The king had been moving south as Eleanor and Montacute moved north. For several days, he stopped at Lincoln, and it was there that Eleanor was taken to see him.
She was surprised when she was conducted to a small but reasonably comfortable chamber in the castle, for she had expected Lincoln to be so full with the king and his followers that she would have to sleep at an inn. It turned out, however, that Isabella and Mortimer, and their retinues, had left court and were not expected to return until some time in April. “It seems that they are spending some time at one of the queen's castles,” explained Montacute, his face impassive.
“Together?” Eleanor thought of all the men of the Church who had flocked to the queen's banner. She wondered if they thought now of Lady Mortimer, far away from court and alone in one of the Mortimers' Welsh castles.
“So it appears.”
Eleanor could hardly complain about this lovers' retreat, though, for it would be a great deal easier to face the king alone than with his mother and his mother's lover. Having sent in a message through one of Montacute's pages that she would await the king's pleasure, she had nothing to do but to change her travel-worn black dress for a slightly fresher black one and to clean the grime of the road off her face. These tasks being accomplished quickly, she sat and stared at the fire, waiting for the king's summons and thinking of the days when she had been a cherished member of her uncle's court.
The king's pleasure turned out to be an hour or so, but at last a page knocked on her door and led her to the king. Her hope that she might see him alone soon died as she heard her name announced loudly and saw a crowd of courtiers standing near the throne, all with seemingly nothing better to do than to watch her. Lifting her chin, she approached the throne, hearing titters as she did so, and knelt to the boy whom she regarded as little better than a usurper.
“You may rise, Lady Despenser.”
A young knight stepped forth and helped her to her feet. “Merci,” she murmured, and surveyed the king as best she could without looking him full in the face. She had not seen him in two and a half years, when he had not yet turned thirteen, and she felt a stab of pain when she saw how much he had grown to look like his dead father.
“Welcome, cousin. I hope you had an uneventful journey here, and I am glad to see that you reached here safely.”
“Thank you, your grace. I had a very kind escort.”
“Ah, Montacute,” said Edward, his voice suddenly relaxing. Then it abruptly stiffened. “Your late husband was a traitor to the realm. But we, with the aid of our council, have considered the matter of your own status and have deemed it just that you be released from the Tower. You may go wherever you wish in England now. Of course, like any other subject you must gain permission to go abroad, and you may not remarry without our license.”
Remarry! The thought was so startling that Eleanor nearly forgot her own prearranged formalities. She recovered herself. “Your grace, I thank you for my freedom. And now, if it pleases your grace, I do have several petitions to place before you.”
“We will hear them.”
“My eldest son, Hugh, was pardoned a year ago, yet he remains a prisoner. I ask that you show him the same generosity you have shown me and free him. He will serve you loyally, I assure you, if only given a chance.”
“It cannot be, Lady Despenser.”
His dismissal of her petition was so abrupt that Eleanor forgot all protocol. “Your grace, why not? What crime has he committed? What has he been accused of?”
“He held Caerphilly Castle while your husband beguiled my father into abandoning the realm for Wales.”
“He held Caerphilly Castle because his king asked him to. He held it because he was loyal to him. And loyal to his father, your grace. Does not the Lord command us to honor our fathers?”
She had stung the king, she saw. Edward flushed and said curtly, “Go on, Lady Despenser, with your next petition, if you have one.”
“I do, your grace. I would ask that you allow me to bury my husband's bones in consecrated ground.”
“No, Lady Despenser. His quarters and head must remain on display as an example to all who crave royal power.”
“Your grace, I have been told that my husband was stripped naked for the amusement of the crowd, crowned with nettles, pelted with dung, castrated— all before he died a traitor's death. Surely that is example enough?”
Behind her, someone gasped, and the king himself looked uncomfortable. Who in the world had told Lady Despenser so many of the details of her husband's execution? But he said coolly, “Your next petition.”
“I ask most humbly that your grace restore my Clare lands. As your grace knows, they were mine through my late brother, who died nobly in service to the crown. Without them I shall be dependent entirely on charity, for all that I had of my late husband has forfeited to the crown.”
“Don't let the traitor's wife beguile your grace,” warned a voice behind her. John Maltravers, the king's new steward and watchdog, had arrived beside them. Eleanor knew that he had been around her uncle when he died, and she shuddered. “She gives a pretty petition, but has she forgotten that her husband used trickery and fraud to deprive her sisters of their share of the inheritance?”
“I do not ask for their share, only for what was originally mine.” Eleanor's heart was thumping, but she kept her voice level. “I trust to your grace to do what is right and just.”
Edward's formal voice had become a trifle weary. “We shall consider your petition.”
“One more, your grace. My young daughters. They have offended no one. Might I visit them in their convents, and be allowed to receive visits from them?”
“We shall consider it.” Maltravers coughed a reminder. “And now, Lady Despenser, we must ask you, what do you know of your late husband's assets? There is much that the crown has not been able to recover. It is certain that he must have had money and jewels hidden in many places besides the houses of Bardi and the Peruzzi and the Tower and Caerphilly. Tell us what you know, and we shall be well pleased.”
Was this why she had been asked to travel two hundred miles to see the king? “I am sorry, your grace, but I know nothing about those affairs of Hugh's. He kept many matters of business to himself, as men are wont to do.” She kept her face calm with difficulty, although save for what she had taken from the Tower, she knew nothing of where anything belonging to Hugh might have been hidden.
“How the creature lies!” said Maltravers.
“Lady Despenser, you must tell us what you know.”
“I have told you all that I know,” Eleanor said. Had it not been for Maltravers beside her, standing so close to her now that she could feel his breath come and go, she might have confessed to her theft and begged for mercy from the king then and there. She added, “Should I recall something, it will be my duty to let your grace know immediately.”
“Please do so,” Edward said wearily. He seemed glad to be finished with the issue.
Eleanor was about to ask him for permission to retire when a girl in her mid-teens, dark and plump, came to his side. So unassumingly had she taken her position there, and so flustered was Eleanor, that she did not realize until a moment had passed that she was in the presence of the new Queen of England, uncrowned though she might be. She hastily sank to her knees as Edward said, in his easy manner again, “My lady, I present to you my kinswoman, Lady Eleanor le Despenser.” Edward rushed over the surname. “She has come to join us from London.”
“Where she has lately been a prisoner in the Tower,” said Maltravers.
Philippa frowned slightly, but her frown seemed directed more to Maltravers than to Eleanor. “Do you stay at court long, my lady?”
“I think not, your grace.” She waited to see if the king would contradict her. “By the king's leave I will depart for London tomorrow morning.”
“Then you must at least come to dinner tonight,” said Philippa. “There will be a delightful entertainment.”
�
��I thank your grace.” She curtsied. As she began to back away, she heard the king's voice, his friendly one. “Cousin.”
“Your grace?”
“Don't fret, cousin. You won't be forced to beg your bread.”
There being no separate table for the widows of the disgraced, Eleanor found herself seated between two knights, whose faces she dimly recognized but whose names she did not recall. As she had expected, both conversed with the persons on their opposite sides and said nothing to her. She nibbled at her food—the portions at the Tower had been small, and her appetite had shrunk accordingly—with her eyes cast down, raising them only to indicate to a serving man that he could pour her some more wine. She had already taken more than was usual with her, but the events of the last few hours—the shock of being at court again and the stares of the bystanders and the refusal of her petitions and the queries about the jewels—had together been too much for her.
Even had she been bold enough to attempt a conversation with one of her neighbors, and the neighbor had not snubbed her, what would she have spoken of? Sixteen months in the Tower with only her children and a damsel for company did not make for sparkling conversation. Perhaps they should have put her next to one of Mortimer's sons, one of those who had been locked up; one of them would have had something in common with her. She chuckled to herself at this thought, and as she did so she felt a pair of eyes—those on her left side—upon her. Then a pleasant voice said, “Forgive me, Lady Despenser. I have been ignoring you very rudely, but it is only because I don't know what to say to you. I know you have been a prisoner for some time, and I know your circumstances have been very miserable as of late. I have been searching for some innocuous remark I could make to you, and I can find none. So I can only say that I hope you are well as can be expected.”
The man who was speaking was probably not quite thirty, and was good-looking enough to almost rival Gaveston—still Eleanor's point of comparison for male handsomeness, and probably that of any other woman who had been at court at that time. Startled to be addressed so forthrightly, though not offended, Eleanor managed with a small smile, “You may start by telling me your name.”
The man laughed. “That's fair and reasonable. I am John de Grey of Rotherfield. You won't remember me, my lady, but I occasionally saw you at court when I was a boy. I was a squire there for a time.”
“Yes, I remember you now.”
“The old king was kind to me. I remember him fondly.” John smiled. “And you were kind to me too. You always had some pleasant remark to make to me, not like some great ladies who sought to intimidate me.”
“I do not think you would have been easily intimidated.”
“True! But ladies tried!” He laughed. “I was always doing something reprehensible at table—feeding my scraps to the dogs, or humming some tune, or speaking to my fellow squires with my mouth full. How I got my ears boxed! I hope I am better behaved today.”
“Somewhat.”
“Only somewhat?”
“I have been longing for that basket of fruit on your left side all evening, sir.”
“My lady!” John immediately passed it to her, and she gratefully accepted it and began nibbling at an apple before she tired of that and reached for the wine again. “Now tell me what you were finding so amusing. I saw you smiling to yourself.”
“A silly, idle thought, sir.”
“The best kind, sometimes. You must tell it to me.”
“I cannot remember it.”
He was still coaxing her to tell him when their attention was diverted by the court fool. Eleanor found herself laughing at his antics harder than anyone nearby her, so much so that several censorious glances were sent in the direction of the traitor's widow who was enjoying herself far too much. She did not notice them. When the musicians came in, playing melancholy tunes she knew well, she sang softly to them, unaware of John de Grey's admiring glances at her or his hand on hers. It was only when the music had stopped and she felt her head drifting onto his shoulder that she pulled back from him and said gravely, “Sir, you have let me drink far too much wine.”
John de Grey laughed. “You have not had that much at all, my lady, but it is probably more than you have been used to as of late.” He smiled at her tenderly. “It is good to see you smiling and laughing as I remembered you. You are delightful company.”
“Only when tipsy.” Eleanor giggled.
“Nonsense. Shall I visit you when you are quite sober and have you prove it?”
“Indeed, but now you must help me remember where I am sleeping tonight. I can hardly hold my eyes open. Might we leave now?”
“Yes, the queen and king have left already.”
“Though it hardly matters when Mortimer and Isabella are gone, does it?”
“My dear lady, you have taken a great deal of wine. Even with them gone, I think you must be careful of what you say still. Let me help you to your room.”
She obeyed, and he helped her to rise, feeling nearly as giddy with a new idea as she. He had been widowed not very long ago, and though he had grieved sincerely for the loss of his young wife, enough time had passed for him to begin considering various girls of fourteen or fifteen as a second wife, girls who would bring him a respectable dowry and good connections. But Eleanor le Despenser? Though he had seen her audience with the king—it was he who had helped her to her feet—and had admired the proud lift of her chin, the fight she exhibited as she begged for her son, he had also thought of her as plain and rather haggard-looking. He had spoken to her only out of pity, the sort of pity he would have felt for an injured horse or dog. Then, under the influence of wine and even more of simple human kindness, her manner had become more animated and her face had lit up, and she no longer seemed plain or worn to him. Instead, he had noticed her sweet voice and her pretty green eyes. She would, he thought, be a most agreeable person to have in his bed, even when sober.
And this lady leaning against him so trustingly was the heiress to a third of the Clare fortune, if the king chose to let her have it back. The fool Hugh le Despenser had destroyed himself with that fortune, but what might a sensible man, one not given to overreaching, do with it? What a chance had almost literally fallen into his arms!
He led Eleanor back to her chamber, the location of which it turned out she did remember after all, holding her more closely than really was necessary for her support as she hummed one of the tunes the musicians had played. It was like having a songbird on his arm, he thought, albeit a sweetly addled one. Walking by the passageway to his own room, he was tempted to coax her into it, but she was not that inebriated or he that unprincipled. Instead, he gently guided her along, noting as he did so that she had a delightful figure. He was struggling with more temptations when she lurched to a halt. “Is this your chamber, my lady?”
“I think so.” Eleanor frowned. “They all look alike, though, don't they? Knock and make sure, please, Sir John.”
She was leaning more heavily against him now, her face turned up to his, her hair coming loose from its headdress. He wanted to take her on the floor, against the wall, anywhere. Instead, John de Grey knocked. A very large female opened the door and surveyed the two of them coolly. Eleanor gasped. “Gladys?”
“Lady Hastings had business in London, so she came to her house soon after you had left it. I left her with the children and hurried here with some of her men so that you could be properly attended.” She glared at John de Grey. “And I daresay you are in need of proper attendance.”
“Your lady was just a little faint,” said John smoothly. “The hall was very hot. Good night, my lady.”
“Good night, my lord. Thank you for taking me here.” She giggled again. “Without him, I might have ended up in a garderobe, Gladys.”
“Is that a fact,” Gladys said evenly. “Good night, sir,” she said emphatically.
John transferred Eleanor to Gladys's arms and fled.
Gladys bolted the door quickly, as if keeping an invader out,
then began to braid Eleanor's hair for bed as Eleanor yawned on a chair. “You seemed to have an agreeable companion, my lady.”
“Sir John? Yes, he was an amusing young man. He felt impelled by chivalry to be kind to me, I suppose.” Eleanor was making an effort to pronounce her words very distinctly even as she slumped lower in the chair. She hummed some more.
“If chivalry means plying you with wine,” muttered Gladys. “Sit up, my lady.”
“He did not ply me with wine, Gladys, and he was very gentlemanly. He took me straight here.”
“With his hand on your rump the entire way, I'll wager.”
“I did not hear you, Gladys.”
“No matter, my lady.”
Eleanor opened her eyes the next morning and discovered that the hammering she heard was not coming from her aching head, but from the door. Beside her, Gladys muttered, “If it's your young knight, tell him to go play quietly somewhere and leave you alone.”
“He is not that young, Gladys, and I will tell him no such thing. He was a perfect gentleman, I tell you, and I recollect everything he did perfectly well. Yes?”
A youthful voice called from behind the door, “I come from the lady Philippa. She wishes to see you this morning, at your earliest convenience.”
“I will be there straightaway. Thank you.”
In a half hour, wearing a dress that Gladys had lovingly brushed the night before and with her hair arranged as only Gladys could arrange it, she was kneeling before the queen. She had barely touched her knee to the floor when Philippa bade her to rise again. “I am sorry I did not get a chance to speak with you more yesterday, Lady Despenser. I understand that you are my husband's first cousin. He told me his father had a very deep affection for you.”
“And I for him, your grace.”
“And he told me someone else was fond of you, too.” Philippa rang a bell. “John!”
John of Eltham rushed into the room, beaming. “Lady Despenser! I told you that you would be free, now, didn't I?”
“Indeed you did, John. Is it to you I owe it, then?”
The Traitor's Wife Page 42
