Hugh and Bess

by Susan Higginbotham

  “I can stand to wait,” Bess said gloomily. “Are you happy about marrying Joan?”

  “Well, of course. Joan's pretty, she's kin to the king, and she's my age. What's not to like? She's happy too, isn’t she?”

  “Oh, maybe a little nervous,” Bess said carefully, remembering her conversation with Joan on the day Bess's parents announced their marriages.

  “What does she have to be nervous about? We’ve known each other forever, almost. And it's not as if we’ll be bedding together straightaway, which Papa told me always gets you girls all worried and skittish. Joan's mother has reminded me six times at least that I can’t share her bed.”

  “But even so, knowing someone is a little different from living with her forever as man and wife, don’t you think?” Bess sagged a little, thinking of “forever” as applied to her and Hugh.

  Will waved a hand breezily. “She’ll come around. You know how dramatic Joan is. She always screamed the loudest of you girls whenever I put a frog down her back, didn’t she? Maybe I can find one to slip into her bed after it's blessed. Anyway, I saw your Sir Hugh arrive here earlier. I suppose he’ll be at the wedding?”

  “Yes, and we have to sit together at the feast afterward,” Bess said glumly. “I think Papa is to announce our betrothal there.”

  “He introduced himself to me. I liked him.”

  “You don’t have to marry him,” Bess snapped.

  In Joan's chamber the next morning, Bess stood by as a gaggle of ladies, including Queen Philippa herself, helped Joan to dress. Wearing a light blue gown that set off her russet curls and creamy complexion to perfection, Joan looked lovelier than Bess had ever seen her, but she put on each garment with as grim an air as if she were preparing for her own execution. “Smile!” hissed the Countess of Kent, and even the kindly queen said, “Goodness, child, you needn’t look quite so solemn. It's only Will de Montacute, and he's a likely enough lad. Many a girl would be pleased to marry him.”

  “Yes, your grace,” Joan said distantly. Bess, unable in the company of her elders to encourage any confidences on her old friend's part, settled for patting Joan's hand consolingly. She got no response at first. Then, to Bess's dismay, Joan began weeping.

  The Countess of Kent clapped her hands. “Out! Leave me with her.” Even the queen (who surely had not been included in the countess's order) obeyed. A long interval passed. Then Joan emerged, dry-eyed and with her chin held high. Only those who had known of her outburst could find faint traces of recent tears on her cheeks. “I’m ready,” she said in a flat tone.

  Standing at the door of the royal chapel with Will, Joan remained dry-eyed, but she looked like a deer surrounded by huntsmen. How could Will provoke such a reaction? Bess wondered. It was true that he was no great romantic figure for Joan—just plain old Will, whom she had known since she was a toddler—but what was wrong with marrying someone safe and familiar?

  She was still puzzling over this at the wedding banquet as Hugh, sharing her trencher, cut her meat for her and offered her the best pieces. His manners were impeccable, Bess had to admit, perhaps too much so, as if he had to be particularly well behaved to compensate for his father's disgrace. She stared at the dais where Joan sat beside Will, flanked by the king and queen. At least Joan was talking to her new husband now. If Bess strained a little harder, she might have been able to hear bits of their conversation, were it not for the voice by her own ear. She turned to Hugh with irritation. “Yes?”

  “I was saying that I liked your robes. That pale green suits you. Many women can’t wear it well; it washes out their complexions.”

  Bess herself had been admiring the effect of her green robes just that morning. Hugh was the first person to compliment her on them. “Thank you,” she had no choice but to say. “Yours suit you too,” she added, though she had scarcely looked at what her husband-to-be was wearing to know if she was speaking the truth.

  Hugh, however, looked pleased that he had elicited this much from her. “I like this shade of blue, perhaps too much, because I wear it all of the time. My tailor's given me fair warning that I must pick something else for our wedding day, so be forewarned. You may not recognize me.” He put his hand over Bess's, who willed her own hand not to jerk away. “The next wedding will be ours, I suppose.”

  “Yes.” Hugh's hand, firm and steady, remained on hers. It was not, she realized, an entirely unpleasant sensation.

  At the dais, King Edward leaned over and pinched the bride's cheek. Bess winced in sympathy for Joan at the familiarity, taken before so many spectators. Hugh smiled. “I suppose that's the royal right. Do you know the king well? Have you been much to court?”

  She shook her head. “Just a few times with my parents, and then I stayed with Joan and the royal children. I’ve seen more of the queen than the king. She's very kind.” She blinked at having uttered what must have been the longest remark she had ever made to Hugh. “I suppose you know the king well, being his kinsman?”

  “Not all that well, though I’ve been in his company often enough. We’re on good terms, mind you, but I wouldn’t say we’re nearly as close as he is to your father. Who, it appears, is getting ready to speak.”

  The Earl of Salisbury rose and clapped for silence. After commenting gallantly on the beauty of his son's young bride (indeed, Bess noted enviously, there was not a male in the room who had not been gazing at Joan raptly at some time or the other), he lifted his cup and said, “And God willing, there will soon be another wedding in the Montacute family. Between my little Bess here and Sir Hugh le Despenser!”

  There was an uneasy silence for a breath or two and Bess felt a twist of pity as she sensed Hugh tensing beside her. Then the king himself stood. “To Sir Hugh and Lady Elizabeth!” he said, smiling as suddenly the room resounded with cups clanking and hands clapping. “May they soon wed and prosper.”

  Hugh relaxed. His relief was so palpable that instinctively, Bess gave his hand a reassuring squeeze as they rose to acknowledge the well-wishers. He looked down at her with surprise and smiled. “Well, the news is out at last, my lady.”

  He bent as if to kiss her, to Bess's horror. A handclasp was one thing, but to be kissed by a traitor's son more than twice her age with the king looking on, and very likely to make a comment, was quite another. She jerked away.

  Hugh straightened. In a calm voice that to Bess's grudging admiration bore no resentment of the rebuff he had just received, he said, “There will be dancing soon, my lady. Might I partner you?”

  “Oh, I suppose,” muttered Bess.

  It was soon after this, when Will and Joan had gone off to live by themselves, albeit in separate chambers until they—or at least Will—matured a little, that the Countess of Salisbury called Bess to her. “Hugh has come up with an excellent idea. He would like you to spend some time with his aunt, Lady Elizabeth de Burgh, before you are married. She manages many estates, and there is much she can teach you.”

  “But you have taught me how to do that,” protested Bess, noticing the unadorned “Hugh” with dissatisfaction. When had her mother melted so much toward Sir Hugh?

  “To some degree, but our estates are small compared to hers, with her third of the Clare inheritance and her dower lands from her three husbands. And Hugh has his third of the Clare estates, plus what the king has allowed him of his own family's, plus yours. And it's only a matter of time before our men are off to war again, I imagine. You must be able to help manage all that land when your lord is away. Lady Elizabeth de Burgh will be able to teach you much that I cannot.”

  So in April, when all of the great lords of the land headed to Westminster to Parliament, Bess traveled to Usk, Elizabeth de Burgh's castle in south Wales. She felt nervous yet rather self-important as she set off on her journey, her first without her parents or siblings. As Bess and her small but impressive retinue rode onto Elizabeth de Burgh's estates, she noted that not so much as a sheep appeared to be out of place. The handsome lady who greeted her in the great h
all was no less tidy than her estates. After the usual exchange of civilities, she scrutinized Bess as closely as possible while staying within the bounds of politeness. “So you are to marry my nephew Hugh.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Good. High time he got married, I’d say. You look as if you’ll do well for him, too.”

  Bess tried to recall what Hugh had told her about his mother's younger sister in between dances at Joan's wedding. “She's been married three times, and has been a widow for nearly twenty years—her last husband was killed fighting against the second Edward and my father. Most men did fight against the late king and my father at one time or another, I’m afraid; they weren’t popular men. Well, in any case, she could have held a grudge against us Despensers even after my father was dead, as did my aunt Margaret, but she didn’t. She's been quite friendly to all of us, and I know she’ll like you. You’ll like her too. She's been running those endless estates of hers all by herself since she was only in her twenties, and if any man tried to propose marriage to her, she’d probably beat him senseless. She likes her independence, you’ll find.”

  For the next few days Bess dutifully watched and listened as Elizabeth de Burgh met with her councilors, sat in on her manor court proceedings, received visits from her tenants, reviewed her account books, chose her household's midsummer livery, entertained her daily stream of visitors, and even managed to spend some time falconing. Just observing her exhausted Bess. “Of course, Hugh will be doing many of these things when he is on his estates, Bess, but mark my words, he won’t be on them long. The king is itching to get back at the head of an army, and your Hugh's not one to oppose his wishes, I’ve noticed. If the king wants him to fight somewhere, he’ll be there.”

  “You think him servile?” Bess said, a little miffed.

  “No, I think him a man of sense, given his background. How much do you know about Hugh?”

  “Not much. His father and his grandfather were dreadful men, I’ve heard, and were hung.”

  “That's putting it mildly in both respects. The father was the worse by far. He extorted land from me and from dozens of others; he took to piracy at one point; and he was a sodomite—with the king no less. Don’t blush; you’re better off hearing this from me than from one of your tenants someday. He had the second Edward—my uncle—under his thumb, not that the king didn’t want to be there. Queen Isabella stood this for as long as she could, until the king, like a fool, sent her to France to negotiate with the French king. After she’d been there a while, she told him she would never come back while the Despensers were in power. Of course, this only made the king hold on to them all the tighter. So come back the queen did, with an army, and both Despensers were executed. I’d not speak to your husband on the subject if I were you. The elder one, your Hugh's grandfather, was hung, beheaded, and cut into bits and fed to the dogs after his body was left on the gallows awhile. The younger one was stripped naked, hung on a fifty-foot gallows, drawn, beheaded, and quartered. And emasculated as well. Most thought it his just deserts, given his doings with the king.”

  “Good Lord,” breathed Bess. “Where was Hugh?”

  “Caerphilly Castle, where he and his father and the late king had gone to stay awhile, trying to raise troops against the queen. That's where Hugh saw his father for the last time— he and the king left there like the blockheads they were to wander around Wales and were captured—and that's where Hugh remained long afterward. You’ll not have a coward for a husband, that's for certain. Hugh was just eighteen at the time. He and its constable held the castle for months, long after his father and grandfather had been executed, long after everyone else in the country had gone to the queen's side, long after the second Edward had agreed to give up the crown to his son. They finally surrendered it on the condition that Hugh's life be spared, and it was, of course, or we would not be talking as we are now, but Mortimer made sure that he was kept the crown's prisoner for over four years. Even after your father toppled Mortimer, Hugh stayed in prison for months afterward. I think the king was a bit nervous that he might be out for vengeance. But he's been nothing but loyal to the king, and he's served him well in his wars.”

  “Everyone admires him as a solider, I know. What is he like as a man?”

  Elizabeth shrugged. “He was a good son to my sister, and he looks after his brood of brothers and sisters—there's eight living besides him—as he should. He seems to get on well with everyone, and I’m fond of him. He's even apologized to me and others for what his father did, although I never held what his father did against him, or at least I hope I did not do so. But I confess I don’t know much of what goes on in his mind. That is for you to find out, my child.”

  ii

  * * *

  October 1326 to March 1327

  HIS FATHER'S CONFESSOR HAD BEEN PRAYING TO ST. Anne mightily for a favorable wind to push them to Lundy Island and from thence to Ireland, but for reasons known only to St. Anne herself, she was unwilling to oblige. Instead, the ship on which the second Edward and his entourage were traveling drifted even farther in the direction of Cardiff. Hugh turned to his father. “Maybe we should put in at Cardiff. Or try another saint?”

  Hugh's father put out a hand; for a moment Hugh thought he was going to strike him. “Keep your mouth closed, boy, if you’ve nothing intelligent to say. It's not the time for making one of your fool jests.”

  Hugh recoiled as if he actually had been hit. He had always thought that his father liked his sense of humor. But his father had a price of two thousand pounds on his head, which Hugh supposed might be affecting his temper. Not to mention having been at sea for five days since they had taken ship at Chepstow. He muttered, “I beg your pardon, my lord.”

  To his surprise, his father's face softened. He put a hand on Hugh's shoulder. “But you may be right.” Letting his hand linger where he had placed it, he stared out toward the water. “Christ, I wish we hadn’t left your grandfather in Bristol. It's full of our enemies.”

  “Grandfather will hold Bristol Castle fast,” said Hugh confidently. His remark earned him a smile from the king, coming back from an exchange with the captain. Hugh dropped his eyes, taken aback. He had been in the king's household since he was a young boy, but recently he had heard odd rumors here and there about what the king and his father were to each other, and since then he had not felt entirely at ease with Edward, as he once had. Not that there could be any truth in the rumors, Hugh hastened to reassure himself, but just the fact that they were there…

  “My son does have a point,” Hugh's father said. Hugh raised his head again. He had made a point? “We’re of no use where we are, hoping for a favorable wind. We’re headed toward Cardiff. Let's disembark there. At least we can do something for ourselves once we land, better than we are now. You’ve friends in Wales still. We’ll work from there.”

  Edward nodded, then smiled at Hugh again. “Clever lad.”

  Clever? It was not as if they had a great deal of choice in the matter, thanks to the contrary wind. But anything, Hugh thought, would be better than staying on this boat.

  The decision having been made to put in at Cardiff, the wind shifted and for a time seemed determined to start blowing them in the opposite direction, but at last it turned again and they arrived at Cardiff Castle. It was the Despensers’ own castle thanks to the lands that had come to Hugh's mother, but Hugh soon realized that the family was clearly not welcome. The staff went about their duties with a silence that was not respectful but sullen, and the summonses the king and Hugh's father sent out for men to join them against the queen went unanswered. Even the seagulls flapping around off the harbor appeared reluctant to commit themselves, alighting on one of the castle's turrets for only a second or two before taking wing again.

  Hugh, trying to help his father and the king in sundry ways and wondering if his presence was of much use at all, had some time to consider the matter and to talk to some of the garrison about it. After a few ales late one night ha
d loosened some of the men's tongues, the name Hugh kept hearing was Llywelyn Bren, who’d led an uprising in the area some years ago, when Hugh had been a mere lad. Llywelyn had been taken to the Tower—indeed, his wife and children were still there, now under the care of Hugh's mother—and then removed by his father, who’d had him hung, drawn, and quartered at this very castle. It never should have happened, the garrison told Hugh, as the man had been promised his life in exchange for his surrender; Hugh's father had taken it upon himself to execute Llywelyn anyway. The locals hated his father for this act and had not forgotten it. Hugh le Despenser the younger was living in a world of dreams, the men of the garrison said, if he thought the men of Cardiff would come to his aid.

  Hugh kept this information to himself, doubting that it would be a topic his father would relish discussing. Instead, he went on helping as he had been helping, keeping up the pretense that their efforts would be repaid. But his father must have been thinking along the same lines, for in late October, he and the king decided to move to Caerphilly Castle. The populace there might not be any less hostile, he heard his father telling the king, but at least the castle itself was better fortified than Cardiff. If, his father hastened to add, things came to that.