For the King's Favor (37 page)

She looked down at their linked hands and bit her lip.

“You may have to entertain guests too,” he added. “The other justices will be seeking hospitality on occasion.”

She searched his face. “Is it what you want?”

He stroked her cheek and tucked a tendril of her hair behind her ears. “I have missed you, Ida…for a long time, and part of that is my own doing.”

The tight knot at her core began to unravel and she suddenly felt almost shy. She had a tenuous feeling of new growth—of delicate shoots turning towards the spring, but still in danger of being withered. “Yes,” she said. “I want that with all my heart.”

Winchester, April 1194

Ida gazed anxiously round the solar chamber of the house they had rented in Winchester. The furniture gleamed with beeswax polish; the rushes on the floor were fresh and scattered with herbs. The wine in the flagon was Rhenish, and the glass cups, pale green with twists of blue, stood ready. Her hands trembled as for the tenth time she plumped the cushions on the bench before the hearth. As she nudged a footstool straight, she thought about the first time she had had to move a similar stool for King Henry and position it where it was most comfortable for his injured leg, while all the time he watched her with the gaze of a predator.

She smoothed her green gown with damp hands. The neckline, hem, and cuffs were stiff with embroidery and she felt stiff too, as if her limbs were made of jointed wood. Her centre was a hollow cavern. Going to the window, she looked out on the garth. Hugh was playing a boisterous game of camp ball with his father’s squires and their shouts rang up through the open shutters. She had thought about summoning him inside to wash and change his clothes, but had decided she would rather deal with matters one thing at a time. She didn’t want Hugh in the room when she greeted his older brother. She didn’t want Roger with her until the first moment was over either and, although patently anxious about her, he had yielded to her wishes and absented himself to some judicial work in the scribe’s corner off the hall.

Geoffrey, her chamberlain, who had been on the lookout, poked his head around the door. “Countess, he is here.”

Ida swallowed. Her stomach felt as if it was joined to the base of her throat. She had been sick several times that morning. It was almost like being with child, she thought, and wondered if the pains would come when she saw him. And yet, like giving birth, it had to happen. She couldn’t walk away from this and she needed to be free of the burden.

She summoned her women and, taking a deep breath, went down to the courtyard. Her son was dismounting from a fine black palfrey that she knew Roger had gifted to him. The saddle cloth was gilded and silver pendants hung from the horse’s chest strap and brow-band. The young man had thick, gleaming dark hair. He was tall and straight, limber and handsome. He wore a long sword at his hip and the manner in which he kept it from fouling his movements showed the ease of long practice. Ida’s heart filled her chest and suddenly it was difficult to breathe.

“Madam.” One of her women moved to catch her, but Ida locked her knees and forced her will through her anxiety.

“I am all right,” she replied, even though she wasn’t. Gathering her reserves, she walked forward to greet him and curtseyed as she would to any noble guest on his arrival. “Welcome,” she said. “Be welcome…my son.” The words were out although they almost closed her throat in their passing. A brief upward glance showed her that his expression was pale and tight—and imperious. He had Henry’s brow and nose, but his eyes were brown like hers and he had a masculine version of her jaw. She wanted to follow the outline of his features with her fingertips, but knew it was too intimate a gesture. There was no trace of the baby whose swaddling she had changed or over whom she had sat and prayed while he fought his fever. No sign either of the spindle-legged little boy dancing with other children in Westminster’s hall. All she had to carry through the years that might have been and never were were a lock of hair and a tiny pair of shoes.

She saw the prickle of stubble on his throat as he swallowed. Already he was old enough to grow an embryo beard. He raised her to her feet. “My lady mother,” he said, “or so I am told.” His voice had a slight catch in its timbre that might have been the result of strong emotion but could equally be no more than an inheritance from his father.

“I…I do not know what you have been told, but indeed you are my son. Will you come within?” She gestured towards the open door. “Please.”

He gave a stiff, uncertain nod. “I have attendants. They’ll be arriving shortly.”

“The grooms will see to their mounts and there are refreshments in the hall.”

She led him up the outer stairs to the solar, very aware of his tread behind her and of the atmosphere as heavy as the air before a thunderstorm.

He stepped over the threshold and she saw him stare around the room like a suspicious dog in a stranger’s territory. His gaze slid over polished furniture, the hangings and embroideries, the sheepskin rugs before the benches, then fixed on the youngest children who were playing with their nurses in a corner of the hall.

Ida dug her fingernails into her palms. “These are your brothers and sisters,” she said, and again it was difficult to speak because she felt embarrassed. The admission was almost sordid.

He looked away from them, but not at her, preferring to gaze at the wall instead. “My father the King said that you had other dreams to follow and other children to make, but he never told me who you were. I only found out after he had died.”

Ida so much wanted to touch him, to place her hand upon his sleeve and take away the years, but that was impossible. “I had no choice. Believe me when I say this to you. The King desired to raise you in his household. He would not let me bring you to my marriage and it is my greatest regret. Please—sit.” She gestured to a bench.

“Thank you, madam.” He addressed her with polite distance. What else had she expected? Her dreams—not the ones he spoke of—were of closeness, her nightmares of rejection. This middle path was painful, but at least it was civil and inching forwards.

She sat down beside him on the bench and clenched her hands in her lap. “I was very young,” she said. “And I was new to the court. Your father…” She trapped her underlip in her teeth. This was so difficult: what to say to set matters to rights without accusation and blame. “Your father was the King and I had been raised to loyalty and obedience. He desired me for companionship and comfort and I could not refuse his will. After I bore you, we lived at Woodstock, but sometimes we travelled with the court. I do not suppose you remember those times, but I do—every moment…and sometimes I think that has been my curse.”

His eyelids were down and his expression was sealed like a good drawbridge.

“I wanted to bring you with me, truly. I did not willingly leave you behind, but your father insisted. He would not give you up.”

“But you…” His lip curled slightly. “You chose to leave the court.”

“Yes,” she said. “Because had I stayed, I would eventually have lost all honour and respect for myself. Your father would have given me in marriage at some point to a man of his choosing and I would still have lost you. While I had a choice, I made it—and I have lived with the guilt ever since.” Her voice cracked. “For whatever harm has been caused to you, I ask your forgiveness.”

His mouth twisted further. “Let it be what it will be,” he said. “I was raised at court with privilege, and I am the son of a king, which very few can claim. I have no quarrel.”

They both looked up at the sound of Roger clearing his throat in the doorway. Ida was glad of his interruption, because she did not know where she would have gone from that moment. He had not said he forgave her, just that she should let it be.

“My lord ‘Longespée.’” Roger came forward with a taut smile, his hand extended. “You are welcome.”

Ida watched her son rise and bow to Roger.

“The sword practice is going well?” Roger gestured to the young man’s scabbard.

“Yes, my lord, well indeed.” He set his hand to the grip and jutted his chin with pride. “The King, my brother, is to give me land and privileges. I am to have a manor and to have charge of collecting the licence fees for the tourneys.”

“Tourneys?” Ida queried in surprise. Henry had often spoken about the sport with disdain and had outlawed them in England. He said they fomented rebellion and unrest and were foolish arenas for young men to flex their muscles and show off their gauds.

Her son nodded. “The King is licensing five places in the country where tourneys may be held and there are to be fees for entering them. Two marks for a knight and ten for a baron.” The pride was augmented by enthusiasm. “I’m to be responsible for collecting the fees. So is Theobald Walter.”

“Ah,” Roger said knowingly. “That’s a fine way of raising revenues, and it will be popular with the young bloods. Theobald Walter is brother to the Archbishop of Canterbury and an experienced courtier and statesman. You are kin to the King and of a younger age, so it is a good combination. Men will be eager to train too, and that can only be good for the battlefield.”

Ida winced at the word “battlefield” but otherwise was proud and delighted by the news. It was a good sign of advancement for her firstborn and proof that his royal brother was taking care of him. Now that the ground had shifted to a subject less fraught, they could move forward in their current situation too. She sent Roger a look filled with gratitude, and he returned it with a swift gesture of encouragement. The conversation about tourneys continued to carry the moment and create a steady flow of talk. There was even room for smiles and humour and, despite both being tenuous, they were positive signs. Ida began to think that it might just be possible to weave the past into the present and thereby craft a balanced future for all concerned.

***

William Longespée had been steeling himself for this meeting ever since it had been arranged following the siege at Nottingham. He had dreamed of it on many occasions but facing the reality had taken every ounce of courage he possessed. During his sojourn in Germany, he had come to a measured understanding with Earl Roger. The man’s air of calm, his balance in trying circumstances, had given William a glimpse of what true manhood was. Even if his French did bear a strong East Anglian twang, even if he did wear some outrageous hats and extravagant jewels and furs, even if his ancestors had indeed been common serjeants, he had a steadfast and noble character. But Longespée did not know what to expect of his mother. There were too many conflicting thoughts and emotions. What if she turned out to be an unfeeling concubine who had abandoned him when a good marriage had presented itself? People told him she was sweet and good, but sweet, good women did not become royal mistresses. That led him to wonder whether his father had coerced her. But if he were born from such a union, he didn’t want to see his reflection out of that particular mirror.

The woman who had greeted his arrival did indeed seem shy and gentle. She had brown doe-eyes, delicate features, and dimples that appeared when she smiled, although she was pale and her expression full of strain.

Notions of a scheming concubine had fled, but he was still not sure he believed her about having no choice when she left him behind. His father’s words about “other dreams and other babies” still gave him cause for doubt. She obviously adored the Earl and the proof was there at the other end of the room, all five of them. Roger had occasionally mentioned his children in Germany, but never in detail. To see them as a single brood was a shock because it meant he had to imagine his mother making the beast with two backs again and again and again. Yet he was pleased at how he had coped with the situation. That he was the son of a king had helped. His half-siblings were several of many and bore lesser blood in their veins. It behoved him to be magnanimous because of his royalty.

“You have seen your brothers and sisters?” the Earl asked him, smiling.

William looked across the room to the playing children. “Yes, sire,” he said courteously.

The Earl glanced in that direction too. “And have you met my oldest son? Have you met Hugh?”

A jolt shot through William.
Oldest son?
He narrowed his gaze. The most senior children among the brood in the corner were both girls. The three boys were no more than small children and infants. The notion of a son closer to him in age tumbled his equilibrium. He shot a suspicious, almost angry look at his mother. She hadn’t told him that. Was she ashamed? Did she not want him to know? “No,” he said, managing to remain polite although there was a bitter taste in his mouth. “I have not met him.” He saw the mutual exchange of glances between the Earl and his wife, and felt excluded. It was a conspiracy after all.

“Come.” Roger rose to his feet. “I’ll show you.”

Clutching the grip of his sword for reassurance and support, Longespée followed Roger to the window that looked out on to an area of sward where some older boys and youths were engaged in a vigorous game of camp ball.

“There.” Roger pointed. “In the green hose; that’s Hugh.”

Longespée stared at the boy the Earl had pointed out. He was as swift and straight as an arrow, lithe, graceful, and lightly muscular with hair the blond-brown of ripe wheat. The sport was hard and his hose were mud-stained. He looked as if he had been rolling with pigs, William thought disdainfully. The boy’s voice soared up to them, filled with joy. “Here, Thomas, here, to me!” William almost winced when he heard the thick country accent.

“I’m sure you’ll grow to be friends,” Roger said.

Longespée wrenched his gaze from his half-brother and looked at the Earl. The latter’s expression was bland, but still there was an eloquence about the arch of his brow. “Yes, sire,” he said, thinking that the flames of hell would turn to icicles before that happened.

Roger beckoned Hugh to finish his game and come within. In the meantime, the younger children were formally introduced to Longespée and somehow he found the wherewithal to respond in the correct manner. His mother he barely looked at, although he sensed she was struggling—and he was glad because he was angry.

Hugh entered the room still panting from his game. His face was aglow with exertion and a streak of mud daubed his cheek. From outside and below, William could hear the boisterous noise of the others still at their game and it filled him with both jealousy and contempt.

“Hugh, this is your brother William Longespée,” the Earl said. The boy turned towards Longespée, the smile on his lips enhancing his sea-blue eyes. “Welcome, brother,” he said, and held out a dirt-smeared palm.