Free The Secret Diary of Eleanor Cobham by Tony Riches

to our side I could see the deck was crowded with soldiers, wet through but in good humour, as we heard them give a rousing cheer as they recognised the flagship.
    It was mid-afternoon before we heard a shout from the lookout and could make out the distant shape of Calais on the horizon. Duke Humphrey Ied me back up to the deck so we could have a better view. A small patch of blue brightened up the sky and the rain had passed. We watched as the green fields of France slowly became visible. Soon we could see the harbour. Small fishing boats set out to greet us and I could sense the heightened anticipation amongst the crew. I began to wonder what fate awaited us in Hainault.

December 1450
     
    Non fecit misericordiam

    Winter has come to Beaumaris Castle, chilling the air so I see my frozen breath as I take my walk in the inner ward. My guards are under orders to tend my fire and I hear them curse as they carry heavy logs up the winding stone steps of my tower. They are simple men and their superstition reminds me of my mistress Jacqueline so long ago. A single glance from me is enough to silence them. I watch the guards closely to see a way to get to know them better, as I know it may be useful some day.
    One of the guards reminds me a little of Arthur, my long lost only son. He has the same beguiling innocence and I see a question in his eye as he looks at me. It gives me hope. The other guards regard me as little more than an inconvenience, despite the fact I am the reason for their occupation. Also unlike the others, who speak only in Welsh, I have heard him speak in English. He seems popular and to be respected by them, even though some are clearly older than him. When the time is right I will ask his name and see what more I can learn.
    Now I look forward to the winter solstice, when the sun begins its northward journey in the sky and the days will finally begin to grow longer again. From my translation of the little Book of Hours, which also must serve as my calendar to mark the passing days, I see it is the holy day of the martyr Saint Barbara on the fourth of December. Like me, she is unjustly locked up in a tower, hidden from the world and closely guarded. She was able to bring down thunderbolts and is made a saint for her faith. I wish I could do the same but know it would instead be taken as certain proof of my necromancy.
    I continue to carefully translate the Latin script to keep my mind sharp and pass the long hours. The priest takes comfort from my apparent return to the church, but my faith is long since gone. When I was young I remember being entranced by the sermons, delivered with such conviction in our family parish church at Lingfield. December was when we would listen in wonder at the story of the nativity, yet now I wonder how anyone could hear that tale of immaculate conception without questions forming in their mind.
    As I write I recall instead the wonderful Christmas and New Year celebrations of my childhood. We would have a golden goose, the magical yellow colour created by covering it in butter and precious saffron. My mother told me the saffron had been brought back from the Holy Lands by brave Crusaders and it was even more precious than real gold. Years later Humphrey laughed at my innocence and told me saffron is expensive but grown in a place named Saffron Walden in Suffolk.
    I also loved the special treat of Christmas puddings. The steaming kitchens at Starborough Castle were a hot and busy place, yet in my mother’s time they were also happy and exciting to a young girl. I was not supposed to visit the kitchens when I was young, yet I knew the cooks would let me help them make the puddings at Christmas and New Year. I remember they boiled a thick porridge of wheat, which they sweetened with sugar, currants and dried fruit, then spiced with cinnamon and nutmeg.
    Years later I would plan special Christmas feasts for Humphrey. We would have banquets in our great hall, with all our friends and