“Yes, when I get tired of being landlocked at Freeby, I can go to Ashley by the sea, and vice versa. And the king said he'd make up the rest of my grant through lands in the Isle of Wight.” Hugh glanced at his mother. “Mother, I can lease them out and stay with you if you would prefer.”
“No, Hugh. You have been good company these last few months, but I would not chain you to me while this nonsense of Sir John's drags on.” Eleanor's cheeks burned. She often wondered what her eldest sons thought of her, getting herself entangled between Grey and Zouche as she had, but each, even prim Edward, had maintained a kindly silence about the matter. She brightened. “But I must come with you to inspect your manors. I know you too well, Hugh. As long as the stables are in satisfactory condition, the manor house could be falling down over your ears and you would not notice. You must have proper wall hangings, and fine plate to eat off, and comfortable furnishings for your bed—”
“Surely you don't expect me to choose these things, Mother.”
“No, my dear, I will do it for you.” Eleanor smiled, anticipating a delightful time buying exactly what she pleased. Unlike her husband Hugh, who especially as he grew rich had been very particular on matters of color and style, her son was quite indifferent to his surroundings, demanding only cleanliness and reasonable comfort. “And I want it to look particularly nice, Hugh, because when you get back from Santiago, I think it will be high time for you to consider marrying.”
Hugh was still feeling overwhelmed by the prospect of a trip to the draper's. “Marrying?” he said weakly.
“Why not? You will have the means to keep a wife, and as the future Lord of Glamorgan you're bound to attract a girl of good family and with a good dowry. Especially now as the king has relented toward you.”
Hugh himself had his doubts that the name Hugh le Despenser would meet with excitement in the marriage market, but he would not dampen his mother's cheerful mood for anything. “Well, we'll see, Mother. I'm rather fond of being able to pick up and go as I please, though. I might have a hard time adjusting to a wife just yet.”
“Perhaps when you've been out of prison for a little longer,” Eleanor allowed a little sulkily. She was eager for more grandchildren. “Now, when shall we travel to Freeby?”
At the March Parliament, William was acquitted of wrongdoing in his quarrel with John de Grey. His good fortune seemed complete when, soon afterward, the prior of Southwark and the archdeacon of Surrey adjudged him to be Eleanor's lawful husband. But John de Grey (pardoned of his wrongdoing at the behest of Parliament) promptly appealed, and Eleanor and William were still bound, on pain of excommunication, to refrain from sharing a bed.
Having recently incurred the royal displeasure, William was surprised to hear that he was to be one of the nobles escorting the king's young sister overseas to her marriage. He was even more surprised to learn that his wife was to be part of the wedding party also. “Yes, your wife,” the king had told William when he gave the order. “I like John de Grey, Lord Zouche. I believe him to be a brave, loyal knight, and an honest one, too. But I believe he's engaging in a bit of wistful thinking as far as this business with my cousin Eleanor is concerned, and it's made him a bit soft in the head. Probably not wise to have you abroad and her in England, even though he's left her alone so far. And in any case, she was one of my sister's sponsors at her christening, and my sister would like her at the wedding. Her old guardian Lady Hastings too.”
So in early May of 1332, Eleanor found herself riding up to Dover Castle, where she had greeted her uncle's young bride so many years before, in the company of her fourteen-year-old namesake and cousin. “Do you think I shall be seasick, Lady Despenser? I have never crossed the sea before.”
“I don't know, Eleanor. Your father never got seasick, not in the worst storms. Your mother sometimes did, when I traveled with her, but other times she did just fine.” Had Isabella been seasick when she crossed the Channel to invade England? Eleanor certainly hoped so.
The girl turned to her former guardian. “What about you, Lady Hastings?”
“It has been so long, I hardly remember. I have not left England since I was married to my second husband. But Nelly is a great sailor, you know. She shall hold both our heads if necessary.”
“Kindly take turns.” Eleanor smiled and looked at a group of men riding ahead, her husband William and her son Hugh among them. Hugh would accompany them for part of the journey before heading to Santiago. She was relieved to see Hugh chatting with Lord Montacute and Edward de Bohun, for she had dreaded that he might be ostracized by the other men on account of his father. But they for the most part had been cordial to him, all except his uncle Lord Audley, who had greeted Eleanor and her son with barely a pretense at civility. At least his wife, Margaret, was not there to snub them.
“I wish my little sister could be here,” said young Eleanor wistfully. She lowered her voice. “I worry about her so in Scotland, now that Edward Balliol has come to England and is claiming the Scottish crown. I have heard tell that he and Henry de Beaumont and those other men who lost lands because of the peace may invade Scotland. But surely the king would not let harm come to her if they did?”
“Of course not,” said Bella, soothing her charge as of old.
“But he despised that peace,” said Lady Despenser soberly. “Though to my mind it was sensible.” The only sensible thing Mortimer and Isabella had ever done, she almost said. “It was entered into against his will, after all, and I do not think he would shirk at an opportunity to renounce it if it came around. I do believe he would protect Joan, of course, but only as his sister, not as the Scottish queen.”
They fell silent at this new worry. After Edward Balliol's father, John Balliol, had been deposed by the first Edward, he had spent some years as a captive in England, then some years as a free man in Picardy. It was from there that Henry de Beaumont, who had gotten on the wrong side of the Ordainers, then the wrong side of the second Edward, then on the wrong side of Mortimer, had escorted him to England in 1331. Beaumont, never one to miss a chance for intrigue, had seen the death of Robert Bruce and his succession by a mere child as a God-sent opportunity to recover his Scottish lands, and Balliol to recover the Scottish crown. That previous November, the Scots had crowned their little king and his small bride with all due ceremony, but with the great Bruce dead, there was nervousness among the Scots and a certain anticipation among the English. Had the time come at last for England to redeem herself?
“What are you ladies talking of?”
Hugh le Despenser and William la Zouche had allowed their horses to slow down so that they were beside the ladies. Eleanor smiled at her son and her husband. “Scotland.”
“Just what we men were speaking of! We should all ride together.” Hugh chuckled and let his horse go even slower, so that he rode along with his aunt Bella while William and Eleanor pricked their mounts forward. When they were a safe distance from the others, William took Eleanor's hand, the most intimate touch they dared these days. “Sweet wife.”
“My dear husband.”
“Tonight we shall be housed at Dover Castle. Will you meet me later?”
“William—” For all she longed to lie with him as his wife again, she dreaded excommunication.
He gripped her hand more tightly. “Don't worry, my love. We'll be suitably chaperoned.”
That evening, Eleanor brushed the bride-to-be's hair until it shone, arranged it in a single thick braid, saw her to her bed, and then lay on her trundle bed until her royal charge and the other ladies and damsels fell asleep. Then she threw on a cloak and with the aid of a lantern made her way outside the castle.
William was already there, alone despite his promise of a chaperone, unless one counted some of the guards wandering by from time to time. “Let's go to the shore, my love.”
They walked hand in hand, listening to the waves beating against the shore, until there were no other human beings in sight. Then, without any planning on the part of e
ither, they turned to each other and kissed, not ceasing until they were both out of breath. “William. I long to lie with you so much. But the Pope said—”
“I know, love. I know. I promised a chaperone, and I've a right proper bitch of one.”
It was not like William to be crude in this matter. Eleanor was puzzling over this when he whistled, and a large dog bustled over to them. “See, my love? Our chaperone. You sit here, my lady, our chaperone sits here"—the dog settled on her haunches between William and Eleanor—"and all shall be quite proper. Lay a hand on me without my consent, my lady, and Betsy here shall have you on the ground begging for mercy.”
Eleanor giggled. “Should we be challenged, William, her testimony will hardly be of much worth to us before the judge.”
“One wag of the tail for 'they lay together,' two wags for 'they did not'? Well, it's about as intelligent as that damn squire of Grey's, and just as believable. So. Now that we are suitably chaperoned, we'll sit and talk with the highest decorum. What shall we discuss? Scotland?”
“What else can married people who cannot bed together discuss?” She giggled again, then quieted. “It is a concern to me, William. Do you think we will be at war with the Scots again? I dread it.”
“Yes. It saddens me, for I took pride in the peace, hated as it was. But I can understand the king's feelings. It was pressed on him, and England never really benefited, not with Isabella and Mortimer appropriating all of the twenty thousand pounds given by Bruce for themselves. And I can tell you, too, that the young men are hot for war. They're eager to prove themselves, to restore England's reputation and win some glory. And your son Hugh is as hot as any of them.”
“To restore our family's reputation, I suppose.”
“Yes. He gets on with his fellow men, as you could see coming here, but there's still a distance between him and them, and it'll be there until he fights his way clear of it. A pity, but that's the way men are.”
“Yes.” She sat a while in silence, absently patting Betsy. “I know the king meant in having you escort Eleanor to show his high regard for you, and I suppose in having me along he might have also meant to show that I still had a place in his family, that I was no longer simply a disgraced traitor's wife of dubious virtue to boot. That was kind of him. But it will be so hard to watch that wedding, thinking of us, William.”
“Yes. There's not a day that goes by that I don't ache to have you in my arms.”
“I pray daily that it does not happen, but I have thought what I would do if the Pope were to declare me John de Grey's wife. I had thought that I might run away with you, but I could not defy God in that manner. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“But I could not live with John de Grey, knowing that my heart was in your keeping. I would take the veil instead. I would go to live with Nora and Sister Gwenllian at Sempringham, and they would teach me patience. It would be hard, but it would be best for all concerned.”
He could do nothing but take her hand and squeeze it. For a while longer they sat together, watching the waves crash and break. Finally, William said, “I've always had my will made before I crossed the seas; I'm a man who prefers dry land. I revised it before I left on this expedition. I have asked that I be laid to rest in Tewkesbury Abbey, my sweet. Near the ancestors of my beloved wife Eleanor.”
“Where I wish to be buried.”
“Yes. They might keep us apart in life, my love. They'll never keep us apart in death. Don't worry, my love. I would do nothing to hurry it on; I fear God's wrath as you do. But there would never be another woman for me if you were taken away, not ever.”
She pressed his hand as Betsy, napping, yelped triumphantly in her sleep. William laughed. “Catching a hare, no doubt. Come, my love. Let's go to the chapel and pray that this talk of convents and burials is for naught and that we may have some years together yet.”
The Pope, as before, did not make a final decision in Grey v. Zouche himself, but sent it to be reheard by the Canon of Salisbury, who found in favor of Zouche. John grimly appealed again. Before the case could be reheard by the Pope's latest delegates (the Bishop of London, the Canon of London, and the Canon of Wells), the Canon of Salisbury ordered John to pay costs to William and Eleanor. In May 1333, the Pope ordered the Bishop of Coventry to hear the case.
Eleanor was not as distressed as she might have been by this delay, for she had other worries. Edward Balliol had invaded Scotland the previous August. He had met with success at Dupplin Moor, where, to Eleanor's regret, her uncle's faithful friend Donald of Mar, who had been appointed regent for the young Scottish king, had been killed. But in December, the Scots had driven the invaders out. In January, despite the reluctance of Parliament, the English king had begun to raise troops. By the time the Pope's decision reached Eleanor, that late spring of 1333, the English were besieging Berwick. With them were her sons Hugh and Edward, her stepson Alan, her half brothers, her first husband's nephews, and her old charge John of Eltham, and she worried about them all. Her concern extended itself even to John de Grey, for though she did not want to be his wife, she did not want to gain her freedom by becoming his widow. Daily, remembering Gilbert and Adam, she prayed for the safety of all of them.
Then, one warm day in late July, she woke to the sound of the church bells in Cardiff ringing. “What on earth is that about?” she asked Gladys as her old damsel entered her chamber.
“Victory, my lady. The English have defeated the Scots at a place called Halidon Hill.”
By August, her sons had come home, bearing booty and making a point of calling each other “Sir Hugh” and “Sir Edward.” Soon afterward came the trip to Roger de Northburgh, Bishop of Coventry, a man who had served her uncle, Isabella and Mortimer, and the present king in a variety of capacities and who had gotten through unscathed; it was he who had accompanied William inside Caerphilly Castle when young Hugh had surrendered it. To the bishop John, Eleanor, and William told their stories, by now without blushing or rancor, for they had been told so often. The witnesses were examined again; the proctors argued again. Then at last, in early 1334, the three parties stood before the bishop and waited for his sentence.
“I give sentence in favor of William la Zouche.”
As he had three times before, John de Grey whispered to his proctor. This time, however, he shook his head as he spoke. The proctor lifted his head. “My client wishes Lady Despenser and Lord Zouche to know that he will not appeal. He accepts the finding of this court and relinquishes all claim to Lady Despenser.”
Eleanor held the table to keep herself from falling. She listened as the bishop said some concluding words, without comprehending any of them. Then they were free to go.
She walked over to John de Grey, who had not lifted his eyes from the table before him, and touched his hand. “Sir John, I wish to apologize to you. I never meant to mislead or hurt you in any way, but I did, and I am humbly sorry.”
“I know, my lady.”
“You must marry a pretty young woman who can give you children. I hope you will do so soon, and prosper. I wish you well, Sir John.”
She pecked him on the cheek. John smiled sadly and looked at William. “May I, Lord Zouche?” William nodded, and John returned the peck. “Take care of her, Lord Zouche.”
He walked out of the bishop's chambers, and then Eleanor and William were alone. For a while they stood holding each other in silence. Then they walked hand in hand, oblivious to all around them, out of the bishop's palace and to William's lodgings at a nearby inn. “At last, my sweet,” he whispered as they lay down, “we're together forevermore.”
“Forevermore,” Eleanor echoed.
December 1334 to June 1337
IN DECEMBER 1334, ELEANOR AND WILLIAM RODE TO SHAFTESBURY ABBEY, where they were greeted by Sister Joan le Despenser. But the greeting between Eleanor and Joan was a short one, for it was Lady Hastings Eleanor had come to see. “Is she better, Joan?” Eleanor asked hopefully.
“No, M
ama. She is much worse. Her children and Aunt Aline are already here. I will take you to her room.”
Bella was asleep when Eleanor came softly into the room, where Bella's sister and children sat on a bench that had been carried there for their convenience. She bent over Bella and kissed her cheek.
Three months before, Gladys, Eleanor's mainstay for so long, had fallen ill. Eleanor would hear of no one nursing her but herself. For weeks they had switched places, Gladys lying in Eleanor's great bed, Eleanor sleeping on a trundle bed, until Eleanor had woken in the middle of the night to find Gladys still and cold, having died in her sleep. She had thought, as she watched as Gladys at her damsel's own request was buried in the Lady Chapel at Tewkesbury, that she would never stop crying. And then the news had arrived that an ailing Lady Hastings had decided to be nursed at Shaftesbury Abbey.
“Nelly? Is that really you?”
“Yes, Bella.”
Bella smiled. “I was afraid you would not come—in time that is. The priest has shriven me already.”
Eleanor sat on the bed and took Bella's cold hand, shocked at the change in her sister-in-law's appearance she could detect under the layers of blankets that covered her. Always petite, she was now little more than bones, and the thick dark hair that Eleanor knew had been Bella's secret pride had lost all of its glisten. She did not trust herself to speak, so she simply stroked the hand until Bella herself finally spoke again, in such a low voice that Eleanor had to lean over to hear her. “It is odd, Nelly, but I am really quite content to die. There are so many I love whom I hope I shall see. My husbands. My son Thomas. Papa and my mother. My little sister Margaret. My brothers. And yet there are so many others I love here on earth. My son Hugh and my daughter and their children. Nicholas. Aline. And you. I will miss you so much, Nelly.”
“And I you, Bella. We have known each other since we were mere girls, and been through such strange times together.”
The Traitor's Wife Page 58
