The Secret Diary of Eleanor Cobham

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.