The Witch of Eye by Mari Griffith

‘No mention has been made of that. She’s just a chit of a girl, only seventeen years old when John married her. I doubt he even bothered to take her virginity, knowing how he felt about his first wife, Anne of Burgundy, God rest her soul.’ Eleanor crossed herself hurriedly. ‘No,’ she went on, ‘John was nearly old enough to be Jacquetta’s grandfather, so there was no love involved. He only married her to keep the peace in France and the Low Countries. It was entirely political. Everyone knows that.’
    Margery was wary of making another unguarded observation, but felt she was expected to say something.
    ‘So, Your Grace, if she is not with child, then – and I’m sure you will pardon my impertinence – you should do everything possible to make sure you are.’
    ‘Exactly,’ said the Duchess. ‘If Jacquetta is not with child, then nothing will stop my husband inheriting the throne if the King should die without issue. But,’ she added, her voice almost inaudible, ‘he will need legitimate sons of his own to follow him, in order to secure the succession.’
    She suddenly grabbed Margery’s wrist, her face contorted with emotion. ‘You will help me give Humphrey a child, won’t you, Margery? By whatever means. It is my dearest wish. God knows, we’ve been married long enough to have had four children by now. So it’s up to you. You’ve helped me in the past – you must help me now. You must!’
    Margery Jourdemayne nodded. This was going to be a far greater challenge than finding an effective tooth tincture.
    ‘I will do everything I can, Your Grace,’ she said.

CHAPTER FIVE
    Twelfth Night, January 1436
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    O ccasional peals of rowdy laughter punctuated the cheerful atmosphere in the Great Hall at the Palace of Westminster. Against the constant background clatter of pewter and plate, a bagpipe droned from the minstrels’ gallery and four fiddlers played a dance tune to the steady rhythm of the tambour. Garlands of holly hung on the walls, kissing boughs were suspended above every table and the great Yule log which had been kept burning slowly throughout the twelve days of Christmas was finally disintegrating into white ash in the hearth. Twilight faded into velvet darkness outside the castle and rush lights and wax candles sparkled to light up the scene inside where noble lords and ladies had assembled to celebrate the final event of the Christmas festival with the young King. Though the court had only recently emerged from the period of official mourning for the death of John of Bedford, it would have been impossible to restrain the high spirits induced by freely flowing wine and the music of the dance. Tomorrow would mark the Feast of Epiphany, when Christian decorum would again be the order of the day, but Twelfth Night was given up to feasting and celebration.
    ‘One hundred and sixty-four!’ said Eleanor in triumph, looking up from something that lay on the table between her pewter platter and her husband’s.
    ‘One hundred and sixty-four what?’ Gloucester asked, leaning towards her to catch what she was saying above the din in the hall.
    ‘One hundred and sixty-four pearls. Can you believe it, my Lord? Is that not uncommonly generous of His Highness the King?’
    ‘Indeed it is,’ said Humphrey, ‘and it seems clear to me that my young nephew’s generosity means he is nearly as fond of his uncle as he clearly is of his aunt. As he should be, sweet Nell,’ he added, squeezing her thigh under the table, ‘because you are a very lovely, very clever woman to be able to count up to so high a number. I am impressed!’
    Eleanor’s eyes gleamed dark in the candlelight. ‘I’m glad of that,’ she whispered, leaning close to him, pushing her ample breast against his arm. ‘I would impress you even more were we not surrounded by so many people.’ Humphrey’s hand slid further up her thigh with easy intimacy. She giggled and put her mouth to his ear.