The Traitor's Wife (75 page)

Eleanor's entourage had grown in Tewkesbury. Several men, younger sons from families who had been on good terms with Hugh, had joined her household as knights. The great hall had been crowded with applicants of the humbler sort as well, eager for the benefits of taking service with a great lady, even one tainted by her husband's treason. Her progress through Gloucestershire had not gone unnoticed, then, and when she arrived at St. Peter's Abbey in Gloucestershire, the abbot himself greeted her by name. After making the usual observation that he was glad to see her freed from the Tower—Eleanor had begun to wonder whether criminals received similar congratulations when they got out of jail—the abbot said, “You are here to see the late king, I suppose? Follow me.”

He led her near the high altar, where she saw a line of pilgrims patiently waiting their turns to approach the grave. She looked up at the abbot. “I—”

“You wished to be alone with your uncle?”

“Yes, very much.” She took a coin out of her purse. “I will not be long. If they could enjoy a good meal in the meantime—”

“I will arrange it.”

The pilgrims having dispersed good-naturedly enough, Eleanor approached the grave, marked by nothing but the wooden effigy that had adorned the hearse. “Ned,” she whispered, and sank down beside the effigy, weeping. Finally straightening up, she wiped her eyes and put her hand on the effigy's. “Ned—Uncle—I hardly know what to call you now. All I know is that I love you, very much, and it is good to talk with you finally.” She smiled. “I should like to talk to Hugh too, you know, but it is harder. If I were to talk to him on the bridge for any length of time, I would be dragged off as a madwoman, or back to the Tower. But perhaps you are together now, so I really am speaking to both of you.

“If I had known for certain when I said good-bye to you in London that I would never see you again, you and Hugh and his father, I would have said so much. But perhaps I would have done no more than make a fool of myself, so it is just as well.

“Have you seen my mother? She was always dear to you, I know. And my stepfather, I miss him so. When I think of how they braved my fearsome grandfather for love, I always take strength by their example.

“I know you were glad to see Adam. Your children here—I think they all grieve for you, but they cannot really show it. I know that is the case with John. Edward, well, I feel so sorry for him sometimes. He will have to defy his mother and Mortimer sooner or later, and then what will happen? But he has his sweet new wife, and she will be a support to him. You would have liked her.

“Ned, I worry about my eldest son so much. I miss my little girls, but I know at least they are safe from harm. But Hugh—he is in Mortimer's hands somewhere. I pray to every saint there is for his safety daily. If you have any power to help him, I know you will.

“Speaking of the saints, I have been hearing that miracles are said to happen at your tomb, that you are another saint yourself. With all due respect, Ned, I cannot believe that; I know you too well. And I do not think that I could love a saint as well as I have loved you.

“Be that as it may, I have kept these good people from you too long, so I will go. But I did not want to pass through Gloucester without reminding you that you are dearer to me than anyone besides Hugh and my children, and that not a day goes by without me praying for you.”

She touched her fingers to her lips, then to the effigy's lips, and stood just as the abbot came discreetly into her line of vision. Eleanor opened her purse and handed her remaining florins to him. “Thank you for taking such good care of my uncle's grave, Abbot.”

He bowed in thanks. “We were much honored to receive his body for burial. Someday, we hope to have a tomb more suitable for a king.”

An elderly woman prayed at the gravesite, then left her offering. From her vantage point, Eleanor could distinctly see a fish tail poking out from beneath the cloth. She pictured such a gift being left at her grandfather's tomb at Westminster and began smiling. “I believe my uncle might be quite happy with his present arrangements.”

Though William la Zouche would have liked to have made a trip to Glamorgan after Parliament closed, his presence was required at Hereford, where Mortimer married two of his bevy of daughters to two of his bevy of wards, one of whom, young Thomas de Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, was Zouche's stepson. From there, Zouche still in tow, the royal party traveled to Ludlow Castle, where Roger was anxious to show off the improvements he had made.

Roger had indeed worked hard on his castle, adding a chapel and decorating the existing rooms lavishly. For most of the guests, however, the real interest lay not in Mortimer's gorgeous tapestries and silver plate but in watching Mortimer and his lady. At his daughters' wedding in Hereford, Mortimer had for once stood beside his wife and at a respectful distance from the queen. Rather to everyone's disappointment, he continued this good behavior at Ludlow, sitting beside his lady at meals and leading her about at the dance. Only Lady Mortimer and her own attendants knew that he did not come to her bed at night, and if she was perturbed by this, she was too dignified to let it show. The queen, on the other hand, plainly disliked having her paramour's attentions directed toward his lawful wedded spouse, and no matter how lively her time in bed had been the night before, came down to the great hall in the morning with a sour face.

Aside from the sport of watching the adulterous lovers, there was good hunting to be had at Ludlow. William la Zouche, preparing to ride out with the others, was walking out one morning when he was stopped by a guard. “Sir. You are Lord Zouche?” William nodded. “There's a prisoner in here who wants to speak to you, if you would give him a moment of your time.”

He led Zouche to a cramped room at the top of a tower. William winced as he saw Hugh le Despenser. He was much thinner than when Zouche had seen him at Caerphilly, and his clothes had worn areas in some spots and plain holes in others. Both his ankles and wrists were shackled, and it was plain from his pallor that no one had taken him outdoors lately. His face brightened, though, when he saw William. “Zouche! So you are here, after all. I'd hoped you were one of Mortimer's houseguests.” He beckoned Zouche forward and whispered, “Could you give the man something for his pains? I've nothing, and he's been decent to me.”

Zouche pulled out a coin, and Hugh smiled in thanks. “So how was the wedding, Zouche? I was very hurt that I was not invited. A Despenser would have livened things up considerably, I'm sure.”

“How long have you been here, Hugh?”

“Mortimer had me moved here from Caerphilly about the time the king died. I suppose he didn't want any of the king's South Welsh allies setting me free.”

“Does he treat you well?”

Hugh shrugged. “I've a fire when it's cold, and the food's edible. I'll be getting new robes in midsummer, if I can stomach putting on the Mortimer livery. Actually, Mortimer's never visited me himself, and I can stand to postpone the pleasure if he can. His lady's come a few times, though. When I was ill in the winter, she brought me one of her herbal remedies, and it fixed me up well.” He frowned. “You won't tell Mother I was ill, will you? It was nothing, just an ague.”

“No, Hugh, of course not.”

Hugh hobbled toward his window. “So have you seen all of the improvements? They've kept me well entertained, I'll tell you, watching the workmen come and go. Have you been to his chapel? He had it built to celebrate his getting out of the Tower, the guards told me. In honor of St. Peter ad Vincula, on whose feast day he escaped. Not my favorite saint now, I'll warrant you.”

“You heard your mother is free?”

“Yes, Lady Mortimer mentioned it. Do you think she'll be allowed to visit?”

“I doubt it,” William said honestly. “But I will tell her where you are, and perhaps they will let you read a letter from her, at least. I'm sure she will send some provisions for you, and I will make sure she knows to send plenty to you so the guards can have their share.”

Hugh laughed. “Maybe the other way around! But the guards aren't a bad lot, most of them, though with Mortimer here they've been made to shackle me. Once he moves on they'll probably take these things off and let me take a walk outside. Lady Mortimer said she'd show her falcons to me once her lord was gone. She likes falconing, and so do I.”

Zouche frowned. Though scruffy in appearance now, Hugh was a handsome young man, and even Zouche, who had given Mortimer and the queen the benefit of the doubt for a long time, had finally had to acknowledge the affair. If Lady Mortimer wanted to get her own back… “Hugh—”

“For God's sake, Lord Zouche, don't look so worried! It would be splendid revenge for me to seduce Lady Mortimer, if that's what you're thinking, but I'm no knave and she's no whore. She reminds me of my mother, actually.”

“Take heed that you keep on thinking of her in that way,” Zouche said sternly.

His tone was more than a little paternal, so much so that Hugh stopped laughing at the thought of seducing Lady Mortimer and looked at him thoughtfully. “Lord Zouche, have you seen my mother?”

“Yes, when she came to the king to do homage for her lands. She was in good spirits, and I saw your brothers and baby sister too. And your eldest sister and her baby, and your aunt Lady Hastings. They all looked quite well.”

“Mother too?”

“Yes. Quite well.”

Soldier that he was, William could not keep his face expressionless when he spoke of Eleanor, increasing Hugh's suspicions. As the topic was an awkward one, he changed the subject to the Scottish truce, which the guards and Lady Mortimer had told him about. Zouche was also glad to have the subject changed, and the two men talked well into the afternoon. William knew that Hugh would be glad of the companionship, and quite aside from that, he liked the young man. He was well aware that he was missing the hunt, but with Ludlow Castle so crowded with guests, he doubted anyone would notice.

In this he was wrong. That evening after supper, an occasion from which Lady Mortimer had excused herself, the tables were being pushed aside for dancing and music when Zouche, accompanied by his young son, saw Mortimer stomping in his direction. Much wine had been consumed at the high table, from the looks of Roger Mortimer. Even Queen Isabella, Zouche noted with intense disapproval, was giggling tipsily with her ladies. “Sir, my men tell me you have been talking to Despenser's brat today. Is that true?”

“Yes. I was not aware that he was not allowed visitors.”

“What did you talk of?”

“I hardly feel the need to report our conversation to you, Lord Mortimer. But you may be assured there was no harm in it. And why is that boy in shackles? And when's the last time he had a good meal? He's the crown's prisoner; he ought to be kept more comfortably than he is.”

“Don't tell me how to keep my own prisoner, Zouche.” There was an ugly look on Mortimer's face that made Alan la Zouche catch at his father's arm. “I've an idea of what interests you in the whelp, anyway. It's his mother, isn't it? She's a nice-looking piece of flesh, and rich besides. But her marriage is in the crown's hands, Zouche. She'll marry whom the queen and I please, to our advantage. But if you want to poke her in the meantime—”

Zouche turned on his heel and walked away, taking Alan with him. William was no coward. Much as he would have liked to strike Mortimer down, it would accomplish nothing. The man was drunk, and to harm him in his own castle would only be fatal to Zouche himself. If Mortimer's men did not kill him then and there, they would kill him secretly later, as they had the late king. For just as William had been forced to admit to himself that the Queen of England was no better than a whore, something that very day had also forced him to admit that her lover was no better than a murderer. Was it Hugh's thin face and ragged clothes, the shackles that from the looks of his chafed skin had probably been on much longer than the boy admitted? A man who would mistreat a nineteen-year-old prisoner solely because of the dislike he had borne his father would not hesitate to kill an imprisoned king. Or was it just the expression on the drunken Marcher lord's face, the way the queen was staring at him from across the room as if she wanted him to tumble her that very instant? He did not know; all he knew was that the two of them were repulsive to him now.

His squires and his men soon caught up with him. “Pack my things,” he said. “We are going to Cardiff.”