The Traitor's Wife (64 page)

“Whether your fears are well founded or not, you should not be in such distress of mind, particularly in your state of health. I am on friendly terms with the constable here. I will talk to him about having the guard's duties assigned elsewhere.”

“Thank you.” Some color had returned to her face.

“It will please your eldest son to hear how you are making the best of your time here. My own son has some Latin books he no longer uses. I'll have some sent to you. You are likely to advance very quickly, and will have need of some more.”

“I fear you overestimate our abilities.” Eleanor managed a slight smile. “But I thank you again.”

“So you can write, Lady Despenser?”

“Yes. My mother had us girls taught; it was a fancy of hers.”

“Then perhaps you would like to have me carry Hugh a letter from all of you. I don't know how long I will be custodian of Caerphilly Castle, or how long he shall be there. But as long as he is in my custody I will be happy to deliver him letters from you when I can.”

“He is not forbidden to receive letters?”

“He would probably be if it were known that he was receiving them. But there is no reason why it need be known that I can think of, my lady.”

The green eyes sparkled at him. “Then we will write him a fine letter. Thank you, Lord Zouche.”

“And now I will be taking my leave.” He took Eleanor's hand to kiss it, and this time she did not pull her hand from his. He decided not to risk taking leave of the boys in the next room. “Good-bye, Gladys. Look to your lady here.”

“It has been my pride and pleasure to look after my lady since she married the late Hugh,” said Gladys loftily. “I'll not stop now.”

William smiled and left the room. Before he left the Tower, he went to speak to some clerks who were inventorying and valuing the Despenser treasures stored there, and he wondered what the men would say if William told them that the most priceless of all the treasures was living and breathing in the Beauchamp Tower. Probably, William thought, the men would say William had lost his mind, and William, as stupidly in love as any prentice boy within the city of London, would have no call to disagree.

Several days later, he was back in the Tower, bearing gifts: a chessboard and men for Edward, a top for Gilbert, and a toy horse for John. He had considered bringing something for the ladies, but had rejected the idea as too presumptuous. Now watching the delight with which the younger children received their toys, he wished he had found something, even a thimble, for each of them.

Edward, however, greeted his gift with an expressionless face. He said coolly, “No, thank you.”

“Edward!” Eleanor frowned. “It was kind of Lord Zouche to bring you something to amuse yourself with, and you were wishing only the other day that you had thought to bring your chess set with you.”

“My
father's
chess set. Not this man's.” He scowled. “I'm going to the other room to do my lessons. Though what good they'll ever do me I don't know.”

Eleanor flushed as her son left the room as noisily as possible. “I am so sorry, sir. He was not brought up to be so rude.”

“I know.”

“These past months have been very hard on him. He worshipped his father.”

“Boys that age do.”

“He has always been quiet, but now he broods and almost never smiles, although he is very good with the younger children and tries to rouse himself with them.”

“He is grieving. It is natural.”

“He was so different before.”

Eleanor seemed on the verge of tears. He changed the subject by saying quietly, “I came to pick up your letter to your son Hugh, Lady Despenser, if it is ready.”

“It is ready, and I thank you again.” She gave him a folded piece of paper. “I did not seal it, Lord Zouche, because I thought that you might have to read it.”

“There is no need.”

“Thank you.” She got the materials for sealing her letter and began to let the wax drip. “It did Edward good to write his part of the letter, I know. He is fond of his brother. He had wanted desperately for his father to take him with him, but Hugh said he should stay and help take care of me.”

“That was sensible of him. He seems a brave boy.”

“He has been so much help to me here, although I know he regards himself more as a nursemaid to the younger children than as my protector. But I am boring you with this chatter about my children, Lord Zouche. I am sorry.”

“You have not bored me at all, my lady.” What would she say if he told her that
he
wanted to be her protector? He took the letter Eleanor offered him reluctantly, for now there was no reason for him to prolong his visit. A thrill of delight ran through him when Eleanor said in her soft, sweet voice, “Perhaps you might stay a while, Lord Zouche? It is a treat, I do confess, to have a visitor.”

“I will be happy to stay.”

“I wish I could serve refreshments, but my cook has been lazy today.”

“I will excuse the impropriety.”

“I have been trying to remember, Lord Zouche.” William felt a thrill to hear that Eleanor had been thinking about him. “I believe you were married to Alice, the Earl of Warwick's widow?”

“I was, indeed. She was a lovely woman.”

“She spoke very highly of you before your marriage, as I recall.” Eleanor's smile had a hint of mischief in it. “She was Hugh's aunt by marriage. Warwick was brother to Hugh's mother.”

“I respected Warwick.” He paused. “For a time.”

“So did Hugh, for a time.” She shook her head sadly. “I hardly knew him. The Black Dog of Arden, Piers Gaveston called him. And he did bite.”

“Yes,” William said regretfully. “He did.”

Searching for a more cheerful topic of conversation, he noticed a basket full of sewing materials and cloth. “Even in here, you sew? You ladies amaze me.”

Eleanor laughed. “Not another infernal altar cloth, thank God!” She displayed a child-sized tunic, then set to work upon it. “There is the baby to come, of course, and the boys are growing apace, so Gladys has taught me to do plain sewing. Yet another means to support myself when I get out of here.” She glanced toward the door. “Lord Zouche, do you think we shall get out of here?”

“Yes, when time has passed.”

“And my oldest son?”

He respected her too much to offer false hope. “It is different with a man, Lady Despenser. There is always the fear that a man might raise an army.”

“Isabella managed, did she not? Perhaps you underestimate our sex.” She laughed again, then shook her head. “Not with me you don't, Lord Zouche. I don't want power or revenge. I only want to get out of here and live quietly somewhere.”

“It is a pity for your sake that your husband did not wish the same.”

“You are right. It is a pity. For my sake and for his, Lord Zouche.”

He'd gotten her angry, he saw, and it was entirely worth it to see that flash of color that turned her pale cheeks to rose. What had Hugh done to deserve such a lovable, luscious creature? Nothing! he told himself stoutly. He thought of rousing her again, but the prospect of having his visit cut short deterred him. Instead he sat quietly and watched Eleanor as she stitched determinedly, her eyes bent over her work. After a few minutes, she said, “Tell me, Lord Zouche, why did you join Isabella against the king? I don't ask to accuse you or quarrel with you. I only want to know, as you seem a good man.”

“My lady, I respect you, so I will give you a truthful answer. I believed, as did many people wiser than myself, that your husband was self-seeking and corrupt and that he shamelessly abused his power to acquire lands to which he had no right. I believed that the king had fallen so deeply under your husband's influence that he was no longer able to govern wisely or fairly. I saw widows and children being punished for real or imagined crimes of their husbands and fathers that were not of their own making—much as, I regret to say, I see that you and yours are being punished for crimes of your husband. I believed that the queen had the best interests of England at heart and that she could set it right.”

“And do you still believe she is the one to do it?”

He hesitated. “Our new king is but a youngster yet, but I believe he will prove good and just. Henry of Lancaster, the head of the regency council, is a good man.”

“You do not mention Isabella or Mortimer, I notice.” Eleanor jabbed her needle through the cloth with satisfaction, then started and touched her belly. “Ouch! This child has no respect for my abilities as a seamstress, Lord Zouche. He or she has been kicking me all morning, but that was a particularly vicious one.”

“I have been meaning to ask you if there is something I can do to assist you with—”

Eleanor's mouth twitched upward. “As you cannot make baby clothes or deliver the baby, Lord Zouche, I think not, but I thank you. Thomas Wake has promised to bring a decent midwife here when the time draws near. In any event, Gladys has helped me bring nine children into the world, eight living and one dead, and I daresay she is as good as any midwife now. We will muddle through one way or the other.”

William hesitated. “Did your husband know?”

Eleanor shook her head. “It was far too early when he left me. No, Lord Zouche, he never knew.”

William said gently, “I would not cause you further pain, my lady, for the world, but your son Edward mentioned your daughters. Where are they?”

Eleanor's voice grew hard. “I have four daughters, Lord Zouche. Isabel is married to the late Earl of Arundel's son. Where he is now and how she fares I have no idea. My other daughters are nuns. Isabella and Mortimer made that choice for them. I try to tell myself that God had some say in it.”

“I am sorry, my lady.”

“Whatever your motives might have been, Lord Zouche, you serve a vile woman. Don't let yourself forget it.”

A door banged and Eleanor composed herself as her sons hastened to the door. “It is time for our walk, Lord Zouche. Since you first visited us, the guards have been much more regular about letting us go to the garden. I have omitted to thank you for that. Will you go outside with us?”

William nodded.

Outside in the garden, Eleanor chased after John, who was headed straight toward a particularly dirty-looking mud puddle, while Edward and Gilbert began to toss a ball around. William caught Gladys as she began to follow her lady. “It is true? The girls were forced into convents? Like Mortimer's daughters?”

“Not like Mortimer's daughters. They were never forced to take the veil. My lady's daughters were. The youngest only a child of three, Lord Zouche.”

“Is it true she has nightmares?”

“Almost every night. Since the queen sent a man to tell her all the most vile details of her husband's execution.”

William shut his eyes. “That was uncalled for.”

“It was cruel and wicked, that's what it was, knowing as the queen did how fond my lady was of her lord. What my lady doesn't know, though, is that she was lucky. If he'd been taken to London as they planned, as the guard told me, she would have had to sit through the whole execution, I don't doubt it for a moment. And that would have driven my lady mad.”

“I doubt whether they would have been so cruel.”

“They were cruel enough to him, weren't they? No, they would have made my poor lady watch, and as it stands now, she never has a good night's sleep. I know; I share the bed with her every night, and I soothe her when she wakes. The Tower chaplain and the physician here told me that the nightmares would pass with time, but they're no better. Or at least—”

“At least what?”

“Your bringing the ring and the letter from Hugh her son seemed to help. She woke only briefly that night and started, then went back to sleep.” Gladys glared at William. “Don't you be speaking of this to my lady, mind you! She prefers not to discuss the matter.”

“I won't.”

“The worst of it was the night after the girls had been taken away to their convents—three separate ones, mind you, lest they find some comfort in each other's company. My poor lady! She told them that God had chosen them in particular to serve Him and they were to consider themselves honored and blessed. What else could my poor lady say? They finally left, with Joan of Bar their cousin—at least the queen had the decency to send them with her and not just some soldier—and we tried to carry on as normal. But that night my lady was awake every hour, screaming and crying. I thought she'd go mad, I truly did. But the next morning she was as if nothing happened, and that's the way it's been ever since.” She looked at Eleanor pulling John away from some rose bushes. “Hugh's all she had for twenty years, poor thing, all she knew. Her mother died not long after she was married, and her menfolk are either dead or shut up or not in a position to be of any help, and her sisters were loyal to their husbands, as she was to hers, not like that French whore parading her paramour before her own son the king while the old king sits God knows where.”