The Traitor's Wife (76 page)

“I did not expect to see you this soon, Lord Zouche. But I am pleased to, certainly.”

“I wanted to tell you about your son before I left for the wedding in Scotland, my lady.”

He told her about his meeting with Hugh, omitting the more disquieting parts of the encounter and quoting some of the boy's livelier bon mots. She listened with gratification, and he talked on, knowing as he did so that he could no longer restrain himself from asking what he had so long wanted to ask her. Finally, she said, “I thank you, Lord Zouche, for all that you have done for us. It is good of you to take an interest in my son.”

“My lady, I genuinely like your son. I care about what happens to him. But it is you I care for. Deeply.”

He pulled her to him and kissed her, and for a blissful moment, as her lips responded to his and his hands traveled down her body, he thought all would be well. But then she pulled back, and he saw she had tears in her eyes. “Lord Zouche!”

She had misunderstood his intentions. He stroked her cheek. “My lady, do not misunderstand me. I wish to marry you. To protect and serve you always.”

“No, Lord Zouche. I am fond of you, I do admit, and you have been the best of friends to me at a time when I had no others. But I cannot marry you. It would be a great disservice to Hugh's memory.”

He said gently, “My lady, it would not be at all. You are still young. He would not expect you to live the rest of your life single.”

“If he had died a natural death, perhaps I would say otherwise. But to replace him, while his poor head still sits atop London Bridge! And by his own captor! No, Lord Zouche, I cannot betray him in that manner.”

“Sweet Jesus, Eleanor! You were a faithful wife to him while he lived. You have mourned for him, prayed for him, had prayers said for his soul. You have suffered all of the consequences his greed and vice brought upon your family with as much fortitude as any woman in the land could have shown. It is time to move forward.”

“How dare you insult his memory!”

“He was a pirate, an extortionist, and a sodomite to boot. Other than that, I suppose he had some good qualities.”

“Leave me immediately!”

“You were too damn good for him, and you know it.”

Eleanor walked toward the door of her chamber. “If you won't leave, sir, then I will. I would not have you and your men go out again this night, but I expect the lot of you to be gone tomorrow.”

“I'll not trouble you another minute, my lady, or ever again. Good night.”

He pushed past her out the door, out of her life.

W
ILLIAM LA ZOUCHE WAS IN A FOUL MOOD AS HE CROSSED THE BORDER into Scotland, but no one noticed, for the party was a gloomy one in general.

The king had set the tone by refusing to attend the wedding. England was devalued and debased by the match between his little sister and David of Scotland, he had announced in ringing tones, and though he had been powerless to prevent the misalliance, he would be damned if he would promote it by honoring the event with his royal presence. And that was that. His mother and Mortimer had considered hauling him to Scotland by force, but, as Mortimer testily reminded Isabella, the boy was his father's son and might well take a malicious pleasure in destroying the entire peace process with one word. So the king, and his wife, stayed behind.

Isabella knew that this show of independence could not bode well, either for the future of the Scottish peace or the future of the lovers' roles as unofficial rulers of England. She said as much to Mortimer, who had not dignified her concerns with more than a snort. Nor did he have a sympathetic ear to spare for Isabella's quite genuine grief over parting from her little girl. Royal daughters were supposed to be married, he had said crankily, or else what was the use in having them? By the time he remembered that the queen, married herself as a pawn of peace, and most unhappily so, might have some cause to take offense at this remark, it was too late. Isabella had since refused him her bed for several nights in a row.

Mortimer would have liked some distraction in bed, because Henry, the Earl of Lancaster, was proving to be most troublesome. Summoned to Worcester in June, after the festivities at Ludlow Castle had ended, he had refused to discuss a cause that Mortimer hoped the English could rally around: claiming the French crown for the king. Only before Parliament, he said, could such an important issue be determined. Mortimer had agreed to hold a Parliament in York, but Lancaster had left Worcester in as surly a mood as when he had arrived there. Neither he nor his son-in-law Thomas Wake had come to Scotland. There were also rumors that the Londoners, who had done so much to make Isabella's victory over her husband an easy one, were shifting their sympathies to the earl's direction. And even though not one in ten of them would know a Scot from a Welshman, Mortimer thought irritably, the Londoners, having learned that the English had agreed to turn over the Stone of Scone to the Scots, had suddenly developed an intense attachment to the damned rock. They had refused to allow its release from Westminster Abbey even in the face of an order by the king himself.

The bride-to-be, who had just turned seven, was quiet on the journey, despite her mother's efforts to draw her out. She was too little to have the suspicions about her father's death that plagued some of her elders, but she knew that she missed Papa and her dear Lady Hastings. The timely arrival of her pleasant sister-in-law, Philippa, had done much to cheer her, but now she was being married and neither Philippa nor her brother the king was even coming to her wedding. Little Joan could take comfort in nothing but the pretty new gowns that had been made for her.

The rest of the party, many of whom had fought in the Scottish wars since the Bannock Burn, if not earlier, had nothing to do but brood over England's loss. Once England had determined to conquer Scotland; now Scotland had dictated peace on its own terms.

So William la Zouche was by no means alone in his low spirits. One member of the party, however, was rather aggressively cheerful. He was Elizabeth de Burgh's seventeen-year-old son, William, Earl of Ulster, who had been knighted just days before. Ireland had been volatile as long as anyone could remember, and Zouche pitied any Englishman going there, particularly one as young and untried as the new earl. He himself, however, was brimming with optimism. Though he was aware that entering and controlling his lands would be no easy matter, he planned to get the help of his uncle, Robert Bruce himself, in doing so.

Young Burgh was on good terms with his mother, but Zouche was not surprised to hear that Elizabeth de Burgh would remain safely home in England instead of accompanying her son across the Irish Sea. “She is visiting her lands in Wales at the moment,” said the earl in passing. “Oh, but she did mention that she might go to Glamorgan to visit my aunt the Lady Despenser sometime.”

William, no less in love with Lady Despenser than he had been before he stormed out of her castle, felt as if the young man had stabbed him in the chest.

Soon after arriving in Wales and getting herself tolerably settled in Cardiff Castle, Eleanor had invited each of her sisters to visit her there. Margaret had sent Eleanor's messenger back to Cardiff with a curt refusal, almost to Eleanor's relief, but Elizabeth had promised to stop by when she was in the neighborhood, and made good her promise at about the same time the English crossed into Scotland.

The sisters kissed each other on the cheek graciously in greeting, after which they retreated to Eleanor's private chamber. Eleanor asked about her nephew and nieces and listened, wistfully, as Elizabeth described the preparations and expenses for her son's knighting. How Eleanor would like to see poor Hugh knighted! But at least she could report that Edward was doing well in the tiltyard under the tutelage of one of the household knights, that Gilbert was a splendid horseman, and that John could string together enormously long sentences (even though, to Eleanor's dismay, one of his more modest productions had been, “Where did Lord Zouche go? I liked him, Mama.”). She could also show off Lizzie and Edmund and let Elizabeth see what a fine young lady Isabel had grown into.

But soon the topic of children wore itself out, as did the ensuing topics of Scotland (each sister devoutly hoped for peace but had her doubts) and sheep raising (each sister wanted to expand her flocks). There was no choice then but for Eleanor to look at her lap and say softly, “Elizabeth, I know that we have not been the best of friends lately, but I hope we can become close again.”

“We never were close, Eleanor.”

“No,” admitted Eleanor. Margaret and Elizabeth had been the close sisters; it was Eleanor, tagging along behind Gilbert until he was sent to be reared in Queen Margaret's household, who had been the outsider. “But our husbands kept us from ever being so. Perhaps—”

“Our husbands! Eleanor, it was your husband. Not our husbands.”

“I know you had your disagreements with him—”

“Disagreements! Eleanor, do you know the half of what he did? He forced me to stay at Barking Abbey for months after my husband died. Months! My children were there with me. We couldn't get out until I agreed to exchange every acre of land I owned in Wales for that Gower of his. Finally, I gave in, and I did get all of my other lands and dower lands back, as agreed. Then your precious husband had me summoned to York at Christmas—this was in 1322—”

“I remember you coming to York. I heard there was a row—”

“A row! Eleanor, when I got there, I had to sign a quitclaim to Usk. Then I was asked to sign another writing saying I would not marry or make grants of my lands without the king's consent. I put up an argument and got some of my councilors imprisoned for my pains. So I left York for Clare Castle. I'd been on the road five days, in the dead of December, when a messenger from our dear uncle caught up with me with a letter telling me that if I did not sign the writing, all of my lands would be seized. So I went back to York and signed it. Well, I at least had Gower now, plus my English lands. And that's when your husband took Gower from me, using that old and ailing William de Braose as a straw man to bring a suit against me, then hand Gower over to your father-in-law. Who then handed it to him.”

“Elizabeth, if this is all true—”

“Of course it is true! Have your lawyers look into it. I daresay the present king will be happy to supply you with all the details.”

“I did not know about it! I swear to you.”

“Oh, I believe you. He kept you in a gilded cage, like these goldfinches of yours here.” Elizabeth waved a hand toward the pretty birds scornfully. “Shall I tell you more? He did much the same to Elizabeth Comyn to force her to give up Goodrich Castle. He forced the late Earl of Lancaster's wife, Alice, to give up much of her lands as well. There was Alice de Braose, once her old father, William, died. There was—”

“Stop it! Just stop it!”

The tears were running down her face. Elizabeth waited for her to regain her composure and then said, more kindly, “He has paid the price for all that, Eleanor, and horribly. I would not wish a traitor's death on anyone.”

“You don't know the half of what they did to him. Your precious Isabella, to use your phrase, had me told all.” Eleanor looked at the bare walls of her chamber. “You talk to me of all the misdeeds of my husband, but what of yours? He owed everything to our uncle—his lands, his prestige, you! He turned against him out of sheer greed. He and Hugh d'Audley and Mortimer and the rest of those blackguards killed our tenants, destroyed our lands, stole our goods—all out of spite. I could take you around and show some of the damage they did to this very castle; even now I am still making repairs. Where was that righteous indignation of yours and Margaret's then?”