The Secret Diary of Eleanor Cobham (25 page)

It was clear Sir Thomas saw me as nothing but a liability and I suspected he knew Peel Castle was too poorly defended. He had sworn loudly when told of my escape attempt and said he had enough of me. As soon as he could he planned to arrange for me to be moved to the island of Anglesey in Wales, where I would no longer be his concern. I was not at all sorry to leave that sad rock in the Irish Sea, although I remained there for almost a whole year more before the ship arrived to take me to Beaumaris.

I believe in omens, good and bad, so the flat calm sea and favourable wind that carried me southwards to Wales boded well for my future. My ship was a fat-bellied carrack, with great triangular lateen sails. The Welsh crew seemed in good spirits and sang tunefully in their native language as they heaved the sails high up the mast. Their captain was courteous to me and explained we would dock at Beaumaris Castle before nightfall, God willing.

I was allowed to stand at the rail, enjoying the fresh sea air. It was late March and the worst of the winter had passed. I felt a sense of anticipation that the worst days of my life were now also being left behind me. All I knew of Wales was that my daughter Antigone and my grandchildren lived there, and her husband was the Lord of Powys. I dared to hope one day she would now be able to visit me.

Looking up into the clear blue sky, I wondered about the truth of the story Sir Thomas Stanley had told me. He said that as well as the duke, some twenty-eight men of his household had been arrested and tried for plotting against the king. It raised so many questions in my mind and I doubted I would ever know the answers. I was also deeply worried for my son, Arthur, as I knew how unjustly such charges could be contrived and the dreadful punishments that would follow.

At last, the dark mountains of Wales appeared on the horizon and we approached the green and welcoming island of Anglesey. Seagulls wheeled at our bows and small boats bobbed in a shallow sea, reflecting red and gold in the setting sun. There ahead, lay the golden brown towers of my new home, the great castle of Beaumaris. As our ship manoeuvred into the castle dock my eyes were drawn to the brightly coloured royal standard flying proudly from the top of the gatehouse and I knew this was where I would end my days.

I kneel alone in the chapel at Beaumaris and say a prayer for the soul of my husband, my beloved Humphrey, who could have spoken out in my defence yet remained silent as I was brought low. I had kept any knowledge of my actions from him, abandoned him without even saying goodbye. Telling him about my foolish experiments might not have saved me from my downfall, yet he would have been more able to understand why I did these things which caused such grief and pain.

My Book of Hours teaches me to forgive.
Judge not, and ye shall not be judged. Condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned. Forgive, and ye shall be forgiven
. I cannot forgive the cardinal, Henry Beaufort. At best, I can learn to pity him. In truth, the cardinal took not only my liberty from me; he also took my faith in humanity, my faith in God. I no longer believed there could be any justice in a world where good men are so cruelly murdered.

It was no surprise to me to learn that on the same day Roger Bolingbroke was so savagely executed, our secretary and chaplain John Home was given a special pardon by the court. I know he was innocent of any crime, simply caught up in the cardinal’s net, yet when I heard he had been set free I cursed his mortal soul. I wished he would burn in Hell for an eternity for the betrayal of my friends.

Slowly, over the years, I have learned to replace my anger with understanding. Now I know I must remember how the cardinal’s men would have threatened our chaplain. He must have been told he would suffer with the worst tortures unless he told them what they wanted to hear. It was the only choice he could make. I never liked him yet he was an honest man, trusted with the safe keeping of my husband’s seal. The consequences of his testimony must have haunted him ever since. I look up at the wooden cross on the simple altar of the chapel and forgive John Home.

I prayed for the soul of Roger Bolingbroke, who is never forgotten. I also remember my good friend Thomas Southwell, who I hope was not killed by his torturers but found his own painless escape. I say a prayer for Margery Jourdemayne, and ask that she will not be remembered by history a witch, but as a good woman who helped the sick with her knowledge of herbs and potions.

I forgive King Henry VI, who could have granted a royal pardon to us all. The king was surely acting as he thought best, urged on by his corrupt and self-serving advisors. I have learnt how to forgive the pious bishops who sat in judgement in their gold-trimmed robes and condemned me for my vanity, while knowing in their hearts I was no traitor. I even find it in my heart to forgive the well-meaning men of the civil courts that sentenced my friends, all caught up in a sticky spider’s web of intrigue and half-truths, spun so cleverly by Henry Beaufort.

As I come out from the chapel into the inner ward of the castle I see the grey clouds are gone. It is that rarest of days when the sun shines low in the sky, so bright I can scarcely see without shielding my eyes. Although now quite weak I am allowed to climb the stone steps to the high parapet one more time, where I stand looking out over the glittering expanse of the blue-green Irish Sea. I wish for the old priest to return soon, so that I can tell him my faith in God is restored.

Ego te absolvo

When the priest came back at last to Beaumaris Castle he found me in my bed, reading from the Book of Hours he had given to me, my candle burned almost to the end. He greeted me warmly and pulled a chair to the side of my bed, lighting a new candle for me. He looked well for his advancing years, his skin tanned brown as leather by the sun, although he still leaned heavily on his stick. I had so much to tell him and so little time. I realise I need his approval, for him to know that the years of bitterness have finally been overcome. The old priest has played an important part in opening my eyes, now only he can give me absolution. First, though, I knew I must hear of his adventures.

‘They told me you’ve been on a pilgrimage to the far west.’ I was truly pleased to see my old friend after so many months. ‘I am glad to see you are safe, although I wondered if you would ever return.’

His brown forehead creased at the thought. ‘There were times when I wondered if I would ever see this old place again.’ He spoke slowly, his voice rich with the Welsh accent.

I smiled at him. ‘It is a long journey for anyone but for a man of your age, a real achievement.’

The priest’s eyes twinkled at my compliment. ‘Almost two hundred miles.’ He looked at me, a question in his eyes. ‘You wonder why I would make such a journey?’

I sensed an air of peace and contentment about him I had not seen before. ‘Your journey has been... a spiritual one?’ I could hear the weakness in my voice but the priest did not seem to notice.

He nodded. ‘It was my lifelong ambition.’ The priest looked away from me, out of the window into the far distance, his eyes misty. ‘I always wanted to visit the shrine of Dewi Sant, my patron saint.’ He lowered his voice, as if afraid someone would overhear. ‘I confess it has also served as penance for all the sins I have committed in my long life.’ There was unexpected emotion in his voice.

I was touched by his admission. ‘I doubt your sins required... such a penance.’

He frowned at an old memory I had no wish to make him recall. ‘I understand why you wished to make your pilgrimage. It is more than atonement.’

The old priest nodded again. ‘You are right. It was an affirmation of my faith.’

‘I have also been on... a spiritual journey.’ My voice sounded weaker now.

The old priest looked at me and silently took my frail, blue-veined hand in his.

Now at last I could say what I had been longing to tell him. ‘I have learned to forgive those who wronged me... and rediscovered my faith in God.’ My words were almost a whisper.

He sat looking at me in silence as he reflected on this and I saw tears form in his old eyes. ‘God bless you, my lady.’

Amen

Eleanor Cobham died peacefully in her sleep on the 7th day of July, 1452. As a convicted sorceress and necromancer she was to be buried in unconsecrated ground. When Lady Ellen Bulkeley, wife of the sergeant-at-arms of Beaumaris Castle, heard of this, she persuaded the constable, Sir William Beauchamp, to permit Eleanor’s body to be interred in the churchyard of St Mary and St Nicholas, the parish church of Beaumaris, Anglesey.

It was a tranquil summer day as the parish priest conducted the simple ceremony, witnessed only by Lady Ellen with her young son, William, aged seven, and a castle guard named Richard Hook. After everyone had left, Richard Hook marked Eleanor’s grave with a wooden cross, on which he had carved her name in neat capitals, and placed against it a single red rose, the flower of Lancaster.

In St Albans, Abbot John Whethamstede arranged for a memorial, h
igh on the wall that closes the south aisle, above the shrine, with the coat of arms of
his late friend and benefactor Duke Humphrey of Gloucester
, surmounted by a coronet. Underneath the Abbot added a Latin inscription, accusing Eleanor of destroying the duke and ‘thinking him barely worthy of this humble tomb’.

In Westminster,
Eleanor’s legacy would be as the catalyst for an important change in the law. Parliament declared that peeresses charged with treason were to be judged in the same way as everyone else, by
judges and peers of the realm, just like English peers. This was little consolation to
Queens Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard a hundred years or so later.

In France, 14
52, a cavalier named Jean d'Amancy became a nobleman and was granted the castle of Rumilly-sous-Cornillon in Haute-Savoie by Duke Louis of Savoy. He was sent to Venice in 1459 as the Royal Ambassador of King Charles VII of France.

"Eleanor was beautiful and marvellously pleasant."

Aeneas Sylvius Piccolomini

Secretary to Pope Pius II, 1452

My wife researched her family tree and discovered Antigone Plantagenet of Gloucester was her 19
^th
great grandmother. Further research revealed Antigone was the daughter of Humphrey of Lancaster, Duke of Gloucester and the younger brother of Henry V, who became Lord Protector of England.

There proved to be much debate about the identity of Antigone’s mother, although historian and author Alison Weir suggests both Antigone and her brother, Arthur, could have been the children of Humphrey and his mistress Eleanor Cobham, whom he later married. In her book
Britain's Royal Families: The Complete Genealogy
Alison Weir notes that ‘Eleanor Cobham became Humphrey's mistress sometime before their marriage and might have borne him two bastard children’.

Curious, I looked into this, discovering the tragic details of Eleanor Cobham’s life in the course of my research. It is a fact that Humphrey of Lancaster acted as a father towards Antigone and was definitely with Eleanor Cobham since at least 1425, if not earlier (records were seldom kept of mistresses), marrying her in 1428. Alison Weir’s suggestion is therefore extremely plausible but I found no positive evidence to support it.

The only sure way to settle the question of whether Eleanor was Antigone’s mother would be if some new documentation comes to light. That is how the idea for this novel came about. With the exception of the maidservant Martha and the guard Richard Hook, who represent the twelve staff and guards with Eleanor in her imprisonment, the people, places and events named are real and carefully researched.

There are many accounts which have important details wrong, most notably that Eleanor died at Peel Castle. It is well documented that her final two years were at Beaumaris. My wife and I spent a summer afternoon searching the churchyard of St Mary and St Nicholas, within sight of Beaumaris Castle. Inside the church lie the medieval ornate tombs of Lady Ellen and Sir William Bulkeley. We found no sign of Eleanor’s grave, although she will never be forgotten.

Tony Riches

Pembrokeshire, Wales U.K.

www.tonyriches.co.uk