For the King’s Favor (13 page)

Yarmouth, August 1181

Roger paced along the shore, picked up a piece of driftwood, and hurled it as far as the strength in his arm could send it. His two wire-haired gazehounds tore in pursuit, muscles bunching and rippling under their iron-grey coats. The wind buffeted his cloak and streamed through his hair and he absorbed the smell and taste of the sea with pleasure. Further along the shore, fishermen were mending their nets and lines and smoke was rising from the salt-pan fires. Out at sea, he could see several vessels making headway towards the harbour where they would land their catches of sleek silver herring.

“So,” he said to Goscelin de Tosney, who was striding out at his side. “I assume this is more than a social visit?”

Goscelin had arrived as Roger was setting out with the dogs. Since Roger had needed to feel fresh wind in his hair and firm sand under his boot soles, he had brought him along the beach rather than settling down indoors. With Henry back in England, Roger would be following the court again, and this was his last opportunity for a while to inspect his coastline and please himself. Yesterday he had even been out with his fishermen on one of the herring boats and had enjoyed helping to hoist and reef the sail and haul in the catch.

Goscelin cleared his throat. “You would think me strange if that were all.”

Roger grinned. “Perhaps.” The dogs growled and tugged at the driftwood branch, play-fighting each other for it. “But then there is much in the world that is strange.”

Goscelin stooped and picked up a strand of gnarly green seaweed. “I came to find out if you have any intentions as regards marriage,” he said.

Roger’s gaze swivelled from the dogs to his companion and widened in astonishment. “Hah, and now I
do
think you strange, my lord. Of what importance is it to you or indeed what business is it of yours what my intentions are?”

Goscelin flushed. “It might be of great importance, and it might indeed be my business.” He tossed the seaweed away into the wind. A back-flurry of wet sand smacked him in the face and he had to spit.

Roger had only one notion where this was leading, and the sudden enormity of it was like being struck in the chest by a jousting lance at full gallop. He strove to remain impassive. “For the moment I have no plans to wed, and if I did, I would need the King’s permission. I can do nothing without his consent, as you must know, being a tenant-in-chief yourself.”

Goscelin nodded and a gleam entered his brown eyes. “Indeed, but suppose he were to offer you my sister and give you his blessing?” He walked backwards, facing Roger. “What would you say then?”

The words resonated through the centre of Roger’s body and suddenly it was hard to breathe. “Just how far has this supposition gone?”

Goscelin sleeved sand grains off his face. “I’ve spoken to the King and he is prepared to release her in marriage.”

“And you suggested me as a candidate?”

“You came first to mind and the King was willing to give his consent. I may be mistaken but I thought you had an affinity for my sister.”

Roger walked towards the sea, leaving footprints that overlaid the sandy ribs created by the motion of the waves. His mind tumbled over and over like a stone rolled into shore by the tide. If this proposal came with the will of the King, it must benefit Henry in some way. Perhaps he was tiring of Ida and wanted to have her off his hands—or else respectably married but still available to him should the whim arise, making of her husband a convenient keeper and bawd. Henry wouldn’t make this decision out of unselfishness, for Henry wasn’t like that. Yet whatever the baggage accompanying the offer, it was a fine one. Ida had youth, beauty, good dower lands, and was proven the fertile mother of a son. While Roger was far from certain he wanted to accept the offer, turning it down here and now would be a mistake. And through his pragmatic thoughts ran a blaze of liquid gold. He could have Ida with the will of the King!

“There is more than affection to be considered in this matter,” he said to Goscelin. “I am the King’s servant in all things. I am cautiously favourable to the match, but the details of the marriage contract will have to be right and I will know everything there is to know before I go further.” He gave Goscelin a hard look, intimating by expression that he was not going to be taken for a dupe.

Goscelin grinned from ear to ear. “I would expect no less and I am truly honoured that you agree to consider the match. I was afraid you might refuse out of hand and there is no man I would rather have my sister marry even though many would fulfil the role well.”

Roger raised his brows at the unsubtle flattery, but the words also bolstered his anxiety that many would indeed be capable of keeping the King’s darling safe against the King’s need. “Does Ida know of these plans for her future, or is she going to be told at an opportune moment?” His tone of voice was harsher than he had intended.

Goscelin sobered. “She is aware,” he said, “and she is content.”

Roger made a conscious effort to relax his tense shoulders. There was more to this than met the eye. If one bought meat, then one also bought bones. “I would have a meeting with your sister in private conference, rather than depend on matchmakers and go-betweens,” he said, “and then I will decide.”

Goscelin hesitated.

Roger gave him a hard look. “Or do you not trust me to be honourable?”

“No, my lord, I do trust you, but Ida…” Then he inclined his head. “I will see what can be done.”

“But Ida” what? Roger wondered. Wasn’t to be trusted herself? Wasn’t really “content” and would refuse to meet him alone? Well, like the sea and shore, what he desired to know would wash up in the fullness of time, and whether it was a gemstone or a rotted corpse remained to be seen.

Whistling to his dogs, he turned away from the shore towards the settlement. “I have no castle for her,” he said, bracing himself against the buffet of the wind. The damp sand, softer away from the sea, yielded and flaked under his boot soles.

Goscelin turned with him, dark curls whipping into his face. “But you will do, my lord, one day.”

Roger’s expression was set and closed. If he did choose to wed her, he had no intention of being compared with Henry and emerging as second-best. “Oh yes,” he said. “One day I will have a fortress to rival anything that an Angevin can raise.” And then he shrugged. “But first the foundations have to be laid. You cannot build on sand and expect your walls to stand. A fortress needs to be just that: a bastion against all comers.”

***

Juliana shook her head in dismay over Roger’s hands. “What have you been doing?” she asked. “Guiding a ploughshare?” She turned them over to examine the palms. “Look at these calluses.” She ordered one of her women to fetch a pot of salve.

Roger grinned. “I did plough a furrow a while back,” he said. “We had a new pair of oxen on the demesne at Framlingham and a new coulter and we had a ceremony to turn the first sod.”

She raised her brows at him. “Peasant,” she teased.

“If a lord does not take an interest in his land, then who will?” He shook his head. “No, these are the result of working with the horses, and of sword practice—both knightly pursuits.” His voice held a teasing note of its own, for he knew how fastidious and discerning his mother was. He wasn’t going to tell her the worst of the calluses were the result of hauling on nets and seeing to the sail on a Yarmouth herring boat.

Taking the pot of rose-water salve from the woman, Juliana placed a generous dab on his palm and began rubbing it into his skin. A fragrant herbal aroma rose from the unguent. “I remember your hands when they were as small and soft as petals,” she said, then laughed a little. “A long time ago…I have always regretted that I wasn’t there to see you grow up, but I had no choice. My leaving was forced upon me.”

“I know that,” he said. “It is over—in the past.”

For a moment, there was silence between them and the silence itself was a bridge. Juliana continued to rub until the unguent had disappeared. “So,” she said, “what have you been doing with your time other than ploughing furrows and attending to your weapon play?”

“Hearing pleas,” he replied. “Talking to the burghers and shipmasters in Ipswich and the fishermen in Yarmouth. Inspecting the salt pans…considering a proposal of marriage.”

Her gaze sharpened. “Made by whom?”

He told her what Goscelin de Tosney had said. “I need your advice since it’s a family matter—and perhaps a woman’s matter too.”

Juliana grew thoughtful. “Ida de Tosney,” she murmured. “She has some useful lands and connections. Her kin are married into the royal house of Scotland—even if she is related to that witch Gundreda.”

Roger gestured in negation. “There is no love between them.”

“I cannot imagine Gundreda inspiring love in anyone,” his mother said tartly, then fixed him with a serious stare. “If you like Ida de Tosney well—and be very sure that you like her well—then marry her with my blessing.” She raised a forefinger in warning. “But if you are not certain, then leave her be and find someone else. It is not a good thing to take into your future something that doesn’t please you to the soul. Do not reach for something just because it catches your eye. Make sure it goes beyond that. I speak from experience. Will she be a helpmate? Do you think alike?”

“I do like her well,” Roger said, and felt a tingle of warmth in his solar plexus, “but as to whether we will suit, I have yet to find out. A few conversations and meetings at court are not enough to know.”

“Then find out, because lands and prestige are well and good, but you are building the next generation too, and you need strong foundations. There are many young women with suitable dowries and ancestry.”

Her words were so much like his own thoughts when talking to Goscelin at Yarmouth that Roger almost smiled. He was glad to hear his opinion validated. “If I do decide to accept this match, I will not go into it blindfolded,” he said. “I will know the motives behind the King’s consent.”

Juliana nodded. “Indeed. Never take anything for granted.”

“I won’t,” he replied. “I’ve learned my lessons well.”

She gave him a sidelong smile. “Even so, I will look to my coffers lest I find myself in need of finery to dance at a wedding.”

***

Roger rode into Woodstock on a fine morning in late September, with the leaves flickering from the trees in lozenges of orange and gold, here and there marbled with yellow and green. The court was at Marlborough for a few days, but Ida and various others of Henry’s domestic household had settled at the palace rather than progress with the rest of the entourage.

As Roger dismounted, a servant directed his groom to the stables with the horses, and Roger’s other attendants were shown to the retainers’ quarters. Roger himself was brought to a chamber in the palace he had not frequented before, it being one of the guest rooms for important royal visitors. Usually when at Woodstock, he had had to make do with the communal lodgings or his own canvas pavilion. This particular chamber boasted a bed with a feather mattress, fine linen sheets, and a soft woollen cover. A steaming bathtub had been prepared and Roger eyed it with surprise. Water for washing he had expected, but not the elaborate luxury of a tub. A pitcher of wine stood on a side table and food had been set out: fig pastries, sugar-dusted wafers, and small almond paste balls encasing raisins. Roger grimaced. He was being treated like royalty and the comparison was unsettling, because perhaps other comparisons would be made too.

A brightness of red and yellow on the bed caught his eye and he saw that it was a set of tourney barding for a warhorse in his colours, with the red cross of Bigod detailed in the trim around the edges. He stared at it, bemused but admiring the intricate needlework.

“It’s a gift,” Goscelin said, stepping over the threshold. “My sister has a talent with the needle and she wanted to stitch something personal to you.” He advanced into the room. “Is everything to your satisfaction?”

Roger nodded. “It is…more than I expected,” he said.

Goscelin looked pleased. “Ida arranged it all. She has a talent for such things. She knows how to make guests welcome and comfortable.”

Roger felt more overwhelmed than comfortable just now. He would have been happier with just a ewer and a towel, but that was because he was on edge and trying to cope in unfamiliar territory. He could, however, see the reasoning behind this display. He was being shown what an asset Ida would be as a wife should he accept the offer.

Servants bustled round him, efficiently divesting him of his garments and encouraging him into the tub. In bemusement, he complied. The water was hot and scented with rose water and herbs he could not immediately identify. A bath maid washed his hair with white Spanish soap and barbered his stubble. In anticipation of this meeting, Roger was already clean and well groomed, but by the time the attendants had finished with him, he felt as if he had been polished until his bones were ready to gleam through his skin.

Goscelin had been hovering throughout the process, drinking wine, sampling the food laid out—more so than Roger who was feeling increasingly ill at ease. At Framlingham, he was used to fending for himself on many levels, and while he demanded quality from his possessions and expected good service, all this twiddling, attention, and luxury was unsettling. Would Ida expect this of her daily life if he married her?

“Are you ready?” Goscelin asked as Roger latched his belt buckle. “I’ll take you to Ida. She’s looking forward to talking to you.”

Roger’s mind was turning like a treadwheel, but going nowhere. What was he going to say to her in these strange and stilted circumstances? He glanced at the horse barding and supposed he could thank her for it, although he was uncertain about the correct level to pitch his gratitude for such a gift. Too effusive and she might think he was ready for immediate betrothal; not enough and it might be construed as an insult.

Goscelin brought him to a large chamber on one of the upper floors—a domestic room with vibrant hangings and painted plasterwork. Benches had been drawn up to the fireplace and women of various ages and stations were sitting there, busy sewing, spinning, and gossiping. Several small children played chase, watched over by their nurses. Roger stared at the gathering in dismay because this was not the quiet meeting between himself and Ida he had envisaged. This chamber might be set apart from the masculine hurly-burly of the hall, but it was hardly private. He knew he was being eyed up and assessed by some of the younger women, who were whispering and giggling behind their hands.