The Traitor's Wife (52 page)

The next morning, an offshoot of the mob killed Stapeldon's treasurer at Holywell. Overnight, however, the mob had acquired a rather more organized, military quality, and it assembled and armed at Cornhill. From there, it marched to the Tower.

Save for the drugged Edward and Eleanor's youngest children, no one in the Tower had slept. Eleanor had spent the night in thought. With six young children of her own in tow, plus John of Eltham, she could hardly escape on land without attracting notice. She had considered an escape by boat, but this would require help, more help than Eleanor dared to ask of any man now. With escape not an alternative, there were only two choices: to resist or to surrender.

At dawn, she changed into her simplest gown, not wearing any jewelry but her wedding ring and a crucifix. Into her shift, and those of her ladies and ten-year-old Joan, she had sewn knives, ready to hand; in case someone tried to rape her or any of them, he would get an unpleasant surprise first. These preparations made, she waited. At about ten, the knock came. “You are still determined to do this, my lady?” asked Weston.

“Yes. I will not have any more good men dying if I can help it.”

Her nerve nearly failed her once when she arrived at the gate and saw the crowd without, separated from her by only a few bars. It nearly failed her again when she was recognized. “Why, would you look here! It's the Lady Despenser. Ain't it?”

From the back someone called, “Two thousand pounds for her head, mates!”

“That's her husband, you fool. The lady's worth nothing.”

“Not bad-looking, though. She ought to be worth a pound or two, eh?”

“Give her a tumble and let us know!”

Eleanor's anger revived her flagging courage. “If there is someone here who can speak rationally, without stupid threats or taunts, I will speak to him. If not, there are enough archers in the Tower to shorten life for more than a few of you. It is up to you.”

After a long pause, a rotund, expensively dressed man pushed forward. Eleanor recognized him as Benedict de Fulsham, a rich pepper merchant who also supplied wine to the court. He was shaped not unlike a pepper himself, Eleanor had often thought, and looked rather incongruous carrying a sword. “You may speak with me, my lady.”

“Very well. What do you want?”

“The prisoners here released.”

The prisoners. There were nearly a score of them, Eleanor knew. Roger Mortimer's sons, transferred to the Tower the day before the king had left the city. Llywelyn Bren's widow and her sons. Young men, most of them, knights or with knightly training, who would all be of use to the queen. But their release could hardly make things worse for the king, Eleanor thought. “What else?”

“The queen's younger son is here. Is he not?”

“He is here, and if anything happens to him all of you will answer to it on Judgment Day. And I think you have quite a bit to answer for already.”

Benedict coughed. “We intend no harm to the boy, my lady. He must swear an oath of loyalty to the city, that is all. And he will be named its guardian, pending the arrival of the queen.”

“Or the king,” said Eleanor coolly. “Is that all you want?” Benedict nodded. “Very well. I will tell you my conditions. John of Eltham is in my charge, and shall remain here until one of his parents sends for him. You must guarantee his safety. And that of everyone else in here. Including my children and myself. And there shall be no looting here. You take your prisoners and leave.”

Benedict stepped back and conferred with a group of respectable-looking men. At last, he stepped forward. “Agreed, my lady.”

“Very well.” She turned to the guards standing nearby. “Release the prisoners.”

Bit by bit the prisoners began appearing, to the delight of the crowd. As each was let out, he was made by Benedict and the others to swear, on a relic someone had produced, the same oath that the mayor had sworn. She watched as they milled around, basking in the congratulations of the crowd and planning God only knew what.

“Where is the queen's son, my lady?”

“I will get him. Pray excuse me.”

Slowly she climbed the stairs to John of Eltham's chamber. She and her charge had already spoken earlier that morning, and she was not required to give him a long explanation. Still, he balked. “Lady Despenser, I do not want to swear the oath. They say your family are the king's enemies! I can't swear to hurt you, my lady!”

“No one shall ask you to hurt me, John. Swear it, and it should soon be done with. The Lord will know that you acted under duress, and understand.”

John's eyes were full of worry, but he at last shrugged. “All right. I'll do it.”

Eleanor watched as the ten-year-old boy, standing on a crate someone put up for him, swore to uphold the liberties of the city and to ally with it in its great mission to destroy the enemies of the queen. Only when the mob, stronger by the addition of the Tower's prisoners, had dispersed did she sink to the cobblestones, weeping.

In her chamber at Gloucester Castle, Queen Isabella was having a splendidly royal tantrum, and it was not because the castle was in rather poor repair. It was because of what sat near the entrance to the chamber: a basket containing the Bishop of Exeter's head, a present from the Londoners that had just arrived by a fast-riding messenger. “Those fools! Do they not know how they are jeopardizing our cause? All our work, all of our planning and now—this!”

“Now,” said Adam de Orleton, Bishop of Hereford, suavely, “let's not panic. Really, your grace, I doubt that his death will be held against you. Rather, it will be said that it is the king's lamentable misgovernance that has brought our great city of London to this pass.” Orleton paused and added rather smugly, “And it cannot be denied that he
was
unpopular as a tool of the Despensers, your grace.”

Bishop Orleton himself had had a hard time of it in England since Boroughbridge, for Edward had suspected him of sympathizing with his leading parishioner, Roger Mortimer, and later at conniving at his escape. Brought to trial, he had claimed ecclesiastical privilege. Though much of his goods and lands had been seized, he had been allowed to exercise his episcopal office. Just weeks before the queen's invasion, he had performed a burial at Wigmore Abbey: that of Roger Mortimer of Chirk, who had at last died in the Tower. Then, hearing of the queen's arrival, the bishop had hastened from Hereford to lend her his support.

Though Orleton had joined the queen's cause only days before, he had already proven invaluable. At Oxford, he had preached a wonderful sermon, taking for his text Genesis 3:15: “I will put enmity between thee and the woman, and between thy seed and her seed; it shall bruise thy head.” No one, it was true, had quite followed the twistings and turnings of the bishop's exegesis of the text, under which the head was that of Hugh the younger, “her seed” young Edward, and “the woman” the queen, and some might have foolishly interpreted “thee and the woman” to mean that Orleton himself would put enmity between the king and the queen, but the point about the head being bruised had been understood perfectly and exceedingly well received.

Isabella, however, was not in the mood to be easily comforted, even by the helpful bishop. “And they said that—thing—was an offering to Diana! Such pagan drivel, when they know that I am a good daughter of the Church!”

“What counts,” put in Mortimer, “is that we know now that the Londoners are on your side.” He flipped open the lid of the basket, shook his head, and flipped the lid down again. “And I am very glad they are, that's for certain, for I would rather not have them against us. A bread knife?”

Isabella relaxed a little. “And my younger son is safe? Are you certain?”

“The messenger was quite emphatic. He has been named guardian of the city, and is remaining at his apartments at the Tower until you send for him. Nominally, John de Weston is the constable of the Tower still, but everyone who goes in and out is being very closely watched by my allies.” Roger chuckled. “Including the king's little niece, Lady Despenser.”

“Fool woman! I cannot believe she surrendered the Tower without putting up a fight. I always did take her for a ninny, but I would have thought Nephew Hugh would have coached her better.”

“Which brings us back to where we should be. Now that we know how the wind is blowing in London, let us press on westward and do what we came here for in the first place. And when people see Hugh's head on London Bridge, they won't care a fig about this meddling bishop's.” He jabbed a finger at the basket.

“True,” said the queen, greatly cheered. Then she frowned. “Bishop Orleton, what
should
I do with that—thing?”

“Take it with us, in a pickle barrel, and when the time is right, send it to Exeter Cathedral to be buried with all honor,” said Orleton. “I suppose the body's in London still; if so, it can be retrieved and sent there too.”

“Excellent,” said Isabella with a smile.

On October 18, the queen and her forces arrived at Bristol, where the citizens threw open the gates in welcome. Only Bristol Castle, under the control of the Earl of Winchester, resisted. On October 20, the king, Chancellor Baldock, the younger Hugh and his son, and a handful of others boarded a small boat at Chepstow, hoping to reach Despenser's Lundy Island, from which they would set sail for Ireland. But the very elements of nature had turned against them, and despite fervent prayers to St. Anne from Hugh's confessor, the wind refused to change. On October 25, the king and his men, exhausted and famished, gave up and disembarked at Cardiff.

Lately, the king's daughters, eight-year-old Eleanor and five-year-old Joan, had had to put up a great deal with the vagaries of grown-ups. First they had been dragged from Marlborough Castle to Bristol Castle, with only the vaguest of explanations by Lady Hastings, who was usually most forthcoming. Then, after they had settled in comfortably into their sunny chamber at Bristol Castle, they had been moved into an interior room where they could not see so much as a seagull flapping by. They could hardly sit in the dark, of course, so they had to use candles, candles, candles, all day long and all night until they went to bed. And yet, up to a week ago, Lady Hastings, while by no means stingy about the matter, had been very careful not to use too many candles.

And then there was all the whispering, all the conferences between Lady Hastings and her papa the Earl of Winchester and Donald of Mar, all the messengers going back and forth, all the
mystery
. It could mean only one thing, Joan had decided: Papa had found a husband for Eleanor. “They moved you here so you could meet him,” she explained. “The Earl of Winchester and Donald of Mar are seeing to it for Papa, you see, because he is so busy in Wales now.”