The Traitor's Wife

by Susan Higginbotham

  “Really, Lady Despenser, it seems you are always with child!” Eleanor had just refused the queen's invitation to ride.

  “Only my fifth, your grace.”

  “Well, I don't understand why you cannot sit a horse. It is not as if that little mare of yours is a destrier. And you are an excellent horsewoman.”

  “I promised Hugh that I would not.”

  “Why? Did his mother have a riding accident?”

  “Indeed, no.” Eleanor smiled. “Hugh says she was a splendid horsewoman and a hunter, better than many men, and she certainly rode when she was with child—in fact, my father-in-law swears Hugh was almost born in the saddle. But nonetheless, he has asked that I not ride while I am carrying a child. It is something he worries about.”

  “Who would know, my dear? What harm would ensue?”

  “No one but your grace and the rest of the ladies, and probably no harm at all. But I would not deceive Hugh.”

  “You fear him?”

  “No, your grace. I love him.”

  The queen gave an exasperated shrug. “Then you must stay here with the little ones, I suppose.”

  “Yes, your grace.”

  The queen turned away. Eleanor, who very much wanted to ride, watched from a bench in the garden as the horses were led out to the queen and the other ladies, along with a pony for seven-year-old Edward, Earl of Chester. She sighed, wishing she had stayed with her own children. She and Isabella had never regained the closeness that they had lost during their trip to France, and Eleanor knew that Isabella much preferred several of her other ladies, particularly Eleanor's cousin Joan of Bar, to herself. Yet the queen had expressly asked her to join her while the men were in Scotland. Was it the ordering more than Eleanor's company the queen enjoyed?

  She did not dwell on this question, though, for the queen's younger children, John and Eleanor, had been sent outside with their nurses. As both were fond of Lady Despenser, they each had to be amused for an hour or so before their nurses disappeared inside with them again. Her charges gone, Eleanor, being in the sleepy stage of pregnancy, had begun dozing in the sunlight when she heard a horse coming to her, very quickly. For a confused moment she thought that this was a last effort by the queen to induce her to break her word to her husband, but then she saw the rider's frantic face. His garb indicated that he came not from the queen's household but from the Archbishop of York, William Melton. “The queen! Where is she?”

  “Out riding. Why, what is the matter?”

  “Douglas plans to take her prisoner. There is no time to lose; he could be within a mile of us as we speak. Quick, where did she go?”

  Douglas, who had pursued the king and his knights to Dunbar Castle so hotly that none could stop to make water. “It is easier for me to show than explain. Help me into your saddle.”

  The man needed no persuasion and within seconds Eleanor was seated behind him, holding on and crying, “Left! There! At the lake!” and such until they had arrived at a clearing, where the queen and her ladies were spreading a picnic lunch. The ladies froze at the sight of the horseman, then his passenger. “And what on earth does this mean?” demanded the queen.

  The rider made no effort to observe the formalities. “Your grace, you are in the gravest danger. Douglas of the Scots has gotten word that you are here, and there is a scheme afoot to capture you and take you hostage. We must get you back to York Castle, and from there to Nottingham.”

  “But—”

  “There is no time for argument or questioning, I tell you! Your lady here was wise; she got astride my horse immediately and brought me to you. Follow her example, I beg of you. Do you wish to be hung in a cage for all to gawk at, as the first Edward did with Bruce's women?”

  The queen did not. Without another word, she let her wide-eyed page help her to her horse, and in moments, the ladies were galloping away.

  While the queen and her household were fleeing to Nottingham via water, the king and his men had been besieging Berwick Castle.

  Edward had high hopes for this venture, and this time the support of Lancaster and his troops, along with those of Pembroke, Hereford, Hugh the younger, Audley, and Damory. The Scots put up a fierce resistance, but without James Douglas, who had elected to ignore Berwick in favor of pursuing the Queen of England. Only the timely capture of a Scottish spy, who had confessed under threat of torture, had saved the queen from capture, but the Scots were very much in England still, and the Archbishop of York, having seen to the queen's escape, gamely set out to fight them. The best fighting men were in Berwick with the king; the archbishop, a man of humble birth, had no knightly training. His talents were administrative, for he had risen as a royal official in the first Edward's reign, and ecclesiastical, for he took his duties as archbishop seriously and had done much to help the poor in his diocese. Above all, he was a Yorkshireman, and even if the queen had not been placed in distress, he would have wanted to come to the aid of his countrymen, whose lands were being devastated by the Scots. He and the chancellor of England, the Bishop of Ely, gathered a thoroughly unmilitary force—monks, priests, clerks, friars, and any man who could handle a weapon, any sort of weapon—and, acting on the information they had been given by the spy, attempted to take the Scots by surprise. The Scots, seeing instantly as the ragtag group advanced what they were dealing with, set brush on fire and formed a schiltron, terrifying many into fleeing instantly. Most of those who stayed were killed or taken captive, though the archbishop and the bishop escaped.

  This news, and the news of the attempt on the queen, reached the king at Berwick two days later. “It seems we have no choice but to raise the siege,” Lancaster said coolly.

  “Raise the siege!” The king turned to stare at his cousin. “After we have brought our best men here, our siege engines, our sappers? To turn tail and run?”

  “Not an entirely unfamiliar scenario for you, your grace,” Lancaster sneered.

  “But one for you,” put in Hugh the younger. “While the king was risking his life at the Bannock Burn, where were you, Sir Thomas? Safely tucked away on your estates.”

  “I sent my men.”

  “Oh yes, your men. They might not lack for courage, but do you, Sir Thomas?”

  “Why I countenanced this creature as your chamberlain I have no idea,” said Lancaster. “But I've an idea why he leaps to defend you; you promised him Berwick Castle, didn't you? And the town to Damory here. My God, Ned, when will you leave off bestowing gifts on these wastrels?”

  Only Gaveston had had the privilege of calling the king “Ned” in public. Hugh, intimate that he had become, still used the name only in private, and seldom outside the king's bed curtains. The king returned, “What I give or do not give is not the issue, Sir Thomas, it is why you are so intent on abandoning this fight! Are you in league with the Scots?”

  “That is a vile accusation. I'll stay for no more of this.”

  “Go, then; you are always odious to my sight.” He added, “When this wretched business is over, we will turn our hands to other matters. For I have not yet forgotten the wrong that was done to my dear brother Piers.”

  Lancaster rose from the jointed table around which they had all been conferring and strode out of the tent. Soon, the sounds of his own troops readying to leave camp could be heard. “The treacherous snake,” breathed Hugh, poking his head out of the tent. “He is actually leaving!”

  “Leave him to be damned,” said the king.

  But the loss of Lancaster's men left a gap in the English ranks that could not be filled, and the king abandoned the siege. The Scots themselves withdrew into their own territory, despite the English army's efforts to prevent this. In the end, the king returned moodily to York, where Hugh wrote to John Inge, “The earl acted in such a way that the king took himself off with all his army, to the great shame and grievous damage of us all. Wherefore we very much doubt if matters will end so happily for our side as is necessary.”

  From Eleanor's point of view, however
, things had ended happily indeed. Edward, now under pressure to perform homage to the French king, Isabella's brother Philip, elected to enter into a truce with the Scots, though not until after the latter had conducted harvest-time raids into several English counties that left them devastated. Hugh the younger was one of those appointed to negotiate with the Scots; while he was away in December 1319, Eleanor gave birth to a girl, whose name, Eleanor, was shortened to Nora by common consent. As for the queen, any fright she might have experienced at her near-capture by Douglas was compensated for generously by the king, who upon his return to York had presented her with jewels and other fine gifts in recognition of her ordeal.

  With the Scots settled for the time being, and Lancaster once again avoiding the king, the court's attention turned to France. Queen Isabella's father, King Philip, had died in November 1314, a victim, it was thought, of the curse of Jacques de Molay. His eldest son, Louis, had reigned less than two years before dying of a fever. Louis's infant son—he had a daughter also, but a woman could not rule France—reigned for five days before dying himself. He was succeeded by Louis's brother Philip, who since that time had been pressing his English brother-in-law to do homage. Edward, beset by all of his other problems, and never caring for paying homage to begin with, had stalled, but in June 1320, he and most of the English court crossed the Channel into France.

  Eleanor joined her uncle on the trip. Her initial reluctance to return had been much allayed by the reflection that Isabella's dreadful father was no more, and besides, Hugh was going also. His father was already in France, having been one of those sent ahead to negotiate with the French king.

  As the English proceeded to Amiens, people and horses both gloriously bedecked, Eleanor watched as Hugh and the Earl of Arundel rode a little ahead of her, talking earnestly yet apparently amiably. She pursed her lips. Since Gaveston's death, Arundel had played little part in the disputes of the realm, but he had been loyal to the king. Lately, he had made a point of being cordial to the Despensers. Yet Eleanor could not quite like him, for she could never forget that he had been one of the men who decided that Gaveston had to die, or that the earl had stayed away from the Bannock Burn when Eleanor's brother had gone at such a cost.

  There was no “not quite” about Eleanor's not liking Arundel's lady wife, however. Alice, the Countess of Arundel, was the sister of John de Warenne, and unless the Earl of Surrey begat a legitimate child, which seemed most unlikely given the fact that he and Joan of Bar were never seen together, it appeared that Alice would be his heir. The Earl of Surrey had a certain rakish charm, but Alice was haughty and cold, so much so that Eleanor found herself pitying the Earl of Arundel after all.

  Hugh, in the meantime, had slowed his horse down and was looking behind him, obviously with the intent of letting Eleanor catch up to him. The earl had moved away toward his own wife. “The Earl of Arundel and I have been discussing a little business, my dear,” said Hugh, smiling at Eleanor as their horses moved together. “What say you to a wedding?”

  “A wedding, Hugh?”

  “Between our Isabel and his eldest son.”

  Isabel was eight years old, and the earl's son, Richard, was probably about the same age. Although Eleanor knew perfectly well that children of that age often married each other, consummating their relationship years later, the thought of this happening to little Isabel nearly put Eleanor out of her saddle. Recovering, she said, “Hugh! Surely this could wait until they are older?”

  “Why?” said Hugh practically. “It's not as though they will be setting up their own household any time soon. I didn't mention it, but I am sure the earl will be agreeable to Isabel staying with us for a few more years instead of going to live with them.”

  “Isabel is not ready for marriage. She is shy; you know that, Hugh.”

  “Not marriage, but a wedding; two very different things. And I daresay that the prospect of being a countess will make her a bit less shy. Who knows, she may then be trying to take precedence over you.” He tweaked Eleanor's coiled hair. “Until, of course, I make you a countess.” He saw Eleanor's downcast face and said, in a lower tone, “The truth is too, Eleanor, this alliance would be good for us, Arundel being a Marcher lord. The more allies we have in that area, the better.”

  “What do you know of this boy?”

  “Richard? Nothing. I daresay he is a perfect horror; most boys that age are, my love. I certainly was; ask Father. But when he is fourteen or so, I've no doubt he will be quite presentable.”

  “Like his father? Hugh, you know I don't care much for Arundel. After Gaveston and the Bannock Burn—”

  “Arundel's made his peace with the king on those scores, so you should too. After all, he could have sided with Lancaster in all of this recent business. He didn't.”

  Eleanor sighed. “When shall this wedding take place, Hugh?”

  “We were thinking early next year, perhaps February.”

  Up ahead, the Arundels were talking too. Eleanor could glimpse the countess's face; she looked even more unhappy than Eleanor. Hugh laughed. “I daresay Arundel is having a hard time making his lady accept a match with the upstart Despensers. He did say that she was hoping to marry the boy off to an heiress.”

  “Upstart! Your family is as good as theirs, and as for mine—how dare that woman oppose the match?”

  Hugh grinned, having guessed accurately as to how Eleanor could be worked round. “So will you agree to the wedding, sweetheart?”

  Eleanor looked at the Countess of Arundel, who even from a distance was visibly fuming. “Certainly, Hugh.” She thought of Isabel, still sleeping each night with her doll, and amended this. “If she continues to live with us until she reaches a suitable age.”

  “So it shall be, my love. Now what shall you wear?”

  “Mowbray? Gower? So many ow sounds. Slow down, Hugh dear. You are confusing me.”

  Parliament was in session that fall of 1320, and the king and Hugh were at Burgoyne, a retreat that the king had built for himself, much to the dismay of the monks, in the precincts of Westminster Abbey. On the outside, it resembled a peasant's cottage, albeit that of a very comfortably off peasant, with a roof thatched by the king himself. On the inside, it was as comfortable as any of the royal manors, with fireplaces, garderobes, a well-equipped kitchen, and several chambers, the best of which the king and Hugh were in.

  Edward had started constructing Burgoyne shortly after his departure from York. The work, on which Edward had often lent a hand, had helped solace him after this latest Scottish fiasco, and its completion had much raised his spirits. It was only after he had seen the last of its furnishings moved into place that it had occurred to him that this would be a perfect place to meet Hugh, who for all of his ardor in private was the most discreet of souls in public. Instead of padding through Westminster Palace, dogged by the eyes of servants, petitioners, courtiers, and relations, Hugh could slip on the monk's habit he had thought it prudent to acquire, walk over to the abbey, and let himself into the cottage. There, in the weeks after the court's return from France, he and the king had spent many happy hours, sometimes making love, sometimes playing chess, sometimes laughing over one of Hugh's anecdotes. He had a boundless supply—about the other barons, about his pirate days, even about his children—and the king loved to listen to them.

  On this occasion, however, Hugh had arrived at the cottage tense and irritable. “Mowbray has moved into Gower!” he had said as he took off his habit.

  The king had clucked his tongue. “Lie down, dear one, and let me knead your back for you. And you will tell me all about it.”

  Only two other people in the world—Gaveston and the queen—had enjoyed one of the king's back rubs, and not even the queen had ever refused one, not because of the king's royalty but because of his technique. Hugh lay down and closed his eyes as the king positioned his hands on his back and began to knead expertly. Despite his annoyance, Hugh was all but purring when he said, “Mowbray, of course, is William de Bra
ose's son-in-law. Braose put Gower up for sale some time ago, as you will recall.”

  “Yes, you seemed intent on purchasing it.”

  “And so I was. But now this Mowbray has taken it upon himself to enter upon Gower and claim it for himself, on the basis of a grant Braose made to him, with a remainder to the Earl of Hereford! Lower, please. Thank you. Ned, it would have been perfect to have Gower!”

  “What if I took it into my hands?”

  Hugh started up. “On the grounds that it was alienated without a royal license? That'll not sit well in the March; the Marcher lords claim there is no need for such a license there.”

  “I know that, my love. I am king, you recall; I am forced to know such things, though I don't dwell on them. But what if I took Gower into my hands regardless?”

  “You would do that for me?”

  “I would do anything for you,” Edward said quietly.

  Though Hugh had become the king's lover mostly out of expediency, partly out of curiosity, he had found himself, as the months passed, becoming more and more attached to Edward. With those words of the king's, signaling his willingness to alienate every other Marcher lord for Hugh's sake alone, Hugh's last defense crumbled. He had often wondered why Gaveston, against all reason, had come back from that last exile of his to stay, and now he understood fully. “I love you, Ned,” he said, amazed to find his voice trembling. “I'd do anything for you, too.”

  “You have done all you ever can for me, by saying those first four words and meaning them.”

  They lay embracing each other by the fire for a long time, too joyous to speak.

  Rob Withstaff, the king's fool, had arranged the Christmas fare on his plate in the shape of southern Wales. “Glamorgan,” he indicated, taking a large bite. “It went down well enough. Dryslwyn and Cantrefmawr. A little harder to digest. Wentloog—stuck in the throat. Gower—why that the Marcher lords just couldn't swallow!” He made a series of dreadful choking noises and ran from the great hall, to titters of nervous laughter. When he returned, it wisely was to juggle.