The Traitor's Wife Page 31

  But he'd never been able to forget that scared little boy on the pallet.

  “Time to set off, Father.” Winchester started, and Hugh looked at him with concern. “Father, you look pale. Are you sure you are up to this? Perhaps you should stay with Eleanor—”

  Winchester scowled and mounted his horse without assistance. “I don't need coddling, Hugh, thank you.”

  As the king and his entourage—a few men at arms, but mainly royal officials, clerks, and servants—passed through the Tower gate, Eleanor and Edward and John of Eltham waved good-bye and shouted out farewells. The city was awakening, and knots of people stood and watched as the royal party made its way west. No one cheered.

  October 1326

  AT THE PRIORY OF ST. MARY IN SOUTHWARK, HAMO HETHE, BISHOP of Rochester, leaned back and looked at the parchment in his hand. Signed by Queen Isabella, it put a price of two thousand pounds on Hugh le Despenser's head, double the amount that the king had placed on Mortimer's a few days before. Copies of the queen's offer had been placed around London, whose citizens had become so boisterous in their enthusiasm for the queen since the king's departure that Hethe, having come to the city for a meeting with the archbishop on October 13, had refused to cross the Thames. Archbishop Reynolds had obliged by moving the meeting to Southwark. Though the conference had been called some time ago to discuss routine church matters, the topic of the day could be none other than the king and the queen.

  “I don't know what is to be done,” said Bishop Stapeldon. He gestured with the odd devices, called spectacles, that a friend in Italy had sent him and that the bishop had warmed to immediately. Why every man over forty did not own a pair was beyond him. “Mediation? The Pope himself has failed. Compromise? The queen wants Despenser dead, the king wants Mortimer dead. I don't see any middle way there.” He shook his head. “And what has the queen to gain from making peace at this point? No one has rallied to the king. And the Earl of Leicester has abandoned him. Instead of defending with the Earl of Winchester, as planned, he ambushed Winchester's man at Leicester Abbey and captured the warhorses and valuables the man was bringing to Winchester. Then he presented his booty to the queen. How can men be so inconstant?”

  “One thing is constant in the world, Bishop Stapeldon. The world is an inconstant place.”

  Not a little pleased at this aphorism, Hethe was settling back, perhaps to deliver himself of another, when a large black dog ambled into the room. The Bishop of Rochester looked at the Bishop of Exeter. “Yours?”

  “No. I've no dog.”

  “Well, look at him.”

  The dog had stopped to sniff Hethe's outstretched hand, but this had only slightly delayed its progress toward Stapeldon. Reaching the Bishop of Exeter's feet, he settled down at them, head contentedly on paws. Hethe laughed. “It seems you have a friend.”

  “It looks that way, doesn't it?” Stapeldon bent to scratch the mutt's ears, then stopped when he caught sight of the faces of his squires, William Walle and John de Padington. “What ails you?”

  “'Tis an omen of ill,” whispered William Walle.

  Stapeldon, a man in his sixties, had lived too long to be particularly superstitious. “'Tis my meat, which I have not touched. Here.” He began throwing scraps to the dog, but even after the food was gone, the beast remained at the bishop's feet.

  Meanwhile, the king's party had split, the Earl of Winchester heading toward Bristol Castle, where the king's daughters were also staying. The king, Hugh the younger, and Hugh's son continued into Wales. On October 15, 1326, they were at Tintern Abbey. That was the day London, and Eleanor's world, exploded.

  Even from his chamber in the Tower, where Edward le Despenser was attempting to conjugate some tricky Latin verbs, he could tell that something was afoot outside. People were running in and out of the courtyard below, and in the streets beyond the Tower, there seemed to be an unusual hum of activity.

  He stood at the window, considering. If he told his tutor or his mother that he was going out alone to see what was happening, he would certainly be told not to go, for Bishop Hethe was not the only person worried about London these days. On the other hand, his father had instructed him to take care of his mother, and shouldn't his duty, logically, extend to making sure she was well informed? Besides, he had yet to get a satisfactory explanation from any adult as to why the king and his father were at war with the queen, and if the commotion outside had anything to do with their quarrel, it would be a chance, perhaps, for enlightenment.

  Edward wished his brother Hugh was here, for he was a fount of information. It was Hugh who had done much to explain the mysterious, fascinating topic of Woman to him, and surely he would be equally informative on the subject of the Queen's Little Tantrum, as his father called it. If only they'd had a chance to talk before Hugh went away! But Hugh had been too busy the night before they left.

  Making up his mind, he wrote a note (in Latin, as a sort of penance), stating that he had gone to take a walk, and left the chamber. As he headed toward the Tower gate, he heard a guard muttering something unintelligible about Hamo de Chigwell, the mayor of London. He also heard his own name called, but feigned that he had not, and hurried on.

  Once he was outside of the Tower grounds, he remembered what he had heard about the mayor and decided to turn his steps in his direction. Just as he reached the Guildhall, he saw the crowd outside it turn in unison and rush down the twisting streets to Walbrook. The crowd contained almost every description of Londoner—rich merchants, small tradesmen, lawyers, physicians, barbers, clerks, craftsmen, bakers, butchers, servants, tavern keepers, apprentices, beggars, thieves—and it was armed with almost every sort of implement imaginable, from swords to clubs to bread knives.

  With a shock, Edward recognized the handsome house they stopped at, for he had been there the previous June. It had been one of the happiest mornings of his life, one of those rare and special occasions when he and his father went out together, just the two of them. Their first stop had been the Smithfield horse market, where Edward, having solemnly listened to all of his father's lessons in what to look for in a horse, had walked round and round, sizing up all of the mounts for sale, until he had finally settled on a handsome chestnut with three white feet that he named Arthur on the spot. Then he and his father had ridden Arthur and Hugh's horse to this very house in Walbrook to dine with John le Marshal, who handled much of Hugh's London property for him. The men had mostly talked business while Edward sat quietly by his father's side, but John had remarked toward the end of the meal, “Fine lad you have there, Hugh. You must be proud of him.”

  Hugh had draped an arm over his shoulder. “Yes,” he said, with none of the usual mocking tone that edged his conversation when he spoke to almost anyone besides his own family and the king, “I am, very much. He'll be a fine knight someday.”

  And now, at this house where Edward had received this ultimate in compliments from his father, the crowd was not waiting at the door, but was shoving its way in. Then the nightmare began. Screams and shouts, the sound of breaking items and objects being thrown, and suddenly John le Marshal, his face bloodied, was being dragged out of the house, fighting fiercely but to no avail. Instinctively, Edward tried to push his way to help this servant of his father, but as a slight twelve-year-old with no weapon, there was nothing he could do; so far back was he, and so wild the crowd, his futile efforts to break through were not even noticed.

  “Where shall we take him, Despenser's spy?”

  “Cheapside!”

  Roaring its approval, drowning out Marshal's curses, the mob ran to Cheap-side, pushing Edward with it, and stopped at the great cross on Cheap. “What do we do with Despenser's spy, mates?”

  “Kill him! For the queen!” called a rough voice.

  “Kill him!” agreed the mob. “For the queen!”

  “God keep her, Isabella the Fair!”

  “Our queen!”

  The men who had been dragging Marshal pinned him to the ground,
and a man wearing a butcher's apron pushed forward and set a knife to Marshal's neck. After an endless interval, his dripping head was lifted into the air to cries of ecstasy.

  Edward retched, again and again. Two boys, older than he by a few years, looked at him with amusement. “Soft, are you?”

  “Mama's boy? Don't get out much?”

  “Come on, mate! There's more fun to be had!”

  The cry was going again. “Where to, mates?”

  “Stapeldon's house! Despenser's bishop!”

  “The bishop who took the queen's land!”

  “Spied on her!”

  “Get him!”

  To Temple Bar the crowd ran, Edward being dragged along by his new acquaintances. But the bishop's doors were barred. The crowd groaned; then someone produced a torch. The bishop's doors were flaming, and then the crowd was in the bishop's house, some running from room to room in search of the bishop, others running from room to room grabbing any valuable they could lay their hands on. “Where is the traitor?”

  “Not here!”

  Edward's companions, goggle-eyed at the sight of a quantity of plate, suddenly released him, and Edward, forgotten, pushed his way out. Someone had to warn the bishop, but how? He had several houses in and around London; he could be in any of them, or in someone else's house. Then he remembered his mother mentioning that morning that Bishop Stapeldon had promised to look in on them that afternoon. So he might be riding to the Tower! Panting, he ran in that direction, but the mob, having carried off everything in sight worth carrying and torched what was not, was right behind him. Then the mob saw its quarry: the Bishop of Exeter.

  Stapeldon saw the mob and galloped off in the direction of St. Paul's, followed by his two squires. When all that lay between him and sanctuary was one door, one damned door, the mob pounced. Stapeldon and one of his squires were dragged off their horses, through the streets, to Cheapside, to the great cross. There the awful chant went up again:

  “What shall we do with him, mates? With Despenser's tool?”

  “Kill him!”

  “For the queen!”

  But the butcher, having collected so much booty that he deemed it prudent to carry it home, had left, and it was a baker's apprentice who produced a bread knife. Edward, shoved near the forefront of the crowd, could hear the bishop's dying words, commending his spirit into the Lord's hands. He saw the head being raised, saw Stapeldon's squire being beheaded with less fanfare, heard the crowd bay in glee as the second squire, who had managed to get as far as London Bridge before being captured, was brought back and killed in like fashion.

  “Where to now, mates?”

  “Despenser's money! The House of Bardi!”

  The crowd pressed on toward the great Florentine bankers' house, but this time Edward was able to get free. Somehow he stumbled alone toward the Tower, retching and crying.

  “It is all true, what the boy said, Lady Despenser. Four men dead within an hour, and God knows what will follow. But they are just looting now, it seems.”

  Eleanor crouched in the constable's hall at the Tower, cradling Edward in her lap. He had been given a potion by the Tower physician and had at last fallen asleep in her arms after sobbing out a barely coherent account of the morning's events. “The poor child,” she whispered. “The poor, poor child. To see what he saw. And if they had found out whose son he was…” She shivered, then composed herself and looked at John de Weston, the Tower constable. “They will be here next. Will they not?”

  “It is only a matter of time. And Lady Despenser—your husband left the Tower well fortified. But some of our men deserted today. That armed crowd will outnumber us ten to one.” He shook his head gloomily. “It can only get worse until they wear themselves out. The mayor and the responsible men of the city are powerless to stop the whoresons. This morning, before the murders, the mayor was taken to the Guildhall by force and made to kneel and swear an oath that he would stand with the city against all of its enemies. Others were made to swear the same oath. Archbishop Reynolds has fled the city, using Bishop Hethe's horses, they say. Poor Bishop Hethe has followed on foot. Justice Geoffrey le Scrope has left the city too. No one knows for sure where Bishop Stratford has gone, but they think he has gone to join the queen.”

  Eleanor said, “They won't hurt John of Eltham, surely, for the queen's sake. But the rest of us…” She looked at Edward in her arms, imagining him lying in the dirt at Cheapside with the others. “Let me put him to bed. Then I shall think what to do.”

  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!”