The Traitor's Wife (62 page)

The queen's cries were echoing through her chamber at Westminster. Lying atop her, Mortimer, whose powers of concentration were such that he could think detachedly even as Isabella's fingernails were tearing into his back during her climax, compared her to his wife with satisfaction. Even after a dozen children, Lady Mortimer was as quiet during lovemaking as she was during mass, and about as lively. It did not occur to her husband that she might have been receptive to his teaching had he taken the same trouble with her as he did with the queen. For Mortimer had certainly taken a great deal of trouble with Isabella.

He reached his own climax and, lying by the queen's side, waited a decent interval before coming to the business at hand. Isabella was most amenable to his ideas after a vigorous bedding, he had discovered; in this, he suspected, she was similar to her husband. “We need to discuss what I spoke of earlier, darling.”

“Oh?”

“Your husband.”

“What about the fool?”

“There's a plot afoot to free him, led by your husband's old confessor, Thomas Dunheved.”

“Oh, a Dominican monk! What a mighty force!” The queen giggled.

“He has a brother, Isabella, named Stephen, and a host of other men, all little more than outlaws. It's not wise to discount them, darling. We need to get Edward in more secure quarters, with more reliable custodians. I've a place in mind: Berkeley Castle, my son-in-law Thomas de Berkeley's home. It's out of the way, and Thomas will keep the late king as secure as I wish. John Maltravers will help him. He's Berkeley's brother-in-law and an old associate of mine.”

“I know, darling. I met him in France.” Isabella moved her hand to a place of great interest to Mortimer; she seldom liked to make love only once. “Do what you like with him; I find this business tiresome.”

“Wait, just one moment. You know that eventually something is going to have to be done about your husband, don't you? He can't stay a captive indefinitely; it's too dangerous for us. One fool after another coming out of the shadows, wanting to restore him to his throne. We are going to have to make some decisions, hard ones.”

Isabella laughed and mounted him. “Not tonight.”

Contrary to Mortimer's prediction, the garrison at Caerphilly Castle had not abandoned Hugh le Despenser when all but he were offered pardons. Although William la Zouche had applied all of his considerable military skill to the resulting siege, it was ultimately Robert Bruce he had to thank for the castle's surrender, for with the threatened invasion by the Scots, England could not waste four hundred of its foot soldiers in Wales. Another pardon had therefore been issued to all of those in the castle, this time including Hugh le Despenser by name. Near the end of March, he and its constable, John Felton, surrendered to William.

The last of the Hugh le Despensers was an open-faced youth who looked somewhat younger than his eighteen years despite the beginnings of a beard on his chin. Zouche had forewarned him that he would be taken into temporary custody pending further orders of the king, and he made no protest as he was shackled. “So shall I give you the grand tour, Lord Zouche?”

“For now, we'll go to the great hall, while my men look around.”

“You'll find it quite a sight. It was one of my father's special projects.”

Two squires came racing in. “Lord Zouche! Lord Zouche! You would not believe how much money we have found! Barrels and barrels stuffed full of it.”

“There must be thousands of pounds in it,” said the other squire.

“Try thirteen thousand belonging to the crown,” said Hugh calmly. “And you'll find another thousand belonging to my father.” He shrugged. “They had hopes, Lord Zouche. They did have hopes.”

Leaving Roger de Northburgh, the Bishop of Coventry and Lichfield, to deal with the treasure, as he had been sent to Caerphilly just for that purpose, William led his prisoner to the great hall. It was a sight, as Hugh had promised. Light from the four huge windows, decorated delicately but elaborately, filled the room and brightened the walls. Even from the other end of the hall, William could feel the heat from the fire that burned in the fireplace between the two pairs of windows. “My father had this hall redone just last year. Nice, isn't it?”

“Beautiful.”

“There were to be some murals on the walls, but there wasn't time for them.” Hugh's shackles rattled as he pointed to the corbels underneath the great hall's ceiling supports. “See the heads carved there? The king—the real king, that is—and my father. And there's the queen and my mother, though I don't think the mason did my mother justice. She's prettier. I could have done without the queen, but my father was a great one for symmetry.” He said in a lower voice, “This was to be my father's showpiece castle, this one and Hanley. I suppose you'll see Hanley sooner or later. He got the best masons, looked over their plans, spent a fortune on these places. My mother was born here, did you know that? She's never seen the work he did here, and I suppose now she never will. He was going to bring her and the younger children here to look and admire, once it was all done. He was so proud of it. And now it's come all to naught. It's the queen's now, and she's welcome to it, damn her soul.”

He was standing by one of the windows, and for a minute William thought he was going to attempt to smash his fist through it. Instead, he sank down on the window seat and put his head in his hands. William beckoned to a guard to stand by Hugh and continued on his tour by himself, wandering from tower to tower, gatehouse to gatehouse, looking for a suitable place to lodge the lad and making sure his men were not doing any looting. Finishing his journey where he had started it, he saw that immediately off the great hall were private chambers, one of them brilliantly lit by a large, delicately traceried window and so comfortably furnished that it must have been the former king's. Hugh the younger must have taken the adjoining chamber, just as comfortable but on a more modest scale. No one had disturbed its furnishings, and it had been kept clean and tidy, almost as if in readiness to receive its dead master. William shivered.

And now Despenser's splendid castle would be a prison for his young son. William made his way back to the great hall where Hugh still sat on the window seat. He had regained his composure and appeared to have been in an amicable conversation with the guard. “So where are you going to stow me, Zouche? Plenty of room here, as I was fond of pointing out when I was a child. One of the chambers next door would be rather comfortable, if I had my druthers, but I suppose that's too much to hope for.”

“A mite,” said William. “There's a room in one of the gatehouses that will serve the purpose nicely, though. There's a window and a fireplace, and you'll be able to get to the chapel nearby if you wish.”

He had expected a facetious reply, but Hugh's face softened. “I would like to use the chapel, Lord Zouche. Thank you.”

He rose from the window seat, somewhat hampered by his shackles, and stumbled. Zouche reached out to steady him and said, “We'll take these off once you're in your chamber. Why, what is it?”

Hugh had started and was staring at his hand. “Where did you get that ring, Lord Zouche? It looks like—”

“It is your father's, Hugh.”

“Why the hell are you wearing it? It was my mother's gift to him, you whoreson! Did you take it off him while he was dead? It was the only way he'd ever give it up! You son of—”

Two of William's men grabbed Hugh, but William shook his head. “Let him go. Hugh, it is not what you think. Your father gave me this ring to give to your mother. It was not taken from him. I swear.”

“Then why do you have it? You were at that farce of a Parliament, were you not? The Tower's just down the river from Westminster, in case you've forgotten, and Mother hasn't exactly been moving between her estates these days.”

“I should have given it to her long ago, you're right, Hugh. The truth is, I've not wanted to face her yet. As one of your father's captors—”

“She's not what I would call an Amazon, Zouche; she won't tear your throat out. But I suppose I understand what you mean.” He shuddered. “When I got the news of my father's death it was bad enough, but then I started thinking of how she would receive it. I can't imagine what it must have been like for her, hearing. Not being able to go to her, that's been the worst part of being here.”

“God will comfort her.”

“And what will she do without him? He was devoted to her.”

One of William's foot soldiers, overhearing, snorted. “Not as much as he was to the king, bloody sodomite!”

Hugh went white, and Zouche turned. “Any one who speaks ill of this boy's family in his presence, or mine, shall regret it. Do you understand?”

The men fell silent. Hugh said in a lower voice, “I heard what they said about him and the king. I don't know if it's true. If you've proof, keep it to yourself; I don't care to know.” He put his head in his hands for a moment before lifting it and adding, “I heard the charges that were brought against him when he was killed, and I suppose some of them were true too. Maybe more than some. So what am I to do? Pretend he was a stranger to me? I loved him. And he loved me.” He smiled faintly. “And he loved my mother. He told me one Twelfth Night—he was half in his cups—that he could still scarcely believe his good luck, having the old king's granddaughter for his bride. His red-haired angel, his little piece of heaven. Perhaps he was further in his cups than half.” Hugh sighed. “I talk too much, don't I? My father told me often enough that I did. He didn't mean it unkindly, though, more as a word to the wise. I've missed him.” He averted his eyes from William's face. “I hate this place.”

William said, “Write a letter to your mother. I'll deliver it to her when I'm in London.”

Hugh's face, which could hide nothing, changed in an instant, and he looked as happy as a man in shackles, facing an uncertain future, could possibly look. “You will? I thank you.”

“And then I'll deliver the ring, too, I promise.”

Hugh smiled. “You'd better. My father's ghost will haunt you if you don't.”

For several more days, William stayed at Caerphilly, arranging for his own men to take over its administration and watching as the goods inside were inventoried. The king had not traveled light to Wales, although he had stowed almost all of his worldly goods in one place or another by the time he was caught at Llantrisant. There was armor, of course, and weapons, but there were personal items as well, and William found them unexpectedly touching. Chapel goods, so mass could be celebrated properly. A red retiring robe, decorated with bears. A black cap lined with red velvet and covered with pearled butterflies. Another of white beaver lined with black velvet. As if the king, when his goods in the Tower were packed to be shipped to Caerphilly, had had hopes that more pleasant days were to come.

Before William left for London, he went to take leave of his prisoner. William had made sure that Hugh was comfortably housed, albeit under a heavy guard and with nothing that could be used as a weapon or as a means of escape. Though clearly already growing restless, his captive was determinedly cheerful as he handed over the letter. “It took a while to compose, but then I had the time to pass, didn't I? You've seen those books of letters for clerks to follow? Something for every occasion? I don't think they'd have anything for these circumstances. Maybe I'll work on that while I'm in here: letters from prisoners to their fellow prisoners.” He laughed. “Maybe Mortimer's sons and I could collaborate someday.”

On April 3, 1327, Edward, late the king of England, as he was now known, was awoken in the dead of the night, hustled onto a horse, and taken from Kenilworth Castle to Berkeley Castle by his new keepers, Thomas de Berkeley and John Maltravers. Life had taken a grimmer turn, he knew as he approached the castle walls of Berkeley three days later; just how grim he was yet to discover.