For the King's Favor (12 page)

“Now add the rose water,” Hodierna instructed, “but carefully, no more than a spoonful at a time.”

Ida did so. She loved this kind of work and was good at it, for she was meticulous and had a deft touch with all things practical. Hodierna often taught her lore and recipes—although the one with ingredients involving a dead lizard was not one she intended using very often, even if it was supposed to make dark tresses thick and glossy. This particular recipe was for a fragrance to be combed through clean dry hair.

“Yes, that’s it, excellent,” Hodierna said. “Now you need to—” She looked up. “You have a visitor, mistress.”

Turning, Ida saw Goscelin advancing on them and her breathing shortened. Hodierna curtseyed and diplomatically moved away to talk to one of the other women.

With great care, Ida decanted her ingredients into another bowl, straining them through a piece of fine linen. She affected an air of calm, even though his expression told her what his words had yet to do.

“He refused, didn’t he?” she said woodenly.

Goscelin peered into the cloth and sniffed the aromatic brown sludge. “No, he said he needed time to think about it.”

Ida prodded the residue. “Which is as good as saying he refused, or that he will take a very long time to think.” For a moment, her eyes were hot and she had to swallow hard. What else had she expected to hear?

“I think he does mean what he says,” Goscelin said earnestly. “It took him by surprise, that’s all—and he wasn’t sure about Roger Bigod. He doesn’t trust him.” His expression brightened a little. “He wasn’t averse to the notion of me finding you a husband. Don’t worry about that.”

Ida compressed her lips. There were several unwed barons and knights at court who made her feel she would rather remain a concubine than be wife to any one of them. “I am glad he thinks I should be wed,” she said after a moment, “but I will not go from the frying pan into the fire.”

Goscelin squared his shoulders. “There are men other than Roger Bigod, sister. He’s not the only one who would add lustre to our line.”

“Indeed, but I will not marry a husband because he happens to be conveniently to hand.”

He looked wounded. “You were the one who said you were dissatisfied with your lot. If the only man you will have is Roger Bigod, then you may be waiting a long time.”

Ida stiffened her spine and lifted the linen to watch the residue slowly drip into the pot. The concentrated scent was powerful and feminine and boosted her resolve. She cast Goscelin a stubborn look. “Then I will wait.”

He gave an impatient twitch of his shoulders. “You don’t know him beyond moments at court.”

“Would I know any other man better?”

“What if I find someone suitable for you in the meantime? Would you at least consider?”

Ida shrugged. “Yes,” she said, to humour his masculine sense of authority—although she did not intend to do any such thing.

He looked at her for a long moment, then shook his head and gave her an exasperated smile. “Hold out for Bigod then,” he said, “and pray the King makes him an earl. Then you’ll be a countess.”

Ida had considered the notion when daydreaming. Countess of Norfolk. Lady of East Anglia. The idea was like looking at the sea from the safety of the shore. But let Goscelin think that was part of her reasoning. To have an earldom in the family was a thing of great prestige and more secure than the favour a mistress could command.

Her brother sniffed her morning’s work. “What’s this, a love philtre?”

She eyed him. “Drink some and see.”

He laughed and shook his head. “I wouldn’t dare.” Bowing in the direction of the other women, he left the room.

“Well?” asked Hodierna, returning to Ida’s side. She had picked up little William and balanced him on one ample hip.

Ida heaved a sigh and took her son into her own arms. “Now,” she said, “we wait,” and wondered how much fortitude she was going to need.

Chinon, Easter 1181

In recent years, Ida had often had to cope with new and difficult experiences that tested her mettle to breaking point, but never had she felt such terror; never had she felt so helpless. Lying on the bed beside her infant son, she bathed his burning little body with tepid rose water and watched his chest rise and fall as swiftly as a panting dog’s as the fever consumed him. A blotchy rash covered his torso and he had been sick several times in the night. The vomiting had now abated but in its place had come a barking cough that racked him so hard it left little room for breath, let alone tears. She had managed to spoon a little honey and water into him and although he was almost weaned, she had begun nursing him again, partly in the hope that he would take in sustenance, partly to give him comfort.

With gentle strokes, she wiped his scalding body and sang him a nonsense song about a bird in a cage. He whimpered and snuffled. His eyes were open, but unseeing and opaque as dull brown pebbles. She had heard there was fever in the town and although the other women had tried to keep it from her, she knew that some children had died, including a shoesmith’s infant son who was the same age as her baby. Consumed by guilt and terror, weeping for the pain of the mother who had lost her child, Ida had prayed to Saint Clement and Saint Bueno for their intercession, had lit candles, given alms, and begged God to spare William.

She wrung out the cloth again and felt the heat from him within the moist linen as she bathed him. “Dear Holy Virgin,” she whispered. “Don’t let him suffer for my sins. Don’t let him die. Take me instead!”

Goda came to the bedside and gently touched her shoulder. “My lady, you are sought.”

Looking up through her distraction, Ida met the gaze of Bonhomme, one of Henry’s ushers. Sympathy gleamed in his eyes, but his face was expressionless. “The King commands your company, mistress.”

Ida was appalled. “For pity’s sake! His son is sick and in peril of his life. Would he have me desert a mother’s duty?”

Bonhomme shifted his weight. “Lady, it is for the King to say, not me. I only obey him as must we all. I am sorry for the child’s illness, but there are women who can tend him while you are gone.”

“They are not his mother,” she said through clenched teeth.

“Even so, mistress.” He bowed to her, but made it plain she had no choice.

Ida pushed herself to her feet. She knew she must look a draggled mess but had no intention of tidying and perfuming herself for Henry. Let him see her as she was, the haggard, desperate mother of an infant struggling to keep life in his small body. Her only hope was that Henry would see her condition and send her straight back to their son.

“I’ll tend him.” Hodierna came to the bedside. “He’ll be all right with me, won’t you, little sweetheart?” She knelt stiffly on her arthritic knees, took the cloth from Ida, and began wiping the baby. “Go, do what you must.” She flashed Ida a look filled with warning and compassion.

Somehow, Ida made room in her mind for more than her anxiety and focused on what Henry required of her. The sooner her duty to him was finished, the sooner she could return to her son.

Henry was waiting for her in his chamber, pacing restlessly in front of the fire. There were a few servants about, but their presence was unobtrusive and Henry was obviously having a moment to himself. When she entered, he looked up, smiled, and beckoned her to come to him.

“I’ve missed you, sweeting.” Taking her hands in his, he kissed her on the lips, and then held her away to look at her. “Tears?” He thumbed her wet cheek. “What’s all this?”

Ida sniffed and wiped her hand with the trailing sleeve of her gown. “I am sorry, sire. My son…our son William…he is sick with the spotted fever and I am afraid for him. I thought—” Her voice cracked. “I thought you knew.”

His voice was placatory. “Sweetheart, I do, and I also know you need a respite. Let others care for him awhile. The physician says that once the fever passes he will recover.” He drew her to the bed, sat her down upon it, and made her drink a cup of spiced wine sweetened with sugar.

“Sire, I know my duty to you,” Ida said as she lowered the cup, “but I am his mother. I should be with him.” She clutched his sleeve with an imploring hand. The wine lay like molten lead in her stomach and made her feel sick.

“You don’t wear my ring any more?” he said sharply.

Ida swallowed. “It’s in my coffer. I took it off while I was tending our son. I didn’t want to scratch him and I was too distracted to think to put it on when your summons came.” She heard her own breathless panic and knew she was not handling the situation well.

An impatient frown forked Henry’s brow. “The other women will take care of him for now,” he growled. “It will be all right I tell you.”

Mutely she nodded.

“Ida, look at me.” He tilted up her chin on his forefinger to explore her face. “Ah.” His voice softened. “You are a beautiful, beautiful girl and I love you dearly.”

Ida’s throat was so tight she almost choked. How was she supposed to answer?

“Your brother has spoken to you, I understand?”

“About what, sire?” She looked blank, for her mind was preoccupied with her son and her need to return to him.

“About his notion that I give you in marriage to Roger Bigod.”

His words took Ida’s breath. She felt as if she had been slapped in the face with a wet cloth and for a moment could only stare at Henry open-mouthed and stunned. She couldn’t cope with this, not now, not on top of everything else.

Henry said irritably, “Do I take it he hasn’t?”

She struggled to focus, to bring her mind to the place where it had to be now. “Sire, he has, but it was a while ago. He told me you were thinking on the matter.”

“I still am, my love. He says you have no objections. Is that true?”

Her stomach boiled. There was acid in her throat. “No sire,” she whispered. “I have no objections.”

“Would you find marriage to him agreeable?” He caressed her hair and the side of her neck with the back of his hand, and she willed herself not to be sick.

“He seems an honourable man, sire.”

“And you would give up your life at court for him? All your finery, all the dances and entertainments?”

Ida struggled to control her breathing. “I would do my best to adapt, sire.”

“You’re a brave girl as well as a beautiful one. Sometimes it is the gentle, quiet ones who have the most strength.”

The silence stretched for several heartbeats. Ida heard a candle sputter on an impurity in the wax, saw the flame waver and spark. She tried not to imagine it was her son’s life she was seeing, flickering on the border between staying alight and snuffing out.

“I don’t want to give you up…” he said and, turning her face towards him, kissed her, first softly but with increasing possession and vigour. “I don’t want to lose you to another man.”

As he made love to her, Ida retreated within herself, separating her mind from her body. It would soon be over, she told herself. And then she could return to her vigil over William. The other things she would think about later because she could not face in two directions at once.

When Henry finished, he lay beside her, recovering his breath, one arm flung across his eyes. Ida bit her lip, stared at the top of the bed canopy, and wondered how soon he would give her leave to go. The candle was still burning, but for how long? She watched it, dreading to see it gutter again, and closed her legs.

Henry turned his head on the embroidered bolster. “Perhaps I have lost you already.” He gave a tired sigh. “Put your clothes on and go back to the child. I will not trouble you more tonight.”

In haste, Ida donned her chemise. “Thank you, sire!” With the relief that he was letting her return to William, came gratitude and guilt. She had thought he might make her stay to rub his back or massage his feet.

“I will come and see him in the morning,” Henry said, “and you.” He kissed her cheek.

Ida ran back to the women’s chamber. Mathilde, one of the maids who had recently given birth, was holding William at her exposed breast and he was asleep, his mouth still at her nipple and his cheeks as shiny and red as apples. Hodierna was sitting beside the girl, watching over her and the baby. Ida felt a storm of love for her son, swirled through with jealousy at the sight of the other girl nursing him.

“He has taken one side and sleeps well now, bless him,” Hodierna smiled. “I think he is a little improved.”

Ida swept her skirts out of the way and sat on the bed, taking him from Mathilde without looking at her. The latter tucked her breast back inside the feeding slit in her gown and exchanged a rueful glance with Hodierna. William whimpered, but as Ida cuddled him and stroked his face, he settled down. Perhaps he was a little cooler, she thought. For the moment at least, the fever had ceased to mount.

Diplomatically, Hodierna and Mathilde moved away to leave Ida alone with him, Hodierna pausing to press Ida’s shoulder and give her a maternal kiss on the temple. Ida whispered a “Thank you” to the women, feeling remorse and guilt for her jealousy now that William was back in her arms.

For the rest of the night, Ida sat propped up on her bed, cradling her baby. By the light from the steadily burning candle, she watched him breathe. His hair was damp with sweat and curling at the ends, his eyelashes gummy, and the rash on his skin a pottage of deep red blotches. She loved him so hard that she felt as if she herself was being burned up by her emotion. Even if fornication was wrong, even if she had despaired on first discovering she was with child, the love she felt for her child now was immolating her.

***

In the morning, on his way to hunt, Henry came to see his son. Booted and spurred, keen to be away, he nevertheless stood by the cradle for several moments.

“He is a little improved, sire,” Ida said. She felt desperately tired from her night-long vigil, but William’s fever had lessened and his eyes had lost their foggy look. He had recently taken suck again. It was too soon to say he was getting better, but his condition was more settled.

Henry gave an exasperated shrug. “Women always fuss too much.” After another long look, he turned from the cradle, drawing Ida with him. Tucking a stray tendril of hair behind her ear, he said, “I have been thinking; it is right that you should have a husband and a home before God. I have decided to let your brother moot the idea of a match to Roger Bigod.”

Ida gazed at him, unsure what to say. After the night that had gone before, the words were like straws spinning on the surface of the stream.

“Are you struck dumb by your good fortune, or is it perhaps dismay?” Henry’s smile had an edge to it.

Ida strove to pull herself together. “No, sire,” she said. “Indeed, I thank you, but I have been at my wits’ end over William; I barely know my own name this morning. I am pleased, truly I am.”

“Ah, Ida…” Henry’s smile softened and grew a little sad. “One day you’ll grow a harder shell and I will be sorry to see it—but for you it will be a good thing, I think.” He removed a ring and taking her hand slid it on to the third finger of her right one. “I’ll have prayers said for the little one.” He patted her cheek and strode out, already calling to his huntsmen, the moment of intimacy behind him as another piece of business accomplished.

Ida knew she should be euphoric, but all that came was a deepening of her exhaustion—as if she had been pulling on a tug rope for a long, long time, and her strength had finally given out. She looked down at the ring he had given her: plaited gold, set with a rare intaglio. Another piece to add to her magpie collection. One to begin, one to end. She swayed where she stood and Hodierna hurried across to her, calling for Goda. Together the women bore Ida back to bed. “Sleep,” said Hodierna. “The child is not in danger now, and you will be of no use to him if you do not rest a little at least. I will wake you if you are needed, I promise.”

Ida was too tired to argue, but remained anxious as she watched them put William in his cradle at the bedside. She was still terrified that she was going to lose him.

“I may be growing old but my hearing is still sharp,” Hodierna murmured as she closed the bed curtains. “Seems as if the tide is on the turn, hmm?”

“I hope so,” Ida said. She fell into a restless slumber and dreamed of a long, flat seashore with damp sand of dull gold washed by a restless blue-grey sea.