The Traitor's Wife

by Susan Higginbotham

  Eleanor had thought little of it when William caught a bad cold. Since his last Scottish excursion in the summer and fall of 1335, he had been prone to chills in winter, and usually some rest in bed, combined with soup and an herbal remedy Eleanor had learned from Sister Gwenllian at her last visit to Sempringham, put him on the mend quickly. But this time was different. She was sleeping soundly next to William on the third night of his illness when he croaked, “My love.”

  Eleanor turned to her husband and touched his arm. He was burning with fever. “William! Good God!” Her scream brought William's squires in the adjoining room to their feet. “Get him a physician!”

  But there was nothing the physician, or Eleanor, or even the local wise woman whom she called in as a last resort, could do. For days William drifted in and out of consciousness, sometimes speaking coherently, sometimes speaking deliriously, always breathing with the greatest difficulty. Eleanor sat clinging to his hand, hoping to pull him back to health from sheer force of love. But on February 28, he came to himself after a long period of delirium only to say, “My love. I named you my executrix in my will a while back. There's no need to change that, is there?”

  “No, William.”

  “And you will bury me at Tewkesbury? In the Lady Chapel?”

  “Yes, William.”

  “Maybe in a tomb not quite so elaborate as Hugh's…”

  Hugh's tomb contained dozens of niches, the largest for intricately carved figures of Christ and the Apostles, the smaller ones for figures of various saints. The figures surrounded a recess in which Hugh's armor-clad effigy stared rather complacently upward. William had not let Eleanor hear of his opinion that Hugh needed all of the saintly intercession on his tomb he could get, but Eleanor had somehow guessed it. She half-smiled. “All right, William. But surely it is too early to worry about these things—”

  “I should like to make my confession now, my love.”

  The children—Alan, hers, and little William—had all been summoned home, and when William had been shriven she led them into his chamber. The Despenser children hung back a little as the Zouche children and Eleanor went to the head of the bed, but William said weakly, with a smile, “All of you. I want to say good-bye to all of you.”

  One by one, each of the children went to William's right side as Eleanor wept quietly on his left. William managed a few words for each. When all had done, he lifted his right hand with an effort and patted Eleanor on the cheek. “Don't cry, my love.”

  “I can't help it, William. I love you so much.”

  “Is your lute nearby?”

  Startled out of her tears, Eleanor replied, “I suppose so.”

  “Have someone fetch it, and play and sing to me as I sleep. It will make me happier than anything I know, to hear your sweet voice.”

  Hugh left the room and returned with the lute, which he placed into Eleanor's hands. Obediently she played and sang love song after love song, her voice quavering at first, then gaining strength. She started to sing a song she had not sung in years. It had been one of her husband Hugh's favorites; strangely, it had been Isabella's and her uncle's too. How odd! She faltered, started singing it again, never taking her eyes off William. He had been smiling all along, first with his eyes open, then with them shut, and now she saw that he was asleep. She let her voice trail off and leaned over to put her cheek next to his. “My love?” she whispered. “Oh, my love!”

  How long she sat there weeping over his body, she never knew, but the room was dark when she let Hugh help her to her feet. “Come, Mother,” he said gently, a husky edge to his voice. “You must rest now.”

  The king had called Parliament for that March—William had been summoned—and as word got out at Westminster of William's death, the condolence letters began to arrive at Hanley Castle, where Eleanor had gone to stay. Dressed in the black robes she had worn to Hugh's funeral, she listened listlessly at first as a clerk read the letters to her and her eldest son. Then she frowned as he began to read one bearing a particularly impressive seal. “The Countess of Gloucester?”

  “That is Aunt Margaret, Mother. The king created Hugh d'Audley Earl of Gloucester at Parliament. He created six earls—William de Montacute is the Earl of Salisbury, William de Clinton is Earl of Huntingdon—”

  “Earl of Gloucester! Why, Hugh d'Audley was nothing but a traitor to my uncle, who loved him so dearly that he married him to Margaret, and what has he done for the present king to be made Earl of Gloucester? My father's and my brother's title to be given to that upstart, who has no Clare blood! When you—”

  Hugh said, “I know what you are thinking, Mother, that I am your father's eldest grandson and should have been given the earldom, but that will never be, Mother. Not with Father's history.”

  “But you have served the king loyally! Every bit as loyally as that Audley creature! And Edward has been so stingy with you—only those little manors of yours, and those not even for you to hold in fee. Just because you are Hugh le Despenser's son!”

  She fumed a little longer. Hugh, though he himself had been chagrined to hear of Audley's earldom, consoled himself with the thought that the news had at least temporarily roused his mother from her grief over William. “I suppose that is solely why Margaret wrote to me, to show off her new title. Countess of Gloucester!” She muttered under her breath, “Bitch!”

  Perhaps she was too roused. “All right, Mother. What's the next one say?”

  “From Lord Thomas de Berkeley. His condolences on your loss, et cetera. Oh, my lady, and he wishes to see you next week. He knows your grief is fresh, and will only trouble you for an hour or so. He and his wife.”

  William la Zouche had served on commissions with Lord Berkeley over the past few years, and the two men had gotten on well enough, but their wives, Hugh le Despenser's widow and the Earl of March's daughter, had never met. Eleanor shrugged. “Tell him he may come at his earliest convenience. I am not leaving here anytime soon.”

  The Berkeleys arrived two days later, accompanied by their seven-year-old son, Maurice, who stood fidgeting between his parents as they expressed their condolences once more to her. John had gone to be a squire in the Earl of Warwick's household, where Gilbert still was, but Elizabeth and little William were still at home with Eleanor, and they joined her in greeting the Berkeleys. “Elizabeth, William, perhaps you can show Master Berkeley the new puppies while we talk.”

  “Yes, Mama.” Elizabeth led the boys away. Lady Berkeley said nervously, “She is a pretty child, and your youngest looks like a fine boy too.”

  Would Hugh or Edward have believed that one day she would be sitting in her chamber with Edward's jailer and Mortimer's daughter, politely chattering about their children? Perhaps they would have found it amusing. But it was time for her to admire Maurice. “Your son is well grown for his age, my lady, and quite well behaved. Many lads would have recoiled from a girl!”

  “I would have been sorry to have seen him do so,” said Lord Berkeley, with a gesture as if getting to the point. “The truth is, my lady, it is your daughter we have come about. We would like to see our son marry her.”

  “Marry?”

  “It's a suitable match, don't you think? There's a little age difference, but it won't matter much once they're in their late teens. And Maurice is a bit old for his age.”

  “It is not the age difference, or your son, Lord Berkeley. It is—my uncle Edward. I loved my uncle, Lord Berkeley. I loved him more than any man besides my husbands and my sons. And he died in your care. He was murdered. I know that you have been acquitted in Parliament of blame, but how could you not have known what was meant?”

  Margaret de Berkeley was staring at her feet. Thomas said, “Lady Despenser, all three of us have been prisoners at one time or another, if you count my wife's being confined to Shoreditch Priory as imprisonment, as I certainly do. Those were hellish times for all of us. I've done things to be ashamed of; perhaps you have too.” Eleanor thought of the jewels and John de Gre
y, and flinched. “I've told of my role in your uncle's death to my confessor, and I've been doing penance for it.”

  “And marrying into the Despenser family is part of it?”

  “As matter of fact, it would be, if you allow it. Think of it: The children of this marriage would have Roger Mortimer for a great-grandfather and Hugh le Despenser for a grandfather.”

  “I can think of no one who would dislike to hear that more than my husband and Roger Mortimer,” said Eleanor dryly.

  “My daughter, Joan, is to marry Thomas de Haudlo. We obtained the papal dispensation on the ground that I sided with the Earl of March and he sided with your husband and father-in-law and that the marriage would promote the peace.”

  “You are serious about this, aren't you?”

  “After all, my lady, you married the man who captured your husband and besieged your son. And I believe that you mourn him deeply.”

  “I do, Lord Berkeley. As I mourned my first husband, too, and my uncle.” She paused, thinking of her son Hugh, who appeared destined by his father's misdeeds to be a perpetual outsider in England no matter how valiantly he served the king. “But I would like to see peace between our family and others, and I am willing to consider your proposal.”

  “Only to consider?”

  “As my heir it should be up to my son Hugh to have a say in this marriage, to decide what alliances he wishes to make. He is in Glamorgan on my business and will not be back for some time. But I will write him and ask his consent. I believe that he will give it, Lord Berkeley. He does value good relations with others, and he wishes to live in the past no more than I do.”

  “Then I shall look forward to hearing from him,” said Thomas de Berkeley.

  Eleanor walked with the Berkeleys to the stables, where the canine Lord Zouche's daughter had given birth to four of the most peculiar-looking puppies Eleanor had seen. Young Berkeley had been well brought up, she noted with approval, for he thanked his young host and hostess as he prepared to go. “Master Berkeley, if your parents agree, you can take one of the puppies. They are weaned.”

  “Really?” He beamed at her.

  “I make no warranties about the size it will grow to, Lord Berkeley,” Eleanor cautioned as his son picked up the wiggling dog.

  Lord Berkeley snorted, but made no resistance as his son prepared to take his prize home.

  Hugh gave a provisional consent to the marriage, writing that he wanted to speak to Lord Berkeley in person. Which would not be soon, he added, because the king had asked him to come to Westminster.

  He arrived at Hanley Castle in early May. It was late, and he came straight to Eleanor's chamber, to find his mother huddled before the fire. Probably having one of her sad spells about his stepfather, he surmised. “Mother? I've good news. The king has given me more land! Rotherfield in Sussex, and two manors in Devon, and the reversion of five manors besides that. Plus a thousand acres of wood and some knights' fees and some advowsons. And the fee of the manors I hold now. Lands that Father held.”

  “That is good.”

  “I know it's not the earldom of Gloucester, Mother, but it's something, isn't it? It hurt me too, to see it go to Audley. But I don't feel quite so excluded now. Why, the king even asked me if I've thought of taking a wife!” Hugh laughed. “I told him that asking that was your prerogative.”

  “Yes,” agreed Eleanor. She put her head in her hands and began to weep.

  “Mother! I don't understand. I thought you would be happy.”

  “I am.”

  “Then—”

  Eleanor shook her head. “I am sorry, Hugh. It is just that I am in such pain tonight.” She lifted her head, and Hugh saw with a shock that she had aged by years since he had last seen her scarcely a month before. “So, so much pain, Hugh. I am dying, my dear.”

  She had bad days, medium days, and good days after that. On bad days, she lay in bed dosed with sleeping aids and was aware of nothing that went on around her. On her medium days, she could sit up in her chamber for a few hours before going back to bed. On her good days, Hugh or one of her men would carry her to her garden, where she would sit most of the day and be read or played to, or simply listen to the idle chatter of her damsels. They were the daughters of two prosperous local merchants and did not seem to be capable of a serious thought, but they were good company and attended her carefully.

  On her best day, Hugh took her, Lizzie, and William for a ride on Eleanor's barge. “I know you like the water,” he said simply when Eleanor, tears choking her, tried to thank him. “I wish I could get you to the sea but this will have to do.”

  “It is plenty, Hugh.”

  As Lizzie and William pestered the bargemen, Hugh settled Eleanor on a pile of cushions with a basket of provisions nearby, although Eleanor's sense of taste had deserted her recently and one food she ate was as good as another. “You are so kind, Hugh. You should really make some woman happy by marrying her.”

  Hugh grinned. On his mother's good days, she invariably nagged him about his unconscionable failure to marry. He humored her, which annoyed her, which cheered up both of them immensely. “Whom could I find who would match you, Mother?”

  Eleanor snorted. “You've used that excuse before.”

  She sat back, eating and drinking a little to keep Hugh happy, and watched the Severn as the barge moved slowly down it. “I know it is not that you dislike women, Hugh. I'm quite sure you wench about. When I visited you at Freeby unexpectedly that time, your chamber reeked of cheap scent.”

  “Nothing gets past you, does it, Mother?”

  “Very little,” she said smugly. “Do you have a bastard?”

  “No woman has presented me with a little replica of myself, so I suppose not.”

  “Well, that's something. But why waste yourself on whores when you could be married to a sweet young woman who would give you heirs? I don't understand.”

  He could not tell her that he did not want to marry until he was satisfied that his bride could carry the name of Hugh le Despenser without shame; it would hurt her too much. “One of these days. Now, Mother, tell me about the abbey again, so I will know what to tell the abbot.”

  Eleanor brightened; her remodeling at Tewkesbury could always get her off the subject of Hugh's bachelorhood. “I have decided on the windows. The east window should have Christ and the Virgin and the Apostles and the Archangel, with the Last Judgment. The south and north ones should have the prophets and King Solomon. And—I am not sure if the abbot will care for this—in the farthest windows to the north and south, my Clare ancestors who have been benefactors of the abbey. And Hugh and William. Do you think he would allow it? They would be looking quite respectfully on; not trying to usurp the holy men.” She giggled. “Not even your dear father would be that bold.”

  “I am sure he will—the abbot, that is.”

  “I want you to make sure it all is completed.”

  “I will, Mother.”

  Lizzie and William drifted back over, and Eleanor put an arm around each of them. Hugh, she knew, had given himself the unhappy task of telling her two youngest children, both of whom were still mourning her husband William, that she was soon to die. They snuggled close to her as the four of them traded family anecdotes back and forth. Then Eleanor grew weary of sitting, and Hugh took her to the cabin where he had had a bed made up for her. When he came back, William had gone back to bother the bargemen again, but Lizzie was sitting where he had left her. “Mama says that I will be going to the prioress of Wix soon, for more education. And she said that my aunt Elizabeth de Burgh has invited me to stay with her for a while.”

  “Has she? That must have pleased Mother. It has made her sad not to be on better terms with our aunts.”

  “They were not friends for a long time, were they, Hugh?”

  “No, they were not, but it was not really their doing. It was their husbands'. Mostly our father's, I am afraid.”

  “Was our father a bad man, Hugh? I have heard people say so.�
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  Hugh sighed. “He did some very bad things to get land and money, but he had his good points too. He was clever and witty and loving to us and Mother. He could be generous when it suited him, and he was faithful to his king to the end.” He shook his head. “It's hard for you because you never knew him. You'll hear all of the bad, and you won't be able to attest to any of the good. But trust me when I say there was good in him; more good than you'll ever hear.”

  “Do you ever wish you didn't carry his name, Hugh?”

  “Lord, yes! Every single morning I woke up in prison I wished my name was George the baker's son. Once I was free I even thought of running off to Italy, just to get clear of the past. But instead I decided to stay and make what I could of my name, and we must all do the same. We will be a proud family again.” He laughed. “And now I will stop speechifying.”

  He did. Elizabeth lay back, looking thoughtful. She was by far the best-looking member of the family, in Hugh's opinion. Her serious dark eyes were relieved by very long eyelashes, and her hair, curly like her mother's and dark like her father's, fell in a thick mass to her shoulders. “Hugh? Is it true I am to marry little Maurice de Berkeley?”

  “Yes, when you are a little older. It will be a couple of years before you go to live with the Berkeleys; they have agreed to that.” He patted Lizzie's head. “Sweetheart, I know it is a little daunting, but your mother and I think it will be a good match for you. And for both our families as well.”

  “I understand. But I am still a little afraid, Hugh.”

  Hugh started. How much had she heard of what had happened in Berkeley Castle? William la Zouche, bless the man, had kept Eleanor from hearing the details all these years, but had some dolt been gossiping around his little sister? “Afraid of what, Lizzie?”

  “Maurice is still a little boy. He will throw frogs at me, I know, and wave spiders in my face. I hate things like that.”