For the King’s Favor (33 page)

“What am I to do?” he asked with an apologetic widening of his hands. “It is a tempting offer and I must act as I think best for myself and my rule.”

“Would you sup with the Devil, my lord?” Eleanor asked.

Henry shrugged. “It would depend on the length of my spoon. These are not devils, but men intent on their own ambition, as we are on ours. I am no man’s dupe.”

“Neither am I, my lord,” Eleanor said tartly. “I have fulfilled your requirements and it grieves me to think you would renege and continue to hold prisoner a King who has fought for Christ.”

“It grieves me too,” the Emperor replied. “Nothing would please me more than to come to an agreement…if one can be arranged.”

“You have the ransom here in your hand,” Eleanor said. “Will you take the chance that any will be forthcoming at all from your other source? Will you court disruption among your followers because of the lure of a few more pennies in your coffers? In truth, you do not have a spoon that is long enough.”

“My mother is right.” Richard folded his arms. “Better to deal with us than with my brother and the King of France. If John ever kept his word, there would be a fanfare in heaven.”

The Emperor stroked a large sapphire ring on his middle finger. “You are right to say that the amount of silver is merely ‘a few more pennies.’” A sly glint kindled in his eyes. “But there is something you can give to me that your brother and Philip cannot.”

Richard lifted an eyebrow. Roger, who had been sitting to one side, quietly listening, felt his hair stand upright at his nape.

“A kingdom,” said the Emperor. “Give me England.”

***

The mist enveloped everything in a white haze and although it was possible to see from one end of the royal galley to the other, the place beyond might as well have been off the edge of the world. Roger remembered tales he had been told as a child of his ancestors: Vikings who had come to Normandy in sleek ships down the Seine, muscles and tendons tightening and relaxing on their oars as the blades scooped and released the water, making it flash like the bitter steel edging their weapons.

The damp February air wove like Candlemas smoke between the bones, insinuating its way into joints and marrow. Swathed in fleeces and furs to keep warm, Roger leaned his shoulder against the
Trenchemer
’s
side and listened to the plash of the oars and the surge of the brackish estuary water against the ship’s keel. Other than that, there was little sound on the ship—no sailor’s voices rose in song, and each action was performed without undue noise. Emperor Henry had finally released Richard. Richard had knelt to him, put his hands between his, and sworn to be his vassal in respect of England. It was more by way of a courtly gesture than having a practical element, but it soothed the Emperor’s notions of pride and domination and made progress possible. It did not mean, however, that they were free and clear yet. Arriving in Antwerp yesterday evening, they had heard disquieting rumours that Philip of France had increased his offer and exhorted the Emperor to pursue Richard and recapture him. They had heard too that French ships were patrolling the waters of the Narrow Sea so that if the Emperor declined the proposal, Philip himself would act. Rumours were sometimes truth, sometimes lies, but were always a fog that one had to penetrate in order to find clarity.

Roger shifted his position and strained his ears. Through the drifting swathes, another craft was approaching. He reached for the sword lying at his side. His breathing wanted to quicken and yet he stifled his lungs until they burned and he thought he would burst. The other vessel sounded a horn and passed close on the steerboard—a merchant galley, Antwerp-bound with a Flemish crew.

Exchanges were shouted, and expletives too, because the
Trenchemer
was showing neither lantern nor sounding horn, but moving in stealth like a pirate ship.

Roger exhaled his tension and sucked air into his starving lungs. At his left side, Anketil muttered that it probably wasn’t going to matter about the Emperor or the French catching them, because they’d be rammed and sunk of their own volition, or else they’d run aground on one of the many islands populating the mouth of the Scheldt.

“All right, lad?” Roger glanced at William Fitzroy, now reborn as “Longespée.” Richard had gifted him with a long-bladed sword when the royal party had paused in Cologne on its journey to Antwerp and the weapon had not left his side since. He slept with it more closely than some men slept with their wives and it received cherished treatment above and beyond that which the latter could ever expect. His boar tusk had been incorporated into the grip, and then bound over with strips of plaited red leather. Currently he was clenching the hilt in his fist, his own breathing shallow.

The youth nodded. His throat worked in a tense swallow.

“It’s the waiting,” Anketil said. “All soldiers will tell you that.” He rubbed his palm across his face. “With good fortune, waiting’s the only thing that’ll trouble us.”

“Ever fought at sea?” Roger asked the knight.

Anketil shook his head. “Had pirates chase our ship once when crossing from Southampton to Barfleur, but we outran them and I’m glad. It’s enough trouble fighting on firm ground without a deck rolling under your feet.”

Roger gave a grunt of amused agreement.

“I think it would be interesting,” said William Fitzroy.

Roger raised his brows. “You do, do you?”

The youth nodded. “If you fight on horseback you have to learn to manage your horse as well as your weapons, so deck fighting is just another skill—and if it is one that other men do not have, then it gives you an advantage.”

Roger eyed him with approval, for the comment was mature, born of observation and reflection.

The
Trenchemer
sailed on through the murk and as what little light there was began to fade the smell of the open sea grew stronger and the water became brine.

“England,” Anketil said, “I can smell England.”

Roger gave a sour smile. “Wishful thinking, man. We’ve still an ocean to cross and the French to avoid. We’ll be a few days yet.”

“Better than a few months,” Anketil said. “What I could just demolish now is a hot eel pie and a horn of honest Norfolk ale brewed by Gythe at the Tub in Yarmouth.”

“And Gythe herself.” Roger chuckled.

Anketil spluttered. “There’s by far too much of her to demolish,” he said, “but a bite or two wouldn’t come amiss. I’ve missed Norfolk dumplings too.”

The song of a ship’s horn surging strongly through the misty dusk arrested their soft-voiced jesting. Three times it blasted. Then three again, sounding close, although distances could be deceptive. Roger scrambled to his feet, his hand at his sword grip. Richard emerged from the canvas deck shelter on the prow where he and his mother had been closeted and came to stand at Roger’s side.

“Rest easy, my lord Bigod,” he said. “These are friends and unless I am badly mistaken, you won’t need your sword.”

Once more the three blasts shivered across the misty water and Richard turned to the
Trenchemer’s
master, Stephen de Turnham. “Answer her,” he commanded. “Put a lantern on the prow and let us all have good food and dry beds tonight.”

“Sire.” De Turnham signalled to one of his crew and soon a lantern shone at their bows and the hornsman sounded the
Trenchemer
’s
reply. The notes rode across the water, parting the swatches of mist, and were answered but it still seemed an age before the other ship hove into sight, emerging like a wraith but gradually gaining solid, dripping form. The
Grace Dieu
was a large galley, a supply ship out of Rye, armed with new fighting castles and bristling with knights, serjeants, and archers. A collective sigh of relief rippled through those aboard the
Trenchemer.

They were not yet home and certainly not dry, but they were closer than they had been.

***

Aboard the
Grace Dieu,
Roger sat within the larger deck shelter at a trestle table with Richard, Longchamp, and the various barons and churchmen who had come to escort Richard home. Eleanor had retired with her women to the ladies’ deck shelter at the other end of the vessel and the men too were thinking about bedding down for the night.

Longchamp was in his element because the Archbishop of Rouen, whom he detested, had remained behind as surety for the remainder of the ransom, thus giving Longchamp leeway to preen and make much of himself. No one was left in any doubt who had worked the hardest to secure the King’s release and that Longchamp was returning to England in a state of favour that would cause much detriment to certain lords and prelates. Longchamp had an additional gleam of malice in his eyes. The news brought from England by the master of the
Grace Dieu
appeared to bear out the warning he had given in Speyer.

“Did I not say William Marshal shouldn’t be trusted?” he said. “Blood will out. His father was a renowned rebel.”

Roger leaned back from the table. He was wearing a favourite hat: a felted green affair with a long brim that put his eyes in shadow. Added to the concealment of a beard, he felt reasonably shielded. “So was mine, my lord Bishop,” he said, “but that doesn’t make us the same. Even if the Marshal’s brother has declared for the lord John and made Marlborough Castle ready for war, it doesn’t make the Marshal himself a traitor.”

Longchamp’s eyes glittered. “No, my lord, it does not, but when the Marshal is seen going to Marlborough, then it becomes more suspicious. Perhaps his liaisons with traitors are more than the actions of a concerned justiciar. I for one question his motives.”

“Not having been there myself, I can only guess, but I expect he went to negotiate. One cannot judge a case until one is in possession of all the facts—or as many as one can garner.”

“Bigod’s right.” Richard cast a sharp look at his chancellor. “We don’t know everything and I am willing to give the Marshal the benefit of the doubt. He could have killed me on the road from Le Mans as simply as altering the angle of his lance, but he didn’t. He protected my father when all hope was lost and he would seemingly have gained more by deserting.”

“You will find he has become your brother’s man in your absence,” Longchamp persisted.

“My lord chancellor, I would counsel against such a statement without knowing more,” Roger answered with quiet assertion. “We simply do not know.” He was aware of Richard measuring him and the chancellor and knew that the latter had the edge because his spies must have seen the Marshal at Marlborough.

“We’ll find out when we arrive in England, won’t we?” Richard said. “I will send for the Marshal and deal with him according to his merits, as I will deal with all men.”

“If he comes to you,” Longchamp replied with scepticism.

Roger clenched his teeth. Longchamp always had to have the last word and the conversation would go round in circles all night to no avail.

Richard eyed his chancellor with tolerant humour. “You’re an old crow and doomsayer, Longchamp. I expect him to come to me and to have an explanation. If he does not, then you can tell me I was wrong and have the satisfaction of knowing I should have heeded you.”

Longchamp looked mournful. “I would not do that, sire. Indeed, I would be grieved.”

Roger turned his snort of disbelief into a cough.

Longchamp glared at him. “I have ever had the King’s good at heart.”

“I do not dispute that, my lord Bishop,” Roger said evenly. “But I doubt you would grieve to see certain men brought low. I speak as I see.”

Longchamp held his tongue, but the look he cast at Roger was answer enough. Roger knew that he would do well to watch his own back.

Framlingham, March 1194

Roger spurred his tired, muddy horse the final yards across the ditch and clopped into Framlingham’s bailey at a trot. He had outridden his escort and the baggage wain and intentionally arrived ahead of his entourage. Gazing at the two new completed towers, he marvelled at how much the building work had advanced during his absence. There was still much to do, but Framlingham’s stone coronet was actually beginning to gather proud substance. Against the background of the great towers, the hall and chapel seemed diminished, yet they were cared for and gleamed with a recent coat of limewash. The porch hoarding had been repainted recently too and stood out in bold red and gold against the white of the paint. Assorted poultry pecked the ground outside the door but, fortuitously, Wulfwyn’s gander was absent.

Roger dismounted and tied his horse at the bridle ring in the wall. A groom who had been forking dung stopped and stared, then dropped to his knees. “My lord, I did not realise it was you, forgive me!”

Roger gestured him to his feet. “No reason you should. I’ve ridden ahead of the men. Best roust out the others though. There’ll be horses to attend within the hour.”

“Yes, my lord, I…”

He paused and both men looked round as four children tumbled around the corner of the stable building, playing a wild game of chase. There were two boys and two girls, mingled in a blur of running limbs, flying hair, bright dresses and tunics. They jostled to a halt as they saw the groom and the black courser. And then Marguerite detached herself from their number. “Papa, Papa!” she shrieked and threw herself at him.

He picked her up and swung her round. “Sweetheart!” It was a relief to be remembered because he was not sure they would have carried his memory. She gave him a smacking kiss on his recently shaved cheek, then squeezed him round the neck, and he didn’t know if it was the force of her arms or the tightness in his own throat that made it suddenly hard to breathe. Marie hung back, although her face was alight with a smile, and it gave Roger a pang to see how much the young woman she was even in the midst of a children’s game. Three-year-old Ralph demanded to be picked up too, although Roger could see that his clamour was born of bravado rather than wild affection, and he felt the child’s braced stiffness as he lifted him. William, two years older, waited, planted as solidly as a young oak tree, but he smiled at the same time, revealing a gap where a front milk tooth had recently fallen out and the adult replacement had yet to grow in.

And then Roger looked beyond the children and saw Ida emerging to greet him, a tiny swaddled baby cradled against her left side. The look she gave him was guarded and even a little hostile. There was no smile of welcome and his stomach dropped. He set Marguerite and Ralph down and went to her.

“This is your new son,” she said stiffly. “I named him for his father, to remind myself that he has one.” She placed the baby in his arms before Roger could embrace her.

It was still very small, no more than a fortnight old at most, and had yet to plump out. Its eyes were dark and were going to be brown like Ida’s.

“You should have written,” he said. “You should have told me.”

She gave him a hard look. “Where would I have sent the messenger? I did not know where to find you, and I did not think you would be bothered with such concerns.”

“I would have been bothered to know you were with child again, and to know how you were faring.”

“Would you?” She gave him another long look. They had not yet embraced.

“Of course I would!” He put his arm around her and made to kiss her, but she turned her head and he received her cheek, soft but cold in the spring afternoon.

“You will want to bathe and eat,” she said. “And I suppose you have ridden ahead of your men and they will be here soon.” She took the baby back into her arms and started towards the hall.

“Not for an hour at least.” He looked round. “Where’s Hugh?”

“Out riding with a groom and the dogs,” she said. “I do not know when they will return. He takes after you.” She gave the baby to one of her women and ordered a bathtub prepared and food brought.

Roger felt the emotion within him coil tighter, the exasperation developing into anger. “It was not of my choosing to spend so many months at a foreign court, but it was my duty.”

They climbed the stairs to the solar. The women had already dragged out the large oval bathtub and were filling it with pails of hot and cold water. He noticed that all of them kept their heads down and averted their eyes, and knew it was more than just deference. The atmosphere could have frozen the flames of hell.

Ida opened a coffer lid and fetched out a neatly folded, clean shirt, braies, and chausses. The smell of lavender and spices hung in the garments. “I made these for you,” she said. “In the autumn. I thought you might be home before Christmastide. I thought…” Her chin wobbled. “Well, you weren’t, and I put them away together with my hope of seeing you before the year was out.”

Roger removed his hat and set it carefully on another chest.

“I sold every last jewel in my coffer,” Ida said. “I stripped the wall hangings. I harried and chivvied our tenants and vassals. Every silver penny I gleaned, I counted as one moment less on the time you had to stay in Germany.” She put her palm to her mouth and he saw her struggle. But as he made to speak, she took away her hand and looked at him with drowning eyes. “And one moment less for my son too. Why should I tell you that I was with child when you did not tell me about William? I had to learn the detail from Alexander of Ipswich. Do you know how painful that was? Why didn’t you tell me? Why?”

Roger opened his hand towards her. “Because I knew you would only worry, and to no purpose.”

“You thought I would not find out?”

He grimaced. “I hoped you would not.”

Ida gasped.

“I had seen how distraught you became at the notion of Hugh being taken, and I knew you would be the same over your other son—possibly more so because you have never been able to call him yours. Perhaps I was wrong, but to have put it in a message when it was something that couldn’t be changed…” He sighed. “I made a decision and if it was a wrong one, then I am sorry, but it is done.” He removed his belt and tunic. “I intended to tell you now and set things straight, but I am too late and for that I am sorry too. Be angry with me if you will, but a judge can make wrong judgements, especially when he has no guidance beyond what he feels he should do.”

He saw her bite her lip and look away and wondered if he was indeed too late.

“For what it is worth, I thought of you every day I was away,” he said. “And the children. I did not forget you.”

“But I felt forgotten, even so,” Ida said, and her voice cracked. “And overlooked.”

“Never that…You do now know how much I missed you.” He pulled her into his arms and held her fast. He could feel the pulse pounding in her throat. He inhaled a faded perfume of honeysuckle from the unguent she liked to use.

“No, I do not know,” she said, and suddenly she dug her fingers into the hair at the back of his neck and tilted her head back so she could look into his eyes. Hers were angry and bright with tears. “Sometimes I feel as if this place is the end of the world and I might as well be a widow.”

“That is foolish talk,” Roger growled. “You are my wife. You are a great lady. You are the Countess of Norfolk.”

“Yes,” she said. “So I have often told myself in the dark watches of the night when I have spent the day trying to conjure ransom money out of empty or reluctant coffers, or entertain great men on their way to the shrine at Edmundsbury, or deal with matters of estate, but sometimes the words lose their meaning and then I no longer know who I am, or I begin to wonder if I am an imposter—a ragged girl with a begging bowl who will be found out.”

He held her tight and close again because he didn’t know what to say. Words of wisdom came better to him on the judicial bench where the boundaries were defined in ancient custom, and having been so long absent, away, living in a masculine environment, his skills of a domestic nature had become rustier still. Nor did it help that she was so recently out of childbirth and weepy and fragile. “You have never been ragged to me,” he said awkwardly. “I have always thought you full of grace and honesty.”

She muffled a sound against his tunic. The word “honesty” was like a wound between them and he realised it had not been the most prudent one to use. But valid nevertheless.

They stood together for a long time and she grew calm under his hands. He felt her soften, and relax. At last, she pulled away and he dropped his arms.

“The bath will be cold.” Her voice was breathless, but she had herself under control and he sensed that the first storm had been weathered, although he knew there were probably more to come.

He gave a wave of negation. “The water hasn’t been standing that long.” He finished undressing and stepped into the tub. The bath was indeed on the lukewarm side, but he decided diplomacy was the better part of valour.

“I see you have a new hat.” She pointed to the coffer.

He gave her a sheepish smile. “They had a good hat-maker in Speyer and I liked what he made. I’ve brought you some embroidery silks and a new belt.”

She fetched soap and a washcloth. “I sold the one of gold and pearls that…that Henry gave me and a ring from my days at court.”

There was a moment’s awkward silence. Roger wondered how to pace the rest of what he had to tell her and decided that easing it into the general conversation was the best way. He told her about the sojourn in Germany, picking out the brighter strands along the way, trying to tell her things that he thought a woman might want to hear. He also told her about her son and how well he comported himself. Seeing the glow on her face, he had to suppress a twist of jealousy. This moment was for her, and a gift with probably more value than either her silks or her new belt. He mentioned the boy’s new nickname and how he was doing his best to live up to it.

“I watched him train every day,” Roger said. “He looks at tasks in the world the way that you look at your needlework: so focused that he could make a hole in the fabric with his eyes alone. He is going to be a fine man. He has honour, pride, and courage. Granted he stands too much on ceremony and makes overmuch of his kinship to the King, but there is no malice in him.” He swilled his face, blotted the water from his eyes, then looked at her. “There’s to be a crown-wearing in Winchester to take away the blemish of the King’s imprisonment—and all are summoned to attend. The King wants young Longespée to bear one of the poles of his palanquin as we enter the cathedral and I am to carry Richard’s sword. You and your son can meet while we are there.”

She leaned away from the edge of the tub. He saw the swiftness of her breathing and her mingled expression of hope and fear. “When?”

“Easter,” he said. “You will be fit to travel?”

She nodded, her eyes very bright. “I will be churched by then.”

“Good, that’s settled.” He stood up and the women rinsed him down with more clean, scented water.

Once dressed in fresh garments, he sat in the window seat with Ida to drink a cup of wine and eat some small savoury tarts. The baby woke and started to fret. Ida unwrapped his swaddling and settled him to feed at her breast. Despite the fashion for wet nurses, she had always nourished the children herself—at least until her churching ceremony. The unthinking ease with which she cradled the baby, the tender expression on her face, made it difficult for Roger to continue with what he had to tell her next.

“You know there are still rebellions against King Richard in parts of the country,” he said.

Ida nodded. “Yes, but I have heard that the lord John has fled to the French court, so surely the worst is over.”

He shook his head. “With Nottingham still holding out, and Tickhill and Marlborough, it’s dangerous. The King cannot allow them to remain in rebel hands. Hubert Walter has gone to besiege John Marshal at Marlborough and I am summoned to Nottingham with as many troops as I can muster.”

Ida looked down at the feeding baby and adjusted his position. “When?” Her voice was devoid of expression.

“As soon as I may.”

She fussed with the infant’s wrappings. “And Framlingham I warrant is a necessary detour to collect men and supplies and replenish yourself for battle.”

“Is that what you think?”

She said nothing, but he could see her pain in the tightness of her lips and the way she wouldn’t look at him. One of the younger children had left a toy hobby horse in the embrasure. Ida had woven it a set of reins out of bright scraps of wool and it even had a little stitched pendant on the brow-band showing the Bigod cross. He picked it up and looked at it. The head was made of stuffed fabric rather than wood, so that it would be soft to a child’s touch, and there was a blaze marking of bleached linen on the front so that it resembled Vavasour. So much love. So much care. So much need.

The baby finished suckling and gave a milky belch. Ida gently prised him off her nipple and covered herself, her movements careful and precise. When she spoke, her voice was tight but controlled. “What point is there in a great castle and finely appointed chambers when I do not have the father of my children to share it, save for the occasional moment when he returns to beget yet another fatherless child? When we were first wed, we were always together. I woke up in the morning and you were there. I remember looking up from needlework and seeing you smiling at Hugh in his cradle and my heart was so full I thought it would burst. I loved you beyond measure.”

He heard the past tense and wondered if he was sitting at a wake. “And now you don’t?”

“No, I do, but what was full seems perilously close to being empty.” She beckoned one of the women, who took the baby away to change his swaddling, then she turned back to Roger. “I found myself wishing I was a man while you were gone. I wished that we could change places. That I could mount a horse and ride where I pleased. That I could walk into an alehouse unlooked-at, that I could converse in the market place without a maid. That my horizon held things other than stone dust and mire and a pregnant belly and the fear of being the one who waits.”