Authors: Mari Griffith
She wondered what fate it would reveal to her. Perhaps she could learn to use the astrolabe herself, to foretell her own future, her husband’s future, even the King’s future. After all, if her husband’s nephew was as unwell as he looked today, maybe he really was ill. And if that was the case, well, she should at least prepare herself mentally for the prospect that Humphrey might one day inherit the throne, together with all the implications of what that meant for her.
It was possible. He was next in line, after all.
Early September 1436
––––––––
I
t wasn’t so much a meeting of superior ecclesiastical intellects, as a reunion of old friends. Cardinal Henry Beaufort sat at one side of the table in the elegant dining hall of the Bishop of Winchester’s London residence at Southwark and his friend John Kemp, Archbishop of York, sat opposite him. Between them lay the remains of a roast pheasant with golden leeks and onions boiled in saffron. The two men were now thoroughly enjoying a cherry pottage.
‘It’s good to be back in England,’ said Archbishop Kemp. ‘I seem to spend my life going back and forth to France and I don’t think French food is all it’s made out to be. Give me a good English roast any day of the week.’
‘Which is your favourite?’ asked Henry Beaufort.
‘Oh, I don’t have a preference: beef, venison, pheasant, pork, chicken. Really, I don’t mind which.’
‘Not mutton?’
‘I always find mutton a little greasy,’ said Kemp, ‘unless it has a sprig or two of mint in the pan.’
‘I agree,’ said Beaufort, wiping his mouth with his napkin. ‘The best part of a sheep is its fleece. That’s worth a good deal of money these days.’
Kemp gave his friend a shrewd look. ‘And you should know that better than most people,’ he said.
Beaufort smiled without rancour. It was a well-known fact that he, the richest man in England, had made a substantial part of his wealth off the back of the humble sheep, he wouldn’t deny it.
‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘the wool trade has done well by me.’
He didn’t need to elaborate. After spooning up the last delicious morsel of cherry pottage, he laid his napkin on the table and leaned back in his chair.
‘Have you ever noticed, John, that we always use the English name for the live animal but, more often than not, we’ll use the French word for the meat or the cooked dish?’
‘Do we?’
‘Yes. Think about it: pig becomes pork when it’s cooked, a cow becomes beef, deer becomes venison, sheep becomes mutton, chicken becomes poultry. Odd, isn’t it?’
‘It’s not the only odd thing about France. I’m heartily sick of the sight of the place, though I suppose I shall have to keep going back there until we’ve achieved some measure of peace.’ Archbishop Kemp had been a member of several peace delegations in recent years, including the previous year’s disastrous Congress of Arras.
‘Hasten the day,’ Beaufort agreed. ‘We both set so much store by achieving success at Arras, didn’t we?’
‘We did, as did every other member of that delegation. And its failure only served to bring Philip of Burgundy closer to his kinsman and support the Dauphin’s claim to call himself King Charles VII of France.’
‘We’d be well rid of the damned country.’
‘Well, Henry, don’t tell your nephew Gloucester that! Especially not now that he seems to have brought Calais into line. He’s like the cat that got the cream, from what I understand. The party he and his wife threw a week ago was the most ostentatious gathering the country has ever seen.’
‘So vulgar!’ said Henry Beaufort with disdain. ‘And so typical of the pair of them, Humphrey and that dreadful woman he married. I take it you didn’t receive an invitation to join them?’
The Archbishop gave a short laugh. ‘What do you think, Henry? And I wouldn’t have gone anywhere near La Pleasaunce, even if I had. I’d have made any excuse not to go. His Highness the King was there though, or so I’m told.’
‘He seems quite fond of his awful aunt, though I can’t imagine why. But then, she’s always trying to butter up him, make him laugh. Such unbecoming behaviour.’
John Kemp smiled. ‘Well, he’s still just a boy, of course. Probably misses his mother when she’s away from court so much, though I’m told she was with him at the Gloucesters’ party, so I expect they both enjoyed it.’
Beaufort was silent for a moment. He knew exactly why the Dowager Queen Catherine chose to stay away from court but he wasn’t at all sure how much Archbishop Kemp knew about her situation. If Kemp was aware of Catherine’s clandestine marriage to Owen Tudor, he had never said anything about it, not even to his old friend. Best let sleeping dogs lie.
‘You could be right,’ was all he said.
***
R
oger Bolingbroke could hardly contain himself as he watched his employer unwrap an object which had been packed with considerable care. The astrolabe had been delivered from France while the Duke and Duchess were in La Pleasaunce. Now that they had returned to Westminster, he would see the wondrous instrument at last. He had spent most of the night on tenterhooks of excitement and was awake before dawn.
‘Of course,’ said the Duke of Gloucester, ‘I have come across several of these before and, indeed, I have read Master Chaucer’s treatise on the subject, as far as it goes. Incomplete, but very interesting.’
‘I think the Duchess was a little disappointed to realise the work was unfinished, Your Grace. Perhaps I should not have recommended it to her. I’m so sorry.’ For some reason, Roger Bolingbroke seemed to feel the need to apologise on behalf of Geoffrey Chaucer. The Duke of Gloucester had that effect on him.
They were sitting together at a fine oak table in the Library at the Palace of Westminster. It was an elegant room, its high walls hung with tapestries, a fire of pine logs piled high in the hearth and, on the floor, a finely knotted woollen carpet of Persian origin, brought back from the Crusades. Bolingbroke was not accustomed to such luxury. What impressed him most was the number of books which almost filled the shelves along one wall. There must have been a hundred or more, sumptuously bound volumes which had belonged to the late King Henry V or his brother John of Bedford and were now owned by Humphrey of Gloucester. How wonderful, Bolingbroke thought, to be rich enough to afford such an extensive library.
The Duke removed the last of the wrapping cloths and set a brass astrolabe on the table alongside a decanter of Burgundy wine. Gloucester’s wineglass stood beside it, half empty: Magister Bolingbroke had yet to touch his. Adjusting the spectacles on the narrow bridge of his nose, Bolingbroke was almost sniffing the air in anticipation.
‘Here it is,’ said the Duke, ‘an astrolabe made in the Paris workshop of Jean Fusoris, the greatest manufacturer in France. It has been made according to my instruction that it should be designed specifically for use at this latitude, here in London. This astrolabe, Magister, is the best that money can buy.’
Once he had got over his initial, speechless wonder at the sight of the instrument, Bolingbroke was effusive in his thanks. ‘It was most kind of you to remember your promise, Your Grace. I really did not expect that you would bring anything as fine as this back from France. It will help me immeasurably with my work. I don’t know how I can ever repay you.’
‘You must not think of repaying me, Magister,’ said the Duke. ‘Just use it to further your academic research. I will be happy enough with that.’
‘I don’t know how I would have managed to do any work at all if I had stayed in Oxford,’ said Bolingbroke, ‘I would never have been able to afford such a wonderful instrument as this. Neither would I have been able to buy my spectacles. You are most generous!’
Humphrey nodded and smiled condescendingly. It pleased him to think that England’s finest scholars were indebted to him. The expense of housing them under his roof or entertaining them at his table or even buying them spectacles was nothing compared with the way they enhanced his reputation. It was a fine thing to be a patron of such men. After all, his grandfather, the great John of Gaunt, had been Chaucer’s patron: it was a tradition well worth maintaining. He looked up as the door opened.
‘Ah, there you are, Nell, my sweet,’ he rose to greet his wife as she entered the room accompanied by two of her ladies. ‘I’m glad you could join us. Magister Bolingbroke is inspecting his new astrolabe and says he’s delighted with it. I’m sure he can’t wait to demonstrate it to you.’
Gloucester was pleased at the interruption: enthusing over fine scientific instruments was all very well, but there were other things in a man’s life.
‘My Lord,’ Eleanor gave her hand to Humphrey to be kissed and his lips lingered warm on her skin for a moment before his tongue probed between her fingers, making her smile. The significance of the covert gesture was not lost upon her, though the deed itself would have to wait until later. She turned to Bolingbroke.
‘Good morning, Magister. So, this is the famous astrolabe. At last!’
Bolingbroke had risen to offer her his chair and she sat, her eyes widening as she looked at the astrolabe for the first time. It was an odd-looking instrument, the size of a pewter dinner plate, engraved with symbols around its outer rim. Eleanor could see that it actually consisted of five brass discs, each as thin as vellum, fretted with open work in places and highly polished. The discs, mounted one above the other, were held together with a pivoted pointer enabling each one to rotate freely and allowing the user to align the engraved symbols on each disc. On closer inspection, she saw that these symbols were letters of the alphabet, degrees of the compass, zodiac signs, the names of stars and planets, days of the week, months of the year, and equinoxes. Here too were all the saints’ days and holy days. So much information! How would she ever learn how to use such a thing?
‘It looks very difficult to understand, Magister,’ she said.
‘Not really, Your Grace. It’s a matter of familiarity, and having a little knowledge of the spheres.’
Eleanor looked up as her maid, Sarah, slid quietly into the room through the half-opened door and whispered to one of her ladies.
‘Yes, what is it?’ Eleanor disliked interruptions.
The Lady Anne crossed the room and bent down to murmur something in Eleanor’s ear.
‘Very well, tell her I will receive her shortly,’ Eleanor said, ‘it will do her no harm to wait.’ Then, turning once more to Bolingbroke and her husband, she added, ‘I’m so sorry, I’m afraid I will have to leave you. Someone needs to see me as a matter of urgency. Well, Magister, it will take me some considerable time to master this instrument, but I certainly look forward to having my first tuition from you. Could we arrange it for next week, do you think?’
‘I’m sure we can, Your Grace. I will arrange it with Canon Hume.’ Bolingbroke bowed to Eleanor as she rose, took her fond leave of her husband and left the room, her ladies trailing behind her in an elegant swish of skirts.
Though Eleanor had not identified her visitor, Humphrey made the assumption that it was Margery Jourdemayne, since he knew she was one of the few people whom Eleanor would see without a prior appointment. The woman was always calling on his wife, pressing her to try this face cream or that hand lotion. Still, he didn’t think it could do much harm – women would always want to buy creams and lotions and such things to enable them to attract and keep a man. He understood that well enough and he was glad Eleanor still wanted to please him. He considered himself fortunate among men, having an attractive wife to pleasure his body and men of science to stimulate his intellect. He resumed his seat next to Roger Bolingbroke.
‘Now, Magister,’ he said, ‘where were we?’
***
T
he Duchess of Gloucester had been very surprised by the urgent tone of the Lady Anne’s whispered message that Margery wanted to see her on a matter of great importance.
‘You’d better have a good reason for this, Margery,’ she said without preamble as the woman rose from her seat in the ante-room to the Duchess’s private apartment. ‘Why couldn’t you wait until your appointment? I was in a meeting with His Grace the Duke and two of our advisers on important business.’
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Your Grace, but I have a good reason for doing so. This has been my first chance to see you since your return to Westminster. And I have discovered something very interesting I thought you should know.’
‘Which is?’
‘Well, if you remember, Your Grace, you asked me to attend your reception at La Pleasaunce and pay particular attention to the needs of the Dowager Queen Catherine.’
‘Yes, yes, of course. So did you find out anything? Tell me. I need to know.’
Eleanor was becoming agitated now, standing a little too close to Margery, examining her face closely.
‘As you instructed, Your Grace, I spent as much time as I could in waiting on her and she did ask me to find her a chair and a glass of wine when she said she was feeling faint. She was clearly very uncomfortable.’
‘Well, yes, it was hot in that pavilion.’
‘It wasn’t merely the heat which was affecting her.’ Margery paused, to gain the maximum impact for the statement she was about to make. ‘Your Grace, the Dowager Queen Catherine is pregnant.’
‘What!’ The Duchess stood stock still, open-mouthed, astounded. ‘Pregnant! How can she possibly have become pregnant?’
‘Presumably, Your Grace, in much the same way as any other woman becomes pregnant.’ Margery could have bitten her tongue – Her Grace’s nerves were very raw on the subject of pregnancy, but fortunately she appeared not to have noticed the
faux pas
.
‘Yes, but ... but by whom? Has she married while she’s been away from court? Surely not! We’d have known. But then who ... not Edmund Beaufort ... there was a rumour. But no, it can’t be, not now. He’s in France. Besides, he’s married to Eleanor Beauchamp and she’s breeding like a rabbit by all accounts.’ She looked stunned. ‘Margery, how do you know that the Dowager Queen is pregnant? Did she tell you?’
‘Oh, no, Your Grace. She didn’t need to. I could tell by looking at her. She was showing all the signs. Despite the cut of her gown I could see that she’s ... well, she’s thick in the waist and there were shadows under her eyes. Her face was blotchy, too. It’s always easy to tell, especially in the summer. Yes, I would say she has a baby due in about four months. I thought you should know.’