For the King's Favor (17 page)

“There is something the matter,” he said. “I would have you tell me.”

Ida gnawed her lower lip, wondering how to answer. She could not burden him with her longing, although he must have an inkling. Besides, she had learned that someone saying they wanted to know was not always the same as meaning it. Sometimes they wanted platitudes. “You will think me foolish,” she said, telling him most, but not all of the truth, “but I am torn. I do not want to return to court—or not so soon after our wedding—but neither do I want to be away from your side.” She touched him in emphasis, as she had touched him in the orchard, and felt the hardness of his rib cage beneath the fine linen shirt. Henry had been softer there, more padded with flesh and flaccid with the years.

“Then it is a joint dilemma, because I want you with me, and I do not want to go to court either.”

“We could stay away,” she suggested with more hope than expectation.

He shook his head. “The King requires my return as soon as I may. I am in his service and I must perform it to the best of my ability. Whatever his reason, he consented to our match and returned three manors to me, for which I am grateful.” A smile curved his lips. “He does not realise the true value of the gift he has bestowed on me.” Without taking his eyes off her, he closed the hangings on his side of the bed. The only light came from the ceramic lamp above their heads so that they were enshrouded in a soft red almost-darkness, like the centre of a rose.

Having had Henry for a lover for several years, Ida thought she knew what to expect, but was unprepared for how different the act of physical union was with Roger. This time she was with a man she wanted, not one she was forced to bed because she had no choice, and this time she was an honourable wife, a new wedding ring gleaming on her finger, so the deed was not a sin. It wasn’t fornication and she could finally yield to all the pent-up tensions of the last few months.

She was dizzy with wine, with the shine of new love, with lust, and she found herself trembling as she had done that first time with Henry, but this time not from shock or fear. Roger was trembling too, but his touch was restrained and a thing of beauty to her for it was a slow, gentle exploration of new territory. He murmured her name as he kissed her eyebrows, temple, and jaw and outlined the shape of her face with little more than his breath. It was a tender, close exploration of Ida herself and because of the unhurried pace, she sighed and relaxed. Responding in kind, she was able to pretend that she knew nothing—that this was the first time; and from that pretence, reality was born because it was indeed a first time and since it felt so different, her belief stayed strong.

She slipped her hands into his hair, longer than Henry’s, feathery and thick, and soft ruddy bronze in the tint created by lamp and bed hanging. She touched his face and the column of his throat. With great daring, she set her hand on his skin beneath his shirt and felt the contrasts of hard muscle and bone, smooth skin and springy chest hair. He gasped and, sitting up, dragged the garment over his head, arms crossing over to reveal darker tufts of hair in his armpits. Ida gasped too at the sight of the muscular definition on his arms and wiry, athletic body, the lean stomach, the ferny line of dark gold hair running from navel to groin that drove her to touch him again, the flat of her palms following the line of her eyes over shoulder, rib, and side.

He swallowed and said hoarsely, “Would you…would take off your chemise?”

Blushing, feeling shy and wanton at the same time, Ida withdrew her hands from him and unfastened the ties at her throat. She kept her eyes modestly lowered as she shrugged the garment off her shoulders. She heard Roger exhale shakily and, risking a glance at him, saw that his gaze was devouring her. He reached for her and the kissing and stroking began again, but no longer confined to her face. His touch was still reverent, but there was more urgency in it now as he discovered her breasts, her flanks, her hipbones, and the softness between. Ida responded with murmurs of appreciation and sighs of pleasure.

She wrapped her arms around Roger and drew him over her, revelling in the mingling of strength and gentleness within him. She had been holding back, not wanting to seem too experienced, but now, familiar with the moves, she angled her body to help him. And then he was within her and she heard him catch his breath, then let it out through his teeth, and knowing his pleasure heightened her own. She would give this moment to him and she would make it perfect for both of them. She moved beneath him with subtlety and made small, appreciative sounds because the give and take of their bodies felt good. She wriggled down on him, twined her legs around his, and gripped him tightly. Sensing his heightened tension, knowing the moment of crisis was close, she ran her fingers through his hair and arched against him. She was close to something herself, could feel it gathering in her pelvis until it was unbearable. “Give me a child!” she gasped out of her need. “I want your sons. I want your daughters!” And suddenly she was tumbling over the edge, racked by intense sensations that made her cry aloud. His breath stopped and, pressing hard against and into her, he let go. Ida held him fiercely at the unleashing peak of the storm, and then, as the surges diminished and passed, stroked him tenderly and kissed the thundering pulse in his throat.

A brazier made a soft sound as burning charcoal settled to a new level in the basket. Ida luxuriated in the feel of Roger’s relaxed weight upon her. He was not light, but she could still breathe and she didn’t want to move, for this blending closeness was something she craved. The warmth of his body was like an extra coverlet, promising she would never be cold again. His head on her breast and the soft movement of his lips filled her with tenderness. She caressed his hair, a little damp with sweat now, and could not stop tears from spilling down her face. Surreptitiously, she wiped them away on the heel of her hand.

He raised his head to look at her. His eyes were smoky with satiation, his features relaxed, although what had been a beatific expression was swiftly becoming tinged with worry. “Ida? Have I hurt you?” He started to withdraw and immediately she tightened her grip on him, holding him where he was with one hand on the curve of his buttocks.

“No.” She shook her head with vehemence. “Stay, please stay. You didn’t hurt me, truly you didn’t. It was…I am…I am crying because you have restored to me something I thought I had lost.” Her voice wobbled and she had to wipe her eyes again. “For me, this is the first time, and for love, not for duty or because I have no choice…It is because I
do
have choice.”

He raised himself on one forearm, stroked her hair, and kissed her with such aching tenderness that it made her cry harder. “It is the first time for me too,” he replied, “and I am not disappointed. I do not know what to say—except that you too have given me a gift beyond compare.” He kissed her again, then moved to lie at her side and drew her against him.

Ida wasn’t sure what he meant by the remark that it had been his first time too, but she didn’t question further. He had not been clumsy with her, nor had he appeared inexperienced, but then she had seen his gentleness and assurance with his horses, and his fine table manners where his enjoyment was more a matter of slow savouring than devouring at speed. She had seen his control and prowess too. The thought that she might indeed be the first made her throat ache with poignant joy. Tonight was a new beginning for both of them and they would go forward from this together.

Framlingham, December 1181

Ida and Roger came to Framlingham on a winter’s afternoon hard with frost. The sun was already dipping towards the horizon and the air was like a knife in the lungs. Ice frilled the edges of the mere and the branches of the trees on the demesne were a stark black lacework against the pallid sky. The buildings were defenceless other than the stretch of marsh and water protecting the western edge of the complex. There was no castle, only a stone hall standing on a low mound with adjoining kitchens and chapel.

Ida knew Roger had been concerned about bringing her to the Bigod family caput. He seemed to think that because she was accustomed to the court with all of its luxuries, and especially the superbly appointed palace at Woodstock with its gardens, fountains, and peacocks, she would judge his home impoverished by comparison—which was far from the truth. If she was uncertain and wary about coming here, it was for entirely different reasons.

She rode at his side, a little preoccupied but still enjoying the smooth pace of her mare and having the right to ride openly at Roger’s side. Securing her new cloak of thick blue wool was a beautiful gold and sapphire lozenge brooch that Roger had given her on the morning after their wedding. Incised on the reverse was the motto
Soiez leals en amours—
be loyal in love. She took one hand off the rein to touch the token and bit her lip as they drew near the castle.

“You are disappointed,” he said.

Ida jumped. She had been unaware that he was observing her. “Oh no, my lord! It is…it is perfect.”

“Hardly that. I know its failings, and they must seem even more obvious to you.”

She shook her head. “I would rather this than any gilded palace.”

“Then why the frown?”

Ida gave him a rueful look. “I was telling myself that I am mistress of the household and that I must act in a seemly manner and show my authority. At court I learned how to converse with bishops and earls and to move through that world like a minnow through the weeds, but this is new to me.”

He gestured. “It is not so different. I have seen you supervising the women at Woodstock—apple-mulching.”

Ida laughed and her cheeks grew warm.

“I know you capable of whatever I ask of you; I do not doubt your ability.”

She was touched by his trust, but it made her anxious too. “Even so I must set my mind in order, or else your people will think that I have a head stuffed with feathers. I have had other things to occupy me these last few days.”

He smiled at her in a lazy, satisfied way that made her loins contract. “So have I,” he answered, then gently heeled his courser and rode across the bridge spanning the ditch.

Riding into the courtyard, the ground underfoot was boggy, but a thick layer of straw had been thrown down to soak up the worst of the winter mud. A cluster of knights and retainers waited to greet their returning lord. Ida knew they were all looking at her and wondering about the bride he had brought home. A courtesan, a former royal mistress. They must know the gossip even if East Anglia was far removed from the court. She felt queasy with tension, but held her head high. This was her new home, her domain, and she would begin as she meant to go on.

A groom took the mare’s bridle and Roger came to lift her down into his arms. Their breath steamed and mingled in the air. She gripped his hand for a moment, garnering courage, then turned with him and together, formally, they entered the hall. Ida paced with slow dignity as if she were on her way to attend a royal banquet, her palm laid flat along Roger’s sleeve, and was welcomed to Framlingham by Roger’s steward Clerembald and his wife Roese. Behind Ida and Roger, attendants began unloading the baggage wains and a procession of chests and coffers followed them inside the dwelling.

The interior of the hall had no windows, but the walls had recently been limewashed and shone like new snow. There were neither hangings nor shields and weapons to adorn the bare expanses though, and the effect was cold. A fire blazed in the hearth, but it had been recently lit and had yet to build up strength and heat. A pale layer of oat straw covered the floor and Ida found herself thinking of the swept wooden floors at Woodstock and the decorated tiles in Henry’s chamber. Although airy and spacious, the hall reminded her of a well-kept byre. Suddenly her dignified entry seemed a little foolish. There was no one to see it save for the few resident knights and retainers. Although Framlingham was supposedly the core of Roger’s domain, there was little to show for it. The hall could be made grand, but for the moment, it was stark and cold. Beside her, she could sense Roger’s own dissatisfaction.

“It’s not much, is it?” he said. “If I was seeing this with your eyes, I would be wondering why I had been brought here. We should have stayed at Thetford.”

She moved closer to him and touched his arm. “I am glad the walls are bare,” she said. “I have a notion for some hangings and frieze designs. It is like us: waiting to begin, and it has much potential.”

He turned towards her and gripped her hands. Ida found the will to smile at him, telling herself that this place was a challenge and an adventure, not a disappointment. Indeed, she did feel a frisson of anticipation at the thought of bringing it to life with her own flair. She squeezed his hand, then impulsively reached on tiptoe to kiss him. “I want to see the rest,” she said. “What about the rooms above this?”

He laughed and swung her in a half-circle, thus completely negating the dignity with which they had entered. “Come,” he said. “I will show you. I’m sure that it too ‘has potential.’”

The bedchamber, Ida discovered, was worse than the hall, because the walls had yet to receive their coat of limewash and were yellowish and darkened with soot deposits from candle and cresset lamp. Unlike the hall, however, there were four good arched windows, although shuttered against the December cold. The only light came from the internal-stair doorway, the two thick candles flickering on wrought-iron stands and the glow from the fire in the hearth. A large bed boasted hangings of good, thick wool, but in a murky shade of green that reminded Ida of pond sludge. The bed itself was neatly made up with clean sheets of decent quality, although the coverlet was of the same hue as the hangings. A barrel chair stood near the bed but minus a cushion to negotiate between buttocks and hard wood.

“This was my father’s solar,” Roger said in a voice that was heavy and a little sad. “It is improved in the summer when the windows are open. There’s good sunlight then. He sold everything of beauty to pay his debts…And I have been too busy on other matters to think about the interior of this place. But it is home, and it deserves better.”

Ida went to the bed and sat on it, testing the mattresses. They were good—thick and well stuffed. She unfastened her cloak and set it to one side. “It is all on the surface,” she said. “It can be made beautiful again with a woman’s touch.”

“It is not what I would have brought you to though.”

Ida studied him for a moment, then left the bed and, standing before him, unfastened his cloak. “I would be happier living in a goat shed with you than in a palace with—” She broke off before she brought Henry’s name into this, their bedchamber, and instead filled the space of that word with a hungering kiss. “The bed is comfortable,” she said as their lips parted. “Do you not want to try it and see for yourself what a woman’s touch can do?” There was sudden mischief in the curve of her smile.

Humour broke through his dissatisfaction and evaporated it. He laughed and, catching her round the waist, tumbled her on to the thick mattresses. “Oh yes,” he said, his fingers suddenly busy with the laces on her gown. “I would like to do both very much.”

***

Alerted by a sound, Ida opened her eyes and for a moment lay in a half-waking state, wondering where she was. Her hair was spread on the pillow and her hand rested on Roger’s bare arm. Their legs were entwined, almost like a plait. He was breathing deeply. She watched the rise and fall of his chest, and then, as she became fully aware, she sat up and looked around. Their clothes were scattered over the bed in disarray, each item telling its own story of kisses, laughter, and lust. Through the open bed curtains, the candles had burned well down and the fire in the hearth was a pile of glowing red embers.

They must have slept for a long time, since it hadn’t even been dusk when they had come upstairs. Ida felt a surge of guilty embarrassment. She wasn’t sure about the sound she had heard, but it was reminiscent of a door latch being stealthily let down. She leaned over and gave Roger a gentle nudge. He grunted and jumped.

“I hope they’re not waiting dinner for us to appear,” she said with chagrin.

“What?” Roger looked bewildered, but as the sleep cleared from his wits, he began to chuckle. “So much for a woman’s touch,” he said, playfully tugging a strand of her hair. “I don’t suppose anyone will be scandalised. It’s to be expected of a newlywed couple. Besides, who is to gainsay what we do in the heart of our own home, and is not begetting heirs the foremost duty of the lord and his wife?”

Ida blushed. “Even so, I hope they are not waiting for us.” She moved to put her foot out of bed and then squealed as her bare toes touched something soft and cold. She drew her foot back on to the bed and stared at the white blobs on her sole.

“Gurd cheese,” Roger said, looking both mystified and amused.

Ida peered over the side of the bed again and gave a soft gasp. “They’ve left us food!” She felt utterly mortified, but there was laughter too. She leaned further over, picked a napkin off the tray that someone had deposited on the floor, and wiped her foot. She was shocked to think that a member of the household had entered the room without their knowing, left a tray of food at the bedside, and tiptoed out again. That was what must have woken her, the sound of the bringer quietly leaving. The notion of how vulnerable they had been made her wince. She tried to remember how much flesh had been exposed to view, even though there was little light. Their scattered clothes told an obvious story too. The tales about the licentiousness of the court and its concubines was bound to run riot. They would be saying that the new mistress couldn’t wait to try out the bed!

Roger seemed equable enough. His chest was vibrating with laughter as he threw off the bedclothes and reached for his shirt and cloak. “There’s no point going downstairs now,” he said. “If it’s as late as my stomach tells me it is, everyone will have eaten long ago and be preparing for bed. We might as well dine in the chamber and make a new start on the morrow. What have they left for us? I’m ravenous!” He came around to her side of the bed and picked up the tray. As well as the cheese into which Ida had squelched, there was a bowl of pale butter, some fresh bread, small roasted birds, and a dish of raisins. His stomach growled. “Come,” he said to Ida, “you need feeding up. If you are not ravenous too, you ought to be.”

He took the tray to the hearth and set it down on the bench there. Whistling, he revived the fire with a pair of bellows, cut the bread, and set about toasting it on some wrought-iron prongs. Ida donned her own cloak and followed him. Taking her place on the bench by the fire, she felt the warmth of the flames flickering through her body, or perhaps it was the warmth of the moment—Roger’s smile, the intimacy of taking their first meal at Framlingham alone together. Now she had recovered from her embarrassment, she was prepared to enjoy herself. She was indeed hungry and for the first time in several weeks. The combination of fretting over the loss of her son and preparing for her marriage had taken its toll on her appetite, as had the wedding itself and the immediate aftermath: dealing with the guests and not only finding but keeping her feet. Now, when Roger passed her a hunk of toasted bread, dripping in melted butter, she bit into it, relishing the crispness of the crumb, the softer interior, and the sweet-saltiness of the liquefying butter. She had never tasted anything so good and said so.

“I learned the art on campaign. Sometimes there is only bread to eat and half stale at that. This makes even the worst horsebread taste decent. Wait…you’ve got…” He tilted up her face and thumbed a drip of butter from her cheek. She reciprocated by taking his thumb and licking off the butter whilst giving him a sultry look, and watched his eyes grow smoky. Her body tingled.

Roger gave a husky laugh and gestured. “Eat,” he said. “If we continue like this, we’re going to starve.”

Ida made a face at him, but turned to pour a cup of wine to share along with the bread. Their meal became a game of feeding each other, both nurturing and suggestive. Ida was curled in his lap, exchanging raisins for kisses when their love play was interrupted.

“Mama?” A child’s bewildered voice came from the doorway. “Mama, where are you?”

Ida sat up and looked round. Roger had been stroking her breasts with teasing delicacy and was half hard against the cleft of her buttocks. She closed her cloak around her unlaced chemise and, leaving him to make himself decent, went to the door. The infant was a little boy not much older than her William and the look of panic in his large eyes sent a pang of longing and sympathy through Ida. She knelt to his level. “Child, your mother isn’t here,” she said. “But I’m sure she cannot be far away. Is she in the hall?”

The little boy shook his head. “I can’t find her.” He knuckled his eyes.

Ida swallowed. She tried not to think of William saying the same thing about her—wandering a dark corridor lost and alone. What if no one comforted him? “Come, she can’t be far away.” Taking the cold little hand in hers, she went to call out on the stairs.

A flustered Roese Pincerna hurried up to them, and sweeping the child into her arms, kissed his face. “Robert! I told you not to wander off! I told you not to come up here!”

The infant buried his face against the woman’s neck. Ida looked at his leg tucked around her hip, at the scuffed little shoe, so like the one locked away in her decorated box. “Is he yours?”

“Yes, my lady. I am sorry. I told him to stay with his big sister but she was too busy with her playmates to see him leave his bed and wander off.” She glanced into the room. “Is everything well?”