The Traitor's Wife (100 page)

The Berkeleys arrived two days later, accompanied by their seven-year-old son, Maurice, who stood fidgeting between his parents as they expressed their condolences once more to her. John had gone to be a squire in the Earl of Warwick's household, where Gilbert still was, but Elizabeth and little William were still at home with Eleanor, and they joined her in greeting the Berkeleys. “Elizabeth, William, perhaps you can show Master Berkeley the new puppies while we talk.”

“Yes, Mama.” Elizabeth led the boys away. Lady Berkeley said nervously, “She is a pretty child, and your youngest looks like a fine boy too.”

Would Hugh or Edward have believed that one day she would be sitting in her chamber with Edward's jailer and Mortimer's daughter, politely chattering about their children? Perhaps they would have found it amusing. But it was time for her to admire Maurice. “Your son is well grown for his age, my lady, and quite well behaved. Many lads would have recoiled from a girl!”

“I would have been sorry to have seen him do so,” said Lord Berkeley, with a gesture as if getting to the point. “The truth is, my lady, it is your daughter we have come about. We would like to see our son marry her.”

“Marry?”

“It's a suitable match, don't you think? There's a little age difference, but it won't matter much once they're in their late teens. And Maurice is a bit old for his age.”

“It is not the age difference, or your son, Lord Berkeley. It is—my uncle Edward. I loved my uncle, Lord Berkeley. I loved him more than any man besides my husbands and my sons. And he died in your care. He was murdered. I know that you have been acquitted in Parliament of blame, but how could you not have known what was meant?”

Margaret de Berkeley was staring at her feet. Thomas said, “Lady Despenser, all three of us have been prisoners at one time or another, if you count my wife's being confined to Shoreditch Priory as imprisonment, as I certainly do. Those were hellish times for all of us. I've done things to be ashamed of; perhaps you have too.” Eleanor thought of the jewels and John de Grey, and flinched. “I've told of my role in your uncle's death to my confessor, and I've been doing penance for it.”

“And marrying into the Despenser family is part of it?”

“As matter of fact, it would be, if you allow it. Think of it: The children of this marriage would have Roger Mortimer for a great-grandfather and Hugh le Despenser for a grandfather.”

“I can think of no one who would dislike to hear that more than my husband and Roger Mortimer,” said Eleanor dryly.

“My daughter, Joan, is to marry Thomas de Haudlo. We obtained the papal dispensation on the ground that I sided with the Earl of March and he sided with your husband and father-in-law and that the marriage would promote the peace.”

“You are serious about this, aren't you?”

“After all, my lady, you married the man who captured your husband and besieged your son. And I believe that you mourn him deeply.”

“I do, Lord Berkeley. As I mourned my first husband, too, and my uncle.” She paused, thinking of her son Hugh, who appeared destined by his father's misdeeds to be a perpetual outsider in England no matter how valiantly he served the king. “But I would like to see peace between our family and others, and I am willing to consider your proposal.”

“Only to consider?”

“As my heir it should be up to my son Hugh to have a say in this marriage, to decide what alliances he wishes to make. He is in Glamorgan on my business and will not be back for some time. But I will write him and ask his consent. I believe that he will give it, Lord Berkeley. He does value good relations with others, and he wishes to live in the past no more than I do.”

“Then I shall look forward to hearing from him,” said Thomas de Berkeley.

Eleanor walked with the Berkeleys to the stables, where the canine Lord Zouche's daughter had given birth to four of the most peculiar-looking puppies Eleanor had seen. Young Berkeley had been well brought up, she noted with approval, for he thanked his young host and hostess as he prepared to go. “Master Berkeley, if your parents agree, you can take one of the puppies. They are weaned.”

“Really?” He beamed at her.

“I make no warranties about the size it will grow to, Lord Berkeley,” Eleanor cautioned as his son picked up the wiggling dog.

Lord Berkeley snorted, but made no resistance as his son prepared to take his prize home.

Hugh gave a provisional consent to the marriage, writing that he wanted to speak to Lord Berkeley in person. Which would not be soon, he added, because the king had asked him to come to Westminster.

He arrived at Hanley Castle in early May. It was late, and he came straight to Eleanor's chamber, to find his mother huddled before the fire. Probably having one of her sad spells about his stepfather, he surmised. “Mother? I've good news. The king has given me more land! Rotherfield in Sussex, and two manors in Devon, and the reversion of five manors besides that. Plus a thousand acres of wood and some knights' fees and some advowsons. And the fee of the manors I hold now. Lands that Father held.”

“That is good.”

“I know it's not the earldom of Gloucester, Mother, but it's something, isn't it? It hurt me too, to see it go to Audley. But I don't feel quite so excluded now. Why, the king even asked me if I've thought of taking a wife!” Hugh laughed. “I told him that asking that was your prerogative.”

“Yes,” agreed Eleanor. She put her head in her hands and began to weep.

“Mother! I don't understand. I thought you would be happy.”

“I am.”

“Then—”

Eleanor shook her head. “I am sorry, Hugh. It is just that I am in such pain tonight.” She lifted her head, and Hugh saw with a shock that she had aged by years since he had last seen her scarcely a month before. “So, so much pain, Hugh. I am dying, my dear.”

She had bad days, medium days, and good days after that. On bad days, she lay in bed dosed with sleeping aids and was aware of nothing that went on around her. On her medium days, she could sit up in her chamber for a few hours before going back to bed. On her good days, Hugh or one of her men would carry her to her garden, where she would sit most of the day and be read or played to, or simply listen to the idle chatter of her damsels. They were the daughters of two prosperous local merchants and did not seem to be capable of a serious thought, but they were good company and attended her carefully.

On her best day, Hugh took her, Lizzie, and William for a ride on Eleanor's barge. “I know you like the water,” he said simply when Eleanor, tears choking her, tried to thank him. “I wish I could get you to the sea but this will have to do.”

“It is plenty, Hugh.”

As Lizzie and William pestered the bargemen, Hugh settled Eleanor on a pile of cushions with a basket of provisions nearby, although Eleanor's sense of taste had deserted her recently and one food she ate was as good as another. “You are so kind, Hugh. You should really make some woman happy by marrying her.”

Hugh grinned. On his mother's good days, she invariably nagged him about his unconscionable failure to marry. He humored her, which annoyed her, which cheered up both of them immensely. “Whom could I find who would match you, Mother?”

Eleanor snorted. “You've used that excuse before.”

She sat back, eating and drinking a little to keep Hugh happy, and watched the Severn as the barge moved slowly down it. “I know it is not that you dislike women, Hugh. I'm quite sure you wench about. When I visited you at Freeby unexpectedly that time, your chamber reeked of cheap scent.”

“Nothing gets past you, does it, Mother?”

“Very little,” she said smugly. “Do you have a bastard?”

“No woman has presented me with a little replica of myself, so I suppose not.”

“Well, that's something. But why waste yourself on whores when you could be married to a sweet young woman who would give you heirs? I don't understand.”

He could not tell her that he did not want to marry until he was satisfied that his bride could carry the name of Hugh le Despenser without shame; it would hurt her too much. “One of these days. Now, Mother, tell me about the abbey again, so I will know what to tell the abbot.”

Eleanor brightened; her remodeling at Tewkesbury could always get her off the subject of Hugh's bachelorhood. “I have decided on the windows. The east window should have Christ and the Virgin and the Apostles and the Archangel, with the Last Judgment. The south and north ones should have the prophets and King Solomon. And—I am not sure if the abbot will care for this—in the farthest windows to the north and south, my Clare ancestors who have been benefactors of the abbey. And Hugh and William. Do you think he would allow it? They would be looking quite respectfully on; not trying to usurp the holy men.” She giggled. “Not even your dear father would be that bold.”

“I am sure he will—the abbot, that is.”

“I want you to make sure it all is completed.”

“I will, Mother.”

Lizzie and William drifted back over, and Eleanor put an arm around each of them. Hugh, she knew, had given himself the unhappy task of telling her two youngest children, both of whom were still mourning her husband William, that she was soon to die. They snuggled close to her as the four of them traded family anecdotes back and forth. Then Eleanor grew weary of sitting, and Hugh took her to the cabin where he had had a bed made up for her. When he came back, William had gone back to bother the bargemen again, but Lizzie was sitting where he had left her. “Mama says that I will be going to the prioress of Wix soon, for more education. And she said that my aunt Elizabeth de Burgh has invited me to stay with her for a while.”

“Has she? That must have pleased Mother. It has made her sad not to be on better terms with our aunts.”

“They were not friends for a long time, were they, Hugh?”

“No, they were not, but it was not really their doing. It was their husbands'. Mostly our father's, I am afraid.”

“Was our father a bad man, Hugh? I have heard people say so.”

Hugh sighed. “He did some very bad things to get land and money, but he had his good points too. He was clever and witty and loving to us and Mother. He could be generous when it suited him, and he was faithful to his king to the end.” He shook his head. “It's hard for you because you never knew him. You'll hear all of the bad, and you won't be able to attest to any of the good. But trust me when I say there was good in him; more good than you'll ever hear.”

“Do you ever wish you didn't carry his name, Hugh?”