For the King's Favor (11 page)

“You’re not paying the scutage then,” she said, referring to the tax that a baron could pay in lieu of his annual military service.

Roger shook his head. “Not when I can keep an eye on the men myself and perform my duty at first hand. Besides, it gives me a chance to visit Montfiquet and Corbon and the rest of the Norman estates.”

Her gaze sharpened. “But you stay close to the King?”

“I keep him aware of my presence. He shows no sign of making a decision on my father’s lands, but I serve him to the best of my ability while making alliances and connections at court.”

“Your time will come; I feel it in my bones.”

Roger sighed. “I hope so, but it doesn’t help that Gundreda’s brother-in-law has been appointed justiciar. While he holds such power, there is no chance of me gaining my inheritance.”

Juliana raised a thin golden eyebrow. “Ranulf de Glanville may be the justiciar, but that is not the be all and end all.”

“He will do all he can to further his own family’s interests. The most I can hope for is not to slip and lose ground.” He gave a wry grimace. “I am good at being patient.”

“You are also like a cauldron full of water over a slow fire,” his mother said. “A measured rise to the simmering point, but it wouldn’t take much more fuel to make you boil over.”

Roger gave her a questioning look.

“I am thinking of Fornham.”

He shook his head. “That’s not the same. There was no point in biding my time once I made the decision to leave because there was nothing worth waiting for. This time there will be a reward at the end of it…and if there isn’t then it truly is my fault.”

Juliana watched the doves peck around her elegantly shod feet. “Even so, my son, you have that potential. The way you ride your horses shows me you have a fire inside.”

“I am never not in command,” he said defensively.

“And that is all to the good.” Juliana gave him a weighty look.

Two maids walked past, returning from the dairy where they had been making cheese. Both curtseyed to Roger and Juliana as they passed. One bore a fleeting resemblance to Ida de Tosney in her bright brown eyes and glossy dark brows and Roger’s glance lingered for a moment. His mother, as always, was needle-sharp.

“Perhaps you should marry into wealth while you are waiting Henry’s pleasure,” she said.

Roger made a face. “That too is in the King’s gift. As a tenant-in-chief, I cannot wed without his permission and he will only grant me that which is of advantage to himself.”

“But you have had no thoughts of your own on the matter?”

Her tawny glance was too shrewd for comfort. “Nothing worth taking beyond the thought,” he said diffidently. “There is plenty of time.”

“So you say,” she cautioned, “but while you do not wed and until you beget children, Gundreda’s sons are your heirs. You should think on that.”

He gave an uneasy twitch of his shoulders. The detail was an irritant, but one to which he was resigned. He had told her the truth in saying that there was no woman he had seriously considered taking to wife for there were none whose dowries and person suited his requirements. Ida was a dream and he was sufficiently pragmatic to know the difference between dreams and reality.

Valognes, August 1180

Roger arrived in Valognes on a summer afternoon, having set out from his demesne lands near Bayeux the previous day. The sun, not far past noon, burned on his spine like a molten coin as he dismounted at the water trough in the dusty stable yard and gave his courser to his groom.

Blotting his brow on his forearm, Roger walked across the ward to ease the kinks of hard riding from his thighs and buttocks. The sound of voices and laughter drew him towards the garden area beyond the stables, fenced off and trellised with climbing roses, honeysuckle, and other assorted floral delights. The women of the court were within the haven, listening to a trio of musicians while they sat at their needlework and weaving. Striped canvas pavilions had been pegged out to provide shade and there was food on wooden platters to be picked at: small tarts, bread, cheese, and jugs of wine, the latter making Roger realise how thirsty he was. And there, among the women he caught sight of Ida with her infant son. Slim and vibrant in a gown of blue silk, she was laughing and holding the baby above her head as she sang to him. The baby was crowing back at her and waving his swaddling-free arms. The sight jolted through Roger and he started to retreat, but Ida looked up, saw him, and, with the laughter still on her face like sunshine, beckoned him into the garden.

Caught, Roger had little option but to go forward, all travel-stained and sweaty as he was.

“God’s greeting, my lord Bigod,” she said, managing a curtsey, even though she now had the baby balanced on one hip. It had a nimbus of soft dark hair and eyes of Ida’s bright hazel-brown.

“And to you, mistress,” Roger bowed. “You are looking well.” Better than well, he thought. Good enough to eat.

“I am indeed well, my lord. And you?” A delicate flush tinted her cheeks. “It is a while since you’ve been at court.”

“Yes, I am well.” He beat at his clothes. “Travel-worn, but nothing that a good wash won’t remedy.” He could hear how stilted and awkward his voice was, and he felt that way too. Wooden as a tree. “I should go,” he said, “I have matters to attend to.” He was acutely aware of the other women watching them and whispering behind their hands. “I did not mean to disturb you.”

“Not at all,” Ida smiled and shifted the baby on her hip. It looked at him and sucked its fat little fingers. A plaited blue ribbon encircled its wrist. It was wearing a minute linen shirt with the tiniest embroidery stitches around the neck. “Please, enjoy the garden if you will. Take some wine; you must be thirsty.”

Roger shook his head. “Thank you, mistress, but I have to go. Perhaps another time.” He bowed to her and walked away, silently cursing himself for acting like a tongue-tied squire. He knew some men found it easy to engage in idle chit-chat with women, and he envied the likes of William Marshal their way of knowing what to say and being immediately at ease. He had felt an enormous pang at the sight of Ida laughing with the baby, her straight, slender form enhanced by that blue dress. She was Henry’s; she wasn’t for him. He was looking at something he couldn’t afford.

Ida watched him leave and felt sharp disappointment. She would have loved him to stay, but knew why he had refused. Even the men who dared to flirt with her were circumspect because no one wanted to incur Henry’s wrath, and Roger more than any of them dared not anger the King. Returning to the women, she sat down among them, her son in her lap. Ignoring their nudges, their teasing and giggles, she gave the baby a crust to chew on with his four milk teeth, a distant look in her eyes.

***

“You wanted to talk to me,” Goscelin said.

Ida looked up from the cradle blanket she was stitching, using up scraps of fabric left over from the cutting-out of gowns. A cold February wind was blasting down the valley of the Eure, but there was an optimism of spring about it too. She hadn’t seen her brother since the previous summer for he had been away from court, but he was here now, and she was grabbing the opportunity while she had it. He was of age, had been given seisin of his lands, and was thus his own man, albeit a very young one still feeling his way.

“Yes,” she said, and moved on the bench, giving him room to sit and stretch his legs towards the fire. It was one of the top rooms of the castle at Ivry, busy with other women, but they had drawn off a little to give her and Goscelin privacy.

Baby William tottered up to his uncle, a ball of fleece-stuffed leather in one hand.

“Walking?” said Goscelin with a smile.

“Since before the Christmas feast,” Ida replied, her face aglow with pride. “He’s so quick and clever. He’s talking too.”

“Ball,” said William, giving credence to Ida’s boast. “Ball, ball, ball!” He laughed on the last exclamation and threw his toy. Goscelin caught it and gently handed it back.

“I expect the King dotes on him?”

“He does,” Ida said pensively. Henry wasn’t a frequent visitor to the nursery but neither was his son forgotten. The times he did put in an appearance, he was always fascinated and amused by the infant’s doings. Proud too.

“What’s wrong?” Goscelin asked.

Ida shook her head. “Nothing, but I have a boon to ask of you.”

He picked up the ball as the baby dropped it again and made an expansive gesture with his other hand. “Name it. I will help if I can, you know I will.”

Now she had come to it, the words stuck in Ida’s throat. She looked down at her hands, well tended and adorned by the rings Henry had given to her. “I have been thinking for a long time,” she said hesitantly at last. “In fact from soon after William was born…I do not come to this lightly.” Glancing sidelong, she saw that Goscelin’s relaxed posture had stiffened as he realised she wasn’t just going to request something simple and domestic of him. She almost lost her courage, but knew that if she did not finish, the moment would pass and it would be her own fault. “The King has many women,” she continued after a deep breath, “and I know that one day he will tire of me.”

“But you will still be important to him.” Goscelin patted her hand in awkward reassurance. “You are the mother of his son.”

“But I want to be more than one of the King’s concubines!” she said with vehemence. “I want a husband and a home and to be cleansed of sin. I want to be an honourable wife, not the King’s whore.”

He winced at her last word. “You are not a whore—never say that. I forbid it!”

“Then what am I?” Ida demanded. “Cladding my place at court in daintier words does not change what is underneath. If he summons me to his chamber, to his bed, I am bound to his bidding. Is that the life you would have for your sister?”

Goscelin cleared his throat and looked embarrassed. “No,” he said. “Of course I would rather see you wed and settled.”

Ida looked at her brother with misgiving and wondered if he were capable of what she wanted from him. But what other choice did she have? “Then I want you to suggest to him that I should have a husband,” she said. “You are no longer in wardship. You have the right.”

Goscelin looked pensive. “That is truly your wish?”

She raised her chin. “It is. I would not have asked you otherwise because I know it is difficult.”

He rumpled his hair, making it stand up in dark tufts so that he looked like a boy. Ida’s confidence in him wavered further. “Do you have someone in mind?” he asked.

“Yes.” She lifted little William on to her knee and kissed the top of his head. “I want you to suggest Roger Bigod to him.”

He pursed his lips and said nothing. Ida stifled feelings of panic and waited out the moment, her breathing as soft and shallow as her son’s.

At length Goscelin nodded. “He is an honourable man and I would willingly accept him as my brother by marriage, but I do not know if the King will approve. He might want to keep you to himself.”

“And that is why you must tread a careful path. I do not want him becoming jealous or questioning my loyalty to him. He has been betrayed in the past and it will be all too easy for him to think that way when nothing could be further from the truth.”

“Does Roger Bigod know your thoughts?”

Ida shook her head. “No, and I do not know his. I would hope him interested enough to agree, but I realise his position with the King is delicate.”

“And this would not tip the balance?”

“Not if Henry were brought to believe it his own notion.”

Goscelin gave her a look filled with surprise and wariness. “You have been thinking about this, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” she said, “because if I do not do this for myself, I cannot complain when Henry eventually settles a husband of his own choosing upon me.”

Goscelin sighed and rose to his feet. “I make no promises, sister, but I will see what I can do.”

Ida’s stomach swooped with relief and anxiety as she kissed his cheek in farewell. “Thank you.”

He looked wry. “Save that for afterwards,” he said. “I might fail.”

***

Henry considered the young man whom he had just gestured to rise from his kneeling position. Goscelin de Tosney was fidgety and on edge—he hadn’t yet learned the courtier’s art of dissembling and control. It was interesting to watch in the same way that it was interesting to watch a puppy learning the perils of chasing after wasps. He had presented Henry with the gift of an ornamental gold flower set with a sapphire. Henry was rather taken with the item and thought that rather than gift it to the Church, which was the usual destination of such objects, he might keep it in his chamber.

“I am deducing you have a favour to ask of me,” he said drily as he ran his forefinger around the tips of one of the stiff, shiny leaves.

The young man glanced around, assessing who else was within earshot. Henry bit down on a smile. The Bishops of Bayeux and Winchester were not going to be interested in what this young lightweight had to say.

“Sire, I would speak with you about my sister.”

Henry raised a curious eyebrow. “Is that so?”

De Tosney reddened. “I was wondering what you intend to do about the disposal of her marriage.”

That did take Henry by surprise. He would not have expected such a matter to enter the young man’s head, although of course it might be the first flexing of muscle on Goscelin’s part. Exerting his authority on a domestic matter was a good testing ground. Intrigued, Henry decided to see where Goscelin would take the issue. “I have thought upon the matter now and again,” he said with a man-to-man gesture. “I would be a fool not to realise there are many men keen to take her to wife.”

He had indeed pondered settling her on this courtier or that as a reward. She seldom shared his bed these days. As she grew in confidence as a mother and away from her former dewy, virginal innocence, he had moved on to other conquests, but he still enjoyed her company. Having her sit and sew in his chamber was akin to having a favourite hound at his feet, and no one else could rub his shoulders in quite the same way.

“Certainly, sire, but there is one in my opinion who stands out and to whom I think she will be well suited.”

Henry made a gesture of encouragement.

Goscelin shuffled his feet. “Sire, I request permission to approach Roger Bigod on the matter.”

Intrigued and mildly surprised, Henry leaned back in his chair and pressed his forefinger to his lips. The suggestion was sound enough from de Tosney’s point of view. A good match in fact. Bigod wasn’t at court, having crossed the Narrow Sea following the Christmas feast at Le Mans, so it was doubtful he had put Goscelin up to this. Interesting. “Why should Roger Bigod stand out above the others?” he asked bluntly.

Goscelin flushed. “He has lands that march with mine in East Anglia. He is a good soldier and he knows the law. He will treat my sister with honour.”

“Despite the reputation his sire had with lands and women?” Henry said cynically. “Were I in your position, that would be a concern.”

“Sons are not their fathers, sire.”

Henry gave a snort of bitter amusement. “If that is true, then it’s to my detriment and Roger Bigod’s benefit. Has your sister said anything to you?”

“She was not averse to the notion should you give permission.”

Henry narrowed his eyes. “And Roger Bigod?”

“Knows nothing of this matter, sire. There would be no point without your yeasay.”

“This is entirely your own notion?”

“Yes, sire.”

Henry eyed Goscelin’s red ears with scepticism. He thought of Ida in his chamber, sitting quietly over her sewing. He thought of her dimpled smile, her impish sense of humour, and the soothing motion of her hands upon his tense muscles. He didn’t want to think of her never performing that service for him again. He certainly didn’t want to imagine her doing it for another, younger man. Roger Bigod had been remarkably patient, placid, and hard-working despite the fact that the issue of the inheritance had been dragging on for four years. He had not quibbled over the third penny of the shire going into the exchequer’s coffers rather than his own, or over the loss of income from the disputed lands, which amounted to several hundred pounds a year. The phlegmatic nature went deep, but Henry suspected that fire smouldered beneath with the potential to flare up. If he gave Ida to Roger and Roger rebelled, she would be drawn into it and he didn’t want that to happen. Then again, giving Ida to Roger might be a sop to keep him quiet, especially if he conceded a few of the East Anglian manors held in crown custody as a marriage gift. He looked narrowly at Goscelin, who was trying to appear the suave courtier and not succeeding.

“It is an interesting proposal,” he said. “But a weighty one and it needs more thought before I can give a decision. I am not refusing you, but neither am I prepared to grant you leave on the moment.”

“Sire, I understand.” Goscelin bowed.

Henry glanced beyond him where more supplicants waited to offer him gifts in exchange for his ear. “We’ll talk again,” he said, and consigned the interview to the side of his mind.

***

Under Hodierna’s supervision, Ida crushed the ingredients for a hair fragrance in a mortar. There were dried rose petals and watercress, scrapings of nutmeg, and powdered root of galangal. A wonderful aroma rose from the blended elements, fresh and clean, but with an underlying sultry, spicy warmth.