The Traitor's Wife (8 page)

“A handsome peasant girl, no more and no less. But that's what I liked about her, no false airs or graces, all natural. Rather like y—” he glanced at Eleanor and broke off. “Just a sweet-tempered village girl. She was doing laundry on the bank when I rowed by, and I stopped to talk. She was no wanton, poor thing; it was I who seduced her. Not that I'd planned it; I started kissing her and couldn't stop myself from taking it further.”

Eleanor said sadly, “She died in childbirth.”

“No, she died but four weeks ago. I told her who I was—rather to her surprise—and told her that if anything happened to her she was to leave word at Langley that she needed to see me and I would take care of her. Fortunately she took me at my word, and I found her a nice manor to live upon. She and Adam lived there together and I saw her from time to time, though I never lay with her again. I didn't want to put her in the position of being a royal mistress; she was too innocent for that. I was keeping an eye out for a man in my household who would be a good husband for her. But a bad fever came through the area and killed her and half a dozen others. It nearly killed my son too, but you can see he recovered nicely. So I had him brought here—her parents are dead—and here he shall remain.”

“Does the queen know?”

“No. Only Gaveston, and a few servants, and now you.” Edward flushed. “The truth is, Eleanor dear, I wish you would tell the queen about him.”

“Me!”

“I know it sounds absurd, but it's awkward for me.” He winced. “I've— how shall I say it—done my duty by the queen, quite often, but I can't seem to get her with child. I think it is because she is little more than a child herself, but she of course thinks it is that I am—distracted, shall I say.” He looked at Eleanor, whose cheeks were as bright as her hair. “This is really a conversation I would prefer not to have with you, Eleanor.”

“I agree, Uncle. Emphatically.”

“In any case, knowing that I have fathered Adam might set her off into one of her rages. Not against you, of course, otherwise I wouldn't ask. I would just like her to have calmed down a little before I see her. For with Gaveston going, I'm not sure how I would react if she were in a fury. She doesn't say so but I know she'll be glad to see him gone. I suppose it's to her credit that she says nothing. If I must lose him, I at least want things to be pleasant between her and me.”

His voice was so wistful that Eleanor, who had been dismayed at his weakness and who had been trying to think of a diplomatic way to avoid this odd commission, said, “Very well, Uncle. I will tell her.”

“You are a good girl.”

The rather patronizing tone irritated her. “But if you have any other commissions for me to the queen, Uncle, now is the time to tell me. I will soon be leaving court to prepare for the birth of my child. Her grace has given me leave.”

“No others.” Edward smiled. “This is quite enough, and I thank you.” He paused. “You know that my old nurse, Alice de Leygrave, is one of the queen's damsels. I love her like a mother—better, in fact, because I hardly knew my mother. I could have asked her to broach this with the queen. But I asked you first, because there's no woman I trust more than you. Except, perhaps, for your late mother.”

“I am honored, sir.” She was so deeply moved that she curtsied. Then she hurried away in search of Isabella.

“Have you been much about Langley, your grace?”

Isabella frowned at this odd question. “My duties have hardly given me time to explore, if that is what you mean. Am I missing something?”

“I was wondering if you might have seen an infant boy.”

“I've heard a brat squalling in the distance from time to time, yes. The keeper's, I supposed.”

“His name is Adam, your grace. He is the king's natural son.” Eleanor added hastily, “Conceived before your marriage to him.”

Isabella's face registered surprise only for an instant before she smiled broadly. “A bastard? Then there's hope.”

“You are not angry?”

Isabella shrugged. “At least it shows he's a proper man. Who is the mother?”

“A peasant girl, your grace. She died some weeks ago.”

“Leave it to Edward to father a child by a peasant when he might have had a lady of the court.” Isabella laughed mirthlessly; she was descended from royalty on both sides, and her husband's liking for chatting familiarly with masons and gardeners and the like was nearly as distressing as his fondness for Gaveston. Her voice turned sharp. “You do tell the truth, don't you? She is not someone of consequence, someone who frequents the court?”

“I tell you only what the king told me, your grace, and there is no reason for him to tell me false.”

“He isn't yours, is it?”

Eleanor sprang up, forgetful of all propriety. “How dare you?”

Isabella gave her indulged child's shrug. “Don't make such a fuss. It's not such an unlikely idea. He is very fond of you, always giving you little presents"—she glanced at Eleanor's bracelet, which indeed had come from the king just days before—"and you're attractive enough in your style. Perhaps—”

“No 'perhaps,' your grace. I am carrying my first child, and it is Hugh's and no other man's. If you please, I will leave you now.”

“Come now, Lady Despenser. I meant no harm; I know you are as prim as any Englishwoman. But what made you take it upon yourself to tell me this?”

“It was my uncle's request.” Eleanor was suddenly very weary of being attendant upon the queen, of the need to be constantly cheerful and obliging and sensitive to her mistress's capricious moods. As her lying-in grew close and she began to fret more about the ordeal of childbirth, she found herself missing her own mother more than ever, and instead of waiting on the queen, she longed to be comforted and cosseted by her own damsel, Gladys. More than anything, she missed Hugh. Soon, she told herself, she would be on her way to him. They could not make love now, but they could at least share a bed, and he would scratch her back in exactly the right spot as she dozed against him. “He was afraid you would be angry since he has not begotten a child on you—yet.”

“How little he knows me!” Isabella too sounded weary. “I understand that many girls don't conceive until they are fifteen or sixteen even. He always thinks the worst of me, as if I were a child liable to have a tantrum over the smallest thing.”

“He is sorrowful over Gaveston's leaving. It is hard for him to think good of anyone now.” But the king thought well of her, she remembered. Would he and the queen ever be a happy couple? She pondered this, then roused herself from her reverie. “Should you like to see the little boy, your grace? He is the prettiest child, truly.” Eleanor added with some wickedness, “He looks nothing like me, you shall see.”

“I should not have insulted you so, even in jest. But it does pique me, having him use a go-between for a message such as this.”

“He has known me since birth, your grace, and he was very fond of my mother. Shall we go see Adam?”

This time, Adam was awake and playing when Eleanor arrived in the nursery. He had begun wobbling about upright, and he made his way to his elegant visitors with alacrity. Isabella, by far the prettier, caught his eye first. He grabbed her skirts, and she admitted him to her lap, where he pulled at a few strands of the silver-blond hair before becoming squirmy and having to be put down. Eleanor, kneeling on the floor with difficulty, pushed a ball toward him and made silly faces at him, making him giggle wildly before he lurched off in pursuit of some object that he found more interesting than either of the ladies.

“He is a pretty lad,” said Isabella. “Edward could hardly fail to have handsome children, though. Was his father good-looking?”

“They say he was as a young man, but of course I never saw him except as an older man. I never thought of him as being handsome or otherwise, just intimidating, although he was always kind enough to my sisters and me in a stern sort of way. He had a fierce temper, though. He once threw my aunt's coronet in the fire after some quarrel with her, although he later replaced the gemstones that were damaged.”

“They must have been frightened of him.”

“No, actually they were all women of spirit, particularly my mother. He probably respected them for it. I must have been a disappointment to him, because I was so timid as a child. But then, he didn't see much of me and my sisters.”

“Was Edward a disappointment to him?”

“I hope not, your grace. But they did not suit each other, that's for certain. My grandfather was a great warrior; he wanted Edward to be just like him. And he was so concerned with Scotland! My uncle is not so single-minded.” Eleanor hesitated, then decided it was safe to say what had long been in her mind. “To tell the truth, your grace, I often wonder why we can't leave the Scots alone, and they us. All this warfare costs a great deal of money—and lives—and what do we have to show for it?” Adam swaggered over to Eleanor again, and Eleanor took him up and smiled. “But what do I know?”

“Your opinions would probably best be kept to yourself,” said Isabella, dryly but not unsympathetically. “I imagine they are not to the liking of the barons.”

“Indeed no,” said Eleanor, stroking Adam's fuzzy head. “But you won't tell anyone, will you, Adam? That's a good boy.”

Eleanor's mother had willed Eleanor her chariot and all of its trappings, and it sat ready to receive Eleanor when she left the king and queen a few days later to prepare for the birth of her child. The royal couple was there to bid her good-bye, as were her sister and Gaveston, soon to leave England themselves. Edward had sweetened Gaveston's exile by making him governor of Ireland. Rather to Eleanor's surprise, Gaveston was taking his new role seriously and had had several conversations with the king about the Irish situation that Eleanor and Margaret, neither of whom were much interested in politics, had found excruciatingly dull. She suspected the king had not enjoyed them much himself. When the king's fool had entered the hall, with a great deal of uncomplimentary things to say about the barons who had exiled Gaveston, they had all been much relieved.

As she was helped into the chariot, followed by Gladys, Eleanor was touched to see that someone had contrived to make her ride most comfortable. The chariot cushions had been augmented by much thicker, softer ones, and baskets of fruit sat in a corner. Even the sumpter horses that pulled the chariot had been given fresh harnesses, and their cloths, bearing the shields of the Clares and the Despensers, appeared to have been made but recently.

“We wished you to leave us in high style,” said the king cheerfully as Eleanor thanked him and Isabella. “But credit must go solely to my lady the queen for the food. She did not want you going without sustenance for long in your condition.”

Eleanor felt tears come to her eyes. “That is so sweet of you, your grace.”

“You must send us word the moment your child comes,” said Isabella cheerfully. In planning for the comfortable departure of Lady Despenser, Isabella and Edward had become oddly companionable, even now standing side by side beaming at each other like a prosperous merchant couple. Margaret and Gaveston stood beside them looking equally well matched and cheerful. All four, even Isabella, kissed her good-bye, and Edward looked over the sumpter horses and pronounced them perfectly adequate to the task of carrying her to Loughborough.

“Piers, do take care of my little sister in Ireland,” Eleanor said, leaning out of the litter to kiss Margaret once again. “It is quite wild there, I hear.”

“We'll slay the dragons straightaway,” promised Gaveston. “Then we'll start on the tigers, and then on the lions, and then on the sea demons, and then—”