For the King’s Favor (41 page)

Roger’s knights waited beside the horses. There was no sign of Huon, but Roger had not expected to see him. Will’s own escort consisted of a groom and a serjeant.

“I will talk to Huon,” Will said as they paused beside their mounts and clasped hands in tentative friendship.

“What I do, I do for your future, not his,” Roger said. He pushed his cloak out of the way to swing astride, then paused as he saw a messenger approaching the gatehouse on a blowing horse. Roger recognised William Marshal’s messenger, Dickon, and took his foot out of the stirrup. A jolt went through him because he knew this must be grave news. Will gave Roger a questioning look and stayed his own mounting.

“My lord!” Swinging down from his horse, the man knelt to Roger and handed him a parchment closed with the Marshal’s small equestrian seal. Roger broke the wax, read what was written within, and looked at Will.

“The King is dead of a festered arrow wound at a siege in the Limousin. The Marshal bids us attend a council at Northampton a week hence.”

Will looked at him with shock-filled eyes. “Richard is dead?”

“That is what is written and I do not doubt the Marshal’s word. The King is being borne to Fontevrault for burial beside his father.” He turned to the messenger. “I assume you are riding on?”

“Yes, sire. I’ve to bring the news to Earl Warenne at Castle Acre.”

Roger gave a brusque nod. “Go to the kitchens first and get them to give you bread and wine at least. Take one of the priory’s horses. I’ll see to the reimbursement.”

The messenger saluted and left. Roger stood staring at the soft April day around him.

Will cleared his throat. “Who is to succeed the King? He leaves no heirs of his body.”

Distracted, striving to pull his thoughts together, Roger turned. “The Marshal says that John, Count of Mortain, has been accepted by the Normans as their Duke, and that he will be King of England should the barons support him.”

“What about Arthur?” Will queried. “He’s King Henry’s grandson by a son older than John. His claim must be strong. Richard named him his heir when he was on the crusade—I know because my stepfather dealt with the correspondence.”

Roger rubbed his right foot over the gritty path under his boot sole. “So, we have a boy of twelve in the pocket of the King of France and, set against him, a grown man who knows England well.”

“Whom do you favour?”

Roger considered his half-brother. While there was accord between them he was not going to trust him with a potentially damaging opinion, and besides, there was a deal of hard thinking to do between now and Northampton. “We shall see what the Marshal has to say when he arrives, but there will be upheaval. When Richard came to the throne, he put everything up for sale and men flocked to him to buy offices and estates and pledge their support.” He sent Will a wry look, acknowledging without words that the Earldom of Norfolk had been one of those offices and estates. “There has been plenty of dissent since the King’s return from the Holy Land, but after Nottingham, only a lunatic would rebel against Richard in England. This changes everything. The new King, whoever he is, will be a supplicant this time. He will have to offer bribes for what he wants, not the other way around, and those who have grievances will not have a firm hand pinning them down. There is likely to be trouble.”

Will eyed him sharply. “But what we discussed just now. Your word still stands, I hope?”

Roger swallowed a surge of irritation. “I may not have sworn, but I do not go back on my promises—any of them. Yes, it still stands, but I will expect Huon to surrender all claims in return.” He adjusted his cloak and gave his bridle back into the care of his groom. “I must go and tell the Prior. There will be candles to light and masses to be said for King Richard’s soul.” He tightened his lips. “The world has turned on its head.”

Will mounted his horse. “I had better catch up with Huon,” he said and, with a stiff nod to Roger, rode off at a rapid trot.

Roger drew a deep breath and held it in his chest for a moment. The words on the parchment still dwelt on the surface of his mind, which was reluctant to let them seep into the deeper layers. He could still feel the sun on his skin and hear the confusion of April birdsong. Nothing in the vicinity had changed and yet everything was suddenly different because across the sea the King was dead and his successor undecided.

Northampton Castle, April 1199

Roger stood on the wall walk of Northampton Castle in the soft spring evening. Darkness had fallen but a sprinkling of stars and a gleam of moon shed some ambient light. The serenity of the sky soothed him and it was good to have this solitude before retiring, to assemble his thoughts and just dwell in the peace of the moment.

He was not alone for long, however. A sentry scraped his spear to attention, there was a brief exchange of voices, and the soldier moved off to a post further along the battlements. The new arrival paused to rest his hands in the crenel gap. The guard hairs on the fur collar of his cloak glinted across his broad shoulders, and his stance was relaxed but spoke of quiescent power.

“My lord.” Roger acknowledged William Marshal.

The latter turned. “I was settling myself before sleep,” he said. “It’s good to breathe fresh air after the smoke in the hall. That fireplace needs attending.”

“I am here the same,” Roger replied. “There has been a lot of smoke one way and another today. If you would rather be alone…”

William gestured. “No, stay. It is useful to have someone to whom I can speak openly, someone with a clear mind and no axe to grind.”

Roger leaned beside him. “Everyone desires something, my lord, and I do not blame them. Arthur is the Earl of Chester’s stepson, so Chester has a vested interest in the succession. The Earl of Derby wants certain lands returning to him and will sell his support highly. Many have grievances they will expect John to mend in return for their support, and all will demand favours. I never liked William Longchamp, but when he said everyone has his price, he was right. You cannot afford to support Arthur because you have little influence in his party. He is a puppet of the French King.” He looked shrewdly at William. “I wager that the price of your loyalty to John is to be the Earldom of Pembroke.”

William stiffened for a moment, then gave a soft laugh. Roger saw the crease line in his cheek and the sudden gleam of his teeth. “Ah, my lord of Norfolk, you are astute. My wife said the same thing and I told her we were treading dangerous ground. Isabelle says it is our right to have Pembroke because it was her father’s in King Henry’s day, but if one accepts the bribe of a king, then one is also beholden, no?”

Roger shrugged. “What is the alternative?”

William looked over the battlements. “My little daughter dropped her doll over the castle wall at Longueville just to see what would happen. It landed in the pig wallow and when she went to retrieve it, she became as muddy as the pigs themselves. It took almost an entire afternoon for the women to get her clean and the doll was ruined.” His voice held amusement at the memory. “She learned from the experience though.”

“Not to throw her doll over the wall?” Roger was amused too, reminded of his own daughters, but he was well aware that this was more than just a humorous non sequitur.

“No, not to drop it when there’s a pig wallow underneath. By all means take the risks, but balance them with common sense and think of the consequences for all concerned.”

Roger stroked his chin, considering, and said after a long but not uncomfortable silence, “So you advise us to take John for king? That is your notion of not falling in the pig wallow?”

“Hardly that, my lord Bigod, but the best we can do. If Arthur comes to the throne, I believe we really will be in the mire.” He pushed away from the battlements and faced Roger. “What is your asking price, my lord? I noticed your reticence during the first round of negotiations. Chester remarked to me that you were keeping it all under your hat as usual.”

Roger smiled. “My demands are modest enough. I want my lands guaranteed. I will pay no more fines to keep what is rightfully mine.”

William nodded. “Nor should you, my lord.”

“I want royal recognition to all of my titles.” Roger reached up to stroke the padded brim of his hat. “And I want confirmation that my scutage payment will be on sixty knights’ fees—as it was in my father’s time.”

William’s brows shot up. Roger’s stayed level. He waited for William to say that the Earldom of Norfolk was worth close to three times that amount when the Yorkshire estates were taken into consideration. “That is a hard bargain, my lord.”

“I would call it fair myself,” Roger answered. “I spent twelve years living on crumbs in a hall without defences while waiting for my case to find justice.”

William tilted his head in acknowledgement of the point but Roger could tell he was thinking that the Earl of Norfolk was indeed fiscally ambitious. “It is not for me to say, but I can offer you the same assurances that have been offered to Chester and Ferrers.”

“In that case, my lord—pending confirmation of my terms—you are assured of my support for the lord John.”

“Then I thank you. We have to make the best of the situation and there is no one I would better trust to make fair and insightful judgements in the days to come.”

They gripped arms in a soldier’s clasp and exchanged the kiss of peace, both bound by the words that went unsaid. Roger was content to have the matter settled, but still wary. He vowed to himself that as soon as this business was settled, he would draw in his horns and concentrate on his estates to make them secure and prosperous, and advance the work on Framlingham until the castle was impregnable. He trusted William Marshal, but he didn’t trust John.

***

“I’m going to London,” Will told Gundreda and Huon, then braced himself for a tirade. As a small boy, he had covered his head with his hands or fled to hide in the undercroft whenever his father or Huon raged. But for the future, for the sake of his son, he had to stand up for himself. It was surprising how much the sight of a little boy running across the grass with a toy sword in his hand could strengthen one’s resolve.

“You’re going nowhere,” Huon snarled. “I am head of this family and I refuse you permission. I’ll not have you fawning over the dung-covered boots of the whoreson who calls himself the ‘Earl’ of Norfolk!”

Huon had been drunk for the best part of three days—ever since agreeing to yield all claims in the earldom in exchange for two knights’ fees. He seemed to think that pickling his senses in wine would make his consent go away. He couldn’t face up to it; yet he must. John, Count of Mortain, was to be crowned in London and all business settled. Their half-brother was to have the Earldom of Norfolk and all his estates handed to him in perpetuity. Huon was supposed to ratify consent, but had retreated into a flagon instead.

“I am my own man,” Will retorted. “I have accepted I cannot change what is to be and that I must make the best of matters. Fawning it is not.”

“You’re not going,” Huon repeated and staggered over to the flagon to pour himself another measure of wine.

“Huon…” Gundreda spoke up from the shadows by the corner of the hearth where she was sitting, an untouched piece of needlework in her lap. “You need a clear head for this. You cannot think with all that wine swilling around inside your belly.”

Huon rounded on her. “Perhaps I don’t want to think, Mother. Perhaps if you had done more in the early days, we wouldn’t be in this plight now.” Gundreda bowed her head and made a soft sound of despair.

Will eyed his brother with contempt. The scales had been dropping from his eyes for some time and now he could see him with all the clarity that Huon in his wine-wild state lacked. “If you had done more in the early days to convince folk you were a viable candidate, then it might have made a difference too,” he said with disgust. “There was never that much to choose between you and Roger when our father died, but Roger proved himself and you didn’t.” These were enormous things to say and as they spilled out of Will, he felt them expand and fill the room.

Huon shuddered in response, his complexion growing dusky, as if Will’s outburst had sucked the breath from his lungs too. He opened and closed his mouth, but no words came.

“I am done here.” Will strode to the door. “I am going to London and let that be an end to all this.”

Huon lunged after him, seized his arm, and spun him round. “Do not turn your back on me, you spineless coward!”

Will shook him off with a brusque movement in which there was revulsion. “I am not the one unable to face up to life,” he retorted. “I’ve been your shadow for long enough! I’m going to stand in my own light now.” Borne up on a wave of determination, he raised the latch and stamped down the outer stairs to the stable yard calling for his horse. Behind him, he heard Huon curse, and then make a garbled choking sound. Will turned swiftly and saw his brother swaying at the top of the steps. Before his widening gaze, Huon staggered and clutched the centre of his chest.

“I will kill…” The threat never finished as he dropped on to the steps like a sack of cabbages and bounced down the first few before falling over the edge to hit the ground twenty feet below.

Will’s own breath locked in his throat. For a moment, he was rooted to the spot, and then he was stumbling down the rest of the stairs to the bottom, shouting Huon’s name, yelling for help. By the time he reached him, his brother’s soul had gone from his body. Huon’s lips were blue, his complexion livid, and there was a darkening stain on his hose and tunic as his slack bladder released a flagon’s worth of wine into the dust of the bailey floor. Will’s own heart hammered at twice its usual pace.

“Send for a priest,” he commanded raggedly of the witnesses as they gathered. Although he knew it was futile, he listened for the beat in Huon’s chest and laid his fingers against the place in his throat where the blood should have throbbed under the skin and where there was nothing. Trembling, he closed Huon’s staring eyes, and then the bared snarl of his jaw. God on the Cross. What an end to make of one’s life, what a sordid, stupid, wasteful end. Tears of shock stung his eyes and he wiped them away with the fingers that had just closed Huon’s lids. He removed his cloak, laid it over his brother’s body, then climbed the stairs back to the solar to break the news to his mother—and finally to take charge.