Eleanor watched him from her seat at the high table, with the king, the queen, the Earl of Chester, the king's half brothers, the king's sister Mary the nun, both Hugh le Despensers, an unescorted Joan of Bar (the Earl of Surrey, a devoted family man, spent Christmases with his family, albeit not his legitimate one), the Earl of Arundel and his countess, and Ralph de Monthermer and Bella. Nearby sat a host of other minor barons and their ladies. At a table prudently placed some distance away sat the king's younger two children and their attendants, flanked by other noble children, including those from the Despenser family.
The Earl of Pembroke would certainly have joined the rest at the high table, but he was in France, having been widowed in September. He was there not only to take care of some of his late wife's affairs but also to look for another bride, for the earl had lived for nearly half a century without producing a child, but still had hopes. The Countess of Gloucester had died that year also, taking her reasons for claiming pregnancy for three years with her to her resting place at Tewkesbury Abbey. The abbey was in Despenser country now, for it had been part of the countess's dower lands. It had now reverted, along with many other English manors, to Eleanor and her husband.
Hugh d'Audley, furious over the seizure of Gower, had left the court in December. Roger Damory had elected to spend Christmas elsewhere. Lancaster had not come to Parliament and would certainly not come to the Christmas court. William de Montacute had died the previous year during his service in Gascony, leaving behind him a son of the same name. All in all, it was a depleted court, though a determinedly cheerful one, that celebrated Twelfth Night in 1321.
Eleanor shifted in her high-backed chair, grateful that she was sitting there instead of on a bench, for she and Hugh had done more in France besides plan the wedding of their daughter, and she was near her seventh month of pregnancy. Her back ached fiercely, but she had been sitting a long time.
“Well, Eleanor, what do you say to this Gower business?”
Joan of Bar had been indulging a bit too freely in her wassail, and she winked at Eleanor in a way that would have been comical had Eleanor not been so tired of hearing about Gower. The fool was right, though; Gower had stuck in many Marcher throats. “I say nothing, Joan. It is between the king, Hugh, and the Marcher lords.”
“Oh, what a dutiful wife you are!”
Eleanor was saved by the fool. “A dutiful wife!” he screeched, scanning the room like a sailor looking out for land. “Where? Does anyone know where I can find one?”
While the fool ambled away to search the room ostentatiously, Eleanor pretended to watch his antics with great absorption, hoping to stave off further conversation. After initial resistance, the king had finally succeeded into taking Gower into his hands just a few days before, and since then Eleanor had heard nothing but Gower, day and night. The queen had been downright insulting. “Mark my words, Lady Despenser, your husband has been a fool. Does he think the Marcher lords will take this without a fight?”
Bella had been puzzled. “Eleanor, what on earth has gotten into Hugh? Is he mad?”
Mary had been inquisitive. “My dear niece, I miss so much shut up in Amesbury. Now tell me, what exactly is this Gower business? We nuns hear only half of it.”
Her eldest daughter had asked, “Mama, may we see Gower soon? Papa talks of it so often.”
Yes, Eleanor was very tired of hearing about Gower. Hugh had sat her down and explained it to her. It was all quite reasonable. And yet—so many people were so angry at Hugh now. Hugh had made enemies when he had Llywelyn Bren executed, Eleanor knew, and enemies when he took over Audley's land. Moreover, Eleanor had heard whispers that since Hugh had become chamberlain, it was nearly impossible for anyone to get an audience with the king, unless Hugh was bribed handsomely.
It was a great relief to her when the servants started clearing the tables and pushing them away for dancing. It being Twelfth Night, the dances were quick and lively, and when the pains started, she thought at first she had simply overexerted herself. She twisted her way out of the carol and braced herself against a wall, waiting for the pains to ease. Instead, they grew more intense.
With so many people dancing and milling around, no one had paid any attention to Eleanor. Then Hugh saw her against the wall, her face contorted. “Eleanor! What is the matter?”
“I am in labor.”
“But it is far too early!”
“Yes, Hugh. It—is!”
She let out a cry, and Hugh asked no more questions. He whistled, and the room went still for an instant. “Someone get a midwife here, now! And help me get her to her chamber.” He hugged Eleanor against him. “Don't worry, my love. It will be all right.”
Not even her firstborn's birth had been so hard, so long. It was an all-female ordeal, as ever, with Gladys and Bella on either side of her, the midwife standing grimly by her legs, but beyond the inner chamber in which Eleanor labored, she could hear anxious male voices. Someone mentioned getting a priest: for the babe, for herself, or for both? she wondered.
Nearly twelve hours had passed when at last she heard Bella murmur, “It is over, dear.” She heard no baby's cry, and she had not expected to hear one. Yet there turned out to be enough life in the poor little boy she had borne for the priest to baptize him, enough time for her to hold him and whisper loving words to him as he slipped out of the world he had entered so prematurely. Then she let Bella take him from her and wrap him up in a dainty cloth.
Hugh walked slowly into the room, and Bella lifted the cloth as he stared wordlessly at what was beneath it. Tears ran down his face; he had always been an affectionate father. Finally, when Bella had left to take her sad little bundle to the chapel, he said quietly, “Philip. An unlucky name.”
“Hugh, I am so, so sorry.”
He came to her bed then and gently pulled her against him. “'Twas not your fault, my love. It was God's will.”
Eleanor nodded. “Yes, Hugh, it is. Don't you understand? We are being punished. All healthy children—until now. We have overreached ourselves.”
“Punished?”
He looked genuinely puzzled. Eleanor did not dare to look him in the face. She continued, her eyes on the bedclothes, “Yes, Hugh, punished. For all that has happened in the last few years. Llywelyn Bren—”
“A traitor, my love.”
“Wentloog and the rest, then. Gower. Why could not we have just been satisfied with what we had? It was plenty, more than anyone could ever want or need. Let us give back the rest, Hugh. Then God will surely forgive us.”
Hugh smiled tolerantly. “Give it back? And then we would lose all, bit by bit. You do not understand these things, my love. It is eat or be eaten. And—”
He was setting off on his Gower speech, in which he would patiently explain why every step he had taken was absolutely necessary and just, the ends justifying the means. Eleanor had heard it often. It was convincing; he had probably come to believe it himself. But this time Eleanor cut him short. “Justify it to yourself however you must, Hugh. I only know that our beautiful little son is dead, and that somehow we have displeased God.”
Hugh was silent for a while. Finally he said, “You say 'we,' but what part have you taken in any of these things? God may want to punish me, but there is nothing He would want to punish you for, my love.”
For acquiescing, He can, Eleanor thought. But she was suddenly too tired to argue with him. Hugh saw the exhaustion in her face and said gently, “All parents lose children, and we have been luckier than most to have so many alive and thriving. In due time we will have another child, I'll warrant, and that will put your fancies to rest.”
“But I am so frightened, Hugh, of all that might come. I don't think you realize what you have wrought.” She began sobbing.
He held her as she cried. Finally, she quieted and he said, “You need sleep, my love. The midwife sent this in with me. I want you to take a good sip of it for me. It will help you rest.”
She nodded and let him bri
ng a goblet to her lips. Then she settled herself on his shoulder and waited for sleep. Mercifully soon, it came.
February 1321 to August 1321
ON FEBRUARY 9, 1321, ELEANOR STOOD IN THE CHAPEL AT THE ROYAL manor of Havering-atte-Bower, fighting a temptation to box her new son-in-law on the ears. Richard Fitz Alan, son to the Earl of Arundel, had come to his wedding with all the enthusiasm of one about to have a back tooth drawn, and as the young couple knelt before the altar, a fine cloth paid for by the king being held over their heads, he was making no effort not to squirm. Once again, Eleanor thanked the Lord that her daughter would be staying with her own parents for the time being.
The wedding was a worrisome event in what was proving to be a worrisome year. Lancaster continued to stay away from court, claiming illness. In January, the king had ordered the Earl of Hereford and numerous other lords not to join armed assemblies or make secret treaties, while Hugh had ordered his sheriff in Glamorgan to guard his castles well. Roger Mortimer of Wigmore had left the court in a fury and had been replaced as justice of Ireland by one of Hugh's own men.
The object of all of this anger, Hugh, bore it coolly. At the celebration that followed the wedding, he was in fine form, treating the little bride, who otherwise might not have thought much of her wedding day, like a veritable queen. He danced with her, paid her courtly compliments that made her giggle, and kept a weather eye on all of the entertainments during the feast to make sure they were to her liking. With Eleanor, who at his insistence had worn so much jewelry that she twinkled from a distance, he flirted so shamelessly that it was difficult to believe that the couple had been married for nearly fifteen years. His other little daughters looked charming in their brand-new robes, as did Bella. Even his older sister, Aline Burnell, who had taken a vow of chastity, had been coaxed out of her russet robes and into velvet for the occasion. Hugh the elder's nature was less sanguine than his son's, but he had managed to cast his cares aside for his granddaughter's wedding. Partnered with the queen in one of the dances, he led her around with the gallantry of a man half his age.
“You are looking lovely tonight, Eleanor dear.”
“Thank you, Uncle.” Eleanor smiled up at the king.
“I have worried about you. I am glad to see you looking your old self.”
The king was utterly sincere, for he had indeed worried about Eleanor in the days following the loss of her child, when she had been so wan and quiet. It would have grieved him immeasurably if she had followed her child to the grave. But she was very much alive now, in a rich gown the king himself had paid for. Only when Edward stepped close to her could he see the dark shadows under her eyes. She shook her head and said, “I do not feel much like my old self, Uncle.”
“I know you don't, my dear, but it will come in time.”
“Uncle—”
“What, dear?”
Save Hugh from what is sure to overtake him, Uncle. Stop him. She bit the words back. She was still bleeding from her recent childbirth, still sorrowful and overwrought. She was merely being fanciful, as Hugh had gently told her. The worst was over, surely; all would work out. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed her uncle on the cheek. “You have given Isabel a lovely wedding, Uncle. Thank you.”
Hugh too had seen the dark circles under his wife's eyes, and being worried that her health was in a decline, suggested that she go to Hanley Castle, which had just come into Hugh's hands, having been one of the dower lands of the deceased Countess of Gloucester. Save for her eldest son, who now was a squire serving in the king's household, Eleanor and her children, including the newlywed Isabel, dutifully traveled to Worcestershire.
Built by King John as a royal castle and given to the Clare family in the last century, Hanley Castle was more domestic than defensive, and Eleanor soon came to love it. Weather permitting, she rode out daily with the older children, ambitiously began making a tapestry for her chamber wall, played her lute for the children in the evening. The letters Hugh sent were cheerful and loving.
They were also utterly uninformative. Happily isolated in Worcestershire, Eleanor did not know that later that February, news had reached the king that Lancaster had met in Pontefract with others, whose identities were unknown to the king's spy, and plotted to attack Hugh's estates in Wales. She did not know that Hugh was ordering that his Welsh castles be armed and victualed, or that the king and Hugh had traveled near the Welsh marches to appraise the situation. Hugh reserved his news for the sheriff of Glamorgan, whom he was sending letter after letter.
The Earl of Hereford had also received a letter, an order by the king to appear at Gloucester to discuss the assemblies that were being held in the Marches. His reply arrived in the person of the Abbot of Dore, who clearly wished himself back in Dore after he delivered his message to the king, privately. The king returned to his chamber to report to Hugh. “They propose, dear one, that you be put in the custody of Lancaster—Lancaster!—until a Parliament can be summoned, where you and Hereford can put forward your complaints. Lancaster! My God, Hugh, do they think me an utter fool? After what happened to Gaveston—”
He broke off, shuddering, and Hugh, who was alone with him, put his arms around him and kissed him on the cheek. “Does the good abbot await a reply?”
“Yes.”
“Then let's give him one. I'll answer whatever I am asked in Parliament, but I have been charged with no crime, have I? Then to commit me to Lancaster's custody would be groundless and contrary to Magna Carta, common law—”
“And my coronation oath,” said the king, taking heart.
“And the Ordinances. Let us not forget the Ordinances. That'll irk Hereford and Lancaster—you know full well Lancaster is behind this—to no end, to be accused of violating their own Ordinances.”
Edward laughed. “You think of everything, dear one. Find a clerk and dictate our reply.”
“Hugh! Uncle!”
Eleanor leapt from her window seat in her chamber to greet the two men coming toward her. Hugh embraced her, then stepped back to look at her. “How healthy you look now, love.”
“It is beautiful here, and I have been able to go riding every day for weeks now that the weather is so pleasant. But what a lovely surprise!”
“We are on our way back to Westminster, and thought we would stay a night. What of it, my lady? Can you manage to entertain us?”
Eleanor laughed. “I shall endeavor to do my best, your grace. Now tell me. What am I missing at court?”
Hugh paused for only a second or so before replying smoothly, “Have I told you Pembroke is back? No? Well, he is, and he has chosen himself a new French wife, Marie de Saint-Pol, a count's daughter. They are only waiting for the Pope's dispensation, as they are related within the fourth degree.”
“That is good; he was so fond of his first wife. What do you know of her?”
“Only that she is young and fair, and being virtuous, time will have to tell if she is fertile.”
“And the queen?”
The queen was expecting a fourth child in July. Edward said, “Doing well. She plans to have this one in the Tower, of all places.”
The children having gotten wind of their father's appearance, they soon straggled into the chamber, and for the next hour or so they dominated the conversation, Edward enviously speculating on the life his brother Hugh must be leading as the king's squire, Isabel bringing her new puppy, Joan wanting to know when she could have a wedding, and Nora evincing the greatest of interest in pulling the king's beard. When Eleanor could get a word in edgewise, she idly asked whether things had quieted down in Wales, and Hugh assured her that they seemed quiet enough. Then Eleanor remembered that Hugh had never seen the castle, and the children had to take him on a tour, Eleanor and the king following behind. At last, all the children were stowed in bed, and the king took himself off to the fine chamber and steaming bath that had been made ready for him. “Would you like a bath too, Hugh?” Eleanor asked as they entered their own chamber. “I can order o
ne.”
“No.” Hugh tipped her face up to his. “Remember the vow I made at Caerphilly? I haven't kept it.”
It had been months since they had made love. Among Eleanor's fears since Philip's death had been one, pushed to the back of her mind, that she might no longer be able to respond to Hugh as she had in the past, or worse, that he might no longer find her desirable. Now with his wiry body pressing against hers, she found she had been wrong on both counts. She had also feared that she would be unable to conceive a child. On that point she would turn out to be wrong also, for when she and Hugh finally went to sleep, she was pregnant once more.
It was early May. She was to join Hugh at Westminster in a few weeks. Worcestershire was obviously agreeing with her, Hugh said, and it would be a pity to send her to sweltering London too soon when the fresh country air was having such a beneficial effect. It and her as yet undiscovered pregnancy certainly made her sleep more soundly, for she was deep in slumber late one night when she was shaken roughly awake. “Lady Despenser! Get up. There is no time to lose.”
“Up?” Eleanor stared groggily at her chamberlain as he yanked the bed curtains back and pulled her to a sitting position.
“We have to get out of here, all of us. Have you got her clothes? Good. I will get the children up.” The chamberlain sped away.
“Gladys, what is it?” She shrugged her way into the gown that her damsel was pushing onto her head.
Gladys stood her up and began lacing her gown with unprecedented roughness. “Your lands in Wales are being laid waste. Several men have been killed, and many more have been captured. One of your men from there escaped and reached here a few minutes ago. He thinks they are headed this way, or that more may be coming from another direction, and if those whoresons found you here alone—”
“Good God, no! Hugh thought—”
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