For the King's Favor (7 page)

De Vere looked thoughtful. “The race is not always to the swift. You have the stronger case. Bide your time and you’ll yet have all.” He laid a supportive hand on Roger’s shoulder.

Roger nodded and looked equable, but beneath his calm exterior, his impatience simmered like a pot close to the boil. He had a feeling he would have to bide that time for years rather than weeks or months, and that permission to rebuild Framlingham’s defences would be like obtaining blood from a stone.

Making a deliberate effort to settle down, he focused on the singers and noticed several young women who were as easy on the eyes as their voices were on the ears. A tall girl with a tilted nose held the notes with pure strength. Beside her a plump young woman warbled with her eyes closed, a stray tendril of blond hair tickling the side of her face. At the end of the semi-circle of women, a slender girl clad in a gown of green wool attracted his gaze. She had melting eyes of hazelnut-brown, arched dark brows, and a dimpled smile as she sang in a clear, sweet voice. At the chorus, the singers had to clap and turn to the left and then the right and she performed the moves with a sparkle and a laugh.

“Lovely girl,” his uncle said and ran his tongue around the inside of his closed mouth. “Ida de Tosney—Henry’s new young mistress and very dear to him.”

Roger was a little shocked because the innocent joy in her face and movements sat at odds with the notion of her sharing the King’s bed. There was nothing of a concubine in her mien.

“She’s not one of the regular whores,” his uncle added. “She’s one of his wards.” He lifted a sardonic eyebrow. “An heiress but, like yourself, Henry is considering her future while holding it in abeyance.”

Roger was quick enough to absorb the meaning within his uncle’s remarks. Ida de Tosney belonged to Henry and a wise man would keep his distance. Not that approaching her had been on Roger’s mind. He liked women and had the same urges as any healthy young male, but he was also self-contained and wary of the court butterflies.

Dismissing Ida de Tosney from his mind, he headed to the latrine to empty his bladder of Henry’s vile wine. Task accomplished, he turned to leave but found his way blocked by his half-brothers and Gundreda’s lawyer, Roger de Glanville. Roger’s heart started to pound but he held his gaze steady and kept his head high. He was accustomed to games of intimidation; his father had taught him well.

“Was a thousand marks all you could offer the King by way of a bribe?” he scoffed at Huon, striking first and feigning amused contempt.

Huon flushed. “I doubt you could offer him better.”

Roger shrugged. “We shall see.” He made to push past and Huon stepped to bar his way, but did not complete the manoeuvre. De Glanville leaned against the outer wall in watchful silence, observing but not taking part, and Will hung back looking anxious and biting his lower lip. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, either piss or put your cock in your braies,” Roger said scornfully.

Huon whitened. Roger fixed his stare on de Glanville. “Or perhaps you are waiting for someone else to piss for you. That’s more in keeping, isn’t it?”

Huon seized Roger’s arm. “You’ll not win this,” he spat, his voice saturated with loathing.

“Watch me,” Roger retorted. Shrugging himself free of Huon’s grip, he strode out of the latrine alcove. His heart was banging in his ears and he felt nauseous. He had no doubt that Huon would be doing just that—watching him and it made the space between his shoulder blades prickle as if he’d fallen in a patch of nettles.

***

Gundreda frowned at the chemise she had just picked up off the returned laundry pile. There was a tear in one of the seams that hadn’t been there before it had gone to the washerwoman and still a hint of grime at the cuffs. Why could no one ever do a job properly? The bread at court was either undercooked or burned, and the wine undrinkable. The mattress last night had bounced with fleas. She felt like throwing up her hands and retreating to Bungay, but she couldn’t. There was too much at stake. And now the ripped chemise on top of all else. She wanted to weep and scream and swear and stamp, but it would all take too much effort.

The sound of a male throat being cleared made her look up. Roger de Glanville was standing in the doorway, his fist clenched against his lips. She didn’t know whether to welcome the distraction or be irritated by it.

“Countess, I would have a word, if it please you,” he said.

It made a difference to be addressed with courtesy, she’d give him that. Heaving a sigh, she gestured at the pile of linens. “I shouldn’t have paid the laundress until I’d looked at these. Why is it so difficult? Do I ask too much?”

“My lady, of course you do not.”

She heard the placatory note in his voice and knew he was humouring her, but at least there was compassion in his eyes—something she had never seen in her husband’s. In twenty years of marriage, she could not remember a single kindness from Hugh. “No,” she said. “You do well to remind me.” With a sigh she gestured wearily to her maidservant. “Put these in the coffer, and make sure you scatter fleabane between the folds.” She looked at de Glanville. “A word about what?”

“About the future.”

“What of it?”

“This dispute over your son’s inheritance may not be resolved for months or years. You will need an advocate at court to fight your case and make sure it does not become buried.”

Gundreda gave a harsh laugh. “You tell me nothing I do not already know.”

“Your stepson is a determined young man.”

“He is nothing!” She spat the last word. Ever since arriving at Framlingham as a shrinking unwilling bride, she had felt little but antipathy towards Roger. Her early overtures to him had been rebuffed with angry tears and outbursts of rage. It wasn’t her fault that his parents’ marriage had been annulled and his mother sent away, but he had blamed her nevertheless and she had possessed neither the time nor inclination to deal with his hostility. She couldn’t help it that she wasn’t the sainted Juliana. When she complained to her new husband of his son’s behaviour, Hugh had predictably thrashed the boy black and blue, and Roger had blamed her for that too. Their mutual dislike had continued on a subdued level. Roger persisted in his rejection by ignoring her and keeping his distance. Once her own sons were born, her impatience with his attitude had hardened. He was the cuckoo in the nest; the child who stood between her own offspring and their rightful inheritance. And thus it remained.

“In your eyes perhaps, but the King will confirm his legitimacy and his right to Framlingham, and there is nothing I can do about it.”

Gundreda had been prepared to hear as much, but it still added to her feelings of frustration and misery. “Then what can you do?” she snapped. “I was told you were the best. Was that an idle boast?”

He sighed and gestured her to sit down. “My lady, I—”

“Countess,” she said sharply.

He gestured again and, after a moment, she did his bidding, but made it clear that it was a concession.

“Countess, it is not an idle boast,” he said firmly. “You will find no better legal advisers at court than me and my brother Ranulf. He is high in the King’s favour and likely to become the next justiciar, but neither of us can work miracles.”

Gundreda eyed him narrowly. “What of the acquisition lands? I suppose you are going to tell me there is nothing you can do there either?”

He gave her a meditative look. “The King will hold them himself for the time being, while the dispute is being considered, but there is a chance he can be persuaded to give them to your sons.”

“And for how long is the ‘time being’?” she asked.

“That I cannot say, Countess, but I will continue to lobby him.” He sat down beside her, hesitated, then said, “I have a proposition to put to you, which will benefit both of us, I believe.”

The way he looked at her sent a ripple down her spine. “What kind of proposition?”

He cleared his throat. “I am a second son, but not without prospects and I am well employed at court. My family has influence in East Anglia and I believe if we were to marry, it would be a sound match. I have witnessed and admired your fortitude and I think we would do well together.”

Gundreda had to choke down laughter, knowing that if she began, she would never stop, and she did not want him to think her mad. “Why should I ever want to marry again?” she demanded. “Once was too much.”

“Because it will make you better able to stand against the gale,” he said. “Because it will be more effective for me to argue the case from a marital point of view. You will not be permitted to remain a widow. Someone will ask the King for you and he may turn out to be of the same ilk as your former husband. There are many such men about, but I am not one of them.”

Gundreda eyed him suspiciously. “What is in it for you?” she demanded. “No one weds without advantage to themselves.”

“Indeed not. You would bring a marriage portion in East Anglia and a link for my family with the Earls of Warwick. If I can win the acquisition lands, then who knows what else we might gain?”

She arched her brow. “How do I know I can trust you?”

“You don’t,” he replied with candour, “but the same goes for anyone. If I have a vested interest in obtaining the estates for your son, I will be the more likely to keep pushing the cart. It will be to our mutual advantage.”

“I am beyond child-bearing age. You will have no heirs from me.”

“That matters not. I am a younger son; I have brothers to carry the line.”

“And if I refuse?”

He gave a faint smile. “Then it was worth the asking…” He hesitated. “Forgive my boldness. You have beautiful eyes.”

Beyond all sense, beyond all cold reason, it was his last words that fixed the decision in her mind like lead tracery securing expensive green glass in a window. No man had said anything like that to her before. Hugh would rather have beaten her than pay her a compliment. She could feel heat seeping into her cheeks as if she were a foolish girl with a head full of dreams. “I will have to think on the matter,” she said, shielding herself, but knowing her defences were in ruins.

“Of course, but I hope you will do me the honour.”

He left then with a grave little bow. Standing in the poky, dusty chamber, Gundreda felt tears well in her eyes and spill down her face.

“Countess?” said her maid in concern.

Gundreda wiped her face on her cuff. “I’ve changed my mind,” she said. “Fetch the laundress back and give her that shift. I want it washed whiter than driven snow, and see to it that the seam is repaired too.”

Winchester, August 1177

Seated on a sun-warmed bench in a corner of the courtyard, Ida reached into her sewing basket for her embroidery. She was working on a footstool cover with a design of fern leaves and small scarlet pimpernels. She had stitched a small brown hare in one corner, peeping out from the midst of the foliage, and a seeking hound in the other, and was delighted by the effect. Beside her, Goda kept her company, hemming a chemise.

Henry was confined to his chamber, suffering from an abscess on his leg. Some years since, a Templar’s horse had kicked his thigh, damaging the bone, and every now and again, the old injury flared into a pus-filled wound. His physician had ordered him to rest, insisting that the leg be poulticed and propped up on cushions to aid drainage. Henry had intended sailing for Normandy to deal with pressing affairs, but until the wound healed, he had no choice but to remain in Winchester; thus he was not only feverish, but grumpy too. He was in no mood for bed sport, for which Ida was glad, but she knew she might be summoned at any moment to adjust his footstool, plump his pillows, sing to him, or just sit in his chamber. For the moment, however, she had the freedom to bask in the sunshine and enjoy her sewing.

Hearing the sound of hoof beats, she looked up from her work and saw Roger Bigod trot into the courtyard with a couple of companions. He dismounted in a lithe, balanced motion and her breath shortened as he laughed at a remark cast by one of his companions. In the time he had been at court, she had seldom seen him in a light mood and his smile was a revelation. His expression bright with enthusiasm, he ran his hands over the courser’s neck, chest, and shoulders with firm competence. Watching and listening, Ida realised the grey wasn’t his, but he was inspecting it for one of the others and the entire group was deferring to his expertise. He picked up the grey’s foreleg to examine the hoof before setting it down and standing back to study the entire animal, a frown of concentration between his brows.

“I hope my lord Bigod turns round before the hole you are boring in his spine becomes visible to all,” Goda said, a warning note in her voice.

Ida guiltily transferred her gaze to her sewing. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Goda shook her head. “The moment he appears, you fix on him as if you are starving and he is your sustenance.”

Ida was mortified. “I don’t!”

“Perhaps I embellish a little, but there is hunger in your look, even if you do not acknowledge it.”

Ida bit her lower lip and didn’t answer because Goda was right. She did find Roger Bigod attractive.

“Still,” the woman said, “I reckon you’re safe because he’s one of those men who doesn’t notice what’s in front of his eyes where women are concerned—or chooses not to. He doesn’t engage with the ladies at court, whatever their standing.”

That was true, Ida thought as she poked a new thread through the eye of her needle. Roger Bigod was mostly a quiet observer of the evening entertainments, usually on the periphery, sometimes joining in, but always with caution. That was why watching him now, in his element, was such a revelation to her. She wondered a little mischievously what he would do if she attempted to draw him out. It would, of course, be playing a dangerous game…

“That brother of his, though…” Goda shuddered. “I’m glad he’s gone from court.”

Ida grimaced. Gundreda’s eldest son had already gained a reputation among the ladies at court for being unmannerly and rough. Hodierna said he was like his father, the old Earl of Norfolk, who had been a discourteous boor too, expecting everyone to cater to his whims and foibles and cornering the serving girls to pinch and fondle them at every opportunity.

Huon and his brother had left shortly after their mother’s marriage to Roger de Glanville. Ida had attended their quiet wedding, which had been conducted in the royal chapel at Marlborough. Both parties appeared pleased with the match and the sons had seemed accepting of their new stepfather. Gundreda had returned to Norfolk, but de Glanville remained at court and Ida frequently saw him speaking to other lawyers and clerks, or toiling over pieces of parchment in window embrasures, working upon his wife’s disputed inheritance. Knowing Henry’s opinion on the matter, Ida suspected it would be a long time before a decision was forthcoming—if ever.

Roger and his companions moved off to the stables, still engrossed in their discussion about horses. Ida bent her head over her embroidery, but when the group had gone past, she looked up and followed the graceful motion of Roger’s walk.

***

Roger picked up the skewered fruit, warm, soft, and dripping with a glaze of wine and honey, and did his best to eat it without getting drips on his tunic and runs of sticky juice up his sleeves. The technique was complex and every bit as challenging as an intricate piece of weapon play on the tilt ground.

In the warm summer evening, the court was taking its ease in the gardens and dining informally in the open air. A string of attendants ferried salvers of dainties from the kitchens, including these marinated fruits, little balls of almond paste stuffed with dates, and crisp hot fritters, oozing with melted cheese. Henry presided over all, seated in an arbour at the centre of the garden on a deeply cushioned high-backed chair, his swollen leg propped on a footstool. The novelty of the evening was keeping him cheerful, as were the ribald jests with which his half-brother Hamelin of Surrey was regaling him.

The wine for once was drinkable and Roger was thoroughly mellow. His expertise with the horses earlier that day had been appreciated and his opinion was in demand.

“You have to breed for what you want,” he said between licking his fingers in as mannerly a fashion as possible. “And look for beasts that reproduce their qualities well. Mares put to my red destrier all bear foals of his colour and with his heart room and strength of bone.” He bit into an aromatic wine-softened chunk of pear and caught the drip of juice on his chin.

“Grey’s the best colour though,” said Thomas de Sandford, the young man Roger had been advising earlier. “Chestnut and brown don’t stand out in a throng.”

“It depends on the looks of the horse and the state of his coat. Quality will always show through. You’re fortunate your grey has both.” Roger’s tone was diplomatic. Pale-coloured horses were ostentatious and useful to men who wanted to be seen in battle, but it was easy enough to put on a display with the horse’s bardings and accoutrements.

A woman walked past with her maids, her train brushing the grass and jewels winking on her gown and belt. A faint waft of musk hung in the air, seductive as lust. One of the maids cast a flirtatious glance over her shoulder at the group of young men, as if bestowing a tourney token. The talk not unnaturally turned from horses to women, although the matter of breeding remained uppermost.

“I wouldn’t mind standing stud to some of the fillies out grazing this evening,” Robert le Breton said with a salacious lift of his eyebrows.

De Sandford grinned. “If you did, you’d likely end up a gelding.”

“Not if he was quick,” someone else quipped.

“That wouldn’t be a problem,” de Sandford chuckled, “from the rumours I’ve heard anyway.”

“Speak for yourself. I’ve never had any complaints,” le Breton said.

Roger drew back from the banter, which reminded him of the coarse japing at Framlingham when Leicester’s Flemings had been billeted there. It was sordid and a little disrespectful.

Having noticed his reticence, de Sandford nudged him. “So, with whom would you pair me to beget a perfect offspring?” he asked.

Roger half smiled and shook his head. “Ask me about horses, not men and women.”

“Oh, come now, surely the same rules apply!” De Sandford nudged him again.

“What about Geva de Galle, for example?” suggested le Breton. “She has the teeth of a horse! What do you think of her, Bigod—would she suit you?”

“I hadn’t thought at all since I’m not intending to wed in the near future,” Roger replied, wishing they would change the subject.

“Come, you must have some notions,” le Breton scoffed. “That’s part of what being at court is about—finding a suitable wife to breed your heirs.”

Inwardly grimacing, Roger contemplated making his escape.

“Forget the lady Geva.” De Sandford slapped Roger’s shoulder with alcoholic force. “You’d need a ladder to kiss her, even if you might feel at home with her teeth. What about all the looks you’ve been getting from Ida de Tosney. Now there’s a filly worth the ride!”

The remark induced guffaws amongst the young men in Roger’s group and occasioned several surreptitious glances in the direction of the royal arbour. Roger blinked in outright astonishment. They had to be japing with him. Ida de Tosney wouldn’t look in his direction; it was more than her life was worth—or his.

“But then perhaps you’re not interested in the King’s darling,” de Sandford said slyly. “Mayhap you’re too pure to consider goods that have already been handled?” There was a needling edge to his voice. Roger’s reputation for being choosy and avoiding the court whores was notorious and his companions seesawed between ridicule and admiration for his stance, usually the former because it was easier to count him as too finicky or wet behind the ears than it was to acknowledge he had a code of personal honour that made them seem unprincipled and coarse by comparison.

Roger pushed his mouth into a strained smile. “I doubt she has any interest in me; not with all the privileges that come her way from the King, nor would I do anything to lose Henry’s favour while I’m negotiating over my lands.” It was a warning to his friends not to tread any further in that direction and he was relieved that while they were merry, they were not beyond sense. De Sandford changed the subject and the gossip turned to the tourneys across the Narrow Sea where Henry’s eldest son and the commander of his household knights, William Marshal,were making a name for themselves. Roger paid attention with half an ear. He was familiar with William Marshal, who was brother to the King’s marshal, John. Usually he would have enjoyed talking about the skill of the joust, since he was an accomplished performer himself. Now, however, he continued to worry at the bone of whether Ida de Tosney really had been watching him or whether his friends were having fun at his expense. He recalled seeing her that afternoon, but her head had been down over her sewing and no greeting had been exchanged. If it were true, he wondered what he was going to do about it because he couldn’t afford to alienate the King.

A contest of throwing the stone had begun on the sward at the far end of the garden, with men seeing how far they could hurl a trencher-sized piece of sea-smoothed mica. Roger strolled with his companions to watch the sport. He had some talent at this himself and, with good technique, could throw far beyond the expectations for his build, but it was the truly tall and powerful knights who excelled. Had William Marshal been present, no one would have stood a chance: he had never been beaten; but since the Marshal was in Normandy, the contest had more of an edge. Roger watched a young household knight of Henry’s hitch up his tunic, crouch, turn, and release the stone along a roar of effort that saw it sail out, a darker shape against the night sky, before plummeting to earth with a thud fifty yards away. As the competition became more intense, others drifted over to watch, including Geva de Galle of the horse teeth and uncommon height. In making room for her, Roger almost trod on the toes of the person standing behind him, turned to apologise, and found himself face to face with Ida de Tosney. She met his startled gaze with one that was soft as a deer’s and bright with pleasure.

“I am sorry, demoiselle, I did not realise you were there,” he said woodenly.

“It is my fault for being in the way.” She gave him a quick, dimpled smile. “And perhaps I am easily overlooked?”

“Not at all, demoiselle.” Roger gestured for her to go in front of him so that she could see the contest. Her veil of rose-coloured silk skimmed her brows and emphasised the dark sparkle of her eyes. “I do not think anyone could overlook you.”

The dimple deepened and she gave him a warm glance over her shoulder before turning to fix her attention on the competing men. Roger avoided meeting the eyes of de Sandford and le Breton, for he knew they would be smirking at him. Dear God, he thought, what if she truly had taken a fancy to him? Disturbed, he tried to concentrate on watching the contest, but in a lull between throws, he could not resist looking at Ida and felt a frisson as she turned and met his gaze as if he had touched her with more than just his eyes. Her mouth had an upwards curve as if something was secretly pleasing. He wondered what it would feel like to kiss her, and then banished the thought as if slamming a chest lid on something he didn’t want others to see. No matter how enchanting she was, Ida de Tosney was fire to burn the fingers of anyone stupid enough to reach out. Only an idiot poached on the King’s territory.

“Do you not throw the stone, Messire Bigod?” she asked.

Her voice was clear and sweet and he had to tear his gaze from her lips as she formed the words. “Well enough, Mistress de Tosney.” He fixed his regard determinedly on the game, “but not sufficiently to compete with these knights.”

“Ah, so you only compete when you think you can win?” she asked with a mischievous gleam.

Roger found a tense, answering smile. “If that were the case, demoiselle, I would never play chess or merels with the Earl of Surrey, but for the moment I would rather watch men throwing the stone than do it myself.”

“As would I.” Her dimple emerged again and she tilted her head to one side. “That was a fine horse you were looking at this afternoon.”

He gave a wary nod. “Thomas wanted a new courser that was showy with good paces. It’s a fine beast. I’d have bought it myself if he hadn’t.”

“You know horses?”

He gave a self-conscious shrug. “Somewhat.”

“More than that to judge from the way you put that courser through its paces.”

“My lands have good grazing.” He gave her a diffident smile. “Perhaps it is foolish of me, but I have a desire to breed the best line of destriers in Christendom.”