The Traitor's Wife (84 page)

“To a more comfortable room, where you can get better.”

“Am I ill?”

“Just tired out, my lady. You need a change of scene.”

She was quiet as he carried her some distance away, to a part of the castle so bright with candles and luxurious it might have been a different building altogether. As he neared her new quarters, she whispered, “Hugh?”

“Yes?”

“I'm married to Lord Zouche now. Are you angry?”

Bob set Eleanor on a bed, hung round with curtains, and patted her hand as he relinquished his charge to a woman who had been brought in from the town as a nurse. “No, not at all. You rest and get well.”

During the two weeks Eleanor spent in a delirious haze, there were times when anyone who touched her, even the kindly physician, was an enemy, while at others she lay placidly and trustingly as a young child. It was not until a day in mid-December that she awoke from what seemed to have been an endless descent into another world altogether and knew perfectly well who she was.
I am Eleanor de Clare, late the wife of Hugh le Despenser, now the wife of William la Zouche. My first husband still rots for all the world to see; my second husband is somewhere unknown; my children are scattered around the kingdom like so many stones; and where am I now?
She moved her head to the left and felt the warmth of a fire nearby. She touched the covers she lay underneath and felt fine linen and fur. She might have been in her own chamber, except that there was no one around her whom she loved. “Am I still at Devizes?” she asked. “Are you a physician?”

The man she addressed smiled. “Yes to both questions, my lady. You have been very ill indeed, and you are still very weak. But you will recover now.”

“Is that to be desired?”

“Your illness has brought you low in spirit as well as in body, I see, but you must not lose hope, my lady. Rest now. Sleep will help you more than anything.” He tucked the covers in around her more cozily.

There were questions that Eleanor wanted to ask him, but as she tried to form them, she drifted off. When she awoke hours later, her nurse was there with some soup, which Eleanor slowly ate. Eleanor thanked her when she was done and then, worn out by even this much activity, lay back against the pillows as the events of the last few months came clear in her mind again.

After Mortimer had come to the Beauchamp Tower, she had come to consciousness to find herself bound and gagged, lying in an open sack at the bottom of a jouncing cart with a blanket thrown over her for good measure. When it had grown too dark to travel, she'd been carried into a manor house—belonging to Mortimer or one of his allies, she supposed later—and had been given to understand that she was the earl's prisoner. If she wished to go free, she had only to ask for him and do as he wanted. If not, she would be taken to Devizes Castle, a somewhat neglected royal castle, to stay at the earl's pleasure. Perhaps she would like to see him now? Eleanor, her head aching where it had been hit and her wrists raw from where the rope had bound them, had emphatically declined his company. No Mortimer, she had said coolly, would bully a Clare. Someone would rescue her.

For several more days she had been on the road, always bound and gagged, always with a blanket tossed over her so she would not be visible to passersby. Then she had been brought to Devizes Castle and seen her new quarters. A cold, damp cell, a thin pallet for bedding. In deference to her royal blood, she had been given a chamber pot. Probably her guards had expected her to send for Mortimer then and there, but Eleanor, reminding herself that she was the granddaughter of the first Edward and the daughter of the Earl of Gloucester, refused to give way. Then they left her. Soon she discovered that the castle garrison believed her to be a genteel madwoman with an unspecified grudge against the crown, too indiscreet to be allowed to roam loose and too trifling to be hung. Her desperate attempts to open some sort of communication between herself and the king had met with amused tolerance at first, irritation as the weeks wore on. She was cousin to the king? Of course she was. She was Lady of Glamorgan, her husband a member of Parliament? Certainly. Of course she could write a petition if she pleased; they'd even brought her pen and parchment and watched her write with the amusement of men watching a trained monkey. The letter she had written had gone straight to the fire. The one weapon she might have had at her disposal—bribery—had been taken from her, for every piece of jewelry she had been wearing had been stripped from her by Mortimer's men before she arrived at the castle.

Had she asked for Mortimer, she knew, she could have escaped her ordeal, for it was the one request on her part the guards had been advised to take seriously. But her ill treatment had only strengthened her stubborn will. And so the weeks had dragged on, and on, until her body had sickened and her mind had become so hazy with fever that she could not remember Mortimer's name, much less ask for him. The last coherent thought she could remember having was,
Perhaps I am mad, just as they say.
Of the days after that she recollected nothing.

And now what would happen to her? Was this respite only a temporary one until she was carried downstairs again? Or was there hope?

Eleanor gingerly eased herself out of bed, holding onto the bedpost for support as her legs trembled underneath her. She made her way carefully to a window, which afforded her a fine view of a snow-covered pond, and tugged it open, breathing in the fresh, crisp December air. After the weeks she had spent in the windowless prison cell, just the sight of a brilliant blue sky and the sensation of outside air on her face raised her spirits.

Too weak to stand for long, she inched her way back to the bed and knelt beside it, offering thanks for her deliverance from sickness, not to mention the prison cell. She prayed for the souls of Hugh and his father, for the king and Adam, for her parents and brother, for her stepfather, for Gaveston, for her other family dead. She prayed for her children, particularly Hugh and her three little nuns. Finally she prayed for William, but perhaps she was praying as much for herself now. “Bring me back to him, please,” she whispered. “Bring me to him, safe, and let me be a good wife to him. Forgive me, please, for everything. Bring me back.”

She climbed back into bed and drew the warm covers around her. In moments she was sleeping deeply.

For several more days she recuperated, mostly sleeping but sometimes sitting curled up in a blanket on the window seat, watching two boys, hindered by their very large dog, valiantly try to build snow castles in imitation of the real castle towering above them. It was early on the third or fourth day of her convalescence that Bob came into her room carrying a bundle. “My lady, do you think you are strong enough to travel?”

“To travel how? I was brought here tied in a wagon. That took no great effort on my part.”

Bob shuddered. “You are to travel to Kenilworth Castle, if you are able.”

“The Earl of Lancaster's castle?”

“Yes, my lady, but not to him, as I understand it. The Earl of March is there, with the king and his court.”

Irrelevantly, Eleanor wondered if the Earl of Lancaster knew his castle had been taken over by the court and, if so, if he minded. Then she remembered the issue at hand. If Mortimer were intending to imprison her in another miserable cell, he would hardly be doing so in such proximity to the king. In any case, she was willing to take the chance. “I can travel.”

“Here are some clothes for you sent by the constable's lady.”

She opened the bundle from the constable's lady with gratitude, for her own filthy and tattered dress had been burned. The robes that had been brought to her were not new, but they were clean and warm. They were not flattering either, having been made for a taller, heavier woman with evidently quite a different coloring, but at least the bulky material concealed how skinny her body had become, while the headdress hid her shorn hair. She would be presentable enough to appear at Kenilworth without humiliation.

Bob, apologizing over and over again on the way for not believing that she was the Earl of Gloucester's daughter, escorted her. Because of his solicitude for her health, their journey was a slow one, and it was not until the next to the last day of December that Eleanor arrived at Kenilworth Castle, where she was taken straight to Mortimer's private chamber. “I heard that you had been ill, my lady.”

“I all but died thanks to you, my lord.”

“The Church tells us that illness often brings about repentance. I called you here to see if you have repented yet of stealing the king's jewels and wish to make amends.”

“If you are worried about my repentance, then you may send for a priest.”

“I am more concerned about your life here on earth. I'm here to renew my offer, which you could have accepted at any time while you were at Devizes Castle, you know, simply by asking to see me.”

“I would have soon have asked for the devil himself.”

“Indeed? Well, despite your intransigence, I am renewing my offer on more favorable terms to you than the first, for you needn't give up your lands to me—you may give them to the crown. Sign them over—in payment of your fine for your felony—and you will be free in a matter of days, and you will receive a pardon.”

“Answer me one question, and answer me honestly, or you will rot in hell. Is my son Hugh alive?”

“Yes. He will stay that way if you cooperate.”

“On your honor, or what you have left of it?”

“Yes.”

“My younger boys will be safe too?”

“Yes.”

“I will be brought before the king to sign?” Mortimer nodded. “Then I will sign it.”

“I thought you would see reason.” Mortimer smiled. “So much so that I brought your jewels, which have been in safekeeping, here for you.” He motioned toward a small chest and watched as Eleanor, eyes shimmering, opened it and put William's wedding ring on her left hand and Hugh's wedding ring on her right. “And I also took the liberty of sending for your husband— Lord Zouche, that is. He has been rather the more energetic of your two mates in attempting to recover you, and as your husband he must sign with you.”

“William is here?”

“Outside the chamber.”

Eleanor wheeled around and rushed out the chamber door. “William! I prayed to be restored to you, and God has answered my prayers!”

William, looking years older than when Eleanor had seen him last, grimaced. “Probably not under the conditions you had hoped for, sweetheart, but I am here.” He looked over in the direction of Mortimer, who had followed Eleanor out of the chamber. “Leave me, my lord, alone with my wife for a few minutes.”

Mortimer hesitated. Eleanor said, “I've agreed to sign, and I will, you blackguard. Now let me have a moment with my husband!”

She added a multisyllabic epithet in English, learned from her jailors at Devizes Castle, which was much more satisfying than the French they had all been speaking. Mortimer raised an eyebrow. “A wide acquaintance with the people's language has your lady wife, Lord Zouche.”

“She is a remarkable woman, Mortimer. Leave us.”

Mortimer shrugged and walked away. When they were alone, William held her tightly. “Eleanor. Believe me. If there was another way I could get you free other than agreeing to sign my part of that damn paper, I would have done it.”

“I know, William.”

“Mortimer grows more arrogant and out of control every day. Someday you will get your land back, though. Trust me.”

“I don't care about the land, William. I only want to be with you and my children.”

“The man who escorted you, Robert, told me you had been ill. Did they mistreat you?” He frowned as he noticed how little hair there was under her headdress.

She wrapped her arms around William more tightly. “I am very comfortably lodged now.”

“Sweet girl, you make the best of it, as you always have. It is one of the first things I loved about you.”

Mortimer came into the room. “Ready yet, you lovebirds?”

“Let's get this charade over, Eleanor, so that you can go free.” William indicated the parchment Mortimer was holding. “The Earl of March has shown me the indenture. You're doing this of your own good will and without coercion, so the indenture says, despite the fact that you've been locked up for the better part of the year and look as if a strong breeze would blow you away.”

“Shall I have it read to you, my lady?” asked Mortimer.