“Mama, did you miss us in Ireland?”
Eleanor started. Then her eyes filled with tears at the kindly lie that surely must have saved her youngest children from so much misery. “Yes, dreadfully,” she assured John. “I will not go away from you again for a long, long time.”
February 1330 to March 1330
ON FEBRUARY 18, 1330, THE KING OF ENGLAND HAD HIS WAY IN ONE particular. Philippa, his wife of two years, was at last crowned. Philippa was five months gone with child, and even Isabella and Mortimer had had to concede that it was faintly scandalous that the woman who was carrying the potential heir to the throne should be not crowned herself. They could comfort themselves with the knowledge that the lands granted to the new queen had not cost them anything: Philippa had been granted Pontefract, Glamorgan, and Morganwgg, the last two owing to Lady Despenser's timely repentance. Queen Isabella had had to give up Pontefract out of her own tremendous dower, but she had been compensated with Tewkesbury and Hanley Castle, thanks to the obliging Eleanor. But every official who administered the queen's lands answered to Roger.
Isabella, watching in Westminster Abbey as her daughter-in-law with her dark hair and purple robe became the Queen of England, thought disdainfully that the girl looked like a very splendid grape. It was not that she had any hard feelings toward Philippa. Philippa treated her with respect, if no real warmth, and even Isabella could find no fault with her as a wife. No, the trouble lay in the ever-burgeoning belly that gave Philippa such a rounded appearance. For that previous December, at Kenilworth Castle, Isabella had miscarried a child who was just recognizable as a boy.
Her midwife and her physician had done all they could, even though Isabella had sensed that both of them thought all had worked out for the best. “I fear after this you will be unable to bear another child,” the physician had told her stiffly, and Isabella, exhausted as she was, had longed to slap his face. She had wanted this child, nuisance as he would have been to her and Mortimer and embarrassment that he would have been to the king. And now she would never have another. Unlike those breeding cows the Countess of March and Lady Despenser, who seemed to have had to get only within arm's length of their husbands to conceive. And Philippa with those great hips of hers was probably another such breeder.
She reminded herself that unlike those other two heifers, Philippa was carrying her own grandchild. She could hardly wish her own grandchildren unborn, now, could she? Yet in a small part of her mind, she did. Being a grandmother would put her in the same category as the dried-up Countess of March, whom Roger had cast aside so easily, only occasionally throwing bones like new gowns and jewels. And she knew what power that small being in Philippa's womb could carry, if it was born male and healthy. It was true that since his extended sulk over Scotland, Edward had been rather complaisant with her wishes—so complaisant, Isabella thought sometimes that her son might have a lazy streak like his father. But the dutifulness that was proper in a son was something quite else in a father to a prince of the realm. If Edward had a son, he would have to declare his independence from her and Roger, for his self-respect in front of his son if nothing else. And then what use would Roger have for Isabella?
She thrust the thought from her mind. Edward might have a girl, and Roger was not about to cast her aside. He needed her, even if her color was not as fresh or her hair as shimmering as it had been five years before, even if she could not bear his children. The plan they had been concocting for well over a year now was well proof of that. And when Parliament met at Winchester Castle, overlooked by the grinning skull of the elder Despenser (Isabella smiled at this memory), it would come to its triumphant fruition.
On a March night, William lay awake next to Eleanor. Her covers had slipped down in her sleep, and he admired her naked body in the moonlight. Though she had been shockingly thin after her release from Devizes Castle, the ensuing weeks of good food and outdoor exercise had had their effect, and her curves were coming back. Then the moon disappeared behind the clouds, and he gently tugged the covers over her so she would not be cold. He reached out to fondle her hair. Since it had been cut it had become a bristling, springy mass of curls, pleasant to touch. Now that he had gotten used to her with short hair he thought it resembled a little cap; rather amusing.
But there had been nothing amusing about her appearance that day at Kenilworth Castle. He hadn't recognized her at first; he only hoped she had not noticed. What in God's name had been done to her? Then came a new worry: What damage had been done to her mind? He would love her always, would protect her for the rest of his life, but was the Eleanor he had fallen in love with gone for good? He'd quickly been relieved of that worry, at least, and could only marvel at her resilience.
Only once, clasping her close to him after they'd made love, he had dared to ask, “My love. Did they treat you badly? At Devizes?”
She was silent for so long he thought she must have drifted off. Then she had said, “I don't wish to speak of it. It is in the past and done with. Do you understand?”
“Yes, my love. I understand. Done with.”
“Good.” She settled against him, and soon he heard her snoring very faintly.
He'd not raised the subject again. But a few days later after their arrival at Ashby-de-la-Zouche, Bob from Devizes Castle had arrived at the gate and asked to be admitted into their household; he had no stomach for remaining in a household controlled by Roger Mortimer. Eleanor had seconded his request. He had been kind to her, she said. William had instantly complied—if Eleanor had wanted the whole garrison, he would have complied—and, talking with the man a day or so later, he'd learned enough to sicken him. His wife to be carted to Devizes Castle, shut up in a cell, treated as a madwoman—all so that Mortimer could control her lands, with Queen Isabella's connivance. What had happened to the woman who had decried Hugh le Despenser the younger for his treatment of widows?
With Bob's revelation, which had only confirmed his deepest fears, William had placed aside the last of his misgivings about the Earl of Kent's scheme. Mad it might be, but wasn't it madder to sit and wait patiently for the young king to shake off his yoke?
The Earl of Kent, he heard from their go-between, was making progress. The Pope himself had encouraged him to do all he could to deliver his deposed brother from prison. In Paris, Henry de Beaumont had agreed to help. Donald of Mar, the second Edward's devoted friend and now third to the throne of Scotland, would give money and military aid. The Archbishop of York had five thousand pounds, belonging to Hugh le Despenser the younger, to give to the cause. At the coronation of Queen Philippa, Lady Vescy's confessor had pledged his lady's support. The Bishop of London had joined the Earl of Kent.
William still had doubts that the old king was alive, although he wished for Eleanor's sake that it was true. But if all the discontented and the disinherited— some of them who had loved the old king, some of whom had been attached to the Despensers, some of whom had lost their lands through the Scottish truce, some of whom had been oppressed by Isabella and Mortimer, some of whom were simply disgusted with the new regime—could be brought together, Mortimer would fall.
In the meantime, the king had called a Parliament for Winchester, to meet on March 11. Zouche, though reluctant to leave his wife, had decided to obey the summons. It would be a chance to see the Earl of Kent in person, a chance to see who else might be receptive to the plot.
He had not told Eleanor about the Earl of Kent. Though he trusted her absolutely, he was certain that she would urge him to caution, and he was not of a disposition now to heed such urgings. But when Mortimer fell he would take such joy in telling her the news…
Beside him, Eleanor stirred. “William?” she yawned. “Can't you sleep?”
“Supper was a little rich,” he said. “Go back to sleep, sweetheart. I'll be asleep soon myself.”
Parliament was well attended, the recent coronation of Queen Philippa having lifted the country's sagging morale and brought many of the lords back to court,
banners flying and their horses bedecked in their masters' heraldic colors. The Earl of Kent, flanked by his outsize retinue, hissed into Zouche's ear as he passed into Winchester Castle with his much more modest following, “I have seen him at Corfe Castle! Oh, not face-to-face, but close enough to know his unmistakable physique. All will be in readiness soon.”
Having received this communication, William was tempted to turn back to Ashby and Eleanor. He had been deeply honored when he had received his first summons to Parliament some years ago, but since then he had found it to be a rather tedious business for the most part. This Parliament, he thought, would be little different. There were the usual petitions to deal with, none of them controversial, and there was talk about the ongoing problem of the king's French homage, King Philip, after due consideration, having decided that King Edward's homage had been insufficiently far-reaching. To smooth things over, the English were proposing a royal double marriage, between two of Philip's children and Edward's brother and sister. But all of this was still in the negotiation stage and did not take up too much parliamentary time. Most controversial, it seemed, would be the king's demand for taxes on the common people and on the clergy. No lord wanted to go back to his tenants with such news.
On the morning of March 14, William and his fellow peers were in their places, grumbling about the taxes and waiting for the king to arrive, when the Earl of March strode in. “There is a traitor among you,” he said. “This morning, the Earl of Kent was arrested for treason.”
William's heart stopped.
“Parliament is adjourned today,” Mortimer continued. “It will resume this time tomorrow. Then we will try this enemy of the realm.”
It was as if the lords were standing in tar. Too stunned to move or speak, they were looking at each other vacantly when the king's sergeant at arms, the only person in the great hall moving at a normal pace it seemed, touched William from behind. “Lord Zouche, you must come with me. You are under arrest for treason yourself.”
At Ashby-de-la-Zouche, Eleanor stretched in her bed lazily, knowing that she ought to be attending to her duties as lady of the manor but too comfortably sleepy to will herself to get out of bed. She had, she hoped, an excellent excuse for her lassitude. Her monthly course for January had delayed itself, most obligingly, until after she and William had had several very busy days together. Since then, there had been no bleeding at all, and whatever else the vicissitudes of Eleanor's life were, she had always been able to count on her monthly course, save for when she was with child. What news for William when he came home from Parliament! But such a gift from the Lord required thanks, and Eleanor reluctantly eased herself out of bed and began to dress to attend morning prayers at the manor's tiny chapel.
She had other things to be thankful for as well. Three weeks before, she and William had gone before the King's Bench and received their pardon for their misdeeds—or, more strictly speaking, Eleanor's. At the same time, her men Tom and Hugh Dalby had been released from Newgate and were safely at Ashby with Eleanor. Benedict de Fulsham, still in possession of the stolen goods—Mortimer had not been the least interested in recovering them once Eleanor signed over her lands—remained under mainprise, but the king's men seemed inclined to leave him alone.
Gladys fastened her new gown on her—William had really spent too much on new robes for her after her release, but she had not had the heart to tell him so—and began to arrange her headdress. “The country around here agrees with you, my lady. I have never seen your cheeks bloom so well.”
“It is my lord Zouche who agrees with me, Gladys. He is so kind and loving.”
A knock sounded at the door. Eleanor looked around and saw her young chaplain, John de Barneby. She smiled. “John, am I that late? I am afraid I have been very derelict this morning. Pray excuse me.”
“It is not that, my lady. Some of my lord Zouche's men have come back, after riding all day and night. They say—”
“Lord Zouche? He is well, yes? Tell me!”
John de Barneby gripped her by the shoulder and led her to a stool. “My lady, he has been arrested.”
“Arrested,” Eleanor repeated slowly.
“For treason, my lady.”
The Earl of Kent stared at the letter that the Earl of March was dangling in front of him like a baited fishhook. “Yes,” he said dully. “That is my seal. I do not deny it.”
“You do not?”
“No.”
Mortimer flipped open the letter, written not in a clerkly hand but a feminine one. “'Sir knight, worshipful and dear brother, if you please, I pray heartily that you are of good comfort, for I shall ordain for you that soon you shall come out of prison, and be delivered of that disease in which you find yourself. Your lordship should know that I have the assent of almost all the great lords in England, with all their apparel, that is to say, with armor, and with treasure without number, in order to maintain and help your quarrel so you shall be king again as you were before.'” The Earl of March looked toward the royal coroner, Robert Howel, acting as the judge. “Sir, I told you at the opening of this trial that the Earl of Kent was plotting with many others to impair our lord the king's estate by delivering from prison Sir Edward of Caernarfon, sometime King of England, who was put down from his royalty by common assent by all the lords of England. This letter, sealed by the earl himself, as he has admitted, proves my case. He is a traitor to the realm, and should be adjudged as such.”
“And so he shall be,” said Robert Howel, nearly as white-faced as the Earl of Kent himself. “The will of this court is that you shall lose both life and limb, and that your heirs shall be disinherited forevermore, save the grace of our lord the king.”
There was a faint buzz of relief in Parliament at the sound of those last words. The king would never let his own uncle die for attempting to rescue his own father from captivity. There would be a fine, perhaps, or an exile in France, perhaps a salutary stay in the Tower. Never death.
“The Earl of Kent has confessed more freely,” said Roger, waving a paper in front of Queen Isabella. “A veritable shower of names here. Ingelram Berenger, old Despenser's knight. William la Zouche—no news there, of course. William de Cliff. Fulk FitzWarren. Donald, the Earl of Mar. Henry de Beaumont. Isabella de Vescy; I thought she had more sense. The Archbishop of York, even. Traitors, all of them!” Mortimer chuckled. “Kent has promised to walk through Winchester or London, or anywhere it pleases the king, wearing only a shirt, with a rope around his neck, if the king will spare him. I'll give him a rope around his neck, all right.”
“And we caught him,” Isabella giggled. “We set him up, we showed him that tall peasant who looked so much like my wretched husband at a distance, and he believed it. The fool!” She reached for Mortimer and tried to pull him down on the bed. “We caught him.”
“Yes, my dear, we caught him,” said Mortimer patiently. Isabella's voice was slurred; could she be drunk this early in the day? She was drinking much more wine than was good for her lately, but this was a new record for her. Besides the sober person's irritation with the tipsy, Mortimer also felt the industrious person's irritation with the slothful, for he himself had spent the morning very efficiently interrogating Kent while Isabella was swilling her Bordeaux. She hadn't even changed out of her dressing gown yet. “Pull yourself together if you can, Isabella. We need to keep your son from showing him any mercy. Thank God that softhearted wife of his is at Woodstock.”
“Not until you pay me,” said Isabella. She was pouting prettily, but Mortimer also knew how fast her mood could change to one of anger. “The Earl of Kent was—is—will have been—is—my brother-in-law, and he is my first cousin as well, the son of my sweet aunt Margaret! I might ask for mercy on him myself, if you don't pay me. Because we caught him, Roger, and all those other traitors, and it was my idea as much as yours, you know.” She giggled again. “It was such a good one, Roger, wasn't it?” She wriggled out of her dressing gown and smiled at him.
“Oh, all
right,” said Mortimer irritably.
“I will pardon him, I tell you! He's my uncle, damn you! I know he meant me no harm. He only wanted to help his brother, as John would me, I know.”
“You must not pardon him,” said Isabella impatiently. Her head throbbed from the morning's imbibing, and repeating herself every few minutes to her stubborn son was not helping. “He wanted to dethrone you, not to rescue your father! He was angry because he did not have the power and influence over you that the much wiser Earl of March has.”
“He felt guilty because he helped push my father off his throne, and he wanted to make amends. Can't you see that?”
“No! Look at those followers of his. Half of them were Despenser creatures, who were lucky not to be put to death with them.”
“Henry de Beaumont, a Despenser creature? He quarreled with them, and you know it. William la Zouche, a Despenser creature? He captured the younger one, for God's sake! He'd still be loyal to us if Mortimer hadn't arrested my cousin Eleanor.”
“But he is not loyal to us now, Ned. None of those men are, whatever their reason. They will put you down if given half a chance, and you know it. If you pardon the Earl of Kent, they will take you for nothing more than a fool, and you will be in the same position as your father was, never breathing easily for a moment. You do not want that, Ned, trust me. You do not want to humiliate your wife and children by being a weak king, as you and I were humiliated by your father. Never would you want that.” Isabella's lovely blue eyes welled with tears. “Remember why I came to France in the first place! I was so unhappy. And to think that your uncle would have put my husband back on the throne—or himself—perhaps to shut me up for life like Eleanor of Aquitaine!”
The Traitor's Wife Page 52
