For the King's Favor (16 page)

Ida closed her eyes. She felt drained and sick and utterly wretched. Roger led her to the bench and sat her down upon the hard oak seat. Despair settled on her like a malignant black cloak, detaching her from everything beyond the pain.

The corridor was dark in the early morning, and chilly with the pervasive musty odour of dank weather. It wasn’t just the year that was dying. “I had to do it,” she said, hunching over. “It was my last hope. He…he sent his chaplain to me after compline last night, as if it were nothing more than a trifling matter—just a bit of ordinary business. I…Ah!” She rocked back and forth, cradling her grief where once she had cradled a baby.

Roger held her close, rocking with her. “I thought he was going to tell you himself. If I had known, I would have come to you.”

“You knew?” Her voice cracked at the notion of another betrayal.

“He spoke of it to me last night and said he was going to tell you. I did not realise he lacked the grace and courage to give you the news himself.”

Ida shivered and he draped his cloak around both of them. They were alone in a silent corridor, embraced in a gesture that to a passer-by would look like courtship, but instead was a rite of grief.

Roger rubbed her spine and said quietly after a long pause, “Whatever his faults, Henry does care for William.”

“Then why doesn’t he give him to me?” she demanded in an anguished whisper. “That would be the right thing to do by us both.”

“He may trust you, but he doesn’t trust other men. He would not consider whomever you married a worthy surrogate father to his son.”

“I would have had you care for him…I wanted you…”

“Yes, I know. I know. Hush.”

Leaning against him, Ida struggled to pick up the pieces. She had to find the strength to bear this thing. What had been done to her wasn’t right, but neither was it right to set this upon Roger. It was her burden, not his. She was also aware through her grief that he might be alarmed by her hysteria and back out of the marriage, leaving her with nothing.

Swallowing, she pushed herself upright. “I would like to return to my chamber,” she said, retrieving the rags of her dignity and raising her chin. “I still have coffers to pack and matters to attend to. I…It will be better if I keep busy.”

She saw relief relax the tension in his features and knew her instinct was right. She couldn’t set this upon him beyond what had happened today.

Holding her at his side, he helped her to her feet. “I know you are grieving and nothing I can say will alter that but I swear I will do everything in my power to make you content as my wife and helpmate.”

It was beyond Ida to smile, but she raised his hands and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. “And I swear in my turn I will be a good wife,” she said, and gave him a tear-flooded look. “You will be my consolation.”

***

Shriven, cleansed, scoured, Ida returned from confession. She was a smooth shore after a high tide—looking little different but with the arrangement of every grain utterly changed. The sin of her fornication had been absolved—washed away as if it had never been, and she had to try and make herself believe that the beach had always been empty and never borne an imprint before. In a way, it was true. The Ida packing coffers in her bed alcove was not the Ida who had come to court brimming with excitement and innocence five years ago.

Standing before her baggage chests, ready to leave for Flamstead, she gazed at the tiny shoes cupped in her hand. They were William’s first pair; the ones that had seen him take his first unsteady steps across the nursery floor. Her own exquisite stitches covered the thin, fragile goatskin. He would have many more shoes throughout his childhood, all gorgeously embroidered and embellished. He was, after all, a king’s son, but she would not be the one to sew them, and each pair worn out and larger than the previous ones would be a step away from her, a foot, a yard, a mile, until they stood in different countries.

Inside one of the miniature shoes was a lock of William’s hair, soft and dark, secured with scarlet embroidery thread. She held it for a moment, consigning the silky feel of the strands to the memory of her fingertips. Hot-eyed, her chin dimpling, she set both the shoes and the hair in the enamelled jewel casket Henry had given her in the first days of their relationship. She closed the lid, turned the small key, and heard the soft click of the lock. Such a quiet sound to have such a vastness of finality.

Thetford Priory, December 1181

The Cluniac priory of Our Lady at Thetford stood close to the quiet flow of the river Orwell. Roger’s grandfather had founded it more than seventy years ago and successive Bigod lords, including Roger’s uncle and father, had since enhanced it. Roger had read the foundation charter last night while sorting through a strongbox of documents.
Notum sit omnibus tam futuris quam praesentibus quod ego Rogerus Bigotus, dapifer Regis Henrici
…Little had changed even if the number of tomb slabs in the choir had increased. There was still a Roger Bigod and he was a steward to King Henry. And today was his wedding day.

Ironically, Roger’s grandfather and namesake mentioned within the charter was buried not here, but in Norwich Cathedral, the victim of a tug of war between the then Bishop of Norwich and the Prior of Thetford.

“It is the first time I have seen your father’s tomb,” Juliana murmured, standing beside Roger. She gave the incised slate slab a long look. Her breath puffed in white vapour from between her parted lips and her hands were tucked inside a roll of sable fur.

“Perhaps he would have wanted more,” Roger said, “but I was not going to grant him a finer tomb than his brother or my grandfather in Norwich.”

“You have done your filial duty by him, and that is more than can be said of his paternal duty to you.”

Roger shrugged. “It is in the past.” He went to look at the new round window in the apse that he had had commissioned to mark his marriage. There were many things to be consigned to the past. Let the future write itself in hope.

The window was not quite finished, although the glass-painter had completed the outlines and some of the colours. The depiction was of the Virgin in the stable with the newborn Christ child—appropriate to the season and to the priory’s patron saint. The painter had yet to complete Mary’s blue robe, but it was still evident what the subject matter was.

Joining him, Juliana remarked upon its beauty.

“I would have liked to see it finished for Ida,” he said, “but there hasn’t been time and I would rather have quality over a hasty job.”

“But it will be finished.” Juliana smiled and set her hand lightly on his sleeve. “I know you. You will ensure a thorough job is done. Do not let small worries take you away from the joy of your marriage.”

Roger laid his hand over hers. “You are wise to remind me,” he said with a pensive expression in his eyes.

Anketil arrived, striding up the nave, his new surcoat of parti-coloured red and yellow a bright splash as if he had stepped out of a painted window himself. Against the damp silver of his freshly washed flaxen hair his complexion was scrubbed and ruddy. Roger had not been the only one to bathe within an inch of his life for the purposes of this marriage. “My lord, the bride’s party is sighted. You said I should tell you.”

Roger nodded and his apprehension increased. “Thank you,” he said. “Go and greet her and see she is fittingly escorted to her chamber.”

Anketil bowed and strode back out. Juliana kissed Roger’s cheek. “You should go and make final preparations. I will see you shortly.” Her voice suddenly wobbled.

“Mother?” Roger looked at her askance.

“Pay me no heed,” Juliana gave an embarrassed laugh. “I am happy for you and your bride. I want the best for both of you…more than I ever had. Go!” She gave him a gentle push. “Your men will wonder where you are.”

She watched him leave the church and, when he had gone, wiped her eyes and straightened her spine. She was indeed pleased for him and she had no qualms about accepting Ida as a daughter-in-law. Her tears were born of love, anticipation…and concern. Both her son and his bride had had hard experiences of the world. She knew from her own life that one was in danger of either developing an impenetrable shell, or leaving all softness exposed until it was devoured and nothing remained but a husk. There had to be balance, and that was what she wished for them, as much as joy.

***

Roger entered the courtyard of his house by the river in time to see Ida arrive. Clad in a thick woollen cloak, his face concealed by a deep hood, he stood among the throng and as he saw her trot into the ward on the golden palfrey he had once given to Henry and that Henry had gifted to her, he felt as if someone had kindled a flame at his core. The mare’s mane was braided with red ribbons and from each plait hung a small silver bell that rang sweetly with each stride. Goscelin rode a new horse gifted to him by Roger—a brown courser with an underlying golden sheen to its coat.

As a groom helped her dismount, Roger thought that Ida looked thinner than when he had last seen her a month ago, and a little wan about the face, but she was still beautiful. The loss of weight had put hollows beneath her cheekbones and made her eyes look even bigger. He felt protective towards her and swore to himself that he would bring the smile back to her face that Henry had taken away. He was glad they were not having the wedding at court and that Henry was not attending the nuptials. To have had him present would have been unbearable.

Quietly, unobtrusively, he melted from the throng and went to make himself ready for church and his new role as husband.

***

Standing in the middle of the bridal chamber, Ida patiently waited while her women removed her headdress and unwound her coiled brown braids. She had combed her hair that morning with the solution of spices and rose water Hodierna had shown her how to make. Released by the warmth of her body, the scent flowed around her in exotic waves like the perfumes in the Song of Solomon. She raised her arms so they could unfasten the laces at the side of her green and gold wedding gown. Although there was no hearth in this upper chamber, braziers had been warming the room all day so that it was comfortable. The dark red bed hangings were drawn back and loosely gathered by ties of amber silk and the women had turned down the matching coverlet to expose fine linen sheets, embroidered red bolsters, and fluffy white pillows. The bed textiles were Ida’s and she had had her women hang them while the wedding feast was being conducted in the great hall. This was her domain now, sanctioned by the Church and a sealed marriage contract. She felt lightheaded and giddy, from the wine she had consumed, from the joyful dancing in the hall, and from being bathed in the attention of her new husband. Roger had gone out of his way to try and make everything perfect for her, from the blaze of candles and evergreen in the church, to the wonderfully set tables at the wedding feast, to the musicians who had played a composition especially written for her. For all that Henry had surrounded her with luxury, he had never once considered what she might like. That Roger had, and wanted to please her, was worth more than a room full of gold.

Her women removed her gown and then her gartered silk hose, but Ida retained her chemise. Juliana admired the whitework on the latter, which until now had been concealed by the overdress. “What fine embroidery,” she remarked. “Did you do this yourself?”

“Yes, my lady Mother, I did.” The title sounded strange on Ida’s tongue but she knew she would have to grow accustomed to it.

“You have some skill with a needle,” Juliana smiled. “I can see that my son will not lack for fine embellishment on his clothes.”

Ida blushed at the praise. “He will not lack for anything if I can give it. It will be my honour and my duty to fulfil his wishes.”

Juliana continued to smile, but there was caution in her gaze. “I can tell that is so. I know you will be a good wife, but I will give you a word of counsel. A man needs to believe he is the master, but a woman should rule the hearth in the small things that make up the whole.”

“My lady, thank you. It is good advice,” Ida replied gracefully but without taking it to heart. She was not quite sure of her mother-in-law yet. She liked her, but it was hard to see past the contained serenity. Roger had a degree of that stillness, but in him it was not as dense. Juliana plainly adored her son, although mercifully did not seem possessive. Ida thought all would be well, but she no longer trusted people at face value.

Juliana’s gaze was shrewd. “From what I saw in church and at the feasting, Roger will love you well and you will have a good life with him—better than I had with his father—but then my son is his own man. What there is in him of his sire has been tempered by the experience of seeing what his sire became.”

“I do not know Roger well in the small ways of which you speak,” Ida said, “but I have seen him in the greater things. He is courtly and steadfast and not the kind who will abuse or trample upon his dependants. He has courage and judgement and honour.” Even though her face was hot from her words, she gave Juliana a deliberate look. “That was why I chose him.”

Juliana’s head came up and suddenly she was alert. Then humour sparkled in her eyes and a glint of respect. “Ah,” she said. “That serves me right for not looking under the surface. You are a very sweet girl, but there is more to you than that, I think. My son and the earldom are in safe hands with you.”

Ida gave a small frown. “But he is not an earl.”

“No, but he will be—and you a countess. That is what you must prepare yourselves to be.” Leaning forward, Juliana kissed Ida’s cheek. “I wish you joy tonight and for the rest of your life.”

Ida thanked her and determinedly banished the image that unbidden had entered her mind—of a red and blue enamelled box holding her son’s little shoes. There was no place for such memories tonight.

Her women combed her hair to fall in a perfumed brown skein to her waist. They dabbed rose oil at her wrists and throat, then draped her cloak at her shoulders, fastening it with cords of gold silk. An attendant brought a tray of bread and cheese, fruit pieces rolled in powdered sugar and grains of paradise, and piquant fried nuts. There was a little dish of candied cardamom seeds to sweeten the breath and a jug of spiced wine, should bride and groom require fortifying.

The men arrived in a good-natured jostle of colour and bawdy jesting, bearing Roger to his bride. He had been divested of his dark red wedding tunic and fine blue chausses and now, like Ida, he was clad in a long chemise and full cloak. Bishop John of Norwich, who had conducted the marriage, prepared to bless the couple, although he had imbibed liberally of Rhenish wine and was none too steady on his feet or sure of his words. Goscelin had to support him and one of the Bishop’s attendants took care of the ivory-headed crosier. Ida kept her gaze modestly lowered and restrained the urge to giggle. She dared not catch anyone’s eye, especially Roger’s.

Her women escorted her to the bed and put her in it, on the right side, because that was the one conducive to conceiving male children. The sheets had been warmed with hot stones and even though she was preoccupied, it was still a pleasure to wriggle her feet into blissful heat and inhale the sweet scent of rose water rising from the fresh linen.

Roger was bundled in beside her by the more boisterous men, with ribald quips about mounting and riding and thrusting the lance in the target. The comments made Ida’s cheeks burn, but although the jests were near to the mark, none overstepped it. There was respect and affection for Roger, and given her own circumstances, folk were wary of speaking out of turn because of her former relationship with the King.

Once the Bishop had stumbled his way through blessing the bed, Goscelin ushered the guests out of the room to continue the celebrations in the hall.

Juliana lightly touched Roger’s shoulder and smiled at the couple. “I wish you both well.” Humour crinkled her eye corners. “My blessing may not be holy like the good Bishop’s but it comes with my love.” She kissed Roger’s cheek, came round the bed to do the same to Ida, and was the last to leave the room, dropping the latch gently behind her. They heard her speak to the Bishop, and the latter’s bumbling tones fading down the stairs.

Roger first grimaced, then laughed. “I had forgotten how weak a head he has for wine,” he said. “The Archbishop of York can drink everyone under the table and still be sober himself, but not John of Norwich.”

“He will have a sore head in the morning,” she agreed.

“So will many.”

Silence fell again. Roger cleared his throat. “Do you want another cup yourself? Some food?”

Ida shook her head, then instantly changed her mind because it was something to do and would give them time to settle down with each other now that for the first time today they were alone. “Just a half-measure,” she said. They had been put to bed with the expectation that they would consummate their marriage some time before the morning, but now that the moment was imminent, they were awkward with each other.

“I am looking forward to seeing Framlingham,” she said as she took the cup he gave her, and sipped. The wine was warm and the pepper and galangal it contained sent a glow through her veins.

He climbed back between the sheets and pulled up the coverlet. “It’s too far to reach in a day’s ride, but we’ll visit other manors on the way—then you can see the task in hand. It’s been a long time since the Bigod estates have had a proper mistress.”

Ida flashed him a quick smile. “Then I will be glad to start anew—in all things, my lord.” She handed the cup to him and he drank too. She watched the ripple of his throat and felt warmth flow into her pelvis.

“You will have whatever you need to refurbish. Ask what you will.”

“Thank you, my lord, I am keen to begin.” Which she was indeed. The sooner she embraced her new life, the quicker her old one would fade.

“Indeed.” He grimaced as he returned the cup. “But we’ve to be back at Winchester for the Christmas court.”

Ida gazed into the dark, glossy wine. She was torn between wanting to be with Roger, but unsure that she was ready to face the court. If William was there, she would have the pain of parting with him all over again when they left, and if he was at Woodstock, she wouldn’t see him at all, and from her current perspective, she couldn’t decide which was worse.

“What is it?” Roger asked.

“Nothing.” She forced a smile but did not have to feign a shiver. “Draw the hangings, my lord, it is cold tonight.” She finished the wine, set the empty cup on the coffer, and closed the curtains hanging around her own side of the bed.