Westminster Abbey, Summer 1441 #6
I turn my head away from her to hide my smile at winning this information.
Just as I thought: it is the cardinal behind this destruction of our team of advisors in order to strike at my husband.
He has no quarrel with me, and this might be his weakness.
He will under-estimate me – separating Humphrey from his advisors, not knowing that I am the best of them, second only to Roger Bolingbroke.
Humphrey has the love of the people – especially the Londoners – the command of his army, and the wealth of his lands.
I have the love of the king. Together, we are unbeatable.
We can recover from this; but first, I have to get hold of Humphrey, explain the danger, and get him to demand another sanctuary for me – more remote, where the privy council cannot easily summon me, where I cannot be turned over by a curious hand, like a page in a book.
I could almost laugh aloud when I think of a haven: Sterborough Abbey!
Sterborough Abbey shall be my home – distant from London, loyal to me and my family.
I shall wait out this time at Sterborough Abbey, and my mother’s deathbed wish will finally be fulfilled – and may it bring her much joy in the grave!
Humphrey must negotiate my bail and take me to Sterborough.
It is in his own interest as much as mine.
I will have to get a message to him if he will not come to me.
I wait till the woman brings me dinner just after noon, and then I tell her that I am going to pray and then sleep and I am not to be disturbed for the rest of the day or night. She jumps at the chance to avoid work. She does not want to toil up and down the stairs with heavy dishes of food.
‘I’m supposed to serve supper,’ she says grudgingly.
‘You can eat it yourself,’ I tell her and see a greedy gleam in her eye. ‘Drink the wine too; I am fasting. But don’t disturb me. If you come to my room, you will have to serve me. If you want the supper and the wine, leave me in peace.’
‘Oh aye,’ she says, and takes my dinner plates and goes.
I listen till I hear her heavy footsteps shuffling down the spiral stairs, then I put my cape on and draw the hood over my head.
I go quietly down. At the bottom of the stairs, there are two doors: one leads to the courtyards and stables and outer gate, where the young captain and his men keep watch.
The other is under Cheyneygates arch to the abbey.
I go to the abbey. I kneel in prayer before the altar.
Someone has lit candles, and the chapel smells pleasantly of beeswax and incense.
The abbey is never silent: there is always someone praying or the choir practising, a church servant sweeping or the endless mutter of paupers.
Nobody pays any attention to me, not even an old lady at the back of the Lady Chapel, who breathes heavily in deep sleep.
I wait for a little while, my head bowed.
I hear the quarter of the hour chime twice, and then I rise up and step into the main body of the church, towards the altar and then to the side.
One of these rooms must be a robing room for the priests.
The first room is filled with chairs and benches, tables piled against the walls.
The second is empty but for locked chests that hold the gold plates, silverware, and the crystal for the altars.
The third is a cloakroom for people working in the church, and their capes are hung on hooks and their heavy boots on the floor below.
Some have left their saddles and bridles in here; I choose a heavy cloak with a deep hood in dark brown.
It hides my gown completely. I find a pair of small boots, and I pick up a basket to complete my disguise.
I open the outer door and find myself in a cloister which runs around a courtyard to a door on the other side.
I walk briskly, like a busy woman with no time to dawdle.
Unseen, under my hood, my eyes dart around, trying to see the way out.
The abbey is a maze of courtyards, passages, and entrances, but if I head south, I will be going towards the river, and I can find the water stairs and hail a boatman.
I slip through the door and cross another courtyard, and my hand is on the handle of a wicket door as a voice behind me says quietly: ‘Your Grace.’
I don’t hesitate for a moment; I don’t turn. I open the wicket door as if I have heard nothing, as if I don’t recognise my title; but a gloved hand comes down over mine and pulls the door closed in my face. ‘Your Grace,’ the young captain says again. ‘I am sorry, but you cannot leave.’
‘I’m not arrested,’ I say, turning to him. ‘There are no charges against me. I am free to go.’
He looks uncomfortable. ‘If you step outside sanctuary, I am ordered to arrest you,’ he points out. ‘Once through that door, you have broken sanctuary and anyone can arrest you, and there is a reward for taking you.’
‘I want to see my husband.’ My voice trembles, and my eyes fill with tears. ‘I have to see him . . .’
‘Your Grace . . .’
‘Will you at least take a message to him from me, without telling anyone else? I am so unhappy . . .’
‘All messages must be seen by the privy . . .’
‘They don’t give them to him! He doesn’t know I’m here, or he would have come to me. Or they have lied to him and told him that I refuse to see him . . .’
He is at a loss; his sense of duty is at war with his pity for me, in too-big boots and a rough cape, standing before a door that he holds closed.
‘If I were your wife . . .’ I whisper, ‘would you not want to know that I was asking for you? Would you not want to come to me?’
‘I’ll take him a message. You must stay here, but I’ll take him a message – a verbal message.’
‘Thank you!’ I put my hand over his hand as he holds the latch shut, and I see his colour rise. ‘Thank you. Would you tell him that I have to see him, that he must come to see me? That’s all. I must see him.’
‘I’ll tell him,’ he promises. ‘But go back inside now, Your Grace. There are guards outside, and you’ll be arrested if you leave the abbey demesne.’
‘I’ll go to pray,’ I tell him. ‘I pray for the king and that I will see my beloved husband again.’
He bows and watches me as I go back across the courtyard, to the robing room to kick off the boots and drop the cape on the floor. I am sure he will find Humphrey and deliver the message.
I trust the impressionable captain to get to Humphrey; but I don’t trust Humphrey to come to me.
He will be ill or pretending to illness, or frightened and trying to brazen it out.
He has forgotten that it is I who got us this far, and only I can get us out of this trouble.
I hope the young captain shames him into coming.
I don’t know what I will do if Humphrey does not come.
NO HUMPHREY, AND not one word from him. I despise him so much!
He failed Jacqueline; he failed me; he fails at everything he does.
I feel nothing but contempt for him, but still, my life depends on him.
I have to make him see me; I have to make him understand that his only safety is in my defence.
I have to persuade him that he loves me and I love him.
I will tell him I am carrying his child, if I have to.
But in the meantime, I have to step into an unmarked barge, escorted by the young captain and his guard, and go downriver to Gravesend.
The young captain sees me settled in the stateroom at the stern with wine and water and some little cakes.
He is about to leave when I beckon him closer and whisper: ‘Did you see my husband?’
He bows. ‘I saw His Grace at Baynard’s Castle. He has been gravely ill and kept to his chamber. But he admitted me, and I gave him your message exactly.’
‘Did he send a reply?’
‘No, my lady. He was very particular. He said: “no reply”.’
‘Is he very sick?’ I clasp my hands at my heart as if I am overwhelmed with concern.
‘He certainly seems very ill,’ he says cautiously. ‘There was a physician in the room, and he had been leeched.’
I imagine the little black slugs sucking at his white flesh. They will get nothing out of him. No one benefits from Humphrey. ‘God keep him – if only I could be with him!’ I exclaim.
‘Surely you will be,’ he says. ‘When your name is cleared . . .’
I find a brave smile. ‘Then, yes.’