The Secret Diary of Eleanor Cobham Read online

  Table of Contents

  July 1450

  August 1450

  September 1450

  October 1450

  November 1450

  December 1450

  January 1451

  February 1451

  March 1451

  April 1451

  May 1451

  June 1451

  July 1451

  August 1451

  September 1451

  October 1451

  November 1451

  December 1451

  January 1452

  February 1452

  March 1452

  April 1452

  May 1452

  June 1452

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Sources and Further Reading

  The Secret Diary

  of

  Eleanor Cobham

  Tony Riches

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  Copyright © Tony Riches 2014

  Tony Riches asserts the moral right

  To be identified as the author of this work.

  ISBN-13: 978-1502822031

  ISBN-10: 1502822032

  BISAC: Fiction / Historical

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author.

  Cover © Can Stock Photo Inc.

  Tony Riches is a full time writer and lives with his wife in Pembrokeshire, West Wales UK.

  For more information about Tony’s other published work please see:

  www.tonyriches.co.uk

  To my wife

  Liz

  Henry VI. Part ii Act ii. Scene 3:

  King Henry:

  Stand forth dame Eleanor Cobham, Glouster's wife.

  In sight of God and us, your guilt is great:

  Such as by God's book are adjudged to death.

  You, madam, for you are more nobly born,

  Despoiled of your honour in your life,

  Shall, after three days' open penance done,

  Live in your country here, in banishment.

  William Shakespeare

  July 1450

  Arcanum

  Whoever reads this, my secret journal and only true companion, should know I am unjustly condemned to end my days within these castle walls. I am forgotten by the world and my poor beloved husband, once Regent and the Lord Protector of all England, is dead these past three years. My hope is, through these words, people of a time so far away I cannot comprehend will know the truth of how my good and loyal friends were most cruelly tortured and murdered by my enemies.

  Loneliness is the worst of my punishment, as though this castle is in a beautiful place it is my prison. I am held as prisoner of Sir William Beauchamp, Constable of Beaumaris, and know Sir William receives my allowance. It is a hundred marks each year, from the dues for fishing on the River Dee and is supposed to cover my expenses. Little of that money finds its way to me. When first at Leeds Castle I had my own allowance and servants to help me. They left one by one and were not replaced. Now I have only the cook who brings my food and the maids who come to clean my room and wash my clothes. They speak to me in the Welsh language and are afraid to look at me. I fear they have been told I am a sorceress and will put some curse on them.

  My only company most days are the rough soldiers who have the duty of guarding my prison and the elderly priest who sometimes visits me. Less welcome are the visits from my jailor, William Bulkeley, the Serjeant-at-Arms here at Beaumaris. Bulkeley is an educated man, although ambitious and disliked by the men he commands. He is well married though. Bulkeley’s good wife Lady Ellen is the daughter of a powerful Welshman Gwilym ap Gruffydd. She is kind to visit me and the closest I have to a friend in this castle.

  It was after one of the visits from the priest that I confided to him I needed to occupy myself more fully, as I have been imprisoned here some three months now, with little else to do apart from dwell on my memories. When the old priest first came to visit he would not look me properly in the eye, a sure sign he believed the stories of my witchcraft. A good man, with white hair and a stubble of grey beard, he leans heavily on a stick to walk.

  Slowly, over the weeks, he has come to know me a little better. At Easter he kindly brought me an old Latin prayer-book, illustrated with brightly-coloured pictures of the saints. The priest put the leather-bound book solemnly in my hands with the suggestion that I may use it to find answers in God. It has been many years since I studied Latin and I care less for praying for salvation, but as I studied the little book I saw it was a version of the Christian devotional Book of Hours, probably copied by monks in the nearby priory.

  I am grateful to the priest as it has uses for me. You may imagine it is better not to note the passing of the months, yet I find time passes more quickly if I do. The little book contains a calendar of the feast-days, helping me to keep track of the year and also serves as a bridge between me and one of my few visitors, the priest. It offers a small way to show I am not entirely as evil as people would have him believe.

  I amuse myself by translating excerpts from the gospels and the seven Penitential Psalms. My imprisonment has given me the one thing I never had in excess, the time to study and reflect on such things. I am surprised to find unexpected comfort in the sixth of the psalms of confession. The neatly written Latin of the last line read ‘Erubescant et conturbentur vehementer omnes inimici mei; convertantur et erubescant valde velociter.’ This means ‘May my enemies be put to shame and come to ruin. May they be turned away and be swiftly put to shame’. As fitting a spell for any witch to curse her enemies.

  On the days I am granted permission to visit the chapel tower, I kneel and devoutly recite psalm six from my Book of Hours. I pray for the eternal damnation of the souls of those who killed my husband by their wicked plots and would have me end my days forgotten here on this island of Anglesey. I was not a witch but they have made me one.

  My eyes are also opened to an opportunity by my book of prayers. I contrived my plan to keep this journal. It will be my best company and maybe one day hel p to correct lies that are written of me. I asked the priest if he would kindly request a small payment from Sir William Bulkeley for some parchment, a quill and ink, so I may translate and copy out the prayers to pass the long summer days. The priest seemed pleased with my new-found religious conviction. He smiled at me for the first time in four long months and promised to help me improve my Latin. I believe there is a softening of his previously cold manner towards me, so perhaps I do still have some powers over men after all.

  On his next visit I could see the priest had brought me no parchment. I concealed my disappointment and asked what reply he had from William Bulkeley. The priest explained that my jailor had refused his request, as he is under orders to provide me with nothing that could be used for the purposes of witchcraft or necromancy. He had also informed the priest he is concerned I would write letters that could by some means find their way to supporters outside the castle. I had to hide my disappointment and listened carefully as the priest began to help me with my Latin texts.

  It was some weeks before my next walk in the castle grounds with Lady Ellen but I reasoned t
hat Sir William Bulkeley would listen to the opinion of his wife. I carried my Book of Hours and showed it to her, explaining my wish to occupy my time more usefully by translating the Latin. I had to share with her my request sent by the priest and her husband’s concerns, yet I am able to say in truth that after nearly nine long years of incarceration any supporters I had were either dead or have long since forgotten me. Ellen was at first reluctant to intervene on my behalf yet could see the virtue of my planned religious study. I know she feels sorry for my dreadful imprisonment. She promised to speak to her husband but warned me he could be a stubborn man.

  I know William Bulkeley was already a wealthy landowner in Cheshire before he married Ellen and has ambition to one day become the Constable of Beaumaris Castle. He is in the habit of coming to see me as a jailer not as a friend. He is not an unkindly man but apart from checking I am properly fed and not unwell, he rarely speaks to me. When he does, his manner is one of professional detachment. I suspect he justifies his role in the knowledge that I am a traitor, even though I am certain he knows I was never convicted of treason. William Bulkeley would not be easily persuaded to risk his reputation by agreeing my request.

  When I next saw the priest, I pleaded with him to reassure Lady Ellen my intentions were sincere. It seemed he had taken to heart his role as my reformer, for on the following Sunday he greeted me with a parcel of parchment of fine quality. He told me it had been provided by the Augustinian friars of St Seiriol's Priory at Penmon. The quill he provided is also new and holds a sharp point. I shall take good care of it, as I cannot be certain if it will be replaced when it is worn. The ink is good and black iron gall, probably also made by the monks at the priory from oak galls and vinegar, with iron to make it so black. They have given me a good quantity in a pottery flask with an airtight stopper, which I must be most careful not to break.

  The priest was unsure if the guards would object but he also let me have a small blade to trim the end of the quill. He showed me how it could be kept sharp on the stone sill of my window and how to score the parchment for trimming into folded pages, which I can sew with my needles to bind together. Although my mother taught me to read and write in French and Latin from an early age, I am out of practice and happy to let the priest act as my tutor, a role he does seem comfortable with. I shall take care to have some verses to show him when he visits so he is also less likely to ask questions about other uses I may have for his materials.

  I have found a secret place to hide my writing, where it will be safe. My room is on the second floor of the tower and follows its circular shape, with a high, vaulted ceiling that gives a sense of space. I have little furniture, just my wooden cot with a straw mattress and rough blankets, my table and one wooden chair. I am grateful my room has a large hearth to keep me warm and a window which looks out across the inner ward. The heavy oak door is always bolted on the outside and has an iron grill near the top through which the guards can check on me. I wait until I am certain they have gone, then prise up the loose floor board which can be lifted to reveal a dry space beneath.

  My guards are unable to read and have no reason to search but before I started writing I determined to use this cipher, taught to me by a princess. I must prevent my jailors from discovering my work as it is my wish to speak freely of the events of my life, without fear of recrimination while I still live. I believe the only other people who knew this encoded writing are long since dead and I am certain it will be beyond the wit of even William Bulkeley to read. My hope is that whoever understands this journal will also take the time to ensure it is used to ensure the truth of my story is not forgotten.

  I am fortunate that when the weather is fine Sir William has permitted me to walk within the castle grounds, although escorted by his soldiers of the guard. I need the sun and fresh air, as it clears my head and makes me feel alive once more, if only for a few hours. The castle of Beaumaris is close to the sea and has a little harbour so that boats can bring supplies right to the wall. Although I cannot see them from my windows, I wonder if ever I were to find a way to escape it would be by boat, then perhaps over the sea to find some sanctuary in Ireland.

  Such daydreams are of course no good for me as I have a dozen men trained to guard me, yet the sea is so close. I wake each morning to the calling of gulls and when the wind is in the right direction I taste the salt in the sea air. My only comfort is to know the king is frail and most unpopular with the people, so the fortunes of my enemies may change. I have been imprisoned for too long now to hope of sympathisers to come to my rescue, but the thought does cross my mind, usually on these good summer days.

  Lady Ellen has been on this walk with me and tells me this is the last and largest castle built by King Edward the first on his conquest of Wales. I can sense her mixed feelings about the history of this place. Her father is descended from a long line of Welsh lords and chieftains, but she told me her blue-grey eyes and auburn hair come from her mother, who is English of Norman descent. King Edward’s devoted young wife was another Eleanor, of Castile, the daughter of a Spanish king. She would have visited Beaumaris, his finest castle. Eleanor of Castile would have walked these same paths, but as a free woman and Queen of England, as I should now also be.

  My walk is usually confined to the vast square courtyard of the inner ward, flanked by the six tall stone towers of which one is my prison. This inner ward has interesting diversions for me as it houses the castle kitchens and stables, as well as the banqueting halls and barracks for those who work in the castle. My guards are under orders from William Bulkeley to ensure I speak to no one, even those who cook and clean in the steaming kitchens or the young grooms from the stables.

  Last week I saw the horses being taken out for their exercise through the south gatehouse and wondered if my jailor would one day let me ride. Sir William Beauchamp has a good dozen horses in his care and I overheard one of the guards say he treats them better than he does me. I look the unruly soldier directly in the eye and know he fears I will use my powers over him.

  I take my time on my walk and usually end in the chapel tower. It is simply furnished but a quiet, peaceful place. Always cool even in this summer heat, the chapel has a high vaulted stone ceiling and carved wooden panelling. Lady Ellen said it was built by King Edward for his personal use. I am grateful for his piety, as his chapel is where I can find some peace from the soldiers and my jailers. I kneel in contemplation but do not pray. God has long since forsaken me. Instead I remember those who have treated me well, the few who have been kind to me and those who have died in the nine long years since I was last a free woman.

  My husband taught me history is written by the victors. If I have been foolish it was to trust those around me who had so much to gain by discrediting his good name and reputation through their false allegations against me. They have called me many things, witch, traitor and harlot, but I am a lady of noble birthright. It saddened me to hear my family scorned and my good father called a ‘mere knight’ at my trial. He would tell me the stories of his famous grandfather, my great-grandfather, the first Baron of Cobham.

  My father Sir Reynold, the third Baron of Sterborough, inherited his title when his brother died. He taught me to take pride in my great-grandfather, one of the most important knights of his day, who was richly rewarded for his support of the new King Edward. He took part in grand royal tournaments and jousting with horses and was a brave man, proving his courage in the savage wars against the Scots. My great-grandfather distinguished himself at the battle of Crecy and negotiated the surrender of the French at Calais. My father told me the first Sir Reynold’s proudest achievement was to be summoned to parliament as a Lord.

  My own grandfather, the second Baron, died before I was old enough to remember him. As a young girl I would visit his memorial in our old Saxon parish church at Lingfield in Surrey. I always read the Latin epitaph on his tomb and committed it to memory. I would like to think I have inherited some of his determination, as it read ‘Here lies
Reginald, Lord Cobham of Starborough. As a soldier he was brave as a leopard, wary in council, yet bold enough when occasion required.’

  My mother was Lady Eleanor Culpeper. Beautiful and well educated, she was the daughter of the wealthy knight Sir Thomas Culpeper. I have happy memories of her and of my childhood at our family estate of Sterborough Castle in Surrey. A fine castle set in extensive grounds, it was built by my great-grandfather and improved by each generation.

  A wide moat was crossed by a long wooden drawbridge and my rooms were in one of the two towers with French style conical roofs each side of the gatehouse. I would watch from my window as I waited for my father to return from his journeys to London. He would always bring gifts from the city for me, my little sister Elizabeth and my brothers Reginald and Thomas.

  I wear my mother’s simple gold ring to this day. She was sadly taken from me by a sudden illness when she was only thirty-seven. My father was heartbroken. He threw himself into his work and began to spend much of his time at court, achieving a knighthood for his services to the infant king. As well as bringing him closer to the centre of power in the land, my father’s renewed importance also led him to remarry. His unlikely new wife, Lady Anne, was the daughter of Sir Thomas, fifth Baron Bardolf of Wormegay. She was neither beautiful or rich, as her father’s wealth was confiscated after he took part in the ill-judged insurrection against King Henry IV and died of terrible wounds.

  I saw little of my father after he remarried. I think it was because I reminded him too much of my mother and what he had lost. One of the sad consequences of the ill luck that befell me was that the last time I ever saw him was before my trial. He was not able to visit me before he died four years ago, so now I am alone in the world.