For the King’s Favor (42 page)

Palace of Westminster, May 1199

Ida gazed at the subtlety formed from sugar, almonds, and pastry. The craftsman had created an image of the Tower of London, complete with crenellations and turrets, and even banners on the battlements. Little marchpane boats with spun sugar oars sailed upon a wonderful depiction of the river Thames. Never had Ida seen such a confection, not even in her days at court as Henry’s mistress. She wondered if she could commission one for the next feast at Framlingham.

The subtlety was the centrepiece of the women’s feast in the White Hall following the coronation of King John in the great minster before the shrine of the Confessor. As custom dictated, the men were dining in the main hall separately from their mothers, wives, and daughters.

Ida gave a surreptitious glance round then laughed at herself. She was the Countess of Norfolk and wife to a royal dapifer. What did she have to fear? Who was going to castigate her for appropriating a few pieces of sugar-work to take back to the children at Friday Street? Approaching the magnificent confection, a napkin at the ready, she noticed that Isabelle Marshal, newly created Countess of Pembroke, was intent on a similar mission. Ida caught her eye and both women began to giggle.

“Whatever else may be thought of him, the new King certainly employs a fine craftsman when it comes to sugar sculpture,” Ida chuckled.

Isabelle purloined one of the boats on the river. Ida selected a couple of swans and a piece of turret including some cunningly fashioned arrow-slits. “It reminds me of Framlingham,” she said as she neatly tied the pieces in her napkin. “So does this rubble,” she added ruefully.

Isabelle’s eyes sparkled with amused sympathy. “That is soon going to be my lot since William has plans for a new keep at Pembroke.”

Ida rolled her eyes. “I hear mason’s hammers in my sleep and I swear I can still taste the dust from this last summer. Eleven years in the building and like London Bridge still not completed.”

“It will be a great castle when it is finished though, and a crowning honour to the earldom.”

“Yes,” Ida said, and managed to keep her tone light, although at best she was ambivalent about some of Framlingham’s magnificence. “The new hall is beautiful and the garden will be a pleasure when everything has grown.”

Ida and Isabelle enjoyed a detailed discussion about colours and furnishings, but once that topic had been explored, Isabelle changed the subject. “Your older sons are both fine young men,” she remarked. “You must be very proud of them.”

Warmth for Isabelle filled Ida’s heart. She had such kindness and tact. “Indeed I am, my lady, very proud.”

“One an earl, the other heir to an earldom. They do you great honour, and they are a credit to you. How old is Hugh?”

“He will have his seventeenth year day next advent.”

Isabelle’s eyes widened. “I had not realised how swiftly the time had passed. He is almost a man grown then.”

Ida felt wistful as she agreed to the last statement. She was both proud and sad to watch her boys becoming men. “He’s not officially of age but his father is going to settle ten manors in Yorkshire upon him so he can accustom himself to dealing with men and estates.”

“Have you had any thoughts on his marriage?”

Ida shook her head and drew back a little. “There is plenty of time. My oldest son was married so young because the ideal lands and wife were available. With Hugh there is no hurry and he has four brothers.”

“I understand,” Isabelle said, smiling. “My sons are still boys. I know my oldest will be matched with Alais de Béthune, but for the moment, he is mine. We have them for so short a time, don’t we?”

Ida agreed wistfully that this was so.

“I look at my daughter,” Isabelle continued. “I want her to be settled and content with the marriage we choose for her. We need to find someone who will be powerful in his own right and who will enhance our standing, but whom we can trust to treat her as we would—and whose family will welcome her with warmth. She is but five years old and a part of me is torn to be thinking of such things already, but they have to be considered.”

Ida wondered if Isabelle was casting gentle hints and decided that she was. There were many layers in the Countess of Pembroke’s sea-blue eyes. She could choose to ignore the line that had been thrown, but knew that Hugh would have to marry at some point and William Marshal’s eldest daughter would be an absolute coup. “It is every mother’s concern,” she replied. “I hope to see my children settled well with suitable mates. My daughter Marie will wed later this year, and we could not have found better for her in Ranulf FitzRobert. He’ll be a fine addition to the family.”

“I think I saw him standing with your sons—in the blue tunic?”

“Yes.”

Isabelle’s lips curved with remembered appreciation. “Handsome,” she said.

“And with more between his ears than fleece.” Ida broke off another piece of the crenellations and nibbled. “It’s starting to look as if it’s been involved in a siege,” she said with false grief.

“Who needs a trebuchet?” Isabelle laughed. “Are you attending the water joust tomorrow?”

Ida gave her a puzzled look. “Water joust?”

“On the river.” Isabelle gestured at the blue “water” on the subtlety. “They put a shield on a pole midstream and contestants try to shatter their lances against it from boats rowed by their friends. I’ve only seen it done once—when I was the King’s ward and lodged at the Tower. More than half of the contestants end up in the water but it is good sport to watch. William’s going to be adjudicating.” She made a face at Ida. “Thank the saints, I say, because I wouldn’t put it past him even now to get involved.”

“I know of the sport,” Ida replied, “but I always managed to miss it when we were in the city. I’ve never seen one.”

“Then join us on the bridge.” Isabelle’s expression brightened with enthusiasm. “You’re most welcome and I would enjoy the company. Bring the younger ones with you. I’ll have Will, Richard, and Mahelt with me.”

Ida thanked her and accepted and the women went their separate ways, each with her purloined hoard.

London, May 1199

From her vantage point on London Bridge, Ida had a fine view of the excited crowds lining the banks of the Thames three deep, waiting for the water joust to begin. The sky was clear and reflected on the river in a glittering blue, starred with sun sparkles of white gold. Colourful banners and bunting decorated the wharves and festooned the barges and boats at their moorings. Folk leaned out from the upper storeys and galleries of wharfside dwellings in anticipation of the sport to come; the air was one of celebration and festive enjoyment.

Cookshops and vintneries plied a brisk trade and all manner of hucksters wove through the throng, touting their wares: eels and whelks, meat pies and trotters, ribbons and laces, chaplets and posies, lead badges of saints, cheap brooches—all the sustenance and mementos demanded by Londoners in holiday mood.

The new King had come to watch the sport and was afforded an excellent view of the proceedings from his cushioned chair on a raised and canopied platform by the riverside. Beside him sat Hubert Walter, Archbishop of Canterbury, resplendent in white silk embroidered with gold, and surrounding them most of the court was present to enjoy the spectacle and a moment’s frivolity before the serious business of government commenced.

Ida stood on London Bridge with Isabelle Marshal and several other baronial families. Isabelle had brought her two oldest sons, Will and Richard, and their sister Mahelt—a vibrant little girl with a plait of shining brunette hair and her father’s deep hazel eyes. The doll she was clutching wore identical clothes to Isabelle, and sported two plaits of flaxen horsehair. Although thoroughly endeared to the little girl, Ida could not imagine her as Hugh’s wife for she was still little more than a baby. Her two brothers aged nine and seven were of similar years to Ida’s younger sons, and the boys had teamed up in a chattering peer group. Will, the Marshal heir, had his mother’s fine features and was surprisingly light of build. His brother Richard, on the other hand, was tall and robust with a shock of copper-red hair and freckles. Richard dwarfed Ralph, who had been born the same year, but the pair of them had formed an immediate rapport.

Ida had brought gingerbread for the children and they pounced upon it with cries of delight. Ela, the young Countess of Salisbury, was also among their party, for as well as being Ida’s daughter-in-law, she was blood kin to the Marshals. She nibbled her gingerbread daintily, her manners exquisite. She was quiet but not shy, which Ida thought made her a perfect match for her son.

“Here comes a boat!” shrieked Mahelt, pointing and jumping up and down with excitement. Her nurse shushed her, and her father’s knight, Eustace, hoisted her on to his broad shoulders to give her a better view.

With everyone else, Ida peered over the bridge. A pole with a shield hammered to its top had been fixed in mid-river earlier that morning. Now a boat was surging downstream on the ebb tide, crewed by several men all rowing furiously and using the power of the river to aid their endeavour. From her viewpoint on the bridge, Ida was reminded of an overturned beetle with flailing legs. Standing at the prow with a braced lance was a young man clad in shirt and braies, the wind from the river billowing his garments like small sails. Either side of the pole two boats with four men apiece rode the water, ready to pluck to safety anyone who fell overboard.

The youth took up a firmer stance as the shield approached. Ida’s stomach jerked towards her spine in anticipation. She could sense everyone holding their breath. The young man made his strike. The impact wobbled the boat on its course, but the lance held true and shattered on the shield. The youth teetered for an instant then sprawled on his back in the belly of the boat, rocking it alarmingly from side to side. Laughter, cheers, and loud applause rang from the crowd.

Another boat came shooting downstream, white scuds of water churning beneath the oars as the men hauled on them for all they were worth. Again, the strike broke the lance, but this time the jouster’s stance was not as good and after a few seconds of frantic flailing, he tumbled into the water with an almighty splash. The roar from the crowd as he was hauled dripping into the rescue vessel was as great for him as it was for the youth who had succeeded.

Ida listened to Isabelle explaining to Mahelt that everyone in a particular boat had to take a turn at the shield and points were awarded for a strike, a miss, and a fall. At the end of the proceedings, the King would present the winners with a pike on a silver salver.

“Papa doesn’t like pike,” Mahelt said, wrinkling her nose.

“Well, he would probably distribute it to others who do,” Isabelle replied, “but since he’s judging the event, he doesn’t have to worry.” She smiled at Ida. “He prefers to keep his feet on firm ground.” Her eyes suddenly widened and she pointed. “Do your menfolk enjoy pike?”

Ida turned to stare at the boat hurtling downstream in a furious churn of oar strokes and let out a small horrified scream. She had thought her husband safely occupied at the wharf giving advice to the youngsters, but here he was, standing at the prow of a rowing boat with a braced lance. She couldn’t believe her eyes. Dear Christ, if William Marshal had the good sense not to get involved surely Roger, a sober judge and statesman, ought to know better.

The crowd was roaring like a sea. Hugh and Longespée were pulling on the oars for all they were worth, as were Anketil, Will Bigod, Goscelin, and Ranulf FitzRobert.

Marie leaped up and down almost as vigorously as Mahelt Marshal had done. “It’s Papa!” she shrieked, although her eyes were all for Ranulf.

Ida clung to Isabelle Marshal for support as Roger planted himself, made his blow, and shattered the lance against the target. He performed the move with neat precision and the cheers of the onlookers were loud enough for her to imagine it being heard all the way down at Greenwich. Clutching her midriff, Ida gasped and fought for composure as the boat came through safely.

“Dear sweet Virgin Mary!” she cried, shaking her head emphatically from side to side. She was both exhilarated and frightened. Through her relief, she felt a pang deep inside. Why should she not have thought Roger would do this? Beyond the implacable, steady judge weighing all things, beyond the measured calm, there still lingered a glimmer of the athlete and warrior who could twirl sword and spear like a professional tumbler; the adept sailor who could swarm aloft a ship’s rigging in Ipswich harbour…The man who could still play like a boy if sufficient layers were stripped away.

“Papa did it, Papa did it!” Ralph exclaimed, his eyes shining with pride.

“Your lord is indeed a
preux chevalier,
my lady,” Isabelle Marshal said and there was respect in her voice amid the amusement.

Ida lifted her chin and returned Isabelle a proud, almost teary smile. “Yes, he is,” she said. “And I am well reminded.”

***

On the river, the rowers in the Bigod boat turned their vessel and hauled back upstream to the assembly of competitors at the starting wharf. Roger had not intended taking part, but somehow advice from the shore had become advice on the boat and before he knew it, he had become a vital part of the ensemble, not least because he had played this sport as a youth and young knight, and was adept on any kind of waterborne vessel. He glanced towards the bridge and gave a triumphant salute to the throng with his broken lance. Imagining the look on Ida’s face, he grinned.

“We’re going to win this!” Longespée panted, a competitive gleam in his eyes as he slowed his oars.

Roger considered the shattered end of the lance. “It was a good clean break,” he said. He had felt tremendous exhilaration as he aimed for the shield and knew he was going to strike it true. The wind blustering through his shirt had been the breath of life. The sudden pounding of his heart, the fierce pleasure had made him feel young again and brimful of joy for the sake of joy. Daily life, by its very nature, dulled the lustre of such emotion, but now the shine was back, bright as a new coin.

The crew rowed alongside the wharf to collect a fresh lance. On the bank and the bridge, the crowd roared with laughter as a contender splashed into the water.

“That’s de Warenne gone for a dunking!” Hugh cried in triumph. Roger tossed the new lance to Longespée. “See if you can follow me, my lord,” he said.

The young Earl flashed Roger a look that said he would not only follow it up, he would do better. The men changed places, Roger taking Longespée’s position on the bench beside Will. The half-brothers exchanged glances. “I am glad you are here,” Roger found a moment to say. “You row a steady oar.”

Will gave a self-deprecating shrug. “It is not a great accomplishment. I used to take a boat out on my own when I wanted to escape—which was often.” He flexed his hands and gripped the smooth ash handle. “Now it’s time to turn for the shore.”

Roger clasped his shoulder and felt the solidity of muscle under the flesh. The gesture was one acknowledging that he understood what Will was really saying. “But not quite yet. We need your strength in the current.”

Will smiled. “You have it.”

To mutual nods, the half-brothers pulled into the first stroke, and, with their companions, worked the boat out into the current. They scudded downriver, driving towards the by now somewhat scratched shield on its pole. The cheering of the crowd was a distant roar in Roger’s ears, noticed but an incidental because his focus was on holding their vessel true to course.

The lance braced, his fine silk shirt rippling in the wind, dark hair blowing at his brow, Longespée waited his moment. The lance head rammed against the centre of the shield, crunched, and splintered. The impact of the blow sent Longespée reeling, but he tumbled into the well of the boat, not overboard. For an instant the vessel swayed like a cradle rocked by an angry foot, but the rowers steadied it and with Roger directing, completed the course and turned back to prepare for the next run.

Roger handed the new lance to Hugh. Determination showed in the jut of the lad’s jaw, but Roger could sense his tension and could well understand it. He and Longespée had both succeeded and the onus was now upon Hugh to continue the achievement.

“We can take the prize!” Longespée said as they sculled back out into the river. “We’re ahead on points!”

Roger cast a warning glance at his stepson.

“I don’t need to be reminded,” Hugh said tersely.

“Steady, lad, steady,” Roger reassured him. “Just fix your eyes on the centre of the shield. Become the lance.”

Hugh gave a brisk nod, swallowed, and readied himself at the prow. He wiped his palms on his shirt, gripped the lance, and planted his legs as the others picked up the rhythm and began to scull downstream towards the shield. Roger’s arms burned as he pulled on the oars. Will was hauling with steady strength. One stroke, two, three, four. He counted the distance down. Water glittered off the oar blades. Dip and pull, dip and pull, muscles straining, lungs on fire, giving Hugh as much speed as they could wring from themselves and their vessel. Hugh leaned into the strike and there was an almighty splintering sound as not only the lance shattered, but the shield, weakened by the battering it had taken, split and broke from the pole. Hugh teetered on the verge of spilling into the water. Roger let go of his oar, seized the hem of Hugh’s shirt, and dragged him back down into the belly of the boat.

Hugh lay on his back gasping, the broken lance clutched in his hand.

“God’s blood, boy, you’ve split the shield!” Roger whooped. “That has to take the prize!”

A beatific grin dazzled across Hugh’s face. He laughed aloud and then flashed a triumphant look at his half-brother. “I doubt anyone will beat that,” he panted.

Longespée inclined his head and gave him a thin-lipped smile. “Not unless they have the luck of the Devil,” he said. “Well done.” And then suddenly a brighter smile broke across his face because of the collective victory. “Well done indeed, brother!”

Hugh flushed at the accolade and gave a brusque nod of acknowledgement—followed by a warm grin.

As they turned the boat back into the current, Roger realised that a barge was coming straight at them on the diagonal. The occupants—drunken youths intent on crossing the river to the Southwark side—were paying more attention to their singing and the women in the barge with them than they were to their steerage. Roger bellowed a warning, but there was no time to avoid the other vessel and the boats collided with a hefty smack. Roger was flung backwards and his head struck the prow strake. Numbness blossomed and radiated. A huge gulp of water filled the rowing boat as she rocked under the impact and then tipped over. As Roger hit the water, he was barely conscious.

As if from a great distance, he was aware of breaking the surface, of struggling for air and choking. His limbs refused to obey his will; his vision was a stinging blur; sounds were hollow echoes: splashing, shouting, the roar and gurgle of water. Someone floundered against him and pushed him under. He felt a kick and fabric trailing against his face. The world darkened, and through the darkness he felt a fierce grip on his arm and another on the back of his neck and, once more, his head broke the surface. He couldn’t breathe. His limbs were useless lead weights. He heard Hugh gasping that he had got him and Longespée reassuring him the same from the other side. There was a sensation of being dragged through the water, then suddenly there was a hard surface under his chest, and someone was thumping rhythmically on his spine. “My lord, Papa, in God’s name!” He wondered what Hugh was in such a panic about. Lifting his head, he strove to answer. His belly heaved and he spewed half a gallon of the river Thames on to the jetty. Stars burst before his eyes. He dragged air down his raw throat and into his lungs and, coughing and spluttering, sat up. Hugh, white-faced and shivering, stood over him. Longespée had just taken a magnificent green woollen cloak from an attendant. He hesitated for a brief instant and then swept it around Roger’s shoulders. “Here, my lord,” he said.

Roger nodded his thanks and, still choking, looked round the wharf, which seemed to be filled with various dripping individuals, including two bedraggled women. Will was sitting with his feet dangling over the edge of the jetty, his head bowed and shoulders heaving as he coughed. Someone was doling out blankets. The side of Roger’s head throbbed with hot pain as the chill from the water began to wear off.