The Secret Diary of Eleanor Cobham (16 page)

Young Humphrey smiled, the same wry, charming smile as I remember seeing so often on his grandfather’s face all those years ago. I wish my husband had lived long enough to see his grandson. He would have been proud.

‘Are your brother and sister well, Humphrey?’
 

‘Yes, my lady. Richard is now fourteen and Elizabeth is eleven years old.’

Antigone added, ‘Elizabeth is growing fast into the image of you. She already has suitors after her.’

I took Antigone’s hand and led her to one of the long wooden benches which served as pews in the chapel, gesturing for my grandson to sit with us. His eyes were attracted to my ruby brooches as they sparkled in the flickering candlelight.

I unpinned one from the black lace and handed it to him. ‘I would like you to give this to your sister, to remember me by.’

Young Humphrey took the jewel hesitantly. ‘Elizabeth will be most grateful, my lady.’

I removed the second brooch. ‘This one is for you, Humphrey. If you wish you may give it to the woman you will one day marry.’

He smiled as he looked at the ruby in its gold clasp, amused by the thought. ‘Thank you, Grandmother.’

It was the first time I’d heard myself called that and I smiled back at my grandson. I removed my pearl necklace and handed it to my daughter, who looked at me in surprise. ‘I would like you to have this, Antigone. I have never been able to count the number of pearls. I know it cost your father a great deal. He would have been happy for you to have it now.’

Antigone sat looking at the pearls for a moment and I sensed she was thinking of her father and wondering whether to tell me something.

‘Did they tell you he is buried at St Albans as he had always wished?’

I shook my head. ‘They told me he was dead but not how, or where he was buried. I was going to ask Lady Ellen to find out for me.’

‘The old Prior of St Albans paid for his chantry and burial vault and the monks said masses for him. When I last visited the priory, candles were still being lit every day on the altar in his memory.’

I hardly dared ask the question. ‘Do you know how he died?’

She looked at me, a flash of anger in her eyes. ‘They say it was a sudden illness. I don’t believe it. He was arrested by men of the Duke of Suffolk. I think they murdered him.’ Antigone scowled as she remembered. ‘The queen took Bella Court the day he died. She has made it her own residence.’

I cursed Queen Margaret of Anjou and her henchman William de la Pole, glad now he had met an unhappy end. My husband Humphrey could still be alive but for the queen. She had seen a way to remove him and now had my home, which rightfully belonged to my daughter and her children. I hesitated to ask the next question. ‘I was told by my jailor at Peel Castle that Arthur was executed by the Duke of Suffolk for treason. Is that true?’ I held my breath, waiting for her answer.

‘
My brother was also arrested by the Duke of Suffolk, soon after father, with several good men of our household. Suffolk claimed he had evidence they were plotting to kill the king and place father on the throne, with you as his queen.’ She frowned at the memory. ‘There was no evidence or even a proper trial, yet they were all condemned to be hanged, drawn and quartered for treason.’ She looked across at her son, who was following every word, even though he must have heard the story before. ‘It was all a horrible plan by the Duke of Suffolk, for as they were hanged he arrived with the king’s pardon.
 They were all cut down and set free.’

‘Arthur is alive?’ My heart was beating fast now.

‘My brother has never been seen or heard of since. Henry, my late husband, said there was a rumour Arthur was murdered in secret.’ She half smiled at me. ‘I like to think he is hiding somewhere and will make himself known to me someday.’

‘I will pray for it, Antigone.’ We sat in silence for a moment as I remembered my son.

Antigone took my hand. ‘The queen didn’t have father’s precious books. I made sure they were sent to Oxford, as he wished.’

I remembered how important that had been to him. ‘When you were a girl our house was always full of scholars, translating the classics. Your father called you Antigone to show his admiration for Sophocles.’

Antigone smiled. ‘He named me after a Greek tragedy.’

‘He named you after a woman who was the rebel of her family, who valued spiritual laws above those of the state.’

‘I have not been much of a rebel, although that is going to change.’

I turned to look at her, wondering what she planned to do.

Antigone appeared serious again. ‘A Welsh noble named Gruffudd Vaughan was knighted on the battlefield for leading the men who protected King Henry V when he rescued my father at the Battle of Agincourt. He became a loyal follower of my father in France and when my husband’s father was killed at Baugé, my father entrusted Sir Gruffydd to return the Earl’s body to Powys and arrange his funeral.’

She stopped and ran the pearls she was holding through her fingers like a rosary, the same frown I had seen on her face when she was a little girl. ‘My husband said Sir Gruffydd Vaughan, who had then been outlawed, had offended his honour by challenging his claim to the Lordship of Powys.’ She hesitated to continue but I nodded for her to go on. ‘My husband summoned Sir Gruffydd to Powys Castle and when he arrived, ordered his arrest. He had him executed, Mother. Sir Gruffydd Vaughan was beheaded in the courtyard of our home, without trial.’

I could see it was hard for Antigone to tell this story, but could see there was more, and pressed her to continue.

‘Sir Gruffydd Vaughan’s supporters in Wales swore to avenge his death. That was three years ago. We returned to our mansion at Pontesbury and life went on. Then we had a message there was trouble at Powys Castle, so my husband returned there in January last year. They said he died in a hunting accident. I doubt we will ever know the truth.’

I took my daughter in my arms and hugged her. ‘You said things were going to change?’

Antigone looked at her son, my grandson, then back at me. ‘My husband left a will, granting me his estates in Normandy. I am leaving for France, Mother. I don’t wish for my son to be Lord of Powys. Richard will be the third Earl of Tankerville when he comes of age.’

I realised what she was telling me. ‘It will be too great a journey for you to visit me again?’

Antigone nodded, tears returning to her eyes. ‘I don’t know if we will ever be able to return to Wales.’

Vindictis

I felt a strange mix of elation and sadness after my daughter’s tearful goodbye on that summer afternoon. It was so good to know Antigone and the children, my grandchildren, were safe and well. At the same time, they would already be preparing for the long journey to Normandy. I knew I could never see her again. I also found myself thinking how different our lives would have been if Humphrey’s campaign in Hainault had succeeded. He could now be a prince of Hainault, or even Burgundy. I felt a new sense of grief for the loss of my husband. Talking of Humphrey’s death and seeing how much my grandson resembled him reminded me how much I missed him.

If my son lives he would have found a way to let me know or at least send a message to his sister Antigone. In my heart I know he was murdered, a mother’s intuition, yet now at least there was a faint hope. He could also think me dead, if that was what everyone has been told. Lady Ellen said it had not been easy to find my daughter and send her a message. Somewhere at the back of my mind I cling to the thought that Antigone is right, Arthur is hiding until the day when he is sure it is safe to make himself known to us.

Now I have given away the last of my jewels I know that ends any foolish thoughts of escape. Even if I were somehow able to evade my constant guards and make my way across the island to the western coast, I could not hope to pay for a passage across the Irish Sea with just my mother’s gold ring. Lady Ellen had been so kind to me. I would not repay her by bringing disgrace on her husband, so I am resigned to living out my days within these thick stone walls. I shall try to tell the rest of my story as fully as I can and hope one day anyone reading this will understand how my life was changed so cruelly and so completely.

Thinking back to those last happy days at Bella Court, I remember how the release of the Duke of Orleans against my husband’s wishes proved he had less influence over the king than the cardinal, yet it seemed he had again survived. My father lost the good pension he received from the Crown for keeping the Duke of Orleans in custody, which he was relying on for his old age, but the Duke seemed to have respected his oath to the king. I suspected that after more than twenty-five years imprisonment, he was simply grateful for the chance to have a quiet life in France.

This memory gave me an idea. If it is true people think I died in Peel Castle, there will never be any call for my release and I will languish here forgotten by the world. I need to find a way to petition the king, without causing trouble for Lady Ellen and her family. Just as the Duke of Orleans swore an oath before the king in Westminster Abbey, I could do the same. I resolved I would offer to be exiled for life to Normandy, where I could live out my days in peace with my daughter and grandchildren.

I lay awake until I could hear the shrill calls of seagulls, marking the dawn outside my window, as I pondered how I could make my petition and who would be able to represent my interests. I decided I must first secure the permission of Sir William Bulkeley but I can hardly expect him to speak to the king on my behalf. Lady Ellen told me her father was well connected yet it seemed unfair to put her in a difficult position after all she has done for me. Only one person came to mind. The king will I hope remember my former secretary and chaplain John Hume, the man who betrayed us all, if he still lives.

I realised the danger we were in one evening when I was having a late supper alone with Humphrey. We had dismissed the servants and I commented that he seemed unusually quiet. He didn’t answer me, so to make conversation I said how happy I was that at least life could now continue as normal. My husband banged his hand on the table and raised his voice at me as he never had before, calling me a naive and stupid woman. He stormed out of the room, leaving me with the awful realisation there was something going on I didn’t know about.

Later that night my husband confessed there was something he hadn’t told me, which we must discuss. Far from forgetting the serious allegations against him, the cardinal was planning his revenge. He told me I must take care what I said in front of my ladies-in-waiting, the staff and the servants, and to let him know of any sign they could be spying on us. He made me promise not to travel anywhere in public without an escort of his personal guard. He had no idea when or how the cardinal would act against him, only that it was almost certain he would do so.

He said he was put in mind of Cicero’s moral tale of Damocles, who, given the chance by
Damocles
to try life as a king, saw a sharp sword suspended over his head by a single hair from the tail of a horse. This, the king explained, was what life as ruler was really like. T
here can be nothing happy for the person over whom some fear always looms.
People had already been warning Humphrey to take care and he confessed he was beginning to question the loyalty of everyone. I didn’t ask if that included me, although I was glad we had maintained the highest secrecy when we made our illicit experiments.

As soon as I could I warned Thomas Southwell and Roger Bolingbroke to make sure no word of our secret activities ever got out. They both swore that nothing had ever been mentioned to anyone and I know they understood the seriousness of our situation. It seemed we had succeeded, as I was certain my husband would have immediately questioned me if he had heard so much as a rumour. I also asked them to destroy any potentially incriminating evidence and to let me know if anyone began asking questions.

Life did begin to return to normal again, although I was always looking over my shoulder, wary of the cardinal’s spies. I was now suspicious of every servant, however long we had known them. My maids attended on me from the moment I woke until I closed my eyes to sleep at night, so it was not easy to always be careful what we said in their hearing. I had not forgotten how easy it had been to learn everything about Queen Catherine and Owen Tudor simply by retaining one man in her household.

Even my loyal ladies-in-waiting now also fell under suspicion. I was aware many of them came to Bella Court to enhance their social prospects. My own life changed completely when I became a lady-in-waiting to Countess Jacqueline, so I was under no illusions about what could hide behind their smiles. Everyone has their price and Cardinal Beaufort was a wealthy man. There was no question of dismissing them, for they were good company and entertained me with all the latest gossip, a constant reminder of how people loved to talk about the misfortune of others.

As the weeks passed Humphrey became something of a recluse, immersing himself in his studies, translating Greek classics. He only left Bella Court when he had to and refused my requests to organise entertainment for our friends. Our home, once so lively and vibrant, became sombre and tranquil, with few visitors, other than dull scholars who came to help Humphrey with his work. I became bored, missing the bustle of London and soon began returning to the city. Out of respect for my husband’s wishes I always now had an armed escort when visiting, although this simply drew more attention to our grand procession through the narrow, crowded streets.

On a sultry day in late June I was dining with several of my ladies at The King’s Head in Cheapside. The old inn had always been a popular place in the heart of the city, particularly on busy market days. On the upper floor was an overhanging gallery where I could often be found dining with my ladies. It became a favourite vantage place from where we could view the city's comings and goings, see and be seen by those who mattered. I felt in good spirits, finally beginning to put the troubles that had afflicted my husband behind me.

Humphrey’s reputation had been undermined by his enemies at parliament and the royal court, yet was it truly a sin of pride for me to not let people forget I was the Duchess of Gloucester, married to the heir apparent to the crown? The king remained unmarried, with no prospect yet of a wife, and his mother long dead, so I was the first lady of England. My husband continued to build our fortune through astute investments in land around Oxford and our palace at Bella Court could claim to be the grandest in London, rivalling even the king’s own apartments.

I remember we were excitedly discussing how the ambitious Duke Richard of York was said to be crossing the Channel with an army of five thousand men. The much contested town of Harfleur had been besieged and re-taken for the king. I was hopeful that more victories in France would soon tip the balance back in my husband’s favour. Even Cardinal Beaufort would have to admit he had been wrong to let our hard won territory be negotiated away so easily. The prospect of this restored my spirits and gave me hope that all would be well for us soon.

A breathless messenger interrupted our meal, handing me a folded note. I was drinking good wine and laughing at some silly joke as I broke the wax seal, without even looking to see who had sent the note. As I read the hurriedly scrawled words, I felt a chill run through my veins, a premonition of what was to come. I re-read the note, half hoping I had been mistaken but I had not. I recognised the distinctive signature of Roger Bolingbroke. We had been betrayed and he was about to be arrested, together with Thomas Southwell, on charges of treason against the king.

There is a sense of impending rain in the autumnal breeze drifting through my window. As I watch, relentless grey clouds cover the last small patch of bright blue sky. The hot dry summer has made this place more bearable, yet I fear another long winter, as I suffer in the cold which chills my bones. I see from this journal it was one year since that same Richard, Duke of York disturbed the peace of Beaumaris Castle with his unexpected visit. It was not for me he came, but to challenge the king and his scheming French queen.

Although now ten years ago, I still feel the shock of that dreadful moment in Cheapside when I read the note from Roger Bolingbroke. So this was how a respected man of God, a Cardinal of Rome, Bishop of Winchester and chief advisor to the king, attacked my husband, who had retired to his innocent studies. The cardinal had found the weak spot in the duke’s defences, and it was me, his foolish wife.

Our enemies did their work slowly, with care and cunning, first arresting my friends. I ran from the inn and, followed by my escort, rode as fast as I could over London Bridge, all the way to Bella Court. Humphrey was waiting for me. The king’s men had not only arrested Roger Bolingbroke and Thomas Southwell. Humphrey’s personal secretary and chaplain, John Home, had also been taken to the Tower. My husband seemed to think it was a hollow threat dreamed up by the cardinal that could be easily resolved. We had, after all, he said, survived worse things in the past.

I was torn between believing him and telling the truth of the real danger we were now in. I was sure of the loyalty of my friends and knew they would do everything in their power to keep my secrets safe. I also knew the cardinal would not hesitate to use torture to make them talk if he thought it could bring down my husband. He would have already fabricated the case against them, so his
aim would not be to extract a confession but to make them admit the names of their co-conspirators. I wondered how even the strong-willed Roger Bolingbroke would cope when shown the dreaded rack.

All we could do was wait, knowing Cardinal Henry Beaufort would make sure all of London soon knew about the arrests. Nothing travels faster than bad news. Tongues would wag, and the damage to our reputation done, even if the charges were eventually dropped. Neither of us could sleep that night. All I could do was pray for my friends in our private chapel. Humphrey could bear the waiting no longer and sent a dozen trusted men to Westminster to find out what they could. Some hours later one of his riders returned with details of the charges against our men.