For the King's Favor (19 page)

With the ghost of Henry still in his mind, he was suddenly wary. “What?”

“You should know that Gundreda has been petitioning the Queen about your inheritance dispute. Eleanor spoke to me about it earlier.”

Relieved that this was not about Henry, or the child, whom he knew she must have seen today, he shrugged. “Gundreda will have no joy from that quarter. What can Eleanor do? The inheritance is down to the decision of the King’s court, and the Queen is under house arrest.”

“I do not think she is concerned either way,” Ida replied. “I received the impression that she sympathised with Gundreda’s position and was unsure about you, but she was kind to me.” She lifted herself off him and went to fetch them wine. Heavy-eyed, Roger watched the gleaming sway of her hair and the way it ended just above the curve of her pert buttocks, each a perfect handful.

Ida poured from flagon to cups. “I thought the Queen might not take to me because of…because of what I had been to the King, but she bore me no ill will.”

Roger grunted. “She would have been a fool if she did—for something that was none of your fault. And from what I know of Eleanor, she is far from that, even if she has made mistakes of judgement.” He took the cup from her. “It is a good thing if you can win her approval though and interesting that she told you about Gundreda when she need not have done.”

Ida sat on the bed, one leg folded pointing towards him. She tucked her hair behind her ears. “I think she took to me and felt I should not be at a disadvantage.” She looked down at her cup. “I also think she was testing me.”

Roger raised an eyebrow. “In what way?”

“To see if I was clever enough to understand, or if I was no more than a plaything with feathers for brains. I think she likes to try people’s mettle. If Gundreda has approached the Queen, might she not have made approaches elsewhere too?”

Roger’s gaze sharpened. “Such as?”

“Your father supported the Young King, and your half-brother fought for him. If Henry has passed the case to London and in the meantime restored you three manors, then perhaps Gundreda and your stepbrothers are considering it more profitable to petition elsewhere.”

Roger almost snorted at the notion of Henry’s feckless heir being of any use to anyone, but checked himself. When Henry died, that feckless heir would be their King, and would have his own favourites and preferences to promote. “So, was she suggesting that I might consider it prudent to offer my services to the Young King, or was she warning me, through you, that the game was afoot and to cover myself?”

Ida shrugged. “She spoke in the vaguest of terms. I think she has cast the dice in the air and left you to decide how you will deal with them when they land.”

Roger pretended to look studious. “There is only one answer to that.”

Ida looked at him.

“Never trust to luck unless the dice belong to you…and they are fixed in your favour.” He smiled at her. “And thank God for an astute wife.”

Senlis, Normandy, Late March 1182

Roger set his foot in the stirrup and swung astride his new young stallion. The horse danced and side-stepped, swishing its tail, and Roger eased in the reins. “Whoa,” he soothed, “whoa,” and patted the destrier’s sweating neck.

King Henry was at Senlis to discuss matters of policy with the King of France, the Count of Flanders, the Papal Legate, and his eldest son, Henry the Young King. Amidst the duties of attending on their lords, the knights were using the assembly to look over each other’s equipment, seek out acquaintances from the tourney circuit, catch up on news, and test each other’s mettle.

Roger had brought several horses to Senlis from the stud at Montfiquet and he intended selling them at a good profit. He had a steward to deal with such things on a daily basis, but Roger regarded working with the horses and choosing their bloodlines as both a craft and a pleasure and involved himself whenever the opportunity came his way.

“I do not suppose that one is for sale?” William Marshal asked wistfully as he watched Roger control the young stallion with heels and hands before dismounting.

Some of the knights had caparisoned their mounts in the latest barding, but Roger had left his stallion unclad save for a magnificent breast-band of polished leather, enhanced by pendants bearing the Bigod cross. The destrier’s hide was like black silk shot with tones of ruby and there was no point in concealing the goods. He wanted men to look and remember.

Grinning, Roger shook his head. “You are right, messire. He is still not fully trained. I intend bringing him on so that he’s ready in a couple of years’ time to replace the horse I have now.” He rubbed his jaw. “I do have two colts of the same siring for sale to interested parties though, and when this one is not in the field, he’ll be running with my mares and available for stud duties.”

“What’s his stamina like?”

“He’ll hunt and hack for miles as well as run to the tilt.” Roger turned to slap the stallion’s deep, glossy hide. “Perhaps not enough meat on him yet, but that will come by the time he’s ready.”

“I can see that from the set of him.” William Marshal smiled at Roger. “My father harboured a preference for greys, but that was because they stood out in a crowd and he was always a rallying point for his men. Everyone knew where my father was in the midst of the fray.”

“They say that about you, messire, but you do not need a grey for that.”

William made a gesture of modest negation. “I have heard stories about you also, my lord.”

Roger shrugged, although he felt pleased. “A little reputation goes a long way.”

“You would be surprised at how much you have.” William glanced, stepped back, and bowed. Turning, Roger saw Ida approaching with her ladies and two male attendants laden with packages.

“Lady Bigod.” William performed a deep bow. “It would be difficult for anything to gladden a man’s eye more than the sight of all these fine horses, but you manage it effortlessly.”

Ida laughed at him as she responded with a curtsey. “Not effortlessly,” she said, “but I try.” She turned to Roger. “I’ve come to watch you put Vavasour through his paces.” She rubbed the stallion’s muzzle and gave her husband a shining look.

William Marshal inclined his head to Roger and prepared to take his leave. “I envy you, my lord,” he said. “The best horse on the field and the finest woman to wife.”

Roger acknowledged the salute with a courtly flourish. “May you be one day similarly blessed, messire, and in the meantime I bow to the greatest knight in the tourney.”

William showed his fine teeth as he laughed, but was clearly pleased by the compliment. “That has yet to be decided.” He bowed again as the Young King arrived, the latter slapping his gauntlets against his thigh in a gesture of irritation.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he said querulously.

“I am sorry, sire; I was on my way to your pavilion when I was waylaid by my lord Bigod’s stallion. Is this not the best warhorse you have ever seen?”

Roger’s eyes briefly met William’s and a swift flicker of understanding passed between them. The Young King was being petulant and William was distracting him, as one might distract a child with a sweetmeat.

England’s heir swept his gaze over Vavasour and grudgingly admitted that yes, it was a magnificent beast. His gaze fixed upon Ida. “Does my father know you are abroad?” he asked with a slight sneer in his tone.

There was an awkward silence. Ida reddened and lowered her eyes. Roger realised there was no reason the Young King should know about his marriage. “Sire, Ida has been my wife since the beginning of December,” he said.

The young man looked taken aback, and then he laughed and flourished his hand at Roger. “Then I congratulate you, my lord, for finding my father’s favour…and you, my lady, for the same.” He dipped his head in Ida’s direction.

Roger stiffened. The words in themselves were not an insult but the intent behind them was definitely mischievous.

Young Henry walked around the stallion again. “A pity he’s not a grey,” he said. “He’d be worth more.” He gave Roger a sly look. “Your half-brothers are here, did you know?”

Ida stifled a gasp of dismay. “Yes, I had heard, sire,” Roger said, wishing the Young King to perdition. He had been trying to keep such news from Ida because he knew she would fuss. Huon had recently been following in the Young King’s entourage, picking up crumbs where they fell, obviously cultivating what he saw as his future.

“They’ll be riding to tourney under my banner. You might encounter him on the field, but of course any combat will be
à plaisance”
With a slap to Vavasour’s glossy rump that made the stallion flinch, Young Henry strolled on his way. William bowed again to Ida and Roger, his expression studiously blank, and followed his lord.

“He tries to rile me because I am of his father’s faction and what happened at Fornham still sticks in his craw,” Roger said, his voice calm, although inside he was seething.

“Why didn’t you tell me your brothers were here?”

“Because it’s not important. Let them petition where they will; it will do them no good.”

“But what if they petition with swords and lances?”

Roger gave an irritated shrug. “As the Young King says, the matches are to prove valour. His father is here to discuss policy with his neighbours. There might be war next month or next year, but not today. These bouts will be all show and no substance. Nothing’s going to happen.”

“So you say.”

“I’ve been defending myself against Huon and Will for too long now to be caught out.” He gave an impatient sigh. “My love, I know how to look after myself and I am never reckless…although, having said that, leaving you to go about the market place with a full purse must be one of the rashest acts I have ever committed.”

“Do not try to cozen me with jests,” she snapped.

“Then trust me.” He raised his thumb to smooth the frown from between her brows, then leaned forward and kissed her. “I’ve been forewarned; I’ll come to no harm.”

Following more cajoling reassurances, Roger watched her leave in the direction of his pavilion. He could tell that she was still upset and not convinced, but he would make it up to her later. He was not going to skulk on the periphery and abstain from taking part in the day’s sport. He was sufficiently skilled to deal with anything his half-brothers might strew across his path.

***

Once inside the safety of Roger’s pavilion, Ida yielded to her distress and had a good cry. The Young King’s words were like a shallow cut from a thin-bladed knife. Not deep or mortal, but still hurtful. Men said he was great in chivalry, but he had all of the superficial trappings and none of the substance. Roger was twice the man he was. And the notion of her husband’s half-brother being on the field terrified her. What would happen if Roger were wounded—or worse? The thought made her feel sick.

She realised that she was at a crossroads. She could either lie here in the tent, a cold cloth over her brow, and ignore the world, or she could go out and bear witness. With abrupt decision, wiping her eyes, she rose to her feet and bade Bertrice attend her.

“Mistress, you should stay here,” Bertrice said with concern.

Ida shook her head. “No, I am well and I will go out and watch my lord at the tourney.”

“But you should not disturb yourself, not when—”

“Whether I stay or go I will be disturbed,” Ida interrupted, lifting her chin. “I will watch, and my husband will know my pride in him.”

***

Ida gathered with the rest of the spectators on the edge of the field as the knights limbered up. The sun was warm for March but a cold breeze made her glad of her fur-lined cloak. The chamberlain’s boy had carried a wooden bench from the pavilion so the women could sit down and Ida was thankful to do so.

Roger had given Vavasour to one of his younger knights to parade up and down and was preparing to mount his experienced destrier, Marteal, a powerful dark chestnut with white-striped nose, a son and replacement of his sire, Sorel. The stallion wore the barding of red and yellow that Ida and her women had stitched in the weeks before her marriage. Roger himself sported a parti-coloured surcoat of red and yellow silk and a plait of the same colours bound around the brow of his helm. Ida thought she would burst with love and pride as she watched him leap to the saddle as nimbly as the youths who were employed to show off the paces of the coursers and fast horses. His squire handed up his shield and Roger took his striped painted lance from the young man and turned his rein towards the field, Anketil riding at his left shoulder.

William Marshal and the Young King were sparring together as they warmed up. Both men were accomplished fighters and Ida could tell they were pulling their blows as they steadily stretched themselves and their mounts. Roger and Anketil began sparring too and Ida was unable to take her eyes from her husband’s coordination and nimble grace. He didn’t have the bulk of the Marshal, but he was balanced, athletic, and fast.

The field grew busier as more knights arrived with their retinues. The shouts became louder, the smells more pungent, the colours more vivid as the gaps filled in. Men rode to join their companions, and since the King of England and his eldest son were ostensibly at peace, Roger and his entourage joined up with the knights belonging to the Young King to face the French and the Flemish. Ida noticed the Young King welcome Roger with a handclasp as their mounts trotted past each other, but she supposed whatever their differences, a good fighting man was a good fighting man.

From small warm-up combats, the groups became larger and the trials of strength more robust and determined. Shields clattered together, scratching colours, feathering rips in the leather coverings, scoring gouges. Men strove to drag each other’s mounts out of the fray by the bridle. The yells of the heralds, bellowing commands in the names of their lords, the din of thundering hooves, hard breathing from the toiling destriers, and the thud of weaponry on shields made Ida feel as if she were perched on the edge of a thunderstorm.

She watched for Roger among the knights and glimpsed him for a moment, turning Marteal at the gallop and, with precise control, seizing another knight’s bridle. The red and yellow barding flowed like coloured water; clods churned from beneath the destrier’s hooves. The motion of man and horse combined was like watching a war song come to life and Ida’s stomach churned with the queasiness of fear and overwhelming pride.

Two latecomers cantered on to the field, their mounts caparisoned in the same colours as Roger’s, although theirs were quartered rather than parti-coloured, and their shields bore not only the red Bigod cross on its yellow background, but crenellations in red across the top section. For a moment Ida thought that some of her husband’s knights were late to the meet, but almost immediately realised these must be his half-brothers. As she watched, they spurred their mounts towards the fray, one going left, the other right.

Ida jerked to her feet and stared out across the churn of men and horses, but she couldn’t see her husband amid the throng. Dear God. She pressed her hand to her breast, suddenly short of breath.

Her line of sight was blocked as two knights galloped so close to her that foam from a destrier’s mouth spattered her dress. The stallion’s ears were back and its teeth bared. One knight had hold of his opponent’s bridle and was striving to drag him off the field while the captive man battled to win free. His stallion false-footed and pitched; he was thrown and landed heavily. Squires pelted on to the field to help him and his erstwhile opponent grabbed and steadied the sweating, trembling horse. The injured knight groaned and writhed on the ground, his leg twisted to one side at an odd angle. Bile rose in Ida’s throat.

Bertrice tugged at her sleeve. “Madam, you are too close, come away.”

The squires carried the stricken knight off in the direction of one of the pavilions. Ida searched frantically for Roger and Marteal on the tourney ground but couldn’t see him. Red and yellow were popular colours and it was difficult to tell who was who at a glance; besides, the mêlée had spread out from the original core and moved to the field beyond and the one behind that too. She dug her nails into her damp palms. Roger’s brothers would not dare to attack him at so public an event and wearing identifying blazons, but tourneys were notorious for being venues where men settled their grudges and began new ones. Supposedly, they were fighting on the same side, but that meant nothing. A blow from behind was more dangerous than one to the fore.

***

Roger enjoyed the warm-up bouts. Although he had kept himself in practice, it had been some time since he had competed on the tourney field. The horses were still a little stale from winter quarters, but like their riders were eager for the exercise. Marteal bucked and frisked at first and Roger let him have his head for a while, before drawing in the rein and steadying him down. It was wonderful to heft a lance and feel the responsive turn of a powerful horse beneath him.

As the competition warmed up, he charged to meet the challenge of a French knight. Marteal was moving faster than his opponent’s destrier and Roger’s aim was true; but the Frenchman was solid in the saddle and Roger’s blow didn’t dislodge him. Roger seized the man’s bridle and began dragging him towards the back of the English line. The knight used his heels to try and turn his stallion but Roger had too firm a grip. His adversary then thought to unfasten his mount’s bridle and escape that way, but Roger covered the move, guiding Marteal round so that he pressed in hard to the other stallion’s side. The destriers snapped and plunged as the men exchanged a flurry of blows. For a moment, it seemed that the Frenchman’s greater physical strength would win, but Roger held steady and trusted to his skill, and the breeding and courage of his mount. The knight grunted in pain and recoiled as one of Roger’s blows landed behind his shield. Again, Roger seized the knight’s bridle and spurred for the English lines. The knight made one last desperate bid to escape, but Roger was as determined as his opponent was stubborn, and in the matter of stamina, Roger had the edge. Finally, the knight was forced to admit grudging defeat and pledge his ransom, informing Roger with nasal superiority that the Normans who had settled in England knew how to brawl even if they had no sense of propriety. Roger agreed with him, using the quiet irony of impeccable manners to conclude the exchange. Then, grinning inside his mouth, the first all-important take accomplished, he cantered back into the fray, intent upon enjoying himself.