For the King's Favor (25 page)

William sipped the full Gascon red with appreciation. “I may be envious of you for a very long time, my lord,” he said wryly. “Before I can claim the lady de Châteauroux as my bride, I have to help the King take back her castle from the French. And then I have to hold on to it, which is scarcely how a man wants to spend his honeymoon. As the situation stands, Châteauroux might never be retaken and the King of France has knights aplenty who will leap at the chance to comfort its chatelaine in wedlock.”

Roger gave him a shrewd look. “But you are going there anyway?”

William twitched his shoulders. “The King has commanded and he has made an offer. Had I stayed in the North, what would I have done beyond count sheep and grow fat?” He opened his hand towards Roger. “Besides, with a proposal like that on the trestle, there are likely to be other pickings too.”

Roger rubbed a forefinger up and down his cheek and said nothing, although his air was one of thoughtful agreement. The expedition to the Holy Land was still being planned and the taxes to fund it were slowly dribbling into the coffers. Henry had taken the cross in January, but his continuing dispute with the King of France, also under oath to free Jerusalem, had kept both sovereigns preoccupied. Until the matter of Châteauroux was resolved one way or another, there would be no army for Outremer. William Marshal had been summoned away from his business in Kendal to help Henry in France and that call had been baited with hints of rewards for loyal men above and beyond what had already been offered.

“I am going to need more horses,” William said. “I have my own stud at Cartmel now, but these are early days and I need animals to take on campaign. I was wondering if you had beasts to spare.”

Roger was irritably amused. The Marshal seemed to think he had an endless supply of the creatures. “The King has me busy at the exchequer, but I still owe him forty days of military service and I need good horses and sumpters myself, but I will give you a writ to take to the master of my stud at Montfiquet. That will save the expense and difficulty of shipping the horses across the Narrow Sea.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

Roger exhaled down his nose. “If you do become lord of Châteauroux through marriage, I will expect to be remembered.”

William inclined his head. “If I can ever do you a favour, my lord, I will.”

When the meal was finished, Roger called for ink and parchment and wrote the letter of authorisation himself. Although William was a good friend and Roger would have granted the boon anyway, he was shrewd enough to see that William’s star was rising and that being generous now might pay for itself in the future—although naturally, everything in life involved an element of risk.

He became aware that William was watching his firm, deft pen strokes with a wistful eye.

“I envy your skill,” William said. “I have to rely on scribes.”

Roger paused to dip his quill in the ink horn then wrote again, swiftly and neatly. “It was one of the few things my parents agreed upon: my education. My father said that if a man could write his own hand, he need not be at the mercy of scribes for his private affairs, and they both saw it as another string to the bow when it came to climbing fortune’s ladder.”

William looked wry. “Mine agreed upon it too,” he said, “but by the time my brother Henry was writing the creed in Latin at six years old, and I at thirteen could barely manage my name, they realised it was never going to be. It could neither be beaten nor reasoned into me. It’s a nuisance, I admit. I have to trust to my memory.”

“A sharp wit is just as much use as a sharp pen.” Roger reached for the sealing wax. “It doesn’t seem to have impeded your progress thus far.”

“I haven’t allowed it to, but still, it would be useful.”

His meal finished, the writ stored in his travelling satchel, William took his leave, his last act a gentle tousling of Hugh’s blond curls.

“Denise de Châteauroux,” Ida said as she and Roger turned to go back inside the house.

“Good fortune to him,” Roger replied, “although knowing the King, it’ll be more word than deed.”

“I think he is hoping it is more word,” Ida said thoughtfully.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning he will negotiate for what he really wants. He has his mind set elsewhere, I think.”

Roger gave his wife a quizzical smile. Women had a way of burrowing under the surface as if what they saw on top wasn’t as satisfying as the things awaiting discovery beneath. It was sometimes awkward when they made emotional demands based on their delving—uncomfortable too, but such occasions were recompensed by moments of clarity that exposed areas where a man would not have thought to look.

Ida shook her head and laughed at his puzzlement. “He no more wants Denise de Châteauroux than he wants Heloise of Kendal.”

He looked blank and Ida laughed harder. “Oh, husband! I will eat my embroidery if he does not ask Henry for Isabelle de Clare.”

Roger blinked at her, momentarily dazzled by the revelation. Then he gave a snort of amusement. “Then I hope for the sake of your digestion you are right, but I cannot tell from where you glean that idea!”

Ida spread the fingers of her right hand to tick off the points. “He has had two years in which to wed Heloise of Kendal and he hasn’t. He also said there might be other offers on the table, which he wouldn’t have done had he been focused only on Denise de Châteauroux. And the de Clare lands are closer to home.”

“Ireland isn’t,” Roger pointed out.

“No, but the rest are: the Welsh Marches and Normandy. And he has more chance of holding on to them.”

He pinched his upper lip. “I suppose you might be right. If Henry has offered him Châteauroux, then it’s just as likely he will offer him the de Clare lands. Whichever, it will make of him a great man…that is if the King holds to his word. Promises are nothing unless they are kept.”

She dropped her gaze and he sensed some of the brightness leave her. Henry had that effect; his presence was like a small, dark cloud over their lives—all the time.

Roger sighed. “I suppose I’d better return to my duties. I’ve work to do.” He cast an involuntary glance in the direction William had taken. It might not be so bad to be on the road to Châteauroux with the spring burgeoning all around and the sap rising in one’s veins even as it rose in branch and stem and blade of grass.

“Must you?” Ida gave him a glance both sulky and sultry.

“Yes, I must.”

“Straight away?” She toyed with the brooch at the throat of her gown and then touched her neck. He saw the flush on her cheek, the gleam in her eyes.

Warmth flooded through him at the message in her voice and her look. He did have work to do—a mountain of it—but gazing at Ida, thinking of their bedchamber, imagining the clean scent of the bed linen, the soft spring light on her skin, her dark hair unbound and shining, the delicate responsiveness of her body, then contrasting it with the piles of tallies and parchments awaiting his attention at Westminster, musty and stultifying, he found himself yielding to persuasion. He could as well work tonight as this afternoon, and let Henry pay for the candles.

“No,” he said, kissing her neck and stopping a moment in the porch to pull her close. “Not straight away.”

***

As a treat, William FitzRoy had been allowed to spend time in his father’s chamber rather than being bundled off to bed with the other boys of the household. On the morrow, he was to return to England in the company of a group of messengers and clerics as his father advanced on Châteauroux.

William loved being at court, especially now that he had the duties of a page. They mostly involved fetching, carrying, and running messages, as well as some serving at table. He was absorbing all the rituals involved, all the flourishes and graces. His father didn’t seem to set much store by such behaviour, indeed seldom even sat down to eat a meal, but even so, all eyes followed him when he entered a room, because his presence was so invigorating and because he was the King. William would have been content to continue to travel in his retinue, but in this, his first season as a page, it was deemed he had experienced enough and should return to the safety of England to continue his education.

William had been playing merels with one of the older boys, but seeing that his father was momentarily without companions and actually sitting still, he left his game and approached him.

Henry appraised him out of bloodshot grey eyes. He was holding a cup loosely in his right hand and there were several shallow cuts inflicted by the talons of his hawk because he had omitted to wear his gauntlet again. “Are you ready for your journey tomorrow, lad? All your baggage packed?”

William nodded. “Yes, sire.”

Henry grunted. “I’d like to bring you with me, but it wouldn’t be wise. You’re better off in England at your studies until I return, hmm?”

William nodded again, although he didn’t entirely agree. He would have loved to follow the army right up to the walls of Châteauroux.

He gave his father a straight stare. “Can I ask you a question before I leave?”

Henry smiled indulgently and gestured assent. “Ask what you wish.”

William took a deep breath. “Is the lady Jueta my mother?” She had often said she wasn’t but she had the same colour hair as him and he had learned that adults told lies and made sins of omission, even while telling children it was wrong to do so.

A look of astonishment crossed his father’s face, followed by a bark of rusty laughter. “What put that notion into your head, child?”

“Because she looked after me.” William jutted his chin. He didn’t like being laughed at. “Because the other children have mothers, or know who their mothers are. I thought she might be, but it was a secret.”

His father’s expression held tolerant amusement. Pulling William towards him, he tousled his hair. “I think we can safely say that Jueta is not your mother, nor ever had a chance of being.” Henry leaned back to study him. “Your mother’s name was Ida,” he said after a moment, “and she was beautiful.”

William blinked at this sudden revelation, so easily given. The shock was like miscounting steps and falling down on the missing last one. He didn’t know any women called Ida at the court—or none of fitting rank. His father had also said “was.” Did that mean she was dead?

“Of course, you must realise I was not married to her,” his father added, “but in some ways that was better, because you were born from pleasure, not duty, and you are no less to me because of it.”

William swallowed, feeling panic. He knew all about the women of pleasure. He had seen them at court in their gaudy dresses, their long braids twined with silk ribbons, and no decent veil covering their hair. They would allow any man to make the beast with two backs if he had the right price. He could not be born of such a union. It was not what he imagined for himself. “So she was a whore?” he asked and the word made him feel sick.

His father immediately sat forward, shaking his head, and caught his elbow in a fierce grip. “No, my son, no,” he said strongly. “Never think that. She was a good woman and honourable. You must never speak so about her.”

William was a little mollified by the words “good” and “honourable” but there was still a horrid feeling inside of him. “Why is she not here then?” he demanded.

Henry laughed and ruffled his hair again. “Because you are my son, the son of the King. She had other dreams to pursue and other children to make. She had a different path to follow.”

His father’s words made William feel shakier still. The mention of “other children to make” made him feel abandoned and second-best. Why should she leave him to have other children unless there was something wrong with him? Why wasn’t he her dream?

His father was looking at him with an indulgent smile, as if the matter was of no consequence. “You are fortunate,” Henry said. “There are many women who would have dearly loved to have been your mother, believe me.”

But clearly not the one who bore him. She couldn’t be good and honourable if she had gone off and left him. There was a lost angry feeling at his core, and he stood as stiffly as a tree as his father shook his arm. “We men must bond together eh? You’re my son, that’s what really matters, and I acknowledge you as such.”

Hubert Walter, Dean of York, arrived to speak with his father, and Henry released him with a kiss on either cheek. “Go now,” he said. “Past time you were in bed if you’re to be on the road by tomorrow dawn.”

William bowed properly from his father’s presence as he had been taught. He was glad he was too old now for Jueta’s care, and that his training was in the hands of clerics and knights. He didn’t want to look her in the face—or any of the other women who were her accomplices in the conspiracy of silence. Why couldn’t they have told him? He still didn’t know who his mother was, only her name, and it was like a foreign language to him. What was she like? Which part of him was hers? She was in him, but how could he be in her if she had abandoned him? He lay face down on his pallet in the chamber allotted to the pages and squires and buried his head inside his folded arms. He had wanted to know, but now he wished he hadn’t asked because he was even more miserable and confused.

“What’s wrong with you?” Hubert de Burgh, one of the older pages, wanted to know. “You’re not crying, are you?” He was sitting on his own bed mending the toggle on one of his shoes.

“No,” William answered fiercely and compressed his lips. His eyes were stinging and his throat was tight, but he swallowed down his emotion. He was the son of a king who ruled lands from the borders of Scotland to the Pyrenean mountains—places he had not seen but about which his tutor had told him. His father was a sworn crusader too. He would strive to emulate that greatness and make it fill and overrule that other part of him that was hers.

In the morning before he set out, he went to his devotional prayers, but he averted his eyes from the little statuette of the Virgin with the infant Jesus on her lap, when only the day before he had gazed upon it with fervent hunger, desperate for knowledge.

Framlingham, July 1189

Ida stared at the length of braid she was weaving and swore because she had missed a turn in the pattern cycle and now there was a flaw in the red and white design. The mistake throbbed at her and she had to look away because her head was aching and her eyes kept losing focus. She hadn’t felt well all morning.

Pushing the frame aside, leaving her work trestle, she crossed to the window and looked out on the courtyard. Wulfwyn, one of the kitchen women, was feeding the yard hens and, as usual, the big white gander was making a nuisance of itself, lunging its neck and hissing at the other poultry. For some reason Hugh had taken a liking to the thing and had had to be scolded for bringing it into the hall yesterday.

She rubbed her forehead. Unshed rain was making the atmosphere as heavy as a curtain and there was probably going to be a storm. While she wished for a downpour to clear the air, she wanted it to hold off too because it would make the roads boggy and travelling difficult. On the morrow, she was supposed to be taking the family to rejoin Roger who was still at Westminster.

A fractious wail brought her to the cradle. Three-month-old Wilkin was awake and as she leaned over him, a smile broke over his face. His full name was William, so given because it was an important traditional one in Roger’s family, but it sent a pang through Ida because of her firstborn. This new son was dark-haired too, and was going to have brown eyes. Every time she looked, she imagined, and felt bereft. It was like having two pieces of a tally stick or chirograph that were close but didn’t match. Lifting him in her arms, she carried him to the window and looked out. Hugh was playing chase with Marie and their squeals rang around the courtyard. Marguerite, three next month, tried to run after them and keep up but her legs were too short and she kept tripping over her smock. Finally she sat down in the middle of the yard and threw a full-blown tantrum, her face scarlet against her flaxen curls. Her nurse picked her up, tucked her under her arm, and carried her away into the hall.

“Shall I pack your court gown, my lady?”

Ida looked over her shoulder at Bertrice who was holding up a dress of green silk brocade. The act of turning her head sent pain lancing through her skull and her stomach roiled. “Yes, bring it.” She forced herself through her lethargy. “If I leave it behind, I’m sure to need it for some purpose.” Roger might want to entertain guests at their house, or bring her to Westminster.

She hadn’t seen him since early May. Throughout her confinement he had been absent with Henry in Normandy. He had been home for her churching, but needed at Westminster, and had deemed it best for her to stay at Framlingham for another month to regain her strength and allow their new son to grow some more before she made the journey to London. She had filled the time with the duties of a chatelaine, with matters of domesticity and demesne, of motherhood and governance, household and lands, and although her days were full to overflowing, they often felt very empty. It was like a dance performed alone, or with polite strangers, her hand holding thin air where a partner’s hand should be. Ida turned back to the window and briefly pressed her forehead against the cold stone wall and closed her eyes. She wanted to be on the road tomorrow. She couldn’t afford to be ill.

The sound of a horse galloping into the yard made her look up. Edwin, one of their messengers, was dismounting from his blowing courser. The horse was dripping with sweat and trembling and didn’t have the energy to shy as the white gander advanced on man and horse, neck stretched out, honking in defence of his territory. Anxiety swept through her. For Edwin to ride his horse into the ground, the news must be grave. She bade one of her women go down and fetch him to her straight away. Sweet Jesu, what if something had happened to Roger?

Edwin crossed the threshold, came to her, and knelt with head bowed. The stench of hot horse and sweaty man pervaded the room. When he doffed his cap, beads of perspiration rolled off his hair and dripped into the rushes.

Ida braced herself to hear the worst. “What is it?” she demanded. “Tell me.”

“My lady, the King is dead,” Edwin announced. “He had been ailing for some while, but he took his final sickness and died at Chinon a week since. My lord sends you the news from Westminster and bids you hasten to him as soon as you may.”

“Dead?” she repeated faintly, and then again as a voiceless breath.

“Yes, my lady.” Edwin’s chest was still heaving from the exertion of his ride. “He is to be buried at Fontevrault.”

Ida stared at him, feeling numb. There was a leaden sensation under her heart and the world around her grew blurred and monochrome.

“My lady…Madam…” Bertrice’s anxious voice was no more to Ida than the irritation of a buzzing fly.

“Thank you,” she said stiffly to Edwin. “Go and find rest and refreshment.”

“Will you want me to change horses and ride with a reply, my lady?”

She shook her head. “I will speak to my husband myself soon enough.”

The messenger bowed and departed. Ida felt hollow inside, as if the marrow had been sucked from her bones. Barely aware of what she was doing, she made her way to the chapel to pray. Hugh and Marie were chattering to the groom who was rubbing down Edwin’s horse and cooling it off. Hugh was playing with the enamelled red and gold pendants on the gelding’s breast-band. The goose had been penned up, but continued to honk threats from behind its withy enclosure. Ida heard and saw all this with a strange sense of detachment, almost as if the scenes before her eyes were pages from one of Henry’s books.

Entering the chapel, she approached the altar, knelt, and crossed herself, then clasped her fingers around her paternoster beads and prayed for Henry’s soul. The fringe on the silk and gold altar cloth wafted gently but there was no air. She fancied she could feel the heat from the candles in their gilt holders, and the flames seemed to burn her skin. Her eyes were dry and sore. As the memories gathered in her mind, and scalded like molten lead, she wanted to cry. But she couldn’t.

She could see herself at court, moving the footstool at Henry’s command, lifting his leg, making little adjustments for his comfort. Walking down the corridor to his chamber. That first, painful time when she had wanted to die of misery, fear, and embarrassment, and then as she became accustomed, the familiarity that had brought the grace of affection to their exchanges and occasional frissons of pleasure. She thought of the gifts he had given her: the rings, the fabrics, and furs. She remembered him smiling at her innocence and being indulgently amused at the wisdom born of that feature. She thought of him leaning over the cradle, giving his forefinger to their newborn son, a smile of delighted pride softening his features. Now that smile was gone, locked up in a tomb. All that vitality, all that blazing life force. Burned down to the stub and guttered out in a dissipating wisp of smoke.

She pressed her scorching forehead upon her clasped hands. What of their son? He was effectively an orphan now, lacking the protection of either parent. What was going to become of him without his father? The new King would be Richard, Henry’s eldest, of whom she knew nothing, other than that he was pledged to go on crusade and thus would not be keeping a regular court.

Her belly heaved and she knew she was going to vomit. Frantic not to despoil the church, she staggered to the door, wrenched it open, and fell to her knees against the side wall where she was violently sick. Shouting for help, the priest crouched at Ida’s side. A servant went running. Ida shuddered. How could one be hot and frozen at the same time? Her joints ached and her bones felt loose.

Her women arrived and helped her to her chamber where they put her to bed and piled her with blankets while she shivered and burned. They brought her a tisane to settle her stomach and she drank it, but immediately began heaving again.

She was wretchedly ill for most of the night, while flickers of dry lightning turned the sky a strange shade of milky purple and marked in her feverish imagination the passing of a king. Towards dawn, there was a brief interlude of rain. Her throat raw, her stomach aching as if she had been kicked by a mule, Ida fell asleep to the sound of it pattering on the roof and dripping on the eaves. Her dreams were of fire and battle and danger. She heard her firstborn crying for her in a lost, bewildered voice but she couldn’t find him because a thick fog enveloped all. Then Roger called her name and came striding through the miasma, his right hand extended towards her in a gesture of rescue. For a moment, she thought that he was holding a purse filled with gold, but when she looked again, there was nothing. She fixed her gaze on him and said in desperation, “The father of my child is dead.” He returned her stare with the coldness of a judge and replied, “The father of your children still lives.”

Ida woke with a gasp, tears pouring down her face. Bertrice parted the bed curtains and peered into the gloom with worry-filled eyes. “My lady, did you call?”

Ida sat up, wiping her face on the heel of her hand. The dream was still with her in colours more vivid than the ones in this chamber. She had a pounding headache and felt wrung out and as weak as a kitten, but the nausea had gone and she was no longer burning. “Yes,” she said. “Fetch me a little bread and some boiled water. And rose water for washing.”

“Are you feeling better?”

Ida nodded. “A little,” she said, “although I will not ride my horse today. Best if I travel in the wain.”

Bertrice’s stare widened. “You still intend setting out, my lady?”

“I won’t get to London by staying here, will I, and my lord has summoned me.” She could feel her tears drying on her face. Her chemise was rumpled and stank of sweat and sickness. Suddenly she wanted to be out of the bed and in clean raiment and away from all this.

“In the circumstances, madam, I am sure he would understand.”

Ida shook her head stubbornly. “Even so I will go. Make haste.”

As her women washed her and brought clothing from the coffers, the vividness of Ida’s dream faded, although it left an indelible residue. She managed to eat a small piece of bread and forced herself to sip the water even though she was parched. The rain had ceased and the air had freshened a little. It was reasonable enough weather for travel.

Before leaving Framlingham, she returned to the chapel to pray, bringing the older children with her to light candles for Henry’s soul. Biting his lip in concentration, Hugh held the taper steady as he performed his duty. Ida wondered if her firstborn had done the same, but of course, it would have a different meaning for him. To Hugh, it was a solemn obligation, but also manly and exciting. That the King was dead had little meaning to him beyond the performing of a few rituals, but for her other child it meant the loss of his father and all his security.

Ida slept for much of the first day of the journey, this time dreamlessly, and when she woke, she felt light with hunger and emptiness. An important, defining presence had gone from her life and the space where it had dwelt needed to be filled with other, more positive things in order to heal. But finding those things was going to be hard.

***

Roger watched the baggage cart with its red and gold awning turn into the yard of his Friday Street house, drawn by three strong greys in line. He was surprised not to see Ida on her golden mare, for she was a good rider and seldom took to the interior, leaving that for her women and the infants. Hugh was trotting along with the knights and serjeants, his back straight and his posture displaying the ease of a natural horseman. To judge by the expression on his face, he was pretending to be one of the men protecting the wain and the sight made Roger smile with amused pride.

“Papa!” Hugh drew his leg over the saddle, leaped down from his pony, and ran to Roger, then, remembering his manliness and his manners, skidded to a halt and flourished a bow. Roger bowed in return, then laughed and ruffled his heir’s blond curls.

“Ah, it’s good to see you,” he said. “I’ve missed you all. You ride like a true knight already. I see you’ve been practising hard.”

Hugh puffed out his chest and beamed.

“Where are your mother and sisters?”

“In the wain. Mama hasn’t been well, but she’s better now. She was sick when she heard the King was dead.”

Roger absorbed the information with a raised eyebrow but said nothing. Henry’s death had not come as a surprise to him because news had filtered back to Westminster that he was ailing beyond the usual aches and pains. His own emotions had been of release. Finally, the past could be swept out like old straw into the midden pit and a fresh start made. He went to the wain, arriving as an attendant helped Ida down from it. He took the man’s place for the final steps and as he grasped his wife’s hand, studied her face. She was pale and wan, but the look she gave him was glad and she responded with alacrity to his kiss.

“Hugh says you’ve been ill,” he said.

She nodded. “A sick stomach and a fever that lasted a night and a day. Marguerite had it too while we were travelling, but she’s better now.”

The rest of his family emerged from the wain followed by Ida’s women. He kissed his daughters and was surprised at how much the baby had grown since Ida’s churching.

“You received the news?” He turned with her towards the house. Around them, servants bustled, unloading the wain while grooms tended the horses. Hugh had found a branch of kindling and was already engaged in vigorous play with his father’s dogs. Marie skipped to join him, while the nurses took the baby and Marguerite within to settle them down.

“Yes,” Ida said. “I have said prayers for the King’s soul and I have ordered vigils to be kept and masses said.”

Roger noted that her words came swiftly and her voice was breathless. It might be a struggle with tears, but could just as easily be the residue of her illness and the general fluster of arriving. “I have paid for masses too,” he replied. “All should be done with respect and propriety.” Because then it could be settled and left behind.

She didn’t answer, but kept her eyes down and leaned against him as if seeking support.