The Traitor's Wife

by Susan Higginbotham

  “Another?”

  “For years, whenever I've made love to Isabella, it's your face I've pictured.” He kissed her.

  “I never knew.”

  “Don't you remember that time on the boat, after Margaret's wedding? I wanted you that night.”

  “I didn't know.”

  “It seemed best to leave the matter lie, but you intervened. Thank you, Nelly.”

  She felt tears come to her eyes. “But you know this cannot last. It would shame my children, shame Hugh. I cannot do that to them, Ned. I have been foolish and impulsive and wrong, but I am not so bad that I can brazen this out, day after day, and feel no guilt. We must end it today, just as I started it.”

  “Yes,” he said quietly. “I think you are right.” He smiled. “Hugh loves you dearly, Nelly. What he and I do makes no difference there.”

  “I know, and I love him. And I have never had a secret from him in my life.”

  “Doesn't everyone deserve to have one secret?”

  “Mine will be that for a few hours, I loved the King of England, and it was the most beautiful few hours of my life.”

  She kissed him and started to get out of bed, but he stopped her. “Once more, for old times' sake, Nelly?”

  Eleanor hesitated. Then she smiled and rolled back into his arms.

  “So, Kent. You said you had news from your brother Thomas.”

  The Earl of Kent nodded and looked at a letter, which bore a date of July 1326. “Edward's been planning against an invasion. Thomas is to be put in charge of Essex and Hertfordshire and East Anglia—”

  “If only that fool Edward knew!”

  “Archbishop Reynolds—”

  “Edward's play-acting bishop, God help him. Go on.”

  “Archbishop Reynolds and Ralph Basset are in charge of Kent. The Earl of Arundel will have Lincolnshire. Bishop Stapeldon is to array troops in Devon and Cornwall—”

  “Stapeldon!” said Isabella. “I could spit when I hear that name.”

  “Old Despenser and Henry of Lancaster are to supervise the Midlands.”

  “Henry of Lancaster,” said Mortimer thoughtfully. “How well can he be disposed toward the king? After all, he's never inherited his brother's estates.”

  The Earl of Kent shrugged. “Edward let him have the earldom of Leicester, but there was unpleasantness between them when Henry put a cross up to the Earl of Lancaster's memory. Leicester claimed that he was only concerned for the welfare of Lancaster's soul and that the Church prayed for even heretics and Jews. Edward seems to have dropped the matter after that.”

  Isabella frowned. “Of course, Henry was married to Maud, Nephew Hugh's older half sister. That might work against us, although fortunately she's been dead for a while now.”

  “We shall just have to wait and see.” Mortimer pulled the list out of Edmund's hand to scan the other names, ignoring the Earl of Kent's frown. Since allying himself with the queen, Mortimer had a tendency to forget that he himself was not of royal blood, particularly around Edmund, who was only twenty-five and who still smarted from his humiliation in Gascony. But it had been Edmund's doing that had secretly brought his brother Thomas to the queen's side, not Mortimer's, and it had been Edmund's efforts that were now bearing fruit in the form of this letter from Thomas. He had to resist the urge to snatch it back from Mortimer, who in any case had started laughing too hard to notice Kent's irritation. “'And our lord the king himself will make his way to the March of Wales to rouse the good and loyal men of that land and will punish the traitors!' Oh, yes, he'll rouse them—to our side, particularly if he has Nephew Hugh at his side, as he must be planning to, as this charming battle plan doesn't mention him elsewhere. Why, all of South Wales would love to see Despenser hang.”

  “You yourself are not too popular with the Welsh,” Edmund reminded him quietly.

  “But it is our queen and the Duke of Aquitaine whom the people will be rallying round,” said Mortimer coolly. He stood and stretched. “Time we repaid all of this preparation with an invasion, don't you think?”

  “So what next?”

  “I go to Hainault and put a fleet together.” He turned to Isabella. “I thought of taking young Edward with me, so that he could ogle that Philippa girl he seems so taken with, but perhaps he's better off with you in Ponthieu. We don't want your fool husband persuading him to come back while your back is turned.”

  “I can manage my son quite well,” said Isabella. “I am to go to Ponthieu?”

  “Yes, and exercise your fatal charm to get us more men and cash, my darling.” He glanced at the Earl of Kent, moodily toying with his brother's now restored letter. “I would like you to assist me in Hainault, my lord.”

  Mollified by the respect in his voice, the earl agreed.

  In days to come, Mortimer and Isabella would agree: God was on their side, for how could He have sent better weather? Their fleet of ninety-five ships, half of them small fishing vessels, was simply skipping over the Channel toward the Suffolk coast.

  In their ships was an army of fifteen hundred men, many of them mercenaries, and an array of English expatriates. All but two of them were in a festive mood.

  Joan of Bar's misery was purely physical; though she crossed the Channel quite often, each journey made her as seasick as her first. Young Edward, on the other hand, though he had not inherited his father's despicable taste for rowing, was every bit as much at ease aboard ship as the king. His misery was one of the mind. First, there was the sweet Philippa of Hainault. An objective onlooker could not call the plump, dark maiden beautiful, but Edward had never met a person so utterly comfortable to be around. The misgivings he had begun to have about his prolonged stay on the Continent had been instantly dispelled by the joyous news that his mother had arranged a marriage between the two of them, in return for the Count of Hainault's military help. But the count was no fool; he was not about to send his daughter to England until the queen's position was secure; and in any case a papal dispensation would have to be obtained because Edward and Philippa were cousins of a sort. So Philippa had stayed behind in Hainault.

  Second, there was the king. Edward knew all too well that his father did not measure up to the kingly ideal set by his own father, the first Edward, and his great-grandfather, the second Henry. He was a blunderer, like his grandfather the third Henry. Yet Edward I, so the story went, had been loyal to his father Henry III, and had saved the crown for him from Simon de Montfort. Wasn't that the role Edward should be playing, the loyal son?

  His mother had told him repeatedly that their mission was to remove the Despensers from the king's side, nothing more. After that, if the king agreed to certain conditions, all would be well. Only when Edward became too persistent about learning what the conditions were had the queen, her nose wrinkling, told him the truth about the relationship between the king and Hugh le Despenser. So deeply disgusted had Edward been at that point that he had thrown his father's last letter to him in the fire unread. How could the king look real men in the face? And yet, after a few days, Edward's loathing had faded a bit. He'd always felt at ease, loved, in his father's presence. How could he dislike someone who cared for him so much?

  Third, there was Mortimer. In his more recent letters, the king had hinted darkly at some impropriety between his mother and Mortimer. Edward, especially after being told of his father's perversities, had shrugged this off; it was common for a weak king to accuse his queen of adultery if there was no other fault he could justly find with her. (Look at Louis and Eleanor of Aquitaine, he reminded himself.) But the desire that Philippa had awakened in him had made him more sensitive to the signs of it in others, and he had seen the looks his mother cast at Mortimer when she thought no one was watching. Well, no wonder, married to his father with his loathsome tastes. He would have to watch her, to make sure Mortimer did not take advantage of her vulnerability. For though Mortimer had very admirable traits—how many had escaped from the Tower of London?—and was never anything but deferentia
l to Edward, the boy was not quite sure of him.

  The Suffolk coast was now visible. Edward shook his head. Earlier that September, his father, in another of his harebrained schemes, had actually sent English ships to attack the coast of Normandy, evidently with the idea that the expected invasion would come from there. Good God, had the man never heard of false intelligence? Could he do nothing right? Surely Despenser with all of his tricks should have known better. Needless to say, the invasion had failed mightily, and whatever had become of the ships that had been sent limping back to England, they were not here in Suffolk. Neither were any others. The queen and her men would land entirely unopposed. God was with them, as his mother had said time and time again.

  But for a fleeting moment, Edward wished He might have been with his father.

  The queen landed on September 24, 1326, and progressed toward Bury St. Edmunds as if on pilgrimage, her shabby widow's weeds attracting almost universal sympathy and, more to the point, more armed men. At the abbey, she received her first windfall: eight hundred marks deposited there by the king's chief justice, Hervey de Staunton. As the king's chief justice could not be a friend of the queen, she promptly seized the money.

  Isabella had sent a letter to the people of London beseeching their support, and though she had received no reply, it was becoming clear that whoever the Londoners were supporting, it was not the king. When Edward, now headquartered at the Tower, met with the city leaders to garner their support— though he was attempting himself to raise an army of nearly fifty thousand men, only a handful had responded—he was told only that they would support Edward against foreigners and traitors, which the queen and her son were certainly not, and that they would fight only if they were able to return home by sunset the next day.

  Hugh had had much to say about the Londoners in the past few days, but his invective had worn itself out by the afternoon of October 1, when he climbed the winding stairs to the chamber that he and Eleanor shared. “Sweetheart,” he said quietly. “The king has made a decision. He and I and Arundel and Chancellor Baldock are to go to Wales. Father and Hugh will accompany us. There we shall raise an army. You shall stay here with our children"—all of them, save for Isabel, who had finally gone to live with Richard Fitz Alan as his wife, had been brought to the Tower—"and John of Eltham. It will be safer for you here. The Tower's well fortified; I've seen to that. And the Bishop of Exeter will be here to help advise you, too.”

  “When shall I join you, Hugh?”

  “Why, when the bitch is imprisoned, of course, which shall be soon. In the meantime, the Tower is in your charge, yours and the constable's. I know you'll keep it safe.”

  He was speaking as a man sleepwalking, and Eleanor was hearing him as in a dream. Hugh continued, “I've left the Tower well provisioned, in case you are besieged, and I've left you plenty of gold should you need it. But I am sure we will be back before you do.”

  Eleanor said in her half-asleep voice, “I shall help you pack what you need.”

  For the rest of the day, she rushed about superintending the packing of the three Hughs' clothes and bedding, leaving the men to worry about the armor and weapons. That being done, she wandered to the king's chamber, not in the idea that her services would be required there but in the hope that movement would keep her from thinking. She was let inside immediately, as she always was. A half-filled trunk sat near the wardrobe, and she picked up the black cap, powdered with butterflies and other beasts in white pearls, that lay on top, as if put there on impulse. She smiled in spite of herself. Only Edward himself, wonderful, foolish Ned, fleeing London to face an army of invaders, could still have made certain that his favorite cap was packed.

  “Hugh.”

  Their preparations for the morning being done with, they had gone to bed early. Eleanor was all but coiled about Hugh. She could not bear to move away from him this night, even an inch.

  “What, sweetheart?”

  “I must tell you something, just—just—” Eleanor could not go on. What she had to tell was hard enough to say, but the prefatory words just in case we do not see each other again were impossible.

  “Eleanor, is it about the king? That afternoon you and he shut yourselves up together?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Hugh, I—”

  “He told me about it months ago, love.”

  “Hugh, I swear, we have not been together since, in that manner. I was so foolish. I do love you, truly. I—”

  “I know, sweetheart. Edward knew you would tell eventually, and he wanted to spare you my anger, so he told me himself after we left Kenilworth. And I was angry for the time—very. But I cannot blame you for loving where I have loved myself, or him for loving you when I love you so much. We're a muddled bunch, aren't we, my dear?”

  A lump was forming in her throat. “Yes, we certainly are.”

  “And soon this nonsense will be over and we shall be safe, to muddle our way through the rest of our lives together. You'll see. Now come, sweetheart. Let's give me a proper send-off.”

  Not since the earliest days of their marriage had Hugh made love to her so tenderly, yet so passionately. Eleanor, tense and frightened, was slow to warm to him, but his touch finally aroused her and she was able to give herself over to him completely, feeling no emotions but love and desire. Afterward, they fell asleep for a while; then, without anything being said, they woke and made love again. Twice more they made love and slept, made love and slept, until, exhausted, they fell asleep in each other's arms and lay like that until dawn.

  “Hugh! Are you here? We must leave now!”

  It was the king himself who had barged into their chamber and was tugging on the bed curtains. Eleanor, not wearing so much as a sheet over her, grabbed for a coverlet frantically, but Hugh said good-naturedly, “You might have knocked, Ned.”

  “I beg your pardon, but we must go now.”

  Hugh shrugged and emerged from behind the bed curtains. He reached for his garments on the floor, not bothering to call for a servant.

  “Nelly, you should be preparing to see us off. We cannot delay.”

  “I can hardly dress with you standing here,” Eleanor snapped.

  “True,” admitted Edward. He sighed. “Hurry, the two of you.”

  With the king out of the room, Eleanor climbed out of bed. “Hugh, don't go.”

  “I have to, Eleanor. I explained.”

  “I know.”

  “You're making it no easier for me standing there without a stitch on. Get dressed, my dear.”

  She dressed and made a pretense of combing her hair. “I fear that I will never see you again,” she blurted out.

  “Nonsense.” Hugh took her in his arms, and she realized as he did so that he too was having difficulty controlling his emotions. He held her a few minutes, then said quietly, “It will all be well, sweetheart, I promise. Come. Let me say good-bye to the children.”

  The younger children, used to Hugh's comings and goings, woke from sleep only long enough to be kissed good-bye before yawning and rolling back over, but Edward sat bolt upright in his bed. “Let me go with you, Father.”

  “No, Edward.” Hugh ruffled his son's hair. “I need you to stay here with your mother and fend her suitors off while I am away. Like Penelope.”

  Edward did not laugh. “I am old enough.”

  “Not quite, Edward.”

  “But I am too old to be here with my little brothers.”

  “No,” said Hugh again. “I must go, Edward. Come downstairs with us and see us off.”

  Grumbling, Edward followed, to soon be joined by a sleepy-eyed John of Eltham. If Eleanor had any hopes that all would be well, they vanished when she went down to the Tower's courtyard and saw her father-in-law amid the waiting carts. Edward wore the same look of desperate cheerfulness as Hugh, but the Earl of Winchester looked more like a man of ninety than a man of sixty-four. His eyes were hopeless when he said quietly, “Good-bye, daughter.”

  “Good-bye, sir.” Sh
e embraced him and he patted her on the back in the way that Eleanor had learned long ago denoted deep attachment from her reserved father-in-law.

  “Give the children my love for me. We may be gone a while.”

  She fought back tears. “Yes.”

  Winchester saw his grandson, who in days would be twelve years old, and managed a smile. “Edward, when I return you shall have shot up another two inches, I'll wager.”

  Edward scowled. “Father won't let me go with you. He says I am too young.”

  “And so you are today, but when I come back you shall go live with me and be one of my squires. Should you like that?”

  “Truly, Grandfather?”

  “Truly. Now go say good-bye to your father. He will be hurt if you do not.”

  Edward, mollified, sprinted off in his father's direction as the old earl watched Eleanor embrace the king, then her son, then her husband. Sixty-one years ago Winchester's own mother, holding his very small self by the hand, had seen his own father off as he departed the Tower, leaving her in charge. Hugh would grudgingly admit that his memory was not what it used to be, but he had never forgotten the fine August day not long afterward when his pretty young mother, red-eyed and trembling, had snatched him and his sisters up and hurried as fast as she could to her father's house. There he learned that his father had been killed, slaughtered with the great Simon de Montfort and the rest of his followers, having loyally ignored Montfort's plea that he flee to save himself while he still could. There he learned that his mother as the wife of a traitor had nothing to live on, only what she could beg from her father, who had stayed faithful to the king. Crying as he huddled on a pallet hastily made up for him in his grandfather's small London house, listening as his mother sobbed herself to sleep, he'd wondered if he or anyone around him would ever be happy again.

  Yet the good times had come back. His grandfather had treated them kindly, and in a few years his mother had remarried, no less a personage than the Earl of Norfolk. He'd been able to inherit all of his father's forfeited lands, had become wealthy in the service of the first Edward, wealthier still in the service of the second. He'd married his high-spirited, high-strung Isabel and had sons and daughters to make a man proud.