The Traitor's Wife (35 page)

From Eleanor's point of view, however, things had ended happily indeed. Edward, now under pressure to perform homage to the French king, Isabella's brother Philip, elected to enter into a truce with the Scots, though not until after the latter had conducted harvest-time raids into several English counties that left them devastated. Hugh the younger was one of those appointed to negotiate with the Scots; while he was away in December 1319, Eleanor gave birth to a girl, whose name, Eleanor, was shortened to Nora by common consent. As for the queen, any fright she might have experienced at her near-capture by Douglas was compensated for generously by the king, who upon his return to York had presented her with jewels and other fine gifts in recognition of her ordeal.

With the Scots settled for the time being, and Lancaster once again avoiding the king, the court's attention turned to France. Queen Isabella's father, King Philip, had died in November 1314, a victim, it was thought, of the curse of Jacques de Molay. His eldest son, Louis, had reigned less than two years before dying of a fever. Louis's infant son—he had a daughter also, but a woman could not rule France—reigned for five days before dying himself. He was succeeded by Louis's brother Philip, who since that time had been pressing his English brother-in-law to do homage. Edward, beset by all of his other problems, and never caring for paying homage to begin with, had stalled, but in June 1320, he and most of the English court crossed the Channel into France.

Eleanor joined her uncle on the trip. Her initial reluctance to return had been much allayed by the reflection that Isabella's dreadful father was no more, and besides, Hugh was going also. His father was already in France, having been one of those sent ahead to negotiate with the French king.

As the English proceeded to Amiens, people and horses both gloriously bedecked, Eleanor watched as Hugh and the Earl of Arundel rode a little ahead of her, talking earnestly yet apparently amiably. She pursed her lips. Since Gaveston's death, Arundel had played little part in the disputes of the realm, but he had been loyal to the king. Lately, he had made a point of being cordial to the Despensers. Yet Eleanor could not quite like him, for she could never forget that he had been one of the men who decided that Gaveston had to die, or that the earl had stayed away from the Bannock Burn when Eleanor's brother had gone at such a cost.

There was no “not quite” about Eleanor's not liking Arundel's lady wife, however. Alice, the Countess of Arundel, was the sister of John de Warenne, and unless the Earl of Surrey begat a legitimate child, which seemed most unlikely given the fact that he and Joan of Bar were never seen together, it appeared that Alice would be his heir. The Earl of Surrey had a certain rakish charm, but Alice was haughty and cold, so much so that Eleanor found herself pitying the Earl of Arundel after all.

Hugh, in the meantime, had slowed his horse down and was looking behind him, obviously with the intent of letting Eleanor catch up to him. The earl had moved away toward his own wife. “The Earl of Arundel and I have been discussing a little business, my dear,” said Hugh, smiling at Eleanor as their horses moved together. “What say you to a wedding?”

“A wedding, Hugh?”

“Between our Isabel and his eldest son.”

Isabel was eight years old, and the earl's son, Richard, was probably about the same age. Although Eleanor knew perfectly well that children of that age often married each other, consummating their relationship years later, the thought of this happening to little Isabel nearly put Eleanor out of her saddle. Recovering, she said, “Hugh! Surely this could wait until they are older?”

“Why?” said Hugh practically. “It's not as though they will be setting up their own household any time soon. I didn't mention it, but I am sure the earl will be agreeable to Isabel staying with us for a few more years instead of going to live with them.”

“Isabel is not ready for marriage. She is shy; you know that, Hugh.”

“Not marriage, but a wedding; two very different things. And I daresay that the prospect of being a countess will make her a bit less shy. Who knows, she may then be trying to take precedence over you.” He tweaked Eleanor's coiled hair. “Until, of course, I make you a countess.” He saw Eleanor's downcast face and said, in a lower tone, “The truth is too, Eleanor, this alliance would be good for us, Arundel being a Marcher lord. The more allies we have in that area, the better.”

“What do you know of this boy?”

“Richard? Nothing. I daresay he is a perfect horror; most boys that age are, my love. I certainly was; ask Father. But when he is fourteen or so, I've no doubt he will be quite presentable.”

“Like his father? Hugh, you know I don't care much for Arundel. After Gaveston and the Bannock Burn—”

“Arundel's made his peace with the king on those scores, so you should too. After all, he could have sided with Lancaster in all of this recent business. He didn't.”

Eleanor sighed. “When shall this wedding take place, Hugh?”

“We were thinking early next year, perhaps February.”

Up ahead, the Arundels were talking too. Eleanor could glimpse the countess's face; she looked even more unhappy than Eleanor. Hugh laughed. “I daresay Arundel is having a hard time making his lady accept a match with the upstart Despensers. He did say that she was hoping to marry the boy off to an heiress.”

“Upstart! Your family is as good as theirs, and as for mine—how dare that woman oppose the match?”

Hugh grinned, having guessed accurately as to how Eleanor could be worked round. “So will you agree to the wedding, sweetheart?”

Eleanor looked at the Countess of Arundel, who even from a distance was visibly fuming. “Certainly, Hugh.” She thought of Isabel, still sleeping each night with her doll, and amended this. “If she continues to live with us until she reaches a suitable age.”

“So it shall be, my love. Now what shall you wear?”

“Mowbray? Gower? So many
ow
sounds. Slow down, Hugh dear. You are confusing me.”

Parliament was in session that fall of 1320, and the king and Hugh were at Burgoyne, a retreat that the king had built for himself, much to the dismay of the monks, in the precincts of Westminster Abbey. On the outside, it resembled a peasant's cottage, albeit that of a very comfortably off peasant, with a roof thatched by the king himself. On the inside, it was as comfortable as any of the royal manors, with fireplaces, garderobes, a well-equipped kitchen, and several chambers, the best of which the king and Hugh were in.

Edward had started constructing Burgoyne shortly after his departure from York. The work, on which Edward had often lent a hand, had helped solace him after this latest Scottish fiasco, and its completion had much raised his spirits. It was only after he had seen the last of its furnishings moved into place that it had occurred to him that this would be a perfect place to meet Hugh, who for all of his ardor in private was the most discreet of souls in public. Instead of padding through Westminster Palace, dogged by the eyes of servants, petitioners, courtiers, and relations, Hugh could slip on the monk's habit he had thought it prudent to acquire, walk over to the abbey, and let himself into the cottage. There, in the weeks after the court's return from France, he and the king had spent many happy hours, sometimes making love, sometimes playing chess, sometimes laughing over one of Hugh's anecdotes. He had a boundless supply—about the other barons, about his pirate days, even about his children—and the king loved to listen to them.

On this occasion, however, Hugh had arrived at the cottage tense and irritable. “Mowbray has moved into Gower!” he had said as he took off his habit.

The king had clucked his tongue. “Lie down, dear one, and let me knead your back for you. And you will tell me all about it.”

Only two other people in the world—Gaveston and the queen—had enjoyed one of the king's back rubs, and not even the queen had ever refused one, not because of the king's royalty but because of his technique. Hugh lay down and closed his eyes as the king positioned his hands on his back and began to knead expertly. Despite his annoyance, Hugh was all but purring when he said, “Mowbray, of course, is William de Braose's son-in-law. Braose put Gower up for sale some time ago, as you will recall.”

“Yes, you seemed intent on purchasing it.”

“And so I was. But now this Mowbray has taken it upon himself to enter upon Gower and claim it for himself, on the basis of a grant Braose made to him, with a remainder to the Earl of Hereford! Lower, please. Thank you. Ned, it would have been perfect to have Gower!”

“What if I took it into my hands?”

Hugh started up. “On the grounds that it was alienated without a royal license? That'll not sit well in the March; the Marcher lords claim there is no need for such a license there.”

“I know that, my love. I am king, you recall; I am forced to know such things, though I don't dwell on them. But what if I took Gower into my hands regardless?”

“You would do that for me?”

“I would do anything for you,” Edward said quietly.

Though Hugh had become the king's lover mostly out of expediency, partly out of curiosity, he had found himself, as the months passed, becoming more and more attached to Edward. With those words of the king's, signaling his willingness to alienate every other Marcher lord for Hugh's sake alone, Hugh's last defense crumbled. He had often wondered why Gaveston, against all reason, had come back from that last exile of his to stay, and now he understood fully. “I love you, Ned,” he said, amazed to find his voice trembling. “I'd do anything for you, too.”

“You have done all you ever can for me, by saying those first four words and meaning them.”

They lay embracing each other by the fire for a long time, too joyous to speak.

Rob Withstaff, the king's fool, had arranged the Christmas fare on his plate in the shape of southern Wales. “Glamorgan,” he indicated, taking a large bite. “It went down well enough. Dryslwyn and Cantrefmawr. A little harder to digest. Wentloog—stuck in the throat. Gower—why that the Marcher lords just couldn't swallow!” He made a series of dreadful choking noises and ran from the great hall, to titters of nervous laughter. When he returned, it wisely was to juggle.

Eleanor watched him from her seat at the high table, with the king, the queen, the Earl of Chester, the king's half brothers, the king's sister Mary the nun, both Hugh le Despensers, an unescorted Joan of Bar (the Earl of Surrey, a devoted family man, spent Christmases with his family, albeit not his legitimate one), the Earl of Arundel and his countess, and Ralph de Monthermer and Bella. Nearby sat a host of other minor barons and their ladies. At a table prudently placed some distance away sat the king's younger two children and their attendants, flanked by other noble children, including those from the Despenser family.

The Earl of Pembroke would certainly have joined the rest at the high table, but he was in France, having been widowed in September. He was there not only to take care of some of his late wife's affairs but also to look for another bride, for the earl had lived for nearly half a century without producing a child, but still had hopes. The Countess of Gloucester had died that year also, taking her reasons for claiming pregnancy for three years with her to her resting place at Tewkesbury Abbey. The abbey was in Despenser country now, for it had been part of the countess's dower lands. It had now reverted, along with many other English manors, to Eleanor and her husband.

Hugh d'Audley, furious over the seizure of Gower, had left the court in December. Roger Damory had elected to spend Christmas elsewhere. Lancaster had not come to Parliament and would certainly not come to the Christmas court. William de Montacute had died the previous year during his service in Gascony, leaving behind him a son of the same name. All in all, it was a depleted court, though a determinedly cheerful one, that celebrated Twelfth Night in 1321.