The Traitor's Wife (50 page)

The queen landed on September 24, 1326, and progressed toward Bury St. Edmunds as if on pilgrimage, her shabby widow's weeds attracting almost universal sympathy and, more to the point, more armed men. At the abbey, she received her first windfall: eight hundred marks deposited there by the king's chief justice, Hervey de Staunton. As the king's chief justice could not be a friend of the queen, she promptly seized the money.

Isabella had sent a letter to the people of London beseeching their support, and though she had received no reply, it was becoming clear that whoever the Londoners were supporting, it was not the king. When Edward, now headquartered at the Tower, met with the city leaders to garner their support— though he was attempting himself to raise an army of nearly fifty thousand men, only a handful had responded—he was told only that they would support Edward against foreigners and traitors, which the queen and her son were certainly not, and that they would fight only if they were able to return home by sunset the next day.

Hugh had had much to say about the Londoners in the past few days, but his invective had worn itself out by the afternoon of October 1, when he climbed the winding stairs to the chamber that he and Eleanor shared. “Sweetheart,” he said quietly. “The king has made a decision. He and I and Arundel and Chancellor Baldock are to go to Wales. Father and Hugh will accompany us. There we shall raise an army. You shall stay here with our children"—all of them, save for Isabel, who had finally gone to live with Richard Fitz Alan as his wife, had been brought to the Tower—"and John of Eltham. It will be safer for you here. The Tower's well fortified; I've seen to that. And the Bishop of Exeter will be here to help advise you, too.”

“When shall I join you, Hugh?”

“Why, when the bitch is imprisoned, of course, which shall be soon. In the meantime, the Tower is in your charge, yours and the constable's. I know you'll keep it safe.”

He was speaking as a man sleepwalking, and Eleanor was hearing him as in a dream. Hugh continued, “I've left the Tower well provisioned, in case you are besieged, and I've left you plenty of gold should you need it. But I am sure we will be back before you do.”

Eleanor said in her half-asleep voice, “I shall help you pack what you need.”

For the rest of the day, she rushed about superintending the packing of the three Hughs' clothes and bedding, leaving the men to worry about the armor and weapons. That being done, she wandered to the king's chamber, not in the idea that her services would be required there but in the hope that movement would keep her from thinking. She was let inside immediately, as she always was. A half-filled trunk sat near the wardrobe, and she picked up the black cap, powdered with butterflies and other beasts in white pearls, that lay on top, as if put there on impulse. She smiled in spite of herself. Only Edward himself, wonderful, foolish Ned, fleeing London to face an army of invaders, could still have made certain that his favorite cap was packed.

“Hugh.”

Their preparations for the morning being done with, they had gone to bed early. Eleanor was all but coiled about Hugh. She could not bear to move away from him this night, even an inch.

“What, sweetheart?”

“I must tell you something, just—just—” Eleanor could not go on. What she had to tell was hard enough to say, but the prefatory words
just in case we do not see each other again
were impossible.

“Eleanor, is it about the king? That afternoon you and he shut yourselves up together?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Hugh, I—”

“He told me about it months ago, love.”

“Hugh, I swear, we have not been together since, in that manner. I was so foolish. I do love you, truly. I—”

“I know, sweetheart. Edward knew you would tell eventually, and he wanted to spare you my anger, so he told me himself after we left Kenilworth. And I was angry for the time—very. But I cannot blame you for loving where I have loved myself, or him for loving you when I love you so much. We're a muddled bunch, aren't we, my dear?”

A lump was forming in her throat. “Yes, we certainly are.”

“And soon this nonsense will be over and we shall be safe, to muddle our way through the rest of our lives together. You'll see. Now come, sweetheart. Let's give me a proper send-off.”

Not since the earliest days of their marriage had Hugh made love to her so tenderly, yet so passionately. Eleanor, tense and frightened, was slow to warm to him, but his touch finally aroused her and she was able to give herself over to him completely, feeling no emotions but love and desire. Afterward, they fell asleep for a while; then, without anything being said, they woke and made love again. Twice more they made love and slept, made love and slept, until, exhausted, they fell asleep in each other's arms and lay like that until dawn.

“Hugh! Are you here? We must leave now!”

It was the king himself who had barged into their chamber and was tugging on the bed curtains. Eleanor, not wearing so much as a sheet over her, grabbed for a coverlet frantically, but Hugh said good-naturedly, “You might have knocked, Ned.”

“I beg your pardon, but we must go now.”

Hugh shrugged and emerged from behind the bed curtains. He reached for his garments on the floor, not bothering to call for a servant.

“Nelly, you should be preparing to see us off. We cannot delay.”

“I can hardly dress with you standing here,” Eleanor snapped.

“True,” admitted Edward. He sighed. “Hurry, the two of you.”

With the king out of the room, Eleanor climbed out of bed. “Hugh, don't go.”

“I have to, Eleanor. I explained.”

“I know.”

“You're making it no easier for me standing there without a stitch on. Get dressed, my dear.”

She dressed and made a pretense of combing her hair. “I fear that I will never see you again,” she blurted out.

“Nonsense.” Hugh took her in his arms, and she realized as he did so that he too was having difficulty controlling his emotions. He held her a few minutes, then said quietly, “It will all be well, sweetheart, I promise. Come. Let me say good-bye to the children.”

The younger children, used to Hugh's comings and goings, woke from sleep only long enough to be kissed good-bye before yawning and rolling back over, but Edward sat bolt upright in his bed. “Let me go with you, Father.”

“No, Edward.” Hugh ruffled his son's hair. “I need you to stay here with your mother and fend her suitors off while I am away. Like Penelope.”

Edward did not laugh. “I am old enough.”

“Not quite, Edward.”

“But I am too old to be here with my little brothers.”

“No,” said Hugh again. “I must go, Edward. Come downstairs with us and see us off.”

Grumbling, Edward followed, to soon be joined by a sleepy-eyed John of Eltham. If Eleanor had any hopes that all would be well, they vanished when she went down to the Tower's courtyard and saw her father-in-law amid the waiting carts. Edward wore the same look of desperate cheerfulness as Hugh, but the Earl of Winchester looked more like a man of ninety than a man of sixty-four. His eyes were hopeless when he said quietly, “Good-bye, daughter.”

“Good-bye, sir.” She embraced him and he patted her on the back in the way that Eleanor had learned long ago denoted deep attachment from her reserved father-in-law.

“Give the children my love for me. We may be gone a while.”

She fought back tears. “Yes.”

Winchester saw his grandson, who in days would be twelve years old, and managed a smile. “Edward, when I return you shall have shot up another two inches, I'll wager.”

Edward scowled. “Father won't let me go with you. He says I am too young.”

“And so you are today, but when I come back you shall go live with me and be one of my squires. Should you like that?”

“Truly, Grandfather?”

“Truly. Now go say good-bye to your father. He will be hurt if you do not.”

Edward, mollified, sprinted off in his father's direction as the old earl watched Eleanor embrace the king, then her son, then her husband. Sixty-one years ago Winchester's own mother, holding his very small self by the hand, had seen his own father off as he departed the Tower, leaving her in charge. Hugh would grudgingly admit that his memory was not what it used to be, but he had never forgotten the fine August day not long afterward when his pretty young mother, red-eyed and trembling, had snatched him and his sisters up and hurried as fast as she could to her father's house. There he learned that his father had been killed, slaughtered with the great Simon de Montfort and the rest of his followers, having loyally ignored Montfort's plea that he flee to save himself while he still could. There he learned that his mother as the wife of a traitor had nothing to live on, only what she could beg from her father, who had stayed faithful to the king. Crying as he huddled on a pallet hastily made up for him in his grandfather's small London house, listening as his mother sobbed herself to sleep, he'd wondered if he or anyone around him would ever be happy again.

Yet the good times had come back. His grandfather had treated them kindly, and in a few years his mother had remarried, no less a personage than the Earl of Norfolk. He'd been able to inherit all of his father's forfeited lands, had become wealthy in the service of the first Edward, wealthier still in the service of the second. He'd married his high-spirited, high-strung Isabel and had sons and daughters to make a man proud.

But he'd never been able to forget that scared little boy on the pallet.

“Time to set off, Father.” Winchester started, and Hugh looked at him with concern. “Father, you look pale. Are you sure you are up to this? Perhaps you should stay with Eleanor—”

Winchester scowled and mounted his horse without assistance. “I don't need coddling, Hugh, thank you.”

As the king and his entourage—a few men at arms, but mainly royal officials, clerks, and servants—passed through the Tower gate, Eleanor and Edward and John of Eltham waved good-bye and shouted out farewells. The city was awakening, and knots of people stood and watched as the royal party made its way west. No one cheered.

A
T THE PRIORY OF ST. MARY IN SOUTHWARK, HAMO HETHE, BISHOP of Rochester, leaned back and looked at the parchment in his hand. Signed by Queen Isabella, it put a price of two thousand pounds on Hugh le Despenser's head, double the amount that the king had placed on Mortimer's a few days before. Copies of the queen's offer had been placed around London, whose citizens had become so boisterous in their enthusiasm for the queen since the king's departure that Hethe, having come to the city for a meeting with the archbishop on October 13, had refused to cross the Thames. Archbishop Reynolds had obliged by moving the meeting to Southwark. Though the conference had been called some time ago to discuss routine church matters, the topic of the day could be none other than the king and the queen.

“I don't know what is to be done,” said Bishop Stapeldon. He gestured with the odd devices, called spectacles, that a friend in Italy had sent him and that the bishop had warmed to immediately. Why every man over forty did not own a pair was beyond him. “Mediation? The Pope himself has failed. Compromise? The queen wants Despenser dead, the king wants Mortimer dead. I don't see any middle way there.” He shook his head. “And what has the queen to gain from making peace at this point? No one has rallied to the king. And the Earl of Leicester has abandoned him. Instead of defending with the Earl of Winchester, as planned, he ambushed Winchester's man at Leicester Abbey and captured the warhorses and valuables the man was bringing to Winchester. Then he presented his booty to the queen. How can men be so inconstant?”