The Traitor's Wife (71 page)

John of Eltham rushed into the room, beaming. “Lady Despenser! I told you that you would be free, now, didn't I?”

“Indeed you did, John. Is it to you I owe it, then?”

“Not exactly,” admitted John. “I pestered my brother the king enough about it, but it was he who insisted that you go free.”

“He did?”

“My mother didn't want to let you go, I am afraid, and neither did Lord Mortimer. My mother relies a great deal on Lord Mortimer, you know.” Eleanor nodded. “I don't know why; I don't like him much myself. They said you should stay in the Tower for your own misdeeds—something about your spying on my mother and dictating what she could do with her money. But he finally wore them down. He said you were family, after all.”

“I am grateful to him, then.”

John's face turned somber. “I never did see Papa again, you know. I miss him, Lady Despenser.”

“So do I, John. Very, very much.”

They both wiped tears from their eyes. John went on, “Philippa—she lets me call her that because we are so close in age—says that you are starting back to London today. I hoped you could stay a while.”

“I would like to, John, but my children are there, you know, and now that Lady Hastings has been left with them I feel I must hurry back even faster. Gilbert will have her treating him like a very sultan. You know how she spoiled your sisters.”

“Not as much as you did me. Good-bye, Lady Despenser. I'm glad you're out.”

He hugged her and left the room. Philippa tactfully let Eleanor stare out at the window for a while. Then she said, “The king has gone hunting this morning. He has not changed his mind about the petitions you put before him yesterday with regard to your son and your husband, and it is not my place to say whether he is wrong or right in doing so. I know so little of these affairs, after all. But he did ask me to give you copies of these.”

Eleanor read the letters. They were addressed to the prioresses of Sempringham, Watton, and Shaftesbury, and informed them that the late Hugh le Despenser's daughters were to be allowed to leave the convent for visits with their relations at the prioress's discretion, just as would any other nun not under discipline, and that the girls' relations were to be allowed to visit them provided that they did not interfere with their religious duties. She knelt before the queen. “Your grace, how I can thank you for this?”

“It is the king you must thank, Lady Despenser. But he will be gone a while, so I will relay your thanks to him.”

“Then tell him I thank him from the depths of my heart.”

Gladys stared suspiciously at Sempringham priory as their horses approached it. “There are certainly a lot of men around it, my lady.”

“The Gilbertine order admits both men and women, Gladys. Sempringham is what they call a double house, but with the nuns and the canons safely divided, of course! It is the only monastic order founded in England, did you know that? St. Gilbert, its founder, came from a wealthy family, but he was crippled and could not take up his duties as a knight—” Eleanor flushed. “I am rambling, aren't I, Gladys? But I am so worried. What if they do not let me in?” Lady Hastings having sent men with Gladys to Lincoln, Eleanor had not needed a royal escort back to London. Now she wished she had the power of the royal banners behind her. What if the prioress had some grudge of her own against Hugh?

After Philippa put the letters in her hand, Eleanor's first impulse had been to go north to see Margaret at Watton in Yorkshire, then south to see Nora at Sempringham and farther south to see Joan at Shaftesbury, but doing so would have kept her from her young children in London for so long that she had determined for now to visit only Sempringham, as it lay between Lincoln and London. “And what if Nora does not know me? What if she wants nothing to do with me?”

“You are too uneasy, my lady.”

Eleanor sighed and fidgeted with her reins.

The prioress, however, greeted her courteously. “We are honored by your visit, Lady Despenser. You will be staying overnight, I hope? Then I shall have you shown to your chamber. I think it will suit you. Your sister stayed there while she was—er—boarding with us.”

“My daughter?”

The prioress smiled. “I will send her to you shortly.”

She was conducted to a pleasant, airy chamber. Gladys had hardly helped her out of her cloak when a light knock sounded on her door and a little girl, dressed as a miniature version of the sister who had just left Eleanor, stepped into the room. “Mama!”

“Nora!”

Clasping Nora to her, she could not say anything more for a few minutes. Finally she managed, “Can you show me around?”

“Yes, Mama.” Nora led her from room to room, chattering all of the time. Eleanor, sinking back into her usual role of not getting many words in edgewise while Nora held forth, noted with relief that her eight-year-old daughter was well grown for her age and from the fresh color in her cheeks appeared to be getting outdoor exercise. Though she shared a room with other nuns, she had a bed to herself, piled high with warm coverings, and the sisters she introduced Eleanor to as they moved through the priory spoke to her kindly. “You are not lonely here, my sweet?”

“Oh, no, Mama. Everyone is very friendly, and when Sister Anne's bitch has puppies by Sister Mary's dog, I shall have one of them for my very own. But I have a
particular
friend, Mama, whom you have not seen yet.”

Eleanor smiled. Nora's vocabulary had been impressive before she was sent away by the queen, and it was no less so now. She was still smiling as they entered the priory's herb garden, where a tall nun was gathering sprigs of lavender. Then she involuntarily gasped as the nun turned and Nora chirped, “Here she is, Mama. This is Sister Gwenllian!”

The nun was well into her forties, but even under a veil and wimple she was the most beautiful woman Eleanor had ever seen—next to her the queen, up to now England's greatest beauty, would appear almost ordinary. And why should she not be beautiful? She was descended from beauties: Eleanor her mother, daughter to Simon de Montfort; Eleanor her grandmother, wife to Montfort and sister to Henry III; Isabella of Angouleme, her great-grandmother, wife to King John; Eleanor of Aquitaine, her great-great-grandmother.

Sister Gwenllian seemed used to being gaped at by first acquaintances. She said in a lovely contralto voice, “Your daughter is a sweet child, Lady Despenser, and very intelligent. You must be very proud of her.”

“Thank you, your grace. I am.”

Nora said cheerfully, “When I came here, I
was
sad, Mama, because I missed you and Papa and all the others. But Sister Gwenllian was kind to me right from the start. When she heard two of the younger sisters saying that Papa was a great sinner she got very angry and told them that we were all sinners and that they should not be unkind. They apologized to me straightaway. People listen to Sister Gwenllian. Did you know, Mama? Sister Gwenllian would be Princess of Wales, if her father had not been killed. Did you know that?”

“Yes, Nora, I did.”

Nora looked keenly disappointed, so Eleanor added kindly, “But I had forgotten until you reminded me.”

“Isn't the garden pretty, Mama? Sister Gwenllian is in charge of it, although the gardeners do the heavy work, of course. She is teaching me all she knows about herbs, just as the nuns taught her when she was little. I will know all about their properties.”

“It is beautiful, Sister Gwenllian. We had herb gardens too, of course, but never as thriving as this.”

For a while Eleanor and the two nuns worked in the garden and talked. Sister Gwenllian indeed had a wide knowledge of herbs, and Eleanor made mental notes of much of what she told her. But when Nora had moved off a ways, she asked, “Your grace, I beg your pardon for my impertinence, but do you never get angry that you are here?”

Sister Gwenllian shrugged. “What would I gain by that? In any case, I am not sure that I should have enjoyed my birthright. I might have worn a crown, and then I might have spent all my life guarding against someone taking it from me, or from my husband. Think of our late king. From all I that have heard, his crown brought him no happiness. Perhaps it would have been better if he had been professed as a monk.”

“I do not think he would have been the best of monks,” said Eleanor dryly, “but I do see your meaning.”

“This is a comfortable, respectable life, after all. It is too small a world in some ways, I think, with sometimes too many squabbles over trifles, but at least we are protected from some of the horrors of the larger world. I realized that again when your sister Margaret came here, all anger and bitterness over her first husband's death and her second husband's imprisonment, and when Joan Mortimer came here, all bewilderment, poor thing. And then they left at last, and then in less than eight weeks your little one came here. I thought, will this never end? Must innocents keep paying the price for others' will to power and riches?”

She sighed and jerked at a weed. “You know the new king, Lady Despenser. Is he the man to end this?”

“I don't know. He set me free against his mother's wishes, so I am told, and he—or his good wife, I know not which—paved the way for me to come here. But when I spoke to him the other day it was as if he were reading words that someone else had written for him. I have heard he was not happy to treat with the Scots, and yet men have been sent to do just that. But he is a boy, after all. You may have a chance to decide for yourself soon, for I understood when I left Lincoln that he too was headed for Sempringham on his way south.”

“Here? Someone must tell the prior, Lady Despenser. There is nothing we religious dread more than a royal visit. It will set us back for months!” Sister Gwenllian's laugh was bell-like. She added after a moment or two, “But I will take the opportunity to ask him for something for my maintenance, which of course shall add to the comfort of all of us here. It is but fair, don't you think? Ten or twenty pounds per year for the kingdom of Wales?”

“More than fair.” Nora, having weeded her allotted area to perfection, began to move in the women's direction. “Sister Gwenllian, I want to thank you so much for your kindness to my daughter.”

“There you have nothing to thank me for. Your daughter is a lovable child.” Sister Gwenllian started to rise from her weeding with some difficulty, and Eleanor hastened to help her. “Thank you, Lady Despenser. Tell me, what shall you do now that you have been set free? We nuns must gossip, you know, and there was some speculation on the subject after your man told us to expect you. Will you take the veil, do you think?”

“No. I have been blessed with my young sons and a baby daughter—one that Nora does not yet know about, actually. I will care for them—ever supposing that I have the means to do it. The king has not told me of his plans as far as my estates go.”

“I shall pray he restores them to you.”

“I shall too, and for a better reason than you might think. I have been thinking since I was released, and I should like to be a good lady of the manor, as they say my sister Elizabeth is. I do think my husband wanted to be a good lord, in his heart of hearts, and maybe he might have been if he had lived out his time, but other things got in the way.”

Sister Gwenllian said, “Your sister Margaret expounded a great deal on the 'other things' when she was here, I am afraid, but I suppose there was another side to your husband—no, I know there was, because your daughter speaks of him with great love. She has all Sempringham praying for his soul.”

Nora had come within hearing range. “We do, Mama, day and night— and for those of others as well, of course. Will you join us when we pray tonight?”

Eleanor pulled her daughter close to her. “Nothing would give me more pleasure.”