She was to be imprisoned for life but before she was taken to her prison would be required to walk barefoot through the streets of London carrying a taper which she would offer at various churches as yet to be named. For three days she should do this before she was taken off to her lifelong prison.


* * *

It was a holiday in London when the executions were due to take place. People crowded into the streets not to be done out of one little bit of excitement. Some went to Smithfield to watch the witch burn. Poor Margery Jourdemayne who had confounded her accusers some ten years before at Windsor and could not repeat her success in this more serious charge. She was philosophical until the flames began to touch her feet. It was one of the hazards of a witch’s life.

And then the agony started. ‘Save me God,’ she prayed; and then protesting, ‘Oh Lord, why did you send the lady Duchess to me!’

She was old and oil had been poured on the wood to make it burn quicker, so the agony was not prolonged.

So died poor Margery Jourdemayne, the Witch of Eye-next-Westminster.

The fortunate member of the party was Thomas Southwell. He had lived in an agony of fear since he had been arrested and when his terrible sentence was pronounced against him he was in such a state of shock that he scarcely knew what was happening to him, and when his guards went to arouse him on the morning fixed for his execution they found him dead. He had died of fright.

Not so Roger Bolingbroke; he suffered the entire grisly performance and his severed head was in due course set up on London Bridge and his limbs sent to Oxford, Cambridge, Hereford and York for as far afield as these cities the people had heard of the plot which the Duchess of Gloucester had contrived with these felons to kill the King and set up her husband in his place.


* * *

She walked barefoot through the city streets carrying a candle which weighed two pounds in weight. People came out to stare at her, to call names at her. Murderess, they said.

She looked neither to the right nor to the left. From Temple Gate to St Paul’s she walked and there she set the candle on the altar. People crowded round her, plucking at her robes, reviling her.

This was the worst of all. She had been able to endure confinement in Leeds Castle but to be thus humiliated for one of her pride was punishment indeed.

She had still two more penances to perform and with only one day in between to bathe her aching feet blistered from walking barefoot over the dirty cobbled streets, she must start again. This was a Saturday and she must parade from the Swan in Thames Street to Christchurch and on the next day, Sunday, from St Paul’s to St Peter’s in Cornhill.

How they scorned her! How they loved to see the once mighty fallen low! Not so long ago when she rode through these streets, these people would have called out ‘Long live the noble Duchess’ and hope that she would throw a coin at them.

Now they were against her. They called her Murderess. They believed she had tried to kill their beloved King.

And after this, what was there but imprisonment for the rest of her life?

And Humphrey? Would he come to her?

She had arrived at St Peter’s in Cornhill. The penance was over. Now they were ready to pass her into the hands of her gaoler. Sir Thomas Stanley had been chosen for this role and he was waiting to take her to Chester Castle while they decided where she should finally be incarcerated.

So had the mighty fallen. Here was an end to her ambitious hopes. The King would be married soon. He would produce a son. There would be no crown for Eleanor.


* * *

Humphrey was old and tired. Everything had gone wrong. Eleanor’s ambitious folly had ruined their life together. He saw little of her. She had been sent to Kenilworth Castle and remained a prisoner there; and now there was talk of sending her to the Isle of Man.

He missed her; and he had tried soon after the sentence to bring about her freedom. Noble ladies, he declared, should be tried by their peers in the spirit of Magna Carta. It would have been possible to buy her freedom, surely. But he was out of favour. The King was growing up. Henry was horrified that there should have been this plot against him; moreover he refused to believe that his Uncle Humphrey was not involved with his wife.

‘I shall never trust my uncle again,’ he was reported to have said; and Humphrey knew his nephew well enough to realise that once such an idea came into Henry’s mind it would stay there.

Instead of furthering their ambitions Eleanor had blighted them forever. Everywhere he was baulked. The King was to marry and not the princess of Humphrey’s choice. Once Humphrey’s great enemy had been the Cardinal. He was still an enemy but he had been superseded in that respect by William de la Pole, the Earl of Suffolk. As Humphrey fell in the King’s favour so Suffolk rose.

Suffolk had become very friendly with the Duke of Orléans who had been imprisoned in England since Agincourt; it was Suffolk who had arranged his release; and now listening to his advice was supporting the idea of a marriage between the King and Margaret of Anjou.

Humphrey wished for a marriage with the daughter of the Count of Armagnac but ever since Eleanor’s trial young Henry remained suspicious of everything his uncle said and did.

Henry was emerging as a King who found it difficult to make up his own mind about anything. He was going to be weak, that much was evident. Such a King set the minds of ambitious men afire for power. Suffolk was just such a man. He was in close amity with the Cardinal, but that was safe for the Cardinal was an old man and had been ailing for some time. Suffolk’s great enemy was Gloucester; and, since Gloucester’s position had been considerably weakened through suspicion of being concerned with his wife in a plot to get rid of the King, he presented no great threat.

Gloucester was very much aware of this. He no longer had Eleanor to bolster up his confidence and give him that solace which it seemed she alone could give him. It was not that he was an old man but the life he had led had taken such a toll of his health, and there were times when a listlessness came over him and he did not greatly care about Suffolk’s successes.

It was Suffolk who was sent to France to bring home the King’s bride; it was Suffolk who was promoted to a marquisate; it was Suffolk who was in high favour with the new Queen. He was ready to take his place as chief adviser to the King as soon as the Cardinal died – which could not be long. And there was one whom he was determined to destroy – and that was Gloucester. Moreover fate seemed to be on his side.

Oh Eleanor, he thought, you wanted too much for us. We should have been content with what we had. Now you have lost that … and it seems I am likely to do the same.

Henry had made it clear that he had no wish to see him. He did not trust his uncle and felt very uneasy in his presence. He had strengthened his bodyguards.

‘I have my enemies,’ he said, and everyone knew he was thinking of Gloucester.

However Humphrey still remained protector of the country; and this was a situation which could not be allowed to continue.

Parliament was meeting at Bury St Edmunds, and Humphrey had decided he would appear there and ask for the release of his wife. If he could take her away he would go and live with her in retirement.

Attended by about eight horsemen, most of whom were Welsh, he made his way to Bury to join the Parliament there. His intention was to stay the night in some lodging in the North Spital of St Saviours on the Thetford Road. It was eleven o’clock in the morning as he came through Southgate.

Rumours had been in circulation that he was gathering an army to come against the King and Suffolk. It was said that he had gone to Wales to raise this army. It was a story set about by his enemies. He had no heart for such a project. He had finished with ambition from the moment he realised where Eleanor’s had sent her.

No, his one thought now was to make peace with the King and get Eleanor released. Then they would make a new life together.

A messenger was riding towards him and he could see from his livery that he came from the King.

‘Orders, my lord Duke,’ cried the messenger.

‘Orders for me?’

‘From the King, my lord. You are to proceed without delay to your lodging and there you shall stay until made aware of the King’s pleasure.’

Gloucester had no alternative but to obey and accordingly went straight to his lodgings.

A meal was awaiting him and as he ate he wondered what his enemies had in mind for him.

One or two of his friends were with him. There were not many of them left and he contemplated how friends fell away from a man in times of disaster.

They talked of the King and the Queen who seemed to be gaining a great influence over her weak lord; and of Suffolk who with Beaufort seemed now to be ruling the country. Not for long. The Queen was showing her mettle. She was a forthright young lady although as yet but seventeen years old.

‘I shall see the King,’ said Gloucester, ‘and ask him to release my wife. Then I shall be ready to relieve myself of the trappings of office and cosset myself a little.’

‘You will soon recover your health then, my lord.’

He wondered. He had felt less well since he had arrived at the inn.

Sometimes he was nauseated and could not bear to eat the food they put before him.

Why did they keep him a prisoner here? Why could he not go to the Parliament and state his desire to hand over his power, to retire into obscurity with a wife who, if she had ever indulged in plots, had learned her lesson now?

His manservant had alarming news for him.

‘My lord,’ he said, ‘members of your household have been arrested. Your enemies are saying that they conspired to kill the King and place you on the throne.’

‘It is nonsense,’ he cried, and he thought: Oh Eleanor, how could you? See what doubts and suspicions you have set in motion!

‘Your son Arthur has been taken.’

‘No … no … He did nothing. His only fault is that he is my son.’

‘They will prove nothing against him.’

‘They will tell the world they have proved what they wish to prove.’

He rose from the dinner table. He could not eat. He wanted to be alone to think. This sudden illness was robbing him of all will to live. He, great Gloucester, brother to one King, uncle to another, was a prisoner in this lodging house. They were going to condemn him; they were going to call him traitor. What would they do to him? Cut off his head as they had those of some of his ancestors? And if they decided to they would do it quickly so that there could be no outcry to save him.

He saw it all clearly. He had too many powerful enemies. The Cardinal was benign compared with Suffolk. He had tried to influence the King … but others had done better than that and ever since Eleanor’s trial he had been suspect.

He made his way to his sleeping apartments. He felt so weak that he must die.

He was ill … close to death perhaps. There were times when he felt like it.

He lay still. Footsteps outside the room. Someone was coming. He felt too ill to care.

The door opened slowly. Someone was standing there.


* * *

They said that his health, ruined by the life he had led, had suddenly given way. He had been ailing for some time.

Yet there were still some to say that his death was very sudden.

The lords and knights of the Parliament were gathered close by and many of them came to look at his body.

They reported to the King that there were no signs of violence. He must remember that the Duke had not been in good health for some time now.

It was ordered that he should be put into a leaden coffin. He had already had a beautiful vault made for himself in St Albans. Let him be taken there and buried with the ceremony which it was proper to perform at the burial of a royal Duke.

Eleanor was stunned by the news. She knew now that she would be a prisoner until the end of her life.

She had been taken from Kenilworth to the Isle of Man, and as she looked out on the seething waters she would gaze with longing towards the mainland and think of all that she had lost.