Hugh and Bess

by Susan Higginbotham

  Bess herself had been married several years ago to Giles de Badlesmere, soon after Papa became an earl and she had become a desirable match. Then after only a year of marriage—if one could count living with her parents while her grown husband lived on his estates as a marriage—Sir Giles had fallen ill, leaving Bess a widow at the age of eleven. Her husband had sent her gifts on occasion and had visited her several times, but she had known him little better than any of the other men who came to visit her parents, and though she dutifully prayed for his soul, his death had otherwise meant little to her. She was vaguely aware that she had been left quite prosperous by the brief union, and she had a sense that suitors had approached Papa about her now and then, but none had been quite right, it appeared. There seemed to be no great hurry; after all, she had just started her monthly courses a few months before, and her figure was still so far from womanly that had she put on her brother Will's clothes and hidden her waist-length, thick, dark hair, she could have taken service as a page.

  But Joan was a different matter altogether, yet Mama did not appear happy. “Nothing wrong with him! His father executed as a traitor, his grandfather executed as a traitor, his great-grandfather killed fighting for Simon de Montfort against the king—”

  “So, at least he wasn’t executed as a traitor, Katharine. And the great-great-grandfather was quite respectable, I understand.”

  Bess's mother did not laugh. “I suppose one should feel pity for the man; he can’t help his parentage, but what girl would want to call herself the wife of Hugh le Despenser?”

  “Despenser wouldn’t have suggested the match himself, I imagine. He knows full well of his family's disgrace and that some are loath to associate with him; it's probably what has kept him single all of these years.”

  “Indeed,” said Katharine, finding a straw to grab upon. “He can’t be young, is he, William?”

  “He is two-and-thirty.”

  “Two-and-thirty! William, that's far too old for a girl of thirteen.”

  “Bess will mature soon. And Badlesmere was in his twenties himself, Katharine.”

  Behind the curtains, Bess gasped, covering her mouth just in time. She was to marry Hugh le Despenser?

  Soon afterward, Bess's parents had left the room, and she had made her way back to the chamber she shared with Joan of Kent and her sisters just in time to be told that her father and mother wished to speak to her. She had been summoned to her mother's chamber, where Bess's parents had broken the news to her gradually, so much so that Bess, who had been worried lest she give away the fact she had been eavesdropping, had been almost lulled into believing she had misunderstood. So distressed had she been when she realized that she had heard them correctly that she had not had to feign shock. “I don’t wish to marry him. I do not like him.”

  “Like him, Bess? You’ve never met him.” Her father smiled tolerantly.

  “I could not like a man from such a horrid family.”

  She had expected more help on this score from her mother, but Katharine, whatever her opinions might be in private, was a woman to stand publicly with her husband. “It is not for you to refuse this match, Elizabeth. You will marry him. You are a widow, after all; it is most suitable that you remarry.”

  “Why can’t Joan marry him? Her father was beheaded too. They would have much more to talk about.”

  William's lip twitched upward, but he still managed to say testily, “Hugh asked for your hand, not Joan's. In any case, he would have asked in vain, because we have decided that Joan will marry your brother Will, quite soon as a matter of fact.”

  So now he can stare at her breasts all he likes, Bess thought, then remembered the matter at hand. “I don’t want to marry him, Papa.” She looked up into her father's face and gazed at him sadly with her large brown eyes, a trick that up to now had never missed with her father, though Bess to her credit had used it sparingly. “Please don’t make me.”

  “I must, child. I cannot have you dictating to me whom you shall marry. I would not marry you to a man I did not esteem; you should know that. His father did disgrace his family's name, but Sir Hugh has done much to restore it. I will allow you to sit with us when he comes to visit tomorrow or the next day. You will see for yourself that he will make a good husband for you, and you will get a chance to come to know him.”

  “And Hugh is a rich man,” added Katharine. “You will be Lady of Glamorgan, and have many castles, you know. It won’t be bad, I promise.”

  Nor, thought Bess, had she promised that it would be good.

  Bess's one consolation during the conversation with her parents had been that she would get to break the news to Joan of her own fate, but even here she was balked. “I have heard, Bess. My mother told me when she was visiting here the other day.”

  Queen Isabella and the wicked Mortimer had imprisoned the Earl of Kent's widow and children after the unfortunate earl was executed. After Mortimer was arrested, young Queen Philippa had taken an interest in the Earl of Kent's high-spirited little daughter, Joan, and she had spent most of her life with either the royal children or the Montacute children, or sometimes both, while still seeing her own mother and brother and sister often. She was lucky, Bess thought sourly, getting to marry her old friend and playmate Will instead of a stranger over twice her age and a traitor's son to boot. Yet Joan did not look any happier about her marriage than Bess did about her own, Bess realized. “So why didn’t you tell me? Don’t you want to marry Will?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve my reasons.”

  This had become Joan's favorite saying since she had started her monthly courses and developed those breasts of hers. “Well, they can’t be very good ones. Will is your own age and pleasant and handsome, not some horrible old creature like I have to marry. And you will be Countess of Salisbury one day.”

  “Sir Hugh is my kinsman. My papa was his great-uncle. He's not old or horrible; I’ve met him.” Joan fingered a russet curl. “And what if I don’t want to be Countess of Salisbury, but plain Lady Joan?”

  They sat side by side on the bed they shared in the girls’ chamber, commiserating with each other. Then Joan said, “At least I won’t have to bed with your brother just yet, as he's a mere boy. Will they make you bed with Sir Hugh, do you think? I daresay he's ready.”

  “They didn’t say,” said Bess.

  “They probably won’t just yet,” said Joan. “Undress and I’ll tell you what I think.” Bess obeyed and Joan looked at her appraisingly. “You still don’t have a bust, though I think you might have a little more than you did. No hips. Your hair's lovely but Sir Hugh won’t care about hair. I wager they’ll make you wait a year.” She squinted at Bess as she hastened to dress again. “At least.”

  Two days later, a page arrived in Bess's chamber with the dreaded words, “My lady, the earl and the countess wish to see you in their chamber. Sir Hugh is with them.”

  Despite her best efforts, Bess could not find fault with her suitor's appearance. Hugh's face, though not strikingly handsome, was agreeable to the eye; his clothes were rich but not gaudily so; and his lean body, neither too short nor too tall, was that of a soldier, not that of a lingerer at dinner tables. His smile when Bess entered the room revealed good teeth and lit up his dark eyes. He bowed. “My lady.”

  “Sir.”

  “Your parents and I have been discussing the fact that we fear there may be a delay in our marriage. It seems that your first husband's mother was a Clare, and of course my mother was a Clare too, though I don’t think the branches ever got on particularly well.” He smiled at her again. “But nonetheless, for reasons I’ve never quite understood, that will require us to get a papal dispensation. You know what that is?”

  “I am not a fool, Sir Hugh. Of course I know what one is.”

  “Yes, of course. I beg your pardon.” Hugh had the look of a man getting up after a bad fall from a horse. “I don’t think it will pose much of a difficulty, though, as the
relationship is not a close one by any means, and for grounds I can tell the Pope that it is necessary to promote harmony between my family and yours. As my family was out of harmony with virtually everyone in England until recently, I’m probably not stretching the truth.”

  The Earl of Salisbury chuckled, and Hugh, back in the saddle, so to speak, continued, “Your parents have told me that you will be coming to live with me when we are married. I am very pleased to hear it. I must warn you that my furnishings are rather plain, as I have been single for so long, but I am sure that between you and your mother and my aunts and sisters we could get them looking nice very soon.”

  “I am entirely capable of choosing my own furnishings, Sir Hugh.”

  “Of course.”

  The earl shot his prospective son-in-law a look of commiseration.

  “Must I share a bed with you?”

  “Elizabeth!” hissed her mother.

  Hugh studied Bess, who for a horrid moment thought that he was going to ask her to strip, as had Joan. Then he said quietly, “I must leave that to your parents to decide for now, Lady Elizabeth, and I will abide by what they say. I know you are very young still. I would not do anything to make you uneasy or endanger your health, for the world.”

  “Until she is a bit older I would ask that you not bed with Bess,” said her father. “She has not really started to grow yet, I think.”

  “Probably in a year or so,” said her mother. Had she been talking to Joan? Bess scowled at Hugh, though it was she who had invited this embarrassing topic of her development, or lack thereof. But he himself seemed glad to be off the subject and was telling her parents that he would like to be married at Tewkesbury Abbey, if it was agreeable to the Montacutes. It was an abbey his late mother had taken a great deal of interest in before her death, and he was carrying out her plans to continue renovating it. A horrid place full of dead Despensers, Bess supposed, but she put up no argument on the theory that one place in which she married this man would be as bad as another. She watched the fire moodily as the men segued into a talk about the last Parliament. Their talk was far less illuminating than the fire, as Bess's father had been the prisoner of the King of France until being released late in the previous year, and Hugh le Despenser preferred to serve his king in war and to keep his mouth shut in peace, as he put it.

  At last the conversation ended, and then Hugh said the words Bess had been dreading. “I was thinking that I might take Lady Elizabeth riding for a bit, the weather being so fine at the moment?” He saw Bess's unenthusiastic face and added, “Perhaps one of her sisters would like to join us.”

  Her parents agreed, and soon Hugh was helping Bess and her ten-year-old sister, Sybil, onto their horses. He had evidently prepared a great deal of horse talk for the occasion, for no sooner than the girls were mounted than he began asking them how often they rode, where they liked to ride, what size horse each preferred, what temperament of horse each favored, and so forth. Bess answered him in as few words as possible, but Sybil, who was evidently much taken with her prospective brother-in-law, was more forthcoming, so much so that Bess began to feel superfluous as the conversation began to turn away from her despite Hugh's obvious efforts to the contrary.

  When Sybil and Hugh had at last exhausted the topic of horses, or ridden it to death as it were, Sybil asked, “Where shall you and Bess chiefly live, my lord?”

  “Please feel free to call me Hugh, Lady Sybil. And you too, Lady Elizabeth. Hanley is probably the most comfortable of my castles for a lady, I think; it was the one my mother liked best. I spend a lot of time at Cardiff as well. I expect that Lady Elizabeth will find her favorites.”

  “Papa says you are rich, Hugh. How is that if your father died a traitor and lost his lands?”

  “Sybil!” Bess hissed, concerned less with sparing Hugh's feelings than with the ill-breeding such a question surely showed. (Sometimes it was all too apparent that her father hadn’t been an earl for all that long.) But she was curious enough to hope that Hugh answered.

  Hugh said easily, “It's a fair enough question, I daresay. I was fortunate; my family's wealth came mainly from my mother's lands. She lost the best ones when Mortimer was in power, but when your father brought him down, the king very kindly permitted her to have them back. She died several years ago, and I was her heir, of course. The king also was gracious enough to give me some of my father's and grandfather's lands too, but most of them are in the hands of the crown or in those of others, and always will be, I suppose. I’ve no cause for complaint. It could have been much different.”

  “It will be sad for you, getting married with no parents to see you,” said Sybil earnestly. Bess could have swatted her.

  “Yes, Lady Sybil, but there will be plenty of family to see me. I have eight living brothers and sisters, and several fine nephews, and my aunt Aline from my father's family. My aunt Elizabeth, my mother's sister, will come, I imagine. I don’t know about my aunt Margaret, my mother's other sister; she never forgave my family for what happened in my father's day. Still, as her husband was made an earl along with your father, they may attend out of respect for him.”

  “I daresay many will attend out of respect for my father,” Bess said loftily.

  “No doubt,” said Hugh a little stiffly.

  They were saved from the necessity of further conversation by the rapidly graying sky, which made Hugh determine to turn back to Denbigh Castle in north Wales, where the Montacutes had taken up residence for the time being. Their ride had been a meandering one, and Bess was surprised to see how easily Hugh retraced their path. “You must have been at Denbigh before, Sir Hugh,” she surmised, remembering too late that she had exceeded the ration of words she had determined to speak to him.

  “Plain Hugh, Lady Bess—Bess, if I may. You have your wits about you, I see. I do know it. It was my grandfather's for a while, and I came here a time or two while it was in his hands.”

  “He lost it when he was executed?” Bess felt a bad taste come into her mouth with the word “executed.” What on earth would she tell their children about this man's relations?

  “Precisely. But it hadn’t been his for long. He gained it from Thomas, the late Earl of Lancaster, when he was executed; my grandfather lost it when he was executed; it went to Mortimer, who lost it when he was executed; and then it went to your father. Good Lord, I’ve made it sound an ominous place, haven’t I? I didn’t mean to, sweetheart.” He laughed. “It's a wonder the tenants can remember to whom to doff their caps, though.”

  They arrived at the stables. To avoid Hugh, Bess would have scrambled down from her horse unassisted, as she was perfectly capable of doing, but he was too quick for her and in a flash was off his own steed and standing next to hers. Bess stiffened as he helped her dismount; now that he had sneaked in this “sweetheart” of his, was a kiss next on his list? An embrace? But he handed her down as chastely as her own page might have done.

  Sybil, however, had given her an idea, and as soon as Hugh left the next morning, she went to find her parents. “I thought Sybil got on very well with Sir Hugh yesterday. Perhaps she could marry him?”

  Katharine frowned at Bess, but her father laughed tolerantly. “Still trying to wiggle your way out of matrimony, Bess? It won’t do, I tell you. I think Sir Hugh wants a lady who can be a proper wife to him sooner than Sybil could. And in any case, he likes you. He told me before he left how pretty and charming he found you.”

  Bess found this to be deceit on Hugh's part, for she knew well she had not been charming, and she did not see how Hugh could have found her pretty. But it was clear that she had no more weapons at her disposal, so she resigned herself to her fate.

  Hugh had been right about the necessity of a papal dispensation; the wedding would have to wait until after one was obtained, though with the king himself lending his support (Bess learned to her chagrin), its being granted was practically a foregone conclusion. No such obstacles barred Joan of Kent from marrying Will, however, and in
early February, the couple and their families arrived at Westminster for the wedding, which, owing to the king's closeness to the Montacute family and to Queen Philippa's fondness for Joan, was to take place at the crown's expense.

  “So tomorrow I will be a married man,” Will said cheerfully as he entered Bess's chamber at Westminster the evening before the wedding. “And you will soon be a married woman. Pity it couldn’t be a double wedding.”