Authors: Mari Griffith
Really, it was the job of the housemaids to clean up in here but Canon Hume had decreed that Woodham must be the one to do it, whenever the room was empty. Bolingbroke was given no choice in the matter. The reason was simply that William could read well enough to be able to decide whether any abandoned or mislaid pieces of parchment might be of interest to Canon Hume or were important enough to merit retention for any other reason. Shaking out a blue and white dusting cloth with bad grace, William set to work.
The task was easier than it had first appeared. Within the hour, he had a small but satisfying stack of half-written letters, notes and out-of-date bills of sale. William decided to consign them to the fire under the bread oven in the palace kitchen when he had finished clearing up. He pushed them down into an empty log basket and, wrinkling his nose, dropped in two rotting, half-eaten apples on top of them.
Dusting off a discarded ledger, he tried to place it on the shelf with the Magister’s books, but realised he’d have to re-arrange them slightly to create enough space. He pulled out Roger Bacon’s weighty encyclopaedia of all knowledge, the
Opus Maius.
Of course, Bolingbroke would have a copy of that one, wouldn’t he, being an Oxford man. No doubt he followed the teachings of the unconventional old Oxford scholar they called Doctor Mirabilis, though some refuted the claims he made about alchemy and magic. Interesting, Woodham thought, but way beyond most people’s understanding or knowledge. Putting the big book to one side, he noticed a small wicker basket which had been pushed in behind it. Inquisitive by nature, he reached in and took it down from the shelf.
At first, he failed to understand why Magister Bolingbroke should want to keep a lump of candle wax and some scraps of lamb’s wool. Then he realised that whatever it was had been moulded from the finest beeswax and, though it had melted slightly, he could see it had once represented a figure. And the wax had been mixed with other things, small crystals and herbs, some hairs and tiny pieces of dirty-looking fabric before being made into an image. Could it be the image of a child, perhaps? Possibly. And it seemed likely that it was, particularly since the basket which contained it was shaped very like a cradle.
Suddenly, the small room seemed eerily quiet. Image magic! Woodham knew it for what it was, but he also knew that it was against the teachings of the church. He shook his head. His discovery didn’t really surprise him because it was well known among the gossips on the palace staff that the Duchess Eleanor was a woman who desperately wanted to give her husband a child to reinforce the Lancastrian line of succession to the throne. But she had never managed to, poor woman. Now it looked as though Magister Bolingbroke had been attempting some image magic to help her.
Replacing the little basket in its hiding place on the shelf, he slid the
Opus Maius
in behind it. He needed time to think about his accidental discovery. Woodham’s bluff exterior and quick temper both hid an unexpectedly sympathetic heart and he couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for the Duchess. So, for the moment, he resolved to say nothing to anyone though it might be wise to mention it to Canon Hume. He would know what to do.
For now, the job in hand was done, exactly as Canon Hume had wanted, and it was time for dinner. He picked up the log basket containing the papers to be burned, then left Magister Bolingbroke’s room, closing the door behind him.
‘William!’
In the long corridor outside the kitchen, the woman’s voice that screamed his name held a note of hysterical urgency. He spun round to see Tilda, one of the maids, running towards him.
‘William! Thank God!’ She crossed herself. ‘Where have you been? I’ve been looking everywhere for you.’
‘Whoa, Tilda! You’re not usually in such a hurry to see me!’ Though Tilda had repeatedly repelled William’s amorous advances in the past, she now clung to his arm as though he was all that stood between her and the gates of hell itself.
‘It’s Canon Hume,’ she panted.
‘Tilda! Tilda, calm down. What on earth is wrong with you, woman?’
‘But they’ve taken him!’
‘Taken him? What do you mean? Who has taken him?’
‘Some men ... oh, I don’t know. Magister Bolingbroke, too. He’s gone. I didn’t know what to do. None of us knew!’
Tilda couldn’t seem to stop jabbering. She’d start a sentence then stop as she remembered something else, tumbling over her words, wringing her hands, plucking at her apron. She had clearly been very frightened. Woodham put an arm around her shoulders.
‘Now, calm down, Tilda and tell me what has happened. From the beginning. Tell me slowly.’
Between sobs and juddering breaths, Tilda eventually managed to tell him how she and several of the other house maids had been going about their work in the palace, dusting, sweeping and washing down walls when, without warning, there had been a sudden great commotion. Loud voices barked commands and at least half a dozen guards in royal livery had grouped themselves outside Canon Hume’s room.
Alarmed, the women had taken cover, hiding themselves behind wall hangings and bulky furniture, staying well out of sight. What they heard and managed to see terrified them. Canon Hume’s door was kicked open and the man himself was dragged out. In the corridor behind the kitchen, the same was happening to Magister Bolingbroke. Then the two men were frog-marched away, their arms pinioned roughly behind their backs. Hume was shouting at his captors at the top of his voice. Bolingbroke said nothing and appeared totally bewildered.
Woodham listened to her disjointed account with mounting concern, thinking back to the state of Bolingbroke’s office. The abandoned jerkin and the overturned chair did seem to indicate that he had left in a hurry, or been forced to leave. What Tilda was telling him had all the makings of a major crisis. The Duke of Gloucester was far away from home and William knew that the Duchess had gone up to the city with her friends. She would have to be told what had happened, but Canon Hume, normally the one to tell her such things, had been taken away.
There was nobody in charge and there was nothing for it but that he, William, would have to find out exactly where the Duchess was and get a message to her.
***
A
small crowd had gathered outside the King’s Head tavern on Cheapside. Few Londoners could resist the temptation to loiter and gawp at the Duchess of Gloucester, resplendent in a magnificent gown of deep red silk with rubies at her throat and in her ears. She was smiling and waving graciously as she was helped down from her carriage.
‘’T’ain’t right,’ muttered one old man on the periphery of the crowd. ‘’T’ain’t right to be cavorting around like that on a day like this.’
‘Why not, you old curmudgeon?’ His wife, fat and toothless, was craning her neck to get a better view. She turned to her husband and nudged him in the ribs. ‘She’s got it, so she might as well flaunt it.’ The woman followed her observation with a cackle of raucous laughter.
‘Yes, but how did she get it? That’s what you should be asking yourself. How did she get it? On her back, that’s how.’
‘Oh, get on with you. She’s not the first woman to do that and she won’t be the last.’
‘’T’ain’t right. Tomorrow’s one of the holiest days in the calendar, the feast of St Peter and St Paul. She should be keeping a vigil, not cavorting around like a performing bear. There’ll be trouble. You mark my words, there’ll be trouble before the night’s out.’
The small voice of dissent was drowned out by the excited applause and cheering that continued as the Duchess and a dozen or so of her aristocratic companions, alighting from carriages and dismounting from horses, made their way towards the tavern. Waving elegantly once more, Eleanor led the way inside.
The scene that greeted her was warmly welcoming. The King’s Head had justly gained its reputation as a playground for the aristocracy. The huge building provided a comfortable vantage point from which the Royal Family and their noble guests could view the city’s great pageants and festivities while enjoying lavish entertainments and every comfort. It was one of Eleanor’s favourite places; she loved to dine at the King’s Head.
The big dining room at the front of the building which afforded a splendid view of Cheapside, also presented a scene of extravagant hospitality. Four long trestle tables were laden with trays and serving dishes while side tables against the walls at either end of the room were piled high with chafing dishes and bowls and platters full of food, interspersed with decanters of wine. Standing smartly to attention while the guests seated themselves, a small army of ewerers and cup-bearers awaited their instructions from the butler.
Eleanor took her seat on the dais and looked about her with a self-satisfied smile. Sometimes, it was good to be abroad on a sunny day with companions other than Humphrey. With him, she would have been there merely as his wife and he would have taken precedence in all things. Without him, she was the most important person in the room. No, wait a moment, with Humphrey away in the wilds of Wales, she was the most important person in the whole of London except the King. And, as it happened, even the King was away, staying for some days at the palace in Sheen. It gave her a good, warm feeling. She smiled for the sheer joy of being alive and, amused by a remark made by one of her companions, she laughed her unmistakable silvery laugh.
The Duchess of Gloucester was on top of the world.
***
T
he little physic garden was quiet save for the sound of a hoe busily loosening the soil around the very few weeds which dared to appear there. Margery always went to the garden when she was annoyed about something, venting her spleen by attacking the weeds which threatened her precious medicinal plants. Poison darnel was one of the more persistent, no doubt as a result of the garden’s close proximity to fields of grain, but it was no match for Margery when she was in a bad mood. Careful not to spread their pernicious seeds, she would throw the weeds into a heap at the far end of the garden, to be burned when they had dried out.
Her hoe struck a stone and, bending, she picked it up then turned and threw it, hard, giving vent to her anger in the throwing. These were bad times and Margery felt uneasy. There’d been a blood moon only last week and it was always a reliable sign that things were not as they should be.
In her heart, she knew it was unreasonable to be angry with Kitty. After all, she had used the child to achieve her own ends. For all the use that had been, she needn’t have bothered. If only she could have found a virgin boy innocent enough to do what Kitty had failed so miserably to do, then there might have been some tangible results. Perhaps a boy would have looked into the mirror and been able to see exactly who sat on the throne. And, if the mirror had shown an image of the Duke of Gloucester, the Duchess Eleanor would have heaped praise and prizes upon all her advisers, including Margery herself. The future would have been assured.
Kitty’s anxious, apologetic little face did prick Margery’s conscience from time to time and when she chastised the girl for her awkwardness or lack of knowledge, it did feel a bit like kicking a small, defenceless dog. She resolved to be kinder to Kitty in future and try not to frighten her too much. Perhaps she would send her back to work in the dairy because, in any case, she would never be as good an assistant as Jenna had been.
She looked up at the sound of approaching horses. Not two riders, but five ... six ... guards in livery and a tumbrel bringing up the rear of the procession. Dear God, what was this...?
‘Mistress Margery Jourdemayne?’
‘Who wishes to know?’ Margery was wary and suddenly felt genuine terror. All six men were dismounting and beginning to surround her.
‘You’re to come with us. Sheriff’s orders.’
‘Sheriff ... but why? I haven’t done anything.’
‘That’s not what we’ve heard. You’re in big trouble, Mistress. You’re to come with us.’
Two of the liveried guards grabbed her arms and yanked them painfully behind her back, tying them there. Margery began to scream.
‘William! For God’s sake, William! Let me speak to my husband, you great brute! You’re not taking me anywhere. I want to speak to my husband. You must let me. You must!’
‘He can come and visit you if you want him to. Then you can speak to him.’
‘Visit me? What are you talking about? Where are you taking me?’
‘The Tower,’ said the biggest and ugliest of the guards as the two who had tied her arms now manhandled her, screaming and kicking, into the tumbrel.
‘Put a gag on her,’ said another of them, ‘could be dangerous if she bites you. She’s a witch!’
‘I’m not a w ...’ Margery’s head was pulled forcibly back by her hair while a strip of linen was tied firmly across her open mouth.
‘That’ll keep you quiet ’til we get to the Tower,’ said the biggest guard as Margery squirmed and struggled. ‘They’ve got a nice little cell for you there. It’s got your name on the door. It says
RESERVED FOR THE WITCH OF EYE
on it. Leastways, that’s what we’ve heard. So your husband can visit you in the Tower, if he wants to. By appointment, of course!’
He guffawed with laughter and the other guards laughed with him.
***
E
leanor leaned back in her chair, replete and contented. Her noble companions had feasted on roast beef and on boiled chicken stuffed with seasonal green grapes. Now the tables had been cleared and it was time for wafers with whole spices, accompanied by sweet wine. The minstrels who had played while the diners ate their meal were being replaced by jongleurs and jugglers for their entertainment. Her Grace was entranced at the prospect.
The cup-bearer approached the dais and the butler, standing behind Eleanor, snapped his fingers for the decanter. As he bent to fill her glass, he said something to her very quietly.
‘Speak up, man,’ said Eleanor. ‘I can’t hear you.’
He bent again. ‘I’m sorry, Your Grace, I don’t want to speak too loudly, but a gentleman is here to see you. He says it’s very urgent. He says he has to see you personally on a matter of the utmost importance.’