“Well, I give notice that I will not mind if the king does choose to marry me to one of those men. I am tired of being a widow, especially of a man no one will name in front of me.” She glanced at the Countesses of Warwick and Hereford, who each took great interest in the work in their hands. “I am wasting my youth here.”
Eleanor was rather shocked by this speech, but the queen was not, Margaret having been in the habit of making similar ones every few days. Instead, she said, “Well, now that you have two to choose from, which would you prefer?”
“Audley,” said Margaret with the air of one who had thought about the question minutely. “He is more handsome, and I think rather more agreeable.”
“I shall put in a word with the king,” said the queen dryly.
Margaret looked rather maliciously at the Countess of Warwick, who was no longer a girl, being in her thirties. “And perhaps you may marry Damory, Countess, now that you are free. I daresay the king would make it worth your while.”
To everyone's shock, Alice burst into tears and fled from the room. Eleanor gasped. “Margaret! How could you be so cruel? Whatever a scoundrel Warwick might have been, he was her husband, and she has been widowed but eight months. How dare you?”
Margaret only shrugged, but the Countess of Hereford laughed. “It is not what you think, Lady Despenser. Lady Alice is not mourning for Warwick. She is very much in love with the knight who escorted her here, Sir William la Zouche, but she cannot let him know it, of course, so she is frightened that he will marry someone else.” She glanced at Margaret. “Perhaps you, Countess.”
“I! I know of no Sir William la Zouche.”
“He is a younger son of a branch of the Mortimer family. He acquired land from his uncle Zouche, and so he assumed the name. He was in Warwick's household, I believe.”
The queen was frowning at her sister-in-law. “Elizabeth, how do you know of all this?”
“Oh, I was in the great hall when Zouche brought her here, and any ninny could see that she was in love with him, the way her eyes filled with tears when he bid her good-bye. She and I are friends, so I asked her. She has been in love with him some time, all quite chaste though, I assure you. Why, I don't know. He's not what you would call handsome, he's quite taciturn, and he has the charisma of a sumpter horse. But there you have it.”
The queen beckoned to a page. “Fetch the Countess of Warwick here immediately.”
The countess returned promptly, her cheeks pink and her eyelashes damp. She curtseyed deeply. “Your grace, I do beg your pardon.”
“Countess, my sister-in-law tells me that you are in love with a knight in your husband's household, that indeed, you have been in love with him for some time, and that you wish to marry him.”
“Your grace, my own mother was in the same situation! It can happen even to a lady of the greatest virtue—”
“Hush, Lady Despenser,” the queen said, not unkindly. “Countess, I am told that he is unaware of the feelings you have for him.”
“Indeed he is, your grace! Sir William did nothing to encourage me. He is the kindest, bravest, most chivalrous kn—”
“I gather,” said the queen. “Now take this glass, and look at yourself. Do you really think he would not care to be your husband, would that he could?”
Alice dutifully looked in the mirror, as the ladies studied her in turn. Alice's hair was still gold, and with some help, it could have been even more so. Her eyes were the color of cornflowers, and the several children she had borne Warwick had not adversely affected her figure. Whenever an artist illustrated a romance, he drew a heroine who looked much like Alice, and Alice knew this as well as anyone else. “I—hope he would, your grace.”
“How could he not? Now, Countess, instead of bursting into tears whenever someone mentions marriage, you must let your Sir William la What's-his-name—”
“Zouche,” said Alice firmly.
“You must let him know you care for him. When he comes to fetch you, as I will make sure he does, you must smile at him like this.” The queen demonstrated. “You must send for him as often as possible, with questions about your estates.”
“Indeed, your grace, I have many questions about my estates. I am not sure my steward is as able as he used to be.”
“Then you must ask Sir William to set him straight. And each time he comes, you must smile at him as I have demonstrated. Just enough to remind him that he is a man and you are a woman, in case he needs reminding. And then you must ask him about himself, for men love to talk about themselves. Even Edward does.”
“He was in the Scottish wars with the first Edward. I will ask him about that.”
“Indeed, you must. Now. In August you will have been widowed for a full year, and then you must take off that dreary black dress of yours immediately and wear light blue, say, to match your eyes. And you will wear that whenever you send for Sir William, which by then should be quite often. And I tell you, it will work.”
“You think so, your grace?”
“I am certain of it.”
Back at Loughborough, Eleanor waddled from room to room, feeling rather sorry for herself. One of the last items of business at Lincoln had been the appointment of Lancaster to head the king's council, a duty the earl had graciously accepted. Nonetheless, when the king's council resumed business after Easter, Lancaster, for reasons that were unclear, had not joined it, but had stayed on his own lands, deigning to reply to letters from the king but otherwise showing little interest in performing the role he had been assigned at the Lincoln Parliament. It was not lack of business in the summer of 1316 that kept Lancaster away: although Wales had been subdued, the citizens of Bristol, angry over an infringement of the city's liberties, had begun to riot, and Edward was still trying to raise cash to fund a Scottish campaign. With Lancaster playing truant schoolboy, Edward had placed his reliance mainly upon the Earl of Pembroke, who had not swerved from his role of faithful subject since Warwick's treachery in regard to Gaveston. Yet an older and even more faithful friend than Pembroke had not been forgotten either. In May, Hugh le Despenser the elder had been invited back to court, albeit in a rather indefinite capacity, and his son had joined him. So Eleanor was facing a lying-in without Hugh, and it did not help her spirits to recall that just a month after her Easter visit to court, the Countess of Hereford, who had given birth time after time without incident, had died in childbirth.
“Eleanor?”
Eleanor started, then sniffled. “Elizabeth! What a sight you are to my eyes! I have been here feeling lonely and sorry for myself, as you can see, but no more. I am so glad to see you.”
“I am glad to hear it. But why are you feeling sorry for yourself?”
“Pure foolishness, Elizabeth. Hugh is at court, and he may not come in time to be with me when my child is born. But I am in the best hands, and it is merely me being a fool. I should be glad he and my father-in-law are no longer unwelcome at court. Now, tell me. Can you stay a while? Or are you merely passing through?”
“We are passing through, but I hope you will let us stay the night. I wanted to break our travel here, because I think I was rude to you when you visited me in Bristol.”
“You were preoccupied,” said Eleanor cheerfully. “An elopement scheduled, and your elder sister arrives unexpectedly! What a nuisance I must have been.” She paused. “Elizabeth, it was an elopement, wasn't it? You were not— er—forced into this marriage, were you?”
“No, Eleanor. Theobald and I became acquainted not long after John died, and we had talked over marriage for some time. We were planning to ask for a license. But when the king recalled me from Ireland, I was fearful that he would marry me to one of his friends, and I did not want to be parceled out in that manner. So I got word to Theobald, and he arranged to take me from Bristol Castle. You know the rest.”
“And I thought you were over at Bristol Cathedral praying!”
“We did stop to admire it,” admitted Elizabeth.
“So yo
u have not become completely impious.” Eleanor smiled. “I hope you are happy in your marriage, Elizabeth?”
“Very.”
“Then let me meet your husband, immediately.”
Theobald soon joined the sisters. Despite his association with Lancaster, he was very much unlike the dour earl, and they spent a pleasant evening together. Eleanor and Elizabeth were both musical, and Eleanor being the better singer and Elizabeth the better lute player, they sang and played several duets for Theobald, who was a most enthusiastic audience. When the newly-weds left the next morning, Eleanor watched them go with regret, for it was the most relaxed evening she had ever spent with her younger sister, one that she hoped might lead to more such.
Eleanor gave birth to a girl, Joan, several weeks later, and soon after, in August, the queen, lying in at Eltham, gave birth to a boy, John. The latter birth had the effect of coaxing the Earl of Lancaster off his estates, for he at the queen's request stood as one of the sponsors to the new prince. But before the good news from the queen reached Eleanor, before Hugh had written her a loving letter and ordered that she receive a handsome sum to buy new robes for her churching, another letter had arrived. She read it, unbelieving, and crossed herself, and then she whispered, “Poor Elizabeth,” and began to cry.
“Nelly?” her sister-in-law asked.
“Oh, Bella, it is so sad. Theobald de Verdon is dead. He died from a fever he caught while traveling.”
“Gentlemen! Look about you! Are your ladies accounted for? Good! Then let us dance!”
Rob Withstaff's jest might have fallen flat had the wedding guests been more sober, but as large amounts of wine had flowed since Hugh d'Audley and the Countess of Cornwall were married in the chapel of Windsor Castle that day of April 28, 1317, everyone laughed most heartily, Hugh le Despenser the younger as hard as anyone. He then ran his hand down Eleanor's robe, inspecting her contours so minutely and publicly that she swatted him. “Hugh! You are drunk.”
“Merely following the fool's orders, m'dear. And you are not precisely a model of sobriety yourself either, sweetheart.”
Hugh had good reason to celebrate. On April 17, the king and his council, which these days included both Hugh and his father, had at last ordered that the Clare inheritance was to be divided between the late earl's three sisters, the Countess of Gloucester's claim of pregnancy having finally been rejected. It would be months before clerks determined which sister was to have which land, and what was to be held by the widow in dower, but for all intents and purposes, Eleanor, Margaret, and Elizabeth were rich women now. Eleanor herself had received the news of the partition nearly as joyfully as her husband had, for if she had not asked to be given a fortune, God had willed otherwise, and it was high time that Maud stopped interfering with this divine edict. She had not been in the mood to pay heed as her wine cup was filled again and again, and now she laughed and let Hugh's hands rove where they would.
There were several significant absences at the wedding—or weddings, since a much younger couple, William de Montacute's son John and one of Theobald de Verdon's daughters, had also been married that day. The Countess of Gloucester, needless to say, had not been invited. More of interest to the guests, and the cause for much of the fool's jests, had been the absence of the Earl of Lancaster, whose wife had been abducted by the Earl of Surrey only days before. As the Earl of Surrey was securely ensconced with his mistress, everyone believed that the abduction was intended only to harass the Earl of Lancaster. There were even rumors that at a meeting held in February, Warenne and the king, and perhaps Audley, Damory, and the Despensers, had plotted the escapade. The Countess of Lancaster, whose relations with the earl had been barren in all senses of the word, settled down quite happily on one of the Warenne estates.
Damory was at the wedding, but his bride-to-be, Elizabeth de Burgh, lately widowed of Theobald de Verdon, was not. Despite the wine she had ingested, Eleanor winced when she thought of her sister. Soon after Theobald's death, Elizabeth had found that she was pregnant. Unable to return to Ireland safely, and as yet not assigned her Verdon dower, she had elected to spend her confinement at Amesbury priory, where her aunt Mary, the king's older sister, lived a very uncloistered existence. There she had been visited by the king, who urged her to marry Damory. When Elizabeth proved unwilling, the king had enlisted the aid of both the queen and Mary. At last, Elizabeth, shortly after giving birth to a daughter, had agreed to the match. As a sweetener, the king had offered to pay for Elizabeth to take a pilgrimage of thanksgiving for the safe birth of her child. She was accompanied by Mary, a most seasoned traveler, and was to wed Damory after her return.
Finding that a bench had appeared behind her, Eleanor sank down on it and smiled as she saw the Countess of Warwick, now wife to William la Zouche of Ashby, pass by. It had taken the countess only a little more than a year after the death of Warwick to bring Zouche into a marrying frame of mind, and after duly obtaining the license of the king, the couple had wed earlier that year. Eleanor had not met this epitome of knightly virtue, but she could tell from Alice's spry walk, never seen during her years with the stern Warwick, that her new marriage was agreeing with her. And was it her imagination, or did Alice look a little thick around the waist?
The king and queen had also attended the wedding. Isabella had joined in the earliest dances, but along with the other sober and relatively sober wedding guests had yielded the floor to the rowdy. She sat at the dais speaking with the Countess of Pembroke and the Countess of Surrey, whose marital woes with Warenne were now so famous that she had not even frowned at the fool's jests about her husband and the Countess of Lancaster. The king, however, was very much part of the party. As Eleanor watched, he gave Audley an avuncular pat on the shoulder and Margaret a smacking kiss that resounded in the great hall, noisy as it was.
Eleanor wondered what was going on in her uncle's mind. It was not so long ago, after all, that he had wedded this same bride to Gaveston at Berkhamstead Castle, not so long ago that he had watched as his friend set off on the journey that would end at Blacklow Hill. Now only one trace of Gaveston could be found in the hall, the very tired little five-year-old girl nodding off in a corner, and she favored her mother, Margaret, not the dark Gascon. It was as if the brother-in-law whom Eleanor had grown very fond of had never existed. As if to reinforce her thoughts, Joan's nurse pushed through the crowd and bore her exhausted little charge away.
“Nelly, what are you thinking, sitting there looking so pensive? Or are you merely low on wine?”
The king made as if to slosh some of the contents of his own cup into hers, but Eleanor shook her head. “I have had quite enough, Uncle. I was thinking about Gaveston.”
His smile faded and he nodded slowly. “I knew you if no one else would be. Come outside with me, Niece. Now.”
“Uncle! Are you sure we should be doing this?”
The king had handed Eleanor into the rowboat deftly enough, but he was having more difficulty getting in himself. “Nelly, I could row a boat with a raging fever. I could row a boat with one arm. I could row a boat if I were blind. I could row a boat—”
“I take your meaning, sir.”
He took the oars and did indeed seem to get more sober with that very gesture. After rowing out a ways, he put the oars aside, stretched out at full length, and beckoned Eleanor to lie beside him. She obeyed, for she trusted him utterly, and let her head rest on his arm as a cushion. “Look at those stars, Nelly. What do you see?”
“They are very beautiful, Uncle.”
“Aye. But what do you see?”
“Well—stars.”
“So do I, now. But I used to be able to see Piers's face in every one of them. Now I can't unless I am blind drunk.”
“I was looking for it tonight in his little girl, Joan. In Margaret.”
“Joan was too little when he died; she never knew him. Margaret—I used to see it in Margaret's. But she no longer cares for him, does she, Nelly?”
“No,
Uncle.”
“I knew it.”
“Do you see his face in Damory's? Audley's? Montacute's?”
“No. I have tried so hard to see it there, Nelly. So hard.” He absently stroked her hair. “These marriages had to take place; if your sisters were not married to men I could trust, like your Hugh, there would be sure disaster. And Audley and Damory deserve your sisters; they have been loyal to me. But I wish to God I had not come to this wedding.”
“I know, Uncle. But you have not forgotten him, and that is all that counts.”
He lay beside her so quietly for a while that she thought he had drifted off. Then he said, “But this was our favorite thing to do as boys, and as men. What you and I are doing now, rowing a boat at night with the moon sparkling on the water. And tonight I think I can see his face in yours—a little bit. Thank you, Nelly.”
They lay there in silence, and Eleanor shut her eyes, listening to the water sounds around them. Finally, the king stirred, gently moving his arm from beneath Eleanor, and found that his niece was fast asleep. He took off his cloak, draped it over her, and rowed back to whence he came, but when he came by the castle, he kept rowing. He would not be a witness to the dreaded bedding ceremony where another man took possession of the woman who had once been Piers's.
Only after an hour or so more had passed did he return to the mooring spot by Windsor Castle. Hearing no more sounds of revelry in the distance, he secured the rowboat and looked down at his sleeping niece. Nelly, he thought, I lied to you. There is one face in which I can see Piers's, and it is driving me mad. How much longer can I resist?
And there the face was, waiting at the dock. Fear and worry had sobered Hugh le Despenser. “Your grace! 'Tis my Eleanor. She was last seen heading in this direction with you. Have you seen her?”
The king pointed toward the bottom of the boat. “My apologies, Hugh. She wished to go for a ride in my rowboat—and so did I.” He stepped out of the boat, making room for his nephew by marriage to climb inside.
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