For the King’s Favor (14 page)

Ida emerged from a group of ladies to whom she had been handing over a small child. She looked ravishing in a gown of brocaded blue wool, her lithe waist accentuated by a jewelled belt. She was blushing and the pink in her cheeks enhanced the hazelnut-brown of her eyes. “My lord.” She curtseyed to Roger.

He half bowed in response, feeling as if his spine would snap from the effort. There was more giggling. Feeling utterly mortified, Roger threw Goscelin a furious look. How could he talk to Ida about a marriage contract with all this foolishness going on? It was neither fit nor fitting. He and Ida were the centre of attention and already he felt as if a layer of skin had been flayed off him by the knowing stares.

Straightening, he drew himself up. “Demoiselle, this is neither the time nor the place for us to meet and discuss the future.”

Her blush intensified and she cast a warning glare at the women. “I am sorry for this.” She touched his sleeve in an imploring gesture. “Please stay.”

“I think not,” he said curtly. “My affairs are not an entertainment for the gossips of this household. By your leave, mistress.” He bowed to her again, turned on his heel, and, feeling utterly humiliated, strode from the chamber.

Once in the cold, fresh air of the courtyard, he leaned against the wall, breathing harshly and flooded with relief at being free of that room full of tittering women. He was in half a mind to order his horse saddled and ride out. As his mother had said, there were plenty of pickings elsewhere. He would rather fight Fornham all over again than repeat the experience of a moment ago.

Goscelin emerged from the doorway and hurried up to him.

“Never do that to me again!” Roger snarled before the young man could speak. “When I said I wanted to talk to your sister alone, I meant alone. Christ, that room had more eyes in it than a barrel of herrings on Yarmouth quay!”

Goscelin wrapped his hands round his belt and puffed out his chest. “I thought you would respect propriety and meet in the presence of witnesses and chaperones,” he said defensively.

“Do you think so little of me that you expect me to ravish your sister if granted a moment alone?” Roger retorted, teeth bared. “I am not the King!” He strove for control because an inner voice reminded him that he was not his father either.

“My lord, I do respect your integrity,” Goscelin replied, his own complexion flushed with anger, because by his measure he had done his best. “But my sister will not have you think her behaviour in any way improper. She is wary of a private meeting because of what has gone before and will give no reasons to have a slur cast on her character.”

Roger swallowed and made an effort. “I will not consider her behaviour improper in any way if she agrees to a meeting alone with me. I refuse to conduct my affairs amid a bower full of goggling women and children.” He pointed to the sundial on the wall. “I will meet her in the orchard in an hour and I swear on my oath as a knight to treat her with respect and honour, or strike me dead. If she chooses not to come, then we both know where we stand.”

“I will do what I can,” Goscelin said, looking prim.

Not trusting himself to speak, Roger gave a stiff nod and strode away. Once in the security of his chamber, the servants dismissed, he leaned against the door and groaned. Why was it so hard? he wondered. Presented with tasks of a military or judicial nature, he was clear-minded and steady as a rock,but give him a room full of giggling women and he dissolved with terror. It would have been utterly beyond him to discuss the future with Ida before such an audience.

As he calmed, he began to see Ida’s side of the situation and acknowledged that her concerns were to her credit. Going to the horse barding lying on his bedcover, he unfolded it and gazed at the exquisite needlework. A deal of thought and diligence had gone into this; it must have taken a long time to stitch—perhaps several months. All the answers were here if he had the skill to follow the thread. With great care, he refolded the cloth, using the precision to settle his mind. He washed his face and hands in the ewer, straightened his tunic, and, taking a deep breath, left the sanctuary of the chamber for the unknown exposure of the orchard.

Although it was almost October, the weather had been mild and there was still a last spurt of growth in the grass around the trees. Apple-picking was under way, but he was relieved to see that no one was at work just now. He came to a bench set under a tree that was still bowed with fruit. Picking a likely-looking candidate with a red blush on its cheek, he sat down on the oak planks, steeled himself, and waited.

***

Watching from the bower window, Ida saw Roger cross the yard and make his way towards the orchard. She was angry with herself for misjudging the situation. She knew Roger was self-effacing around the opposite sex, but hadn’t realised the extent.

“I don’t want him to think he cannot trust me,” she said anxiously to Goscelin.

Goscelin hissed through his teeth in exasperation. “Sister, if you do not go down to him, all your plans will come to naught—and my hard work. He’s like a shying horse and his head isn’t in the halter yet. It’s up to you now to find the words and means.”

Ida pressed her lips together. There was no point in being cross with Goscelin. She recognised the feeling for what it was—a bandage for her own fear. She wiped her damp palms on her gown, summoned her courage, and left the chamber. Making her way to the orchard, she felt queasy with apprehension. It had been a long time since she and Roger had spoken socially, and the tentative camaraderie they had built up was a slim foundation on which to conduct a discussion of this nature, especially after their recent misunderstanding.

She walked along the path then cut across the grass, the hem of her gown brushing the blades and cool dampness stealing up through the thin soles of her shoes. Roger was sitting on a bench under one of the trees, eating an apple, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. From a distance, he appeared to be at ease, and she felt terrified because so much depended on the next few moments. He was her way out of a situation she was beginning to abhor, and she needed, as Goscelin had crudely put it, to halter her horse…and this wasn’t just any horse. This was the best one in the stable.

At her approach, he glanced up, met her gaze briefly, and then, looking away, gestured to the bench. “Come and sit, demoiselle, I pray you.”

Ida perched on the edge of the seat, folding her hands in her lap and absorbed with trepidation the strained atmosphere. He wasn’t at ease in the least. She knew he could fight and administer—that given masculine pressures he possessed level-headed composure. But around women he was shy and Ida found that endearing, especially when set against men who would take what they wanted without a second thought. She had to snare him now and without mistake for there would be no other chances. She had to focus and make it come about. Gathering her courage, she drew a deep breath.

“I am sorry about what happened. I would have asked Goscelin to make a better arrangement if I had known how it would be.”

“Let it pass,” he said. “The less said the sooner forgotten.”

Silence. Ida pressed on: “I am glad there is warmth in the day. The nights have been cold of late, but at least the apples have ripened well and they’re nearly all harvested.” She put a smile in her voice. “I know, because I’ve been supervising their mulching all week.” There, she thought, that would show him that beyond being decorative, she was capable of overseeing necessary domestic tasks.

“Well, here’s one you won’t need to mulch.”

Ida laughed. “I am glad to hear it.”

He cleared his throat and looked at the fruit. “So then. What think you of this match?”

Ida looked down at her hands. “It is pleasing to me if it is pleasing to you, my lord,” she said demurely.

He held his breath for a moment, then let it out on a long sigh. “That is no answer. Let us speak honestly and not in the words of the court.”

“What fitting answer am I to give if I do not know your intent?”

There was another silence, then he said, as if dragging each word out of a vat of glue, “For myself I am of a mind to accept the match.”

Ida’s heart began to pound. “Then I will say I am honoured to become your wife. I think you are a fine man. Indeed, without false flattery I say you have greatness.”

He swivelled on the bench to stare at her in astonishment. His throat, cheeks, and brow were suddenly fire-red, and his eyes as luminous as sea shallows. She wanted to touch him, to feel his skin at her fingertips, to have reassurance, yet she dared not. It was too soon.

He controlled himself and said in a nonchalant voice at odds with his ruddy complexion, “I am not sure I think that myself, but I will not quibble with you.” A slight smile twitched his mouth corners. “Indeed, I think we shall do very well together.”

Daring to flirt a little, she tilted her head to one side. “And what do you think of me, my lord?”

He gave a bemused shake of his head. “I think that you are beautiful, diligent, and kind. You will grace my life and you will be my consolation.”

Ida was torn between humour and compassion, for his speech was very proper, a little stilted, and there was a sadness in it that almost choked her. Consolation for what? Not having his earldom? What he truly desired from life? His words tied her being in knots. “You jest, my lord. You speak as if your life is over, but you are neither old nor grey.” She glanced at his hair, admiring the tints of bronze, gold, and soft brown shining in the autumn sunlight. Recently washed, it gleamed and floated a little. His face was red to the tips of his ears. Ida wondered how she was going to shake him out of this painful bashfulness. Although he had said he wanted to wed her, there were no witnesses and he might change his mind. Her horse wasn’t haltered yet.

“Would you care to walk a little?”

He nodded, tossed the apple core into the grass, and rose to his feet. Ida rose too and was glad the women in the bower wouldn’t be able to see them even if they craned at the casement.

As they walked side by side, he didn’t touch her, even to guide her arm in formal fashion, but clasped his hands tightly behind his back. There was a leaf caught in his hair and Ida reached up and brushed it gently away because she needed that moment of contact. “The leaves are beginning to fall, my lord,” she said, as it fluttered to the ground. She considered picking it up as a keepsake, but thought it might seem strange or foolish to him and so let it lie in pale gold translucence on the grass.

“Indeed they are.”

For an instant, his gaze met hers and she saw a glint in them. Emboldened, she laid the flat of her hand to his side and, affecting to look dismayed, shook her head.

“What?” His voice was warily puzzled, but there was almost a smile on his lips.

Ah, now this had engaged him, she thought. She gave him a look through her lashes. “I thought your side might be injured, sire, for all the woodenness that seems to be there. Perhaps you are in need of physic—in the same way some of these trees have received physic from the gardeners.”

He arched his brows at her, and then suddenly he burst out laughing and it was as if the sun had finally broken through the clouds and she glimpsed the beautiful man behind the awkwardness. “You are comparing me to a tree,” he said, “and a sick tree at that?”

“No, my lord, because then you would think me impertinent.”

“Perhaps you are right,” he said. “Perhaps I am in need of physic, but not I think in the same manner as a tree.” He glanced wryly at the one under which they were walking, where some of the branches had been lopped off. “And perhaps you
are
impertinent.”

She touched him again for the pleasure of doing so, and then darted away, inviting play. “And how would you deal with an impertinent wife?”

He frowned and hesitated and she wondered if she had been too forward or read the thaw in him amiss, but suddenly he sprang with the speed of a cat and caught her in a light grip.

“Tickle her,” he said.

Laughing, Ida broke away. “But first you would have to catch her!” Picking up her skirts, she fled him and they played a game of chase and catch under the trees. Ida knew he must be enjoying himself because, with his coordination and her hampering skirts, he could have caught her easily but he chose to prolong the moment until they were both panting.

Finally, he closed in, grasped her hand and swung her towards his body, but his hold was still light and Ida could have freed herself if she chose—but she didn’t. She was breathless, melting. Was he going to kiss her? Should she let him, or would it be too forward? He angled his head as if about to take advantage, but changed tack and, sweeping her up in his arms, carried her back to the seat under the tree and set her down so that her feet were above the ground. “There,” he said, breathing hard, “So shall you be served in my household. You will never want for anything, on that I give you my oath.”

Ida gazed up at him and this time he met her look for look. He held out his hand to her again and she placed hers demurely inside it. The hard strength in his fingers as he drew her to her feet sent a shock of warmth through her body and liquefying sweetness followed in its wake.

From the orchard, they strolled into the gardens, which were losing their summer colour but retained some foliage and greenery and the occasional bloom. The fish moved sluggishly in the pools and a gardener had cast a net across the top to discourage the herons. The peacocks wandered the grounds, the iridescent males trailing their magnificent tails after them like treasure-flecked brooms, although none were displaying.

“I have to thank you for the gift of the barding for my horse,” he said. “It must have taken you many hours of work.”

“I like to sew, my lord, and I wanted to give you something that was appropriate to your rank and skills—and that would show you mine.”

“As indeed you have. I am moved and most admiring of your industry and ability.” He did not add that her gift had been the deciding factor in the choice he had made. When he thought of the hours that had gone into the making, when he thought of the pride and care, and deliberation, he had realised that there was serious intent on her part. This was no flirtatious whim. He gave her a discerning look. “You must have begun it some time ago, knowing that it might be a wasted effort.”