in what Owen said, but he was disturbed at how often the Welsh squire was creeping into the conversation.

Henry was clearly impressed by his stepfather.

‘I shall visit them again soon,’ he said. ‘I enjoyed being with them. My mother is so … young still. She has such a joyous laugh and Owen is interesting to talk to … and the children, they are amusing.’

The Duke of Gloucester was growing more and more thoughtful. ‘I should be wary of visiting them,’ he said.

Henry looked haughty. ‘I am the King,’ he said. ‘I shall do as I wish.’

Eleanor wanted to know what was on his mind.

‘Young Henry has been to Hadham and met his stepfather and his mother’s new family,’ he said.

‘Did the foolish woman really marry the Welsh squire?’

‘Whether she did or she didn’t she lives with him and has produced four children.’

Eleanor felt a sudden anger surge up in her. Four children! And she could not get even one!

‘That upsets you,’ she said tensely.

‘She can have fifty brats if she likes. What disturbs me is this pleasure the King takes in them. He says he is going to see them often and when I reminded him that that might be unwise he reminded me that he is the King.’

‘High and mighty, eh?’ said Eleanor. ‘The stripling is becoming a man. The King indeed! Well, he has it so frequently drummed into him that it is not surprising that he knows it now.’

‘He is obviously taken with the Welsh squire. It is Owen says this and Owen does that. By God’s ears, you would think Owen was the Pope himself.’

‘Obviously it must be shown that Owen is not the Pope. He is not even a Duke. He is just a Welsh squire who has managed by excessive good looks – I presume they are good looks – to creep into the Queen’s bed.’

‘They are a very happy couple, according to Henry,’ said Gloucester.

‘I am sure Owen is happy. Who would not be?’ She was serious suddenly. ‘What are you going to do about it?’

‘Do? What can I do?’

‘Well you are not going to allow Owen to become chief adviser to the King, are you? You are not going to bring his mother back into his life.’

‘They just want their life in the country.’

‘Nobody wants just their life in the country.’ Eleanor, with her overweening ambition, could not understand the lack of it in others; she was sure it existed and they pretended it did not in order to achieve it the more quickly.

‘I fancy they do.’

She ruffled his hair and kissed him on the lips. ‘You are a very romantic gentleman sometimes, dear husband.’

‘You see,’ he said, ‘the Queen is really simple at heart.’

‘Indeed. The Princess of France who married the King of England and dutifully produced the heir to the throne! She hated giving him up, did she not?’

‘He is her son.’

‘He is the King. No, I tell you Katherine is not so simple. She knows how to get what she wants. She fancies a country squire so she enters into an intrigue with him although she knows that the Council would never have allowed it. There is nothing simple about Katherine. And now when our dear little King goes to her he is shown the delights of domesticity. Dear Owen is so good to him. His mother loves him dearly. Why, Humphrey, what are you thinking of? They want to get the King in their grasp.’

He looked at her steadily. ‘And if so … what can I do about it?’

‘What can you do about it? You can act, Humphrey. That’s what you can do. Now there is a law that noble ladies like the Queen cannot marry without the consent of the Council. You brought in that law. Have you forgotten?’

‘It may be that they were married … before …’

‘Before or after, what matters it? It may be that they are not married at all. This is an illicit union and one in which the Queen cannot be allowed to indulge.’

‘What good would it do to break it up?’

‘Great good, Humphrey. Henry is growing up. Do you want him turning to anyone but you? His mother will have a great influence on him. She has already begun to. And our Welsh squire, his dear stepfather, will be advising him before long, when our Henry is a little more sure of himself – and he is fast becoming that. Were you not reminded, with a certain asperity I gather, that he was the King? Of course if you want to be ousted from your place as chief councillor by the Queen and her lover let well alone. Let Henry visit Hadham. Let them weave their spells around him. What does it matter if Humphrey of Gloucester be set aside for a frivolous Queen and a low-born squire.’

Eleanor certainly knew how to rouse her husband to action.

He said: ‘I could arrest the Tudor for breaking the law.’

She went to him and slipping her arm through his nestled against him.

‘There you speak more like the great Duke.’

She was smiling to herself. Their influence must be removed. Margery Jourdemayne seemed to be losing her touch. Although pins were inserted into the wax image of the King nothing had happened. He was still in good health.

‘It takes a long time with a King,’ Margery had explained.

Perhaps it did. But when one had great plans one did not want the loving eyes of a mother to see too much.

It should be an easier matter to remove the Tudor household from the sphere of influence than it was to bring a child into the world and drive a boy out of it.

The summer was passing but there were still pleasant days when one could sit in the garden. Katherine was nearing the end of her pregnancy. There was already a midwife in the house and she was expecting the child would be born any day now. Owen was beside her, taking great care of her. Edmund watched her wonderingly. He had been told that he might expect a new brother or sister. Jasper who was unusually advanced said that he wanted another sister and he would not accept another brother. He had two brothers already and he liked his sister Jacina best.

‘You will love the baby whether it be boy or girl,’ he was told.

‘Will I?’ he said wonderingly.

And there they were on that fateful day when one of the servants came into the garden to tell them that visitors had arrived.

‘I wonder who it is,’ said Katherine beginning to rise. ‘Perhaps it is someone come to tell us Henry is on the way.’

Owen said: ‘Stay where you are. I will go and see.’

Katherine turned. Men were coming onto the lawn. Two of them came forward and stood one on either side of Owen.

‘You are Owen Tudor, Welsh Squire to Queen Katherine?’ she heard them say.

‘I am.’

‘We must do our duty and arrest you.’

Katherine felt her heart leap in terror. She started forward.

‘On what grounds?’ cried Owen.

‘In the name of the King,’ said the Captain of the guard.

Katherine started to run. ‘Owen … Owen … stay here … Don’t go.’

He was looking back at her. She saw the anguish in his eyes and she knew that as long as she lived she would never forget his face as it was then.

‘Katherine … my … Queen.’ The words seemed to escape from his lips. He was holding out his arms. She stumbled towards him. She reached him and fell into them.

‘Owen … Owen … what does it mean …?’

‘I don’t know. It can’t be much. I have done nothing wrong. It will soon be explained.’

‘It won’t … it won’t,’ she exclaimed. ‘They are taking you away from me … It is what I always feared.’

The Captain said, almost gently: ‘We must go now.’

‘I want an explanation,’ cried Owen.

‘You will get that.’

‘I won’t let him go. I won’t,’ cried Katherine. ‘Do you know that I am the Queen?’

‘Yes, my lady, but this is the order of the King.’

‘The King. My son. Take me to him.’

‘We have orders to take the squire, my lady. Come, Squire. We must be gone.’

They were moving him away.

The sun seemed suddenly pitiless. She could hear Edmund and Jasper shouting to each other … it seemed from a long way off.

‘Owen, Owen … my love …’ she called. He was looking back taking a last look at her as she stood there on the grass holding out her arms to him.

Something was happening. Owen had gone. Darkness descended on her and she was sinking to the cold friendless earth.

She was lying in her bed. She had been aware of intense pain … and some fearful shadow hanging over her but she was not sure what it was.

She was in a strange world she felt; she was not on earth; she did not want to come back. She was afraid to because of the hideous shadow which would reveal itself to her if she did. Somewhere in her mind she knew that Death was very close to her and that because of that shadow she wanted it to take her.

‘She will recover.’ Those were the first words she heard, and she knew that she was coming back.

She opened her eyes.

‘You have a little girl, my lady.’

‘And … my lord … Where is my lord?’

The fearful shadow was revealing itself and the revelation was wrapping itself round her like a cloak of misery.

‘My lord went away, my lady.’

‘When … when … how long ago?’

‘It is three days. You have been long in labour.’

‘My children …’

‘They are well and here, my lady.’

She closed her eyes. Then it came back to her. That wonderful happiness which had been shattered in minutes. They had taken him away. Where? And why?

She must get well. She must go to him. She must bring him back. She could. She would. What harm were they doing anybody? Owen must come back to them. He was so necessary to them all.

They brought the baby to her … a frail creature, not like the others. They had been lusty from the start. This one’s entry into the world had been marked by sorrow.

‘She is very frail,’ she said.

‘We thought, my lady, that she should be baptised without delay.’

Ominous words.

She tried to rouse herself and think. Where was Owen? She must get up. She must understand what this meant. She would send to the King. She would ask him to come and see her. He had so enjoyed being with them all. He would listen. He would tell her what this was about and he would send Owen back to her.

The child was christened Margaret. A few days later she died.

The Queen felt a sickening sense of loss; but it was Owen she wanted. The break up of her happiness was all she could think of. The loss of the child to whose coming she and Owen had looked forward was just another blow. But when one was stunned by disaster another did not hurt as it might have done if it had been delivered singly. She and Owen would have mourned the loss of this little one … But then, had she not been subjected to that terrible shock, baby Margaret would have been as strong and lusty as the rest.

‘What can I do?’ she mourned. ‘What must I do?’

The children came to her.

‘Where is our father?’ they demanded.

‘He has gone away for a little while.’

‘He did not tell me,’ said Jasper.

‘He didn’t tell me and I am the eldest,’ announced Edmund.

‘There was not time to tell you. He went in such a hurry.’

‘And where is the baby?’ Jasper wanted to know.

‘The baby has gone away, too.’

‘With our father? He should have taken me,’ said Jasper.

‘No … me … I am the eldest …’

‘He will be back,’ said Katherine and then because she was weak and some voice within her said, He never will, she could not hold back her tears.

The children watched her in amazement. They did not know grown-up people cried.

Then they were all crying with her. They knew some major catastrophe had struck their home.

They came to Hadham. There was a party of them including nuns.

The Abbess sought out Katherine and told her that it was the King’s wish that she be taken to the Abbey of Bermondsey where she would be well looked after.

‘I will stay here,’ said Katherine. ‘It may be that my husband will come back.’

‘My lady,’ said the Abbess, ‘it is well that you should know. Owen Tudor is a prisoner in Newgate.’

‘Why so? Why so?’ she cried. ‘What has he done that they should put him there?’

‘He has married against the law. Or if he has not married he has lived with you as your husband.’

‘He is my husband.’

‘That is his offence. He has broken the law which forbids men of his rank to marry noble ladies.’

‘I married of my own free will.’

‘It is the law, my lady, and we have been ordered to take you to our Abbey in Bermondsey. There you will be nursed back to health. You have nothing to fear from us. We will care for you.’

‘This is my home. I shall wait here for my husband and I have children … young children …’

‘They are being taken to the Abbey of Barking. There they will be cared for and educated in a manner fitting.’

‘They have broken up my home …’

‘Dear lady, the law forbids such a home.’

‘Oh God!’ she cried. ‘I vow vengeance on those who have done this.’

‘Do not invoke God’s anger, lady. You have already sinned deeply in this marriage.’

‘There never was such a good and pure marriage as mine with Owen Tudor.’

‘Come, lady, we will nurse you back to health.’

‘My children …’

‘They have already left for Barking. We thought it better to avoid the anguish of parting.’

‘Oh my God, you have taken everything from me … everything I cared for …’

‘My lady, you will recover. You will find peace in God.’

‘I will find peace only with my husband and children. I beg you send for the King. He is but a boy but he loves me. He will not let them do this to me.’

‘It is on the King’s orders, my lady …’

‘I will never believe that!’ she cried. ‘He is but a boy in the hands of ambitious men.’

‘You will feel better when you are in the peace of our Abbey. We shall nurse you and bring you back to health. Then you will make your plans … or you will stay with us. It is in your hands, my lady. But now these are orders. We are to take you to Bermondsey.’

She knew she was powerless. She must obey. She must bide her time and try not to grieve too sorely for her children or to yearn too unbearably for a sight of Owen.

She remained ill. The loss of her child, the sudden disappearance of her happy life – it was too much for her. There were times when she raged against fate and those who had done this to her and there were others when she lay listless on her bed.

Time was passing, she knew. She was always asking, ‘Have you heard aught of my husband?’

There was never any news of him. Nor of the children.

What were they doing, those little ones, torn from their home and their parents? How could people be so cruel to little children?

She thought fleetingly of her own misery in the Hôtel de St Pol. But what was that compared with this? This was such tragedy that she could not think clearly. It had stunned her into a melancholy of inadequacy, a state of not caring, of longing for death.

Yes, that was it. If she could not have Owen and the children she wanted to die.

She prayed for death. ‘Oh, God, take me out of my misery. I cannot live like this. I want Owen. I want Owen more than anything. I want my babies. Oh, God, how can You be so cruel?’

Some days her spirits would revive a little. She would fancy something could be done. She would ask for writing materials and write to the King. She would appeal to him, tell of her misery. He could not fail her.

But in her heart she knew that whatever she wrote to the King would not be allowed to reach him.

The Abbess and her nuns were growing anxious. There were times when the Queen seemed almost demented. At others she would be quiet as though she were already on the way to death.

‘She has an unequable temperament,’ said the Abbess. ‘Remember who her father was.’

The Duke of Gloucester, who was the most powerful man in the country, enquired about her.

‘Keep her well looked after,’ were his orders. ‘It must not be said that she did not have every attention. Of course she is a little wild. It may well be that she has inherited something of her father’s affliction.’

The Abbess and her nuns would do their best.

But her health grew worse. She became devout. She told the Abbess that she thought she was paying for her sins.

That pleased the Abbess. It was a good conclusion for her to come to.

‘You see,’ said the Queen, ‘I went to Windsor for the birth of the King’s son. “Do not go to Windsor,” he said. “I do not want my son to go to Windsor.” And yet I went to Windsor. I don’t know what possessed me. There was some prophecy. I was wicked. I think I have passed some evil spell onto my son.’

They tried to soothe her. God would forgive her, said the Abbess. If she repented, if she devoted herself to prayer and asked forgiveness sincerely enough she would be forgiven.

‘I never shall, I fear. I fear for my son Henry. I have dreams, Abbess, terrible dreams … that he is as my father was. You cannot understand, lady Abbess, what it was like to be shut up in St Pol and to know that a madman was there and that he was my own father.’

‘It is now in the past, lady. You have the future to think of.’

‘I have nothing on this earth,’ she said. ‘They took from me everything I loved.’

‘You must rouse yourself. Take an interest in life. Perhaps you could become one of us.’

‘There is only one thing that would make me want to live and that is if they give me back my husband and my children. I do not wish to live without them. I cannot live without them. Oh … if I could have some news of Owen. What do you think they are going to do to him? If you could come and tell me that he is free … that he is coming to me … I would be young again tomorrow. My health would come back to me. But I need him so much. I want him, Abbess. I care for nothing. If I cannot have him and my happy life I just want to die.’

‘This is sinful talk.’

‘I care not, Abbess. I want my husband who is so cruelly taken from me. I have had a sad life … and then it was happy suddenly. I came to England and I loved the King who was good to me … but that was nothing … nothing to compare with my life with Owen. Perhaps there never has been … for any …’

‘Then you should thank God that you were allowed to enjoy it even for a while.’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I thank God for Owen … for my children … but to take them from me … what sort of God is it that can do that?’

‘You blaspheme, my lady.’

She began to laugh wildly. ‘I care not. Let Him take me. Let Him do what He will. He could not do worse than He has already.’

‘You should occupy yourself with prayer. Would that not be better than this wildness? You should pray for Owen Tudor. Perhaps then God would see fit to answer your prayers.’

Then she was silent.

She would pray. She would beg.

Oh God, give him back to me.

And so it went on.

Her health was failing. She could not sleep. She scarcely ate at all.

The nuns said: ‘She is dying.’

‘Should we send to the King?’ wondered one of the sisters.

The Abbess shook her head. The Duke of Gloucester had said there must be no communication with the King.

If she could only have news of Owen Tudor it would help her, but she knew nothing except that he was in Newgate.

She asked endless questions about Newgate. What happened there? How were prisoners treated?

And her children? It was easier to give her news of them. They were settling happily in Barking.

‘Children adapt themselves,’ said the Abbess. ‘They quickly forget.’

‘Not Edmund,’ she said. ‘Not Jasper. The little ones perhaps but not those two.’

But it was for Owen she mourned. Owen in Newgate … a prisoner who had broken the law by marrying her.

The Abbess was growing more and more anxious.

‘She is willing herself to die,’ she said.

Days passed. Listlessly, she was aware of time. The sun rose; the sun set. Another day gone and no news of Owen.

She took to her bed. She was too weak to rise.

‘Death, come and take me,’ she prayed.

Often her thoughts drifted to the past; then she thought she was in the Hôtel de St Pol, clinging to Michelle … poor Michelle, she was dead now … as I soon shall be, she thought. Oh yes, that is the best for me. In the past she had fought to survive, all through that hazardous childhood. Then Henry’s death which had seemed so terrible at the time. But it had all led to those ecstatic years with Owen and then … to this.

If I had not been so happy I should not be so wretched now, she thought. God raised me to the heights only to dash me to the depths. Cruel. Cruel! Why could we not have been left alone?

And Owen? What was he suffering? She was selfish to think of herself. He would be longing for her and the children even as she longed for him; and in some dark cold damp cell. At least she had a bed in which to be miserable, good food brought to her which she would not eat.

One morning she awoke and was not sure where she was. For one brief moment she had thought she was at Hadham and that she had only to stretch out a hand to touch Owen. But no … she was not there. Then where … where …

From a long way off she heard the nuns talking.

‘She is in a high fever. It was inevitable … Such neglect of her health …’

‘If there was only news of Owen Tudor she would recover.’

The fever grew worse; she would not take the nourishing foods they brought to her. She turned her head away when they prayed by her bedside. She had no interest in anything.

And then one day there was a visitor at the Abbey.

He asked if he might have a word with the Abbess, and as it was clear that he had news of importance the Abbess agreed to see him.

‘I come from Owen Tudor,’ he said.

The Abbess stared at him in disbelief.

‘He is in Newgate … a prisoner …’

‘No more,’ said the man. ‘He has escaped … with the help of friends.’

‘Where is he?’

‘That, lady, I cannot tell you. He wishes his wife to know that he is free and will find a means of coming for her.’

‘I cannot allow this. She has been put into my charge.’

‘You must tell her that her husband is free.’

The Abbess was thoughtful. She had orders from the mighty Duke of Gloucester. She was to keep the Queen here, virtually a prisoner though treated with the utmost honour. If Owen Tudor came here and took her away what could she answer to the all powerful Duke? He would be furiously angry; he would blame her, perhaps have her removed from her post.

Yet … what that news would do to the Queen! She knew what effect it would have. If Katherine heard that her husband was free, that there was hope that they would be together again, she would regain her will to live.

The Abbess was a deeply religious woman. She had witnessed the suffering of the Queen and although she had obeyed orders to keep Katherine a prisoner in the Abbey, she had often deplored the part she had been forced to play in the drama.

Katherine was a weak woman; there was no doubt in the Abbess’s mind of that – but she loved deeply; and surely love could not be evil – even carnal love between two people who were not married.

The Abbess knew that the Duke of Gloucester would not wish Katherine to be told of her husband’s escape, but she made her way to the cell which was occupied by the Queen. She opened the door and went in.

Katherine was lying with her face turned to the wall on which hung the great crucifix.

‘I have news, my lady,’ cried the Abbess. ‘Owen Tudor is free. He has escaped from Newgate. He has sent someone to tell you that he will come for you.’

Katherine did not stir.

The Abbess went closer to the bed. She laid a hand on Katherine’s cold cheek.

‘Holy Mother of God,’ she murmured, ‘it is too late.’ Then she made the sign of the cross. ‘God rest her soul, poor tragic lady,’ she said.

When the King heard of his mother’s death he was overcome with grief.

‘When I was with her,’ he said, ‘she seemed so young … she was so happy. Oh, how cruel it was to take her away from Owen and the children.’

His Uncle Humphrey explained to him. ‘Owen had broken the law. Such acts cannot go unpunished.’

‘I can see no harm in what they did.’

‘My lord, it is always necessary to maintain the law.’

Stop treating me like a child, Henry wanted to cry out, but he said nothing. The Earl of Warwick had taught him to control his temper – not that he had inherited the Plantagenet one which was notorious. He was mild by nature but at times he could be angry and it was usually over something he considered unjust as he did this treatment of Owen and his mother.

He promised himself that he would do what he could to help Owen and his brothers and little sister.

First there was the funeral of his mother and that must be worthy of her. The King gave orders that she was to be brought to St Katherine’s Chapel by the Tower of London and there lie in state and from there be taken to St Paul’s for a memorial service and then be buried in the Lady Chapel at Westminster Abbey.

Henry then sent out an order that Owen Tudor should come to him as he wished to talk with him. He need have no fear. He promised him safe conduct.

When Owen heard, he was undecided. He trusted the King but the King was but a boy, he was a figurehead merely and had no real say in affairs. The King would never have agreed to imprison him and break up his mother’s happy home. No, Owen could not risk coming to the King. Yet on the other hand he wanted to hear about his children. If he could see Henry alone … But what was the use? It was a trap.

He came to London however but the nearer he approached the capital the more uneasy he became. And when he reached Westminster so certain was he of treachery, so eager to avoid a further incarceration in Newgate that he took fright and with it sanctuary in Westminster Abbey.

Eleanor and Humphrey were furious when they heard he had come so far and still eluded them.

‘The King is too interested in Tudor,’ said Humphrey. ‘Let them get together and the boy will be showering honours on him and before we know where we are we shall have a favourite on our hands, telling him what to do and how the rest of us are concerned with our own ambitions.’

‘It must never get to that,’ agreed Eleanor. ‘He must be lured out of sanctuary.’

‘And how?’ asked Humphrey.

‘He is an old soldier and I have discovered that he used to frequent that tavern by Westminster Gate. If he could be lured there he could be taken and sent back to prison. After all he is guilty of escaping.’

‘We will try it,’ said Humphrey.

It was not difficult of course to find an old soldier who had served at Agincourt with Owen. Agincourt was a magic word to those old warriors. They could never resist talking of it and how they had taken part in and won one of the greatest battles in military history.

The old soldier would be delighted to work for the Duke of Gloucester. He would go into the Abbey, get into conversation with his fellow soldier and tell him of the stories which were told in the old tavern of Westminster Gate.

Owen was pleased to see a man whom he could not remember having seen before but who had undoubtedly served with King Harry’s army. They talked a while of old times, but when the suggestion came to visit the tavern Owen was wary. There was too much at stake to risk it for the sake of a convivial evening. He was grieving deeply for the loss of Katherine and still could not believe that she was dead. She had seemed so full of life, like a young girl, and that she could have wasted away, died of melancholy still seemed an evil dream to him.

So the trick failed, much to the chagrin of Eleanor and Humphrey.

‘I’ll get him yet,’ vowed Humphrey.

In the meantime Owen sought an opportunity of seeing the King. He knew that if he saw the boy alone then he could make him understand that he had committed no crime. He had escaped when he had been wrongfully imprisoned. There was nothing criminal about that.

He had the utmost faith in the King.

Greatly daring he decided to make his way by night to Kennington where the King was sitting with his Privy Council. The Duke of Gloucester was not present and it seemed a good time to state his case.

The King and the members of the Council were startled when Owen burst in upon them. Henry stared at him and he cried out: ‘Owen, it is you then?’

And then a terrible desolation swept over the young King for he was reminded afresh of the death of his mother.

‘My lord King, my lords of the Council,’ said Owen. ‘I come to beg you hear me. Have I your leave to tell you why I am here and to explain that I have been wrongfully imprisoned?’

The King astonished everyone by saying in a loud clear voice: ‘You have our leave Owen Tudor to state your case.’

Owen addressed himself to the boy – Katherine’s son, who looked a little like her; the same clear eyes, the same innocence. His spirits rose. His enemies were not present, he could hope that the King would help him, and he stated the facts clearly. He had loved the Queen dearly and she had loved him. She was no longer of importance to the country. Any children they had would be Tudors remote from the throne. They had loved and married before the law was brought in forbidding marriages such as theirs. The Queen was now dead. She had died of melancholy because she had been unable to bear the separation from her husband and children. He had been imprisoned. True he had escaped, but he saw no wrong in that because he should never have been imprisoned in the first place.

Then Henry spoke with an authority and wisdom which he employed at times and which never failed to astonish those who witnessed it. He finished by saying: ‘My friends, Owen Tudor has stated his case with clarity. He has committed no fault against us and I say that from henceforth he is a free man.’

Owen fell on his knees before the King and kissed his hands. Henry, deeply moved, turned away. He could not forget that that happy home at Hadham had been broken up and he would never again experience the peace and happiness he had found there.

He sent for Owen. He had no longer need to play the King. He was just a young boy who had lost his mother.

‘I did not see her much after they took me away,’ he said, ‘but I always thought of her. It is strange, Owen, but when I had to do something which I hated and which I was a little afraid of, like being crowned in Paris and going to the Parliaments in the beginning, I always thought of my mother.’

Poor Owen. He could not speak of her because his emotion choked him.

‘And Owen, I remember you too … You used to ride with me.’

‘You were a bold little boy, my lord.’

‘I was quaking with fear within and you always gave me courage. Owen … it is so sad that she is gone … and the house at Hadham …’

‘I don’t want to go there again.’

‘No … nor I. What of the children?’

‘They are at Barking still.’

‘I will see that they are well cared for, Owen.’

‘I am going to see them.’

Henry nodded. ‘It is well that they are so young. They will forget perhaps.’

‘The little ones yes … not Edmund and Jasper …’

‘They will in time. Are you going straight to them now?’

‘Yes, my lord. I shall refresh myself in the tavern at Westminster Gate and then ride to Barking.’

‘God speed, Owen. Remember I am your friend.’

Owen took his leave and went to the tavern as he had said he would and he was accompanied by his priest and his servant and while he was there a man came in and sat beside him.

The man wore a heavy cloak but as he sat down beside Owen he allowed it to fall open and so disclosed the royal livery.

‘I come from the King,’ he said. ‘He commands me to tell you that you should not go to Barking. Your enemies are waiting for you there as the first place to which you would go. On the King’s commands you are to get away with all speed.’

Owen understood. Gloucester was not going to let him go free.

Owen hastily left the tavern with his two retainers, mounted his horse and turned his face to Wales.

They had not gone far when they realised that they were being followed and soon a company of armed men had caught up with them and surrounded them. Gloucester had sent men to Barking but others had been lying in wait at Westminster.

What were three against so many? And when Owen saw who his captors were he feared the worst.

So he was once more a prisoner. Gloucester had no wish to appear in the matter and gave the prisoner into the hands of the Earl of Suffolk. A dangerous man, said Gloucester, as all men were who escaped from prison. ‘We must see,’ he added, ‘that there is no escape this time.’

It was more comfortable in Wallingford Castle than it had been in Newgate but Owen chafed against his lack of freedom.

There was no reason to suppose that he would be allowed to remain there. Gloucester wanted him back in Newgate. The proper place, he said, for men who had the temerity to marry queens in the hope of furthering their ambitions.

So it was back to Newgate. Owen realised then the futility of appealing to the King. Henry wished him well; he was honourable and a son of whom Katherine could have been proud, but he was ineffectual in the hands of powerful men.

Gloucester wanted him out of the way. He would have to be careful. He must plan. He must not give in. He must find some way of getting out of Newgate for the sake of his children.

There was one consolation. He had his servant and the priest with him. They could talk together; they could plan.

The opportunity came. ‘It must not fail,’ said Owen. ‘If it does they will separate us; they will put us in closer confinement. We have to succeed and this time never give them the chance to take us again.’

It was the time-worn method. Guards were always ready to take a little wine, and if that wine had something a little stronger in it, well, the plan might work.

It did. The drunken guards, the scaling of the walls, and out to freedom.

They found horses which were supplied by a friend at a nearby tavern and before the dawn broke they were miles away from Newgate on their way to freedom and Owen’s native Wales.

Chapter XIX THE RECKONING

THE Duchess of Gloucester was restless and disgruntled. Her plans came to nothing. The years were passing and the King was leaving his childhood behind. He was almost twenty. Some kings of twenty might be considered to have reached their maturity; not so Henry. He had always been a mild creature ready to be guided; sometimes it seemed that he was somehow lacking.

Eleanor liked to think of him as an imbecile.

Gloucester mildly reproved her. His nephew was by no means half-witted. In fact intellectually he was very bright. It was merely that he was not forceful enough to govern. He really was not endowed to be a King.

‘This is the crux of the matter,’ said Eleanor. ‘He is not endowed with kingly qualities.’

And they were talking of marrying him which of course they would soon. It was strange that he had been allowed to reach the age of twenty without having had a wife found for him. It would not be long delayed and then there would be a child … an heir to the throne.

No, thought Eleanor, not that!

Humphrey was deep in his feud with Cardinal Beaufort. It was amazing how they always took opposing views. Beaufort was all for making peace with France because he said that England could not afford to go on supporting a war. Humphrey had always dreamed that he would outshine his late brother Bedford and win back all that had been lost since the coming of Joan of Arc. Humphrey saw himself as another Henry the Fifth. Beaufort wanted to release the Duc d’Orléans who had been a prisoner in English hands since Agincourt. He was an excellent bargaining counter. Beaufort was ready to do anything for peace. No, cried Humphrey, there should be no peace.

Eleanor supported him in this. Peace with France would inevitably mean a marriage for Henry with a daughter of Charles the Seventh.

There must be no marriage. Eleanor was frantic at the thought.

Something must be done before then.

She was disappointed in Margery Jourdemayne. In spite of the beautiful waxen image nurtured in its cradle she was still not pregnant. She had swallowed pills and potions which Margery assured her were destined to produce fruitfulness and Margery had been living very comfortably on the proceeds of the Duchess’s patronage for years.

And yet nothing the Duchess desired came to pass.

The baby did not arrive and the King still lived.

Margery was getting desperate. She said that a certain familiar had come to her in a dream and said that the fault lay with the Duke.

‘I do not believe that. Before our connection he had an illegitimate son and a daughter.’

‘Bastards,’ cried Margery. ‘How can they be sure who their fathers are?’

‘Arthur and Antigone both have a look of the Duke.’

‘The Plantagenet looks are not uncommon in this land,’ was Margery’s excuse. ‘It comes down through generations.’

But Eleanor was getting impatient and Margery was getting alarmed seeing the disappearance of her best source of income – and the one which had enabled her to not only live in comfort but stow something away for less lucrative days.

‘My lady might like to consult a man I know of – a cleric – a man of the Church no less. He will tell your future. That is what your ladyship would like. I hear that he can foretell the stars. He is expensive … Well, not to a lady like you. And he is worth every groat.’

‘Bring him here,’ said the Duchess.

So that was how she made the acquaintance of Roger Bolingbroke.

He appealed to Eleanor from the beginning. He was more sophisticated than Margery. He was not a witch; he was a soothsayer. He wore a long black cloak and his breeches and surcoat were also black. His appearance was impressive. The blackness of his garb was relieved only by a heavy gold chain which he wore about his neck.

He had penetrating eyes in a thin white face; there was an aura of another world about him. Eleanor was sure that he could help her.

He said he would consult the signs. Consultations were costly because they demanded so much of him and if he were to continue his work he must be aloof from financial worries.

Eleanor waved all that aside. She was ready to pay what he asked. She took a sapphire ring from her finger and gave it to him as a start.

Roger was delighted. He saw the beginning of a rewarding association.

The first meeting sent the Duchess’s spirits soaring.

Roger stared at her over the strange objects he was handling on the table. He muttered to himself while Eleanor listened intently. Then he came to her and knelt.

‘I hardly dare say what I see,’ he murmured.

‘Tell me! Tell me!’ she cried. He took her hand and kissed it.

‘My lady, I see the Queen of England.’

‘Who is she … a bride for Henry … ?’

‘My lady … you are to be the Queen.’

She was beside herself with delight. ‘Tell me more. Tell me more …’

‘I can see no more now … my lady. This one fact overshadows all else.’

He went back to his stool. He stared and muttered. Then he buried his face in his hands.

‘The powers have left me,’ he said. ‘They have given me this blinding fact and they say that is enough … for now …’

‘Then when …’

‘I will commune with the powers … if that is what you wish. I need special implements. They are costly … I have never dealt with such as this. I shall need time …’

‘Time … time … what for?’

‘To acquire what I need.’

‘There must be no delay.’

‘Delay … my lady …’ He lifted his shoulders.

She took a chain from her neck. ‘Take that. I will pay for what you need.’

‘My lady, I will give up everything to work on this.’

He was working on it. But he could go no further. She was going to be Queen, he said. The powers, however cajoled, would tell no more than that.

He would consult with a man he knew – that was if Eleanor was agreeable to bring another into the case. She must be warned that his services would be costly.

Impatiently she shrugged her shoulders.

‘Spare nothing,’ she said. ‘I want to know how this can come about.’

Thus she met Thomas Southwell who brought a further respectability into the proceedings because he was a canon of St Stephen’s, Westminster.

He confirmed Roger Bolingbroke’s prophecy that Eleanor would be the Queen of England. But he said it would not come about easily.

What did they mean by that?

‘There is someone in the way, my lady,’ said Thomas Southwell.

‘But if it is ordained that I am to be Queen he will be removed, surely?’

The two men looked at each other. It was not quite as easy as that. It was true that Roger had seen her in her regalia being crowned at the Abbey, but now that his vision had cleared it was made known to these seers that the brilliant destiny could only be reached if the lady had the courage to surmount a certain obstruction. Someone stood in the way. The King.

‘I did not need to spend a fortune to discover that,’ retorted Eleanor coldly.

The men were alert. She was getting impatient.

‘The King has to be removed before he marries,’ said Thomas Southwell. ‘It can be done. Margery has special skills in this art. She should be called back.’

‘Margery has been working on it for years and nothing has happened.’

‘Margery has never worked with us.’

So the two wise men and the wise woman came together and Margery made an image of the King which she said would take her a few weeks because it was not merely constructing it in wax which had to be done but life had to be breathed into it. She had to repeat incantations over it every night. It must be done in accordance with the laws of witchcraft otherwise it would be useless.

‘And when it is done?’ asked Eleanor.

‘It shall then be placed in a warm spot near a fire but not too near, and there it shall be left until the wax melts … But that must be gradual. Then as it melts, so shall the King’s life ebb away.’

‘We have tried it already.’

‘Not with us,’ said Roger Bolingbroke.

She believed them. She knew that Roger had a good practice near St Paul’s, that people of the Court visited him in secret and the fact that a canon of the Church was with them ensured success.

Eleanor waited.

Humphrey rode through the city towards Westminster. The people cheered him and that was a comfort. Strangely enough he had retained his popularity in spite of his failures. The people seemed to like some people and forgive them a good deal. They had never liked the Cardinal. They still thought of him as ‘Bastard’. It amazed Humphrey often how the most humble people attached such importance to birth and despised those who, although far above themselves, were not of the highest.

He was growing a little tired of all the conflict, but his feud with his uncle Cardinal could still arouse fighting excitement in him; he could see though that the Council was swaying towards Beaufort. Perhaps in time the people would.

He had squandered men and money in Jacqueline’s cause; he had married beneath him – not that he regretted that. Eleanor had been worth it. She could still please him, which was amazing considering how jaded he was. And she was loyal to him – or was that to herself? As he rose she had risen with him.

Oh, he was tired. He would go to the palace and there shut himself in with a new book which had just been sent to him. He was interested in the author and if he thought the book worthy he would arrange a pension for him.

He could hear shouting in the streets. Outside a house a crowd had assembled and guards were arresting a man.

Some malefactor, he thought. I wonder what his offence is?

The man was dressed in black – a strange-looking creature. ‘Who is he?’ he asked one of his attendants.

‘My lord, it is the soothsayer, Roger Bolingbroke. It has been said for a long time that he deals in black magic.’

‘Another of them. There are too many witches and such like in the country.’

He rode on to Westminster.

Eleanor was delighted to see him. They embraced warmly. Later she asked about the health of the King.

‘Never very robust,’ said the Duke. ‘It often amazes me that my brother should beget such a son.’

‘Not so well as normal, then?’ she asked.

‘Oh … he always looks sickly to me.’

She was exultant. It is working, she thought. Very slowly the wax was melting. When it had disappeared completely the King would be dead.

‘You had a good journey, my love?’

‘Oh fair enough. The people of London cheered me.’

‘Bless them. They have always been loyal to you. I set my trust in the people of London.’

‘I saw a fellow being arrested near St Paul’s.’

‘Oh?’ She was not interested. She was thinking of the slowly melting wax figure.

‘Some sort of witch. It’s time we looked into their activities a little more. Perhaps this is a sign.’

A sudden fear touched the Duchess.

‘A sort of witch … a man, did you say?’

‘They’re as bad as the women. This one looked the part. He was all in black … looked like the Devil himself.’

‘Oh … near St Paul’s you say?’

‘Yes, I think I’ve heard his name mentioned before. Seems to be quite a fashionable sort of rogue. It was Bolingbroke – Roger Bolingbroke.’

The Duchess felt a little faint. She steadied herself by taking his arm.

‘Are you all right, my love?’

‘I’m all right, Humphrey.’

‘Are you …’

No, she thought angrily, not pregnant. And Roger arrested. What does this mean?

She was soon to find out. The whole Court was talking of it. The arrest and questioning of Roger Bolingbroke had led to his accomplice Thomas Southwell being brought in, and they had had some connection with Margery Jourdemayne the Witch of Eye who had faced charges at Windsor some years before and owing to the dark powers she possessed had somehow escaped conviction.

The interest was growing. The houses of the prisoners had been searched and there was an upsurge of interest when a halfmelted figure of the King was discovered.

‘You can be sure,’ was the comment, ‘that people in high places are concerned with this.’

It seemed possible, for why should men in the position of these two, and a poor old woman of Eye, risk their lives to replace one King with another?

Passions were rising. This was not merely the discovery of another witch. This was witchcraft with treason.

The Duke of Gloucester was very uneasy. As the next in line for the throne he felt eyes were turned to him. He was afraid to raise the subject with Eleanor for a terrible suspicion had come to him.

As for Eleanor she was in a state of great anxiety. They must not mention her. She must not be involved in this. But if they decided to put the men and Margery to the torture what would they divulge?

They were not brave men, either of them. They were clerks, minor prelates … growing rich on practising the black arts.

And Margery, she had been in trouble before. How would she stand up to questioning? She had been ready to serve her Duchess assiduously … but that was when she was being paid.

Anxious days followed and when the two men and the Witch of Eye were found guilty of practising witchcraft and of treason no one was surprised.

It was a Sunday in July, hot and sultry. Bolingbroke was to be present at St Paul’s Cross where a stage had been set up. There he was to confess to the vast crowd which had gathered that he had practised the black arts. He now fully repented of his sins and was ready to pay whatever penalty was demanded of him.

Eleanor would have liked to be there but she dared not. She knew that Humphrey felt the same. He was not with her. He avoided her and she knew why.

But she had sent one of her women to mingle with the crowd and to report back to her everything that had been said.

She shut herself into her bedchamber. She must be alone. And at the same time she must give no indication that she felt an especial anxiety.

Already she knew that suspicious eyes were turned on her. People were asking themselves who would make a wax image of the King.

There was a knock at her door. It was the woman she had sent to St Paul’s. The woman’s eyes were wide and frantic.

‘My lady,’ she cried, ‘you must fly. Roger Bolingbroke has admitted he practised black magic and treason and he says he did so on your command.’

She stood up and was at once afraid her legs would not support her. This was what she had feared. She looked about her frantically.

Where was Humphrey? But could Humphrey help her now?

Then she knew what she must do.

‘Bring me my riding habit,’ she said.

‘My lady, where are you going?’

‘Away from here … before they come for me.’

She was helped into her riding habit. Her hands were trembling.

‘My lady, you will not get far …’

‘I know … but as far as I need, please God. I am going into sanctuary at Westminster.’

It was but a temporary refuge. She had needed it while she thought of what she must do.

Humphrey did not come to her. He dared not. This was entirely her affair. If he showed his sympathy with her he would immediately stand with her, accused.

No, she had used Humphrey. She had arranged this alone; now she must pay the penalty.

For a few days she was comfortless in Westminster. Some of her attendants came to her and brought her news of what was going on. Bolingbroke, Southwell and the Witch of Eye were all in the Tower. It would go ill with them. Old Margery would not escape this time.

It was no comfort to know that a tribunal was being set up in St Stephen’s Chapel, that it was headed by the Cardinal Beaufort and Archbishop Ayscough to enquire into charges of necromancy, witchcraft, heresy and treason. A formidable list of accusations.

Eleanor lay in discomfort in the sanctuary. To think she had come to this after her spectacular rise to fortune! The serving-woman of no account to become Duchess of Gloucester ! Oh, if only she had remained content. But when were the ambitious ever content? First she had sought to displace the Duke’s wife and having done that, to displace the King.

It would have worked, she thought angrily, but for those fools Bolingbroke and Southwell. How could they be so foolish as to get arrested … and then to mention her! It was unforgivable.

She was called upon to attend St Stephen’s to answer the charges brought against her. She would stand up to them. She had always been able to defend herself.

She was brought before them. Defiantly she faced them.

Yes, she had visited the Witch of Eye. She had bought lotions from her. She might have bought a spell.

She had used this, had she, to lure the Duke of Gloucester from his wife?

Oh no. It was only after he had parted from his wife, when she, Eleanor, had become his mistress. She had wanted to make their love respectable.

‘Did the Duke know of these spells used against him?’

‘The spells, my lords, would have been useless had they been known. And they were not used against him … only to procure his greater happiness.’

‘And the waxen image?’

She would confess to the lords that she longed for a child. She had been foolish. She had thought these people could help her. That was why she had asked them to make a waxen image.

‘And to burn it slowly …’

‘My lords, I knew nothing of that.’

She might be wily but she did not deceive them. All the accused were indicted of treason. The three necromancers were sent back to the Tower, and Eleanor was placed under constraint in Leeds Castle until such time as there should be a further inquiry.

Leeds Castle in the lovely county of Kent was very beautiful, standing on two islands as it did, connected by a double drawbridge, but the beauty of her surroundings meant nothing to Eleanor. She was now awaiting a summons to appear before her judges and she was afraid.

Humphrey had not been near her. In a way she understood. He dared not. By coming to her he risked his life. He was the first suspect in this plot to murder the King; and he must show that he was entirely ignorant of it.

She was alone. She must defend herself. She wondered what they would do to her. They did not believe her when she said that the image was of a baby she longed to have.

October had come; the leaves were being torn from the trees; there was a warning of winter in the chill which came off the water that lapped the castle walls. She looked from her window across that water to the profusion of trees and the bronze carpet of leaves beneath them. She wanted to go out there and ride in the woods. She wanted to be free to go and come as she pleased.

Why had she not been content with what she had, when she had been given so much?

The summons came. Once again she was to attend St Stephen’s Chapel where a special commission, on which sat the Earls of Suffolk, Stafford and Huntingdon, had been set up.

They eyed her disdainfully – a woman of no breeding, they had never been able to understand why the Duke had married her. A lusty mistress no doubt … but a Duchess, and the Duchess of Gloucester, the highest in the land … next the King!

Next the King! Ah, there was the reason.

She defended herself ably enough. She clung to the story that the image had been of the child for which she longed. She could not convince them though, for she could not explain why when it was found it had been half-melted away.

She was found guilty with the rest. The Witch of Eye was to be burned at the stake, and Bolingbroke and Southwell were to suffer the traitor’s fearsome death of hanging, drawing and quartering.

She saw them turn pale when they were sentenced … all except Margery who had come to terms with her terrible fate. After all she had come close to it before.

And now it was Eleanor’s turn. She was guilty of conspiring against the life of the King. Only her nobility acquired through marriage and her connection with royalty saved her from the terrible fate of her fellow conspirators.

She was to be imprisoned for life but before she was taken to her prison would be required to walk barefoot through the streets of London carrying a taper which she would offer at various churches as yet to be named. For three days she should do this before she was taken off to her lifelong prison.

It was a holiday in London when the executions were due to take place. People crowded into the streets not to be done out of one little bit of excitement. Some went to Smithfield to watch the witch burn. Poor Margery Jourdemayne who had confounded her accusers some ten years before at Windsor and could not repeat her success in this more serious charge. She was philosophical until the flames began to touch her feet. It was one of the hazards of a witch’s life.

And then the agony started. ‘Save me God,’ she prayed; and then protesting, ‘Oh Lord, why did you send the lady Duchess to me!’

She was old and oil had been poured on the wood to make it burn quicker, so the agony was not prolonged.

So died poor Margery Jourdemayne, the Witch of Eye-next-Westminster.

The fortunate member of the party was Thomas Southwell. He had lived in an agony of fear since he had been arrested and when his terrible sentence was pronounced against him he was in such a state of shock that he scarcely knew what was happening to him, and when his guards went to arouse him on the morning fixed for his execution they found him dead. He had died of fright.

Not so Roger Bolingbroke; he suffered the entire grisly performance and his severed head was in due course set up on London Bridge and his limbs sent to Oxford, Cambridge, Hereford and York for as far afield as these cities the people had heard of the plot which the Duchess of Gloucester had contrived with these felons to kill the King and set up her husband in his place.

She walked barefoot through the city streets carrying a candle which weighed two pounds in weight. People came out to stare at her, to call names at her. Murderess, they said.

She looked neither to the right nor to the left. From Temple Gate to St Paul’s she walked and there she set the candle on the altar. People crowded round her, plucking at her robes, reviling her.

This was the worst of all. She had been able to endure confinement in Leeds Castle but to be thus humiliated for one of her pride was punishment indeed.

She had still two more penances to perform and with only one day in between to bathe her aching feet blistered from walking barefoot over the dirty cobbled streets, she must start again. This was a Saturday and she must parade from the Swan in Thames Street to Christchurch and on the next day, Sunday, from St Paul’s to St Peter’s in Cornhill.

How they scorned her! How they loved to see the once mighty fallen low! Not so long ago when she rode through these streets, these people would have called out ‘Long live the noble Duchess’ and hope that she would throw a coin at them.

Now they were against her. They called her Murderess. They believed she had tried to kill their beloved King.

And after this, what was there but imprisonment for the rest of her life?

And Humphrey? Would he come to her?

She had arrived at St Peter’s in Cornhill. The penance was over. Now they were ready to pass her into the hands of her gaoler. Sir Thomas Stanley had been chosen for this role and he was waiting to take her to Chester Castle while they decided where she should finally be incarcerated.

So had the mighty fallen. Here was an end to her ambitious hopes. The King would be married soon. He would produce a son. There would be no crown for Eleanor.

Humphrey was old and tired. Everything had gone wrong. Eleanor’s ambitious folly had ruined their life together. He saw little of her. She had been sent to Kenilworth Castle and remained a prisoner there; and now there was talk of sending her to the Isle of Man.

He missed her; and he had tried soon after the sentence to bring about her freedom. Noble ladies, he declared, should be tried by their peers in the spirit of Magna Carta. It would have been possible to buy her freedom, surely. But he was out of favour. The King was growing up. Henry was horrified that there should have been this plot against him; moreover he refused to believe that his Uncle Humphrey was not involved with his wife.

‘I shall never trust my uncle again,’ he was reported to have said; and Humphrey knew his nephew well enough to realise that once such an idea came into Henry’s mind it would stay there.

Instead of furthering their ambitions Eleanor had blighted them forever. Everywhere he was baulked. The King was to marry and not the princess of Humphrey’s choice. Once Humphrey’s great enemy had been the Cardinal. He was still an enemy but he had been superseded in that respect by William de la Pole, the Earl of Suffolk. As Humphrey fell in the King’s favour so Suffolk rose.

Suffolk had become very friendly with the Duke of Orléans who had been imprisoned in England since Agincourt; it was Suffolk who had arranged his release; and now listening to his advice was supporting the idea of a marriage between the King and Margaret of Anjou.

Humphrey wished for a marriage with the daughter of the Count of Armagnac but ever since Eleanor’s trial young Henry remained suspicious of everything his uncle said and did.

Henry was emerging as a King who found it difficult to make up his own mind about anything. He was going to be weak, that much was evident. Such a King set the minds of ambitious men afire for power. Suffolk was just such a man. He was in close amity with the Cardinal, but that was safe for the Cardinal was an old man and had been ailing for some time. Suffolk’s great enemy was Gloucester; and, since Gloucester’s position had been considerably weakened through suspicion of being concerned with his wife in a plot to get rid of the King, he presented no great threat.

Gloucester was very much aware of this. He no longer had Eleanor to bolster up his confidence and give him that solace which it seemed she alone could give him. It was not that he was an old man but the life he had led had taken such a toll of his health, and there were times when a listlessness came over him and he did not greatly care about Suffolk’s successes.

It was Suffolk who was sent to France to bring home the King’s bride; it was Suffolk who was promoted to a marquisate; it was Suffolk who was in high favour with the new Queen. He was ready to take his place as chief adviser to the King as soon as the Cardinal died – which could not be long. And there was one whom he was determined to destroy – and that was Gloucester. Moreover fate seemed to be on his side.

Oh Eleanor, he thought, you wanted too much for us. We should have been content with what we had. Now you have lost that … and it seems I am likely to do the same.

Henry had made it clear that he had no wish to see him. He did not trust his uncle and felt very uneasy in his presence. He had strengthened his bodyguards.

‘I have my enemies,’ he said, and everyone knew he was thinking of Gloucester.

However Humphrey still remained protector of the country; and this was a situation which could not be allowed to continue.

Parliament was meeting at Bury St Edmunds, and Humphrey had decided he would appear there and ask for the release of his wife. If he could take her away he would go and live with her in retirement.

Attended by about eight horsemen, most of whom were Welsh, he made his way to Bury to join the Parliament there. His intention was to stay the night in some lodging in the North Spital of St Saviours on the Thetford Road. It was eleven o’clock in the morning as he came through Southgate.

Rumours had been in circulation that he was gathering an army to come against the King and Suffolk. It was said that he had gone to Wales to raise this army. It was a story set about by his enemies. He had no heart for such a project. He had finished with ambition from the moment he realised where Eleanor’s had sent her.

No, his one thought now was to make peace with the King and get Eleanor released. Then they would make a new life together.

A messenger was riding towards him and he could see from his livery that he came from the King.

‘Orders, my lord Duke,’ cried the messenger.

‘Orders for me?’

‘From the King, my lord. You are to proceed without delay to your lodging and there you shall stay until made aware of the King’s pleasure.’

Gloucester had no alternative but to obey and accordingly went straight to his lodgings.

A meal was awaiting him and as he ate he wondered what his enemies had in mind for him.

One or two of his friends were with him. There were not many of them left and he contemplated how friends fell away from a man in times of disaster.

They talked of the King and the Queen who seemed to be gaining a great influence over her weak lord; and of Suffolk who with Beaufort seemed now to be ruling the country. Not for long. The Queen was showing her mettle. She was a forthright young lady although as yet but seventeen years old.

‘I shall see the King,’ said Gloucester, ‘and ask him to release my wife. Then I shall be ready to relieve myself of the trappings of office and cosset myself a little.’

‘You will soon recover your health then, my lord.’

He wondered. He had felt less well since he had arrived at the inn.

Sometimes he was nauseated and could not bear to eat the food they put before him.

Why did they keep him a prisoner here? Why could he not go to the Parliament and state his desire to hand over his power, to retire into obscurity with a wife who, if she had ever indulged in plots, had learned her lesson now?

His manservant had alarming news for him.

‘My lord,’ he said, ‘members of your household have been arrested. Your enemies are saying that they conspired to kill the King and place you on the throne.’

‘It is nonsense,’ he cried, and he thought: Oh Eleanor, how could you? See what doubts and suspicions you have set in motion!

‘Your son Arthur has been taken.’

‘No … no … He did nothing. His only fault is that he is my son.’

‘They will prove nothing against him.’

‘They will tell the world they have proved what they wish to prove.’

He rose from the dinner table. He could not eat. He wanted to be alone to think. This sudden illness was robbing him of all will to live. He, great Gloucester, brother to one King, uncle to another, was a prisoner in this lodging house. They were going to condemn him; they were going to call him traitor. What would they do to him? Cut off his head as they had those of some of his ancestors? And if they decided to they would do it quickly so that there could be no outcry to save him.

He saw it all clearly. He had too many powerful enemies. The Cardinal was benign compared with Suffolk. He had tried to influence the King … but others had done better than that and ever since Eleanor’s trial he had been suspect.

He made his way to his sleeping apartments. He felt so weak that he must die.

He was ill … close to death perhaps. There were times when he felt like it.

He lay still. Footsteps outside the room. Someone was coming. He felt too ill to care.

The door opened slowly. Someone was standing there.

They said that his health, ruined by the life he had led, had suddenly given way. He had been ailing for some time.

Yet there were still some to say that his death was very sudden.

The lords and knights of the Parliament were gathered close by and many of them came to look at his body.

They reported to the King that there were no signs of violence. He must remember that the Duke had not been in good health for some time now.

It was ordered that he should be put into a leaden coffin. He had already had a beautiful vault made for himself in St Albans. Let him be taken there and buried with the ceremony which it was proper to perform at the burial of a royal Duke.

Eleanor was stunned by the news. She knew now that she would be a prisoner until the end of her life.

She had been taken from Kenilworth to the Isle of Man, and as she looked out on the seething waters she would gaze with longing towards the mainland and think of all that she had lost.

They had murdered her husband, she was sure. She should have been with him to protect him. She was deeply touched to hear that he had been on his way to the Parliament to try to secure a pardon for her.

Sometimes at night she fancied she heard the screams of Margery Jourdemayne and the moans of agony which must have come from Roger Bolingbroke in his last moments.

And Humphrey … the mystery of his death would haunt her for the rest of her life, and she would ask herself as many people throughout the country were asking and would continue to ask for years to come: Did he die naturally? He had been ill; he was prematurely aged though he had lived fifty-six years and often riotously. Or did some assassin steal into his room on that fateful day?

She could not be sure. Only his murderers – if murderers there had been – would know.

All she could do was look ahead to the weary years which awaited her, and to contemplate how different her life might have been if she had been contented with what she had and had not attempted to stretch out to snatch a golden crown.