Eleanor flushed as her son left the room as noisily as possible. “I am so sorry, sir. He was not brought up to be so rude.”
“I know.”
“These past months have been very hard on him. He worshipped his father.”
“Boys that age do.”
“He has always been quiet, but now he broods and almost never smiles, although he is very good with the younger children and tries to rouse himself with them.”
“He is grieving. It is natural.”
“He was so different before.”
Eleanor seemed on the verge of tears. He changed the subject by saying quietly, “I came to pick up your letter to your son Hugh, Lady Despenser, if it is ready.”
“It is ready, and I thank you again.” She gave him a folded piece of paper. “I did not seal it, Lord Zouche, because I thought that you might have to read it.”
“There is no need.”
“Thank you.” She got the materials for sealing her letter and began to let the wax drip. “It did Edward good to write his part of the letter, I know. He is fond of his brother. He had wanted desperately for his father to take him with him, but Hugh said he should stay and help take care of me.”
“That was sensible of him. He seems a brave boy.”
“He has been so much help to me here, although I know he regards himself more as a nursemaid to the younger children than as my protector. But I am boring you with this chatter about my children, Lord Zouche. I am sorry.”
“You have not bored me at all, my lady.” What would she say if he told her that he wanted to be her protector? He took the letter Eleanor offered him reluctantly, for now there was no reason for him to prolong his visit. A thrill of delight ran through him when Eleanor said in her soft, sweet voice, “Perhaps you might stay a while, Lord Zouche? It is a treat, I do confess, to have a visitor.”
“I will be happy to stay.”
“I wish I could serve refreshments, but my cook has been lazy today.”
“I will excuse the impropriety.”
“I have been trying to remember, Lord Zouche.” William felt a thrill to hear that Eleanor had been thinking about him. “I believe you were married to Alice, the Earl of Warwick's widow?”
“I was, indeed. She was a lovely woman.”
“She spoke very highly of you before your marriage, as I recall.” Eleanor's smile had a hint of mischief in it. “She was Hugh's aunt by marriage. Warwick was brother to Hugh's mother.”
“I respected Warwick.” He paused. “For a time.”
“So did Hugh, for a time.” She shook her head sadly. “I hardly knew him. The Black Dog of Arden, Piers Gaveston called him. And he did bite.”
“Yes,” William said regretfully. “He did.”
Searching for a more cheerful topic of conversation, he noticed a basket full of sewing materials and cloth. “Even in here, you sew? You ladies amaze me.”
Eleanor laughed. “Not another infernal altar cloth, thank God!” She displayed a child-sized tunic, then set to work upon it. “There is the baby to come, of course, and the boys are growing apace, so Gladys has taught me to do plain sewing. Yet another means to support myself when I get out of here.” She glanced toward the door. “Lord Zouche, do you think we shall get out of here?”
“Yes, when time has passed.”
“And my oldest son?”
He respected her too much to offer false hope. “It is different with a man, Lady Despenser. There is always the fear that a man might raise an army.”
“Isabella managed, did she not? Perhaps you underestimate our sex.” She laughed again, then shook her head. “Not with me you don't, Lord Zouche. I don't want power or revenge. I only want to get out of here and live quietly somewhere.”
“It is a pity for your sake that your husband did not wish the same.”
“You are right. It is a pity. For my sake and for his, Lord Zouche.”
He'd gotten her angry, he saw, and it was entirely worth it to see that flash of color that turned her pale cheeks to rose. What had Hugh done to deserve such a lovable, luscious creature? Nothing! he told himself stoutly. He thought of rousing her again, but the prospect of having his visit cut short deterred him. Instead he sat quietly and watched Eleanor as she stitched determinedly, her eyes bent over her work. After a few minutes, she said, “Tell me, Lord Zouche, why did you join Isabella against the king? I don't ask to accuse you or quarrel with you. I only want to know, as you seem a good man.”
“My lady, I respect you, so I will give you a truthful answer. I believed, as did many people wiser than myself, that your husband was self-seeking and corrupt and that he shamelessly abused his power to acquire lands to which he had no right. I believed that the king had fallen so deeply under your husband's influence that he was no longer able to govern wisely or fairly. I saw widows and children being punished for real or imagined crimes of their husbands and fathers that were not of their own making—much as, I regret to say, I see that you and yours are being punished for crimes of your husband. I believed that the queen had the best interests of England at heart and that she could set it right.”
“And do you still believe she is the one to do it?”
He hesitated. “Our new king is but a youngster yet, but I believe he will prove good and just. Henry of Lancaster, the head of the regency council, is a good man.”
“You do not mention Isabella or Mortimer, I notice.” Eleanor jabbed her needle through the cloth with satisfaction, then started and touched her belly. “Ouch! This child has no respect for my abilities as a seamstress, Lord Zouche. He or she has been kicking me all morning, but that was a particularly vicious one.”
“I have been meaning to ask you if there is something I can do to assist you with—”
Eleanor's mouth twitched upward. “As you cannot make baby clothes or deliver the baby, Lord Zouche, I think not, but I thank you. Thomas Wake has promised to bring a decent midwife here when the time draws near. In any event, Gladys has helped me bring nine children into the world, eight living and one dead, and I daresay she is as good as any midwife now. We will muddle through one way or the other.”
William hesitated. “Did your husband know?”
Eleanor shook her head. “It was far too early when he left me. No, Lord Zouche, he never knew.”
William said gently, “I would not cause you further pain, my lady, for the world, but your son Edward mentioned your daughters. Where are they?”
Eleanor's voice grew hard. “I have four daughters, Lord Zouche. Isabel is married to the late Earl of Arundel's son. Where he is now and how she fares I have no idea. My other daughters are nuns. Isabella and Mortimer made that choice for them. I try to tell myself that God had some say in it.”
“I am sorry, my lady.”
“Whatever your motives might have been, Lord Zouche, you serve a vile woman. Don't let yourself forget it.”
A door banged and Eleanor composed herself as her sons hastened to the door. “It is time for our walk, Lord Zouche. Since you first visited us, the guards have been much more regular about letting us go to the garden. I have omitted to thank you for that. Will you go outside with us?”
William nodded.
Outside in the garden, Eleanor chased after John, who was headed straight toward a particularly dirty-looking mud puddle, while Edward and Gilbert began to toss a ball around. William caught Gladys as she began to follow her lady. “It is true? The girls were forced into convents? Like Mortimer's daughters?”
“Not like Mortimer's daughters. They were never forced to take the veil. My lady's daughters were. The youngest only a child of three, Lord Zouche.”
“Is it true she has nightmares?”
“Almost every night. Since the queen sent a man to tell her all the most vile details of her husband's execution.”
William shut his eyes. “That was uncalled for.”
“It was cruel and wicked, that's what it was, knowing as the queen did how fond my lady was of her l
ord. What my lady doesn't know, though, is that she was lucky. If he'd been taken to London as they planned, as the guard told me, she would have had to sit through the whole execution, I don't doubt it for a moment. And that would have driven my lady mad.”
“I doubt whether they would have been so cruel.”
“They were cruel enough to him, weren't they? No, they would have made my poor lady watch, and as it stands now, she never has a good night's sleep. I know; I share the bed with her every night, and I soothe her when she wakes. The Tower chaplain and the physician here told me that the nightmares would pass with time, but they're no better. Or at least—”
“At least what?”
“Your bringing the ring and the letter from Hugh her son seemed to help. She woke only briefly that night and started, then went back to sleep.” Gladys glared at William. “Don't you be speaking of this to my lady, mind you! She prefers not to discuss the matter.”
“I won't.”
“The worst of it was the night after the girls had been taken away to their convents—three separate ones, mind you, lest they find some comfort in each other's company. My poor lady! She told them that God had chosen them in particular to serve Him and they were to consider themselves honored and blessed. What else could my poor lady say? They finally left, with Joan of Bar their cousin—at least the queen had the decency to send them with her and not just some soldier—and we tried to carry on as normal. But that night my lady was awake every hour, screaming and crying. I thought she'd go mad, I truly did. But the next morning she was as if nothing happened, and that's the way it's been ever since.” She looked at Eleanor pulling John away from some rose bushes. “Hugh's all she had for twenty years, poor thing, all she knew. Her mother died not long after she was married, and her menfolk are either dead or shut up or not in a position to be of any help, and her sisters were loyal to their husbands, as she was to hers, not like that French whore parading her paramour before her own son the king while the old king sits God knows where.”
Gladys's voice was one that carried. “My good woman, you border on treason.”
“Ah, the rope wouldn't hold me. So I'll say what I please. But I'll have done, because I am done.”
She moved away to rejoin Eleanor.
The day was fine and warm, and from a distance William could see three tradesmen's boys, having delivered their goods, playing a spirited game of tag before they went back to their masters. Thinking of the three little nuns, shut away forever from such amusements, he turned toward the guard, who had once or twice picked up the Despensers' ball when it landed near his feet and thrown it back to the children. “Can you take them to the menagerie?”
“It is not secure, sir—”
“The little ones and the women won't escape, and I'll watch Edward myself.” He handed the guard a coin. “No harm will come of it.”
The guard shrugged, and William whistled. “Come! Let's go see the lions.”
Though the menagerie at the Tower of London was not in those days open to the public, a handful of visitors, mostly rich merchants who supplied goods to the new court and their families, had been allowed in. The approach of the five well-dressed people under guard caused a bit of a sensation, the more so as the knowing began to guess their identity, and for a moment William regretted his idea. Eleanor seemed to shrink within her robes, though Gladys, a large woman, glared with such effect that only the boldest spirits continued to stare. Gilbert and John, however, were oblivious. They ran to the cages, dragging the others along. “Look, Mama! The lion is still here. And the monkeys!” Gilbert turned to beam at William. “Lord Zouche, we went here all the time before Father went away, and then we stopped going. Have you been here before?”
“Several times.”
“It's wonderful, isn't it? Look, John, at the monkeys! See the one here? He's picking fleas off the other, to be kind. Do they have names, Lord Zouche?”
“Mortimer and Isabella,” offered Edward, so softly that no one could hear him but his mother and William.
Eleanor giggled and said in an equally soft voice, “Our Isabella here is being much too discreet.”
“Come now, you two,” William said good-naturedly. He raised his voice. “I believe they are called Samson and Delilah, Gilbert.”
“Tat!” said John, pointing at the lion.
Gladys glared at the beast. “With you out here, how come there's so many mice in there?”
“We need a cat to chase them,” said Gilbert. “Or a dog to scare them off.” His chubby face turned wistful for a fleeting moment, but just for long enough to give Zouche an idea.
Thomas Wake shook his head as he looked inside the basket Zouche bore. “And who is going to exercise this creature, Zouche?”
“Gilbert and Edward can. The guards are always stationed nearby; they can bang when they want out to walk him. Come, Wake. They're boys, for God's sake, cooped up here with two women. A dog would help them pass the time, Gilbert in particular. He's but five years old, you know.”
“Very well,” said Wake. “But don't get your hopes up, Zouche.”
“I don't understand you.”
“Despenser's little widow, Zouche. She's nice-looking enough, I'll warrant you, and amiable enough, for a traitor's wife at least. But if she gets out of here she'll either have nothing to live upon, in which case you'd be a fool to marry her, or she'll get her lands back, in which case the king will marry her off himself. Or, of course, she might take a vow of chastity. She was fair besotted with that husband of hers, you know. The guards who have taken her to the chapel say that she prays and cries for him there. No, I don't think you stand a chance, Zouche.”
“I'm not trying to marry the lady, Wake. I'm just giving her sons a dog to pass the time.”
“Oh, of course,” said Wake. He was much younger than Zouche, twenty-nine to Zouche's midforties, and Zouche was beginning to find him insufferable. With a scowl, he turned on his heel and headed toward the Beauchamp Tower, his basket barking with an indignation that matched his own.
“Have them name it William,” Wake called after him as he left. “That way, the little widow won't forget you while you're gone.”
June 1327 to September 1327
ON A RAINY AFTERNOON, EDWARD AND GILBERT LE DESPENSER SAT glumly in a window seat at the constable's hall at the Tower, while John le Despenser and their puppy bounded about heedlessly, interfering in every way possible with the meal that was being served to the garrison. “Edward, will she die?”
“No,” said Edward with a confidence he did not feel. “She had all of us, didn't she?”
“But that was before Papa died,” Gilbert said. “And Grandfather.”
“It's not contagious, Gilbert. Don't you remember when John was born? She did fine.”
“But she was hurting when we left, so badly.”
“That's what always happens, Gilbert, when a baby is born.”
Gilbert considered this for a moment. “Not with me,” he said firmly. “I wouldn't have hurt Mama.” Before Edward could contradict him, he said, “I wish Hugh were here. Don't you?”
“Yes,” said Edward. “I do.”
The door swung open and Gladys walked in. She walked slowly, for it had been four hours ago that the boys had been hustled out to the constable's hall, and she had been on her feet the entire time, but as the boys hastened to her they saw she was smiling. “You have a baby sister now,” she said. “Elizabeth. Your mama is very tired, but she is well, and she wants you to come and see her as soon as she and the baby are cleaned up a bit.”
“Take the brat to London Bridge so that the proud father can have a look, why don't you?” said one of the men in the hall, overhearing, to his mates.
Gladys, forgetful of her aching joints, would have cuffed the man, but his companions, many of whom had become rather protective of the widow and her brood, beat her to it. Edward, always alert to any slight upon his father, had heard the remark too, but for once he did not care. He could feel n
othing but gratitude that his mother was not going to die after all.
Eleanor lay behind her bed curtains as Elizabeth suckled her, making her pleasure manifest with much smacking and gulping. Never before had Eleanor nursed one of her own children, and though Lizzie's hunger for the breast kept her up at all hours of the night, her birth and her constant presence had worked more of a healing upon Eleanor than she had ever thought possible. Though she still mourned Hugh, grieved for the loss of her middle daughters, and worried about her two oldest children, the desolation that had settled over her had lifted. No longer did she cry herself to sleep every night, and her dreams—in between night feedings—were no longer something to be feared.
Lizzie ceased smacking and contentedly closed her eyes, which were slowly turning to Hugh's dark shade of brown. After burping and changing and swaddling her, Eleanor placed her in the rough cradle that two of her guards had brought to the Beauchamp Tower in May. From its ungainliness, Eleanor suspected that they had made it themselves, but her heartfelt thanks had been received with embarrassed mutters, as if she had caught the men in some indiscretion.
As her shift was the worse for wear after Lizzie's last resounding burp, she opened a trunk to get a fresh one to sleep in and gazed inside as the candlelight revealed the faint outlines of the array of gold plate and florins concealed beneath the clothing, all taken from the storeroom in the Tower. Before the three girls had been sent away, Eleanor would not even have taken an apple from someone else's tree, and yet now she must have accumulated at least several hundred pounds of stolen treasure, all of it brought to her by the faithful Tom. Now that God had brought her Lizzie, Eleanor longed to restore the goods to their rightful place, even if doing so meant that they would line the queen's own chests. But she did not want to hurt Tom's feelings or to put him to further risk, so she had simply told him that she was afraid that harm would come to him if he did not stop.
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