Hugh and Bess (19 page)

  “For good luck, I suppose?”

  “Why, yes, my lord.”

  Edward's squire evidently possessed as little sense of the ironic as Edward had himself. Hugh smiled. “Thank you.” Then he went to his tent, where he put his head in his hands and wept until he could weep no more.

  The king himself arrived in Brittany several weeks later. Northampton and his men had moved to Brest, where the king and his men joined them.

  Among the men who had sailed with the king was William de Montacute. With Edward's death, Hugh's marital woes had been pushed far from his mind, and he did not even remember until he and William were standing side by side that William, who was less than a decade older than Hugh, was his father-in-law. Having recalled this fact to his memory, Hugh then asked about Bess, but in a tone so perfunctory that William might have taken offense had he not known that Hugh had lost a brother three weeks before. “She's doing well,” William assured him.

  “Is she with your lady wife, do you know?”

  “No. She said she would stay on your estates.”

  This surprised Hugh, who had assumed that Bess would take the first opportunity to get off the Despenser estates that she could. “I hope it doesn’t get lonely for her,” he said politely, though in his present mood, he hardly cared what happened to the insolent little wench, especially when he compared her to the wife who had loved his brother Edward so well. Probably Bess thought that the wrong Despenser brother had been killed at Morlaix, a sentiment with which Hugh was not very far from concurring.

  “Well, she said that her ladies were good company.”

  Hugh flinched, thinking of his last night with Emma. Had Bess told her father of his behavior? Evidently not, or her father would not be speaking so cordially to him.

  He was glad when the king called the men to him and began laying plans.

  The king decided to turn his attention to besieging Vannes, but had little success. In the meantime, he sent Northampton, the Earl of Warwick, and Hugh to attack Nantes and the surrounding countryside. The king's orders had been to spare nothing, and Hugh had no desire to contravene them. He would not countenance rape, but he let his men loot what they wanted to and burn whatever was of no use to them. It was some recompense for the corpse that was now buried in a little churchyard near Morlaix, far from all those his brother had loved.

  Hugh and his men spent Christmas and the New Year shivering outside Nantes, wondering what was going to happen next. The English were short of men, as they had always been, while word had it that more French troops were on the way. But the French had lost heart, it seemed. When papal officials arrived on the scene, both sides were willing to negotiate. By January 19, a truce had been concluded, and a month later, the English, along with the Countess of Montfort and her small children, were boarding the ships to take them to England.

  It was on that voyage back that Hugh came as close as he ever had to dying. He was as far from caring as he ever had been. The brisk winds that aided them out of the harbor turned to deadly gales as they entered the open sea, and Hugh watched helplessly as one English ship, then another was engulfed by the waves and sank. Two of the crew on his own vessel were swept overboard. The ship carrying the king had been blown to no one knew where; was it possible that they would come home—if they did come home—to an England ruled by a child? But finally the wind and waves died down, and the coast of England came into view. Hugh was home, for what that was worth.

  Reaching the shore, he found that the Countess of Montfort's ship was close behind his own, so naturally he stayed to offer what assistance he could. Soon he saw the figures of a woman and two small children being helped into a boat and rowed to shore. As the boat pulled closer, he could see their features clearly. The two children had looks of terror on their faces, a natural reaction for anyone who had just crossed in such conditions to have. The countess, by contrast, bore not a trace of expression, not even when it was at last time for her to disembark. She stepped out of the boat without looking around her, and she ignored Hugh and all of the officials who had gathered to pay their respects. This was not like her at all, Hugh knew. Joan of Flanders was the most affable and gracious of women. Had not she rallied her troops at Hennebont with her courage and charm?

  Behind the countess was one of her knights, a man Hugh had come to know at Brest. He met Hugh's eyes. “Mad,” he whispered. “Gone stark mad on the crossing.”

  Hugh looked again at the countess and saw that the man was right; her eyes were looking at nothing. It was all he could do to keep from slapping the woman—either in anger or in an attempt to beat some sanity into her, he did not know. He knew only that Edward, and many others, and most recently the men lying at the bottom of the Channel, had died for a madwoman's cause. For nothing.

  The king, it turned out, was alive and suitably grateful for it; he would be giving thanks first in London, then at the second Edward's tomb at Gloucester. Hugh could have joined him; his father-in-law was with him, and Gloucester of course was close to Hugh's own estates. But he was not in the mood for thanksgiving. In January, he had sent a curt message telling Bess to await him at Cardiff, a place he had chosen for no better reason than that it was about as far away from Brittany as he could get, he supposed. To Wales, therefore, he went straightaway in March instead of tarrying with the king's party.

  The townspeople greeted him warmly when he passed through the gates of Cardiff, a welcome that would have been deeply moving to him at another time, for his father had left him a legacy of mistrust by his Welsh tenants that had taken Hugh years to overcome. He managed what he hoped was a convincing smile and rode through the gatehouse to Cardiff Castle. His arrival had been heralded, for the bailey was crowded with people standing at attention.

  Somewhat to Hugh's surprise, Anne, Edward's widow, was among them. Hugh was relieved to see that she was dressed in mourning. Although he had sent a man to break the news to her, he’d not known whether the fellow had made it safely across the Channel. He had dreaded that she might be expecting Edward to be among the men returning. Anne's two elder sons stood beside her, and the third was holding the hand of his nurse. And, just as his brother had predicted, there was a fourth child in her belly, Hugh saw as he drew closer. At least Edward had spent his last nights in England enjoyably.

  He dismounted and embraced his sister-in-law. “I’m so sorry, Anne.” His voice broke, and he paused to command it again. “His squire has some of his belongings for you. His sword and a keepsake. I wish I could have brought his body back, but it was impossible under the circumstances. We did see to it that he had a proper burial.”

  “I know, Hugh. And he left something more of him behind.” Anne managed a smile and patted her belly.

  Hugh stooped and put an arm around each of his older nephews. They looked grieved, but also rather self-important, so much so that Hugh nearly smiled. “Your father was a fine, brave knight. He died in the thick of battle, like your great-great-grandfather Hugh, fighting to the very last. I saw him fall myself. You can be proud of him, as he was proud of you. Will you always remember that?”

  They nodded, looking even more self-satisfied than ever, and Hugh rose. Then Alice, having pushed to the forefront of the crowd under the pretext of helping Anne le Despenser's nursemaid with the three small boys, gave Hugh a little shove. More than anyone else in Hugh's household, Alice knew the dismal state of his marriage; she was the one who washed the couple's sheets and saw, day after day, no sign that their match had been consummated. “Sir,” she whispered. “Please see to your lady wife. She needs you too.”

  For the first time, Hugh thought of Bess. He had to look then to find her. Though she was a tall girl, who had grown a little since Hugh had last seen her, she had almost disappeared into the throng, having stood back instead of taking her place at the fore as the lady of the household. “My lady,” he said civilly.

  “My lord.” She stepped forward and Hugh realized that in his anger at her rejection of him, he had forgotten how young and fresh she was; in his mind, he had built her into some sort of hardened Jezebel. He bent his head to kiss her politely, purely for appearances’ sake, but she flung her arms around him, almost knocking him backward. “I missed you so,” she whispered.

  Hugh stood stunned for a moment, then returned her embrace. He stepped back and looked into Bess's eyes. They were brimming with tears, he saw before she turned her gaze to the ground. He despised himself, suddenly, for the letters he’d sent to her occasionally; letters of business without a hint of warmth in them. What could he have been thinking? Hugh lifted her chin with his finger and smiled at her, then reached for her again, oblivious of the bystanders, who in any case were quietly dispersing, leaving an ever widening space between them and their lord and lady, who all knew had parted so angrily and needed so badly to reconnect somehow.

  As he held her trembling figure he forgot for the first time the visions that had haunted him since he had returned to England: Edward's dead body lying in the field of Morlaix, the Countess of Montfort's expressionless face. Here was something worth fighting for, he realized, something pure and innocent remaining amid all the madness and death in the world, something to protect and cherish always. It was worth risking all to see that she and those like her lived their days peacefully and securely.

  “I’ve missed you too, sweetheart,” he said, realizing as he did that he was telling the perfect truth. As he held her and kissed her, feeling her hot tears falling onto his neck, he sensed that his own were coming on as well. Then he suddenly became conscious, for the first time in months, of his muddy, sweat-stained clothing, his unkempt beard, and the horsy smell that must be emanating from him and all the others. He drew a shaky breath and smiled. “Will you order me a bath, Bess?”

  As Hugh's barber transformed him from a hairy savage into the Lord of Glamorgan, Bess settled into a window seat in Hugh's chamber and sat there quietly. A series of servants filled the canopied tub in a corner with steaming water as Hugh's shorn hair fell to the floor. Bess averted her eyes as Hugh, the last of his clothes removed, stepped into his bath. He and his page had been scrubbing for some time when he said, “Bess, would you do my back?”

  “Yes, Hugh.”

  Bess took the sponge the page gave her as if handed a scorpion, but gamely began sponging her husband's back as the page scampered off. “Bess, there is something we must talk about.”

  “Oh?” Bess's voice was calm, but she scrubbed a good deal harder.

  “Lady Welles.” This time the sponge rubbed so hard that Hugh winced. “Don’t go lower down, whatever you do,” he said, and stood up. Bess again looked away as he wrapped a towel around himself and sat on a bench near the fire, then gestured for Bess to sit beside him. “I suppose by now you know what Lady Welles and I were to each other before you and I married?” She nodded. “We ended it when I married you, and we planned on keeping it that way. But that night I was mad with lust for you and tipsy and full of hurt pride, and she was there wanting to comfort me. Neither of us intended it to end as it did.” He sighed. “I should have gone to you straightaway after you found us, I suppose, or at least apologized the next morning. But I was half ashamed, half pleased that I’d hurt you as you’d hurt me. I was a fool, Bess.”

  Bess stared at the fire. “I understand why you did it, Hugh. I was dreadful. I should not have said that about your father, I know. But I was nervous, and you were half drunk, which made me more so. But I tried to make it right—”

  “And then I wrecked it by being in bed with Emma when you came to me. Jesus, Bess! If I could live that night over again—”

  “Me too. I was so worried I would never see you again, that I would never have a chance to make amends. I even thought at times that you might be going to have the marriage annulled. Every day I’ve been half expecting to hear from the Pope.”

  “Annulled?”

  “So you could marry Emma.”

  “Sweetheart.” He chose his words carefully. “Bess, it's true, I would have made her my wife if things were different. I did love her. I care deeply about her still; I’ll look out for her always and make sure she wants for nothing. But it's you I’ve loved these last months. Even when I tried to pretend to myself I didn’t.”

  “Truly, Hugh?”

  “Truly, Bess.”

  He smiled at her, and she smiled back nervously. He would not take her by surprise as he had before, he decided. “Will you let me visit you tonight? I promise, I’ll do nothing if you’re uneasy. Perhaps we can start just by sharing a bed for a few nights. Even longer if you wish.”

  “I was thinking we could get it all over with now.”

  He laughed. “It's not like having a tooth drawn, sweetheart.”

  She blushed. “I didn’t mean to sound—”

  “I know. Well, then, stand up, Bess. Let me help you with your fastenings.”

  She stood with her back to him. Letting the towel he had knotted around his waist slip off, Hugh undressed her down to her shift. He had thought she might want to leave it on in bed, like some form of feminine armor, but she surprised him by wriggling out of it and then turning to face him, her eyes fixed firmly on his chest and venturing no lower. Unclothed, Bess was an exquisite sight, even more so than he had imagined, but Hugh said nothing. Then she abruptly turned and climbed into his bed. He followed and took her into his arms, feeling her stiffen in all of the wrong places as he did so.