The Traitor's Wife

by Susan Higginbotham

  “Now,” said Adam de Orleton, Bishop of Hereford, suavely, “let's not panic. Really, your grace, I doubt that his death will be held against you. Rather, it will be said that it is the king's lamentable misgovernance that has brought our great city of London to this pass.” Orleton paused and added rather smugly, “And it cannot be denied that he was unpopular as a tool of the Despensers, your grace.”

  Bishop Orleton himself had had a hard time of it in England since Boroughbridge, for Edward had suspected him of sympathizing with his leading parishioner, Roger Mortimer, and later at conniving at his escape. Brought to trial, he had claimed ecclesiastical privilege. Though much of his goods and lands had been seized, he had been allowed to exercise his episcopal office. Just weeks before the queen's invasion, he had performed a burial at Wigmore Abbey: that of Roger Mortimer of Chirk, who had at last died in the Tower. Then, hearing of the queen's arrival, the bishop had hastened from Hereford to lend her his support.

  Though Orleton had joined the queen's cause only days before, he had already proven invaluable. At Oxford, he had preached a wonderful sermon, taking for his text Genesis 3:15: “I will put enmity between thee and the woman, and between thy seed and her seed; it shall bruise thy head.” No one, it was true, had quite followed the twistings and turnings of the bishop's exegesis of the text, under which the head was that of Hugh the younger, “her seed” young Edward, and “the woman” the queen, and some might have foolishly interpreted “thee and the woman” to mean that Orleton himself would put enmity between the king and the queen, but the point about the head being bruised had been understood perfectly and exceedingly well received.

  Isabella, however, was not in the mood to be easily comforted, even by the helpful bishop. “And they said that—thing—was an offering to Diana! Such pagan drivel, when they know that I am a good daughter of the Church!”

  “What counts,” put in Mortimer, “is that we know now that the Londoners are on your side.” He flipped open the lid of the basket, shook his head, and flipped the lid down again. “And I am very glad they are, that's for certain, for I would rather not have them against us. A bread knife?”

  Isabella relaxed a little. “And my younger son is safe? Are you certain?”

  “The messenger was quite emphatic. He has been named guardian of the city, and is remaining at his apartments at the Tower until you send for him. Nominally, John de Weston is the constable of the Tower still, but everyone who goes in and out is being very closely watched by my allies.” Roger chuckled. “Including the king's little niece, Lady Despenser.”

  “Fool woman! I cannot believe she surrendered the Tower without putting up a fight. I always did take her for a ninny, but I would have thought Nephew Hugh would have coached her better.”

  “Which brings us back to where we should be. Now that we know how the wind is blowing in London, let us press on westward and do what we came here for in the first place. And when people see Hugh's head on London Bridge, they won't care a fig about this meddling bishop's.” He jabbed a finger at the basket.

  “True,” said the queen, greatly cheered. Then she frowned. “Bishop Orleton, what should I do with that—thing?”

  “Take it with us, in a pickle barrel, and when the time is right, send it to Exeter Cathedral to be buried with all honor,” said Orleton. “I suppose the body's in London still; if so, it can be retrieved and sent there too.”

  “Excellent,” said Isabella with a smile.

  On October 18, the queen and her forces arrived at Bristol, where the citizens threw open the gates in welcome. Only Bristol Castle, under the control of the Earl of Winchester, resisted. On October 20, the king, Chancellor Baldock, the younger Hugh and his son, and a handful of others boarded a small boat at Chepstow, hoping to reach Despenser's Lundy Island, from which they would set sail for Ireland. But the very elements of nature had turned against them, and despite fervent prayers to St. Anne from Hugh's confessor, the wind refused to change. On October 25, the king and his men, exhausted and famished, gave up and disembarked at Cardiff.

  Lately, the king's daughters, eight-year-old Eleanor and five-year-old Joan, had had to put up a great deal with the vagaries of grown-ups. First they had been dragged from Marlborough Castle to Bristol Castle, with only the vaguest of explanations by Lady Hastings, who was usually most forthcoming. Then, after they had settled in comfortably into their sunny chamber at Bristol Castle, they had been moved into an interior room where they could not see so much as a seagull flapping by. They could hardly sit in the dark, of course, so they had to use candles, candles, candles, all day long and all night until they went to bed. And yet, up to a week ago, Lady Hastings, while by no means stingy about the matter, had been very careful not to use too many candles.

  And then there was all the whispering, all the conferences between Lady Hastings and her papa the Earl of Winchester and Donald of Mar, all the messengers going back and forth, all the mystery. It could mean only one thing, Joan had decided: Papa had found a husband for Eleanor. “They moved you here so you could meet him,” she explained. “The Earl of Winchester and Donald of Mar are seeing to it for Papa, you see, because he is so busy in Wales now.”

  “Silly, that wouldn't explain this awful room.”

  Joan glared at her embroidery hoop. “It is because,” she finally said triumphantly, “you are going to be living in a dark place.”

  The girls were still debating this issue, mentally and with each other, on October 26, when Lady Hastings sat listening to them say their lessons to their governess. So lost was she in worry that she did not hear her father's voice at first. “Come with me, Bella,” he repeated.

  He took her into his chamber. “I have decided to surrender.”

  “Why?”

  “It is hopeless, my child. The men will not fight; they have told me so. That leaves you and me and the king's girls and all the ladies here to hold the queen and Mortimer off with their army. I don't care for the odds.”

  “There is Donald of Mar.”

  Donald of Mar, a nephew of Robert Bruce, had been taken hostage as a youth by the first Edward and had been raised at court. After the Bannock Burn, it had been arranged that he would be returned to Scotland, along with Bruce's wife and other relatives, in exchange for the English hostages. At the last moment, he had flatly refused to go, having developed an unshakable loyalty to the second Edward.

  The earl shook his head. “Papa! Surely you cannot mean that even Donald of Mar has deserted us.”

  “No. I sent him off. He may be able to persuade Robert Bruce to come to the king's aid, if all else fails.”

  For an Englishman to speak of getting assistance from the Bruce was desperation indeed. Hugh paced about the room. “Bella, I did think of holding out anyway, of fighting to the last gasp. Of making a grand gesture. But that would jeopardize my grandsons' lives, perhaps, and in any case I feel too old for grand gestures.”

  Bella said bitterly, “Hugh has brought you to this.”

  “Yes, he is at fault. So am I. I tolerated much that I should not have, and participated in things that I should not have. We are both to blame. Don't be bitter with him, Bella.” He saw her unrelenting face and said urgently, “He needs your prayers desperately.”

  Bella was silent for a while. She looked at the rich gown and jewels she wore, some the gifts of her doting father, some the gifts of her doting husbands, but others the gifts of a brother she had always loved and who had always looked out for her. Finally, she said, “Of course I will pray for him, Papa.”

  He put a hand on her shoulder. “I sent a message out a little while ago. I made certain that your life would be spared, that you would not be shut up. They agreed. You will be kept under guard while they look for your brother, but after that you will go free. Caring for the queen's children isn't treason, after all.”

  “And your life?”

  Hugh shrugged. “It's been a long one, my child.”

  Bella began sobbing. Her father went
on calmly, “And now I have a secret to tell you. Are you hearing me?”

  She nodded bleakly.

  “You have a younger brother, a bastard. I sired him some years after your mother died.”

  Bella looked up, shocked out of her tears. “You?”

  “I don't recall taking Holy Orders, my dear. His name is Nicholas, named after his mother's father. He lives with his mother in Litlyngton. She was not a young woman when I met her, but a widow of many years. I was rather surprised to hear of our child, having thought she was past her time, but there is no doubt that he is mine.”

  “All these years I would not have guessed. But Father, why didn't you tell the rest of us? I would have welcomed him as our brother, and I am sure Hugh would have too.”

  “Hugh knows. I should have told you girls, but in truth, I felt too much of an old rooster doing so.”

  “Papa! What silliness.”

  The earl blushed. “His mother wants him to be professed as a monk. I think that is fitting.”

  Bella asked, “Does he know you are his father?”

  “Yes. I have seen him and Joan quite often. When I am gone I would like you to see them and say good-bye for me. I have left plenty for their support, but I want you to give them my love.” He touched Bella's hand. “Your sister-in-law Eleanor will be in sore need of kindness from you too, if the worst happens.”

  “Do you think there is no hope for Hugh at all?”

  “Things are different now than in '21 when our enemies were divided. It would take a miracle, and I think miracles are in short supply these days, save at the tomb of the Earl of Lancaster.” He gazed out the window, where the tents of the queen's army were visible in all directions. “But perhaps the circumstances have made me overly pessimistic.” Hugh pressed Bella's hand gently. “Your sons will grow to be fine men, I think, and so will your brothers' and sisters' sons. And you and your sisters and my granddaughters and Eleanor have been the lights of my life. Don't mourn overlong for me.”

  Bella put her head on her father's shoulder and wept as she had not wept since she was a child of five. When she had at last quieted, her father said gently, “Wash your face, and get ready to take the girls to the queen. I am going to find my confessor.”

  She obeyed, and a few minutes later was back in her charges' chamber, smiling at the little girls.

  “Come,” she said lightly. “I know someone who wants to see you very much, who is waiting outside for you. Can you guess?”

  “Eleanor's husband-to-be!” said Joan triumphantly. But Lady Hastings looked so baffled by this reply that Eleanor ventured, “My brother John?”

  “No! Your brother Edward. And your mama.”

  “What! They are back from France!”

  “Yes.”

  “But no one told us! Why, Lady Hastings?”

  Bella's tone grew lighter yet. “So it would be a big surprise for you, of course.” She smiled. “I am afraid I may be losing you, though. Your mama will want you with her, so I must give you up.”

  Together they walked over the drawbridge, presenting a weirdly domestic scene: Eleanor and Joan running ahead trying to glimpse their mother, the Earl of Winchester and his daughter walking arm in arm, Bella's ladies and the girls' attendants trailing uncertainly behind. However much the queen might have liked to give her attention to Hugh le Despenser, kneeling and offering his sword in surrender, Eleanor and Joan's exuberant greetings prevented this, and when Edward hesitantly put his hand out for the sword, he too was overwhelmed by his little sisters. It was Henry, Earl of Leicester, who at last had to step forward and accept Winchester's surrender.

  “Where shall we take him, your grace?”

  Take him? Eleanor and Joan frowned, for suddenly everyone around them looked very grim.

  “To a cell,” said the queen. “We try him first thing tomorrow.”

  “It was not a mere manner of expediency, I assure you. I did wrestle with my conscience.”

  In the great hall of Bristol Castle, where Queen Isabella's leading men had assembled after the Earl of Winchester had been hustled away, Robert de Wateville was sitting next to William la Zouche of Ashby, Wateville's face gloomy because of his aforesaid conscience, Zouche's face gloomy because this was by no means the first such conversation he had had with Wateville.

  Wateville had cause for guilt. Till the very moment of Isabella's landing, he had been trusted by both the king and Hugh the younger, and just months before, the king had paid part of the expenses of his wedding—to Lady Hastings' daughter. Discovering her son-in-law in the midst of the queen's men who had arrested her father, the mild and gentle Lady Hastings had spat on him, had called him a Judas, and had been about to attack his face with her elegantly manicured nails when she was yanked away by one of the Hainaulters. “But what else could I do, Zouche? I sincerely think the queen is justified in her actions.”

  “I do too. Despenser has gone beyond all bounds in his greed for land and money. England will be better for the steps we are taking.”

  Wateville sighed. “Tell that to my mother-in-law.”

  Zouche, the very same man who had taken the Countess of Warwick's fancy after the death of her husband, himself had been loyal to the king. He had fought for Edward at Boroughbridge, yet since that date he had watched with dismay, and then disgust, as widows were despoiled of their dower rights, men were forced to buy their freedom by executing huge recognizances to Hugh le Despenser, and highborn ladies such as Margaret d'Audley languished in convents. He had seen, and still saw, the queen as the savior of her country, and he knelt reverently as she entered the great hall, looking fragile and vulnerable in her widow's weeds, and motioned for the Earl of Leicester to speak for her.

  It was a pity, declared the earl, but the king had deserted the realm, led out of it by the wicked Hugh le Despenser the younger. This state of affairs could not continue, clearly, so the only alternative was to name a keeper of the realm in the king's absence. Who better to fill this role than the king's own son, Edward, the Duke of Aquitaine? As one, those assembled—including Zouche, Wateville, the Earls of Kent and Norfolk, the Bishops of Hereford, Winchester, Ely, Lincoln, and Norwich, and Henry de Beaumont—agreed.

  Young Edward, at fourteen already tall and well built, then stood to acknowledge the bows of the assembled company. Looking at him, dignified and grave, yet with an appealing air of boyish shyness, Zouche was reassured that the right thing was being done. Even Wateville stopped justifying himself for the moment.

  The next morning, however, Wateville was glum again as William Trussell, accompanied by the Earls of Leicester, Norfolk, and Kent, Roger Mortimer, and Thomas Wake, tried, or made a pretense of trying, the Earl of Winchester. The regent and his mother, along with the other nobility and prelates of the Church, sat as spectators. The Earl of Leicester, although he had not much liked his ill-tempered older brother, nonetheless felt obliged to avenge his death properly, and chief among the charges against Hugh was that he had put the Earl of Lancaster to death without reason, the man's traitorous activities being conveniently forgotten. He had made a law that men (like the Earl of Lancaster) could be condemned without right of reply. He had appropriated royal power to himself. He had counseled the king to persecute the prelates of the Church. He had been such a robber that the people demanded vengeance. Despite the fact that he himself had stolen property from Winchester's manors in 1323, Trussell managed to make his voice shake with outrage.

  Winchester, like Lancaster, was not allowed to reply, and as any reply would have been worthless anyway, he listened to the charges without emotion, his eyes never leaving the faces of his accusers. Trussell rolled on, “For your treason you are to be drawn, for your robbery hung, and for your offenses against the Church beheaded. Your head will be taken to Winchester, of which you were earl, contrary against law and reason. Because you have dishonored chivalry and hung men with quartered coats, you are to be hung with your quartered coat and your arms destroyed for all time.”

>   Zouche thought he saw Winchester flinch at these last words. But his voice was level and quiet as he said, uninvited, “Would that I have had an upright judge and a just sentence. But we will look for what is not given to us in this world, in the next.”

  No one replied to the old man. Zouche found himself and others looking appealingly at Isabella, silently hoping that she would intervene and spare the earl his life. Her face was impassive as the defendant's, however, and after a moment the Earl of Winchester, head still held high, was led away.

  “If this is not the damnedest thing you have seen, Zouche. Look!”

  At Wateville's urging, Zouche looked. Standing slightly apart from the rest of the crowd ringing Bristol's common gallows was Lady Hastings, a guard on either side of her. William winced. He had been friendly with both Lord Hastings and Lord Monthermer, and had sat at many a meal with each man as he had endured good-natured, predictable jokes about his marriage to a much younger, pretty wife. Lady Hastings herself he had seen only occasionally, as neither he nor she had frequented court much. Up until now, he'd thought of her only as someone's wife, not as the Earl of Winchester's daughter, Hugh le Despenser's sister.

  “Do you think they are making her watch? I'll only anger her if I approach her.”

  “I will see.”

  He walked to Lady Hastings' side. “Surely, my lady, you have not been forced to watch this?”

  Though in her thirties, Lady Hastings was still slender and youthful-looking, albeit with a worry line etched between her eyes, and her ladies had taken the trouble to dress her with care even today. She looked at him vaguely as if not quite understanding or recognizing him, then said dully, “No. I asked to be brought here.”

  “Insisted,” offered the young guard next to her in a whisper.

  “If he were dying in his bed I would be there. I did not see a reason to make an exception for this.”