For the King's Favor (2 page)

Roger didn’t suppose it would change his own orders except to make them more urgent. Leicester would have to move imminently if he was going to secure his castle.

Anketil gestured towards the scabbard. “Saw your brother wearing it this morning in chapel,” he said. “It didn’t suit him.”

“He won’t have the opportunity again.” Suddenly Roger’s mind was clear and the decision so easy it was like throwing away a piece of used, scratched parchment and drawing forward a fresh, clean sheet, unmarked by the pricking tool. “Assemble the men,” he commanded. “Tell them to sharpen their swords and ready their equipment. Make sure the horses are well shod and that everyone has arms and provisions sufficient to his needs.” As he gave the order, he felt as if something that had been crushed and packed down into a tight corner was expanding, rising, filling with light and air.

Anketil eyed him keenly. “Where are we going?”

“The abbey at Edmundsbury,” Roger said with a mordant smile. “Where else?”

Abbey of Saint Edmund, Suffolk, October 1173

In the guest house at the abbey of Saint Edmund, Roger bowed his head and knelt to his maternal uncle, Aubrey de Vere, Earl of Oxford, and to Richard de Luci, justiciar of England. “I offer myself in the King’s service,” he said, “and I yield to his will.”

De Luci, a hardbitten warrior and statesman whose loyalty to King Henry was unshakeable, studied Roger dispassionately. “Be welcome,” he said. “The more we have to swell our numbers the better.” He gestured Roger to rise and take a seat before the hearth. A chill wind rattled the shutters and whistled under the door, making Roger very glad of his fur-lined cloak. The abbey grounds swarmed with the troops of the royalist army, their tents a patched and campaign-worn village of canvas. The commanders and their knights were preparing to bed down in the guest hall and sundry chambers—wherever there was space for a man to roll himself in his cloak. The town and abbey precincts were already bristling with refugees, driven from their homes by the depredations of Leicester’s Flemings and huddling in what shelter they could find. Many of the displaced had grim stories to tell of pillage, murder, and rape. Roger tried not to think of how close he had come to adding more of the same to their tally and prayed for forgiveness and God’s guidance to do the right thing.

De Luci sat down beside him. “In truth, I am surprised to see the heir of Hugh Bigod in my camp,” he said. “What brings you here to us?”

Roger leaned towards the fire and folded his hands between his knees. He rubbed his thumb over the bandage and felt the pain spark. “If you want the simple truth, I am here because of my father.”

De Luci raised his brows and glanced at de Vere.

“Your father?” De Vere’s hawkish features creased in puzzlement.

“I didn’t want to follow his path,” Roger said. “All my life I have striven to obey him and do my duty as a son, but when he asked me to raid the lands of Saint Edmund, I realised I could follow him no further without damning my soul.”

De Luci gave him a hard stare. “How do we know this is not a ploy hatched by your father to ensure the Earl of Norfolk has a foot in each camp?”

“You do not, my lord, apart from my word of honour.”

“Which is not the same as your father’s word of honour,” his uncle remarked sardonically. “Men shake his hand and then check to see that the rings are still on their fingers.”

“No, my lord, it isn’t.” Roger was too intent and serious to respond to his uncle’s acerbic humour. “He sent me to raid the abbey’s lands and I came to you instead.” His mouth twisted. “I won’t return to him whatever happens; that part of my life is finished.”

De Vere and de Luci exchanged glances again. His uncle signalled a squire to pour wine for Roger. “How many men does Leicester have with him?”

“Skilled, or rabble, my lord?”

“All told.”

Roger took the cup and gave them the information they desired. It wasn’t betrayal. It was strategy and proof of good intent. “They outnumber you four to one, but from what I have seen, your men are better organised and equipped.”

De Luci pinched his upper lip and gave Roger a considering look. “Come with me,” he said.

Alert with tension, Roger followed him from the guest hall and into the great abbey church of Saint Edmund. The smell of incense fragranced the air and the encroaching night was illuminated by the soft glow of lamps and islands of clustered candlelight leading the way down the massive nave. Beyond the choir at the eastern end of the great church stood the shrine of Saint Edmund, the Christian East Anglian King, martyred by the Danes three hundred years ago. A gabled canopy embellished with panels of beaten silver and coruscating with precious stones covered the tomb and reflected the light from candles and altar lamps as if the surface of the metal was running water upon a bed of jewelled pebbles. Standing in a filigreed socket at the side of the saint’s tomb was a banner, its saffron silk gleaming in the light from the altar lamp. Gold and red tassels hung from the tabs attaching it to its pole and embroidered in the centre of the silk was a red crown, pierced by arrows.

“This is the standard of the ancient rulers of this land,” de Luci said. “Edmundsbury was once their seat, as you must know. Your uncle was intending to bear this banner into battle, but perhaps he can be prevailed upon to relinquish the responsibility to another of his kin.”

Roger’s hair prickled at his nape and rose on his wrists. He flickered a glance at de Luci, but there was no censure in the justiciar’s eyes, no contempt or preemptive expectation of failure. “My lord, I will willingly bear it in his stead—if you and he will permit it.”

De Luci clapped a firm hand on Roger’s shoulder. “It is for the saint to decide. But since you are here before his shrine, and not robbing his lands at the point of a sword, I would say he has already spoken.”

Roger stared at the banner. Gold filaments on the top tassel caught in a movement of air and gently wafted. “My lord, I beg leave to pray.”

De Luci nodded. “As you wish. When you are ready, seek me out.” He left, the soles of his shoes making no sound on the chapel floor. Roger breathed deeply, inhaling the scents of the church, seeking spiritual calm. His father had scorned Roger’s need for moments like this, alone with God. He said that lingering in churches was for monks, foolish women, and men with addled pates, but Roger valued the time in which to be tranquil, to set all in order with his maker, and to gather mental strength. His opinion of what addled a man’s pate had never been the same as his father’s.

He closed his eyes and, as he prayed, the darkness behind his lids yielded to the image of the banner surging in a stiff breeze and his hand gripping the shaft. Beyond it he could see Framlingham ringed by flames. Further back still, and scarcely glimpsed, new towers rose out of the ashes and he could not tell if the red and gold dancing along the battlements was his family’s banner, or the destruction of fire.

***

Gundreda, Countess of Norfolk, watched her husband making final preparations to leave with Leicester’s army, and knew she had to act, because this might be her last opportunity. He was well past seventy years old, even if he was still hale and strong. There was no certainty he would return from this foray. She knew from the way he was stamping about with a complexion as red as a boiled crab’s that she was chancing his temper, but a slap or a kick was a risk she would have to take if she was going to secure her sons’ inheritance.

“I knew Roger would do this to you,” she said. “You’ve never been able to rely on him and now he has proven his worth by turning traitor.” She studied him from beneath her lids to gauge his response. On receiving the news that instead of raiding the lands of Saint Edmund’s abbey Roger had taken a contingent of knights and serjeants loyal to him and declared for King Henry, Hugh had swiped all the silver cups off the sideboard, torn down a hanging, and smashed a footstool against the wall.

He glowered at her. “Why should you put your oar to rowing the boat, woman? He’s the misbegotten son of a whore; I already know that without you telling me.” He put his foot up on a coffer to tighten the fastening on one of his spurs.

Gundreda folded her hands in her lap and looked at them rather than at him, so she would not appear too assertive. He only liked assertiveness if he could beat it down and dominate it. “Because, husband, if he is the things you say, he should not be your heir. You have two loyal sons at home who are worth twice his mettle, and they do not defy you.”

He finished the adjustment to his spur and stood straight again, short legs planted wide in a dominant pose. The first time Gundreda had laid eyes on him, she had been reminded of a stocky bull-baiting dog, and the years had exaggerated the characteristics, even down to the pendulous jowls. “I will decide who inherits what,” he growled. “I’ll not have you meddling.”

“No, my lord, but might it not be wise to settle the matter before you leave?”

“Lest I die?” He curled his lip at her and sour amusement gleamed in his eyes.

“It would do no harm to state the terms of your will, so that all can be sure. Do you really want to see Roger follow you as Earl of Norfolk? He tried to kill our son in the chapel over nothing—a boy’s prank.”

He arched a shaggy eyebrow. “Indeed, but that begs the question: why should I bequeath my earldom to a callow youth who cannot hold his own?”

Gundreda dug her fingernails into her palms, knowing he was deliberately baiting her. She also knew that making him think about anyone being Earl of Norfolk other than himself was akin to pushing a boulder-laden cart uphill. “I am saying you should not leave it to someone who has failed and betrayed you. You annulled the marriage to his mother.” She gave him a sly, hopeful look. “A court of law might consider him a bastard.”

Hugh laughed as he picked up his cloak. “You are optimistic, woman. Juliana’s the sister of the Earl of Oxford and the daughter of a de Clare. Even a room full of gold wouldn’t be enough to sway a lawyer in that direction.”

“But…”

“I’ll think about it when I return,” he dismissed. “Now do your duty and come and see us on the road.”

Gundreda struggled to hold down her frustration and impatience. She too wanted to scream and hurl a stool against the wall because she hated being trapped and powerless, a victim of his whim. She followed him from the room with clenched fists.

Her eldest son was waiting in the ward for his father, whom he was accompanying as a squire. The sight of him wearing a padded tunic, a long dagger at his hip, made her quail with fear. The beard he had recently begun cultivating edged his jaw in a sparse, soft fuzz. She was afraid for him but dared not show it, and she was ambitious too. If she had her way, he and not that faithless runt Roger would be the next Earl of Norfolk. Gundreda embraced him, but he stiffened and drew back, far too full of masculine hubris to permit such a display in public. The lines between his brows mirrored his father’s and would one day be fixed in his flesh as a permanent brand of paternal heritage. Abruptly he turned from her to his horse and mounted up, putting himself safely above her.

Petronilla of Leicester set her foot in the stirrup and swung astride like a man. The full skirts of her gown allowed her such leeway and she was wearing men’s hose and braies beneath. Gundreda was shocked at such brazen behaviour. At least she knew how to behave in a manner befitting her sex and status.

As Petronilla collected her reins and turned her horse, a large sapphire ring flashed on her middle finger. She had been flaunting it under everyone’s nose throughout her overstayed welcome at Framlingham and Gundreda hoped with vehemence that she’d lose it.

As the last baggage cart rumbled out of the bailey, stacked with barrels of arrows, hides, nails, coils of chain, snakes of rope, and lengths of timber, Gundreda heaved a sigh of relief. Signalling the porter to shut the gates, she began chivvying the servants into clearing up the detritus left by their “guests.” Her younger son Will stood rumpling his hair and gazing after the baggage train until the sight was cut off by the closing gates.

“There’s no use moping,” Gundreda snapped. “You are too young.”

Will shrugged his shoulders. “I’m not moping,” he said. “I was just thinking it might be peaceful for a while.”

Gundreda said nothing but her expression grew hard with discontent. While she didn’t want both her sons riding off to war, Will’s lazy preference for the easy life was a source of irritation and concern. “It does not mean that work stops,” she snapped. “Do not think this is an excuse to shirk your obligations. Indeed, with your father and brother gone, you’ll have more to do.”

“Yes, Mother,” he said in a bland voice.

Frustratingly, Gundreda could not tell if he was acknowledging his duty, or merely paying lip service in order to escape. Will was like a soft, down-filled cushion. No matter how much you hit it, you never made a lasting impression.

***

The wind sweeping across the North Sea from Flanders was a bitter leaf-stripping gale with an edge that brought an ache to the jaw and teared the eyes. An hour since the scouts had reported that Leicester’s army was approaching the river crossing to the north of the abbey and they were at least eight thousand strong. As Roger had told de Luci, Leicester’s force outnumbered theirs four to one, but the bulk of the troop consisted of hired Flemings, few of whom were skilled with weapons.

Roger gathered the reins at Sorel’s neck and set his foot to the stirrup. He had confessed his sins and received absolution. He was calm, determined, and prepared. He knew what he had to do, both for himself and the men depending on him.

His uncle, fully armed in hauberk and helm, handed up to him the banner of Saint Edmund. Earlier, Prior Robert had formally presented it to Roger in church with his blessing. Now the responsibility was his alone and the knowledge was strength rather than a burden as he untied the binding cord and unfurled the tasselled silk to let the red and gold colours snap in the wind.

“The scouts say your father is riding with the Earl of Leicester,” his uncle commented without inflection.

“He has chosen his path and I have chosen mine,” Roger replied, matching the other man’s impassivity.

“And if they meet?”

“Then he may do as he pleases, but I won’t back down.”

His uncle studied him closely, and whatever he saw satisfied him for he gave a brusque nod. “Indeed, nephew, today will tell who is the stronger man.”

“I hope I am, sire.” Mouth hard with resolution, Roger fastened his ventail to protect his lower face.

His uncle turned to his stallion. “That is not enough,” he said. “You must know you are. They mustn’t cross the bridge. We have to stop them here and drive them into the marshes.”

Roger’s voice emerged muffled by leather and mail. “They won’t prevail, sire.”

“God help us all if they do. De Bohun’s going forward with the knights. My lord de Luci wants you to take that standard and lead out with the heralds.”

Roger’s chest swelled with pride and apprehension. He gripped the haft of the banner of Saint Edmund and heeled Sorel in the direction of de Bohun’s contingent, which consisted of three hundred knights in full mail on well-equipped warhorses. There were serjeants too with armour of leather and padded linen, and mounts of lesser quality. Here and there Roger saw footsoldiers armed with old-fashioned English round shields that had probably been handed down father to son through several generations and stored away in the rafters for eventualities such as this one. The weapons among the local militia were of the to-hand variety: wolf spears, slings, scythes, and pitchforks.