Authors: Mari Griffith
‘She’s wasting her time in the dairy.’
William sat up, wide awake. ‘What do you mean, wasting her time! She is by far the best dairymaid we’ve ever had at Eybury, she’s efficient, she’s thorough, she’s clean. She keeps tally as well as any scholar would...’
‘Is she better than ... what was her name ... Elizabeth?’
‘As it happens, yes, she is.’
‘And you like her!’
‘Well, of course I like her. Why would I not like her? She does her job well, earns her keep. She’s never late, she’s agreeable, she has taken Elizabeth’s young daughter under her wing, she gets on well with the other girls...’
‘Quite a paragon!’
‘Well, if you want to put it like that, yes, I suppose she is.’
‘I’ll wager she couldn’t pleasure you as well as I can.’
Oh, so that was it. Margery always teased him when she wanted him to pleasure her: getting him riled about something would also often get him aroused. After twelve years of marriage he usually recognised all the signals she sent him, whether of approval or disapproval, spoken or unspoken. He should have realised. She wanted him to take her and bring her to her point of ecstasy quickly and efficiently.
Which was exactly what he did: he was, after all, a normal vigorous man. It was only after she had achieved her objective and was lying satisfied beside him that he spoke again.
‘We haven’t done that for a long time,’ he said.
‘No,’ she agreed, ‘we haven’t.’
‘Then why tonight?’
Margery hesitated for a moment before replying. ‘Sometimes it’s necessary,’ she said, turning onto her side.
She could have said something kinder than that, something about wanting him, loving him, perhaps. William lay awake for some considerable time, buffeted on a sea of emotions. It wasn’t so much that Margery had hurt his feelings in using him for her own sexual gratification, she had done that before. It was more the fact that during all the time he had been making love to his wife, the face in his mind’s eye had belonged to another woman, and at the height of his passion, it was all he could do not to call out her name.
***
T
he good weather held for the remainder of the week, cool but dry and, high above the round tower of Windsor Castle, the royal standard fluttered in a light breeze. On this May morning, the day of the Garter ceremony, Windsor was full to capacity for the celebration of one of the most important days in the royal calendar.
Eleanor had looked forward to the occasion like a small child to her saint’s day. She had been awake since before dawn, watching through the slatted shutters of the window as the sun came up, cherishing the thought that today she would become a Lady Companion of the Garter. It was an honour given only to the most noble ladies in the land, the wives of the twenty-four knights – never more than that number – who were the King’s most esteemed, most chivalrous cohorts. Humphrey had been a Garter Knight since he was ten years old, having been given the honour by his father, along with his three older brothers, exactly thirty-six years ago. Now, as his wife, Eleanor was to be honoured with the ultimate prize, the King’s public endorsement of her relationship with his uncle.
Seated in St George’s Chapel as the ceremony began, Eleanor’s attention wandered until she found herself looking at the King who was sitting near the altar, his mild brown eyes devoid of any expression, his small pink rosebud mouth unsmiling. He was simply staring straight ahead. Perhaps he was moved in a spiritual way by the ceremony, but she thought it unlikely. He seemed to be stifling a yawn, though, since his deep commitment to his religion was well-known, perhaps his mind could be somewhere more celestial. But, for a privileged young man on the threshold of his adult life, there was not an iota of vitality in him. How much more dynamic Humphrey was than his nephew, she thought. How much more vigorous he would be in the governance of the realm, how much more inspiring, how much better loved by his people. Her husband was his nephew’s heir, but he would make a far, far better King.
She held, in that overwhelming moment, the knowledge that there could be one more prize, the greatest, the most glorious, the most glittering of all prizes which might yet be hers, should anything happen to King Henry. She also knew that such ideas were evil and treasonous and that the chapel of St George, the mother chapel of the Order of the Garter, was the last place in which she should allow herself to entertain such thoughts.
Honi soit qui mal y pense
was the motto of the Order, it was inscribed on the silver Garter Badge which she wore so proudly on her shoulder.
Shame on him who thinks this evil
.
Nevertheless, in her heart of hearts, the possibility of her one day becoming Queen was a niggling little nugget of evil that would not go away.
June 1436
––––––––
‘J
enna? Where is Jenna Harding?’
The dairymaids looked up from their work, startled at the interruption. Jane and Hawys were churning butter and Kitty was skimming the cream from the setting dishes, the shallow bowls of yesterday’s milk. They all knew that Mistress Jourdemayne’s infrequent visits to the dairy usually heralded trouble. They glanced guiltily at each other as the woman they always called Old Mother Madge among themselves stood in front of them, her face a study in expectation.
‘Well? Where is Jenna Harding? She works here, doesn’t she? So where is she?’
Kitty cleared her throat and spoke up. ‘She isn’t here, Mistress Jourdemayne. She’s delivering cheese up to the monastery.’
‘When will she be back?’
‘I don’t know, mistress. It’s not long since she went, but she should be back by dinner-time.’
‘Very well. You’re Kitty, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, mistress.’ Kitty nodded emphatically.
‘Well, Kitty, please remember that when Jenna comes back, you must tell her to come up to the farmhouse to see me. I will be working in my physic garden this morning. After that, I will be in my room. Tell her to be sure to knock and not to barge in.’ Margery Jourdemayne turned swiftly on her heel with the air of a woman who had little time to waste.
The dairymaids had been rooted to the spot. Now they turned to each other wide-eyed and started chattering like sparrows.
‘Oh, I wonder what Jenna’s done!’
‘Do you think she’s in trouble?’
‘If she’s in trouble, perhaps she’ll have to leave!’
‘But if she leaves, I’ll have to learn to do the reckoning again ... and I’m hopeless at it!’
Kitty’s heart was like lead. If Jenna lost her job in the dairy, perhaps she would want to go back to Devon. Kitty had no idea where Devon was but she knew it was a very, very long way away, at least a month’s walk. Jenna had said so that very first night in the hay loft, such a long time ago. Jenna seemed to have been here at Eybury Farm for ever and, for Kitty, if she left now it would be like losing her mother all over again. She put down her skimming spoon and wiped her hands on her apron.
‘Hawys, will you carry on with this skimming for me, please? I must go and find Jenna and tell her she could be in trouble.’
‘Yes, go and find her, Kitty. And go quickly!’
Kitty almost tore off her apron in her hurry. Slamming the door of the dairy behind her, she ran as fast as her legs would carry her in the direction of the monastery, careful to keep off the beaten track. She had no business to be away from the dairy at this time of day so she needed to keep out of sight. Wherever she could, she ducked behind the protective cover of trees and boundary hedging, bent almost double as she ran. She didn’t want Jenna to bump into the Mistress by accident; she had to find her first and warn her that Old Mother Madge wanted to see her. It must be something very urgent, Kitty thought. She prayed under her panting breath that Jenna was not in any real trouble.
Kitty had run nearly all the way to the monastery before she spotted Jenna and was almost breathless when she reached her.
‘Kitty! Whatever is the matter? What are you doing here?’
‘Oh, Jenna,’ Kitty gasped, ‘I had to come! I had to find you. Something terrible has happened!’
‘Something terrible! What, in Heaven’s name? Has there been an accident?’
Jenna’s mind painted an instant picture of the Lower Acre. The men were second-ploughing the fallow field today and anything could have happened: ploughshares could be awkward things to handle and they were always kept very sharp. She clutched Kitty’s arm.
‘Kitty, for Heaven’s sake, tell me! What’s happened to Master Jourdemayne?’
‘Master Jourdemayne? No, no, not Master Jourdemayne. It’s Mistress Jourdemayne ... she’s the one!’
‘Oh! Oh ... well, what’s happened to her? Has she had an accident?’
‘No, I never said anything about an accident. But she wants to see you. This morning. What have you done, Jenna? Will Old Mother Madge put a spell on you? Will you be going back to Devon?’
‘Put a spell on me! What nonsense! Why? Has someone told you I’ll be going back to Devon?’
‘No, no, but I’m afraid you will.’
They were at cross purposes, Jenna realised. Nevertheless, she felt mightily relieved that there hadn’t been an accident. Now she needed to calm Kitty down and a little teasing wouldn’t go amiss.
‘Kitty,’ she said, tweaking Kitty’s nose, ‘you’re being a little alkitotle.’
‘A what?’
‘A silly little elf. I’m sure there’s no need to worry. Now come, tell me exactly what has happened.’
Jenna felt annoyed with herself for her instinctive reaction. Even if anything had happened to William Jourdemayne, it wouldn’t be any business of hers. She took hold of Kitty’s shoulders and gently turned her back in the direction from which she had come. ‘Now then, Kittymouse, take it slowly, my dove, and tell me everything. From the beginning.’
Kitty gradually got her breath back as they walked and, bit by bit, she related the story of Margery Jourdemayne’s peremptory visit to the dairy. It didn’t seem to Jenna that this was anything to worry about, though she was intrigued to find out why she had suddenly become of interest to her employer’s wife, having largely been ignored by her in the past.
‘You know, Kitty, I can’t imagine why Mistress Jourdemayne should want to see me but I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. She has no reason to put a spell on me and, even if she did, she wouldn’t have to see me in order to do it, she could curse me from anywhere. And, as far as I know, Master Jourdemayne hasn’t complained about my work in the dairy. That’s all that matters. Perhaps the Mistress just wants another pair of hands to help out in the farm kitchen. Or they might need me in La Neyte. It could be anything.’
‘Oh, I do hope you’re right.’
‘I’m sure I am. C’mon, Kittymouse, I’ll race you back to the dairy!’
Lifting her skirts with one hand and trying to keep the linen coif on her head with the other, Jenna began to run. Kitty had already lost her ribbon and her unruly hair was tumbling down her back as she did her best to keep up. But she didn’t care; she was laughing aloud with the relief of knowing that her friend would not abandon her.
***
S
hearing was hot work at the best of times, but necessary so that the sheep could be relieved of their heavy woollen coats before the summer sun reached its zenith. And they seem glad to be rid of them, too, William thought as he watched another ewe trotting away from the shearing bench where a shearer had divested her of her thick fleece before setting her back down on her feet. Her lamb, some four months old by now and nearly as big as its mother, scampered dutifully behind her, recognising her from her indignant bleating despite the dramatic change in her appearance.
Sheep were becoming more and more a part of the monastery farm’s business, though that was not William’s choice. He was a man who took delight in cattle. On the low-lying, clay soil of the riverside pastures, sheep were prone to foot-rot and moving the flock further up to the drier meadows towards Knightsbridge or Hyde made no apparent difference. In any case, they had to be brought back down to the river at this time of year to be dipped and washed before shearing. Apart from these considerations, sheep looked after themselves well enough, and it was years since anyone had seen a wolf in these parts, so there was hardly any need for more than one shepherd. Perhaps he felt as he did because he infinitely preferred beef to lamb on the platter, not that he had the chance to eat either very often. Fine flesh was for the Abbot’s table, not the tenant farmer’s.
Abbot Harweden was keen to expand the existing flock. The price of wool was at an all-time high and not expected to drop. Moreover, he wanted to develop the cheese-making side of the farm’s output and was keen to explore the potential market for sheep’s cheese. He had summoned William to a meeting at La Neyte to discuss the issue. William had asked Tom the shepherd to come with him because Tom knew a great deal more about sheep than he did himself.
‘P’raps the Abbot thinks he could get to be as rich as Cardinal Beaufort,’ said Tom with a short laugh, as he and William trudged along the Willow Walk towards La Neyte for their meeting with Abbot Harweden.
‘Well, if he does, he’s picked the right time to do it,’ said William. ‘They tell me wool is trading very well in the international markets these days. So he’s doing the right thing. Mind you, he’s got a very long way to go before he comes anywhere near to what Beaufort’s worth. Richest man in the country, isn’t he?
‘So they say. Even richer than the King.’
‘Well, they say he doesn’t mind sharing what he’s got. At least, not when it comes to putting his money behind the men who fight in France. That’s what I’ve heard.’
‘I’ve heard that, too,’ said Tom as they approached the imposing entrance to La Neyte. ‘He can’t be that greedy, then.’
Before he took his seat in the Abbot’s study, William felt in the pocket of his leather jerkin for a sample of the wool from a sheep which had been shorn that morning.
‘It’s good enough,’ said Abbot Harweden, taking it from him and pulling the strands knowledgeably between his fingers, testing their resilience, ‘but I believe we can do better than this.’