For the King’s Favor (20 page)

Ranging further afield, he added two more ransoms to his tally, saved Anketil from being captured in a vigorous bout, and finally decided that it was time to retire to one of the designated rest areas to refresh himself and the horse. It was never wise to ride to exhaustion on the tourney field because there were always carrion crows looking to pick on the vulnerable.

Anketil, who had been rubbing a bruised shoulder, suddenly dropped his hand to his rein and cried a warning. Instinctively, Roger raised his shield and hefted his sword. His own colours flashed at him as Huon, astride a sweating chestnut horse, thundered in from the left. His lance was levelled at Roger and at the angle it was coming, there was nothing to prevent it from striking Roger from the saddle and stoving in his ribs at the same time. Roger had time only to turn his shield to try and guard his body. The impact of the blow was unsustainable and he was flung from the saddle. The remaining air slammed from his lungs as he struck the ground and pain engulfed his diaphragm which had turned into an airless cavern. Through the agony to breathe, Roger knew if he stayed down, he would be trampled to death, his demise explained away as a tragic accident of the day’s sport. On little more than instinct, he rolled over and somehow found his feet. Huon had turned his destrier and was pounding back to finish him, his lance levelled. Although the tip was blunted, Roger knew the damage it would do. A punch in the right place was just as effective as a blade.

His younger half-brother had seized Marteal’s reins and was leading him off as a spoil of war. Anketil was striving to bring his tired horse to bear on Huon, but his damaged shoulder was hampering his efforts and Roger’s other knights were too far away to be of aid in the moment. Roger managed to get his shield up in time, but the blow was punishing and floored him. Huon turned in a tighter circle, fretting his horse. Roger staggered up again, his vision blurring at the edges, each breath excruciating. Summoning his will power and the last of his strength, he took his shield by the long strap and swung it at the chestnut’s head. The stallion shied and slipped on its haunches. Huon was thrown and landed hard, half on the curved edge of his own shield. He cried out, pressing his hand to his side. Roger staggered over to him and gave him a kick.

“Get up!” he choked. “Get up, you worthless turd, damn you!”

The response was a muffled groan from inside Huon’s helm. Roger dropped to his knees, his breath sawing in his throat, and having drawn his dagger, slashed the laces attaching Huon’s helm to the mail shirt and pulled it off. Huon’s face was red with effort and exertion. Blood poured from his mouth and dribbled down his chin. Despite his rage, Roger felt a frisson of shock.

William Marshal arrived at a rapid trot, leading Marteal by the reins. Removing his helm, he dismounted and stooped over the fallen man to examine him. “Bitten lip,” he told Roger. “He’ll not be chewing bread for a day or two. Cracked ribs too, I hazard…Are you all right, my lord?”

Roger strove to draw breath. His chest wasn’t big enough to hold the breath he needed, nor to contain the emotion boiling inside him. He was suffocating on rage, shock, and the effort of holding back the battle wildness. He was relieved his half-brother was not mortally injured and, at the same time, he was wishing him dead and burning in the pit of hell. He nodded brusquely. “Just bruised,” he croaked, sheathing his dagger and removing his own helm. He looked at Huon, lying semi-conscious at his feet, and restrained the urge to kick him again.

“I’ll escort you and your man to your refuge,” William said. “That way you won’t be set upon by anyone else intent on plundering men in need of respite.” His voice and expression were carefully impassive. “It is for my lord to say whom he takes into his entourage, but I will not be endorsing your brothers beyond this day.”

Roger nodded stiffly “Thank you, Messire Marshal. That will be welcome.”

William gestured over his shoulder to Marteal, whom his knight Harry Norreis was holding by the reins. A spark of wintry humour lit in his eyes. “I came across a churl with no right to this horse, so I rectified matters. Please, accept his return with my good wishes.”

Roger thanked William again and took Marteal’s bridle. Another knight of William Marshal’s company held the destriers belonging to Huon and Will. The latter, unhorsed and bereft, was limping disconsolately towards the edge of the field. He shot a glare in Roger’s direction, but did not approach.

“I have been expecting something of this ilk to happen for a long time,” Roger said as William escorted him to the refuge. Neither man cast a backwards look at Huon, who was now sitting up, clutching his ribs. “It was my own fault I was taken by surprise. I knew they were here and I knew that Huon at least was spoiling for a fight.”

“A man can put safeguards in place and have friends to watch his back, but it is not always enough,” William said. “I am sorry I was not sooner to your aid.”

Roger made a gesture of negation. “Even so I am grateful. And for the return of my horse.”

William dipped his head. “You are welcome, my lord. It was my pleasure.”

Roger found a smile. The Marshal was too courteous to state the obvious—that returning the best horse was a sign of knightly largesse and diplomacy, and he was still in profit because he had the other two and their accoutrements to either ransom back to their owners or sell on.

The Marshal left Roger at the refuge, collected a fresh lance, and, saluting him in farewell, spurred back on to the field.

Roger dismounted again. Suddenly his legs were shaking and he had to lean against Marteal’s solid shoulder and neck for support.

Anketil eased from the saddle with a groan. “If this is sport, my lord, give me a battle any day.”

Roger eyed the knight sidelong and felt his chest tighten again. Anketil’s words were not funny, but they touched a spring inside him and he began to laugh. “Oh indeed,” he spluttered, “by all means let us have a battle.” He choked on his mirth and Anketil thumped him on the back, which almost dropped him to the ground again.

“Sire, I can see the lady Ida coming this way with her women,” warned Oliver Vaux.

Roger bent over, hands on knees, and fought for composure. By the time Ida arrived, he was standing up straight and wiping his eyes with his index finger.

“Praise God you are safe!” She grasped his arm as if confirming sight with touch. Her face was white and her eyes full of anxiety. “What’s the matter?”

He shook his head. “Nothing. Anketil said something funny.” Resisting the urge to start laughing again, he wondered how much she had seen and glanced over his shoulder, judging distance and visibility from where she had been sitting.

“Your half-brothers…” Her voice quivered.

“…have been taught a lesson. Come, help me unarm.” He gestured in the direction of the pavilions. He badly needed to take a respite away from public scrutiny and Henry would expect his attendance in council later for which he would have to be alert and composed. Besides, he didn’t want Ida succumbing to hysterics in front of everyone and, just now, it looked a distinct possibility.

Once within his pavilion, Ida waited while his squires unarmed him, then she dismissed everyone and poured him wine herself. When he gingerly eased off his tunic and shirt to change them for fresher raiment in which to face the King, she was horrified to see the purplish-red marks mottling his arms and torso where he had fallen.

“Bruises,” he said with a rueful shrug. “I’ll be stiff and sore for a few days, but there’s no lasting harm. You expect it of the sport. Marshal was telling me he once got his head stuck inside his helm and the only way to get the thing off was to lie down on the blacksmith’s anvil.” He gave her a keen look. “How much did you see?”

Ida shuddered. “Mercifully there were too many others in the way, but I saw William Marshal escorting you to the refuge.” She fixed him with an accusatory stare. “If you are asking me, it means you have details to hide.”

He feigned nonchalance. “Not really. I came to blows with Huon but he received the worst of it even though he was first to attack. Marshal dealt with Will, rescued my horse, and mopped up.” Carefully and in some pain, he set his arm round her. “I am all right, my love, I swear, better than my brothers. Huon has broken ribs for certain.”

Her knees gave way. Gasping with the pain of sudden movement, Roger caught her and lowered her on to his camp chair. He had known she was sensitive, but he hadn’t thought her squeamish. He wrung out the washcloth in the rose water and wiped her brow with it, wondering if he should shout for her women, but he didn’t want them twittering around like a flock of bossy sparrows and making things worse. “Ida?”

“I have some news for you,” she said as she rallied. “I was going to leave it until later, but I will tell you now. I am with child.”

Roger heard and understood the words perfectly well, but it took his mind a moment to assimilate them. They had been married for almost four months and she had had her women’s courses three times that he remembered. “You are sure?”

She nodded. “I have thought so for several days, but what happened just now only makes me more certain.”

She looked so slight sitting there, her soft brown eyes haunted and shadowed. He didn’t know whether to grin and caper or enfold her in his arms and treat her like the rarest, fragile glass. Suddenly he was breathless again, emotion replacing the air in his lungs. Could one suffocate on joy and exultation? “When?” he demanded eagerly. “Do you know when?” Falling to his knees before her, he grasped her hands and raised them to his lips.

She laughed shakily. “I am not entirely sure without consulting a midwife, but before the year’s end for certain. I have been hoping and praying and God has been merciful and answered.”

He leaned forward and put his arms around her. Her waist was still slender and her belly flat, but new life was growing there and of his making. He knew that when he went into the royal council that afternoon, it would be with equanimity and a satisfied smile in Henry’s direction.

Framlingham, October 1182

Hands resting on her swollen belly, Ida supervised her women as they finished hanging the new bed curtains. The heavy red wool was lined with good linen to help them drape well and to add an extra layer of warmth and privacy to the bed enclosed within. The edges of the matching coverlet were stitched with the Bigod device of red crosses on a gold background and the canopy was painted with the same blazon. The walls had received their coating of limewash in the summer and had since been bordered with scrollwork of greenery and delicate scarlet pimpernels. Curtained hangings of red and gold enhanced the wall near the window and of a winter’s night they could be drawn across the shutters to make the room cosier.

“Excellent,” she said as a maid secured the last ring and hooked the curtain to the canopy so that the bed became a day couch.

“Fit for a king, my lady.” The woman beamed.

Ida winced. “Fit for my lord Bigod will suffice,” she answered.

“Yes, but if the King visited, we’d not be disgraced.” The woman, who was new to her duties, obviously had no inkling of Ida’s earlier circumstances, although doubtless would learn in due course as gossip had its way.

Avoiding the gaze of Goda and Bertrice, Ida turned away from the bed. Roese’s small son, Robert, was galloping around the chamber on his toy hobby horse, shouting to an imaginary friend. The baby in Ida’s womb gave a vigorous kick and the feeling comforted her. Setting her hand to the activity, she was rewarded by the pressure of a little foot against her palm.

Ida paused before a sturdy cherrywood cradle standing at the bedside. She had come across it while clearing out the undercroft. Roger had been amused and a little rueful to see it, telling her that it had been his, and before that his father’s and his grandfather’s. She had not asked if it had been used to lull his half-brothers to sleep too; in all likelihood, it had. She tapped her foot gently on one of the rockers, her expression wistful and pensive.

“Madam, your lord is here,” the chamberlain’s wife said from the doorway.

Ida’s spirits immediately lifted. Roger had been absent for several days in Ipswich and then sitting in session at various Hundred Courts. She hurried to one of the windows and unlatched the shutters on the damp, late October morning. Roger had dismounted from his horse and was in the ward instructing a couple of retainers who were busy with a string of laden pack ponies. He glanced up at the window, saw Ida, and smiled at her. She waved to him, turned, and, having issued brisk instructions to her women, ran down to greet him.

He swung her round in his arms, kissed her with travel-cold lips, then looked down at the bump swelling between them. “You are well?”

“The better for having you here,” she said with a breathless little laugh. “Are you hungry?” Despite the burden of her pregnancy, she suddenly felt as light as a feather.

“Starving.” He went to warm his hands at the fire.

His men followed him in, all in fine good spirits, and Ida saw to it that bread, cheese, and jugs of wine were provided for all.

“What are the roads like?”

He made a face. “Boggy with all this autumn rain. At least we’d got pack ponies and not baggage carts.” He made a fuss of a dog that came wagging up to him and gestured to several of the men who had entered with bundles and packages to take them to the private living quarters.

“Just bits and pieces,” he said with a casual wave of his hand as Ida glanced curiously towards them. “I managed to obtain the threads you asked for and two bolts of Flemish cloth…Oh, and some more rose water and that cumin you wanted.”

The food arrived and the servants set up a trestle near the fire. Ida noticed Roger had bought a new hat and she admired the long brim, the subtle rich shades of green, and the jaunty spray of pheasant feathers. “You can hide many thoughts under that,” she teased.

He gave her an amused look. “Why do you think I bought it? A good hat is worth its price in concealment.”

“It has nothing to do with your fondness for hats?”

He reached for a loaf of bread and broke a chunk off the end. “Not in the least. A hat is the most practical of all clothing items and a necessity—is it not, Oliver?”

“Yes, my lord,” the knight agreed gravely.

As he ate, Roger told Ida about the business of the Hundred Courts over which he had presided, the matter of forest law transgressions at Weston, and the terms of the serjeantry at Tasburgh, where he had come to an agreement with the tenants that they should provide the service of a man with a lance in times of war in exchange for their land. Ida listened and tried to absorb what he said because it concerned the management of their estates and it was useful to know such things, even though he would have deputies and stewards to attend to matters when he was absent.

The first edge of his hunger satisfied, Roger brushed crumbs from his tunic and fed a remaining crust to a lurking hound. “I heard something in Ipswich that saddened me.” His expression grew sombre. “I wondered whether to tell you, but it will be a scandal everywhere soon enough and better you should hear it from me than from casual gossip. William Marshal has been banished from court under threat of death—accused of fornicating with the Young King’s wife.”

Ida stared at him in shock. “I don’t believe it! He wouldn’t! He’s like you—an honourable man. Who would say such things?”

Roger looked wry. “He has enemies among the Young King’s followers—men who resent his position and influence and think it should be theirs. He has become too popular and successful for his own good.”

“But to concoct such a story!” Ida pictured William Marshal. He had been unfailingly kind and courteous to her, even in her days as a concubine, and she knew there was respect and camaraderie between him and Roger.

Roger folded his hands in the space between his knees. “Marshal and the Young Queen are firm friends. It’s not difficult to stretch the detail further. The Young King is already jealous of the Marshal’s prowess and the way men adulate him; Henry thinks William responsible for the Young King’s profligacy, so he’ll be delighted to see him fall from favour.”

“Yes, I often heard him complain about the amounts his son was spending on his retinue—he seemed to think William Marshal was responsible.”

Roger unfolded his hands and gestured. “There is no denying the Marshal enjoys the fine things in life, but he is no wastrel and the Young King needs no encouragement to spend hard and fast.”

“So what’s to become of him?”

Roger sighed. “He’s resigned his position as the Young King’s marshal and gone on pilgrimage to the tomb of the three kings at Cologne.”

“And when he returns?”

“That I do not know, but he has many friends and the rents of some houses in Flanders. With his skills, he is never going to lack for employment. But even if he is eventually vindicated, the scandal will leave a bitter taste.” Roger’s mouth turned down at the corners. “It is something the King and his sons are particularly good at doing: mixing bitter brews for others to swallow.”

Ida said nothing. His remark was true but she was unsure how to respond. Henry had seduced her, withheld and disparaged Roger’s patrimony, and parted her from her son. She knew from the hard glint in Roger’s eyes that he was thinking of all of those things.

“Thus are the seeds of discontent and rebellion sown,” he added grimly.

“But William Marshal would not turn against his lord,” she said, and between them, unspoken but acknowledged, hung Roger’s own name.

He shot her a dark look. “No, he would not, because of the honour that his lord and his lord’s father have slighted. And within me, such seeds will not germinate because I have seen the harvests reaped by allowing such crops to grow. The King took my father’s lands from him, razed his castle, levied fines, and from those fines he built Orford to limit our power. If my father had not rebelled, the Earldom of Norfolk would not have been forfeit.”

“You will regain it though.” She set her hand over his. “It is but a matter of time.”

“So is Judgement Day,” he retorted, then shrugged his shoulders as if physically ridding himself of burdensome thoughts. “Come,” he said, and rose to his feet, his expression softening. “If we are speaking of the future, I have something to show you.”

Smiling, mystified, Ida took his hand and followed him to their bedchamber. She giggled when he made her cover her eyes before he opened the door, and then steered her within, an arm at what had once been her waist.

“Now,” he said. “Look.”

She lowered her hands and gazed around the room. The servants had put the requested bolts of cloth on the bed and there were a few extra bales of sumptuous colours begging to be examined. Then her gaze fell upon the exquisite latten ewer for bathing a newborn and, beside it, a cradle carved from warm golden oak with a delicate design of clover leaves chiselled on the sides and upon the rocker stands. It was lined with the softest bleached linens and an exquisite coverlet of whitework.

Ida raised her hands to her lips, smothering a soft “Oh!” of astonishment. She went forward to look, to examine by touch. The wood was smooth and glossy under her fingers, no roughness to cause splinters. A row of silver bells twinkled along one side and rang softly as she set the cradle rocking. Suddenly her eyes were sparkling with tears. She was overwhelmed by his consideration. Most men would not have given a thought to such an item, leaving it to their wives to make those kinds of purchases. She hadn’t done so, thinking he would want to keep the old one because of tradition. “It’s beautiful!” She turned and flung her arms around his neck. “Truly, beautiful!”

“This is a fresh start,” he said, gently stroking her rounded womb. “This is for
our
sons and daughters. They will be raised to respect the bonds and duties of lineage but I swear on my soul that they will never be tied in knots by them.” His eyelids tensed as he spoke and Ida did not miss the emphasis he put on the word “our.” There was more to this, she realised, than a gift to please her. It was a statement of intent—a symbolic replacing of their past with their future. She nodded with fierce agreement. “No,” she said with brimming eyes. “They will not be tied.”

***

Exactly a year from her wedding day, Ida lay in the great bed at Framlingham and laboured to bear the child in her womb. Although she had endured travail before and knew what to expect, it was still hard, painful work. She had been confessed and shriven lest she succumb to the perils of childbirth, although the midwives seemed confident that all was progressing as it should. Supported by one of the women sitting at her back, Ida bore down with all her might. She had spent hours kneeling in prayer, asking God’s mercy, filled with fear that she was going to be punished for her fornication with Henry. What if little William was going to be the only living child she ever bore?

“Ah, here’s the head,” said the midwife, her hands busy between Ida’s thighs. “Now the shoulders.” Suddenly her voice changed timbre. “Caution,” she said. “Caution, my lady, do not push!”

“What’s wrong?” Ida demanded, beset by panic.

“Nothing, my lady, nothing is wrong, but do not push. The cord is around the baby’s throat and we do not want it to pull tight…”

Ida panted and closed her eyes, fighting the almost overwhelming urge to bear down.
Dear Virgin, dear Saint Margaret, let the baby live. Do not let it be stillborn…Oh please, oh please!

The midwife nodded up to her. “Ah, that’s it free; push again,” she commanded, “but gently, my lady, soft as a breeze.”

Ida did as she was bidden and a moment later, the woman lifted up a bluish-coloured scrap from between her thighs. “A fine boy,” she said as she cleaned the baby’s mouth and nose and another woman cut the pulsating cord. “Come, little one, let’s have the breath of life in you. By the blessed grace of God’s Holy Mother.” Holding him by the heels, she gave him a sharp tap on the buttocks and he whimpered, and then began to cry. The sound, thready and uncertain at first, gathered strength as the midwife righted him and bore him to the large latten bowl which another woman had filled with warm water scented with rose oil.

“Is he all right?” Frantic with anxiety, Ida watched the midwife.

“Yes, my lady,” the woman assured her. “We just had a bit of a fright for a moment but all’s well.” She smiled broadly. “He’s a fine little man.” The woman at the bowl finished washing the baby and then he was brought to Ida, wrapped in a warm towel.

Ida was almost afraid to look at him as she took him in her arms. The memory of holding her first newborn son was inextricably linked with this moment now. Then she had been frightened, exhausted, and bewildered. Now she was beset by a set of feelings that were different but no less difficult. The exhaustion was the same, but this time there was guilt because of what had happened in the past. She was filled with relief and joy that she had birthed an heir for Roger, and a raw, tender love, but it was barbed with terror that she might not be a good-enough mother and God would see through her and punish her by depriving her yet again. It took all of her courage, but she steeled herself to gaze at her new son.

Mercifully, he bore little resemblance to his half-brother. The shape of his features bore Roger’s stamp. His eyebrows were delicate threads of pale gold, not defined dark lines as William’s had been. A burst of love flowed from her to him. Ida’s throat tightened with the exquisite pain of the feeling and her womb cramped. He was to be called Hugh, a name traditionally carried by sons of the Bigod family, and she whispered that name to him now, promising him he would never lack for anything if her love could provide it. “Tell my lord,” she said with tear-jewelled lashes. “Tell him he has a son.”

***

Feeling apprehensive, excited, and decidedly awkward in the arena of women’s matters, Roger entered the bedchamber. For the last month as the birth approached, he had been sleeping in a partitioned corner of the hall and conducting all of his business from the main room too, so that Ida and the women had the domestic chamber to themselves for the confinement.