Authors: Mari Griffith
The Duchess rose from her chair and took a seat at the head of the table, gesturing to Southwell and Bolingbroke to be seated on either side of her.
‘Now,’ she said, ‘I expect you are wondering why I have decided to receive you here rather than in the library where we usually meet.’
‘It is a pleasure to meet you anywhere, Your Grace,’ said Southwell, ‘and we are very privileged to be invited to attend you in your private withdrawing room. Are we not, Bolingbroke?’
‘Quite so, quite so,’ said Roger Bolingbroke, staring about him at the rich colours of the tapestries, which hung on every wall. He was seldom privy to such obvious wealth.
‘Magister Bolingbroke, I trust you’ve brought the astrolabe with you?’
‘Of course, Your Grace.’ He began unpacking the precious scientific instrument. ‘In fact, I particularly hoped you might want us to use the astrolabe for you today, since I have spent a great deal of time working with the instrument of late, perfecting my techniques, and I feel entirely at ease with it. I seem to have mastered the art of using it for divination.’
‘That is excellent news,’ said the Duchess. ‘Divination is precisely what I have in mind.’
Canon Southwell produced several sheets of parchment from his scrip. ‘I have taken the liberty, Your Grace,’ he said, ‘of preparing a new astral chart, based on the information you have given us about the time and place of your birth. It is unfortunate, however, that you cannot be more precise about the exact time of day you were born.’
‘Is it really that important?’ she asked.
‘The more detail we can put into the chart, the better,’ Southwell replied.
‘But we can obtain a very reasonable reading from the information we already have,’ said Bolingbroke, anxious to allay Her Grace’s fears. Producing the astrolabe from its padded bag with the air of a conjuror in a jongleur’s entertainment, he placed it in the centre of the table. ‘There! Now Your Grace, we can begin whenever you wish.’
Eleanor rested her elbow on the table and cradled her chin in her hand. She was looking intently at Roger Bolingbroke.
‘Just before we do, Magister ...’ she said, hesitating, then with a sharp intake of breath she went on, ‘tell me ... how difficult is it to cast a horoscope for someone else?’
‘For someone else? Well, given that the basic information is available, Your Grace, it is just as easy to cast a horoscope for one person as it is for another. Did you, perhaps, wish us to cast a horoscope for His Grace the Duke, my Lady?’
‘Your Grace.’
‘Mmm?’ Bolingbroke realised his error and blushed. ‘Oh, yes, of course. I’m so sorry ... Your Grace.’
Canon Southwell came to the Magister’s rescue. ‘It is possible to produce an accurate horoscope for anyone,’ he said. ‘Indeed, I myself produced one for His Grace the Duke before he left for Calais two years ago, predicting his great success in that campaign.’
‘Yes, of course, so you did. I remember now.’
‘Do you wish us to produce another one for him, Your Grace?’
‘No,’ said Eleanor. ‘No, not for my husband. But I do want you to use your skills in casting a horoscope for someone else and this is the reason why I wanted this meeting between us to be in private today.’
She paused for a moment, looking at the two faces fixed expectantly on her own. ‘I must tell you, gentlemen, that I have become more and more concerned recently about the health of my noble husband’s nephew, the King.’
‘The King!’ Southwell’s eyes widened. ‘Surely you do not wish us to cast a horoscope for the King, Your Grace? That might be construed as ...’ he paused, hesitating to add the word ‘treason’ to the end of his sentence.
‘I think merely that it might be a way of finding out exactly what ails His Highness,’ said Eleanor firmly, ‘thereby enabling his uncle, my husband, to help him back to the best of health. The King is prone to melancholia and he is more pale and listless than usual these days. I am very concerned about him.’
‘But what of his learned physician?’ asked Bolingbroke. ‘John Somerset is a doctor of great distinction and he has looked after the King devotedly since he was a small child. Surely Somerset will know what is best for him.’
‘And I’m sure His Highness is very appreciative of that,’ added Southwell.
‘I’m sure he is,’ said the Duchess, treading carefully, ‘he must be. But we have to remember that the King is at an age where his thoughts must surely be turning to young women, to romance and chivalry. A lot of young men are very shy about it. It could be causing an excess of black bile in His Highness and perhaps he does not wish to discuss it with his physician. We must bear in mind that there will soon be the question of a suitable royal marriage for him so, in order to do what’s best for him, we need to know how he feels about things of this nature. Without upsetting him, of course. That’s where I believe the astrolabe might help us.’
Eleanor was watching the way in which her advisers were responding to her suggestion. She was well aware that any attempt to foretell what would happen in the King’s life would be frowned upon by every court in the land, civil or ecclesiastical. It could, in fact, be regarded as a crime, a treasonous act, and would bring down the harshest punishment on the head of the perpetrator. That was why she must be so very, very careful in making sure that neither Southwell nor Bolingbroke would betray her.
But she had reached the point of desperation. King Henry was such a dismal young man, so negative and lacklustre. Now, at the age of eighteen, he should be delighted with life, ambitious for himself and for his country, savouring carnal pleasures, jousting, hunting, wenching and doing all the other things that healthy young men of great wealth would normally want to do. Instead, he immersed himself in his books and spent an inordinate amount of time on his knees in St Stephen’s Chapel or in visiting the Westminster monastery to engage in theological debate.
Irritated and infuriated by the King’s attitude and lack of motivation, Eleanor could not imagine him leading the country into anything but oblivion. He seemed to care not one jot about France, the country his own father and uncles had fought so hard to conquer.
At the core of her frustration was the need to know whether he would survive his troubled teenage years and marry, then go on to become a successful king. She doubted it. Her husband would do the job so much more effectively – with herself at his side as Queen.
That was the future she hoped to see.
***
M
argery had spent several days in preparing carefully for the interview she had requested with the Duchess and now, as she waited in the ante-room outside Her Grace’s private withdrawing room, her heart was racing with anxiety. Once she had revealed her plan, she knew her fate would hang in the balance. She’d never be able to retract her words and if she should deny that she’d ever made any such suggestion, the Duchess’ word would count for considerably more than hers. The wife of a stockman would hardly be believed. Either Eleanor would accept her proposal with enthusiasm or she would banish her from court and ruin her. The risk was enormous, but all her dreams for the future were at stake. She must tread carefully.
Startled by the sound of the door opening, she rose from her seat as calmly as she could, smiling as Eleanor beckoned her in. The Duchess was entirely alone, there was no sign of any of her ladies.
‘Come in, Margery,’ the Duchess greeted her, closing the door behind her. ‘I’m glad I wasn’t too busy to see you. That coffer looks very heavy. Put it down over there.’ She indicated a table near the window. ‘So, tell me, what brings you here today? You mentioned some experiments with new combinations of flower fragrances. Were you successful?’
‘Up to a point, Your Grace. I have been looking at the possibilities of angelica. We know it as a culinary plant but the root combines well with lavender. I am still working on its possibilities. I’m not sure yet.’
‘Then what...’
Margery took a deep breath: the moment had come. ‘By your leave, Your Grace, please tell me if you think I’m speaking out of turn but, as you know, I do have your best interests at heart...’
‘And?’
‘And ... well, I wondered ... since you had no success with my recommendations for ... for your attempts to conceive, whether you had ever tried anything else, some St John’s Wort perhaps, though it is difficult to collect in the prescribed manner. I have no great faith in its ability to help you, but...’
Eleanor’s face looked utterly forlorn. ‘No, Margery, I have tried nothing else, though I haven’t quite given up hope. But last week ... my menses, just like every other month.’
Margery already knew this. There were definite advantages in having a spy in the royal camp. Jenna had mentioned a few days ago that she was having to soak the Duchess’s intimate linens in urine overnight to bleach out the blood stains. Wrinkling her nose in distaste, she’d said she felt quite nauseated by the task. Margery, far less squeamish than Jenna, bided her time and managed to purloin a small item of the Duchess’s soiled linen while Jenna’s back was turned. It had been quite easy, really.
‘I’m sorry to hear that, Your Grace,’ said Margery. ‘And His Grace the Duke, if I might be permitted to ask ... is he as...’
‘You know, Margery,’ Eleanor cut across her, ‘I would not tolerate these questions from anyone else and my patience is wearing thin, even with you. My private life with my husband is my own affair. But –’ She broke off, biting her lip before she went on. ‘Margery ... you know how much I still want a child and how I’ll do anything ...’ Tears were welling in her eyes now, and she looked upwards, trying to stem their flow by blinking hard. ‘I’m sorry. Please forgive me.’
‘Yes, yes, of course, Your Grace. I do know how much it means to you.’
Eleanor took a deep breath, shuddered and then looked anxiously into Margery’s face, her hand once again on Margery’s arm. ‘Is there something new? Something ... something else you know of?’
‘Well, perhaps, Your Grace. I’m not sure yet.’
‘Because you know, Margery, don’t you, that if there was a way ... any way to ... oh, dear God!’ She turned away again and covered her face with her hands for a moment before going on, her voice steadily rising in pitch. ‘What have I done, Margery? Have I offended the Almighty in some way that He denies me what I want most in the world? Something every other woman seems to be able to achieve with ease, even the commonest peasant, while I remain barren as a stone. Me, the Duchess of Gloucester, wife of the most powerful man in the land.’
‘Indeed, Your Grace, your husband is second only to the King.’
‘Yes, second only to the King. And if the King should ... no, I must not think like that. But we must consider the possibility that something might happen to His Highness. He doesn’t always enjoy the best of health. And if my husband should become King then I must be able to give him an heir, a legitimate heir who could inherit the throne after his day and secure the succession of the House of Lancaster. So why can I not give him an heir? Eh? Tell me that, Margery, tell me that!’ She was verging on hysteria now, her voice surely audible in the vestibule outside the door. Margery must quieten her.
‘Your Grace ... please, calm yourself. I might be able to help you. But it depends on how much you trust me and how you view certain skills and crafts I have, skills which have been practised for centuries by wise women and cunning men, especially in country districts.’
‘Wise women? Cunning men? Margery, are you telling me that –’
‘Your Grace, please, hear me out. My mother was a wise woman, well respected in the village of Westminster, and from her I learned many, many skills, not only in the use of herbs and flowers.’
‘Yes, tell me, Margery! Please.’
‘There is much knowledge which is beyond the sphere of physicians and doctors. Sometimes women know much more than men give them credit for.’
Eleanor nodded slowly. ‘Yes, yes, I have often thought so myself. But we’re only women.’
‘That shouldn’t stop us taking things into our own hands occasionally, Your Grace.’
Eleanor was listening intently, her eyes riveted on Margery’s face. ‘So what are you saying, Margery?’
‘Well, Your Grace, I am beginning to think that any potion or decoction you might take to help you conceive might be more effective if it is used in conjunction with something else.’
The Duchess Eleanor’s face was a study in doubt. ‘No, Margery, there can be nothing else. I have tried everything...’
‘Please, Your Grace, let me explain. Not many people know this, but I am conversant with a rare technique, one which was taught me by a wise woman, a woman from another country and even more skilled than my own mother. You might not like it, but it could well increase two-fold your chances of child-bearing.’
Eleanor hesitated, but curiosity got the better of her. ‘Then, for God’s sake, Margery,’ she whispered, ‘tell me! Tell me what it is!’
‘It’s this, Your Grace.’
The Duchess watched spellbound as Margery, trying desperately to stop her hands shaking, opened the coffer she had brought with her and took out a small cloth-wrapped bundle, perhaps a foot long and a hand-span wide. She began to unwrap it, then paused.
‘We will not be interrupted, will we, Your Grace?’
‘No, no. No one comes into this room other than by my invitation. No one.’
‘Not even Jenna?’
‘No, certainly not, not unless I’ve asked her to do something for me.’
‘Then may we be seated, Your Grace?’
‘Yes. Whatever you want. Just tell me. Tell me what it is.’
Pushing the coffer to one side, Margery made room for the Duchess to sit beside her.
‘It is something very special, Your Grace.’
Margery finished unwrapping the bundle and placed a miniature cradle on the table where it was lit by a shaft of sunlight from a nearby window. In a voice barely more than a whisper, she said, ‘It is a small baby.’
‘A baby? How can that be? It is so still.’
‘The baby has yet to live and breathe, my Lady,’ said Margery, ‘but it is a baby in all but life.’
‘Is it of wax?’
That was the question on which the rest of Margery’s life depended. She answered slowly, choosing her words with care.