The Traitor's Wife (32 page)

Meanwhile, efforts had been under way to mend the breach between the king and Thomas of Lancaster. Lancaster, ostensibly dismayed by the prominent role Damory, Audley, Montacute, and the Despensers had assumed at court, the nonobservance of the Ordinances, and the king's gift-giving, had remained intransigent, but at last in April 1318, a preliminary agreement, to which the king was not privy, was reached. It was extremely favorable to Lancaster—royal gifts were to be taken back into the hands of the crown, “evil counselors” would be removed, Lancaster would be pardoned for his aggressions of the previous year, and the Despensers were to stay in Lancaster's retinue for their lives—and as such was satisfactory to few but Lancaster himself. Negotiations resumed.

Eleanor had been invited to attend the queen, who was expecting her third child in June. She was staying at Woodstock for her confinement, and Eleanor happily showed her Fair Rosamund's Bower and later sang a very sad ballad, accompanying herself on her lute, about how jealous Eleanor of Aquitaine had poisoned her husband's lovely young mistress.

“Do you believe that nonsense, Lady Despenser?”

“Oh! I don't know, your grace, but it is very romantic, and it makes a pretty song.” Secretly, Eleanor was rather hurt, for she had an expressive singing voice and thought she had excelled herself in her ballad; two of the queen's damsels had even sniffled appreciatively.

It was a beautiful spring day, and the queen and her ladies were sitting out in the garden. Two men came into sight, the king and Hugh the younger. They kissed their wives, and Edward questioned Isabella as to how she felt, for she was expected to go into labor any day. Then they went inside the manor.

“Your husband has certainly become a confidant of mine lately,” said the queen, watching as they went inside.

“Yes. I am glad of it, for he well deserves it. If only this business with Lancaster would get settled! Then he and his father and Pembroke and the others could do good work for the king, instead of wasting their time going back and forth with the earl.”

She settled back in her seat rather complacently and smiled at little John of Eltham, who was toddling toward her with a flower. “Did you pick that for me, sir? It is lovely.”

“Pretty,” said John solemnly.

It was unclear whether John was referring to Eleanor or the flower, but both were undeniably pretty. Since the division of the Clare inheritance, Hugh had insisted that Eleanor have some new summer robes made and that she add to her jewels, and if there were women who would argue with such a mandate, Eleanor was not one of them. Her hair had been dressed most carefully by Gladys, and the light spring breeze had called a glow into her cheeks. “Wealth seems to agree with you, Lady Despenser,” said the queen.

“I am happy, your grace, but I hope it is not only the wealth. I am content, and it seems that most around me are too.” She thought of Hugh's younger sister Margaret, who had died around Easter, and her grieving father-in-law, and said softly, “Almost.” She crossed herself.

The queen did not reply. She winced, and Eleanor dropped John's flower and went to her. “Is it time, your grace?”

The queen nodded.

The queen's labor was long and hard, but at last the midwife held up a wailing baby. “A beautiful little girl, your grace.”

The king was delighted. Edward and John were in excellent health, so he had not been unduly concerned to have a third son. He found the business of teaching his eldest son kingship as dreary as kingship itself; it would be much more pleasant to have a girl to make much of and to have taught to sing all of his favorite songs. Of course, the girl would have to marry suitably, but as he held her in his arms, that moment seemed very far away. He kissed Isabella. “She is beautiful, my dear. Thank you.”

He looked over toward Eleanor, who was tying ribbons on the royal cradle. “Niece, I can think of none better than you to stand godmother to her.”

“I am honored, sir.”

“And my dear nephew Hugh shall stand as godfather. She shall be named Eleanor, after my beloved mother, of course.” But his eyes met Eleanor's, and she knew that the little girl had been named for her, not for the mother Edward had hardly known.

Soon after little Eleanor's birth and christening, the king departed for Northampton, it having been planned that Lancaster would meet the king there. He left orders that over three hundred pounds be allotted for Isabella's churching.

Despite the difficulty in achieving a settlement with Lancaster, the king had not been happier since the days of Gaveston. On his travels, except when the royal party headquartered itself at a monastery or when the queen or his niece was in too close proximity, he shared his bed with Hugh, who no longer needed to fortify himself with wine before coming to the king. He had become, in fact, an energetic and imaginative lover, sometimes tender, sometimes rough depending on the king's mood, which he was adept at discerning. (That was Hugh for you, the king thought lovingly, a quick study.) He was almost as wonderful as Gaveston. Yet there was an intriguing difference between the men. While Gaveston's eyes had glazed over on the few occasions the king had discussed the affairs of the realm with him, save those that concerned himself, Hugh's were bright and eager; more often than not, the king thought, Hugh was better informed than he.

“Have you heard Lancaster's latest excuse for failing to come here?” asked Hugh one evening as he opened the bed curtains. “Now he is swearing that Damory and Montacute are plotting to kill him.”

“I know, dear one. I am going to send you, Bartholomew Badlesmere, and the Earl of Pembroke to meet with him, along with the Bishops of Norwich and Ely. Some agreement must be reached with that tiresome man, so we can deal with the Scots.”

The envoys did in fact return with an agreement. Save to attend Parliament and answer military summonses, the king's intimate friends were to be removed from court, and gifts contrary to the Ordinances were to be revoked. There was to be a standing council, some of whose members would stay with the king each year, some of whom would stay with the king each quarter. Though Hugh himself stood to lose from this agreement, he did not worry overmuch about it, for Hugh doubted that the king would ever agree to it, much less the king's other particular friends and the many barons who would lose valuable lands, and he was quite correct. A second group of envoys, this time minus Hugh and with the Earl of Arundel and Roger Mortimer of Wigmore, was sent to Lancaster. By August, at Leake, the king and Lancaster had exchanged a kiss of peace, and a couple of days later, on August 9, what became known as the Treaty of Leake had been drawn up.

“Lancaster gave a great deal up,” Hugh told Eleanor, who had remained in England with the queen over the summer. “Oh, he got his standing council, all right, but he's not on it—only a banneret of his! There's quite a few bishops on it, and the Earls of Pembroke, Richmond, Hereford, and Arundel. No Warenne, as you can well imagine. Hugh Courtenay, John de Segrave, and that Roger Mortimer you dislike so much. The membership of the council is to rotate, though. All the rest is quite vague. Nothing about royal gifts or the removal of us so-called evil counselors. We'll just have to see what happens when Parliament meets at York in October. But I do have an additional piece of news for you, my love, that won't be found in the Treaty of Leake.”

“What is that, Hugh?”

“The king has appointed a new chamberlain.”

“Oh? Who is it?”

“Me, my love. Come. Kiss the royal chamberlain.”

After marrying Joan, Countess of Gloucester and daughter of the first Edward, Ralph de Monthermer had been made Earl of Gloucester, once the old king saw fit to let him out of prison. He had lost the title, of course, upon Joan's death, and he had accepted this graciously, knowing that the title by all right and justice now belonged to her young son, Gilbert. It was his lovely, spirited Joan he had mourned, not his lost earldom. In any case, though he was no longer a particularly important man in the realm, he was a busy one, for the second Edward had found much for him to do. He was the keeper of the forest south of Trent, he had a number of manors that had been granted to him by the king, and he had several lady friends who were pleased to have him stay the night.

And he had his chess games with Lady Hastings. Ralph enjoyed playing chess as much as he enjoyed riding and wenching, and these were things that he enjoyed very much indeed. In the chess aspect, he had found, some years ago, a kindred spirit in Lady Hastings, who had trounced him mercilessly the first time he'd idly suggested a game. When Ralph had recovered from the shock of losing to this doe-like creature, Bella had explained that her father, no mean player himself, had taught her the game and that they still played together whenever they visited each other. Since then Ralph, whenever he found himself near one of Bella's manors when she was in residence, stopped in, and Bella's servants knew well to bring out the chessboard and men when he arrived.

But this game was far less interesting than usual. Bella's mind did not seem to be on it, and when he had captured the last of her men, she sighed. “It seems you and I will not be playing much together soon, Lord Monthermer.”

“Not becoming a poor loser, are you, Lady Hastings? I don't beat you all that often, but it has happened enough that you should not be surprised.”

He had spoken teasingly, but Bella's eyes welled up with tears. “No, Lord Monthermer. I always enjoy our games, whatever the result. But my brother writes that he wishes me to remarry, and I suppose I must.”

“Remarry? Who?”

“One of his retainers, Peter de Ovedale. He has been loyal to Hugh, my brother writes, and he wishes to show him a mark of his favor by marrying him to me.”