For the King’s Favor (28 page)

Westminster, November 1189

William Marshal strode past the ushers and into the King’s chamber. Clad in a robe of thick red wool powdered with gold stars, Richard sat at a trestle covered with sheets of parchment and strung tallies. A magnificent rock-crystal flagon held down one pile of parchments and a platter of bread and venison the other. Nearby two musicians played a lute and a rebec and Richard was humming a tune half under his breath as he considered the lists before him. Although he was alone at the trestle, his chancellor and treasurer, William Longchamp, recently appointed Bishop of Ely, was lurking in the background instructing some scribes.

Richard’s expression lightened as he looked up and saw William. “Ah,” he said, and beckoned him to the chair at his side.

William sat down, concealing a grimace because the cushion was still warm from Longchamp’s backside, which was closer than he wanted to get to the King’s chancellor.

Richard gestured to the flagon and William poured wine into Richard’s cup and the empty silver-gilt goblet standing beside it, fortunately unused by the chair’s former occupant. The King speared a slice of venison on the tip of his penknife and conveyed it to his mouth, indicating between rotations of his jaw that William was free to avail himself if he wanted. William didn’t need a second bidding, for he had been busy for most of the day, balancing matters concerning his vast new lands with his duties to Richard, who had nominated him one of the co-justiciars to rule the realm during the royal absence on crusade. There weren’t enough hours in the day and finding time to eat was often annoyingly difficult.

Richard swallowed, drank to rinse his mouth, and then said, “So, Marshal. What do you think about this business of the Earl of Norfolk?”

William raised his eyebrows at the King. “What Earl of Norfolk, sire?” he asked playfully. “I did not realise there was one.”

Richard smiled a little and shook his head. “There isn’t, but there soon will be. He indicated one of the piles of parchment spread out in front of him. “Which man would you like it to be?”

“Well, a Marshal would be your ideal man,” William said with a completely straight face, reaching for another piece of bread.

Richard snorted. “I was not thinking that far from Framlingham, my lord, as well you know.” He tapped the parchments under his fingers. “Roger Bigod has offered me a thousand marks for the position and sundry items for my goodwill. Packhorses and palfreys, two hunting dogs, and a length of purple silk.”

“Purple silk holds more value than gold, and Roger Bigod’s horses are the best you will find anywhere in your realms.”

“That is as may be, but how certain can I be of the man’s loyalty? His father’s name was a byword for treachery. My own father had to strip him of his castles and build Orford to keep the whoreson in check. East Anglia is rich and its ports face Flanders.”

“But that was his father,” William pointed out, “and Roger Bigod is no more Earl Hugh than you are your sire or I am mine. I have a long acquaintance with Roger. He’s honourable and he’s a workhorse.”

“Trustworthy?”

William chewed and swallowed. “If he was going to rebel, he’d have done it long ago. He carried the day at the battle of Fornham. If he hadn’t, then who knows what might have happened to England. He’s also married to your half-brother’s mother, so that makes him your kin.”

Richard gave a caustic laugh at that remark. “But not by blood, Marshal, not by blood.”

“Sometimes that is no bad thing.”

“But would you trust him with your life? Would he take the sword that was meant for you? I have seen ‘loyal’ men turn their backs at the last moment. I will not give the Earldom of Norfolk to someone who is not steadfast.”

William met Richard’s stare directly. “He is steadfast,” he said. “Yes, he would take the sword.”

“You are certain of it?”

“Sire, I would swear it on my life.”

Richard looked thoughtful. “His half-brother has joined the crusade and has offered his own modest sums for me to find in his favour. He claims all of the Bigod lands that were acquired after his father came into the earldom and that accounts for more than seventy estates.” He tapped the parchments again. “A father may bestow his lands where he chooses at his death and although it is traditional for a younger son to receive the acquired lands, it is not written in law.”

“So Roger Bigod’s brother has no right?”

“The father’s will is disputed, as you would expect. Roger is the more likely candidate. I doubt his half-brother would stand hard if asked—although I may be proven wrong. I’ll find out on the way to Jerusalem.”

“Sire, you should settle this matter before you leave for Outremer,” William urged. “Roger could be of great use to you. You have raised me to the lordship of Striguil in order to help govern, but I must have the support of men of affinity and Roger Bigod is one. You can bind him to you in loyalty with the title.”

Richard turned his cup in his hand and pondered the gemstones set in its base. “A thousand marks to have the earldom, the third penny of the shire, and permission to rebuild at Framlingham,” he said. “It’s a decent sum, but he has calculated his offer to a nicety.”

“Roger Bigod is no man’s fool when it comes to accounting,” William agreed.

Richard glanced over his shoulder at his chancellor. “Not as good as the Bishop of Ely though, I’ll warrant,” he said with amusement.

William looked a little wry. Longchamp’s loyalty to Richard could not be faulted; indeed, he was as jealous as a favourite hound, and like a hound, you had better hope that it was not your flesh between his teeth when he locked his jaws. Longchamp existed to extort money from folk and keep them firmly under the fiscal and regnal thumb. He had spies in almost every baronial household, and knew to the last piece of silver how much each lord was worth.

Richard finished his drink. “So be it. Let Roger Bigod have what he desires for what he has offered—for the moment, at least, and I will review the sum at leisure. For now, I would hate to deprive you of the stalwart support you seem to think he will give you, and him of the coin for a fine hat to celebrate his elevation.”

William grinned at Richard’s remark, because Roger was indeed somewhat vain about his headwear. He didn’t say that Roger would see the bestowing of the earldom as restoration rather than elevation. Such subtleties wouldn’t concern Roger and the King. The important thing was the granting of the title.

***

It didn’t matter that the late November sky was grey from horizon to horizon and that the heavy rain falling upon London and Westminster was threaded with silver needles of sleet. It didn’t matter that the braziers were giving off more smoke than heat, or that the abbey was as cold as a tomb. All that mattered was the belt of an earl glittering with gems and thread of gold at Roger’s waist, the coronet binding his brow, and the charter in his hand.
Sciatis nos fecisse Rogerum Bigot, comitem de Norfolc…
Know that we make Roger Bigod, Earl of Norfolk. Finally. Twelve years from the death of his father, Roger had his earldom. He had the third penny of the shire; he had his lands, including those in dispute, and all the rights pertaining. And he had permission to begin rebuilding the castle at Framlingham, and rebuild it he would to stand against adversity as a mark of his achievement.

His chest was tight, swollen with emotion, and he knew that he dare not breathe hard lest he lose control and begin to weep. Receiving the kiss of peace from Richard, he was exultant. At his side, Ida curtseyed deeply to the King. Her gown shimmered with thread of gold too and her veil was woven with strands of the same, now adorned with the delicate circlet of her new rank. Countess of Norfolk. Roger thought he would burst with the pride and triumph of the moment. It had its price, and the thousand marks was only the edge of it. He knew he was being fitted for a position in government during Richard’s absence, but he was eager to don the harness. It was all immensely satisfying.

His kin, his friends, and the most important churchmen and magnates were present to witness the event; his mother, surreptitiously wiping her eyes on the long sleeve of her jewelled gown; his uncle Aubrey; Ida’s brother, Goscelin; the Bishops of Durham, Salisbury, and Ely; and William Marshal, his expression dignified as marked the occasion, but his eyes bright with pleasure.

This was a new beginning for all, Roger thought. There was much to be accomplished and the road ahead was still strewn with boulders, but he was confident they could be moved or worked around. The greatest obstacle was gone. The thought he spared for his stepmother and half-brothers was that they too knew where they stood. The de Glanville family had been torn down from power and they had nothing else to strew in his path. Even if his half-brother and his kin did go on crusade, what could they do? The Earldom of Norfolk was his.

***

Ida gazed with ambivalence at the gown of gold silk damask her women had recently helped her to remove. She had had her share of fine dresses when she was Henry’s concubine, but this one outshone them all as a frippery of confection, like the subtlety at the end of a feast. Although it had been made to fit her figure, she was not sure that she was going to be its match.

Roger sauntered into the room and put his arms around her. He too had stripped off his rich tunic and removed the golden belt that King Richard had girt around his hips. “Countess,” he said, kissing her ear.

Ida gave a little shiver and leaned against him. “It feels strange answering to that title.”

She felt him smile against her neck. “You’ll grow accustomed.”

“So will you, my lord, to yours.”

“I suspect it will wear its shine for some time to come,” he admitted, “although I know payment will be exacted in toil.”

His words said one thing, but she heard the proprietorial satisfaction in his tone. How far they had both come. When she looked over her shoulder, the innocent girl with her hopes and dreams intact was a distant speck on the horizon, and the woman she was now had a different set of ambitions, whereas Roger, she supposed, must have held the same goal all the way down the years of his youth and young manhood.

She had hoped her firstborn son might be present at the ceremony, but he had been absent from court, receiving training and tutoring at Dover Castle. Ida had pushed her disappointment aside to concentrate on Roger’s triumph, which was what this day was all about, but even so, a glint of sadness remained.

Roger released her and went to lie on their bed, pillowing his hands behind his head. “While we’re in London, I’ll enquire after a mason and carpenters to begin work in the spring, and find an engineer to design the structures.”

She joined him and he drew her into his arms. His voice shone with pleasure as he said, “Framlingham is going to be the greatest castle in East Anglia—better than Orford or Castle Acre. This time it will stand for generations to come. We are no longer marching on the spot and pacing ourselves into a rut. We are building our future for our sons and their sons and their sons after them.”

***

In the priory church of Saint Mary at Thetford, Gundreda rose from her knees. Her joints were stiff; indeed all of her ached, and not just with the burden of encroaching years. She felt bruised, beaten, battered by life. She was losing everything and there was nothing she could do.

Her eldest son rose from his position beside his father’s tomb, crossing himself. His lower lip was thrust out and turned down and the frown lines between his eyes were carved like chisel marks in stone. “My father never meant Roger to have the earldom.” The force of his breath as he spoke stirred the squirrel fur edging his cloak. “It wasn’t his true belief.”

“I know,” Gundreda said, “I know.”

Huon’s mouth compressed until it resembled a down-turned bow. His father’s mouth; his father’s ghost. “He never liked him. I was the one who stayed by him. I won’t be denied my inheritance by some bastard runt.” He glared at his father’s tomb. “If my father got rid of his wife to please God, why didn’t he get rid of Roger too?”

“Because he was foolish,” Gundreda said. “Because he made a mistake.” Her own gaze on the tomb was filled with loathing. “And now we pay for it.”

“It isn’t finished yet,” Huon growled. “I will be with the King, and my half-brother won’t.”

Gundreda curled her lip. “No, he’ll be building his great castle at Framlingham to crow his triumph.” She had heard it was going to have massive walls with fighting towers built at intervals all the way around. The rumours of what he intended made her feel sick to the soul with bitterness. She had even seen some of the cartloads of timber and stone on the road, transferred from barges at Ipswich, and had cursed them as they rumbled past.

“Let him,” Huon snapped. “I’ll have the King’s ear, and that’s worth ten times more than a pile of stones. Framlingham has been razed once, it can be razed again.” He strode towards the door, pushing brusquely past the monk who had come to tend the shrine lamp. Gundreda followed her son outside and walked towards the guest hall where the rest of their party was preparing to bed down for the night. Tomorrow Huon and her husband would leave with their men for a south coast port and she might never see them again. Her only comfort in their absence was her youngest son, her do-nothing, wastrel hearth-gazer, and that was no comfort at all.

Windsor Castle, October 1191

Frowning, Roger contemplated his new helm. His old one with the straight nasal bar that had served him since before Fornham had been relegated to his spare kit. This one had a face guard, perforated with breathing holes and rectangular eye slits. The range of vision wasn’t as good, but the level of protection was better. As an earl of the realm, it behoved him to have the newest equipment of the highest quality. He had had the helm made by an armourer recommended to him by William Marshal, who insisted on the best. He was hoping the helm was only for show and that he wasn’t going to need it. There was always hope. He returned it to its leather sack and told his squire to take it down to the courtyard and load it on the packhorse.

Anketil arrived, one hand on his sword hilt, the other pushing his flaxen hair off his forehead. “The men are ready, my lord,” he said. “The Earl of Surrey’s just come down to the yard, and the Bishop of London.”

“And the Bishop of Ely?” Roger queried.

Anketil grimaced. “Still in his chamber. If it was up to him I think we’d be staying here this morning.”

Roger checked the fastenings on his sword belt. “But it’s not up to him, is it—even if he wishes it were. He has questions to answer to the satisfaction of all.”

Anketil eyed him sidelong. “He doesn’t think so.”

Roger donned his arming cap, which doubled as a hat. “Give him a few moments more, and then I’ll drag him out by his crosier if I must.”

Anketil said dourly, “King Richard should never have appointed him justiciar in the first place. It’s like putting a wolf amid sheep and expecting it not to attack them.”

Roger grimaced in agreement. Richard had been gone a year on the crusade and in that time matters in England had deteriorated alarmingly. Chancellor Longchamp was a tyrant, claiming he had the King’s permission to do as he saw fit for the benefit of England. However, the “benefit of England” was closely tied into the benefit of Longchamp and his relatives, who had seized castles and lands as they saw fit and imprisoned dissenters in the name of the King. The King’s brother, John, was exploiting the ensuing resentment for his own gain and had taken up the cause of the oppressed with enthusiasm. A power struggle had begun in earnest and Roger was not pleased to be trapped in the middle of it. While not a justiciar like William Marshal or Geoffrey FitzPeter, he was still embroiled up to his hat in matters of government and being forced to spend time in the company of a man he heartily disliked, in a situation that was becoming dangerous. “Well,” he said, as he strode to the door, “the wolf is now facing the shepherd and his dogs, isn’t he?”

Anketil looked askance. “I wouldn’t call the lord John a shepherd.”

“Neither would I. I was speaking of the Archbishop of Rouen and the other justiciars who at least have the good of the country at heart. John’s just another wolf in search of a meal.”

“In search of a kingdom,” Anketil qualified.

Roger lifted an eloquent eyebrow. John was manoeuvring himself into the best position to claim the crown if Richard didn’t return from this crusade. The other contender was Arthur, Richard’s nephew, born seven months after his father’s death at a tourney in Paris. There had already been several skirmishes. Roger had been partially responsible for brokering a peace between Longchamp and John during the last serious outbreak of hostilities, but it had been inevitable that the accord would break down. Longchamp had overreached himself by arresting and mistreating Geoffrey, Archbishop of York, who was another of Henry’s bastard sons. Supported by a goodly proportion of the baronage, John had responded with vigour to the news of his half-brother’s mistreatment. Now the rival factions were supposed to meet at the Loddon Bridge at noon to discuss their differences, and since discussions were not always verbal in such cases, Roger was being cautious and bringing his armour.

The courtyard thronged with squires, knights, serjeants, and soldiers. Hamelin de Warenne, Earl of Surrey, had already mounted his destrier. A knight was boosting the Bishop of London on to his white mule, and William de Braose, lord of Bramber, was standing by the mounting block waiting for his stallion to be brought. Longchamp’s horse, conspicuous by its sumptuous gold-embroidered livery, was tethered to a ring in the wall. Roger gazed further and saw his own men standing near the watering trough. Alard, his groom, held Vavasour in readiness. The stallion was restless, pawing the ground and vigorously swishing his tail. Probably sensing all the pent-up tension, Roger thought grimly as he went to the horse and took the reins. The only other time he behaved like that was around mares. Perhaps that was a response to Longchamp’s proximity.

De Braose came over, his walk as solid and belligerent as his character. “The way Longchamp keeps us waiting,” he growled, “anyone would think he is the King.”

Roger set his foot in the stirrup. “He represents the King until we hear otherwise,” he said. “Although you are wrong. Most folk can tell the difference between the King and the Bishop of Ely.”

De Braose gave a humourless laugh. “Except the Bishop of Ely himself.” He gestured to the leather helm sack hanging from the packhorse’s saddle. “You are prepared for difficulties, my lord.”

“It is always better to be prepared,” Roger replied. “And often a show of force is better than force itself.”

De Braose eyed him thoughtfully. “Providing you are ready to follow it through.”

Roger returned his look. “No one should doubt that, but rather a man of reason slow to draw his sword than one who lives by it.”

“Wise words, my lord, but then I would expect no less from you,” de Braose said in a needling tone. He was a marcher baron with a reputation for violence and a swift hand to his hilt.

Roger remained unfazed. His own reputation at Fornham and as a battle commander since then stood him in good stead with such men. They knew he could fight if he had to, and perhaps they feared him the more because he was versed in the law as well as the blade.

“Ah,” de Braose said with a glance upwards. “The Bishop graces us.”

Roger turned to gaze at the man entering the courtyard and had to suppress a shudder. Longchamp’s robes coruscated with embroidery and he was encircled by an entourage of knights and clerics, their numbers and ostentatious mode of attire designed to bolster his importance. His crosier shone with gold leaf; his knuckles were barely visible for rings, and his shoes were embroidered with purple silk scrollwork. Roger thought it was rather like looking at a beautiful shell and then being repulsed by the slimy creature inhabiting it.

Longchamp glanced around the waiting, mounted men and hesitated. His dark eyes rested on Roger and de Braose, who both bowed deeply.

“He’s afraid,” de Braose muttered out of the side of his mouth. “You can see it in his face. The matter of the Archbishop of York will be his downfall.” There was relish in his voice.

Roger said nothing. Longchamp was going to have a difficult field to hoe this morning and did indeed look as pale as an old tablecloth—but then he was facing the unpalatable. Apology was not in his nature, and arrogance had always stood in the way of diplomacy while he held the whip hand. Collecting his reins, Roger heeled his stallion over to the Bishop.

“My lord, if you are ready, we should be on our road if we are to meet the other party by noon,” he said.

Longchamp glowered at him from beneath heavy black brows. “I well know the facts, my lord Bigod, I do not need to be reminded of them like an erring child. If they are so keen to have this meeting, then let them wait. I am the bearer of the King’s seal and I will not be at the beck and call of treacherous men who oppose our anointed sovereign’s will. Do you understand me?”

Roger stiffened. “Perfectly, my lord,” he said with frozen civility and reined about to gesture his men into line.

The party set out towards Loddon Bridge, Longchamp riding at the centre, protected by a palisade of spears borne by his knights and serjeants, who were armed to the eyeballs. Longchamp sent scouts ahead to report on any signs of ambush and Roger had to clamp his jaw on his irritation. He wouldn’t put ambush beyond the Count of Mortain acting alone, but not when he was in the company of the Archbishops of Rouen and York, and the sub-justiciars, including William Marshal.

They had ridden four miles when one of the scouts returned to make his report, bearing the news that the other party had already arrived, had control of the bridge, and outnumbered their own men by a quarter as many again. “There was also a mob of Londoners, who were not with the others as such, but had come as hangers-on to see justice done.

Longchamp had stopped to hear the scout’s report and, having done so, abruptly turned his horse around. “There is treachery afoot,” he declared. “The Archbishop of York and the Count of Mortain have poisoned men’s minds against me. I will go no further.”

“My lord, we have to meet them,” pleaded the Earl of Arundel. “We have to settle this dispute before it deepens further into war.”

“I have to meet no one!” Longchamp snapped. “My allegiance is first to God, and then King Richard, not a mob of traitors intent on bringing down the appointed justiciar.”

Roger folded his hands on his pommel and said icily, “My lord chancellor, it behoves me to direct you to accompany this party to the meeting on behalf of the King whom you say you serve.”

Longchamp threw a hostile glare in Roger’s direction. “I will do what I consider is best, my lord Bigod. Do you go against my word?”

“If you do not attend this meeting you will bring a siege down on Windsor itself,” Roger replied. “The justiciars and Lord John will not retire. There has to be a meeting to discuss differences.” He watched Longchamp’s throat move as he swallowed and saw the pallid sheen of fear on his face. He was like a cornered rat, eyes darting, seeking a way out between the dogs.

“I am not well.” Leaning over the side of his horse, Longchamp retched then vomited. “My belly and bowels afflict me,” he gagged. “I cannot meet them today.”

Roger was not impressed. “You mean you have no stomach for it.”

“I mean I am sick.” Longchamp straightened and fixed Roger with a glittering stare. “No one shall oversay me save God and my King. None of you will tell me what to do—none of you!” He gestured around the gathering, his lips drawn back in a snarl. “You will all return to Windsor with me now, I command it!”

“My lord, I cannot do that,” Roger said curtly. “The justiciars and the Lord John require an answer. If this meeting does not take place, the situation will only worsen. It is my duty to attend, whether you are present or not.”

“Do you defy me, my lord Earl?” Longchamp hissed.

Roger used the voice that served him on the judicial bench, and fixed the chancellor with a frozen stare. “I am not your servant,” he said, “and someone needs to speak, even if it is to say that you are unwell and will meet them as soon as you are recovered.”

Longchamp glowered, but obviously realised that he had little room for manoeuvre. “Very well,” he snapped. “Do as you will, but on your head be the consequences. Nor will I have you speaking for me. Let Arundel be my spokesman. He at least does not deal in weasel words.”

Inwardly Roger choked on Longchamp’s remark. He prided himself on his balanced plain speaking; and if anyone was a weasel, it was the man accusing him. Self-control held him silent. At least, he told himself, he was going to be free of Longchamp’s odious company. Arundel’s own expression was as stiff as a sheet on a tenterhook, but Roger suspected that he too would be glad to be free of the chancellor.

Eventually, Longchamp turned back for Windsor under the escort of de Braose, de Warenne, and a strong contingent of Flemings for his protection, while Roger, Arundel, and the Bishop of London continued to the meeting.

A spread of tents and pavilions awaited them on the far side of the bridge and as Roger rode into the camp, he saw the ecclesiastical banners of the Bishops of Lincoln, Winchester, Bath, and Coventry, as well as the colours of Marshal, Salisbury, and the various justiciars.

Arundel grimaced. “I would as lief not do this,” he said.

Roger nodded agreement. “But we are burdened with it. Treat it as no more and no less than your duty and do not be drawn into argument. We are serving Richard, not Longchamp—and not John, no matter that he will make a fine meal out of this.”

***

Removing his hat, Roger sat down on his bed in one of the guest chambers at Reading Abbey with a heavy sigh. The smell of fresh hay rose from the mattress. There was a sheepskin underblanket and good linen sheets topped by a cover of plaid wool. Several ceramic hanging lamps illuminated the room and Roger was glad of the homely comfort. Following some tense, fraught discussions, Roger had opted to remain with the justiciars rather than return to Windsor for the night. Another meeting had been arranged for the morrow, closer to Windsor, and either Longchamp would come out to answer the charges against him, or it would indeed be all-out war.

Roger raked his hands through his hair. Arundel had done his best, but there had been no counter answers to the accusations of laying violent hands on the Archbishop of York, the King’s own half-brother, and hindering the legitimate work of the under-justiciars. Walter de Coutances, Archbishop of Rouen, had produced the killing stroke with a letter from the King, authorising him to depose Longchamp and assume the post of senior justiciar himself should Longchamp fail to govern in cooperation with his advisers.

Roger glanced up as William Marshal ducked under the door arch. Earlier they had sat side by side at the council table in Coutances’s pavilion by the Loddon Bridge, seeking to find balance on a slippery slope that led down to mayhem.

“Longchamp isn’t going to comply, is he?” William said without preamble as he walked further into the room, his movements graceful for a man so tall and broad.

“I doubt it,” Roger said glumly. “He truly is convinced that he is seeing to the King’s will and anyone who thinks differently is obstructing him.”

“De Coutances’s letter should put him in his place.”