The Traitor's Wife (63 page)

For months after the executions of her father and her brother, Lady Hastings was in a grief from which no one and nothing could rouse her. When her councilors had to ask her about the running of her estates, she would say only, “Do what you think best.” She would allow her ladies to dress her each morning and undress her at night, but she never went to the great hall to eat with the rest of her household. Her chaplain came and prayed with her; she mouthed the proper words but could have been praying to the Devil himself for all she knew or cared. Her children and their spouses, along with her stepchildren and their spouses, all tried to coax her out of her chamber, but to no avail, and although Bella accepted their visits, she showed no interest in the individual visitors. The Lord himself might have arrived in her chamber, with a company of archangels, and would have got no more than a polite, “Good day to you.”

Bella was by nature neither self-pitying nor slothful, and she was disgusted with herself. Each night as she laid her head on her pillow, she vowed that the next day would be different. She would attend a meeting of her council, give alms to the poor, dine with her household, ride her favorite horse, Isolde, who sat in her stall almost as forlorn as Bella herself. Each day she awoke, and she could do nothing but sit at the window and stare out of it, except when she cried.

Had she continued in this manner for much longer, she would likely have followed her menfolk to the grave within the year, for she ate only as much as was needed to keep herself alive and never took in the fresh air. But in April 1327, a messenger, not a liveried household messenger but a mere lad on a spawn-backed horse, brought a letter to her steward, who in turn brought it to her. Bella was about to give him his usual command, to do whatever he thought best, when she looked at the letter more closely. It was not sealed, and the handwriting was not that of a clerk but the scrawl of someone who evidently wrote but seldom. It was from her niece and goddaughter, Isabel Arundel.

Bella read the letter. Isabel was living with the Arundels at Fairford, one of several Despenser manors that at the urging of the Earl of Surrey had been recently awarded to the Countess of Arundel to maintain herself and her boys. Isabel had just given birth to a beautiful boy, but no one wanted her or her son at the Arundel residence, and she had nowhere to go and no money; she'd sold her wedding ring just to pay a local boy to go to her aunt Bella for her. Could Bella help her?

Staring at the letter, Bella recalled things that had been told to her, but to which she had had no reaction at the time. From her Monthermer stepsons, who were friendly with their half sister Elizabeth de Burgh, who was friendly with the queen, she had heard that her sister-in-law Eleanor and her children were in the Tower. From her sons she had learned that their cousin Hugh was holed up in a besieged Caerphilly Castle. There was nothing Bella could do about Eleanor in the Tower and Hugh in Caerphilly, but, she reflected, she could certainly help her niece. For the first time in months, Bella gave a command. “Pack a few things for me and have Isolde made ready,” she said softly. “I am going to Fairford.”

Seldom had Bella been angrier than when she saw Isabel Arundel, living with her husband, mother-in-law, and young brothers-in-law on the lands that they had been granted by the king to live on. Grieving for her father and grandfather, frightened for her mother and siblings, she had absolutely no friends in the Arundel household, for the Countess of Arundel and her son alike blamed Hugh le Despenser for the earl's death, and with Hugh out of reach forever, they had turned their hostility on his fourteen-year-old daughter instead. Not that they were openly cruel to her; their acts were those of neglect. When the household had to be reduced, those waiting on Isabel had been the first to go. She had no wet nurse for the healthy boy she had borne, and she had to tend him all by herself—an unheard-of state of affairs in a noble household. Little Edmund had been baptized, but with the bare minimum of ceremony, for his very existence was an affront to Richard, who otherwise could have packed Isabel off to a nunnery without qualms. Most of the Arundels' clothes had been seized with the Arundel goods, but even after the Earl of Surrey's brotherly affection gave the countess money to re-outfit herself and her children, Isabel wore the same gown, inexpertly dyed black, day after day. She who had been daughter to one of the richest men in England had no spending money of her own; she could give no alms, buy nothing pretty for herself or for her baby, purchase no masses for the salvation of her father and grandfather's souls—all things she dearly longed to do. She ate in the great hall with the family, unless Edmund required her attention, but save for that one courtesy she might have been a laundress, for no one spoke to her. Her one friend was her lap dog, which somehow no one had thought to take away from her; had they known that it was Hugh le Despenser himself who had given it to her when it was a puppy, it probably would have been drowned in a well.

Lady Hastings' temper had been renowned in the Despenser family for its mildness, but it took every bit of self-control Bella possessed not to slap the Countess of Arundel or her son when she saw Isabel, wan and thin, sitting alone with her baby and her dog in the garden that had once belonged to her own mother. As politely as she could, she asked the Arundels if she might relieve their burden by having Isabel and Edmund stay with her indefinitely. As the Arundels were only too glad to pack off Hugh le Despenser's daughter and grandson to Hugh le Despenser's sister, Bella sent a servant back to her estates with detailed instructions, and in due time he arrived back with Bella's chariot, amply filled with cushions and provisions, and a cheerful nursery maid who had served in Bella's own household.

“Thank you for saving me,” said Isabel shyly as the chariot holding her, Edmund, the nursery maid, and the dog lumbered away. “I was so wretched there.”

Bella, riding beside the chariot on an impatient Isolde, shook her head, thinking of the months she had spent in her chamber, unable to think of anything but her father's swinging body, her brother's mutilated one. “No, sweet one,” she said. “It is I who must thank you for saving me.”

“Lady Despenser?”

“I am she.” Her soft, sweet voice was so out of key with the expression on her face that Zouche started. “What do you wish with me?”

William could not answer that question honestly, for what he wished at that moment was to take her to bed. She was dressed entirely in black; though in its wearing she had sought to honor dead Hugh, she could not have picked a better color to set off her white skin, all the whiter for her months in the Tower, and her curly red hair, rebelliously emerging from underneath the headdress she wore. Her eyes, which had met William's face only for an instant, were green. Her catlike face with its sprinkling of freckles was not a beautiful one or even a conventionally pretty one, but it could catch at the heart of a man, and it caught William's.

To stop staring at her, he turned his eyes to the children. The boy who he would soon learn was named Edward could have been the young ghost of his father. His resemblance to the late Hugh was even more pronounced when, as now, he was glaring at an intruder. Already he was taller than his mother, whose arm he had taken protectively. The younger boys had chubby, unformed faces but the same dark eyes, though theirs gazed at William with more interest than hostility. Behind them stood an older, rather large lady, her eyes neutral but her lips unsmiling.

Eleanor moved from behind the table where she had been sitting. To his shock, Zouche saw that she was heavily pregnant. He took Eleanor's resisting hand. “I am William la Zouche. I captured your husband and accepted your son's surrender.”

The green eyes looked full at him now. “And you are here to gloat or torment me with tales about their suffering. Why trouble yourself, sir? I have heard all. No words can hurt me now.”

“No, no, my lady. I bear messages from both of them to you. That is all I came here for.” Getting no response, he continued. “Your husband gave me this ring at Llantrisant Castle, where he was taken after he was captured. He asked me to deliver it to you, with his love.” William handed it to Eleanor, who took it with a small cry. “That was the only time I spoke with him. I can report to you that your son defended Caerphilly Castle well and bravely. He told you to be of good cheer and that he would soon be reunited with you. He was in good health when I saw him and appeared quite cheerful—under the circumstances. He sent a letter to you through me.” He handed the letter to Eleanor, who took it silently and sat at the table to read it, pulling it gently now and again out of the grasp of her inquisitive youngest son.

Having read the letter several times and passed it on to the oldest boy, Eleanor looked up at William. Her eyes and cheeks were wet, but she was smiling. “I am sorry, Lord Zouche, for my rudeness to you. I am gratified for your messages, and it was kind of you to deliver them. Many in your position would not have bothered to come here.”

“This has been a difficult time for you.” William had no desire to leave the Tower at all. He found a way to gain a little more time. “I shall be returning soon to Caerphilly Castle, where your son will remain for the time being as a prisoner. I should be happy to take a message to him.”

“We are well.” Eleanor considered for a moment, then brightened and gestured toward the table, which was heaped with books and paper. “Tell him something that will amuse him. To pass the hours here we have been improving ourselves—Edward is teaching Gilbert and me Latin, and he and I are teaching Gladys how to write.”

“Fine lot of good it'll do me,” said Gladys, “but my lady is right, it does pass the time.”

“We tell stories, too, Gladys and Edward and me, each on alternate nights, to entertain ourselves, and Gilbert and John have to vote as to which they liked the best, or at least Gilbert does. Edward usually wins.”

Edward glowered at William.

“Next we plan to begin acting our stories out, and I tell the others that if we are let out of here and have nothing else to live upon, we can set ourselves up as a traveling troupe.”

“I will be happy to tell your son that you are doing so well.”

“Tell him the whole truth,” Edward said. He stepped directly in front of William. “Tell him that my mother has nightmares. Screaming nightmares about my father being killed. Tell him that she cries every night about him and my sisters, thinking we don't notice. Tell him that there's a guard here who stares at Mother as if she were in a Southwark stew and that he would have forced himself on her long ago if Gladys and I ever left her alone. Tell him—”

“No!” Eleanor, weeping, leapt up, then wobbled on her feet. “Tell him none of those dreadful things. Don't tell him. Please.”

She was near to fainting. William pushed Gladys, who was trying to help, away and with military efficiency helped Eleanor back into her chair. “It is all right, my lady,” he said gently. “I shall tell him only what you wish him to hear. Do you understand me? Only what you wish.” She nodded and propped her elbows on the table, her head in her hands. William turned to Edward. “Are you happy with yourself? You've upset your mother and scared your little brothers. That's a good day's work for honesty.”

“I'm sorry, Mother.” Edward awkwardly touched her shoulder. “I get so angry sometimes. I don't know what makes me say things then. I didn't mean to hurt you.”

Eleanor nodded. “I know.” Her voice was barely a whisper.

“I'll take the boys to the other room and amuse them.”

William remained next to Eleanor. “Tell me this guard's name,” he said gently. “There is no reason that you should be subjected to such treatment.”

Eleanor lifted her head and stared dully at her lap. “His name is Jacob, one of the night guards. He does leer at me, it is true—or did before I became so great with child. He may not be a real threat, but I am more nervous as of late, and Edward sees the worst in everyone now.”