For the King's Favor (34 page)

Roger frowned at her. “You have a roof over your head; all of our children, by God’s goodness, are strong and whole. Even if we have had to draw in our horns to find funds for the King’s ransom, you lack for nothing.”

“No,” she agreed stiffly. “You are generous, my lord. My desert is caged with filigree.”

“Then what would make you happy?” He began to feel exasperated. The ways of women were impossible. “What do you want?”

“Not to be lonely,” she said. “That was the one thing I had at court that I don’t have now.”

“You have your women, you have the children, and enough ado about the estate to keep you occupied!”

“You don’t see, do you? You have always been content to live within yourself. You don’t—”

The sound of a fanfare cut her off short. Looking towards the window, Roger saw that his men were riding in, and that Hugh had joined them somewhere along the road and was trotting along, straight-backed on his black pony. The lad was talking to Hamo and Oliver and gesturing now and again. A feeling of pride glowed in Roger’s solar plexus and radiated outwards.

Leaning forward, he grasped Ida’s hands in his. “We’ll talk later about this,” he said. “The men will be on us at any moment, and you should be resting.” He touched her cheek. “There are shadows under your eyes. I’ll come back later and we’ll eat alone, the two of us, I promise.” He kissed her cheek and, feeling both guilty and relieved, left the room and went out into the bailey.

***

Ida closed her eyes after he had gone and hugged her midriff. This was not what she wanted, not the way she wanted it to be. Roger was right, she did need to rest. The birth had taken its toll on her resources and she knew she was weepy and out of sorts. Had he sent word ahead she could have prepared herself better. As it was, everything had gone spinning awry like a straw on the flood. She had said things to him that she felt, but the words frightened her with their saying, for it gave them form beyond thought, and once they had substance, who knew what they might become? She should be overjoyed that he was safely returned from Germany and had a moment, however fleeting, to come home, and all she could think of was that he was leaving her again in the morning to go to war.

Amidst this turmoil, the notion of being reunited with her firstborn son gleamed like a jewel. To be able to speak to him and touch him—if only in a limited way. But what if he didn’t want to know her, and how was that first approach going to be managed? It was like reaching for a wonderful dish on a banquet table, knowing full well it might be poisoned, but being prepared to take that risk because without ingesting it, she could not be cured. Therefore she had to have the courage, and if it killed her, then so be it.

She forced herself to straighten up and, rising to her feet, looked out of the window. Roger had emerged from the hall and had his arm around Hugh’s shoulder. He was obviously speaking to him man to man and, even from the distance of this upper storey, she could see Hugh responding to him with a smile and open gestures. Hugh had weathered the absence better than her, but then he had his father’s ability to go inside himself and be content, whereas she did not thrive without tactile personal contact.

She watched Roger say something that made them both laugh before they turned together towards the hall, and the sight pointed up to her even more strongly what had been missing in Roger’s absence. There was a fire in the hearth and it was adequate, but it didn’t blaze with full heat and light without him. How could it?

Nottingham Castle, April 1194

Richard’s senior barons and commanders had seized several houses not far from the gatehouse of Nottingham Castle. Roger stood by the hearth, appreciating the warmth of the fire in one of the dwellings and drinking a cup of ale. Outside, the roosters were crowing to announce an insipid spring dawn to a population already awake and on tenterhooks at the arrival of the substantial royalist force within its enclave.

Thus far the castle gates had remained barred and the constable of the fortress, William de Wenneval, was refusing to open them. Instead, he had sent a message of defiance in the form of arrows, quarrels, and slingshot when the royal army drew up before the walls and had refused to believe that Richard was present in person to conduct the siege. It was a trick, he said, and he would not be duped.

Richard had erected a set of gallows before the walls and had hanged several of the garrison serjeants whom he had caught outside the keep as the army arrived. Their corpses twisted in the strengthening light, heads lolling, hands lashed behind their backs. Richard’s brutal act of warning had called forth a fresh barrage of missiles and invective, but no surrender.

Roger glanced up as the door opened and William Marshal entered. Like Roger, he was clad in his mail shirt and chausses, sword at his right hip, dagger at his left. He was wearing his arming cap, the strings untied, and his face wore its customary expression of relaxed impassivity.

William accepted a cup of ale from Roger’s squire, and, having greeted Roger himself, said, “I have to thank you for speaking up for me, my lord. There are some who were convinced I had turned traitor.”

Roger gestured. “I did what I could, although your own arrival at the King’s side was the best way of silencing those whose tongues were set against you.” He didn’t have to speak Longchamp’s name. The Bishop of Ely had been pushing and pushing for William Marshal to be named amongst those in rebellion against the King. “I knew you were not a traitor.” He gave William a steady look. “I was sorry to hear about the death of your brother. I had known him a long time, God rest his soul.”

“He had been ailing for some while,” William said sombrely. “I tried to dissuade him from his path, but he wouldn’t listen to me.” His mouth curled in an expression that was half-grimace, half-reminiscent smile. “My father held Marlborough for many years and I lived there as a child. I believe my brother had some notion that if he could hold on to it for John, it might be restored to our family, but he misjudged the situation and paid for it, God rest his soul.” He crossed himself and heaved his shoulders as if shifting the weight of a burden. Then he changed the subject. “I heard you have been blessed with another son.”

Roger nodded. “A fine healthy lad, praise God.”

“The Countess is well?”

“Thank you, yes,” Roger forced a smile. “And your own lady?”

“In confinement with our third. Isabelle says it will be a girl this time and I take her word for it. She seems to know. I have an heir for England and an heir for Normandy. It will be useful to have a daughter in the cradle and I can play the doting father.” He cocked his head at Roger. “Useful for marriage alliances too. Have you betrothed either of your girls yet?”

Roger shook his head. “I’m considering suitable candidates. They still have much growing to do, and skills to learn.”

“They will be well taught, I think, and grace any household they join as wives. Your lady is the kindest, most hospitable woman I have ever met.” A smile crinkled William’s eye corners. “Were I to carve her a niche it would be as a provider of warmth and welcome for the weary in need of respite. She is like a lantern at the end of a tiring road.”

Roger looked rueful. The lamp had not been shining brightly on his return from Germany and had dimmed further as he set out to Nottingham. He said wryly, “Perhaps my wife would be better married to an innkeeper. She would see more of me then. Germany was hard on her, and now this siege.” He sighed heavily. “Once we have peace again, I am likely to be on Eyre hearing pleas.”

“Bring her with you,” William suggested. “When you go on your circuits do you not have manors where she can stay and that you can visit for at least two nights in seven and bring guests?”

“Depending on where I am sent, but yes,” Roger said dubiously, thinking of the logistics of transporting his household.

“I make arrangements for Isabelle when I can. Women need such contact and it is good for political purposes too. Men talk more openly when they are lodged in sociable comfort. Besides, I want to spend time with my wife and watch my children grow while I still have the wherewithal to enjoy such pleasures. I find the reward is worth more than double the effort it takes to move one’s household.”

The conversation ended there as the Marshal’s close friend Baldwin de Béthune arrived, lacing up his mail coif even as he put his head round the door. “The King’s armed up and asking for both of you,” he said.

William and Roger drank up in haste and hurried outside. Richard had emerged from his own commandeered dwelling and was gazing at the stout palisade surrounding Nottingham’s outer bailey with a predatory glint in his eyes. A hauberk of light mail covered his body like a silver snakeskin and he was wearing an iron cap that exposed his face. The golden leopards of England rippled against the red silk on his banner which flaunted in full view of the walls.

Roger studied the castle. It occupied a narrow sandstone ridge a little to the west of the town. The keep itself stood in an upper bailey on the southern end of the ridge, surrounded by a strong curtain wall of stone. Below was another bailey, also enclosed by a curtain wall, and then to the north and east came the outer ward, which followed the line of the rock southwards, protected by a palisade of earth and timber with a single massive wooden gate. Defenders stood ready on the ramparts. The demand to surrender had been refused, and the sight of the hanged men had only led, thus far, to increased defiance.

Turning from his scrutiny, Richard gave the order to have the targes brought forwards—great straw shields behind which the archers and troops could take shelter and approach close enough to the footings of the palisade to put up siege ladders. A battering ram stood ready to assault the great wooden gates.

Roger gestured his squire to bring his helm—not the fancy one with a perforated face guard, but his foot-fighting one with a straight nasal bar, the kind that the household knights wore. He donned it over his arming cap and checked his sword to see that it was free in the scabbard.

“How soon can we expect the Bishop of Durham to arrive from Tickhill, sire?” Roger asked.

“In time to eat an early dinner tomorrow, I hope,” Richard replied. “Tickhill will be an easy nut to crack for a man of Durham’s experience.” The lines at his eye corners creased and deepened. “This one may take slightly more, but I have an appointment in Winchester three weeks hence, so the sooner the better.” One corner of his mouth tilted in the direction of a smile. “If we can break them before the week is out, there might be time for a few days hunting in Sherwood and I’m partial to venison.” He nodded brusquely to his commanders. “My lords, you know what to do. Push forward the targes; get the ladders up, take the first bailey, and advance to the barbican. The arbalesters will pin down their archers and slingers.” Richard fixed them with a hard blue stare. “No quarter,” he said. “If there are survivors from this, I will hang them. I want this place taken with an iron fist.”

Roger’s heart began to pound and his hand was damp at his sword hilt. He sensed the tension around him, the fear, the aggression, the determination, and even the edge of a wild and wonderful exhilaration. They were gamblers caught in the moment between the tossing and landing of the dice.

Richard drew his sword and raised it on high. “Ten marks to the first man over the palisade!” he roared. As he brought his arm down, the serjeants charged forward with the targes and the archers began shooting over the palisade, aiming to pin down their counterparts on the walk boards there. Under cover of their shields, other soldiers plunged into the ditch and up the other side bearing the scaling ladders. Some men were dropped by arrows or slingshot, but the rest pressed on.

Roger detached his mind from the hiss of arrows, the vicious clatter of slingstones, the shouts of effort and howls of abuse. He was a leader and a commander and that meant fighting to show an example while keeping his wits about him and directing operations. “Saint Edmund!” he bellowed to his own men. “Ten marks from me as well!”

He hefted his red and gold shield, muttered a prayer under his breath, and ran from behind the safety of the targes towards ditch and palisade. A chunk of stone bounced off the shield surface. A piece of slingshot pinged against his helm. There was a flurry close to him as the defenders succeeded in dislodging one of the ladders with its burden of men and toppled it into the ditch. A second ladder crashed down after it. Elsewhere other attackers were receiving arrow-shot, scalding water, and powdered lime.

Roger heard William Marshal urging the men on and he bellowed his own encouragement. With the targes protecting them, other soldiers had run the ram up to the gate and the boom of the iron head reverberated against the timbers.

Roger directed his troops to heave more ladders up: a cluster of three at once and distanced from those crowded near the gates, forcing the defenders to split their resources. The men started climbing at the run. Anketil set his foot to the left ladder and Roger to the centre one. It was dangerous but there was nothing else for it if they were going to take the outer bailey. Above him, one of his soldiers shuddered and dropped off the ladder, his throat quilled by an arrow. Roger kept his shield high, his head down, and kept going. His breath roared in his ears. It had been a while since he had taken vigorous exercise or trained, even if he had been generally active. Nor, although he had performed military service, had he been asked to fight in the thick of it and fight to kill. It was more than twenty years since he had ridden into heavy battle at Fornham, a young man carving an independent path for himself. Now he had paths of another kind to carve.

The serjeant above him on the ladder gained the parapet and forced his way on to the wall walk. The clash of weapons resounded. Anketil leaped forward from the top of his ladder. Then Roger himself was on the final rung and heaving himself over. A soldier charged him, brandishing an axe. Roger planted his feet, ducked the blow, and for a moment they grappled. His sword was no use for this close-in work and in the wrong place to draw, but he managed to pull his dagger from its sheath and thrust it into his adversary’s unprotected armpit. The man sagged and Roger threw him off the wall walk. He didn’t bother to watch how he landed, knowing that a fall from such a height would finish him anyway, but exchanged his dagger for his sword and fought on towards the ladders near the gate.

The latter was shuddering under the impact from the ram. As more of the King’s men gained the palisade, the defenders retreated, yielding the rampart to the besiegers. The battle continued to rage around the gatehouse and Roger found himself fighting beside William Marshal as they strove to break the desperate efforts of the garrison soldiers. It was fraught, bloody work, but as Roger’s muscles remembered the pattern of training, his movements grew more fluid. The Marshal’s skill was so formidable that few dared tackle him, and Roger was supremely glad they were not enemies.

A horn sounded from the castle and Roger recognised the call to retreat. Fighting all the way, the garrison soldiers pulled back to the barbican guarding the first curtain wall. Once the last man was safely within, the arrows and slingshots started again. The noise of the ram ceased as Richard’s troops opened the gate from inside and the rest of their men poured in. The ram itself was run into the compound to loud cheers.

Panting hard, Roger gestured Anketil to regroup the men around the Bigod banner, carried by Hamo Lenveise. The gold silk was blood-spattered and the banner stave was damaged where a sword had chopped into it. Clutching the stitch in his side, Roger approached a dead soldier and took the spear lying beside his body. “Use this,” he said.

Lenveise carefully untied the banner and transferred it. On the curtain wall behind the barbican, the opposition continued to hurl threats and invective. William Marshal joined Roger, who was relieved to see that his shoulders were heaving—proof that he was mortal after all.

“That’s the first obstacle down,” William panted triumphantly. “Now only a barbican and two curtain walls until we reach the keep.”

“Simple, then,” Roger said, wondering how stiff he was going to be in the morning. He summoned his squire and told him to find out how many wounded there were.

William shrugged. “It might be,” he said. “It all depends on how defiant they are now.”

Roger eyed the barbican and the second curtain wall. A clod of manure showered into the bailey. “I’m not optimistic of their common sense.”

William smiled. “Even among fools there is hope for reason. Sooner or later their dung will run out, and then we’ll see.”

***

Roger paused beside the sentry and watched flames consume the timber barbican and the great gates they had won that morning. The continued fighting had been hard and bitter, and although they had reached the barbican, nightfall had put a stop to endeavours on both sides. Richard had ordered the burning of the gate and the barbican because otherwise he would have had to deploy men to hold them against a night assault. This way they were removed from the reckoning.

“Keep your eyes peeled, Thomas,” Roger said, not because the soldier needed to be told such a thing, but because it was a sign that Roger himself was alert and taking notice. “You’re from Tasburgh, aren’t you? You hold the serjeantry?” Roger always made a point of knowing his soldiers. A man given pride and confidence—and pay—was twice as likely to stand his ground as one ignored and left to fend for himself. “You fought well today.”