For the King's Favor (6 page)

***

Ida smoothed her oiled hands over Henry’s shoulders and back. He had a barrel-shaped body and was a little corpulent around the gut, but his skin felt good under her fingertips and the freckling reminded her delightfully of the speckles on an egg.

As she worked, he took the silver cup from its box and examined it in his rough hands. “Well, well,” he said with a rumble of laughter, “the dowager Countess is selling off Hugh’s baubles to bribe her way to riches. Crafty vixen.”

“Sire?” Ida suspected from Henry’s tone of voice that he wasn’t going to be sympathetic to her kinswoman’s cause.

He twisted to look at her. “This cup’s from a set I gave to Hugh Bigod in the year I became King. Fashioned on the Rhine. My mother had them made when she was Empress of Germany. I’ll warrant the box is something to do with the knights’ fees the Bigods owe to the abbey at Edmundsbury. Wouldn’t surprise me if it had been misappropriated from the abbey itself.”

Ida gave a mute shake of her head to say she didn’t know.

He gave an amused grunt. “Do you like your gift?”

Ida pondered. “I can see it is worthy and handsome,” she said, “and I understand that both are valuable and the cup would look very magnificent on a sideboard or table, but glass is prettier and finer.”

She felt him laugh. “Prettier, yes, but more fragile and not so much use. You can’t melt down glass when you become short of funds and if you drop it, that’s the end. Not much you can do with a few shattered pieces.”

“So that would make glass the more precious?”

“And the less practical, my sweet. Give a king silver gilt any day.” He grinned playfully. “I’ll exchange this one for a glass cup if you want.”

Ida shook her head. “It’s a gift from a kinswoman, I’ll keep it.”

Henry threw back his head and roared. “A diplomatic way of saying that while you yearn, you’re practical enough to know the true value of things in life.”

“I am learning,” Ida replied demurely.

“Learn all you wish, but do not lose your innocence because that is a treasure beyond price and everyone will try to be near you because you have it, and steal it from you if they can.”

Ida thought that Henry had been the first one to do that, but she didn’t say so aloud. They both knew it, and he had just as good as admitted his own part. “Are you going to give Lady Gundreda’s son the earldom?” she asked after a moment.

Henry grimaced at the notion. “My sweet, one Hugh Bigod is enough for any man to suffer in a lifetime. The old bastard’s dead. I’ll think twice or even three times before I replace him with another of the same blood—even if she did offer me a thousand marks to recognise him.”

Ida oiled her palms, smoothed them over Henry’s shoulders and began to knead again. His groan of pleasure vibrated through his flesh and into her fingertips.

“I’m tempted to take it,” he said, “but the older son is the proven soldier and administrator…still a Bigod though,” he added with a slight curl of distaste.

Ida stopped rubbing. “So the Countess’s son is not the oldest?” she asked with surprise.

“You thought that he was? Ah, I suppose there’s no reason you would know better and she wouldn’t tell you. Hugh of Norfolk has a son, Roger, from his first marriage to Oxford’s sister. In fact he’s here now—arrived just as the gates were closing, so I was informed. I’ve warned the marshal to be on his guard lest family affection grows a little too warm.” His eyes sparkled. “I wonder what he’ll offer me for the right to his father’s earldom. Certainly not any of those cups, because his stepmother appears to have appropriated them.”

“Why, if he is the oldest son, is he not the heir?” Ida asked.

Henry shrugged. “He is, but his father annulled his first marriage, and the new Countess is trying to prevent him from inheriting so that her own son may claim the earldom. She wants Roger to be declared a bastard.”

Ida made a soft sound of dismay. She didn’t want to think Gundreda had played her for a dupe. “What are you going to do?”

Henry looked thoughtful. “Despite her efforts, Roger Bigod will remain legitimate. He’s the Earl of Oxford’s nephew and his great-uncles are de Clares. I’m not about to meddle with that. I suspect Gundreda knows she can’t win on that score, but what she can do is claim a large portion of the inheritance for her son if I am so minded to bestow it. Her eldest boy has a good claim on the lands his father acquired during his term as Earl, and they’re a substantial part of the inheritance—most of the Yorkshire estates for a start.” A calculating note entered Henry’s voice. “I’m not inclined to give it to either party. The father was a treacherous whoreson and blood will out. Roger might have fought for me at Fornham, but to do so he deserted and denied his own father.”

Hearing the censure in his tone, Ida took heed. She knew the fact that his own sons had rebelled against him had created an unhealing sore spot in Henry’s soul. That the Queen had joined their defiance had deepened his distrust and increased his cynicism. “You must do as you see fit, sire,” she murmured.

He turned round and kissed her. “Indeed I must. And what best serves my kingdom too. You’re good for me, girl, do you know that?”

Ida gave a modest smile and lowered her eyes. Henry tilted up her chin and kissed her again. “Don’t change,” he said with sudden intensity. “Don’t ever change.” He handed the cup back to her. “Here, put it away and keep it somewhere safe.”

Ida shook her head and laughed. “Sometimes, sire, I feel like a magpie with a coffer full of shining things.”

Henry gave her a look both bright and slumberous. “Never a magpie.” He reached for her. “Your breasts are like swansdown.”

***

Ida sat at the dining board among the ladies of the royal household. Although of rich fabric, her gown was modestly cut with neat, understated embroidery and her hair and throat were entirely covered by a linen wimple. Henry’s gold and ruby ring shone on her heart finger and to initial appearances she resembled a respectable young goodwife rather than the latest royal concubine.

Her immediate companion at the board was Hodierna, who had once been a wet nurse to the King’s son Richard. Her own son, suckled at the same time as the royal nursling, was now at study in Paris. Ida enjoyed Hodierna’s company, for she was a warm, maternal woman, sociable and garrulous, but trustworthy too, and Ida found herself telling her about her meeting with Gundreda of Norfolk and what Henry had said about the situation.

“Always hard for a woman to claim against a man,” Hodierna said, “and I reckon the Countess thinks she’s owed some recompense for the life Hugh Bigod led her. Can’t say I blame her for that. It’s a pity she’s taking it out on the first son though.” She nodded in the direction of a group of men sitting at a trestle to the right of the King. “There,” she said. “That’s Roger Bigod in the blue tunic, second on the left.”

Ida glanced surreptitiously at the man Hodierna had indicated, who was talking to the Earl of Oxford. His head was turned away and all she could see were thick feathers of golden-brown hair and a gesturing fine-boned hand. He nodded to something that Oxford had said, and then faced forward to pick up his wine so that for a moment Ida caught a glimpse of his features: high cheekbones, long mouth, square jaw. His expression was tense and watchful and Ida quickly dropped her gaze to her meal lest she be caught looking at him.

“He’ll be at court a great deal while he is fighting the dowager Countess through the courts for his earldom,” Hodierna said.

Ida attended to her food and feigned disinterest, although her curiosity had been piqued, especially after her discussion with Henry this afternoon. She continued to give Roger Bigod swift little glances. He too was looking round, but he made no direct eye contact with any of the women at the trestles. His gaze was observant and assessing, constantly on the move as if on the lookout for danger. She wondered what colour his eyes were.

“He has no wife, nor is he pledged to marry,” Hodierna remarked, “but I expect plenty of fathers will be making enquiries. Even with his lands in dispute and the defences at Framlingham destroyed, he’s still worth consideration.” Her tone was bland, but Ida took things less at face value these days, even with those whom she trusted. Hodierna was telling her that Roger Bigod, despite his circumstances, was a good catch for someone.

***

Roger entered the King’s private chamber, knelt before Henry, and bowed his head. Henry leaned forward, took Roger’s hands in his and bestowed the kiss of peace on him. “I was sorry to learn about the death of your father, God rest his soul.”

They both knew it was a platitude; neither man was sorry at all. “It was as he chose, sire.” For a moment Roger’s vision filled with the image of his father’s sealed lead coffin being placed inside the tomb at the family foundation of Saint Mary at Thetford. Whether his soul would lie in peace was a different matter. Certainly, there was little for the living.

“I am pleased to see you at court,” Henry said. “You have been too long absent.”

“Sire, I have been busy on my lands,” Roger answered, putting a slight emphasis on the “my.” “There has been much to do.”

Henry rubbed his chin and considered him with thoughtful leisure. Roger remained stoical under the scrutiny. He had felt sick to realise that his stepmother and half-brothers had arrived at court before him and used the advantage of time to make the first plea. They had been staring across the hall at him earlier with a mingling of hostility and smugness.

Henry signalled a chamberlain to pour wine and gestured Roger to sit on the bench before the hearth. “Your stepmother has offered a fine of a thousand marks for me to find in her favour on the matter of your father’s lands,” he said.

Roger took the cup, hoping the contents were better than the usual sludge Henry served to his guests. “I have always known my father’s wife would dispute the inheritance, sire, and I deny her claim to the utmost. The lands are mine by right as the eldest son. If provision is to be made for my half-brothers, then let it be out of their mother’s estate. Whatever my father acquired in his lifetime is due to me, not them.” Taking a tentative sip, he discovered his hopes in respect of the wine had been in vain.

“I am not unsympathetic to your plea,” Henry replied, “but the matter needs examining in more detail before I can give a decision.”

Behind a neutral expression Roger wondered if “more detail” was a euphemism for more bribes. Presents and gratuities served to grease the wheels of court life, but Roger had no intention of setting himself up in competition with his stepmother and beggaring himself whilst Henry rubbed his hands.

Henry leaned back in his chair, one shoulder pressed into the corner, arm braced, hand gripping the finial. “What I can say for certain, and this the Church endorses, is that you are of legitimate birth, but it does not entitle you to the entire inheritance and your stepmother still has grounds for dispute.”

Relief coursed through Roger. That at least was something, although in truth he hadn’t expected to fail on that score.

“While the issue is being deliberated, the title of earl has to be withheld, and the third penny of the shire.” Henry’s gaze narrowed. “To be blunt, it is not within my interests to grant preference and promotion to a family whose titled lord betrayed me at every turn.”

Roger’s breathing quickened. Even though he had been prepared for this moment—because Henry was hardly going to return privileges and revenues with an open hand—the words were like a blow to the midriff. “Sire, I am not my father. I have served you in good faith since the battle at Fornham and done all you have asked of me.”

“Yes, you have,” Henry replied tepidly, “but in so doing, you have also been serving yourself, and that seems to be an overweening family trait. You abandoned your own father, and that tells me you have the capacity within you to bite the hand that feeds.”

It was another blow, this time at groin level. Roger’s jaw tightened. “Sire, given the choice between treason to my King and disloyalty to my father, I chose the lesser dishonour. What would you have had me do?”

“Perhaps, too, you gambled on which would be the greater benefit to your future.” Henry’s lips curved in a wintry smile. “Thus far I am pleased with your loyalty, but like good bread it needs a second proving. Before I entrust anything to you, I need to know you will be steadfast. It is not good enough for you to swear you are. I need proof.”

Roger suppressed the comment that proof would only come from shouldering the burden. “By whatever means you ask I will give you that proof, sire,” he said instead, holding his voice steady and keeping his posture relaxed.

Henry pressed his forefinger to his lips, considering. “So be it,” he said at length. “Your stepmother’s claim must be carefully examined before I can come to a judgement and, in the meantime, loyal service will do you nothing but good. I will keep and cultivate your presence at court and you will do me homage tomorrow for those of your father’s lands that are not in dispute.”

“Sire,” Roger said. He recognised that his audience was over and this was as much as he was going to get from Henry at this stage.

As he returned to the hall, he pondered on what Henry had and had not said. Matters could be considerably better, but he was philosophical. They could be worse too. At least Framlingham was secure, as were his interests at Yarmouth and Ipswich. Heaving a sigh, Roger mentally braced his shoulders. There was leeway for optimism, but he was going to have to toil like an ox for any reward.

In the hall, a group of women were singing a joyful song about the delights of springtime to entertain themselves and others. Roger paused to observe and listen while he recovered his equilibrium. The piece was one he vaguely knew with a poignant chorus line and some intricate tonal work in the verses and as he absorbed himself in the patterns and pleasure of the music, he started to relax.

His Uncle Aubrey joined the gathering of listeners and, standing beside Roger, arms folded, asked under cover of the singing how the interview had gone.

Roger told him. “It was not what I hoped for,” he said, “but it was what I expected.”