The Traitor's Wife Page 12

  “It'll not last long,” he said, yawning.

  “Really, Lady Despenser! You must be half fish.”

  Isabella de Vescy, restored to the queen's household, looked none too happy about it at the moment, for the crossing from Dover to France on the last day of February 1314 was proving to be a rough one. Joan of Bar, the Earl of Surrey's wife, also looked queasy, but Eleanor turned back to the ladder and the boy waiting to assist her up to the deck. “If none of you wish to go up, then I will go by myself. It is wonderful—the waves just high enough to give you a bounce, and the salt on your cheek.”

  “Why not take service as a cabin boy, Eleanor?” asked Joan, Eleanor's first cousin, humorlessly. Joan had cause for her grumpiness, Eleanor reflected, because her husband had recently set up open housekeeping with his mistress, who had already borne him a fine bastard. Rumor had it that he was trying to get his marriage annulled, although as he had received a papal dispensation to be married in the first place, his chances appeared somewhat dubious. Eleanor, therefore, only laughed and ascended the ladder.

  Up on deck was her brother, who along with Henry de Beaumont and others was there to accompany the queen on her second visit to France in less than a year. Although the English royal couple's visit to Philip the previous year had been a cordial one, issues remained to be worked out, and Edward, having concluded his peace with his barons, had come to France briefly in December to meet with the French king. His stay had been but a brief one, and with the Scottish situation growing ever more alarming, it was decided to send the queen to France to intercede with her father while her husband and most of the English nobility stayed at home.

  Gilbert turned as Eleanor's head emerged from the hold. “Is that you, sister? Shouldn't you be holding a basin for the queen or something?”

  “She has her damsels to do that, and in any case she is bearing up well this time. It is Lady Vescy and the Countess of Surrey who are seasick today.”

  “Well, I am glad, because it is good to have some privy conversation with you.” He smiled awkwardly, for their breach over Gaveston had been slow to heal. Margaret, who had been granted dower lands by the king and was living very comfortably, had still not forgiven her brother, despite Eleanor's efforts. “I feel as if I am somehow shirking a duty, coming here with the queen, for we are heading to war with the Scots, you know.”

  “I hope it will not come to that.”

  “How can it not, Nelly? The king has summoned us earls and the barons to be in Berwick in June. We will be the superior force, but Bruce is wily, and even our grandfather the first Edward could not subdue him. I just hope our uncle is a match for him.”

  “He is no coward.”

  “But he has never led a large campaign before, and he hasn't that single-minded quality our grandfather had.”

  “Perhaps you underestimate him, but I know nothing about these matters.” She shrugged in a pretty manner that she had learned from the queen.

  “You should care, because your husband and father-in-law will certainly join in whatever takes place. But enough of this talk. How are your children?”

  Eleanor knew it cost Gilbert pain to ask this question, for his one child—a boy—had died soon after birth. “Hugh sits a horse beautifully, but I wish he had more interest in his lessons! It is all his tutor can do to get him to sit still for five minutes. Isabel prattles and prattles now—to think I was worried that she was slow to talk! I hope after this I can go and stay with them a while.” To talk of her children before her brother seemed almost like gloating, so she changed the subject. “Have you heard from Elizabeth? Does she mean to stay in Ireland?”

  Elizabeth's twenty-three-year-old husband, son of the Earl of Ulster, had died suddenly the previous June, leaving her with a boy, William. Gilbert shrugged. “The Earl of Ulster looks after her well, and I daresay scares off any suitors who might have an eye on her dower. As long as she is happy there, I shall not press for her to come home.”

  “How is Maud?”

  Gilbert's face changed. “She sorely feels that we have had no living child, and it affects her temper. Young as she is, sometimes she reminds me of a bitter old woman.”

  “I am sorry, Gilbert. But there is hope; you know you can have children together, and you are but young.”

  “I envy your marriage, Eleanor. You and Hugh seem happy together.”

  “I am lucky, for there is no one to me so dear as he.”

  “And he seems very fond of you. How unlike our poor cousin downstairs! I'll swear, the day she was married to him, Surrey already had his eye on another woman! But this is gloomy talk once more. Let us walk to the ship's railing where we can look at the water better. You like that, I know.”

  Philip of France had spent the last seven years suppressing the Knights Templar, a group of monastic knights that had gained fame, wealth, and enemies over the years. Seeing a chance to line his coffers, Philip had arrested every Templar in France in 1307 on trumped-up charges of heresy, idolatry, and even sodomy; through torture, he gained a number of confessions, which in turn led to a papal inquiry and the eventual dissolution of the order. The inquiry in many countries, including England, had been a halfhearted one; the Templars in England had been allowed to confess and do penance, after which most returned to secular life with small pensions. In France, however, thirty-six men died, apart from those tortured. The wealth of the Templars passed to the French crown.

  Among those who had confessed was Jacques de Molay, the grand master of the Templars. Having done so, he was awaiting his sentence in front of Notre Dame when he recanted his confession and declared himself ready to face death. It came on March 19, 1314, at Philip's order, in front of the royal palace. Rumor had it that as the flames engulfed him, Molay cursed the Pope and the French king.

  Isabella and her party were not witnesses to this event, Isabella having stayed only a short time in Paris before departing on pilgrimage to Chartres the day before Molay's death. The court was still talking of little else, though in whispers, when Isabella and her household returned to Paris at the end of March. If the queen was shaken by the curse laid upon her father, or if she felt any moral revulsion at her father's conduct, she did not reveal it to her horrified ladies, who in turn did not dare discuss the subject with Isabella.

  Philip went about his business—it was probably not the first time a dying man had cursed him, as Philip had also persecuted the Lombards and the Jews—suavely, and graciously welcomed his daughter and her ladies to his court. Eleanor trembled as the queen presented her and the others to her father, who had countenanced such wickedness and brought a curse upon himself; yet Philip the Fair received the ladies with perfect courtesy, even remembering enough about their backgrounds to inquire about their relatives by name.

  The Pope would be dead within a month. The French king himself would be dead within eight months, and all of his sons would be dead without male issue by 1328, leading to the Hundred Years' War, but no shadow of those events hung over the French court during the next couple of weeks as the court welcomed Isabella back among its midst. Nearly the whole family was together, Philip noted cheerfully: Isabella; her three brothers, Louis, Philip, and Charles; and their wives, Marguerite, Jeanne, and Blanche.

  As she had been the year before, Isabella was much admired by all, her face being lovely as ever and childbirth having given her figure a nice rounding it lacked before. Rather to her own surprise, Lady Despenser also attracted a certain amount of admiration, which Eleanor attributed partly to the beautiful robes that Hugh had allowed her to have made for her trip to France and partly to the lack of any other redheaded woman at the French court at the time. The men of the court would not have completely contradicted either of these theories, but they would have also noted Lady Despenser's full bosom, sweet speaking voice, and appealing countenance. Beyond this, Eleanor had the fascination that came from unattainability, for even when dancing with another man she was very much the wife of Hugh le Despenser, notwithstan
ding the fact that he was across the English Channel.

  Two of the most charming of the knights were Philippe and Gautier d'Aunay, brothers. They had a younger companion, Jean, and it was he who always seemed to be at Eleanor's side when it was time to dance.

  Eleanor was no flirt—she had been married before she had developed any expertise in this area, and once married, she had found no reason to look at any other man beside her husband. Yet she had improved her social graces since joining Isabella's court, and she found no difficulty in bantering with Jean, even if the meaning of some of the glances he sent her way escaped her entirely.

  “You have made quite a conquest, Eleanor,” said Joan of Bar one morning as Isabella, her sisters-in-law, and their ladies sat at their needlework, the men having gone hunting.

  “What on earth do you mean?”

  “How can you ask? That knight Jean was at your side all evening.”

  Eleanor pondered this and found it to be true. “I suppose he was, but there was nothing improper in his conduct. If there had been, I would have had my brother deal with it immediately.”

  “What did he talk of?”

  “Truly, Joan, I think it no concern of yours,” snapped Eleanor. They had in fact mainly discussed the recent business in England, during which Eleanor had become very heated in defense of her late brother-in-law Gaveston, but she saw no need to mention this with the queen within earshot.

  “Then you must have spoken of love,” said Marguerite, and her cousin Blanche giggled.

  Marguerite spoke only to tease Eleanor; she had heard enough of Eleanor's wistful references to Hugh, whom she was desperately missing, to realize that Eleanor was indeed a faithful wife. Eleanor herself recognized the jest for what it was, and snorted. She thought nothing of it, then, until late that evening, after a long evening of dancing during which Jean had appeared at her side only a few times, Blanche tapped her on the shoulder. “If you wish to see Jean alone, my lady, you know it can be arranged.”

  Eleanor saw to her shock that Blanche was a bit tipsy. “There is nothing I desire less, madam.”

  “But my lady! It can be done so easily. No one shall ever be the wiser, and you will have much pleasure. Trust me, Eleanor dear.”

  “You have misconstrued the situation, absolutely. Pray excuse me.”

  She turned and hastily made her way back over to the queen, watching with a frown from a distance as Blanche downed another cup of wine before being led out of the room by one of her ladies.

  Isabella followed her glance. “Why is it you look at Blanche so, Lady Despenser?”

  “Was I? I did not mean to do so. She is dressed very strikingly tonight.”

  “Yes, she had a beautiful purse with her when she came in. I presented it to her when I was here the year before. Who do you think has it now?”

  Isabella had never entirely forgiven her husband for giving her father's wedding presents to Gaveston, and for a few moments Eleanor thought confusedly that this might be more of the same. “I know not, your grace. I did not notice a purse at all.”

  “Let us leave this place, Lady Despenser. Come with me to my chamber.”

  Puzzled, Eleanor obeyed, following Isabella with the other ladies after Isabella made her farewell to her father. When all were in Isabella's chamber, the queen raised her hand for silence. “My brothers are being made fools of, and this must stop.”

  Isabella de Vescy, the only one of the ladies who could be brusque to the queen, said gruffly, “Explain yourself, your grace.”

  “Those whores Blanche and Marguerite, is not it obvious? They are cuckolding my brothers, with those Aunays. Do you remember the purses I gave them last year? Those knights are clutching them like favors!”

  “Purses prove nothing,” said Lady Vescy.

  “Aye, but look at Lady Despenser's face! Tell us what you know, my dear.”

  “N—Nothing, my lady.”

  “You fool! Your face shows it all. That Blanche said something to you tonight, and you will tell us.”

  Eleanor said shakily, “She told me that if I wished to meet a man privately, it could be arranged, and it would give me much pleasure. But I am sure it meant nothing; it was only her French way of talking.”

  Joan of Bar laughed nervously at this gaffe, but the queen paid no attention to it. “You see, she knows how to meet a man on the sly, and she is willing to counsel others to do so. The whore! I must inform my father of this.”

  “Good God, your grace! You cannot do that!”

  The queen gasped in rage, but Eleanor paid her no mind. “Your grace, it will be a death sentence if your father finds out about this! You saw what he did to Jacques de Molay, that brave man; what will he do to those girls and their knights? You cannot tell! If you must tell anyone, tell Blanche and Marguerite what you know! They will not dare to continue in their ways when they know that you suspect them.”

  Isabella said crisply, “Do you have any more orders to give me, Lady Despenser? Or do you care to insult my father further?”

  “Your grace, you must not tell.”

  Lady Vescy said dryly, “Lady Despenser overreaches herself, but what proof do you have, your grace? It would indeed be a pity to tell your father and have it turn out that these stupid girls are guilty of nothing more than flirtation and folly.”

  “I assure you I have no intent of hurting the innocent. I shall tell my father my suspicions, and ask that a watch be put on them. If they are guilty of nothing but indiscretion, it will end there.” She glanced at Eleanor, who was white as chalk beneath her freckles. “And Lady Despenser, if you are thinking of warning them in the interim, do think again. I will have my eyes on you too.”

  “For pity's sake, your grace! Have some mercy on them. Their adultery is between them and their husbands—and God. It is not an affair of state.”

  “You have odd ideas, Lady Despenser. My brother Louis will be King of France by and by, the Lord's anointed; shall I sit quietly and see him cuckolded? My family's honor is too precious to me. Get you gone.”

  King Philip's spies quickly went to work and found Marguerite and one of the young men in a room together. They, Blanche, and the other brother were arrested; even the third daughter-in-law, Jeanne, was detained, as she was Blanche's older sister and was presumed to have concealed her knowledge of the younger woman's activities. On April 19, 1314, the two young knights were flayed to death and beheaded. News of their fate reached the queen's party as it headed toward the coast of France.

  “You see, they were guilty after all, and they have received their just punishment,” said the queen matter-of-factly. She was not even put out with Eleanor any longer. “Mind you, I pity my brothers, but they will find worthy wives soon, I hope.”

  Eleanor spent the return journey to England by her brother's side, silent and listless. Only when she landed at Dover and saw a familiar face did she brighten. Forgetting all protocol, as soon as she could get to shore, she rushed into her husband's arms.

  “My love, you look ill and tired. What is it? Look at the offering someone has brought the queen: a porcupine!”

  Eleanor buried her head on Hugh's shoulder as he tried in vain to turn her attention to the bristly little animal, which was quite sated with apples. “Please,” she whispered, “take me from court.”

  June 1314 to July 1314

  WHILE THE QUEEN'S PARTY WAS IN FRANCE, THE SCOTTISH KING, ROBERT Bruce, had seized two castles, Roxburgh and Edinburgh. Years before, these and other fortresses had been captured for the English by Edward I; now, to the horror of the English, Robert Bruce and his men were steadily winning them back. Roxburgh Castle had fallen on February 27 to the terrifying James Douglas, who had dressed his men in black surcoats and ordered them to crawl on their hands and knees so that they resembled a herd of black cattle straying toward the castle. When the cattle arrived at the castle, they had produced collapsible ladders carried beneath their bodies, scaled the castle walls, and overcome the garrison, the members of which w
ere vigorously celebrating a feast day. The next month, Thomas Randolph, the Earl of Moray, aided by one of his men who had been accustomed to using rope ladders to get in and out of the castle to meet his lover, led a group of experienced mountain climbers into Edinburgh Castle.

  The year before, Robert Bruce's brother, Edward Bruce, had besieged Stirling Castle. He had no siege weapons; his only strategy was to starve out the garrison, a tactic that was tedious as it was sound. Sir Philip Mowbray, the castle's commander, had recognized his besieger's frustration and had offered in June 1313 to yield the castle a year hence if he were not rescued by battle. Robert Bruce, whom Edward Bruce had not thought to consult before entering into this treaty, was furious at his brother, but the King of England, heartened by the peace with the barons, the cordiality of his relationship with his French father-in-law, and the quiet prevailing in Ireland and Wales, took up the challenge. As Gloucester had told his sister, the king had begun making plans to bring troops north, and as the queen's household traveled in France, he was mobilizing his troops.

  Gilbert, of course, had responded, as had Pembroke and Hereford. The Earls of Lancaster, Warwick, Arundel, and Surrey, however, did no more than send the required numbers of cavalry and footmen; they did not set foot outside England. King Edward scarcely missed them, for his army was of a size not seen even in his father's day: twenty thousand men. In his confidence that Scotland would soon be his, he granted some men Scottish land; to the son of his trusted advisor Hugh le Despenser the elder he granted the estates of Robert Bruce's nephew the Earl of Moray. Hugh the younger, like many others expecting to move into his new castle shortly, brought tapestries, plate, and other furnishings with him; the wagon train groaned with such baggage of the confident.

  “Who is that?” asked Eleanor as she watched the army, finally assembled in Berwick, prepare to depart.

  She and the queen, both being about to send their husbands to war, had recovered something of their friendly relationship, although Eleanor would never dare to mention their visit to France. It had been a modest success from an English point of view: Philip, perhaps contrasting his daughter's behavior with that of his faithless daughters-in-law, had granted some of the concessions she sought with regard to Gascony. Isabella smiled as Eleanor pointed to a tonsured figure sitting in a wagon. “That is the poet.”