For the King's Favor (26 page)

He brought her to the solar where his chamberlain had set out food and drink. He decided he would not tell her that Henry had died alone and that his servants had stripped the room of its hangings and furnishings, even going so far as to steal the covers from the bed, leaving the King’s naked, death-stained body in open, squalorous view. With her soft heart and the history she had with Henry, he knew how vulnerable she would be to such images. He had no love for the King, but they had certainly made him recoil when he learned of what had happened. Instead he told her that Henry had been buried at Fontevrault by the knights of his household with all due ceremony and that Richard had been present to see him interred.

“Richard will not be in England until August at the earliest and he still intends to go on crusade,” he said, sitting down on a bench. “He’s sent orders to have the Queen released from house arrest though,and I have no doubt she’ll be taking an active part in helping him rule straight away. I saw a copy of the writs yesterday.”

“Did he…did he say anything about what was going to happen to…to William?”

Roger had known she would ask and that it would be uppermost in her mind. It didn’t matter how much he gave her, including other sons and daughters, she still fretted over the one she could not have. “I do not think such a matter was his first thought,” he said, “but they share the same father and Richard knows the value of blood ties that are close but pose no threat. Life will change little for such dependants. When Richard comes to England, I will find out what he intends.”

The gratitude in her eyes irritated him and made him feel guilty too. He had offered. How else did he expect her to respond?

“All I want to know is that he is cared for and cared about.” Her voice trembled at the edges.

“I do not doubt he will be,” he said with a note of finality in his voice and steered the conversation elsewhere. “I have good news amongst the graver tidings. We are invited to a wedding tomorrow—if you are well.”

Ida lifted her head. “A wedding?” The brightness in her tone was forced, but she was making an effort.

“It looks as if you have been saved from eating your embroidery after all,” he said with dry humour. “William Marshal is to wed Isabelle de Clare in Saint Paul’s.”

The warmth of a genuine smile overlaid the sadness in her eyes. “Even if I have to be borne in a litter I will gladly bear witness to that!” She gave him a triumphant look. “I told you, did I not?”

“You did indeed, my love.”

“I suppose he is borrowing horses again,” she said mischievously.

Roger grinned at her. “Naturally. In fact, I bought him a palfrey for the lady Isabelle as a wedding gift. It saved him searching Smithfield for one and took a task off his hands. He’s looking for scribes and administrators too, so I’ve been making enquiries on his behalf at Westminster.”

“It had nothing to do with your own interest in searching Smithfield for a likely beast, or finding him men for his household who will be grateful to you as well as to him.”

Roger acknowledged to himself that his wife was as sharp as a pin, and it made him smile. “That is an advantage,” he agreed.

Ida looked thoughtful as she sipped a cup of wine and nibbled on a piece of bread. “So William Marshal is to be lord of Striguil and husband to Isabelle de Clare.”

“Yes, and by Richard’s order. Henry had promised him the girl and died still promising, but Richard gave the Marshal his goodwill and sent him straight away to England with royal business and a writ to be wed.”

Ida looked sad. “Henry often made promises and didn’t keep them,” she said. “He would say he was thinking about them and waiting the right time, but it was never the right time.” She gave Roger a bleak smile. “I know you think I am grieving when I should not, but I have made my peace with the news and said my prayers. If there are matters that remain to be dealt with, they are for the living, not the dead.” She put her head up resolutely and changed the subject. “Since you have gifted William Marshal with a horse, I would like to give him and his new bride a present too.”

“You have something in mind?”

“A cradle,” she said. “I know how much it meant to me when you had that one made for our children. Neither of them will have such a thing in their possession. He will have had no need and he’s a younger son. Isabelle de Clare has been kept as the King’s ward in the Tower and whatever she has in her family will be far away across the Irish Sea.”

Roger’s lips twitched. “Are you not being forward?”

She shook her head. “Did you not see his hunger when he set out to serve Henry? He wants a wife and a family. He needs to plant roots. He is the same age as you but has wandered all his life—and that is no longer his desire.”

Roger conceded the point with a mute nod.

She warmed to her theme. “You have a wife and four children already; you have lands and somewhere to call home. He envies you that. I believe she will be content with him. Like you, he is honourable. Her first duty to him will be to give him heirs, but as lady of Leinster she must give heirs to her own bloodline. A cradle will be a gift appreciated for what it says without words.”

“I believe you,” Roger said, holding up his hands and laughing. “It is a thing of a woman’s perceiving, but in such matters, I admit, women are usually right and men should do as they are bidden.”

***

The sun had set over London and bats flitted and dived against a sky of turquoise and night-blue spangled with stars. The wedding feast of William Marshal and Isabelle de Clare was being held at the house of wealthy London merchant Robert FitzReinier, who had made shrift to organise a fine celebration at very short notice for the new lord of Striguil and his heiress bride, and provide them with housing and hospitality for the first night of their marriage.

Trestles had been set up in the orchard and covered with white linen cloths. Lanterns twinkled in the apple and pear trees and jewel-eyed moths fluttered pale wings around the beguilement of deadly light. The fresh green scent of crushed grass filled the air and there was laughter, music, and singing. FitzReinier had found an Irish bard who played the harp with angelic wildness and sang in the language of his homeland to honour the bride’s heritage. And for those who thought the tongue outlandish, the notion that Isabelle de Clare’s mother was a princess of that land added a romantic element that entirely complemented the atmosphere in FitzReinier’s garth.

Returning from an essential visit to the latrine, feeling light-headed from the effervescent wine, Roger sought Ida among the revellers and smiled when he saw her engrossed in talk with several other women. Her training at court and her own natural warmth made her excellent at socialising with others and garnering snippets of useful information amidst the general chatter.

The bridegroom quietly joined him and, folding his arms, leaned against a tree. William was smiling and seemed at ease, but then Roger had never known him not to have the measure of any situation, and that plainly included his own wedding. The bride, a vision in rose-coloured silk, had been claimed by some of the guests, although, in mid-conversation, she raised her head to glance at William and they exchanged a look of mutual acknowledgement.

“I want to thank you again for your gifts,” William said. “They were very…thoughtful.”

Roger rubbed the back of his neck. “You can blame Ida for the cradle.”

William chuckled softly. “Your wife is a woman of great warmth and intuition,” he said. “Perhaps, if God is good and her gift prophetic, we can someday talk about a closer alliance between Bigod and Marshal.”

“I would welcome that,” Roger replied, “and not just because of mutual goals.”

William gave him an astute look. “I know when to hold my silence and when to speak; you know that of me, I think?”

“Indeed, you have a reputation for discretion.” Roger inclined his head.

“As do you. When King Richard comes to England, he will have much business to settle. The matter of your father’s earldom has been neglected for too long.”

Roger sucked in his breath. “You think, or you know?”

“I do know the new King will be making appointments to men he believes will be steadfast in his absence on crusade.” William looked down over his folded arms. “It goes without saying that the coffers for that crusade are wide open for all donations.”

Roger did not allow himself to feel more than a twinge of excitement. “Richard does not know me,” he said cautiously, “or not beyond a few casual meetings at court. His father preferred to keep the third penny and the revenues from my disputed lands in his coffers.”

“That is true, but I know Richard, and he knows me and trusts my judgement. It doesn’t hurt matters either that your wife is mother to the King’s half-brother. Richard will look after his kin.”

Roger managed to remain equable at the mention of Ida’s first child. With Henry dead, the way was open for more contact and he must come to terms with it. “I leave it to your discretion, my lord, and I give you my thanks.”

“I make no promises, but I will do all I can. You have helped me many times in the past, and I will be glad to repay the debt.” Bowing to Roger, William excused himself to go to his bride.

The sky was a full, deep indigo by the time the newlyweds were escorted to their chamber amid toasts of goodwill and numerous bawdy but well-intentioned jests, and blessings both secular and episcopal. For those who had not yet drunk or danced their fill, the celebrations continued in the garth by the light of stars and lanterns. Roger sat on a bench in the warm garden, sipping a last cup of wine and enjoying the nocturnal scents. Ida joined him and, leaning against his shoulder, rubbed her index finger along his lower forearm where he had pushed back his tunic sleeves and the hair sprang in glinting filaments. In the background, the shutters were open on William and Isabelle’s chamber but there was no sound.

Roger shifted so that he could set his arm around Ida’s shoulders. “The Marshal says there is a good chance Richard will restore the earldom to me—to us. He’s going to speak to him and do what he can.”

She ceased her stroking and looked at him.

“There’s many a slip,” he said, “and the whims of kings are not to be trusted, but I do trust William.” He gave her a gentle squeeze. “Perhaps you will have a gown of cloth of gold after all and the title of countess.”

She laced his fingers through hers. “More than anything I want my husband to be recognised,” she said. “I want you to receive what you have worked for for so long. I know William Marshal has toiled for his reward, but so have you, yet only to stand still.”

“That is because nothing could truly change while Henry lived. There was too much old and bad history between him and my father. I was never going to receive the earldom back from him.”

Ida was silent for a time, but continued to play gently with their linked fingers. Then she raised her head and said in a voice hoarse with emotion, “Orchards have always been good places for us, have they not?”

He touched the side of her face tenderly. “The best,” he answered, and thought that William was not the only fortunate man in the world tonight.

***

William FitzRoy sat on his bed feeling numb. His father was dead. Everywhere the church bells had tolled his passing and masses were being said for his soul. William had played his part, spoken the words, observed the customs, doing his best for his father, fulfilling his duty and living up to the high standards expected of the son of a king. But now, in the lull following all the ceremonies and rituals, he had time to think and all the uncertainties were crowding in upon him. He had been assured that his half-brother Richard would take care of him and that his future was secure even though his father had left him nothing in his will. The household would continue to function as before with a few minor adjustments. He would receive his tutoring and training as if there had been no interruption. But even so, there was a gulf beneath his feet. His father was dead and he still did not know who his mother was.

One of the laundry maids was called Ida and he had worried himself sick thinking she had given birth to him, because she was bad-tempered and coarse and spoke with a broad Flemish accent. How could his father have lain with her? But if she was his mother, why hadn’t she said something? It was a matter he dared not broach to anyone and it preyed on him, eating him alive, the more so now that his father was dead.

“How now, child, what are you doing here alone?”

He looked up to see Hodierna standing over him. She had apparently been wet nurse to the new King Richard when he was a baby. It was hard for him to imagine, because her hair was grey, there were whiskers sprouting on her chin, and her skin was as wizened as an overwintered apple, whereas all the wet nurses he had seen were young and full-bosomed. He had never run to Hodierna out of choice, but she was kindly enough and had a way of knowing things that some of the younger ones didn’t, for all that they smelled nicer and were more huggable. “Thinking,” he told her.

“About your father?”

He nodded and picked at a snagged thread on the knee of his hose. Then he shook his head. “About my mother,” he said.

“Ah.” Hodierna folded her arms.

He waited for her to go away. That’s what the women usually did if the subject matter entered dangerous territory. When she remained where she was, looking down at him, he drew a deep breath. “No one will tell me who she is.”

“Did you ever speak to your father about this, child?”

William pushed his hair out of his eyes. “He said her name was Ida and she was a good woman, but that’s all. Now he’s dead and I can’t ask him again.”

Hodierna looked round as if seeking support, and he saw her feet shift as if she was going to walk away after all.

“I need to know,” he said fiercely, willing her with all his being to stay.

She pursed her lips and studied him; then, sighing, sat down at his side. “Your mother is the lady Ida, wife to Roger Bigod, lord of Framlingham. She was your father’s mistress a long time ago.”

William’s heart was pounding and his hands were slick with cold sweat. He thought he might have seen her on occasion, but he had paid scant notice because back then he had not known. Had she looked at him any differently to the other women? Paid attention? Or had he been nothing to her? A stray pup that should have been drowned in a barrel?