For the King's Favor (35 page)

“Sir.” The man’s eyes gleamed with surprised gratification. He shifted his feet and added with a hint of awe, “Sir…I saw you fighting at the gate with my lord Marshal.”

Roger’s lips curved. “He’s taller than I am,” he said with self-deprecation. “He has a longer reach, for which I am glad. It was a hard fight and every man played his part.”

“What will happen tomorrow?”

“That’s still to be decided in council. The Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishop of Durham are due to arrive, and they’ll bring siege machines.” He slapped the man’s shoulder and continued on his round. A woman approached him, hands to her hips, her walk sinuous with suggestion. Roger quickened his pace before he was propositioned. The whores were ever present in the army’s tail, plying their trade among soldiers waiting to fight. One last night of pleasure, one final chance to leave something of oneself behind in the world lest death should swoop in the next day’s battle.

Some household knights were playing dice at a trestle in one of the houses adjoining the King’s. Roger noticed young Longespée among them. The youth was a little loud with drink and he was losing. He had paused between throws to boast to a woman that he was the King’s brother and she was refusing to take him seriously.

“You’re too young,” she laughed, hands on hips. “A shaveling like you, brother of the King—who are you trying to fool! You look nothing like him!”

Longespée flushed. “I am the King’s brother!” he reiterated and gestured around the gathering. “Ask any of them and they’ll tell you!”

“Aye,” slurred one of the knights, “he is that; I’ll vouch for him. He’s one of the old King’s bastards begotten on a court whore!”

Longespée started towards the man with a snarl, but Roger was there before him. Seizing the knight by the tunic, he propelled him towards the door in a move so swift the man had no time to react and defend himself. “My lord Longespée’s mother is an honourable lady and it behoves you to remember it,” Roger snarled. “If we didn’t need you for tomorrow’s battle, I’d flay your skin from your hide for that remark.” He slung the man into the street and gestured two sentries to take custody of him.

The knight crawled to his hands and knees and vomited. Roger was tempted to have him whipped and put in the stocks, but decided against it because it would only make a bigger issue of the matter and, as he’d said, they needed every fighting man they had. Turning back into the house, he glared at Longespée.

“If you must boast, don’t do it when drunk and to drunks.” He took the youth by the arm. “Come. You can attend on the King’s council meeting as my squire. I assume you’re sober enough to pour wine?”

“Yes, sire.” The youth jutted his jaw. “Thank you…” He made a vague gesture that encompassed the situation. A belch marred his stiff and formal response.

“I didn’t do it for you,” Roger said curtly, “I did it for your mother.”

***

Richard stared round at his assembled battle commanders. “I expect the Bishop of Durham and the Archbishop of Canterbury tomorrow, and the stone-thrower will be up and ready by mid-morning.”

“Those curtain walls are still going to be time-consuming to take,” William Marshal said, and bit at a strip of skin at the side of a bloody thumbnail. “And costly in terms of men. There were many wounded today.”

Richard rubbed his jaw. “They may yet surrender when they see our reinforcements arriving and they’ve had a taste of the siege machines.”

Roger said, “Send someone to parley, sire, and convince them that you are truly conducting the assault. Perhaps they still believe they are only under attack by the justiciars.”

Richard’s mouth curved up at one side while he considered this. “Perhaps,” he said. “But whom would I send?”

Longchamp, who had been leaning back, toying with the jewels edging his mantle, said with narrowed eyes, “Send my lord Bigod, sire. The constable will know he has been absent in Germany and they will have seen him fighting today. He has a lawyer’s glib tongue. Let him persuade them.”

Roger raised his brows at that, and heard Richard’s grunt of amusement. Glib was not a word he would ever have applied to himself, but then Longchamp was good at inventing characteristics for people and then trying to make them stick. “I will certainly go if you wish it, sire,” he said. “It is true I would rather speak my way out of a situation than fight.” He inclined his head to Longchamp. “I have known some men who manage to talk their way into fights and then expect others to do their swordplay for them, and I know which I consider the more prudent.”

This time Richard guffawed. Roger saw the Marshal’s lips twitch and humour crinkle his eye corners.

“My lord Bigod yields the proof of what I suggest,” Longchamp said with silky venom.

Roger inclined his head to Richard and ignored the chancellor. “I will do what I can to bring them to parley,” he said.

Richard returned the nod. “It is worth trying first before we expend men and weapons,” he agreed.

***

A guard ushered Roger into the presence of the joint constables of Nottingham, William de Wenneval and Ralph Murdac. Both men looked haggard, and had likely been awake all night, hatching plans to keep the besiegers out of the second ring of defences.

“My lord Bigod,” de Wenneval, the senior of the two, greeted him. “Be welcome.” He gestured to a bench. Roger returned de Wenneval’s bow and took the proffered seat. Roger’s attitude was relaxed. There was much at stake in the discussions, but he was accustomed to negotiating and he did not fear an assault from either of these men who were honourable—if deluded.

“I only wish we were sharing company as allies in less difficult circumstances,” de Wenneval said.

“Amen to that.” Roger accepted the wine that a servant brought to him and allowed the moment to settle into its natural rhythm before saying, “You do know it is madness to defend this place against the King of England when he is in personal command of the campaign? The lord John has fled to France and left you and his other castellans and vassals to face the consequences of his treachery.”

Murdac rubbed a forefinger up and down his bristly cheek. “With respect, my lord Bigod, and I mean that, because I do respect you indeed, we know that King Richard is still a prisoner of the Emperor.”

“Because the lord John has told you so?” Roger asked. “You know well that I went to join the King in Germany. Do you think I would return and leave him still there? I can tell you all about the letters that the Count of Mortain has sent to the Emperor offering him bribes to keep the King prisoner, and how they have failed. We sailed from Antwerp on the
Grace Dieu
and arrived in England two weeks ago.” He looked at the men, but their expressions were impassive—as his own would have been in their circumstances. “The Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishop of Durham are expected before midday and will bring strong reinforcements and siege machines. From where do you expect your aid to come, my lords—France? I can assure you, there will be no succour from that direction.”

De Wenneval folded his arms in a gesture of negation. “It will take you weeks of siege to reduce this place,” he growled.

“The King will doubtless leave a contingent here if he must,” Roger replied. “He is to wear his crown in Winchester three weeks hence. Obviously, he would prefer to have Nottingham returned to the fold by then. He offers good terms for surrender.”

De Wenneval raised his brows.

“Fines, naturally,” Roger said smoothly. “The King’s coffers are empty, but pardons and lives intact seems to me a good exchange. Once your honour is restored by a kiss of peace, you can work your way back into favour.”

There was a long silence. Roger sensed their doubt and their reluctance to contemplate that they were indeed facing Richard himself.

De Wenneval bit his thumbnail. “I need time to consider this, my lord Earl.”

Roger inclined his head, rose to his feet, and moved to the window. The air was heavy with the smell of woodsmoke from the barbican and gates and he knew the ashes were still hot, for he had recently walked past them and felt the burning air on his skin. The gallows couldn’t be seen from here, but this morning Richard had hanged three more soldiers caught during yesterday’s fight, and the men on the perimeter wall would have had a full view. When Roger had left to parley, a perrier team had been erecting a stone-thrower and making ready to assault the outer curtain wall.

De Wenneval finally said, “My lord, I must be cautious if I go forward in this matter. If I send out two of my men who know the King, I require a guarantee of their safe return to report back afterwards.”

Roger opened his hands. “Naturally, my lord. I will guarantee that on my word and on behalf of the King from whom I have authority—as they will see for themselves and tell you.”

De Wenneval nodded. “So be it.” He sent a squire to summon Henry Russell and Fulcher of Crendon from the wall. Both had served at court and knew Richard by sight. Returning with the men across the outer bailey, Roger saw Russell and Crendon eyeing the corpses on the gibbets, both those from the previous day and the new ones from this morning. He led them past the hanging men without comment, except to cross himself, but also made a point of taking them close to the perrier team who had almost finished assembling the stone-thrower. He ensured too that they felt the heat from the smouldering remnants of what yesterday had been two solid castle gates.

In Roger’s absence, both Bishops had arrived and the outer bailey and the area immediately outside the gateway was crammed with knights and soldiers, pack beasts, and baggage wains, the latter bearing yet more siege machines of considerably larger size than the perrier. Roger’s two companions said nothing, but he sensed their disquiet. Hand on sword hilt, he led them to the King, who was standing beside one of the trebuchet carts, talking to Hubert Walter, Archbishop of Canterbury.

Richard glanced up as Roger approached and exchanged looks with him before focusing his attention on the two knights. Roger knelt and was aware of the dismayed shock rippling through his charges. He knew they had still been half hoping it was all a ruse, but it was impossible now.

“Sire, these men are here to see for themselves that you are present in the flesh and no impostor,” Roger said.

Richard looked amused. “Is that so?” He beckoned Russell and Crendon to stand up, and spread his arms wide, palms outspread. “Messires, what do you think? Am I an impostor dreamed up by the justiciars to dupe your lords into surrender? Or am I England’s rightful king?” He turned slowly round and faced them again, a half-smile on his lips, his eyes deadly.

“Sire.” Russell fell to his knees again with Crendon an instant behind.

“Get up,” Richard said with an imperious gesture. “Now you have seen that I am here in person and it is no ruse—and that my army has doubled in size—it behoves you to return to your lords and persuade them to surrender. They have until noon before my mercy runs dry. Go back and do your best, because if you do not, I will do my worst.”

Visibly shaken, Crendon and Russell returned to the keep under escort and Richard turned to Roger. “You spoke with de Wenneval and Murdac. Will they yield?”

“They do not like the notion, sire, Murdac in particular, but like medicine, they will swallow it. Perhaps a couple of shots from the perrier might be the final touch to convince them.”

Richard nodded. “Thank you, my lord Bigod; you have done well.”

Roger bowed and turned to rejoin his men, then stopped short as he saw his half-brother standing among the knights in Hubert Walter’s contingent. Huon’s garments were shabby. His hair was like wispy yellow grass combed over his skull, and the Outremer sun had pleated deep creases into his cheeks and eye corners. Filled with a world of bitter anger, his eyes locked with Roger’s and did battle.

“You think you’ve won,” he snarled. “You think you’re the great Earl of Norfolk and nothing can touch you, but I will have justice and the lands to which I am entitled. You’re not the only one with influence.”

“Your entitlement is to your opinions,” Roger replied coldly, “not my lands. I grant you that going on crusade might store you up credit in heaven, but you are deluded if you think it will further your cause on earth.”

Roger de Glanville had been standing nearby and now he joined Huon. “He is right,” he said. “It behoves you to make a settlement with us, because, Earl or not, you will not be safe until you do.” The whites of his eyes were yellow and filmy.

Behind them came the whump of the perrier launching its first stone at the curtain wall, and then the sharp crack of the missile striking the sandstone. Immediately another rock was set in the sling, the range adjusted, and a second missile followed the first, this time sailing over the wall and landing with a dull crash.

“Do you threaten me, my lord?” Roger demanded.

De Glanville shook his head. “I have no need to threaten. All I do is state the truth. The King needs money, and everything will be up for sale when matters settle down to government again—everything.”

“I doubt you have the wherewithal to buy an earldom,” Roger said tightly.

De Glanville gave him a knowing look. “No, but do you have the wherewithal to keep one?”

On the curtain wall, a stave appeared bearing a makeshift banner of a strip of bleached table linen. The flag swept back and forth, attracting the attention of those in the first ward. The trebuchet crew locked the securing pegs on their machine.

A cold sensation prickled between Roger’s shoulder blades. “What does that mean, my lord? Let us be clear on this matter.”

De Glanville shrugged. “What it says. My stepson has naught to lose since he has nothing—but other men have more at stake.” With a half-smile that was perilously close to a smirk, he walked away. Roger had no time to dwell on the words, disturbing though they were, because the banner of truce demanded his full attention, and a squire was already on his way to him from the King.

***

At her mother-in-law’s dower dwelling at Dovercourt, Ida returned from hearing the children’s prayers and kissing them goodnight and, with a sigh, sat down by the fire to resume her sewing. Juliana had entertained the children earlier with a story about a fox and a crow. It had apparently been one of their father’s favourites as a child and had been written in the time of the Greeks by a man named Aesop. The girls had practised their needlecraft while they listened, and Ida had given the boys some small pieces of armour and harness to polish to keep them out of mischief. While her mother-in-law was deeply proud of her grandchildren, she preferred them to be quiet and seemly in her presence and reserve boisterous activities for elsewhere. As an infant, the jewels and embroidery on her dresses had always fascinated Hugh, and Ida had forever to be watching him and keeping his sticky fingers away from Juliana’s gowns.