The Traitor's Wife (5 page)

He looked at his sister, who still looked concerned. Talk about quiet obscurity! Poor Hugh might have to wait years before he got his hands on any of his own father's land, though there was the possibility that the king might give him and Eleanor a manor or two, especially as he had always been fond of Eleanor. Perhaps this concern about Margaret was due to a little jealousy? He smiled tolerantly. If Gilbert's plans with the Earl of Ulster worked out, little Elizabeth would be on the way to being a countess too. That would leave Eleanor the lowest ranking of the three sisters, perhaps a mortifying situation for the eldest Clare girl. He patted his sister on the head kindly but a little patronizingly. “Don't worry,” he said again. “All will be well.”

Eleanor and Hugh's wedding had been a dignified affair, thanks to the old king; Margaret and Piers's wedding was a merry one, thanks to the new king. All of the males, even the temperate Hugh and his father, even Edward's little half brothers, were at least tipsy. Eleanor, called on as the bride's closest married relation to give a wedding toast, herself found that her cup had been refilled more often than she thought. She had to be steadied by the ever-alert Gladys when she raised her cup, and her toast, very simple and practiced for a good hour the night before, reduced her to giggles before she was halfway through.

“Did I do badly?” she whispered to Hugh when she finished, unaware that her whisper was not much of one and that no one else was speaking.

Hugh laughed and embraced her. “You did fine, my sweet.”

She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him, long and slow, wishing nothing so much as that he would take her out of the room and to bed then and there. Someone applauded, and she blushed, recalling herself, and pulled away from Hugh. He squeezed her hand, stepped forward, and raised his cup. “Piers and Margaret,” he said, with a tender expression on his face that Eleanor would never forget, “I wish you as much joy in your marriage as I've had in mine.”

Some years before, the first Edward, widowed from Eleanor of Castile, had agreed with King Philip of France that he would marry Philip's sister and that his son Edward, the Prince of Wales, would marry Philip's daughter, Isabella. The king had made his marriage shortly thereafter, in 1299, but the prince's marriage had waited, as Isabella was but a child. By 1308, however, Isabella was twelve, fully marriageable in the eyes of the Church, and Philip was ready for his prospective son-in-law, now king himself, to fulfill his father's bargain. Leaving Gaveston in charge of the kingdom as regent, much to the disgust of the barons, and to the particular disgust of Thomas of Lancaster, the richest earl in the country, he went to France to marry and bring back his young bride.

Now he was on his way home, and Piers, in his last act as regent, had summoned the nobility to Dover to greet their new queen.

“What is she like, Piers?” asked Margaret, watching as the royal ships finally appeared in the distance. “You must know.”

Gaveston shrugged. “Can't say that I do. I don't think she and the king had exchanged so much as a letter or a gift before he went to France. She is called Isabella the Fair, because of her beauty, and that is all I have heard of the girl.”

“I am to be one of her ladies if it pleases her, have you heard, Piers?”

Piers grinned at his sister-in-law. “Quite a few times, Nelly.”

“Well,” said Eleanor, reflecting. “I am excited.”

The time dragged on before the ships finally reached the harbor. Trumpets sounded as the king and his new queen were rowed to shore. Finally, the queen's face became visible, and the crowd gasped.

Eleanor had never seen a more beautiful girl. Isabella was not yet thirteen, but she was tall for her age. Her height and her figure, which was slender but not so much so as to be unwomanly, could have allowed her to pass for a girl of fifteen or sixteen. The wind catching at her headdress revealed blond hair, more silver than yellow. She would have to get closer for the onlookers to see that she had dark blue eyes, the color of sapphires, but everyone was sufficiently near to appreciate her red lips, curled in a smile at something the king was saying, her fair, unblemished skin, and her white teeth. Her nose was perfectly straight; her neck long and slender; her cheekbones well defined. Eleanor, short and freckled, her red hair tangled by the sea breeze that had been whipping it around despite its covering, her waist already beginning to disappear in pregnancy, felt positively dumpy next to her new queen, and even her sister Elizabeth, blond and elegant like her mother, experienced a sense of diminishment.

Someone squeezed her hand and she started. “Hugh?”

“Arrived just in time, sweetheart. So here is our queen.”

“Isn't she lovely?”

He shrugged. “If you like perfection.”

Edward and Isabella stepped ashore. Though Edward was holding her hand, it was clear that his attention was no longer focused on her. He looked around him, more and more anxiously, until Piers Gaveston stepped out of the mist that must have been obscuring him. With a cry of relief and joy, Edward hurried forward, all but dragging his bride behind, and clasped Gaveston in his arms, then kissed him on both cheeks. “Brother!”

“My dear lord.”

“I have been away too long.” Between the arrivals from France and the greeters from England a hundred people must have been present, but Edward had forgotten them all. He stepped back and gazed at his friend raptly. “Too, too long.”

Isabella, standing beside the two men with admirable composure, spoke. Her clear voice, like the rest of her, was more womanly than might have been expected. “Who is your friend, Edward dear?”

Gaveston dropped to his knees as the king replied, “My dear! I forgot my manners in my happiness at being home. This is my dear friend Piers Gaveston, sweet wife. He and I have been inseparable since youth.”

Piers kissed the hand she proffered. “Your servant, your grace.”

“You may rise.” She gave Gaveston a glance and then turned to the king, who had been cheerfully oblivious to the stir his embrace of his friend had caused in the crowd, especially among his new French relations. “Introduce me to the others, dear Edward.”

Chivalry had returned to Edward in full force. “I shall do so in the castle. You must not stay here in the cold.”

He led his new wife inside the castle and was soon seated by her as his men brought group after group of nobles to pay their respects. Having finished introducing his sisters and half brothers, then a group of cousins, Edward reached his nephews and nieces. “These are my sister Joan's girls, dear Isabella. Poor Joan is dead but she has left three beautiful daughters. Margaret the Countess of Cornwall is scarcely less newly wedded than we. She is married to my dear brother Gaveston, whom you just met.”

The blue eyes were not happy, but the queen managed a civil commonplace or two.

“This is Eleanor, Lady Despenser, my eldest niece. She hopes to have the honor of waiting upon you.”

Eleanor executed a curtsey, for the first time flawlessly.

“I am sure she will please me,” said Isabella absently.

“You have met Hugh le Despenser the elder in France, of course, and here is the reason it is necessary to call him that in company, his son Hugh. They are a fine family.”

“Delighted,” said the queen as Hugh bowed before her.

“Elizabeth has come all the way from Amesbury, where she is living in my sister's convent, to see you, my dear. She shall be married soon herself, I believe.”

Elizabeth's curtsey far excelled her older sisters'.

“She is almost exactly your age,” the king added, as if offering the queen a playmate.

“Are you sure it won't hurt the baby?”

“The midwife says it is fine.
Please
, Hugh.”

“Lord, you are a hot little vixen.” He needed no more persuasion, though, and thrust into her as she stifled cries of pleasure. As the king's relations, they had been given a room in the crowded castle to themselves, but their servants were well within earshot. Somehow this gave their encounter an added zest, though Eleanor was not yet at the stage where she would admit this to herself.

“A vixen,” Hugh gasped some time later. “And I am happily married to her.”

She drowsily wrapped herself around him. “It has been so long since we have been together.”

“A week.”

“It feels longer.”

“I know. I love you so much.”

“And I love you.”

He stroked her hair and she was beginning to fall asleep when she was roused by the sound of his wry laugh. “Hugh?”

“Go back to sleep, my dear. I was only wondering.”

“Wondering what?”

He lowered his voice. “Which Gaul our poor king is sleeping with tonight, his Gascon playmate or his Parisian bride. He has so much choice now!”

Eleanor yawned. “What a rude thought, Hugh.” She drifted off again and soon was very comfortably asleep on Hugh's chest.

Edward lay in his bed, feeling the rocking sensation that one had sometimes after spending a long time on a boat, even hours after getting off. He had plenty of room to stretch, for his lovely young bride was in a sumptuously decorated chamber a respectable distance off. A pretty girl, but how young she was! He'd said good night to her with his usual affection and courtesy before going to his own chamber. Affection and courtesy were all he could manage for now. There was something almost indecent about lovemaking with a girl that young. Surely she must feel the same way.

He was tired, but he would not fall asleep. Soon his door would be slipped open, surely, and it was. He all but sobbed with relief when the familiar body climbed in beside him. “How long has it been?”