For the King’s Favor (22 page)

Greenwich, London, Late June 1183

A warm breeze ruffled the water on the Thames and gently rocked the covered barge bobbing at its mooring rope at the jetty. Further out in the river, galleys, nefs, cogs, and barges of varying sizes plied upriver to the London wharves, or made their way down to the mouth of the estuary and the open sea. Fastening the pin on her light summer cloak, Ida watched a sleek white galley with a red top strake making headway towards the city. She and Roger were at Greenwich for the funeral of Juliana’s husband, Walkelin, who had died of a seizure. Now they were preparing to return to their London house on Friday Street.

“Fine linen of Cambrai,” Juliana said with a nod at the ship, her grey eyes narrowed the better to focus. “Probably spices and soap too.”

Ida glanced at her mother-in-law. Juliana’s manner was serene. She seemed barely touched by her second husband’s demise. She had done her duty by him when he was alive and seen him decently buried now, but the latter event appeared to have created fewer ripples in her life than those on the surface of the river. From brief mentions and atmospheres, Ida had gleaned that her mother-in-law had felt naught but revulsion and contempt for her first husband, Roger’s father, and resigned indifference towards the second, with whom she had little in common. Indeed, she was intent on paying a fine of a hundred marks to the exchequer to free herself from having to marry a third time against her will. She intended retiring to her dower estate at Dovercourt, there to dwell as she chose with no one to please but herself.

“How do you know what it’s carrying?” Ida asked curiously. The water furrowed away from the white ship’s prow in a series of silver frills that gave her a notion for an embroidery.

“It’s the
Saint Foy.
Walkelin sometimes did business with her master.” Julianna gave Ida a keen look. “Such vessels always bear a cargo of news just as valuable as cloth and the means to dye it.”

“Then I hope it is good news.” Ida looked pensively towards Roger who was talking to his knights. They had heard very little during the last month concerning the rebellion of the Young King, other than that he continued to defy his father at every turn and sack shrines and monasteries to pay his mercenaries. They had heard too that he had begged William Marshal to return to his side and take command of his military household—as if the previous scandal and banishment were trifles to be casually flicked away like specks of fluff on a tunic. Ida had been at a loss to understand why William had agreed to return to serve such a lord.

“He does what he must,” Roger had told her when they had discussed the matter one evening by the fire. “His loyalty is to his sworn lord, and since his lord is the Young King, he is honour bound to answer the summons. We have all been in that position at one time or another. The road you choose defines you. Some might see his integrity as foolhardiness, but all admire the courage it takes to stand firm.”

She had realised anew how fundamental Roger’s own sense of honour was to his character, because the way he spoke of William Marshal’s situation was from the heart. She did not have to ask if he would have done the same; she knew he would, and it was a cause to her of pride and concern.

Juliana recalled Ida’s attention to the present by saying, “I take comfort from the fact there have been no uprisings in England this time. With Gloucester and Leicester under arrest, there is no rallying point and men are less eager to follow the Young King after what happened before.”

“My lord’s half-brothers support him.”

Juliana made a disparaging sound. “I would expect as much from them.”

“Roger says the justiciar will hold them in check, since he has a family interest.”

“Much good it will do him,” Juliana said, her eyes suddenly hard as flints. “My son will be the Earl of Norfolk. It is his birthright.”

Roger finished his conversation with the men and came to bid farewell to his mother, embracing her tenderly and kissing her cheek. Amid promises to visit soon, he helped Ida into the barge, which was lined with rugs and cushions. As the four oarsmen navigated the vessel out into the current, Ida took Hugh from his nurse and cradled him in her lap, tucking her cloak around him to protect him from the sharp breeze on the river, then sang to him until his lids drooped and he fell asleep in her arms.

Roger felt a lump tighten in his throat as Ida leaned over the baby to kiss his head and stroke his brow. So much of this had been missing from his own childhood. Perhaps there had been such moments with his mother, but if so he had been too young to remember. His memories were mostly of separation and loss; of becoming an outsider as the safety of the nest was snatched from under him and replaced by thorns.

Ida looked up, caught his hungering stare, and returned him a luminous smile that both pointed up the emptiness of those lost years and filled him with determination that his own son would never be thus deprived.

***

Once home at their London house, Roger absented himself to talk to his steward on a matter of administration, and Ida settled Hugh in his cradle to finish his sleep. Leaving Emma to watch over him, she brought her needlework outside into the good summer light and sat on the bench outside the hall door.

She had barely poked a length of thread through the eye of her needle when a man entered the stable yard, followed by a squire leading a burdened pack mule. Ida set her sewing aside and hastened to greet him. “Messire Marshal!” She extended her hand to him and managed to sound pleasantly surprised rather than concerned. Surely he should be with the Young King. His presence here could be dangerous to her and Roger.

He blinked at her and it was plain he had not registered her presence until she spoke to him. He immediately rectified his manners and bowed over her hand. “Lady Bigod.”

His complexion was ruddy brown from a summer spent in the saddle and his deep brown hair was streaked with lighter tones from the bleaching of the sun. He should have looked the picture of health, but his face was gaunt—haunted, she would have said, with hollows under his cheekbones and dark shadows bruising his eyes.

“It is good to see you,” she said. “Do come within and quench your thirst. Will you stay to dine?”

He hesitated for a moment, as if unsure of his reply, then nodded. “Thank you, my lady. That is kind of you.”

“Do you wish a place to sleep too? Forgive me, but you look as if you have been on a long journey.”

His eyelids tightened. “My lady, I have, and still far to go, but I intend lodging with the Templars tonight. I am here to ask a boon of your husband’s goodwill.”

That sounded ominous, but Ida didn’t allow her trepidation to show. She told her maids to prepare a bath for their guest and set out clean raiment. Having sent a lad running to fetch Roger, she brought William into the hall, directing him to a seat under the window and fetched him wine with her own hand. “You must take us as you find us,” she said. “We have but recently returned from the funeral of my mother-in-law’s husband.”

A spasm flickered across his face. “I am sorry to hear that, Lady Bigod. May God rest his soul. I too have—” He broke off and looked towards the doorway as Roger arrived. Ida saw her husband take in their guest’s state as she had done, and pause for a moment before striding forward.

“Be welcome,” Roger said as the men embraced. “I thought you were deep in the Limousin.”

William said quietly, “The Young King, my own young lord and son of King Henry, is dead of a bloody flux. Soon the city bells will tell their tale to all. I am on my way to the Queen at Salisbury, and from there to my brother at Hamstead. After that, I leave for Jerusalem.” He gave Roger a bleak look. “I swore an oath to him when he lay dying that I would lay his cloak at the tomb of the Holy Sepulchre.”

Ida exchanged shocked glances with Roger. William Marshal’s voice had been as steady as always. He had himself under control, but Ida wondered what it was costing him. Her mind filled with the image of the young man she had last seen more than a year ago when she was newly wed. Handsome and arrogant, owning the world. Utterly charming too, towards those whom he wished to court. Henry’s son. Henry’s eldest living son. She pressed her lips together.

“God rest his soul.” Roger made the sign of the Cross. “I will have my chaplain say masses for him and have a vigil kept.”

William inclined his head. “I thank you,” he said with dignity. “I have penances and reparations of my own to make for the sake of his soul and my own. There is much to repent. I am here to ask if you have horses with which you are willing to part for my journey. The King has custody of my destriers and the mule is hired and must be returned.”

“You are welcome to take the chestnut gelding from the stables.” Roger gestured. “He’s rested up and of sound wind. His gait’s smooth and he has a steady temperament. There’s a strong sumpter in the stables too—the bay with the white foreleg.”

Ida was familiar by now with Roger’s mannerisms and nuances—the small gestures that gave him away. On a superficial level, he was being a courteous host, but at a deeper one, she could see he was assimilating the news and deciding how to react. The chestnut gelding was a favourite riding mount. To offer it to William Marshal, probably never to see it again, was an act of generosity that spoke far more than words of Roger’s opinion of the man.

“Thank you,” William said with direct and heartfelt simplicity. “I won’t forget your largesse.”

A servant arrived to murmur that the bath was ready. Ida took William to the chamber and used the moment away from Roger to ask how the King had coped with the news of his eldest son’s death.

“Grieving, my lady, but concealing it in public. He has lost a grown son and that is a terrible thing. It eats at him too that when my young lord died, they were estranged and strangers.” His expression grew sad and pensive. “So much goes wanting for the sake of an embrace, does it not? So many wrong words are spoken in place of the right ones and become obstacles on the road ahead.”

Ida swallowed, unable to answer because what he said had caused a swelling of grief in her own breast. Murmuring an excuse about tending to her son, she left him to his ablutions.

Hugh was awake and crowed with pleasure when he saw her leaning over the cradle. She picked him up and clutched him to her fiercely, even though his clouts were wet. And although she held him for himself, her embrace was also for the vulnerable little boy she had left behind in Henry’s keeping. Henry, who let his sons go wanting for embraces and words of love.

***

“What will you do when you return?” Roger asked William as they dined on roast fowl, frumenty, and assorted salad leaves from the kitchen garth with a sharp strawberry dressing. A bath, clean garments, and a moment to collect himself had done much to restore their guest. The careworn expression was less pronounced and his shoulders looked as if their load had been lightened.

William set down his knife. “If I survive the journey, I am pledged to return to the King and tell him that I have laid my young lord’s mantle at Christ’s sepulchre. He has promised to find me a position in his household, and from there, we will see. Whatever God wills for me, let it be done.” He reached to his cup, his expression pensive. “There is much to be atoned for…and much to think upon. Deaths that are close to you make you evaluate your own life.”

Roger nodded with sombre agreement. Having come from his stepfather’s funeral to this news, he was in a reflective mood himself, and strongly aware of the passage of time. He was of William Marshal’s years—not yet into middle age, but no longer filled with the supple optimism of first youth. He had his goals, his ambitions; they were like a strong river carrying him downstream to the sea, but at least he was in a boat and knew his direction. The Marshal’s future was less certain.

“So, now the King’s heir is Richard,” Roger said thoughtfully as the servants produced bowls of late cherries, dark as Vavasour’s hide. “What is that going to mean for the future, do you think? He is certainly a different prospect to the Young King, but I do not know him as well as you do.” Indeed, Richard had been so little in England that Roger didn’t know him at all.

William took time to wash his hands in the bowl of rose water and dry them on the towel a servant proffered. “Richard likes men who speak their mind and whose loyalty is unswerving. Providing you tread a straight path and do not digress from it, you will find favour. He has a fierce temper and he demands good judgement and quick thinking. Do not expect consideration from him. He may or may not reward you, but he will certainly work you until you drop. He is also his mother’s son,” he added. “Think of the Queen in your dealings with him, not Henry, and remember that he was heir to Aquitaine long before he was heir to England.”

William took his leave of Ida and Roger towards sunset, riding the chestnut gelding and leading the bay packhorse laden with his belongings. Watching him depart their yard and turn towards Ludgate, Roger wondered if he was ever going to see his horses or William again.

Both he and Ida were subdued as they returned to the house. Roger’s introspection was caused by what William had told him. He had plans to make and options to mull. Caught up in his own deep thoughts, he didn’t notice Ida’s silence or the sad and pensive expression in her eyes.

Westminster, Christmas 1186

The court settled at Westminster to celebrate the Christmas feast of the thirty-second year of Henry’s reign. Roger and Ida were present at the gathering, Roger in his ceremonial office of royal dapifer, which involved seeing to the ordering of the King’s table. Not that Henry paid attention to the manner in which a platter was set down before him or what was on it, because for him, food existed to sustain the body and he had little interest in how it was presented or what form it took, providing it was edible.

Roger thought Henry looked older. The years that had sat so lightly on him for a long time were suddenly weighing him down. His limp was permanent now and his hair, which had been rusty-gold when Roger first began the fight for his inheritance, was more grey than red. The pugnacious jaw had blurred. Anyone encountering him in a corridor, who did not know him, would have mistaken him at a distance for a shabby, careworn retainer, not the King of England. Behind the age-worn façade however, the intellect and mental capacity remained—shrewd, strong, and sly. The grip on the reins was still as controlling as ever.

He was still weathering the tragedy of the loss of his son Geoffrey at a tourney in Paris. The young man had fallen from his horse, been badly trampled, and had died in agony several hours later. He left a pregnant wife and a small daughter as his heirs. In true Angevin tradition, the reasons for Geoffrey being in Paris in the first place were dubious and, in all likelihood, he had been fomenting rebellion against his father rather than attending for the pleasure of the sport. Now he was dead at the age of twenty-eight, the same attainment as his brother Henry the Young King, and his body laid to rest in the great cathedral of Notre Dame. Everyone was waiting on tenterhooks to discover if the posthumous child was going to be a boy or a girl.

Henry perused the dish of venison Roger had set before him, hot and fragrant with spices, a little bloody in the middle. Taking up his knife but pausing before he cut the meat, Henry looked at Roger. “How is your lady? I have seen little of her thus far.”

“She is well, sire,” Roger replied with bland courtesy. The less contact there was between Ida and Henry the better as far as Roger was concerned. She was keeping company in the smaller White Hall with Queen Eleanor who had once more been permitted out of her house arrest at Salisbury to attend the festivities at Westminster.

“You have another daughter, so I hear.” Henry flicked him a look gleaming with provocation. “Girl children are useful to make marriage alliances, although it’s better if sons are vouchsafed first.”

“God has been good, sire,” Roger said, remaining outwardly insouciant, even if inside he could feel his anger popping like small bubbles in simmering water. Hugh had recently turned four and Roger was inordinately proud of his son, who was funny, agile, and as bright as a new silver penny. His second child, Marie, at two and a half was just moving from baby smocks into proper dresses, their tiny size giving him an amused pang when he saw them draped over the coffer while she slept. Marguerite had been born in August—on the same day that they received the news about Henry’s son Geoffrey. Ida had wept over their new daughter, but Roger had been uncertain as to the source of the tears. Joy and relief at another successful birth, perhaps, but he thought the news had touched on her sore, unhealed grieving for that first infant she had borne.

“So I used to think myself,” Henry said, “but now I wonder if our sons and daughters are sent to punish us, and then taken away for the same reason.” He cut into the venison and bloody juice ran on to his golden platter. “You and your father were estranged at his ending, my lord Bigod. Do you regret it?”

“I regret that he died as he did, sire,” Roger answered quietly. “I regret that we never saw eye to eye, but I do not regret that I defied him.”

Henry speared a slice of meat on the point of his knife and watched it quiver there for a moment before conveying it to his mouth. “I have been watching you for a while, my lord,” he said. “You tread a cautious path and you have great patience. Those are fine and useful qualities. I can count the men in whom I have implicit trust on the fingers of one hand…” As the King hesitated, Roger’s gut swooped. Here it was at last. As a Christmas gift, Henry was going to restore to him the earldom and the third penny of the shire. He was going to be allowed to rebuild at Framlingham.

He could not prevent the hoarse catch in his voice. “Sire, I have always tried to do what is honourable.”

The King looked half disgusted and half amused. “My lord Bigod, I had forgotten the company you keep.”

When Roger looked puzzled, Henry waved his hand. “William Marshal,” he said. “Another ‘honourable’ man.”

Although the King’s tone was barbed, Roger took his words as a compliment. Indeed, they fed his optimism. The Marshal had returned from the Holy Land in the spring and Henry had gifted him with an estate in the north of England and the wardship of a young heiress, Heloise of Kendal. William was currently attending to his new lands and overseeing those of his charge. He no longer had Roger’s horses, but had visited Roger and tried to pay him their value. Roger had refused, saying they were a gift, and William, a master of the laws of courtesy, had accepted gracefully.

Roger had wondered if the Marshal would attend the Christmas court, but he hadn’t. Roger had also wondered if he would marry the Kendal heiress and suspected Henry was waiting for him to do so, but as yet, there had been no word of nuptials. Nevertheless, if Henry had seen fit to reward the Marshal, Roger reasoned that gifts might be forthcoming to other men. “Indeed he is, sire,” he said.

Henry gave him a look filled with sour humour. Whatever was making him smile plainly related to his own thoughts. “I have need of ‘honourable’ men of sound judgement.”

Suddenly Roger’s palms were cold and moist.

Henry narrowed his eyes like a cat with its paw on a mouse’s tail. “I want you to sit on the Bench at Westminster for the next session of court pleas and hear the cases.”

The disappointment was severe, but Roger somehow managed not to let it show on his face. He would not give Henry that satisfaction. This was privilege, not punishment, he told himself. He was being entrusted with a task that involved responsibility and judgement at a high level and one that would increase his importance. To judge cases on the King’s Bench was a mark of high respect and demanded men of wisdom and balance who knew the law. But he had been expecting more. He had been seeing the belt of an earl in his peripheral vision and the soft gleam of ermine. The sardonic light in Henry’s eyes told him that Henry knew exactly what he was thinking and was amused. “Sire, if that is your wish I will do as you ask,” he said with a rigid bow.

“It is indeed my wish,” Henry said. “And perhaps after that, we might talk about the third penny of the shire.”

***

In the Queen’s hall, a troupe of tumblers was entertaining the women and youngsters of the royal household with sundry feats and tricks. One man wore a chequered costume of red and black and sported a bishop’s mitre over a wig of yellow-blond curls. The smaller children were captivated by his little feather-tailed dog that could jump through hoops, beg, roll over, and dance on its hind legs.

Ida’s gaze fixed hungrily on the dark-haired little boy who was trying to decide under which cup one of the players had hidden a bean. He was long-limbed, dressed like a prince in a tunic of dark red wool and close-fitting blue hose. He had Henry’s nose and brows, but his colouring was hers, and there was something of herself in the curve of his cheek and line of jaw. His focus, like his father’s, was sharp and he unerringly pointed to the right bean—twice anyway. On the third occasion, the cup he chose was empty. So were the others and the tumbler gleefully plucked the bean from behind the little boy’s ear. A look of wonderment crossed her son’s face, and then a burst of delighted laughter. Ida laughed too, even though she was in agony. The toddling infant had become a vibrant little boy. She would have known her child anywhere. Even blindfolded, her maternal instinct would have felt him out…but it wasn’t reciprocated. He no longer knew her and other women had taken her place in his routines and affections. She knew she couldn’t connect with him and then leave because the wrench would be too great to bear and unfair to him. If only he could come and live with her and Roger and be raised with his half-brother and -sisters…but she knew that would never happen. Henry would never relinquish his youngest son, especially not after the recent losses of his older boys.

A girl, caught in the fleeting space between adolescence and grown womanhood, was smiling as she watched the tumbler’s antics with William. She wore a light veil, but her braids showed beneath it, each as thick as a man’s wrist, and the colour of ripe barley. Her eyes were a deep blue, made darker by the candlelight. Lord John, the King’s son, had been eyeing her greedily for some time and she had been studiously avoiding his gaze with an aplomb that Ida admired. She had not been possessed of such self-assurance at that age. She didn’t think John would actually do anything beyond look, though. He was in disgrace for having begotten a child on his cousin Emma, daughter of the Earl de Warenne, and thus was on his better behaviour—although that was not saying a great deal.

The tumbler took seven brightly coloured leather balls and juggled them in a circle of whirling colour, finding time in between catches to toss one to William who then had to throw it back into the rotation. The player caught it without dropping any of the others or faltering in his stride and continued in this fashion, throwing one out, receiving it back, his teeth bared in a grin. William’s face, in contrast, wore a deep frown of concentration and Ida bit her lip on tenderness and amusement.

The blond girl clapped her hands. “I wish I could do that.”

“Doubtless you could if you had to make a living from it,” Ida replied. “Sometimes I think we women have to juggle our lives like those balls, but the better we manage the less people notice.”

The girl returned her a dutiful smile, and Ida, despite only being five and twenty, suddenly felt ancient in terms of experience. The girl was wearing two gold rings, neither of them a wedding one. “Forgive me,” Ida said. “I have not been at court for a while and I can no longer put names to faces and faces to names.”

The girl shook her head. “I do not know people either.” She hesitated and added demurely, “I am Isabelle de Clare. My father was Richard de Clare, lord of Striguil and Pembroke.”

“Ah,” Ida said in recognition now. Isabelle de Clare was heiress to one of the greatest estates under Henry’s jurisdiction. Her lands hugged the border between England and Wales, and she was also heiress to Longueville and Orbec in Normandy and a vast area of Southern Ireland. Her father had been a renowned warrior and her mother was Irish royalty.

Ida reciprocated with her own name and the girl responded politely but with no awareness. But why should she? Ida thought. Isabelle de Clare would still have been a child when Ida was Henry’s mistress. As yet the girl was ignorant of the insidious court gossip, unseen but slippery as a mass of intestines concealed inside a smooth belly. Innocent too. As I once was, Ida thought sadly.

Henry arrived from the larger hall with a select group of courtiers and joined the women to socialise. Ida and Isabelle curtseyed. In the periphery of her vision, Ida saw her son execute a perfect bow—elegant, balanced, and so natural she knew he must have practised until it came as second nature. Her eyes misted with pride.

Roger was with the King and Ida sought his glance. He returned it with a quirk of his lips and a swift look that filled her with affection and lust. It was almost like the first time at court when they had exchanged clandestine glances—except now such exchanges were permitted and could be carried to their natural conclusion.

Henry spent a while talking to Eleanor and they were civil with each other, despite her continuing house arrest. Time had gentled the fetters, but even if they were made of silk and wine, literature and song, fetters they remained and would continue to do so as long as Henry lived. Eventually Henry made his way over to Ida, Isabelle, and the group watching the entertainers. Ida curtseyed again.

“Lady Bigod.” Henry’s voice was filled with warmth that went beyond that of polite greeting. “What a pleasure to see you at court.”

“Thank you, sire.” Ida stared at the floor, desperately hoping he would not chuck her under the chin or treat her in any way that spoke of former intimacy.

“You have given your lord a truly fine son,” Henry smiled sidelong at Roger. At face value, the statement was innocent, but Ida knew how Henry’s mind worked and the underlying barb was intended full measure. A swift upward glance showed her that Roger’s smile of response was bland, but she could see the tension stiffening his shoulders.

Henry kissed Ida’s cheek and gave her an intense look harking back to the past. Had she still been his mistress, it would have been one of those nights when he summoned her to his bed and used her with vigour. In a way, it was like that first time all over again when he had singled her out from the group.

“And Mistress Isabelle,” Henry said, relinquishing his hold on Ida and moving on to the heiress of Striguil. “You are enjoying the festivities?”

“Very much, sire,” Isabelle answered demurely.

Henry gave her a considering look. “I must see what can be done for your future.” He pushed his tongue into the corner of his cheek. “A worthy lord for your lands of Striguil and Leinster perhaps?”

Isabelle dipped her head as gracefully as a swan. “Indeed I hope he would be worthy, sire.”

Henry looked amused. “You need not worry. I wouldn’t send a spavined old nag or a weak-backed hobby to do the work of a warhorse.”

“Nor an untried colt,” Ida intervened, thinking of John, although she didn’t look at him.

Henry gave her a sharp glance, albeit filled with humour. “Thank you, Lady Bigod. I hope you are not speaking from experience on this matter?” His tone was laden with sarcasm and he looked at Roger again. The latter’s expression was a taut mask.