Brian Wainwright - The Adventures of Alianore Audley

Brian Wainwright has spent most of his life in the North West of England. He is theoretically in a position to write full time, but domestic responsibilities and ill health have proved restrictive and very little progress has been made with his many writing projects. Brian has been a member of the Richard III Society since 1983.

The Adventures of Alianore Audley was his first published novel. He has also published a ‘serious’ historical novel, Within the Fetterlock, around the life of Alianore’s putative grandmother, Constance of York.

The discovery of Alianore Audley’s Chronicle caused a major stir in academic circles. It threw a new light on the life and times of Richard III, providing answers to a number of previously unresolved questions.

Certain cynical individuals have expressed doubt about the reliability of the Chronicle. However, comparison with other known sources bears out the great bulk of Alianore’s narrative. This is as much as can be said for the Croyland Chronicle, the generally accepted work of authority on the period. Even so unlikely an incident as the capture of Gloucester’s banner by Lord Stanley is recorded in an old ballad. (See Richard III as Duke of Gloucester and King of England , C. A. Halstead, volume 2, p. 67, note 3.)

I have updated some of Alianore’s spellings for the modern reader, and ironed out some of her medieval idioms. Apart from this, the text is exactly as she left it.

I was ten years old in the 34th year of Mad King Harry the Sixth when Lady Tegolin came to my father at his castle of Newport and asked if she could take me as her pupil.

My father put down his cup of wine and belched. It was the Feast of Corpus Christi, and he was feeling expansive.

‘What do you think, my dear?’ he asked my mother.

‘Mmmm…’ grunted Lady Audley, petting one of her one hundred and thirty-two assorted dogs. My mother had but one claim to fame. She was the only woman in the history of England to be kicked out of a convent because of the nuisance caused by her pets. We had no such easy remedy, but after a time you got used to taking care where you put your feet. ‘It would be useful to have a poisoner in the family,’ my brother Edmund declared. ‘For emergency use only, of course.’

Edmund always was the scholarly one among us. He spent years at University, honing his keen sense of morality. I always knew that he would end up as a Bishop. The obnoxious Tudor Slimebag, known to his friends as Our Sovereign Lord King Henry the Seventh, has recently promoted him to the See of Hereford. I’m sure they’re very happy with each other.

‘I can teach her much more than that,’ Tegolin snorted.

‘I’m sure you can,’ said my father, ‘but what is it that interests you in Alianore? Why did you never ask for one of her sisters?’

‘She is a Special Child. I have seen her destiny.’

‘Oh, yes? And how long for her to learn your skills?’

‘Seven years for the full course –’

‘Seven years? Are you stark, staring mad, woman?’

‘But I can probably get her through the Preliminary Certificate in just one year. Eighteen months at the most.’

‘Hmmm,’ said my father, ‘and at what cost?’

‘The cancellation of my arrears of feudal dues. That’s all.’

My father got his abacus out and flicked the beads about as he considered the bargain.

‘I’ve heard about you people,’ he said, frowning, ‘and some of the things you get up to at night. If I agree to this, I want my child back in good, marketable condition. Virgo Intacta and all that. Understood? If one hair of her head is harmed, Lady Tegolin, I shall see to it that little bits of you are stuck up on every gallows from here to Newcastle. And I don’t mean Newcastle Emlyn, or the Newcastle near Clun in the Marches, or even Newcastle-under-Lyme. I mean Newcastle-on-Tyne. We have a short way with witches hereabouts.’

It sounded a rather long way to me.

‘My Lord Audley,’ Tegolin answered, ‘I am, above all, a Welsh gentlewoman. Your daughter will be entirely safe in my care. However, I should like to observe that witchcraft is an offence punishable in the ecclesiastical courts, not under temporal jurisdiction. The Bishop of St. David’s and his Chancellor happen to be among my closest friends, and would be unlikely to proceed against me on the basis of idle rumour. Moreover, contrary to the common perception, witchcraft is not, in itself, a capital crime. I have to say, therefore, that on balance your threats tend to leave me somewhat unmoved.’

To my surprise my father laughed at her. ‘You are in my private Lordship of Cemaes, where I have power of life and death over every man, woman and sheep. On top of that, I am the Chamberlain of South Wales, King Henry’s most senior officer in a hundred miles. Believe me, if you give me any hassle you will rapidly be converted into dead meat. Legal niceties won’t save you, and as for the Bishop and his Chancellor, they can each have a cheek of my arse to kiss. Now, take the maid, teach her what she needs to know, and bring her back to me undamaged. Or else. Oh, and by the way, I don’t want her to learn anything really wicked, like how to stop herself from having babies. Is that quite clear?’

‘Absolutely, my lord,’ said Tegolin. She curtsied, not very deeply, and held out her hand to me.

You will notice that no one had consulted me on the proposal. I was used to this sort of treatment. I was the youngest child of a large family, right at the bottom of the pecking order. I just got told what to do.

Lady Tegolin appeared ancient to me, although I don’t suppose that she was more than forty. She was small and dark and round, like many Welshwomen, quite handsome, with a twinkle in her eye that drew men to her. She took me home to her manor house. Do not be impressed by this term. It was built of stone, but the masons had obviously been drunk, lazy and short of materials. It was one step up from a ruin. No Kentish yeoman would have dared to bring a new wife home to such an abominable pit.

(By the way, I’m not sure how Lady Tegolin came by her title. Her late husband was never knighted, and she was most certainly not the daughter of an Earl, Marquis or Duke. Those of you who are pedantic will have to come up with your own explanation.)

Tegolin worked on me for months. She read me all the Welsh legends, translating them into English as she went along. Boy, those legends are really something. How anyone with more than a pea for a brain can believe a word of them I shall never know. Maidens emerging from lakes. Giants walking across the sea from Ireland. I ask you!

Then there was the Welsh poetry, beautiful to the ear until it was converted into understandable form, when it almost invariably turned out to be a dirge predicting that Owain Glyndwr would return and drive us out of Wales. Sure thing, Tegolin.

She showed me the herbs to mix if I wanted to force fleas out of my mattress, or if I needed to get a wine stain out of a velvet gown. Things were looking up. This was interesting. Unfortunately, it didn’t last, and she was soon rattling on again about how I could become a great lady, the mother of a long line of kings, and so on and so forth.

One night, as we sat by the fire, she asked me what I could see in it.

‘Sticks burning. Smoke. Flames. Ash,’ I said.

‘Is that all?’