The Traitor's Wife

by Susan Higginbotham

  She turned away from the window where she and Hugh had been standing and began to cry. Hugh's sardonic expression vanished, and he instantly came to her and pulled her against him. She settled into his arms comfortably. “She died only as I was coming to truly know her, Hugh. And she was still so young. Why couldn't it have been later?”

  “I don't know, my sweet.”

  “I could not bear it if anything like that happened to you.”

  “Don't be silly.”

  She crossed back to the window. “And whatever people say about my uncle and Piers, I know it must be breaking his heart to part with him, however you might scoff at him, Hugh.”

  “I don't scoff to be cruel. The king is an old man in failing health, Eleanor, and however sad your uncle and Piers may be today, it won't last long. They must be aware of that as anyone else. All Gaveston has to do is bide his time, and soon he'll be back in England.”

  “His ship could sink! All sorts of things could keep them apart.”

  “Gaveston would swim to shore. He loves to thumb his nose at those who consider him an upstart Gascon; he'd never give them the satisfaction of not returning. Trust me.”

  Gaveston's ship did not sink. Though he had been exiled to Gascony, he went no farther than Ponthieu, and the king, perhaps because of his preoccupation with military matters, perhaps because even he had a certain liking for the lively Piers, did not press the issue. The rich possessions Gaveston entered his exile with were soon added to by the prince, who purchased more clothing just so his friend could make a fine showing of himself at the French tournaments, then, for good measure, several horses, a gift that caused Hugh to wonder to Eleanor whether the prince would soon be sending his friend a supply of hay. There was scarcely time for Piers to attend the tournaments, however, for his exile ended abruptly when the old king, having made one last Scottish expedition, took ill and died in early July. The old man had told his son not to recall Gaveston, to lead one hundred men on a crusade each year, and to boil his bones down and carry them before the army on each subsequent incursion into Scotland. Edward, hearing the news, found the first order as absurd as the last two. Within minutes, a messenger was heading toward Dover with a simple message to Gaveston: to return home to England and his dearest friend.

  The new king soon proved himself to be different from his father. Though he was no coward, he had neither an interest in nor an aptitude for warfare and spent his days in Scotland not plotting strategy but figuring out how best to reward his loyal friend. Ponthieu had been acceptable when the prince was in the position of a meek supplicant before his father, but hardly worth the giving when Edward himself was king. The earldom of Cornwall was eminently more suitable. Next, the Earl of Cornwall deserved a proper countess, and who better than Edward's own niece Margaret de Clare? It was only a pity that Edward's one unmarried sister was a nun. Settling for this next closest female relation, and certain that his friend would be delighted with the match, the king had the charter proclaiming Piers as the new earl decorated with the Clare arms as well as Gaveston's own.

  Eleanor and Margaret's brother, Gilbert, had sanctioned the marriage, rather to Eleanor's surprise. “Gilbert, what about the—brotherhood—between Gaveston and the king?”

  “What about it, sister?”

  “What of Margaret? Have her wishes been consulted?”

  Gilbert shrugged. “He's a handsome and agreeable man, and now that the king has made him Earl of Cornwall, a rich one as well. How can she complain?”

  “But she will be sharing her husband with the king.”

  “Those may be just idle rumors, Nelly. I've never noticed anything so very much amiss. In any event, the king is king now and must act up to the role. He will be married soon himself, you know.”

  “Hugh does not believe they are just idle rumors.”

  “Your husband is a cynic, Nelly, always has been.”

  “He is older than you, Gilbert, and more observant.”

  “Maybe. But I have promised Margaret to Gaveston, and told her of the match as well. She didn't threaten to take the veil, or faint, or refuse dinner. In fact, you'll find her very engrossed by the subject of her wedding dress, I believe. So don't concern yourself with the matter.” Gilbert's voice was sharper than he meant it to be, for he himself had had doubts about the marriage, not so much because of whose bed Gaveston would share but because of his awareness that Gaveston had never been a popular man at court. Even when he first came to Edward's household, the son of a loyal but financially strapped Gascon knight, he had carried himself as proudly as any great landholder's son and spared none his insolent wit. Any humility he might have possessed had vanished when the prince, almost from the moment of looking upon the handsome young man, found him to have every quality he had ever wanted in a brother, a friend, and even a lover. Humility was in short supply in the new king's court, as it had been in the old king's, and Gilbert knew that the barons would not tolerate any missteps by the new earl or his royal patron. He had wondered about catching his sister in such machinations. But no man who could aspire to the hand of the king's granddaughter was likely to live a life of quiet obscurity free from such intrigue, and Gilbert as his father's heir did not feel that he could deprive his middle sister of the chance of being a wealthy countess. Nor had he been truly inclined to offer any opposition to his uncle the king, who after Joan's death had granted the sixteen-year-old Gilbert the right to enjoy his estates immediately. Gilbert otherwise might have had to fritter several more years away while someone else managed—or mismanaged—their hefty revenues for him.

  He looked at his sister, who still looked concerned. Talk about quiet obscurity! Poor Hugh might have to wait years before he got his hands on any of his own father's land, though there was the possibility that the king might give him and Eleanor a manor or two, especially as he had always been fond of Eleanor. Perhaps this concern about Margaret was due to a little jealousy? He smiled tolerantly. If Gilbert's plans with the Earl of Ulster worked out, little Elizabeth would be on the way to being a countess too. That would leave Eleanor the lowest ranking of the three sisters, perhaps a mortifying situation for the eldest Clare girl. He patted his sister on the head kindly but a little patronizingly. “Don't worry,” he said again. “All will be well.”

  Eleanor and Hugh's wedding had been a dignified affair, thanks to the old king; Margaret and Piers's wedding was a merry one, thanks to the new king. All of the males, even the temperate Hugh and his father, even Edward's little half brothers, were at least tipsy. Eleanor, called on as the bride's closest married relation to give a wedding toast, herself found that her cup had been refilled more often than she thought. She had to be steadied by the ever-alert Gladys when she raised her cup, and her toast, very simple and practiced for a good hour the night before, reduced her to giggles before she was halfway through.

  “Did I do badly?” she whispered to Hugh when she finished, unaware that her whisper was not much of one and that no one else was speaking.

  Hugh laughed and embraced her. “You did fine, my sweet.”

  She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him, long and slow, wishing nothing so much as that he would take her out of the room and to bed then and there. Someone applauded, and she blushed, recalling herself, and pulled away from Hugh. He squeezed her hand, stepped forward, and raised his cup. “Piers and Margaret,” he said, with a tender expression on his face that Eleanor would never forget, “I wish you as much joy in your marriage as I've had in mine.”

  Some years before, the first Edward, widowed from Eleanor of Castile, had agreed with King Philip of France that he would marry Philip's sister and that his son Edward, the Prince of Wales, would marry Philip's daughter, Isabella. The king had made his marriage shortly thereafter, in 1299, but the prince's marriage had waited, as Isabella was but a child. By 1308, however, Isabella was twelve, fully marriageable in the eyes of the Church, and Philip was ready for his prospective son-in-law, now king himself, to fulfill his f
ather's bargain. Leaving Gaveston in charge of the kingdom as regent, much to the disgust of the barons, and to the particular disgust of Thomas of Lancaster, the richest earl in the country, he went to France to marry and bring back his young bride.

  Now he was on his way home, and Piers, in his last act as regent, had summoned the nobility to Dover to greet their new queen.

  “What is she like, Piers?” asked Margaret, watching as the royal ships finally appeared in the distance. “You must know.”

  Gaveston shrugged. “Can't say that I do. I don't think she and the king had exchanged so much as a letter or a gift before he went to France. She is called Isabella the Fair, because of her beauty, and that is all I have heard of the girl.”

  “I am to be one of her ladies if it pleases her, have you heard, Piers?”

  Piers grinned at his sister-in-law. “Quite a few times, Nelly.”

  “Well,” said Eleanor, reflecting. “I am excited.”

  The time dragged on before the ships finally reached the harbor. Trumpets sounded as the king and his new queen were rowed to shore. Finally, the queen's face became visible, and the crowd gasped.

  Eleanor had never seen a more beautiful girl. Isabella was not yet thirteen, but she was tall for her age. Her height and her figure, which was slender but not so much so as to be unwomanly, could have allowed her to pass for a girl of fifteen or sixteen. The wind catching at her headdress revealed blond hair, more silver than yellow. She would have to get closer for the onlookers to see that she had dark blue eyes, the color of sapphires, but everyone was sufficiently near to appreciate her red lips, curled in a smile at something the king was saying, her fair, unblemished skin, and her white teeth. Her nose was perfectly straight; her neck long and slender; her cheekbones well defined. Eleanor, short and freckled, her red hair tangled by the sea breeze that had been whipping it around despite its covering, her waist already beginning to disappear in pregnancy, felt positively dumpy next to her new queen, and even her sister Elizabeth, blond and elegant like her mother, experienced a sense of diminishment.

  Someone squeezed her hand and she started. “Hugh?”

  “Arrived just in time, sweetheart. So here is our queen.”

  “Isn't she lovely?”

  He shrugged. “If you like perfection.”

  Edward and Isabella stepped ashore. Though Edward was holding her hand, it was clear that his attention was no longer focused on her. He looked around him, more and more anxiously, until Piers Gaveston stepped out of the mist that must have been obscuring him. With a cry of relief and joy, Edward hurried forward, all but dragging his bride behind, and clasped Gaveston in his arms, then kissed him on both cheeks. “Brother!”

  “My dear lord.”

  “I have been away too long.” Between the arrivals from France and the greeters from England a hundred people must have been present, but Edward had forgotten them all. He stepped back and gazed at his friend raptly. “Too, too long.”

  Isabella, standing beside the two men with admirable composure, spoke. Her clear voice, like the rest of her, was more womanly than might have been expected. “Who is your friend, Edward dear?”

  Gaveston dropped to his knees as the king replied, “My dear! I forgot my manners in my happiness at being home. This is my dear friend Piers Gaveston, sweet wife. He and I have been inseparable since youth.”

  Piers kissed the hand she proffered. “Your servant, your grace.”

  “You may rise.” She gave Gaveston a glance and then turned to the king, who had been cheerfully oblivious to the stir his embrace of his friend had caused in the crowd, especially among his new French relations. “Introduce me to the others, dear Edward.”

  Chivalry had returned to Edward in full force. “I shall do so in the castle. You must not stay here in the cold.”

  He led his new wife inside the castle and was soon seated by her as his men brought group after group of nobles to pay their respects. Having finished introducing his sisters and half brothers, then a group of cousins, Edward reached his nephews and nieces. “These are my sister Joan's girls, dear Isabella. Poor Joan is dead but she has left three beautiful daughters. Margaret the Countess of Cornwall is scarcely less newly wedded than we. She is married to my dear brother Gaveston, whom you just met.”

  The blue eyes were not happy, but the queen managed a civil commonplace or two.

  “This is Eleanor, Lady Despenser, my eldest niece. She hopes to have the honor of waiting upon you.”

  Eleanor executed a curtsey, for the first time flawlessly.

  “I am sure she will please me,” said Isabella absently.

  “You have met Hugh le Despenser the elder in France, of course, and here is the reason it is necessary to call him that in company, his son Hugh. They are a fine family.”

  “Delighted,” said the queen as Hugh bowed before her.

  “Elizabeth has come all the way from Amesbury, where she is living in my sister's convent, to see you, my dear. She shall be married soon herself, I believe.”

  Elizabeth's curtsey far excelled her older sisters'.

  “She is almost exactly your age,” the king added, as if offering the queen a playmate.

  “Are you sure it won't hurt the baby?”

  “The midwife says it is fine. Please, Hugh.”

  “Lord, you are a hot little vixen.” He needed no more persuasion, though, and thrust into her as she stifled cries of pleasure. As the king's relations, they had been given a room in the crowded castle to themselves, but their servants were well within earshot. Somehow this gave their encounter an added zest, though Eleanor was not yet at the stage where she would admit this to herself.

  “A vixen,” Hugh gasped some time later. “And I am happily married to her.”

  She drowsily wrapped herself around him. “It has been so long since we have been together.”

  “A week.”

  “It feels longer.”

  “I know. I love you so much.”

  “And I love you.”

  He stroked her hair and she was beginning to fall asleep when she was roused by the sound of his wry laugh. “Hugh?”

  “Go back to sleep, my dear. I was only wondering.”

  “Wondering what?”

  He lowered his voice. “Which Gaul our poor king is sleeping with tonight, his Gascon playmate or his Parisian bride. He has so much choice now!”

  Eleanor yawned. “What a rude thought, Hugh.” She drifted off again and soon was very comfortably asleep on Hugh's chest.

  Edward lay in his bed, feeling the rocking sensation that one had sometimes after spending a long time on a boat, even hours after getting off. He had plenty of room to stretch, for his lovely young bride was in a sumptuously decorated chamber a respectable distance off. A pretty girl, but how young she was! He'd said good night to her with his usual affection and courtesy before going to his own chamber. Affection and courtesy were all he could manage for now. There was something almost indecent about lovemaking with a girl that young. Surely she must feel the same way.

  He was tired, but he would not fall asleep. Soon his door would be slipped open, surely, and it was. He all but sobbed with relief when the familiar body climbed in beside him. “How long has it been?”

  “Only two weeks,” said Piers.

  “It felt like forever,” said the king.

  At Westminster, there was a never-ending supply of the queen's trunks to be unpacked, each containing garments that were richer and more beautifully worked than the last. Isabella's French attendants, having seen the clothing go into the trunks, were quite indifferent to its unloading, but Eleanor and the other English ladies, none of them strangers to fine garments themselves, were rapt as each delved into a different trunk. “You must wear this to your coronation, your grace!”

  “No, this!”

  “Too light. This!”

  Isabella, who had already planned her tout ensemble for the coronation and certainly needed no help from these dowdy Englishwomen,
none of whom appeared to have any idea of the difference cut could make to a garment, watched them indulgently. “They are fine, aren't they? My father would settle for no less.” Her expression changed. “But I had no idea when they were ordered that I would appear shabby next to my lord's brother Gaveston.”

  Eleanor laughed. “Your grace, you could appear shabby next to no one.” She stroked a mantle lined with the softest fur she had ever felt.

  “Do you like it, my lady? You may have it. It suits your coloring more so than mine.”

  Isabella had been displaying this generosity to all her ladies. “I have already taken so many gifts from you—that fine material, and the headdress, and this beautiful ring.” Eleanor glanced at her finger. “I can take no more.”

  “You are no Gaveston, I see. Would he have shown your restraint!”

  Very soon after the royal party had arrived in Westminster, Gaveston had appeared for dinner in a robe fastened with a magnificent clasp of gold and emeralds, a crucifix studded with sapphires and pearls, and a splendid ruby ring. Isabella had no sooner caught sight of these when she gasped to her ladies, “The upstart! He is wearing my father's wedding presents!”

  Eleanor herself had been taken aback, but she replied, “The king regards Gaveston as his brother, your grace. What comes to the king, comes to Gav—”

  “Brother! I don't see those two little boys who are the king's real brothers dripping in my father's jewels, just that creature. I shall write to my father about this impudence.” She had taken her place beside the king and sat fuming during the duration of the meal and the entertainment afterward, heedless of the fact that the minstrels had been chosen especially to suit her taste.