The Traitor's Wife (78 page)

“Not the happiest Christmas I've ever spent, Countess. But it's a change of scene, anyhow.”

Lady Mortimer, her eyes welling with tears, looked away as Hugh was chained to his horse. Nearly everything that Eleanor had sent to him had been left in his cell, as Mortimer had instructed his men to allow Hugh to take with him only what he could fit in a saddlebag. “It is my fault, Hugh. Roger has his spies here, as everywhere, and one of them must have told them I was friendly with you. I should have been more cautious.”

“Don't say that, Countess. I'm nothing but grateful for your kindness.” Hugh tried to smile and beckoned her closer. “My lady, you will not suffer for it, will you?”

The Countess of March shook her head. “There is some advantage to having a husband who is the lover of the widowed Queen of England. If anything happened to me, he would be accused of my murder, and he knows it. And he would scorn to beat a woman. He will never do anything more than ignore me, and that suits me well now.”

“You deserve better, Countess. I hope one day you will be happy.”

“And you too, Hugh.”

His hostess turned away and went back into the castle, feeling nearly as bereft as she had when she had lost her sons. Hugh rode on, and on, until he and his guards finally arrived in Bristol, where by Mortimer's special instructions he was taken to a certain city gate. Hugh had expected as much, and he fought back nausea as he stared at what was left of the hand that had held him when he was less than an hour old. “Hello, Father,” he said coolly. He turned to his guards, half of whom were snickering, half of whom looked abashed. “Now that you've shown me the sights of Bristol, can we get on to the castle? Gurney can't keep the Yule log burning forever, you know.”

Eleanor had decided to spend Christmas at Hanley Castle, and she had determined to make it as merry a one as she could. The great hall, bedecked with greenery, was crowded each night with guests: her councilors and attorneys and their families, the neighboring gentry, priests, canons, and friars, priors and prioresses, her tenants, and a great many poor people. The best musicians to be found in Worcestershire had been engaged, and Eleanor danced with nearly every male present, including her son Edward, who was surprisingly graceful. He had become rather good-looking, too, and that and his shyness had led several more forward young women from the village to determine to draw him out, which the prettiest of them did, with considerable success, in a loft in the castle stables one night after Edward had overindulged slightly in wassail. As Edward lay entangled with his buxom new friend, his pleasure was marred only by the fact that his brother Hugh was not there to hear about it.

Joan, Nora, and Margaret had all been allowed to visit for Christmas, Eleanor having prudently cultivated the goodwill of their prioresses with ample gifts. Much as Eleanor had longed to see them, she had almost dreaded their visit, worrying that they might sit silent among the festive company like three specters or seethe with jealousy born of the contrast between the luxury of Hanley Castle and their very modest quarters at their convents. But she was pleasantly surprised. The girls chatted nicely with the guests, bickered with each other and their brothers just as they had in the past, made rather catty comments to each other regarding the follies of their various prioresses, and ate the delicious Christmas fare enthusiastically. Even Joan, the most reluctant of the three novices, seemed fairly content. She had some friends close to her own age at Shaftesbury, and in that fashionable convent her prestige as the great-granddaughter of the first Edward had made her a person whose good opinion was to be cultivated.

It would have been a very pleasant Christmas, then, were her son Hugh there, but Eleanor comforted herself with the knowledge that the Countess of March was taking good care of him. Perhaps she might even allow him to join in the festivities at Ludlow. Eleanor had sent him an extra hamper, full of his favorite foods, to make it a cheerful time for him.

There was another person Eleanor would have liked to see at Hanley Castle. Lately, there were nights when she longed for the hands of a man upon her, nights when she lay awake and aching until she touched herself in a place and in a way that she knew well was sinful, so much so that she would not dream of mentioning it to the kindly young chaplain to whom she confessed. On these occasions she usually thought about Hugh, but more and more lately she'd added to her sin by thinking of a living man. For a while she had never put a name to the man who in her mind touched her so lovingly, but one night she had realized with a jolt who he was: William la Zouche.

What if she wrote him and asked him to visit? She had gone so far, indeed, as to write to him in her own awkward hand—for the invitation, neutral and emotionless as it appeared on the surface, was nonetheless not one she wished to dictate to one of her clerks. Probably he would come; after all, he had asked her to marry him. He would come and ask again, and they would marry—and she would feel everlastingly guilty for betraying Hugh. So she had crumpled up the parchment and sent it skittering toward the fire.

Thus, Christmas at Hanley Castle had not included William la Zouche. But as she sat in her great chair the day after Christmas, an unexpected guest arrived, and she saw, to her shock, that the night's celebrations would include John de Grey.

“I can stay only overnight, Lady Despenser. I must rejoin the king shortly. But I heard you were staying at Hanley and wanted to visit while the court was close by.”

“I am glad to have you, sir. How goes it with Lancaster?”

“Badly,” said John shortly. “It will probably come to war soon.”

Eleanor, whose sympathies lay in Lancaster's direction simply because he was not Mortimer, merely nodded.

She placed Grey next to her at the high table, as befit a royal banneret. Grey made the most of this opportunity, and the two of them were talking together easily when a messenger arrived with a letter for Eleanor. Eleanor read the letter, and John saw her face change for an instant. She turned to one of her men standing nearby. “Have my steward reward him for his trouble.” Then she went back to her conversation with John.

The rest of the evening passed uneventfully. Eleanor and John danced together, and Eleanor's children coaxed her into singing a few ballads, accompanied by her minstrels. John, leaning back and listening, decided that this was heaven.

The gathering having finally broken up for the evening, John retired to the spacious chamber Eleanor had given him, close to the castle's chapel, and climbed into bed, pondering his course of action. Pleasant as the evening's festivities had been, they had not been conducive to his purpose in coming to Hanley Castle: asking Eleanor to be his wife. He would have to get her alone and speak to her first thing tomorrow…

He started as a noise came from the chapel. An intruder? His young squires, Fulk and Henry, had heard it too, for he saw them begin to rise from their pallets near his bed. “Leave it to me,” he told them.

Grabbing his sword, he hastened to the chapel. There was someone in it, all right: the lady of Hanley Castle, huddled crying on the floor. “Lady Despenser?”

“Leave me, sir. Please.”

“No, my lady. Something has upset you. What is it?” Then he saw the letter she held in her hand. “The message that arrived tonight?”

Eleanor nodded and tossed it in his direction. It was from the Countess of March, informing Lady Despenser that her son had been removed to Bristol Castle. “I do not understand, my lady.”

“The Countess of March was good to my son, Sir John. He wrote and told me so himself; she allowed him to send me letters. She is a mother who has lost sons of her own; she treated him well for their sake. Now he is being sent to Bristol where there will be no one to take pity on him. What will happen to him now?”

“You do not know for certain the change will be for the worse,” John said helplessly.

“How can it not be, sir? Look here, the countess tells me that he had to leave most of what I have sent him behind, but she will have the goods sent to me for safekeeping. Why would they make him leave all those little comforts behind if they did not intend to keep him harshly? But that is not the worst of it. His custodian will be Thomas Gurney, who Lord Montacute told me was with my dear uncle the king when he died. His murderer, Sir John! I know it!”

John had no reply. He sat silently as she cried a little more. Then she lifted her head and said flatly, “I hate him.”

“Who?”

“My husband. How could he not have guessed that Hugh would pay the price for his crimes? Yet he went on and on, acquiring all he could, and now our poor son will rot in prison for it. Or perhaps I am wrong; perhaps one day Mortimer will get tired of him and execute him, just as Hugh did Llywelyn Bren. I hate him!”

She all but screamed the last words. John took her into his arms and held her as she sobbed. For the first time, he noticed that she was dressed in her nightclothes, with a cloak thrown over them either for warmth or for modesty or both. Poor creature, after holding in her anguish about Hugh all night for the sake of her guests, she must have gone to bed, then come to the chapel to cry in privacy. When at last she grew quiet, he asked gently, “Shall I take you back to your chamber now?”

“Yes.”

It was but a short walk. As they approached the door, Eleanor said, “I have changed my mind. Take me to yours.”

“Mine?”

“Must I spell it out? Yours.”

If thoughts could have killed, the Earl of Lancaster would have been dead seventy and seven times over the next morning as a very tired John de Grey cursed him who made it necessary to leave Hanley Castle. For if the night before had been at all typical of Hugh le Despenser's married life, no wonder the man had been so insufferably self-satisfied.

He rolled over, looking for Eleanor's tangled red hair and white skin, and found that her side of the bed was empty. Then he saw Eleanor sitting in the window seat, once again in her nightclothes and cloak. “Sir. We need to talk. Outside.”