For the King's Favor (9 page)

Ida obliged, and as she worked, she felt the tension go out of him. Henry closed his eyes and sighed. “Talking of handsome horses, Roger Bigod presented me with a fine palfrey today.”

“Indeed, sire?” Ida tried to sound mildly interested, although suddenly her heart was in her mouth.

“Colour of mead,” Henry said, “and a gait like silk. I thought you might like to try its paces next time the court moves on. That mare of yours jars her off hind too much.”

Ida swallowed. “That is kind of you, sire, but will my lord Bigod not be insulted?”

Henry gave a snort of impatience. “Why should he be? It is not for him to say what I do with his gifts. Besides,” he added with a sly look, “I do not think Roger Bigod will mind you riding his horse. He’s rather smitten by you.”

Ida almost froze in panic but forced herself to continue kneading Henry’s shoulders. “I hadn’t noticed him paying me more attention than anyone else,” she said in what she hoped was a light, natural voice.

“He doesn’t want to upset his chances of regaining the earldom and permission to rebuild at Framlingham, but I’ve seen him glancing your way. At least he has the common sense to know the boundaries of my tolerance—which is more than could be said of his father. But once a Bigod, always a Bigod.”

Ida said nothing but, as she continued to work, realised she would have to be on her guard. She didn’t want to incur Henry’s wrath or jeopardise Roger’s need to remain in favour. Henry obviously saw a great deal and she knew he would be ruthless if he felt his territory was being encroached upon. She felt trapped; yet her cage was gilded and she knew many would envy her position and all she had—it was what she didn’t have that impoverished her.

As she finished smoothing the tightness from his muscles, Henry took her in his arms. His lips and tongue tasted of wine as he kissed her and his beard prickled her face. Dutifully she submitted to his demands and even derived a shiver of pleasure from the experience. It was nice to be held. The motion of his body upon and within her own created undulating waves of arousal, although before they could lead anywhere, Henry was gasping as he spilled his seed, and then, satisfied, was kissing the corner of her mouth, her throat, her breast as he withdrew and flopped heavily into the mattress with a contented sigh. Within minutes his breathing had deepened, a snore catching at the top of each inhalation. Ida stealthily started to leave the bed, but his arm shot out, trapping her at the waist. “No,” he said. “Stay tonight, my little love.”

Her heart sinking, Ida lay back down. Tender sensation still flickered in her loins like a distant thunderstorm, and gradually faded as she lay awake and gazed at the hangings decorating the walls of her prison.

In the morning he took her again, almost as if proving to himself and the courtiers waiting for him to emerge from his chambers that he was still sufficiently virile to spend all night with a young mistress and have the strength for another bout at dawn—a fact he broadcast to the servants waiting outside the bed curtains by making enthusiastic noises, when usually he was more reticent while taking his pleasure.

Feeling a little sore from Henry’s exertions, Ida followed the usher back through the corridors to the chamber she was sharing with several other women whilst the court was in full array. Crossing the yard, she saw that men and dogs were assembling to hunt. The King’s groom was holding Henry’s courser at the ready and the hound packs milled excitedly underfoot or tugged on their leashes. Men stood with hands on hips, casting impatient glances towards the main building. Ida was greeted with knowing looks, many of them relieved, since with her appearance, the King wouldn’t now be far behind. She heard one of the Young King’s men jest to a companion that Henry already appeared to have caught himself a coney that morning.

Ida had to pass Roger Bigod and William Marshal at close quarters, where they stood waiting like the others, booted and spurred, keen to be away. Roger’s neck reddened and he looked down, pretending he hadn’t seen her, while William Marshal inclined his head to her in polite, neutral deference. Both responses made her burn with mortification, for they were each in their own way born of manners and propriety in awkward circumstances. She was never going to become accustomed to being a concubine. Never!

On reaching the sanctuary of the women’s hall, she sought her pallet, threw herself down on it, and wept.

Everswell, Palace of Woodstock, June 1179

Yesterday evening there had been a few small spots of blood on the linen rags Ida used to absorb her monthly bleed. This morning, when she visited the privy, there was nothing even though she felt desperately sick, tired, and bloated, as if her flux was about to begin in earnest.

A warm dry breeze was blowing the fluff off the dandelion seed-heads and the woods and meadows were in full green growth as midsummer approached. The window niches cut into the thickness of the walls granted Ida a view of all this largesse as she mastered her nausea and tried to ignore the heavy sensation in the bowl of her pelvis.

Henry loved Woodstock and had built Everswell beside the palace as a private lodging for himself and his former mistress Rosamund de Clifford. She lay entombed at Godstow, but this retreat remained, with its perfumed rose gardens, its ornamental pools and fountains: a beautiful, tranquil place that Ida loved, but would have appreciated more had she felt less unwell. Her bones seemed to be made of lead as she returned to the gardens where a group of other women had gathered to chatter—among them Hodierna, the former royal wet nurse. The latter was full of herself because Henry’s son, Richard, was visiting his father and had taken time to seek her out and give her a gold ring in memory of her care for him.

Ida joined her on a sun-warmed bench. A peacock paraded slowly before the women and gave his strident call as he spread his tail feathers in a magnificent iridescent fan.

“Just like a courtier,” Hodierna chuckled, rubbing the sapphire-set gold band on her knuckle.

Ida smiled wanly as the bird rattled his ensemble and pirouetted. She admired his colours and thought about putting them in an embroidery. Roger Bigod had a rather fine scarlet hat decorated with peacock feathers.

“Are you feeling any better?”

Ida shook her head. “If only my flux would start, I know I would.”

Hodierna gave her a shrewd look. “I thought you said yesterday that it had.”

“It’s stopped again.”

“And you are sick, you say?”

Ida nodded. “I’ve only had bread and honey this morning and last night I was too ill to dine on more than sops in wine.” She watched a fish leap in the nearest pool, its scales a brief silver dazzle before it splashed back into the dark green water.

“When was your last flux?”

Ida looked perplexed. “The beginning of May, I think, but it was a few days late and there wasn’t much blood then either.”

“I think you should consider whether you may be with child.”

Panic increased Ida’s nausea. She refused to contemplate the notion. There had been
some
blood. Surely that meant her body had rid itself of surplus seed? “No,” she said, vigorously shaking her head. “No, I can’t be.”

“It is the most likely explanation. If you are feeling full, then it is because your womb is growing with a babe. I have known some women continue their monthly bleeds even when they are with child.”

“No.” Ida struck her fists in her lap. “No! I have been careful. I’ve used the vinegar every time. I’ve done what I’ve been told.”

“My dear, the remedies do not always work if God decides otherwise. Vinegar notwithstanding, it was bound to happen. You are a healthy young woman and the King has sired many children. His seed is potent.”

“I’m not with child,” Ida repeated, clenching her jaw. It was as much to prevent herself from vomiting as from stubborn refusal.

Hodierna sighed and spread her hands. “Well, we’ll know who is right or wrong in a few months’ time, won’t we?” she said, then put her arms around Ida and gave her a maternal hug. “Don’t you worry, my love. Worse things happen.”

“No they don’t!” Ida gasped and, clapping her hand to her mouth, pulled out of Hodierna’s embrace and knelt over the flowerbed where she was violently sick. Some of the other women glanced her way and exchanged knowing looks.

***

The gardens were empty of their daytime occupants and visitors. The peafowl roosted in the trellises and arbours, their scything calls replaced by the soft hooting of owls. Ida sat on the turf seat and listened to the quiet plash of the spring feeding into the garden pools. A thin slice of moon and a scattering of stars cast enough illumination for her to see the dark glint of the water. Fish were still plopping and a cool wind ruffled the grass. She shivered and wished she had remembered to bring her cloak, but she didn’t want to go inside to fetch it. She would have to talk to people if she did and she couldn’t bear that just now. Hodierna was discreet and wouldn’t say anything, but the other women were less caring of her welfare and already the whispers were enriching the veins of the court, where gossip was lifeblood.

She raised her knees on the seat and folded her arms around them, wondering for how much longer she would be able to do that. Her waist was still slender; there was nothing to see, but she knew her body was changing and no matter how much she denied it to herself and others, she was with child and by the late autumn it would be obvious to all. She felt as ashamed and frightened as that first night when Henry had taken her to his bed. Since then, lulled by his reassurances, it had all become unreal—a game demanding the occasional forfeit but rewarding her compliance with fine clothes and jewels and a glimmer of power. Now the game was over. She had been caught and had to pay the forfeit. Hot tears trickled down her face and cooled in the moonlight. Now and again, she sniffed and wiped her cheeks on the back of her hand. At least Roger Bigod wasn’t at court, having returned to Norfolk for the summer months, but he would rejoin the King soon enough and he would see her condition. How could she face him? How could she face anyone?

She became aware of a figure treading along the paler path towards her and prepared to panic, then recognised Henry by his shape and the limp in his walk. Someone must have seen her, she thought, and told him where she was, and why.

He paused before the bench and, folding his arms, looked down at her. “I hear you have some news for me, my sweet.”

Ida shook her head and began to weep in earnest. “I wish I did not,” she sobbed. “What’s to become of me now?”

“Oh, sweetheart!” Henry sat down beside her and pulled her into his arms, folding his cloak around both of them. “Hush now, hush now. It’s nothing to weep about. I’ll take care of you. How could you think I would not? You are carrying my child in your womb.”

Ida gripped the soft wool of his tunic and beneath it felt the solid strength of his body. “But born of fornication and out of wedlock. I will be shamed for my sin.”

“No,” Henry soothed, “never think that, my love. The sin belongs to both of us, but you will bear no stigma for this. I have said before that you are mine, and the King only has the best. No one will dare to look down on you.”

“But I will bear the shame before God…”

“That is what confession and repentance are for.” He set his forefinger under her chin and tipped her face towards the light from the stars. “If God did not mean you to get with child, your womb would have remained barren. Perhaps this is His gift to me—a new child in the cradle to keep me young. Sons and daughters, even if born out of marriage, have their part to play.”

Ida tasted the salt of tears on her lips. She swallowed convulsively and did her best to obey him. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps this was meant to be and not a punishment for sin. Her jaw trembled with cold and distress.

“Come now.” He kissed her forehead. “Don’t fret. I will see that you have the best of care, and when the child is born, he or she will never lack for anything, and neither will you, I promise you that.”

Ida rubbed the heels of her hands across her swollen eyes and leaned against him. “Thank you, sire,” she whispered.

After a moment of holding her, a moment of enforced stillness for him, Henry produced a small loaf of bread from inside his cloak.

Saliva filled Ida’s mouth. She was ravenous but felt terribly sick at the same time. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to eat it,” she said.

Henry threw back his head and laughed. “Girl, it’s not for you, although you are indeed welcome to chew on it if you wish. I brought it because I know how fond Rosamund was of feeding the fish at night, in the quiet, before we retired. I thought that you might…” His voice caught and trailed off. A pang went through Ida. Although beset by her own troubles, she still heard the undercurrent of longing in his voice.

“Of course,” she said. “By all means, sire.” Taking the bread, she broke it between them; going to the middle pool where she knew the biggest fish lazed, she tore off small pieces and threw them between the water lilies. He joined her and they watched the surface ripple and twitch as tench, rudd, and chub rose to feed.

“Casting our bread upon the waters,” Henry said, but his voice was wistful and Ida didn’t smile.

Woodstock, August 1179

A thunderstorm growled in the distance and the sky was slowly turning from afternoon blue to a murky twilit purple. In the garden, Ida set her sewing aside and looked towards the white flashes on the horizon. She was well into her fourth month of pregnancy. A fortnight ago she had ceased being sick and had suddenly developed a voracious hunger with a particular craving for wild strawberries. They were becoming hard to find as the season advanced, but Henry was still having them sought for her, together with all manner of other delicacies to tempt her appetite. As he had promised, he was being most solicitous of her welfare. He had ceased commanding her to his bed, although she still went to his chamber of an evening with her sewing and she continued to rub his shoulders because he said no one else had quite the same touch. For his sexual release, he was currently enjoying the favours of a yellow-haired concubine from among the court whores. Ida had seen her on a couple of occasions, rustling along the corridor to the King’s chambers as she had so often done herself, hood drawn up around her face.

“Mistress, we should go inside before we get wet.” Bertrice glanced anxiously towards the imminent storm and gathered up her sewing. “Before we get wet” was a euphemism for “before the storm gets any closer.” Bertrice, so forthright and knowing in many ways, was terrified by thunder, whereas Ida loved the spectacle and had even pondered stitching such a scene into a wall hanging.

“I suppose we should,” Ida said regretfully. She had slipped off her shoes while they sat, and now she donned them, easing her finger round the back of the soft goatskin. As the women left the garden, a sudden wind blustered across the grass and the first drops of rain shivered in the pools. Ida picked up her skirts and, snatching laughter between breaths, ran towards the buildings. Then she stopped abruptly as she saw the grooms tending a glossy chestnut courser. The horse’s breast strap bore enamelled pendants depicting a red cross on a gold background. The nausea she had thought conquered threatened to overwhelm her again. Last time she had seen Roger Bigod they had danced together in the round and spoken as friendly acquaintances. They had stood side by side at mass in church and when the court had gone hawking, Roger had held her falcon while she mounted her mare, and had given her one of his rare, endearing smiles. Now everything would be different. She had been going to go to the hall, but she changed direction and made her way to her quarters by a more circuitous route.

“He’s bound to find out,” Bertrice panted behind her, for she too had recognised the horse. “You can’t hide. If you avoid him, people will start wondering.”

“Wondering what?”

“Whether or not the child is Henry’s.”

Ida gasped. “They wouldn’t!”

Bertrice said nothing, just looked, and Ida realised she was right. People would misconstrue her actions because they always did. No matter how humiliating it was, she would have to brazen it out.

An usher was waiting for her at her chamber door with instructions to bring her to the King. “You do not need your maid, my lady,” he said.

Ida’s anxiety increased. Henry had abstained from lying with her ever since her pregnancy had been confirmed, but what if he had changed his mind? She gave her sewing to Bertrice, wiped her palms over the dark rain blots on her gown, and followed the usher to Henry’s private quarters. When she arrived, the thunder was growling fully overhead and Henry was looking out of the open casement at the storm. At his side, watching with him, was a dark-haired young man.

Henry turned as Ida entered the room, and a smile lit his face. “Ah,” he said, and strode over to take her hand and kiss her cheek. “I have a fine surprise for you, my love, all the way from Normandy.” He indicated his visitor.

Ida stared blankly for a moment. He was of medium build with wavy black hair and brown spaniel eyes.

“Do you not know me, sister?” he asked with a grin. “That is no surprise, because in truth I barely recognise you!”

“Goscelin?” She put her hand to her mouth and stared at her brother. He was older than her by three years and she had not seen him since he went for training to knighthood when she was thirteen years old.

“Well, at least you remember my name!” Laughing, he came to take her by the shoulders and kissed her firmly on either cheek. She felt his smile against her face and the rub of soft new beard stubble.

“That’s something I couldn’t forget!” She didn’t know whether to laugh or weep. He had been christened Roger, but their English nurse had called him “Gosling” as a term of affection and the name had stuck and become altered to the Norman masculine name “Goscelin.” “It’s been so long. You couldn’t have grown a whisker, let alone a beard when last I saw you!”

His glance dropped to her belly. “You too have changed, my sister.”

Instinctively she laid her hand across her womb in a protective, defensive gesture.

“Your brother and I have discussed your condition,” Henry said smoothly. “You have nothing to fear; the tale is already told.” He gestured. “Rest here awhile and talk. I have business elsewhere.” With a brisk nod, he left the room.

Ida rose from the curtsey she had given to Henry’s departure and, half turning from her brother, wiped her eyes on the heel of one hand. “I am overjoyed to see you,” she said, “but I would not have had you find me like this—with child and unwed.”

The storm growled overhead and the sound of the rain drumming on the roof shingles and pouring through a hole in the guttering came loudly through the open casement. A servant moved to shut it, but Ida told him to leave it. “I like to hear the rain,” she said.

Her brother looked at the servant, then at her, his gaze widening. “That may be so,” he replied, “but you have power and influence.”

Ida looked wry. “Over whether to tell a servant to open or close a window?”

He touched her arm in a conciliatory gesture. “But you
can
tell that servant and be obeyed. You have the authority. It is a good thing for our family that you are Henry’s leman and carrying his child.”

Ida folded her arms so that the hanging sleeves of her gown concealed her belly, even though it was still almost flat. “Do you imagine that our father would be delighted by my state?” she demanded. “Or our mother?” Her chin wobbled. “It is not honourable.”

“To be the King’s mistress is not dishonourable either,” he said pragmatically. “The child will be the son or daughter of royalty and have princes for siblings. I am sorry it has happened and I am sorry I was not there to protect you, but it is not a disaster. A disaster would be if you were carrying the child of the pot boy or a scullion. Our family will have the King’s favour for years to come, if not Henry’s then that of his sons. I will be uncle to royalty!” A delighted grin spread across his face.

Ida struggled not to snap at him. What he said might be true, but he wasn’t the one who was to bear the child. He wasn’t the one who had had to get into bed with Henry and perform the most intimate of physical acts with him. “Indeed,” she said a trifle stiffly. Goscelin might be three years older than her, but in terms of experience, she was the more mature. Some days recently, she had felt ancient. And yet he was her only close family and it was so good to see him. She concentrated on this now. They had so much catching up to do of lost years, and not all of those times had been traumatic. She brought him wine and sat down with him on the bench as the thunderstorm rumbled away in the direction of Oxford.

***

Roger Bigod’s forefathers had all been stewards of the royal household—an office that had been handed down intact. Thus it was his duty to see to the ordering of the dishes at the high table when he was at court. Although a ceremonial post these days and usually delegated to subordinates, Roger was newly returned after an absence attending to his demesne lands, and had opted to perform the task himself. It put him firmly back in Henry’s vision, since the King could hardly ignore the man who served his dinner.

From his elevated position on the dais, his dapifer’s white towel across one shoulder, Roger sought and found Ida among the courtiers. She was sitting at a trestle down the right-hand side of the room, sharing her trencher with a dark-haired young man. Now and then she smiled and touched his arm and Roger felt a surge of jealousy, which he sought to quash. It was no concern of his if she had used his absence from court to make a new and blatant conquest. Henry seemed unconcerned, which was surprising. Roger wondered if he had been over-cautious in his own reticence. Ida had been avoiding his eye throughout the meal and he was irritated because she might at least have the courtesy to acknowledge him.

When dinner was over, folk collected in informal groups to talk as the trestles were cleared and stacked away. Ida’s young beau assisted her to rise and saw her from the hall with her ladies. Having parted from her with a familiar kiss on her cheek, he returned to join a dice game that had begun in a corner. Roger was so busy eyeing up the newcomer that he did not see his stepmother until she was standing beside him. Gundreda at least had been giving him looks throughout the meal and making sure he knew of her presence at court. He hoped she would conduct her business, whatever it was, and leave.

“Just because you play the role of steward before the King does not make you the Earl of Norfolk,” she said to him now with venom. “The King will never bestow the title or lands on you.”

Roger returned her look full measure. “Nor on your sons either, my lady. The King will not give the earldom anywhere while he can milk the revenues, take the third penny, and smile as he accepts the bribes.”

Her nostrils flared. “Does he know what you think of him?”

“He knows he has me where he wants me and the same goes for you. However you choose to twist, you are still dangling on his rope. The bribes and gratuities you offer won’t do anything except diminish your coffers and line his.”

“You give him things too. I know about that palfrey you brought to court.”

“It was part of a debt I owed, and I can play the game too if I choose…madam.” He gave her a stiff bow and strode away.

Gundreda glared after him, but gradually a more thoughtful expression relaxed the hard lines on her face. He spoke the truth when he said that Henry was playing them off against each other and milking the lands for his own gain. From what she had observed, Roger appeared to have the upper hand, and this despite her marriage to an experienced lawyer of Henry’s Curia. Unfortunately her stepson was well trained himself in the letter of the law. But if the father wouldn’t listen, then perhaps the Young King would. He was heir to the throne, after all, and Henry wasn’t going to live for ever.

***

Ida’s beau had won well at dice. The merrier for drink and almost the worse, he scooped up his winnings, spilling coins like raindrops. Roger stooped, rescued several silver pennies off the floor, and handed them to him. The young man slurred a thank you and rose unsteadily to his feet.

“Where are you lodged?” Roger asked. “I’ll escort you.”

“Over near the park.” He waved his arm in the vague direction of the Everswell complex, which was where Ida and the ladies of the court had their dwellings too. The knowledge caused Roger to tighten his jaw.

Once out in the storm-cooled air, his companion staggered a little and clutched the wall for support. Roger studied him by the light of the lantern he had collected on the way out. “It doesn’t do to drink too much in the King’s hall,” he said curtly. “You are not always among friends, even if it seems that way.”

He received a glance that stabbed him with a sense of familiarity. “You’re my friend, aren’t you?”

“No, but neither am I your enemy. I am Roger Bigod, lord of Framlingham. I haven’t seen you at court before.”

The young man pushed himself away from the wall and began weaving his way in the direction of the Everswell lodgings. “I’ve been in Normandy—in wardship—but I’m to be knighted soon.” He stopped again and turned towards Roger, one hand extended. “I am Roger de Tosney, but everyone calls me Goscelin—long story, to do with my nurse…y’don’t want to know…”

“Ah, you must be related to the lady Ida.” Roger clasped Goscelin’s damp, extended hand and began to smile as some of the tension went out of him.

“She’s my sister. Do you know her?”

“We are acquainted.” They started walking again, Roger in a straight line, Goscelin weaving all over the place. Roger shook his head and gave a self-deprecating smile. “I thought when I saw you with her that the King had given her a husband, but I can see the resemblance now.”

Goscelin laughed. “She’s prettier than I am.” He lurched to a halt before a low timber hall—one of the guest lodgings attached to the complex. The door was open, revealing a central hearth and sleeping spaces tucked between the aisles. “I’ll try to do my best for Ida,” he said, stifling a belch. “At least he is the King. She will not be disparaged and neither will the child.”

“The child?” Roger asked in astonishment.

Goscelin nodded. “To be expected I suppose. Makes a useful bond for my family, but came as a shock…Last I saw Ida she was a child, and now…” He shrugged. “But done is done and at least Henry looks after his bastards.”

Roger said nothing because he was still assimilating the information and feeling dismayed. A child would be visual, indelible evidence of the bond between Henry and Ida. Mentally he shook himself. As Goscelin said, done was done. It was none of his concern. He bade Goscelin goodnight, then made his way back to the hall, and thought as he walked that Ida deserved better.