Warenne was the devoted husband in all but name to Matilda of Nerford, so it was strange that he should have eloped with Alice de Lacy. It was understandable that Lancaster should have been furious, and had given vent to his anger by attacking Warenne’s lands in the north. A private war was going on between them and being conducted with all the methods of a civil war. She had told Edward that he should stop it. It was not good for battles to be fought in his country by his barons— one against the other.
It was better, said Edward, that they should fight each other than fight against him.
He was right in this but it was demeaning for him to have to stand aside and watch these two men fighting their own war. He might have called a halt as far as Warenne was concerned but Lancaster was too strong for him. And for Warenne too, it seemed, for already Lancaster had captured the castles of Sandal and Conisborough and the only way in which Warenne could save Grantham and Stamford was by handing them over to the King.
In vain Edward ordered hostilities to stop. Warenne had pleaded that it was impossible for him to desist while Lancaster attacked him and Lancaster, of course, was a law unto himself.
And the Countess? wondered Isabella. What of her? It was a mysterious affair, for she could not believe that Warenne and Alice de Lacy were lovers.
There was more in this little adventure than there appeared to be.
Perhaps in due course she would discover, but her own affairs were of far greater consequence. And the biggest irritation of her life was the young Despenser. She could see what was happening there. The handsome young man was creeping into that place which had been occupied by the detestable Gaveston; and, like Gaveston, young Hugh knew that she hated him, as indeed it was natural that she should. Gradually he would work against her. She must beware of that.
In the meantime there was the child.
She was at Woodstock in Oxfordshire for the birth. She had always loved Woodstock, a place which took its name from the magnificent forests which surrounded it. Vudestoc was the old Saxon name meaning a wooden spot.
Ethelred had held his Wittenagemot there, but it was chiefly noted for being the place where Henry the Second, Edward’s great-great grandfather, had kept his mistress, The Fair Rosamund, and where this little intrigue had been discovered by Henry’s vindictive queen, Eleanor of Aquitaine.
There was a woman Isabella admired. She had taken strong action against her erring husband. True it had resulted in her imprisonment but she had had sons to stand by her.
Yes, she was glad that she had come to Woodstock to bear her child.
It was an easy birth and this time a girl.
‘I will call her Eleanor,’ she said, ‘after her great ancestress.’
It seemed as though that period of ill luck was passing. The summers had returned to normal, the harvest had improved; and there was good news from Ireland where Edward Bruce had set himself up as King. Edward Bruce, great soldier that he was, lacked the genius of his brother Robert; it was said that his pride was immense and that he yearned to stand above all others. The English colonists in Ireland had been fighting against him ever since he landed but he had usually come through victorious, for when he had been in difficulties his brother Robert had joined him with reinforcements and all went well while the two were together. But Robert could not leave his newly acquired kingdom for long and there was constant trouble on the border, so Edward Bruce was left to command alone.
There came the battle of Leinster. Edward Bruce’s advisers warned him that his enemies were a strong force and that he should wait for reinforcements before going into attack, but he replied scornfully that one Scot was as good as five English and he cared not for the disparity in numbers. He was proved to be wrong, fatally for him. He was slain at Dundaik and his army routed. His head was sent to King Edward and his quarters set up in four towns so that all might know that the erstwhile King of Ireland was no more.
The Scots no longer held Ireland.
Edward was euphoric. ‘All comes well in the end,’ he said.
He had ceased to mourn so sadly for Gaveston now that there was Hugh le Despenser to comfort him.
Lancaster was once more in the ascendancy. He had been victorious over Warenne though he made no attempt to insist on his wife’s return and she remained living in comparative obscurity although all knew that she was under Warenne’s protection.
Warenne had been forced to surrender his estate in Norfolk and his possessions were considerably reduced by the action he had taken. Eyebrows were lifted when it was known that Alice de Lacy had granted Warenne tenancy of several of the manors she had inherited from her father.
It was a mysterious affair, and the fact was that although Lancaster had come out of it ostensibly the victor his enemy mocked him behind his back and the fact that he could no manage his domestic affairs better caused them to ask each other how he could hope to deal with the country’s.
Outwardly though he was still the strong man, the King in all but name.
The Despensers— the two Hughs, father and son— were taking possession of the King. There seemed to be no limit to their avarice; the more that was bestowed on them, the more they wanted, and resentment was rising against them.
A dispute was now in progress, because since the death of the Earl of Gloucester at Bannockburn his estates passed to his family and they were to be divided between Gloucester’s three sisters, one of whom had been married at an early age to young Hugh le Despenser. The other two husbands were Hugh d’Audley and Roger d’Arnory, and these two complained that Hugh le Despenser had not only claimed almost the whole of Glamorgan as his share but, because he was married to the eldest sister, had taken on the title of Earl of Gloucester.
It was an uneasy situation. Isabella watched it with calculating eyes. She was aware that the Despensers were creeping farther and farther into the King’s favour and the measure of their success was reflected in their attitude towards her. She was not entirely sure but she believed she detected a veiled insolence.
Trouble in the north broke out and this meant that all attention was focused on the border. Edward marched north with Lancaster to besiege Berwick.
Isabella and her ladies were left behind in Brotherton, a village near York. She was growing impatient. She was advancing well into her twenties; she had three children, born as she often thought, in humiliation. She, reckoned to be the most beautiful princess in Europe at one time, and none could deny she was still a handsome woman, was a notoriously neglected wife. She would never ever forgive Edward for the humiliation he had made her suffer. The people of England loved her— but it was partly because they were sorry for her. Well, one day she was going to make use of that sympathy. She was going to show Edward that she had always despised him, and that she had borne her children out of expediency. Her nature had revolted. She could not deeply love those children, because they were Edward’s too and conceived in necessity. But she was devoted to her first-born, which might have been due to the fact that all her hopes rested on him. She visualized the day when he might stand with her against his father. During her stay in Woodstock she had thought of herself as resembling Eleanor of Aquitaine whose sons had stood with her against their father.
There was a commotion below. Men were riding into the courtyard. Starting to her feet she went down to see what was happening and was startled to find men she recognized as the servants of the Archbishop of York.
‘Something has happened,’ she cried.
‘My lady,’ said the spokesman of the men who she saw were troops, ‘the Archbishop has sent us with all speed. He begs you to prepare to leave without delay. The Black Douglas is at hand with ten-thousand of his men and it seems that his plan is to take you hostage.’