The Witch of Eye (26 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

A
t this time of an afternoon it was usually fairly quiet in the farmhouse kitchen and Jenna expected to find Mistress Jourdemayne at work in her own room, making up her clients’ orders. Her heart always quickened as she opened the door but it was only very rarely that she had encountered William and on those few occasions when their meeting was unavoidable, he greeted her briefly and asked after her health, then made a hurried exit as soon as he decently could. Neither of them dared take the conversation any further.

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

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

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

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

‘Still using it, then, is she?’

‘Oh, yes. She still swears by it.’

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

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

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

Men – they were so easy to manage.

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

‘So how is Her Grace these days?

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

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

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

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

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

‘That’s what Sarah always said.’

‘Yes, so she did. How is Sarah?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

But an accusation of sorcery had turned everything sour for Margery and she bitterly resented every moment she had spent in prison. Had John Virley not also been sentenced, she would have suspected him of informing on her. The man had the look of a sneak about him and after all, she had spurned his sexual advances often enough. Though she still glimpsed him occasionally on the streets of Westminster as he went about his business, he had never spoken to her since.

On her eventual release, Margery had been made to give her word, on pain of death, that she would never again have anything to do with sorcery and the black arts. She was only too glad to give that assurance. She was also grateful to William who had readily believed her version of the story, collecting together enough money for her ransom and opening his arms to welcome her back home to Eye.

But she was powerless to stop the malicious, ill-informed gossip, which credited her with being able to raise corpses from the dead and whispered that fiends and fairies were her familiars. Absolute nonsense, of course, but she had been forced to work very hard to restore her own good reputation as a wise woman. Nowadays there were few who had the temerity to call her the Witch of Eye – not to her face, anyway.

Her reputation was still a fragile thing and she couldn’t run the risk of anything like that ever happening again. This plan was her last resort because it involved the making of waxen images and, it if went wrong, she might be risking more than her reputation. She could be risking her life.

Margery had learned the craft of working with wax from a gipsy woman whom she had originally consulted about the Romani techniques of fortune-telling. But she had also been surprisingly adept at shaping softened wax into life-like flowers. Surely, it would do no harm to try to fashion a little poppet in the shape of a baby, its small body of fine linen plumped out with warm wax into which she had mixed all the herbs, spices and minerals which were known to aid conception.

She would strengthen its power by mixing into it some snippets from strands of the Duchess Eleanor’s own hair which she had managed to steal from a comb on Her Grace’s dressing table. And with Jenna working for the Duchess as her personal maid, it might be possible to obtain the most powerful ingredient of all – some of Her Grace’s menstrual blood on a scrap of linen: that was almost a guarantee of success. It wouldn’t be easy but, somehow, she would have to trick Jenna into providing her with that.

Then, having created the little poppet, she would swaddle it in a tiny blanket of the softest lamb’s wool, place it in one of her small wicker baskets and cover it with a scrap of satin, just like a cradle.

No one need know.

Early autumn 1439

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M
agister Roger Bolingbroke and Canon Thomas Southwell were sitting next to each other on a bench outside the library at the Palace of Westminster. Between them, carefully wrapped in a padded, soft leather bag for protection was the precious astrolabe.

‘Her Grace has surely not forgotten us,’ said Southwell, drumming his fingers on the scrip balanced on his plump knees. ‘How long do you estimate we have been waiting?’

Bolingbroke looked at him over his spectacles. ‘Mmm? I’m sorry, Canon, what did you say?’

‘I said we seem to have been waiting for ... ah, here’s Hume.’

Walking briskly towards them was the Duke and Duchess’s secretary, Canon John Hume, a tall, taciturn man who wore a belligerent expression.

‘Her Grace has sent for you,’ he said. ‘Today, she would like you to attend her in her private withdrawing room. Follow me.’

Southwell turned to Bolingbroke, his eyebrows raised in an enquiring arc as they got up from the bench and prepared to follow Canon Hume. With purposeful strides, Hume led the way, towering head and shoulders above the rotund Canon Southwell who scuttled behind him, anxious to keep pace. Bringing up the rear, the stooped figure of Magister Bolingbroke was bent protectively over the astrolabe he carried.

Hume said nothing and offered no explanation for the change of plan. The two clerics followed him away from the public areas of the palace where these meetings usually took place, and towards the rooms where the royal family had their private accommodation.

‘Your advisers are here, Your Grace,’ said Hume as he opened a door and showed them into the presence of Her Grace, the Duchess of Gloucester.

‘Gentlemen,’ she greeted them, ‘I’m pleased to see you.’ She turned and gestured imperiously to her maid. ‘That will be all, Jenna. You may leave me.’

‘Thank you, Your Grace.’ Jenna curtsied then, picking up a cup, a dirty plate and a basket of embroidery threads, she left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.