The Traitor's Wife (70 page)

“How the creature lies!” said Maltravers.

“Lady Despenser, you must tell us what you know.”

“I have told you all that I know,” Eleanor said. Had it not been for Maltravers beside her, standing so close to her now that she could feel his breath come and go, she might have confessed to her theft and begged for mercy from the king then and there. She added, “Should I recall something, it will be my duty to let your grace know immediately.”

“Please do so,” Edward said wearily. He seemed glad to be finished with the issue.

Eleanor was about to ask him for permission to retire when a girl in her mid-teens, dark and plump, came to his side. So unassumingly had she taken her position there, and so flustered was Eleanor, that she did not realize until a moment had passed that she was in the presence of the new Queen of England, uncrowned though she might be. She hastily sank to her knees as Edward said, in his easy manner again, “My lady, I present to you my kinswoman, Lady Eleanor le Despenser.” Edward rushed over the surname. “She has come to join us from London.”

“Where she has lately been a prisoner in the Tower,” said Maltravers.

Philippa frowned slightly, but her frown seemed directed more to Maltravers than to Eleanor. “Do you stay at court long, my lady?”

“I think not, your grace.” She waited to see if the king would contradict her. “By the king's leave I will depart for London tomorrow morning.”

“Then you must at least come to dinner tonight,” said Philippa. “There will be a delightful entertainment.”

“I thank your grace.” She curtsied. As she began to back away, she heard the king's voice, his friendly one. “Cousin.”

“Your grace?”

“Don't fret, cousin. You won't be forced to beg your bread.”

There being no separate table for the widows of the disgraced, Eleanor found herself seated between two knights, whose faces she dimly recognized but whose names she did not recall. As she had expected, both conversed with the persons on their opposite sides and said nothing to her. She nibbled at her food—the portions at the Tower had been small, and her appetite had shrunk accordingly—with her eyes cast down, raising them only to indicate to a serving man that he could pour her some more wine. She had already taken more than was usual with her, but the events of the last few hours—the shock of being at court again and the stares of the bystanders and the refusal of her petitions and the queries about the jewels—had together been too much for her.

Even had she been bold enough to attempt a conversation with one of her neighbors, and the neighbor had not snubbed her, what would she have spoken of? Sixteen months in the Tower with only her children and a damsel for company did not make for sparkling conversation. Perhaps they should have put her next to one of Mortimer's sons, one of those who had been locked up; one of them would have had something in common with her. She chuckled to herself at this thought, and as she did so she felt a pair of eyes—those on her left side—upon her. Then a pleasant voice said, “Forgive me, Lady Despenser. I have been ignoring you very rudely, but it is only because I don't know what to say to you. I know you have been a prisoner for some time, and I know your circumstances have been very miserable as of late. I have been searching for some innocuous remark I could make to you, and I can find none. So I can only say that I hope you are well as can be expected.”

The man who was speaking was probably not quite thirty, and was good-looking enough to almost rival Gaveston—still Eleanor's point of comparison for male handsomeness, and probably that of any other woman who had been at court at that time. Startled to be addressed so forthrightly, though not offended, Eleanor managed with a small smile, “You may start by telling me your name.”

The man laughed. “That's fair and reasonable. I am John de Grey of Rotherfield. You won't remember me, my lady, but I occasionally saw you at court when I was a boy. I was a squire there for a time.”

“Yes, I remember you now.”

“The old king was kind to me. I remember him fondly.” John smiled. “And you were kind to me too. You always had some pleasant remark to make to me, not like some great ladies who sought to intimidate me.”

“I do not think you would have been easily intimidated.”

“True! But ladies tried!” He laughed. “I was always doing something reprehensible at table—feeding my scraps to the dogs, or humming some tune, or speaking to my fellow squires with my mouth full. How I got my ears boxed! I hope I am better behaved today.”

“Somewhat.”

“Only somewhat?”

“I have been longing for that basket of fruit on your left side all evening, sir.”

“My lady!” John immediately passed it to her, and she gratefully accepted it and began nibbling at an apple before she tired of that and reached for the wine again. “Now tell me what you were finding so amusing. I saw you smiling to yourself.”

“A silly, idle thought, sir.”

“The best kind, sometimes. You must tell it to me.”

“I cannot remember it.”

He was still coaxing her to tell him when their attention was diverted by the court fool. Eleanor found herself laughing at his antics harder than anyone nearby her, so much so that several censorious glances were sent in the direction of the traitor's widow who was enjoying herself far too much. She did not notice them. When the musicians came in, playing melancholy tunes she knew well, she sang softly to them, unaware of John de Grey's admiring glances at her or his hand on hers. It was only when the music had stopped and she felt her head drifting onto his shoulder that she pulled back from him and said gravely, “Sir, you have let me drink far too much wine.”

John de Grey laughed. “You have not had that much at all, my lady, but it is probably more than you have been used to as of late.” He smiled at her tenderly. “It is good to see you smiling and laughing as I remembered you. You are delightful company.”

“Only when tipsy.” Eleanor giggled.

“Nonsense. Shall I visit you when you are quite sober and have you prove it?”

“Indeed, but now you must help me remember where I am sleeping tonight. I can hardly hold my eyes open. Might we leave now?”

“Yes, the queen and king have left already.”

“Though it hardly matters when Mortimer and Isabella are gone, does it?”

“My dear lady, you
have
taken a great deal of wine. Even with them gone, I think you must be careful of what you say still. Let me help you to your room.”

She obeyed, and he helped her to rise, feeling nearly as giddy with a new idea as she. He had been widowed not very long ago, and though he had grieved sincerely for the loss of his young wife, enough time had passed for him to begin considering various girls of fourteen or fifteen as a second wife, girls who would bring him a respectable dowry and good connections. But Eleanor le Despenser? Though he had seen her audience with the king—it was he who had helped her to her feet—and had admired the proud lift of her chin, the fight she exhibited as she begged for her son, he had also thought of her as plain and rather haggard-looking. He had spoken to her only out of pity, the sort of pity he would have felt for an injured horse or dog. Then, under the influence of wine and even more of simple human kindness, her manner had become more animated and her face had lit up, and she no longer seemed plain or worn to him. Instead, he had noticed her sweet voice and her pretty green eyes. She would, he thought, be a most agreeable person to have in his bed, even when sober.

And this lady leaning against him so trustingly was the heiress to a third of the Clare fortune, if the king chose to let her have it back. The fool Hugh le Despenser had destroyed himself with that fortune, but what might a sensible man, one not given to overreaching, do with it? What a chance had almost literally fallen into his arms!

He led Eleanor back to her chamber, the location of which it turned out she did remember after all, holding her more closely than really was necessary for her support as she hummed one of the tunes the musicians had played. It was like having a songbird on his arm, he thought, albeit a sweetly addled one. Walking by the passageway to his own room, he was tempted to coax her into it, but she was not that inebriated or he that unprincipled. Instead, he gently guided her along, noting as he did so that she had a delightful figure. He was struggling with more temptations when she lurched to a halt. “Is this your chamber, my lady?”

“I think so.” Eleanor frowned. “They all look alike, though, don't they? Knock and make sure, please, Sir John.”

She was leaning more heavily against him now, her face turned up to his, her hair coming loose from its headdress. He wanted to take her on the floor, against the wall, anywhere. Instead, John de Grey knocked. A very large female opened the door and surveyed the two of them coolly. Eleanor gasped. “Gladys?”

“Lady Hastings had business in London, so she came to her house soon after you had left it. I left her with the children and hurried here with some of her men so that you could be properly attended.” She glared at John de Grey. “And I daresay you are in need of proper attendance.”

“Your lady was just a little faint,” said John smoothly. “The hall was very hot. Good night, my lady.”

“Good night, my lord. Thank you for taking me here.” She giggled again. “Without him, I might have ended up in a garderobe, Gladys.”

“Is that a fact,” Gladys said evenly. “Good night, sir,” she said emphatically.

John transferred Eleanor to Gladys's arms and fled.

Gladys bolted the door quickly, as if keeping an invader out, then began to braid Eleanor's hair for bed as Eleanor yawned on a chair. “You seemed to have an agreeable companion, my lady.”

“Sir John? Yes, he was an amusing young man. He felt impelled by chivalry to be kind to me, I suppose.” Eleanor was making an effort to pronounce her words very distinctly even as she slumped lower in the chair. She hummed some more.

“If chivalry means plying you with wine,” muttered Gladys. “Sit
up
, my lady.”

“He did not ply me with wine, Gladys, and he was very gentlemanly. He took me straight here.”

“With his hand on your rump the entire way, I'll wager.”

“I did not hear you, Gladys.”

“No matter, my lady.”

Eleanor opened her eyes the next morning and discovered that the hammering she heard was not coming from her aching head, but from the door. Beside her, Gladys muttered, “If it's your young knight, tell him to go play quietly somewhere and leave you alone.”

“He is not that young, Gladys, and I will tell him no such thing. He was a perfect gentleman, I tell you, and I recollect everything he did perfectly well. Yes?”

A youthful voice called from behind the door, “I come from the lady Philippa. She wishes to see you this morning, at your earliest convenience.”

“I will be there straightaway. Thank you.”

In a half hour, wearing a dress that Gladys had lovingly brushed the night before and with her hair arranged as only Gladys could arrange it, she was kneeling before the queen. She had barely touched her knee to the floor when Philippa bade her to rise again. “I am sorry I did not get a chance to speak with you more yesterday, Lady Despenser. I understand that you are my husband's first cousin. He told me his father had a very deep affection for you.”

“And I for him, your grace.”

“And he told me someone else was fond of you, too.” Philippa rang a bell. “John!”