The Traitor's Wife

by Susan Higginbotham

  “I remember when you married Hugh, how pretty you were in your green gown. But I was jealous, my dear, because the great King Edward was at Hugh's wedding, and had not come to mine. And I did not think I would like you much, because you were the daughter of such a great earl. I thought you would treat me as an inferior. So I was not happy at first when Hugh married you.”

  “Why, Bella, I never would have known it.”

  “I kept it to myself.”

  Eleanor laughed. “Bella, if that is the best you can do for a deathbed confession, you will be in heaven straightaway.”

  “Oh, I have worse. I lay with Ralph twice before we were married.”

  “Only twice, dear? Lord Monthermer could have charmed a nun away from her vows, Bella. It is only fortunate that he never got my aunt Mary alone.”

  “Did Joan tell you I took vows two days before?”

  Eleanor glanced at Bella's left hand and saw that she wore the ring of a nun. “No, she did not.”

  “It was something I had long thought of doing, since about the time Papa and Hugh died. But I was too selfish; I wanted to be with my children and their children. But now I have done so, and I am very happy.” She smiled, and Eleanor thought she was about to drift off when she added, “But I am not the most married nun in Shaftesbury, it seems. One of the older nuns had four husbands!” Eleanor laughed, and Bella sighed. “I loved all my husbands, Nelly—even my first, though I was but a girl when he died. What shall happen if we all meet in heaven? I tried to ask the priest, but he only muttered something in Latin.”

  Eleanor sometimes wondered this herself about Hugh and William. She told Bella what she had often told herself: “Worry not, Bella dear. God will work it all out.”

  Bella smiled faintly, and Eleanor saw that she was fast losing strength and life. She helped Bella settle more comfortably against the pillows and, seeing her shiver, put the blankets around her more snugly. Then she kissed her sister-in-law on the forehead and stood up, hoping that Bella could not see the tears streaming down her face. “I am going to leave you with your children now, my sweet. I will come again when you have rested a bit.”

  She took herself outside and waited, William's arm around her, for the inevitable news to come out of Bella's chamber. Very soon, it did. Lady Hastings, a weeping sister said, had lost consciousness and slipped away painlessly, surrounded by at least some of those she had loved. And that, thought Eleanor, was the very least her sister-in-law had deserved.

  It had been a mistake, Edward le Despenser realized, to set out from Essendine in Rutland with the sky looking so gloomy. But it was, after all, January, when gloomy skies could be expected, and having been a landowner for only two months, he still took a boyish delight in riding between the manors that had reverted to him in November.

  “They're mine?” he had said in disbelief when Hugh told him that the life tenant had died. “They're not forfeit?”

  “Father arranged for you to have the reversion when you were but a babe, Edward, and he actually appears to have done it legally. Father did have a lapse or two in the direction of morality now and then.” He chuckled. “Mostly then. Did you ever hear of his schemes to raise money for the crown by forcing people to buy bad wine? I hope they at least got good and soused off of it.” Edward frowned; he had not developed Hugh's peculiar sense of humor about their father. “So you'll have lands now in Bedfordshire, Buckinghamshire, Wiltshire, Rutland, Northamptonshire, and Lincolnshire, little brother. When shall I visit you?”

  There had been, of course, the king to do fealty to. Edward had seen the king fleetingly after Halidon Hill, when he had been knighted along with a number of other men who had been spoken well of by their commanders or who had come to the king's own notice. But he'd not had to speak to him at the time, and so his fealty had not gone particularly well. Oh, he hadn't disgraced himself—he told himself morosely that this would take a lot of doing for a Despenser anyway—but he had gone through the ceremony as though sleepwalking. When the king allowed him to stand and tried to engage him in small talk, he had answered in polite monosyllables, conscious that he probably appeared a bumpkin. In fact, he'd been wondering the entire time, Did your grace see my father die? Did you enjoy it as much as the others?

  Hugh had gone with him for moral support. As they rode south, for the king was at Newcastle, Edward asked, “Hugh, don't you ever get angry at them? Our father, for getting you in prison all that time? Mortimer and Isabella?”

  Hugh looked at his horse, resplendent in Despenser trappings. The king after some hemming and hawing had allowed Hugh to bear the family arms—a display that never failed to attract stares, which Hugh coolly ignored. “What would that accomplish? I loved Father. He's dead. I hated Mortimer. He's dead, too. Shall I go to their graves and kick at them?”

  “Piss over Mortimer's is what I would do. But that bitch Isabella is still alive. Alive and thriving. I'd like to kill her.”

  “Don't; it'd be a pleasure to have one generation of Despensers with their heads intact.” Hugh saw his younger brother shiver and touched him on the shoulder. In a different tone of voice, a tender one, he said, “Edward, don't get yourself caught up in an endless cycle of hate. It'll waste you. You're young, good-looking, bright, and prosperous. Do the one thing Isabella didn't want any of us to do. Enjoy your life.”

  And he was trying his best to do so. But at this moment, he was soaking wet, and the rain was beginning to turn to sleet.

  He turned to the squire closest to him—now that he had manors in six counties he had a suitable number of retainers, and he was still not used to their constant presence—and asked, “Where are we?”

  “Near Groby, sir. The Ferrers family lives there. Perhaps we should seek shelter there.”

  Edward did a brief review of his father's known misdeeds and concluded that the Ferrers family did not figure into any of them. But Henry de Ferrers was his aunt Elizabeth de Burgh's son-in-law, and there was that Gower and Usk business he had heard tell of…

  The sleet was coming down in pellets, and his horse was shivering. That settled the matter, for Edward was fond of his horses and could not stand to see them uncomfortable. “All right. Let's head to Groby and get you a dry stall and some nice oats.”

  The squire looked confused but turned in the direction of Groby.

  Lady Elizabeth de Burgh had known trouble lately; her cocksure son, William, had been murdered in Ireland in 1333 by his own men. Since then she had become especially close to her daughter Isabella and to her sensible son-in-law, Henry, whom she was visiting on the day when Edward le Despenser came calling at Groby. Elizabeth was sitting in the spacious chamber allotted for her, working on a tapestry for her young grandson's nursery, when Henry poked his head in. “There's a drowned rat in the great hall who claims to be your nephew. Are you up to one of your Despenser relations? Edward le Despenser, to be precise.”

  “Come now, Henry. I've met Edward several times. He's not like his father, he's very quiet and sweet-natured.”

  “Oh, I suppose. But if you could see him!” He chuckled. “He's soaked to the skin, and then some. And you're right about him being quiet. I gave my poor sister the impossible task of entertaining him while my man looked out for him some dry clothes. I think he said four words to her, and three of them were his name, if you count the 'le.'”

  “Anne is entertaining him?”

  “Well, she will be once he has had his bath. Unless he bolts first.”

  Elizabeth said thoughtfully, “Leave them alone for a while, why don't you?”

  “My lady?”

  “Don't you see? You were talking only yesterday about a husband for Anne. Why not the Despenser lad? They're not so far apart in age, he bears a good character, which is no mean feat considering from whose loins he sprang, and he's handsome, as you'll find when he's not dripping wet. And I understand he's just come into a very pretty collection of estates.”

  “But you can't stop Anne from talking when she gets goin
g, and you can hardly seem to start him talking.”

  “So? Some couples get on splendidly that way. And Anne is a beautiful girl. If the boy won't exert himself a little for her, he's hopeless or half-blind. Come. Sit down and let's play a game of chess and let's see how they get on. The sleet grows worse than ever. He won't be leaving any time soon.”

  Edward was of two minds as he took his bath, half-longing to hurry so he could again see the goddess he had met on his arrival, half-longing to linger so that he did not have to think of something to say to her. At last the memory of her golden ringlets, soft blue eyes, and cherry lips won out, and he allowed his man to dress him (another innovation he was having difficulty getting used to) in his borrowed robes, ignoring the squire's half smile. He bowed as he reentered the great hall. “My lady.”

  “You look quite comfortable now. That must have been a horrid storm.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you live in Leicestershire, Sir Edward?”

  “No. I am passing through from Essendine.” Edward thought a moment before coming out with the immortal words, “Have you ever been there, my lady?”

  “No. I barely ever get out of Groby. Henry is so lucky. He goes to Parliament, and he will be going back to Scotland shortly, I think, to hold Berwick securely for the king. You know, I have never even seen the king. Have you, Sir Edward?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, how could I be so stupid? You must have seen a great deal of him when you were younger. Your father—”

  She clapped her hand across her mouth. “I am so sorry, Sir Edward.”

  “It matters not, my lady,” said Edward in a gallant tone he did not know he could muster. “Most people shy away from mentioning my father. It's good to have him in the conversation early.”

  “I was a little girl, you know, when all that happened. It must have been horrid for you.”

  “Someday I would like to tell you about it—when I get better acquainted with you.”

  “When you get better acquainted with me, sir?”

  “That is—if you would like that.” He waited for her to recoil with disgust.

  She looked at him solemnly. “I would, Sir Edward.”

  “Quietly, Henry, quietly. This is how your hopelessly shy knight is barely getting on with your sister.”

  Henry followed his wife and his mother-in-law to the great hall, which was being set up for dinner. In a window seat, oblivious to all around them, sat Edward and Anne, talking and as close together as a couple could be without being seated on each other's lap. As Elizabeth, Isabella, and Henry watched, Edward tentatively put his hands on Anne's shoulders and drew her in for a kiss. It was a long one, evidently highly satisfactory to both parties, and it was followed up quickly by another that showed no sign of stopping in the near future.

  “Time to throw some cold water over those two,” said Henry. “Sir Edward?”

  Edward turned, looking less flustered than annoyed at being interrupted. “Lord Ferrers,” he said. “I would like your permission to marry your sister.”

  “Yes, I had hoped things were going in that direction,” said Henry dryly. “Come to my chamber, sir, and let us talk.”

  They were married on April 20, 1335, at Groby. Their bedding ceremony was restrained, as Edward had hoped. With his bride's parents dead, the tone was set by Henry, who was a protective brother, and his mother and stepfather, who knew well his bashfulness. Eleanor had helped Anne undress for the evening and, Anne told him later, was most kind, whispering as she tucked the covers round her, “Don't worry, my dear. Edward is the kindest man in the world. You will be happy with him.”

  Zouche made a friendly toast that could not have offended the oldest lady there, and Hugh, though taking the brother's prerogative of some bawdiness, was so charming that even Edward laughed. He could not resist adding, “A lot about marriage you know, my bachelor brother.”

  “Then you shall teach me,” said Hugh cheerfully.

  Edward was a romantic, and it grieved him as he lay with his new wife that he would not come to her pure, as she was coming to him. He took some consolation, however, in the fact that he had not had a woman since the day he had met her.

  She was so lovely undressed that he was almost afraid to touch her, but he got over this soon enough, and he put his superior experience to good use in making it a pleasant night for her as well. When all was done and she lay in the crook of his arm, she murmured, “Edward, you have made me so happy, and I love you so much.”

  Tears stung his eyes. “Anne, I never thought to hear anyone say that to me.”

  “Why not? You're sweet and handsome and loving.”

  “My father and grandfather, the men I loved above all others, were hung as traitors. My brother was clapped into prison, three of my sisters were forced to take the veil, my mother and us other children were sent to the Tower. Then my mother was sent back and almost died. For years I hated everyone—or feared them, I don't know which. I thought we were cursed. And now I see that I have been blessed.”

  “I will do my best to make you happy after all that you have suffered.”

  “You can't.” He drew her into another kiss. “You've already done that, my love.”

  Coming out of Anne's chamber at Essendine Castle eleven months later, in March 1336, Eleanor collided with her son. “Edward! Why aren't you downstairs?”

  “She cried out, Mother! She is in pain, I know!”

  “Of course she is in pain, Edward. She is having a baby.” Eleanor took her son's arm and managed to steer him in the direction of the great hall. “But you are only making yourself miserable by standing here listening at the door, and she would be upset too if she knew you were here.” She looked around for William, who was supposed to have been minding Edward. “Where is your stepfather?”

  “I begged him to go for a physician just in case. Mother, what if she dies?”

  “Edward, everything is going perfectly normally.”

  “But what if something happens?”

  Eleanor almost caught her son's worry. He was deeply in love with Anne, she knew; what would become of the most vulnerable of her sons if something did happen to his wife? “Edward, I will not lie and say there is no danger. There always is, you know that. But everything has gone well so far. She is not overtired, she is dilating nicely, and she has the best midwife for miles around. And she has me! I helped with your aunt Bella's children, and your aunt Margaret d'Audley's first child, and others besides. Why, I helped with the king himself! And some of the other royal children as well. She is being taken very good care of, I promise you. But first babies are slow. Your brother Hugh was no quicker than this, and I bore ten healthy babes!”

  “But Anne is so small!”

  “Small, but not delicate. She is very healthy.”

  William came in and looked apologetically at Eleanor. “The physician will come as soon as he can, Edward.” He did not add that the physician had said he knew far less about babies than the midwife.

  “Shouldn't you be going back there, Mother?”

  “I came only to tell you Anne was doing fine,” said Eleanor patiently. She looked outside. It might help if some imaginary errand were invented for Edward, but if Edward tried to sit a horse in his present state of mind, he would probably break his neck. “Sit by the fire, Edward, and have some wine. It will relax you, perhaps.”

  “All the wine in Bordeaux couldn't do that,” William whispered in her ear sympathetically.

  It was dark when Eleanor entered the hall again. Edward had been up since the middle of the previous night, when Anne had felt her first contractions, and he had finally dozed off in front of the fire. She touched him on the face. “Come see your son, my dear.”

  “Son?”

  “He is a fine boy, and Anne is doing well. Come with me.”

  Edward followed her dazedly. Edward's imprisonment in the Tower with his newborn sister Elizabeth had given him baby-minding skiIls rare in males, but he was out of practi
ce, and after embracing Anne he took his new son with a mixture of such extreme caution and wonderment that the competent but gruff midwife smiled. “I would like to name him Edward, love,” said Anne. “After you and after the late king.”

  “Edward it shall be,” said the new father. He stared transfixedly at the sturdy boy, whom his king would one day name a Knight of the Garter.

  Eleanor had not seen Edward wear such a blindingly happy smile in his life, not even on his wedding day. “Let us leave them alone,” she said softly.

  William found the lump soon after Twelfth Night. He had been making love to Eleanor when his hand, caressing her right breast, felt something hard and unyielding in it, not the softness underneath silkiness to which he was accustomed. Startled, he touched it again, and then had his attention distracted, most successfully, by Eleanor. For the time being he forgot about it, but when they snuggled together afterward, he said, “My dear. I felt—”

  “I asked the midwife. She said that many women of my age get them, and they are usuaIly quite harmless.”

  “Ah.”

  Eleanor was grateful when she heard him snoring a few minutes later. She herself had noticed the lump months ago, while bathing, and she was certain it was getting larger. The midwife had frowned when she heard of this. And Eleanor's own mother had complained of such a lump in the months before she had died, aged only thirty-five. All this would distress William, as would hearing that the lump was sometimes quite painful. So she would not tell him these things unless he asked, and she hoped he would not. Men, after all, knew precious little about women's workings and were not enthralled with hearing about them.

  And in any case, she could not possibly be dying. She felt quite well, save for the occasional pain. And how could God let her leave her young children? John was only eleven, Lizzie not yet ten, William only six.

  But the Lord had taken her old charge, John of Eltham, only the autumn before; the young man, only twenty, had died of a fever, in Scotland. And on the last day of February, He took Eleanor's husband.