The Traitor's Wife

by Susan Higginbotham

  “You ought to remarry,” Elizabeth pronounced.

  “You have been widowed far longer than I have, Elizabeth. Why don't you take your own advice?”

  “I don't need to,” said her sister maddeningly. “I am quite content as I am; in fact, I plan to take a vow of chastity. I have good friends and many interests, and I have rather come to enjoy my independence. I don't want some man telling me how to manage my lands or, worse yet, setting himself against the king and dragging me into the muck with him.”

  Eleanor made a noise of disgust. “Why is it that every widow I know has no intention of remarrying, but thinks I should do so? Even Lady Hastings suggested as much.” She continued in an injured tone, “It is not as if I am a helpless ninny who can't run my estates. I spend hours with my councilors; just ask the poor things! Even the queen, if pressed, would admit I have some administrative talents, I suspect.”

  “No one doubts your ability, Eleanor. But you and Hugh were married a very long time, and I know you were fond of him, unaccountable as that is to me. You're so used to being married that you would be happier that way, I think.”

  Somewhat mollified, Eleanor pulled a man's shirt from her workbasket and began sewing on it. “Who is that for?” asked Elizabeth.

  “My son Hugh. He is still in prison, you know. Lord Zouche—” Eleanor turned scarlet. “I heard through an acquaintance that he is at Ludlow Castle. I am sending him a hamper.”

  “Lord Zouche? I know him slightly. He is a good man, everyone says. He has been checking on Hugh? Why, he would make a good husband for you, you know.”

  “No, he would not.”

  “Why on earth not?”

  “Because he asked me to marry him, and I refused. He left the castle in a fury, and that is the end of the matter.” Eleanor stared at the shirt she was sewing, trying to forget the ache of desire she had felt when William la Zouche kissed her. Not since the day she and the king had lain together had she felt so guilty. To be kissing William while her Hugh still rotted in five places… Remarriage would proclaim to the world that she, who had loved him so dearly, had cast him aside without a backward thought. Why could not Elizabeth and Bella see this?

  And yet she liked William so much. He was so kind and gentle, so easy to talk to. Now she would never see him again. He had told her so.

  She put her hand across her eyes, pretending to be squinting at her needlework to hide the tears that were once again rolling down her face. Elizabeth saw them and said, mercifully, “I will go to my chamber and lie down a bit. I am a little tired from my journey.”

  Lady Mortimer poked her head into the cell where Hugh le Despenser, who had not a whit of musical talent, was gamely plucking on a lute. “Ouch, what noise! Your lady mother has sent your October hampers, Hugh.”

  Hugh smiled as two men lugged his latest gifts up the stairs. Every month since July, Eleanor had been sending her son goods—clothing, bedding, candles, food, wine, a chess set, dice, books, money, and even the lute. As she had taken the precaution of delivering them to Lady Mortimer, there had been no pilfering by the guards, and as Lord Mortimer had not been to Ludlow Castle since June, there had been no one to cavil at the comforts being sent Hugh's way.

  Lady Mortimer was dressed in mourning, for two of her four sons had recently died, one in the summer of an illness, the other in the fall of injuries received at a tournament. They were Mortimer's sons too, of course, but just as Lady Mortimer lived as a single woman these days, she had mourned fairly much as a single woman too. Roger Mortimer had Isabella to share his grief with, and he had not had the luxury of grieving much anyway, for he had returned to England from Scotland to find Lancaster more hostile than ever.

  Hugh le Despenser was slightly younger than one son and slightly older than the other. It was scarcely to be wondered at, then, that Lady Mortimer found some solace these days in mending his clothing, seeing to it that he was well fed, and generally coddling him. Hugh had responded affectionately to these motherly attentions, and it had thus come about that he and Lady Mortimer spent much time together, though in a completely different manner than that feared by William la Zouche.

  After the men left their delivery behind, Hugh sat cross-legged on the floor and motioned Lady Mortimer to the stool she had had brought in for him some weeks before. Together they searched happily through the hampers. “A nice warm cloak, and some shirts for you.”

  “And here's the cheese from Caerphilly my mother swears by, Lady Mortimer. Take some.”

  Lady Mortimer obediently took a chunk and nibbled at it. “You shall have to call me 'Countess' soon, Hugh.”

  “Lord Mortimer is to become an earl?”

  “The Earl of March. John, the king's brother, will be the Earl of Cornwall, and Edmund Butler, who married your cousin Eleanor de Bohun last year, is to be the Earl of Ormond.”

  “The Earl of March? For the entire march of Wales? I have to give him credit for his nerve, Lady Mortimer. My father never aspired to anything more grand than Earl of Gloucester, and he decided not to press his luck when it came down to it.”

  “My husband is a fool to grant himself such a title,” Lady Mortimer said bluntly. “It will only make the Earl of Lancaster angrier at him than he is already. The Londoners, you know, have come to Lancaster's side, as has the Bishop of Winchester. They are saying that my husband and Isabella have squandered the royal treasury, that the queen is sucking the country dry with the huge grants she has given herself, that they have humiliated the king with this Scottish truce, that they have made the king's regency council a mere joke. I am not sure they are wrong, Hugh.”

  “So you will tell me when I have to start bowing to you?”

  “The ceremony will take place during this Parliament meeting in Salisbury. My men tell me that both my husband and the Earl of Lancaster are traveling around with large armies, and that the Archbishop of Canterbury has tried to mediate between them, with no success.”

  Hugh shook his head ruefully. “Quite a task for our new archbishop, from what you've told me.” Walter Reynolds, the second Edward's faithless friend, had died the previous November, just two months after the old king, and had been replaced by Simon de Mepham, an Oxfordian with no political experience who probably wished by now he had stayed at the university. He had been consecrated only a few months before.

  “Lancaster won't even come to Parliament.”

  “Where is the king in all this?”

  “Being led around on his leash by the queen and my husband,” said Lady Mortimer. “It seemed that he was going to break free for a while, with his refusal to go to the wedding, but he got right back on it again, good as gold. They have convinced him that Lancaster means him harm, and Lancaster hasn't helped matters with those troops of his. God knows where it will all end.” She shook her head and placidly resumed her search through the hampers. “Ah, some combs, which reminds me, Hugh, I must send the barber to you. Your mother would cry if she saw that raggedy beard of yours.”

  In December, after a brief stay in London intended partly to mollify its citizens and partly to intimidate them, the court lumbered into Gloucester. There the queen studiously avoided visiting her husband's grave, while the Earl of March raised troops to fight Lancaster, who had brought the Earls of Kent and Norfolk to his side. The king, who truly did worry that the Earl of Lancaster might be taking after his bellicose brother, dutifully signed the orders that his mother and Mortimer had the royal clerks prepare.

  He frowned, however, at one parchment that contained a familiar name and that was in no way related to the Earl of Lancaster's business. “Hugh le Despenser, my cousin. He is being transferred to Bristol?”

  “Yes, your grace,” said Mortimer, who in those days was still most polite to his king. “My lady finds the custody of him at Ludlow Castle burdensome, and he has been presuming on her good nature to be allowed privileges he should not have. Bristol Castle will be better for him.”

  “With Thomas Gurney for his keeper.”
Edward frowned, trying to remember how the name was familiar to him. One of many knights who had passed through his court, he decided, and signed the order, unaware that he had just placed his kinsman into the hands of one of his father's killers.

  “Not the happiest Christmas I've ever spent, Countess. But it's a change of scene, anyhow.”

  Lady Mortimer, her eyes welling with tears, looked away as Hugh was chained to his horse. Nearly everything that Eleanor had sent to him had been left in his cell, as Mortimer had instructed his men to allow Hugh to take with him only what he could fit in a saddlebag. “It is my fault, Hugh. Roger has his spies here, as everywhere, and one of them must have told them I was friendly with you. I should have been more cautious.”

  “Don't say that, Countess. I'm nothing but grateful for your kindness.” Hugh tried to smile and beckoned her closer. “My lady, you will not suffer for it, will you?”

  The Countess of March shook her head. “There is some advantage to having a husband who is the lover of the widowed Queen of England. If anything happened to me, he would be accused of my murder, and he knows it. And he would scorn to beat a woman. He will never do anything more than ignore me, and that suits me well now.”

  “You deserve better, Countess. I hope one day you will be happy.”

  “And you too, Hugh.”

  His hostess turned away and went back into the castle, feeling nearly as bereft as she had when she had lost her sons. Hugh rode on, and on, until he and his guards finally arrived in Bristol, where by Mortimer's special instructions he was taken to a certain city gate. Hugh had expected as much, and he fought back nausea as he stared at what was left of the hand that had held him when he was less than an hour old. “Hello, Father,” he said coolly. He turned to his guards, half of whom were snickering, half of whom looked abashed. “Now that you've shown me the sights of Bristol, can we get on to the castle? Gurney can't keep the Yule log burning forever, you know.”

  Eleanor had decided to spend Christmas at Hanley Castle, and she had determined to make it as merry a one as she could. The great hall, bedecked with greenery, was crowded each night with guests: her councilors and attorneys and their families, the neighboring gentry, priests, canons, and friars, priors and prioresses, her tenants, and a great many poor people. The best musicians to be found in Worcestershire had been engaged, and Eleanor danced with nearly every male present, including her son Edward, who was surprisingly graceful. He had become rather good-looking, too, and that and his shyness had led several more forward young women from the village to determine to draw him out, which the prettiest of them did, with considerable success, in a loft in the castle stables one night after Edward had overindulged slightly in wassail. As Edward lay entangled with his buxom new friend, his pleasure was marred only by the fact that his brother Hugh was not there to hear about it.

  Joan, Nora, and Margaret had all been allowed to visit for Christmas, Eleanor having prudently cultivated the goodwill of their prioresses with ample gifts. Much as Eleanor had longed to see them, she had almost dreaded their visit, worrying that they might sit silent among the festive company like three specters or seethe with jealousy born of the contrast between the luxury of Hanley Castle and their very modest quarters at their convents. But she was pleasantly surprised. The girls chatted nicely with the guests, bickered with each other and their brothers just as they had in the past, made rather catty comments to each other regarding the follies of their various prioresses, and ate the delicious Christmas fare enthusiastically. Even Joan, the most reluctant of the three novices, seemed fairly content. She had some friends close to her own age at Shaftesbury, and in that fashionable convent her prestige as the great-granddaughter of the first Edward had made her a person whose good opinion was to be cultivated.

  It would have been a very pleasant Christmas, then, were her son Hugh there, but Eleanor comforted herself with the knowledge that the Countess of March was taking good care of him. Perhaps she might even allow him to join in the festivities at Ludlow. Eleanor had sent him an extra hamper, full of his favorite foods, to make it a cheerful time for him.

  There was another person Eleanor would have liked to see at Hanley Castle. Lately, there were nights when she longed for the hands of a man upon her, nights when she lay awake and aching until she touched herself in a place and in a way that she knew well was sinful, so much so that she would not dream of mentioning it to the kindly young chaplain to whom she confessed. On these occasions she usually thought about Hugh, but more and more lately she'd added to her sin by thinking of a living man. For a while she had never put a name to the man who in her mind touched her so lovingly, but one night she had realized with a jolt who he was: William la Zouche.

  What if she wrote him and asked him to visit? She had gone so far, indeed, as to write to him in her own awkward hand—for the invitation, neutral and emotionless as it appeared on the surface, was nonetheless not one she wished to dictate to one of her clerks. Probably he would come; after all, he had asked her to marry him. He would come and ask again, and they would marry—and she would feel everlastingly guilty for betraying Hugh. So she had crumpled up the parchment and sent it skittering toward the fire.

  Thus, Christmas at Hanley Castle had not included William la Zouche. But as she sat in her great chair the day after Christmas, an unexpected guest arrived, and she saw, to her shock, that the night's celebrations would include John de Grey.

  “I can stay only overnight, Lady Despenser. I must rejoin the king shortly. But I heard you were staying at Hanley and wanted to visit while the court was close by.”

  “I am glad to have you, sir. How goes it with Lancaster?”

  “Badly,” said John shortly. “It will probably come to war soon.”

  Eleanor, whose sympathies lay in Lancaster's direction simply because he was not Mortimer, merely nodded.

  She placed Grey next to her at the high table, as befit a royal banneret. Grey made the most of this opportunity, and the two of them were talking together easily when a messenger arrived with a letter for Eleanor. Eleanor read the letter, and John saw her face change for an instant. She turned to one of her men standing nearby. “Have my steward reward him for his trouble.” Then she went back to her conversation with John.

  The rest of the evening passed uneventfully. Eleanor and John danced together, and Eleanor's children coaxed her into singing a few ballads, accompanied by her minstrels. John, leaning back and listening, decided that this was heaven.

  The gathering having finally broken up for the evening, John retired to the spacious chamber Eleanor had given him, close to the castle's chapel, and climbed into bed, pondering his course of action. Pleasant as the evening's festivities had been, they had not been conducive to his purpose in coming to Hanley Castle: asking Eleanor to be his wife. He would have to get her alone and speak to her first thing tomorrow…

  He started as a noise came from the chapel. An intruder? His young squires, Fulk and Henry, had heard it too, for he saw them begin to rise from their pallets near his bed. “Leave it to me,” he told them.

  Grabbing his sword, he hastened to the chapel. There was someone in it, all right: the lady of Hanley Castle, huddled crying on the floor. “Lady Despenser?”

  “Leave me, sir. Please.”

  “No, my lady. Something has upset you. What is it?” Then he saw the letter she held in her hand. “The message that arrived tonight?”

  Eleanor nodded and tossed it in his direction. It was from the Countess of March, informing Lady Despenser that her son had been removed to Bristol Castle. “I do not understand, my lady.”

  “The Countess of March was good to my son, Sir John. He wrote and told me so himself; she allowed him to send me letters. She is a mother who has lost sons of her own; she treated him well for their sake. Now he is being sent to Bristol where there will be no one to take pity on him. What will happen to him now?”

  “You do not know for certain the change will be for the worse,” John said he
lplessly.

  “How can it not be, sir? Look here, the countess tells me that he had to leave most of what I have sent him behind, but she will have the goods sent to me for safekeeping. Why would they make him leave all those little comforts behind if they did not intend to keep him harshly? But that is not the worst of it. His custodian will be Thomas Gurney, who Lord Montacute told me was with my dear uncle the king when he died. His murderer, Sir John! I know it!”

  John had no reply. He sat silently as she cried a little more. Then she lifted her head and said flatly, “I hate him.”

  “Who?”

  “My husband. How could he not have guessed that Hugh would pay the price for his crimes? Yet he went on and on, acquiring all he could, and now our poor son will rot in prison for it. Or perhaps I am wrong; perhaps one day Mortimer will get tired of him and execute him, just as Hugh did Llywelyn Bren. I hate him!”

  She all but screamed the last words. John took her into his arms and held her as she sobbed. For the first time, he noticed that she was dressed in her nightclothes, with a cloak thrown over them either for warmth or for modesty or both. Poor creature, after holding in her anguish about Hugh all night for the sake of her guests, she must have gone to bed, then come to the chapel to cry in privacy. When at last she grew quiet, he asked gently, “Shall I take you back to your chamber now?”

  “Yes.”

  It was but a short walk. As they approached the door, Eleanor said, “I have changed my mind. Take me to yours.”

  “Mine?”

  “Must I spell it out? Yours.”

  If thoughts could have killed, the Earl of Lancaster would have been dead seventy and seven times over the next morning as a very tired John de Grey cursed him who made it necessary to leave Hanley Castle. For if the night before had been at all typical of Hugh le Despenser's married life, no wonder the man had been so insufferably self-satisfied.