The Traitor's Wife

by Susan Higginbotham

  “He would prefer to get his lessons from a knight, I suppose,” said Grey amicably.

  William, who had been knighted when John de Grey was still in diapers, considered mentioning this but on reflection thought better of it.

  It was Lady Hastings, who having had suitors between her three marriages had a better idea of what was passing in the men's minds than did Eleanor herself, who finally called matters to a halt. “Nelly, don't you think we should be leaving now? I believe if we did we could get quite far.”

  “Yes,” said Eleanor. “I am eager to be moving on.” She smiled. “When I am settled, I hope I shall have the honor of showing each of you hospitality.”

  Not, William and John each devoutly hoped, when the other man was within a hundred miles of Glamorgan.

  Lady Hastings, worrying that some fortune hunter might recognize the Lady of Glamorgan and abduct her, had arranged for her sons, Hugh and Thomas, and her household knights to escort them to Glamorgan. Their presence had the added advantage of giving Edward, who would be fourteen in a few months, some sorely needed male company.

  With him occupied with his cousins, and the little ones being tended in their lumbering cart, Eleanor could ask as they rode along, “Bella, did you ever think of marrying again?”

  This had been a subject much on Bella's mind, though not with herself as the reference. “I have thought of it, Nelly, but I doubt I will. I miss Ralph too much. In any case, at my age and after Father's execution there are certainly no men begging for the privilege.”

  “There ought to be, my lady,” said Amie warmly. “You are certainly pretty enough still.”

  Bella tapped her damsel on the cheek affectionately. “So are you, my dear, if you would let me find you a proper match.”

  “I like it as I am,” said Amie.

  Bella said gently, “What of you, Nelly? You have been widowed a year and a half now. Do you think of remarrying? It would be no disrespect to Hugh if you did.”

  “Goodness, no!”

  Amie looked slyly at Eleanor. Lady Hastings had sternly bid her to hold her tongue about the subject of Lady Despenser's knights, but as Eleanor had brought up the subject herself… “Lady Despenser, what about Sir John and Lord Zouche?”

  “What about them, child?”

  “I believe they want to marry you.”

  “Marry me! What nonsense! Lord Zouche has merely been kind to me, no more, for chivalry's sake. That Sir John barely knows me.”

  “He knows full well that you are Lady of Glamorgan,” muttered Gladys.

  “And you were looking lovely at court today in your green dress,” Bella added.

  “I told all of you this morning, I wore that dress for Hugh. It was his favorite, and I thought he would like to see me in it when I got my lands back, instead of those drab blacks.” Eleanor's indignation mounted. “Really! Cannot a man even talk to me without you three thinking I am about to marry him?”

  Isabel, who had been riding beside the cart holding Edmund and his nursemaid, trotted up now. “Isabel! Have I said or done anything that makes you think I wish to remarry?”

  “No, Mama,” said Isabel loyally. She added, “But I would not be angry if you did, Mama, truly. I know you must be lonely.”

  Exasperated at her companions' utter insensitivity and thickheadedness, Eleanor made a sound that was very much like an oath and urged her horse into a canter. “Remarry!” she told the palfrey indignantly as she broke away from the other women. “As if it were just a matter of getting a new one of you!”

  The palfrey let out what Eleanor thought was a sympathetic neigh.

  As they moved west they passed through Stratford-upon-Avon, a pretty but plodding little town that could boast of only one distinction: It was the birthplace of the present Bishop of Winchester. Which, in Eleanor's biased opinion, was hardly something to be proud of.

  From this forgettable hamlet they moved to Evesham, where Hugh and Bella's grandfather had been slain so many years before by royal forces that had included Eleanor's own father. He had been buried at the nearby Evesham Abbey. Lady Hastings went to visit his tomb by herself and came out weeping. “I could have buried Papa in the abbey close by him, if the queen had let me,” she said later as they headed toward Eleanor's manor of Tewkesbury. “It would have pleased him and done her no dishonor.”

  Their moods lightened, however, as they neared Tewkesbury, where Gilbert, goggle-eyed, made the stunning discovery that the green fields and rolling hills they were riding on belonged to Eleanor. “This is ours, Mama? Ours?”

  “Yes, Gilbert, by the grace of God.”

  Edward said superiorly, “And this is nothing compared to what Mother owns in Wales.”

  Gilbert could express his feelings only by whistling in disbelief. Smiling at him, Eleanor could not but wish that her husband had been as easily satisfied.

  Tewkesbury was the first of Eleanor's manors that she had visited since regaining her land, and when she arrived at the manor house at Tewkesbury, not far from the Abbey of St. Mary the Virgin, she half-expected to have to force her way in, the king's order notwithstanding. The keeper, however, handed over the keys to her readily, if sullenly, and she moved into the great hall. Save for some trestle tables, benches, and chairs, and the supplies the keeper and his men had brought in for their own needs, it was bare, though once the walls had been hung with tapestries and the window seats fitted with cushions. They and everything else of any value had long vanished, seized either by the common looters who had swept through the Despenser estates during the queen's invasion or by the royal looter Isabella herself. Though Eleanor had expected as much, still she could not keep the tears from her eyes when she remembered how welcoming the great hall had once looked. “We shall make it handsome again someday,” she said finally. “But what is that commotion outside?”

  “Your tenants, Aunt Eleanor,” said Hugh de Hastings. “They want to swear their homage and fealty to you.”

  “And,” said Lady Hastings, “I am sure some of them want to take service with you.”

  The great chair in which the lord of the manor habitually sat had disappeared with the other furnishings, but the small, battered stool sitting in a corner would do. Edward, following Eleanor's gaze toward it, carried it to the dais at the other end of the hall and dusted it with his own sleeve. Then Eleanor took a deep breath, walked across the room, and sat on it. “I am ready for them,” she said.

  “Hugh did this?”

  The Abbot of Tewkesbury nodded as Eleanor walked slowly down the ambulatory that had been built behind the high altar at Tewkesbury Abbey. Off the ambulatory lay a series of chapels: St. Catherine's Chapel, St. Faith's Chapel, St. Dunstan's Chapel, St. Edmund's Chapel, St. Margaret's Chapel, and the finest and largest of all, the Lady Chapel. “He paid for the improvements, my lady, and he had very strong ideas of what all should look like, too.”

  “I am sure he did,” said Eleanor, smiling as she remembered Hugh and his endless letters to John Inge. “I only hope he did not drive all of you mad in the process.”

  “Close to it,” the abbot admitted. “But it was well worth it. Your lord husband was most generous.”

  “He never told me about these chapels, and they are so beautiful! Simple, yet elegant. Oh, he did tell me he had given the abbey a bit here and a bit there…” Eleanor's voice wandered off. Only three months before his death, Hugh had arranged for the abbey to receive a large donation of land, in exchange for the monks praying for Hugh and Eleanor's good estate during their lives and their souls after their deaths. Could Hugh have foreseen that his soul would soon be in need of such prayers?

  The abbot shrugged. “Perhaps he wanted to show you when it was completed, my lady. He always did speak with the greatest respect of your ladyship and your great ancestors. And as you can see, there is still work to be done. We had planned to rebuild the choir, but late events—”

  “Yes, I see.” Eleanor followed the abbot into the gloomy Norman choir and by the hi
gh altar, where her father, her brother, and her sister-in-law were buried. How Hugh would love to see her finish what he had started! “It could be made so much lighter and brighter. The roof could be raised—windows put in—the ceiling painted…”

  “Exactly along the lines of what we monks and your lord husband were thinking.”

  “Then let us continue it, Abbot! It will be a while before I can be as useful as I would like, for I must put my estates in some order, and it will be some time before my revenues begin coming in. But when that happens, what is mine shall be at your disposal.”

  “I thank you for your generosity.”

  “And it will be a memorial, also, to my dear husband. It may be the only one he is ever allowed.” Eleanor fingered the purse that hung from her waist. It was full of coins, her own and the florins that she had stolen from the Tower. She had planned to dispose of the florins at the next abbey she visited, but this too was a worthy cause. She took a handful of them and gave them to the abbot. “In the meantime, I hope this will help in finishing what has already been started.”

  The abbot had to stop himself from whistling as he did a quick calculation. “Yes, my lady, it certainly will.”

  Eleanor's entourage had grown in Tewkesbury. Several men, younger sons from families who had been on good terms with Hugh, had joined her household as knights. The great hall had been crowded with applicants of the humbler sort as well, eager for the benefits of taking service with a great lady, even one tainted by her husband's treason. Her progress through Gloucestershire had not gone unnoticed, then, and when she arrived at St. Peter's Abbey in Gloucestershire, the abbot himself greeted her by name. After making the usual observation that he was glad to see her freed from the Tower—Eleanor had begun to wonder whether criminals received similar congratulations when they got out of jail—the abbot said, “You are here to see the late king, I suppose? Follow me.”

  He led her near the high altar, where she saw a line of pilgrims patiently waiting their turns to approach the grave. She looked up at the abbot. “I—”

  “You wished to be alone with your uncle?”

  “Yes, very much.” She took a coin out of her purse. “I will not be long. If they could enjoy a good meal in the meantime—”

  “I will arrange it.”

  The pilgrims having dispersed good-naturedly enough, Eleanor approached the grave, marked by nothing but the wooden effigy that had adorned the hearse. “Ned,” she whispered, and sank down beside the effigy, weeping. Finally straightening up, she wiped her eyes and put her hand on the effigy's. “Ned—Uncle—I hardly know what to call you now. All I know is that I love you, very much, and it is good to talk with you finally.” She smiled. “I should like to talk to Hugh too, you know, but it is harder. If I were to talk to him on the bridge for any length of time, I would be dragged off as a madwoman, or back to the Tower. But perhaps you are together now, so I really am speaking to both of you.

  “If I had known for certain when I said good-bye to you in London that I would never see you again, you and Hugh and his father, I would have said so much. But perhaps I would have done no more than make a fool of myself, so it is just as well.

  “Have you seen my mother? She was always dear to you, I know. And my stepfather, I miss him so. When I think of how they braved my fearsome grandfather for love, I always take strength by their example.

  “I know you were glad to see Adam. Your children here—I think they all grieve for you, but they cannot really show it. I know that is the case with John. Edward, well, I feel so sorry for him sometimes. He will have to defy his mother and Mortimer sooner or later, and then what will happen? But he has his sweet new wife, and she will be a support to him. You would have liked her.

  “Ned, I worry about my eldest son so much. I miss my little girls, but I know at least they are safe from harm. But Hugh—he is in Mortimer's hands somewhere. I pray to every saint there is for his safety daily. If you have any power to help him, I know you will.

  “Speaking of the saints, I have been hearing that miracles are said to happen at your tomb, that you are another saint yourself. With all due respect, Ned, I cannot believe that; I know you too well. And I do not think that I could love a saint as well as I have loved you.

  “Be that as it may, I have kept these good people from you too long, so I will go. But I did not want to pass through Gloucester without reminding you that you are dearer to me than anyone besides Hugh and my children, and that not a day goes by without me praying for you.”

  She touched her fingers to her lips, then to the effigy's lips, and stood just as the abbot came discreetly into her line of vision. Eleanor opened her purse and handed her remaining florins to him. “Thank you for taking such good care of my uncle's grave, Abbot.”

  He bowed in thanks. “We were much honored to receive his body for burial. Someday, we hope to have a tomb more suitable for a king.”

  An elderly woman prayed at the gravesite, then left her offering. From her vantage point, Eleanor could distinctly see a fish tail poking out from beneath the cloth. She pictured such a gift being left at her grandfather's tomb at Westminster and began smiling. “I believe my uncle might be quite happy with his present arrangements.”

  Though William la Zouche would have liked to have made a trip to Glamorgan after Parliament closed, his presence was required at Hereford, where Mortimer married two of his bevy of daughters to two of his bevy of wards, one of whom, young Thomas de Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, was Zouche's stepson. From there, Zouche still in tow, the royal party traveled to Ludlow Castle, where Roger was anxious to show off the improvements he had made.

  Roger had indeed worked hard on his castle, adding a chapel and decorating the existing rooms lavishly. For most of the guests, however, the real interest lay not in Mortimer's gorgeous tapestries and silver plate but in watching Mortimer and his lady. At his daughters' wedding in Hereford, Mortimer had for once stood beside his wife and at a respectful distance from the queen. Rather to everyone's disappointment, he continued this good behavior at Ludlow, sitting beside his lady at meals and leading her about at the dance. Only Lady Mortimer and her own attendants knew that he did not come to her bed at night, and if she was perturbed by this, she was too dignified to let it show. The queen, on the other hand, plainly disliked having her paramour's attentions directed toward his lawful wedded spouse, and no matter how lively her time in bed had been the night before, came down to the great hall in the morning with a sour face.

  Aside from the sport of watching the adulterous lovers, there was good hunting to be had at Ludlow. William la Zouche, preparing to ride out with the others, was walking out one morning when he was stopped by a guard. “Sir. You are Lord Zouche?” William nodded. “There's a prisoner in here who wants to speak to you, if you would give him a moment of your time.”

  He led Zouche to a cramped room at the top of a tower. William winced as he saw Hugh le Despenser. He was much thinner than when Zouche had seen him at Caerphilly, and his clothes had worn areas in some spots and plain holes in others. Both his ankles and wrists were shackled, and it was plain from his pallor that no one had taken him outdoors lately. His face brightened, though, when he saw William. “Zouche! So you are here, after all. I'd hoped you were one of Mortimer's houseguests.” He beckoned Zouche forward and whispered, “Could you give the man something for his pains? I've nothing, and he's been decent to me.”

  Zouche pulled out a coin, and Hugh smiled in thanks. “So how was the wedding, Zouche? I was very hurt that I was not invited. A Despenser would have livened things up considerably, I'm sure.”

  “How long have you been here, Hugh?”

  “Mortimer had me moved here from Caerphilly about the time the king died. I suppose he didn't want any of the king's South Welsh allies setting me free.”

  “Does he treat you well?”

  Hugh shrugged. “I've a fire when it's cold, and the food's edible. I'll be getting new robes in midsummer, if I can stomach putti
ng on the Mortimer livery. Actually, Mortimer's never visited me himself, and I can stand to postpone the pleasure if he can. His lady's come a few times, though. When I was ill in the winter, she brought me one of her herbal remedies, and it fixed me up well.” He frowned. “You won't tell Mother I was ill, will you? It was nothing, just an ague.”

  “No, Hugh, of course not.”

  Hugh hobbled toward his window. “So have you seen all of the improvements? They've kept me well entertained, I'll tell you, watching the workmen come and go. Have you been to his chapel? He had it built to celebrate his getting out of the Tower, the guards told me. In honor of St. Peter ad Vincula, on whose feast day he escaped. Not my favorite saint now, I'll warrant you.”

  “You heard your mother is free?”

  “Yes, Lady Mortimer mentioned it. Do you think she'll be allowed to visit?”

  “I doubt it,” William said honestly. “But I will tell her where you are, and perhaps they will let you read a letter from her, at least. I'm sure she will send some provisions for you, and I will make sure she knows to send plenty to you so the guards can have their share.”

  Hugh laughed. “Maybe the other way around! But the guards aren't a bad lot, most of them, though with Mortimer here they've been made to shackle me. Once he moves on they'll probably take these things off and let me take a walk outside. Lady Mortimer said she'd show her falcons to me once her lord was gone. She likes falconing, and so do I.”