Hugh and Bess

by Susan Higginbotham

  “Oh, go to the devil, Bess.”

  “I’ll drink yours so you can’t have any more.” Bess seized Joan's wine cup and drained it in a gulp, then leaned back, glowing with virtue as well as with wine even as Joan waved at a page to bring her some more.

  Fond of tournaments since boyhood, the king had summoned all of the great and what seemed to be most of the lesser men of the land, along with their ladies, to Windsor Castle for a week of feasting and jousting. Bess had arrived with Hugh only that afternoon and had barely had time to unpack before the king had sent them a message: All of the ladies were to be entertained at a great feast just for them, with the men to be entertained in less grand style elsewhere. Each lady had been led into the hall by the king himself. Bess had been thrilled when the king commented on how lovely she was looking and on her new gown, which Bess's dressmaker had barely had time to finish in time for her to bring to court with her. The fact that the king had been heard to make such gallant comments to every woman he had escorted had not detracted from her pleasure in the least.

  For many of the ladies, the king's greeting had been quite a few cups of wine ago. Bess herself had had one or two more than usual, she would be the first to admit, but she was in far better condition than her sister-in-law and could therefore drink another with impunity, she decided. She beamed at the page who was filling her own cup, then winked at him. “I wish Hugh were here,” she said after the page moved to another boisterous row of ladies.

  “You always wish Hugh were here,” said Joan. “Is he that good of a husband? I mean, where it matters?”

  “What a question!” Bess glared at her wine cup. “Yes,” she said, and giggled.

  The last months had been happy ones for Bess. There had been no wars to take Hugh away from her, and when he went to Parliament soon after his return from Brittany, he’d taken Bess with him. In London they had stayed at his splendid home on the waterfront, where Bess could watch the ships coming and going from her window seat by day and spend her nights in Hugh's arms. She could not believe there had been a time when she had been cold to him as a wife. What a fool she had been!

  Only one thing marred her happiness: She had not quickened with child. After those first few weeks of their reunion, when she and Hugh had made up for lost time by making love nearly every night, she had been certain that she would conceive and had been stunned to find her monthly course arriving at its accustomed time. She had not missed a month since then, except for one when she had been slightly late, and then as if to taunt her, her course had lasted longer than usual. Hugh had found her crying in her chamber that month. “Sweetheart. You are still very young. You will conceive yet.”

  “But what if I never do? What if I am barren?”

  “Then we must learn to live with that.”

  “You won’t cast me aside?”

  “Bess! What rot. I love you. You know that.”

  “But you married because you wanted heirs…”

  “Bess, I do. I won’t deny I’ll be disappointed if we have no children. But the land will stay in the Despenser family in any case. With Edward's four boys and my brothers, there's no chance that an outsider will inherit it. And if there were, well—you would still be my lady wife and my true love. Now come. Dry your eyes and let's go riding. When you’re at last great with child, I won’t let you on a horse, you know.”

  She had obeyed. But each month she still felt the same hope, and then the same disappointment. The latter had been especially keen just a few days before when Emma, who soon after Hugh's return from overseas had married one of Hugh's knights, had been delivered of a fine boy. Bess and Hugh, the godparents, had given the couple some glistening plate as christening gifts, and Bess had embroidered a beautiful swaddling blanket for the child, but with each stitch, her heart had ached. When would she sew things for her own baby?

  Joan had not conceived either, but she did not seem overly bothered about it. “There's time,” she had said offhandedly when Bess had brought up the subject delicately much earlier in the evening.

  Bess sighed and took another long drink of wine, then followed Joan's eyes up to the dais where they kept roaming. As Joan had noted, up there were not only Queen Philippa and her oldest daughter, the Lady Isabella, but Isabella's rarely seen namesake, the dowager queen. None of the younger ladies in the great hall could keep from looking at her for long. Not only had she been an adulteress, which was wicked enough, but there were rumors that she had been a murderess as well, conniving with her lover to kill the poor imprisoned second Edward. The present king claimed that Mortimer alone had been responsible, but Bess had her doubts, and Joan had none whatsoever. “After all, she ordered that my own father be executed,” she whispered, discreetly for a change.

  “But she looks so beautiful,” Bess whispered back. In fact, she could no longer make out the queen's features that distinctly, but earlier in the evening, she had noted that Isabella's face, though not a young one—she was in her late forties now—was still a very handsome one, notwithstanding the occasional trout-like expression she did assume when gazing in the direction of the giggling younger ladies. “I just can’t believe she could kill her own husband.”

  “And speaking of Hugh, you know what she did to Hugh's father!”

  “Hush, Joan. Here comes the king.” Bess took a big gulp of wine to give her courage to face the king, of whom she was a bit shy.

  Having dined with the men after seating the ladies, Edward had returned and was now strolling up and down the lines of tables, chatting and occasionally bestowing kisses on his prettiest female subjects. Bess had seen him talking with her mother up at the row of countesses near the dais, a row that was decidedly more somber and sober than the row on which Bess was sitting, designated for earls’ daughters and the wives of the richer lords. Perhaps the nearby queens had had a dampening effect on the countesses, Bess thought. She was grateful that the countesses were seated at such an angle that her mother and Joan's could not see their daughters.

  The king ambled over. Though an amazing variety of food and wine had been carried to the ladies, it appeared that the men had had plenty at their feast as well, for when Edward bent and put one arm around Bess and the other around Joan, his breath smelled as strongly of wine as did Joan's. “Fair ladies,” he said. “Are you enjoying yourselves?”

  “Very much, your grace,” said Bess, though the “your grace” sounded strangely even in her ears like “your glace.” She giggled and tried it again. “Your glaze. I am delighted to be here, and have been enjoying the entertainment extremely well.”

  The king laughed and patted her hand. “Why, Bess, I suspect you’ve been enjoying my wine as well as my minstrels. I wager your Hugh will have his hands full tonight.” He turned and kissed Joan, who, however, turned her face so that she kissed the king on the lips. “My,” said Edward. “Young Montacute is a lucky man.”

  “I always wanted to do that,” said Joan as the king moved away.

  Jealous, Bess drank a consolatory cup of wine and made a conscientious effort to focus her attention on the court fool, though it was difficult to do with the room spinning and the fool multiplying himself before her eyes. She could not have said afterward how she managed to get up when the tables were moved for dancing, or how she found herself in the midst of a group of people dancing, the lords having come in to join the ladies. Even more baffling was how she ended up dancing with the king himself, leading him in a country dance picked up from some of Hugh's tenants. Difficult as she found it to walk in her state, she was somehow able to dance easily, so much so that a clapping little crowd gathered to watch, surrounding her and Edward and shielding them from the view of the throng in the hall. Only when the music stopped did she stumble into the king, who laughed and took her in his arms. “Do I get my kiss now?” she asked as she caught her breath.

  “Your kiss?”

  “You kissed Joan and not me. And I am as loyal a subject as she. It is unwise to play favorites, your glaze.�
��

  “True. How remiss of me,” said Edward. He bent and kissed her on the lips, hard. “You’re delectable,” he whispered, not particularly softly. “Absolutely delectable.” He smiled at her and stood back. “Is my subject pleased now?”

  “Very much so.” She curtseyed deeply and fell into the king again when she struggled to her feet. “I’m eager to serve you in every way,” she said.

  “I’ll remember that,” promised Edward. He kissed Bess again, then carefully set her on her feet a little ways off and turned to another partner. Bess accepted a cup from a grinning page and took a large drink from it. Then she gasped as someone put an arm around her and began hustling her away, having wrenched the cup out of her hands first. “Gilbert!” she said indignantly, recognizing her abductor as one of her brothers-in-law. “The feast has not ended yet!”

  Gilbert le Despenser was one of the king's household knights. He was only in his early twenties, considerably younger than Hugh, and was said to resemble his mother much more strongly than his father. He was burlier than Hugh, with a few freckles and hair that was more red than auburn; a suitable look, Bess thought groggily, for someone who had been born during his father's pirate days. “For you it has,” he said. “How much wine have you had?”

  Bess tossed her head, realizing as she did that a good part of her hair had worked its way free of her caged headdress and was visible for every living soul at Windsor Castle to gape at. “I truly have no idea,” she said loftily. “I suppose you couldn’t help me with my hair, could you?”

  Gilbert snorted. “I’m not a lady's maid. And after that display, who will notice?” He continued dragging her through the crowd until he finally reached its fringes. “Christ, I don’t see Hugh anywhere in this mob. Half of England must be here. Do you know where you were lodged?”

  “It had a lovely view of the river. With the leaves off the trees you can look right out of it and see all the comings and goings there. I even saw the sun set today, Gilbert.” She sighed. “It was beautiful.”

  Despite his piratical appearance, Gilbert was usually quite good-natured, but tonight he was unaccountably grumpy, Bess thought. When she told him so, he muttered something that Bess could not make out, but which was probably most unchivalrous, and settled her on a bench aside the wall. “Stay here. I’m going to look for Hugh or your father or one of your brothers to take you to your chamber. Or at least I can find the king's steward to tell me where it is and I can take you there myself. Don’t you dare have another drink while I’m gone, and don’t you move. Understand? Just rest here and think of your sunset. And for God's sake stay away from the king. He's almost as flown by wine as you are, which is saying something. Understand? Not even a sip!”

  Glad to be sitting for the moment, Bess nodded and dreamily watched him hurry off. Then she started. Her father! He would be so angry at her, making a display of herself and even flirting with the king a little. And her mother would be even worse. Bess blanched at the very thought. Best that she go to her chamber in dignity now instead of waiting to be hauled there in disgrace. She had a fairly good idea of where it was and could have led Gilbert straight to it, if only he hadn’t stormed off in such a huff.

  She lurched to her feet, deciding to ignore the sound of the train of her gown ripping as she did, and made her way out of the hall, supporting herself against the wall when needed. As she passed a window seat she stumbled over a couple embracing there. Joan of Kent and Sir Thomas Holland? Surely it could not be; the wine must be playing more tricks with her. She ignored them, as she had the rip, and continued on her way, teetering through vaguely familiar passages and up and down likely staircases until she finally saw what had to be her door and pushed her body against it. It did not give.

  Bess stared at the upstart door indignantly. She was beginning to beat it with her fists when a voice called, “Bess?”

  “Hugh!” She turned, lost her balance, and would have fallen if Hugh had not hastened up the stairs and grabbed her. She said crossly, “I have looked everywhere for you. Where have you been?”

  “Looking for you,” said Hugh. “Didn’t Gilbert tell you to stay where you were?”

  Bess suddenly plopped down on the step on which she was standing. “Yes, but he was really quite rude about it, and I hate rude men. He wouldn’t even help me with my hair. Oh, sit down, Hugh.” He obeyed, and she leaned against him contentedly, all her worries gone now that he and not her father had found her. “It was such a nice feast for us ladies. There was porpoise, and salmon, and venison, and— oh, I don’t know what all. Oh, and there was the most excellent wine.”

  “So I understand.”

  “Well, of course, there is always wine at court. But tonight there was wine from everywhere. We tried all sorts.” Bess frowned, then giggled. “Joan had far too much.”

  “Did she, now?”

  “Oh, yes. And I had a little more than usual myself, I think, Hugh. To be quite honest.”

  “I think so, too. Enough to float you down the Thames to London and back, I’d say.”

  “Silly, who would want to do that?” She moved into Hugh's lap and began caressing his cheek. “Maybe a little more than usual. Hugh? I did see something very strange. Joan was kissing Sir Thomas Holland.” She decided not to mention the king's kissing her own self. “You haven’t kissed other women tonight, have you, Hugh?”

  “No. Come. Let's get you to our chamber and put you to bed.” He tried to haul her to her feet.

  “But it's locked, Hugh. And everything goes round when I stand up. It's so much nicer sitting here. Don’t you think so?” Bess settled back into Hugh's lap and kissed him. “I liked the king's feast, but I wish you had been there.” She began fumbling with his clothing. “Maybe we should go inside after all,” she whispered. “We can drink some more wine and dance together and make love.”

  “Bess, we’re not—”

  “A bit late for petitioners, Sir Hugh, is it not? Not that I am accustomed to such visits anyway.”

  Hugh clapped a hand over Bess's mouth as the dowager queen, trailed by her ladies and accompanied by a page or two, stared down at them. “I beg your pardon, your grace. Lady Despenser is not familiar with the layout here. She got confused and took the wrong direction.”

  His hand slipped, and Bess said obstinately, “I did not.” She clutched Hugh tighter. “Make them go away, Hugh. I want to be all alone with you. I don’t want them coming in our chamber. It's too late for guests.”

  “All right, Bess.” Hugh stood, bowed as best he could to Isabella, and after considering for a moment, hauled a protesting Bess over his shoulder like a sack of grain. “Good night, your grace.”

  “You were furious,” Hugh said cheerfully, laying a cold towel on Bess's forehead. Bess appreciated the towel, but not her husband's good cheer, so she scowled and said not a word of thanks. “The dowager queen had no business turning us out of our own chambers, you kept telling me, and I kept telling you that you’d taken the wrong turn and were headed toward her chambers. But you wouldn’t have any of it. You’re a mulish little thing with too much wine in you, sweetheart; it's damn lucky you weren’t born a man or you’d probably have had your head broken a dozen times over by now. Anyway, I finally got you undressed and in bed—your poor ladies couldn’t have managed it. At that point you stopped being angry at me for taking the queen's part and became insistent on being ravished. You were quite the wanton. That bearskin by the fire may bring back some memories if you think hard enough.”

  Bess gazed bleakly at the bearskin. It, like its former occupant, had seen better days, probably several King Edwards ago. “And then?”

  “Oh, you wanted more wine, of course, but I wouldn’t give it to you. You wanted to dance too, but I wouldn’t. You sulked for a little while about that; it was almost like the old days of our marriage. Poor Bess, I wager you’ve a head on you today. If it's any consolation, you’re very far from being the only lady so afflicted, I hear.”

  “I hate the
king. How dare he give us so much wine?”

  She struggled to a sitting position. Hugh, naturally, had been unable to braid her hair for her the night before, and the very weight of it hanging loose made her wince as she slowly arose. Seeing that Hugh was fully dressed, she asked, “Hugh, where are you going?”

  “It's time for dinner. So I’m going to”—Bess with a great effort managed to get out of bed and hasten in the direction of the garderobe—“dinner. Did I say the wrong word, sweetheart?”

  After several trips to the garderobe, Bess went back to bed and slept, opening her eyes only when Hugh returned to their chamber. “How was—dinner?” she asked, relieved that the word no longer gave her palpitations.

  “Very pleasant. I danced with Queen Philippa and she called me delectable and I gave her a great smacking kiss right in front of the whole nobility of England. One of your sisters was there to protect my virtue, fortunately.”

  She sat up. “Hugh, I meant to tell you—”

  “So you do remember? I was thinking that your memory was strangely weak on who was kissing whom last night.”