For the King's Favor (39 page)

Salisbury Cathedral, January 1197

William Longespée’s bride was a small thin child who looked much younger than her years. She had pale blond hair, a pointed face, and serious light grey eyes. Her bosom was flat and her hips narrow. Bathed in the light of the painted glass from the great window of Salisbury Cathedral, she knelt, stood, and knelt again beside her young bridegroom.

Watching at the front of the congregation, Ida’s throat ached with pride for her eldest son, and compassion and admiration for the child whom he was marrying. Ela of Salisbury was only ten years old and clearly afraid, but she had tremendous courage and had forced it to conquer her fear, answering the priest’s questions in a clear voice that spoke of a steadfast character concealed within the waif-like body. Ida was certain she would grow to become a fine mate for her son in the fullness of time. The age gap wasn’t too great. William would only be in his mid twenties by the time Ela was old enough to assume all the duties and responsibilities of being a wife and countess.

The mass completed, the couple processed solemnly down Salisbury’s great arcaded nave to the doors. Ida sought her son’s eyes and he met her gaze briefly. His lips curved at the edges and she could feel his pleasure and triumph. She was so proud of him and the way he was treating his young bride—with deference and courtesy as if she were a great lady, and not a child still bound to the nursery.

The newlywed couple and the throng of witnesses and guests repaired to the palace crowning the wind-blown hilltop. Ida was glad she had used extra pins to secure her veil to the cap beneath as the strong breeze buffeted her. Roger was clinging grimly to his new hat and the sight made her want to laugh, although she managed to restrain herself. Hugh had a new hat too, with a jewelled band, but having removed it in church, had not put it back on. The wind ruffled through his golden hair and he was the object of more than one admiring feminine stare. Clinging to his arm, Marie cast devastating blue glances hither and yon in search of other gazes. Ida made a mental note to be on her guard, even while she recognised that her eldest daughter was practising a new art from the safety of the family bosom.

Ida had seldom visited Salisbury. It had originally been built as a palace for one of the previous bishops of the diocese, who had ruled like a prince. Later, it had housed Queen Eleanor during her long years of imprisonment and even though it was a defensive site, it was more domicile than fortress. The rooms and apartments were luxurious. Ida admired the rich hangings on the walls, the embroidered cushions, and the glass cups through which the wine shone a pure, clear ruby.

Her son settled his girl-wife on a cushioned chair at his side and, full of decorum and courtesy, saw that she was served and treated like a queen.

The marriage feast was conducted with dignity. No one was allowed to get drunk and it was made clear that bawdy talk, the usual province of such celebrations, would not be tolerated. Yet there was no want of entertainment and mirth. A troupe of jugglers had been engaged and the best musicians. The food was delectable and the wines were either dry and clear, or sweet and effervescent, with none of the sludge that had been the stamp of the court wines served by Longespée’s illustrious father. There was dancing and games in the hall and courtyard for both children and adults. Everything had its place and the organisation was meticulous.

Sharing a slice of rose-water tart with Ida, Roger’s expression was amused and rueful. “I wish I had planned our own wedding half as well,” he said. “Do you remember, the Bishop was drunk?”

Ida smiled. “It was still a great occasion.” She rested her leg against his. “And we had a wedding night afterwards.”

“Yes.” He returned the pressure, and then shook his head as Longespée gravely toasted the guests at the high table with the marriage cup before taking a fastidious sip. “You know,” Roger murmured to Ida as he raised his own cup in salute, “he reminds me not so much of a courtier, as of a king holding court.”

Ida nudged him in protest. “He is proud to have his earldom and a place and a title to call his own; that is all. Look how courteous he is being to Ela. Look how much thought he has put into the celebrations.”

“Indeed he is to be credited, but I suspect it is for his sake as much as hers. He enjoys the flourishes and the grand gestures—it is a part of his nature, or perhaps his upbringing.”

“There is nothing wrong with good manners and consideration,” Ida said sharply.

“Indeed not, and his manners are exquisite and precise,” Roger replied. “But a man must know when to hold to the boundaries and when to loosen them. He has organised and controlled this well, which is all to the good, just as long as he remembers he is not a prince, even if born to a king.” He gave her a long look and softened his tone. “I speak as I find. You are rightly proud of him, and this is an auspicious day.”

“I want him to have recognition of his own,” Ida said. “To stand in his own light, that is all.”

“He will do that; he has that kind of presence.” Roger did not add that it would always be in the shadow of his royal kin, because it would have been cruel. The looks exchanged between Longespée and Hugh had not gone beneath his notice and he knew there was the potential for trouble in that area. With the girls and the other boys, it was different. There was no challenge from the younger ones; Longespée could play the prince and they would not question it. The girls, in the way of women, were sympathetic to him because he was their brother, and they were bedazzled by his glitter, his manners, and the fact that he was of royal blood. But Hugh was older and less taken in, and that made for rivalry.

His ruminations were curtailed by Hamelin de Warenne, Earl of Surrey, who was Longespée’s uncle and lord of Castle Acre, which lay to the north-west of Framlingham. Between courses, the Earl had gone to use one of the urinals set in the corridor walls and now, on his return, he paused to speak to Roger, leaning one hip against the table and folding his arms. “One of my messengers has just brought some interesting news,” he murmured, giving Roger a shrewd look. He had once possessed the same rusty colouring as his half-brother, King Henry, and although his hair was more grey than red these days, his brows and eyelashes remained the colour of wheat stubble.

Roger looked interested but held his peace and waited.

“The good Bishop of Ely has breathed his last, God rest his soul. We have no chancellor.” Hamelin crossed himself in a gesture that was superficially pious and negated by the sardonic gleam in his eyes.

Roger signed his own breast. “Indeed, God assoil him,” he said and resisted the urge to grin because it would not have been seemly and one ought to have compassion because it was the Christian thing to do. Besides, Longchamp being dead did not automatically mean that matters would improve. Richard needed money and whomever he appointed in Longchamp’s place would be a man skilled in filleting men to the bone. “Who’s to succeed him?”

“As Bishop of Ely?” Hamelin’s lips pursed in a speculative gesture. “I had heard Eustace of Salisbury.” He glanced at the silver-haired prelate sitting further along the board, resplendent in embroidered robes of blue and gold.

Roger was momentarily surprised. Eustace was a quiet, efficient, and unprepossessing churchman; the kind in whose hands matters could be safely put, but somewhat less forceful of character than William Longchamp. Traditionally the bishopric of Ely had always been linked to the chancellorship, but Eustace of Salisbury had never struck him as having the sort of mettle and aptitude to take on such a task. “To be chancellor too?”

“For the moment.” Hamelin glanced round as the heralds announced the next course with a series of fanfares. “Here comes the subtlety.” He bowed to Roger, inclined his head to Ida, and returned to his seat.

Roger gave a snort of reluctant humour at Hamelin’s parting remark.

Ida was eyeing him in a puzzled manner, plainly wondering what there was to smile about.

He put her out of her misery. “Who was until recently the Bishop of Salisbury and Eustace’s immediate superior?”

Realisation dawned in her eyes. “Hubert Walter.”

“Yes indeed. The Archbishop of Canterbury still commands every piece on the chessboard. He’s more refined than Longchamp but just as wily and probably more dangerous.”

“So why did you laugh at the Earl de Warenne’s remark?”

Roger smiled wryly. “I was amused by his wordplay. Like a marchpane subtlety, the success of future projects is going to depend on the creative talents of the craftsmen involved.”

***

The moment came for what would traditionally have been the bedding ceremony, where bride and groom were taken to their chamber, undressed before witnesses, put into bed, and, after a blessing from the priest, would be expected to consummate their union. Since the bride was still a child, the wedding guests escorted her instead to the former chambers of Queen Eleanor, and there handed her over to her attendants.

Longespée could see that his young bride was beginning to wilt. It had been an exhausting day for her, filled with duty and ceremony, but he was pleased at how well she had coped. Her manners and bearing were impeccable. He could not fault her, and even now, with shadows under her eyes, she still bore herself with presence, knew her part, and was able to give him a smile as they came to her chamber door. Taking her small, pale hand in his, he kissed the back of it, and then her wedding ring. He had had it especially made to fit her delicate heart finger. Later, when she was a woman, she would have others, set with jewels and finely wrought. He was going to treasure her for she was his means to greatness.

“My lady wife,” he said with courteous formality, “I bid you good rest, and I will attend you in the morning.”

The curtsey with which she responded delighted him, before she withdrew into her chamber, her eyes modestly downcast. The latch fell with a gentle click, and Longespée and the witnesses returned to the hall to continue their feasting and socialising.

Resuming his chair on the dais, Longespée watched his guests dancing a carole in the well of the hall. He intended joining them, but his mind was brimming and he needed a moment to digest his thoughts before he moved on.

He was well pleased with the match because it made him a man of standing and an earl, exactly like his uncle Hamelin or William Marshal, to whom he was now kin by law. Although he had not officially been belted yet, he intended to address himself by that title. His appetite for security and recognition was stronger than the need to wait on a formality.

His gaze fell upon his eldest Bigod half-brother who was prominent among the dancers. Hugh moved with lithe co-ordination, his hair catching the light in twists of shining gold. He had pulled a serving girl into the dance and she was blushing and laughing as she followed the steps. William’s top lip began to curl. No good would come of associating with stable boys and servants as if they were equals.

It galled Longespée a little to think that although he had gained an earldom by this marriage, although his father had been a king and his brother was one, renowned throughout Christendom, this foolish, leaping youth was, by dint of his legitimate birth, heir to the Earldom of Norfolk, the territory that had once been the kingdom of the East Angles. His father was building a great castle at Framlingham and they answered for 163 knights’ fees compared to his own 65. It wasn’t right that this capering dolt should be heir to so much. His gut twisted as Hugh detached himself from the dance and, in a spontaneous flourish of joy, seized Ida’s hand and made her join in. She laughed and tried to bat him away, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer, and eventually she yielded, flushed and rosy as a girl. The adoring way she looked at Hugh sickened Longespée. He told himself he could have been like that if she had raised him and he had had a narrow escape, but still the resentment festered. He had been going to partner her in the dance himself, but in a formal, dignified measure that would have graced the proceedings, unlike the silly abandon of this common carole. Now he would not dance at all.

Compressing his lips, he resolved to wipe Hugh from his mind the way one might wipe a stain of mud from one’s cloak. Anyone with an iota of discernment could see who had the better breeding.

Framlingham, April 1199

Ida folded her arms at her waist and stared round the new great hall. Built on the western side of the compound, it was ready for occupation as soon as she could organise to transfer from the old block, which was to remain as a guest house.

She was delighted with the new hall. It would bask in sunlight for much of the day, there were plenty of windows, and these were to be filled with glass. There was going to be a pleasure garden opening directly from the hall, and a postern entrance so folk could stroll down to the mere and watch the swans and water fowl on the lake. Ida had the task of choosing all the hangings and furnishings for the new hall and having recovered from the birth of a third daughter in early February, she was ready to expend her creativity in other areas.

“The hall will have to be in your father’s colours,” she told Marie who stood beside her, watching men apply a layer of whitewash with brooms. The red and yellow was bold and bright for men to latch on to in battle and to fly in bold proclamation from the castle walls, but it wasn’t restful, although perhaps she could mute it by using rich colours and fabrics. “Blue and green for the bedchamber.”

Marie tilted her head to ponder. The sun streaming through the windows shone on her braided hair, enhancing the colour to golden fire. “We could order some new glass cups in Ipswich,” she said, “like the ones my brother had at his wedding.”

Ida’s heart jumped as it always did at the mention of her eldest son. She had seldom seen him since his marriage; he had had other fish to fry, but occasionally he would visit Framlingham or their Yorkshire estates—usually when he wanted to hunt or needed a new horse. At Christmas, though, he had brought his child-wife and the entire family had sat around the red winter fire singing songs together. Pure happiness had flowed through Ida like honey. Goscelin had been there with his wife, Constance, and their offspring. Even the edginess between Hugh and William had been mellowed by the warmth of the gathering and the brothers had sung in harmony. A perfect moment, fleeting but remembered for ever. “Yes,” she said. “Some cups and a flagon to match.”

“And a water carrier,” Marie said. “I saw one in Norwich shaped like a lion, with a big smile on its face.”

Ida laughed. “Lions don’t smile!”

“This one did!” Marie wrinkled her nose and laughed in return. Her eyes, grey-blue like her father’s, sparkled. “Or perhaps we could have one that looks like one of Papa’s hats.”

Ida nudged her daughter, but began to giggle nevertheless.

“The one with the long pointed brim—it would make a good pouring spout.”

Marie was incorrigible. Ida glanced round to make sure her husband hadn’t returned to be in earshot. He had earlier gone to the stables to look at a brood mare that was due to foal. Instead her gaze fixed on Martin, the usher, escorting a woman and two men into the new hall. Ida narrowed her eyes the better to focus and then stiffened as she recognised Gundreda and her second son. Another younger man accompanied them, but Ida didn’t know him. He wore his thick brown hair in a side-slanted fringe and had eyes the hazel-green of moss agates. Ida’s first instinct was to snap at them to leave, but in the same instant logic told her they must be here for a reason—and what harm could they do?

Marie was eyeing the newcomers with enquiring surprise but no hostility. To her these people were strangers she had never seen before.

“Welcome, cousin,” Ida said politely. “Will you come to the other hall and take wine?” She gestured towards the door.

Gundreda’s nostrils flared. “This is not a social visit. It is your husband I am here to see.”

“And so you shall.” Ida looked to the usher. “I assume you have had him summoned?”

“Yes, Countess.”

As Ida led their guests to the door, Gundreda paused and swept a long look around the hall. “You have a fine home here,” she said, managing to heap scorn with praise. “I see what the fruits of justice have built for you.” She spat the word “justice” as if it were a fish bone.

Ida smiled through gritted teeth. “Indeed it is justice,” she said, putting a different slant on the word, “and my husband was long without it.”

Gundreda’s eyes narrowed. Marie was looking bewildered but, despite her obvious bafflement at the boorish behaviour of these strangers, her glance kept darting to the other, unknown man of the party, who was standing a little aloof.

Hoping that Roger would make haste, Ida crossed the ward and saw her “guests” settled on benches before the hearth in the old hall.

Gundreda continued casting barbs. “What of justice for those without bottomless coffers and the ear of the King?”

Ida was having none of that. She directed Marie to plump the cushions and serve wine and said assertively, “I have lived at court, my lady, and I have a good memory. I know all about people who seek the ear of the King by whatever means they can. Plainly your own memory is not as strong on that score.”

Gundreda sniffed. “My memory tells me that it was not the King’s ‘ear’ that gave you your own exalted position at court—cousin.”

Ida gasped. “You know nothing about my position and what I endured!”

“‘What you endured’?” Gundreda exhaled with mockery. “Would that we could all live in the lap of luxury for no more price than the ‘endurance’ of opening our legs.”

Ida recoiled as if Gundreda had slapped her. “How dare you!”

Gundreda gave a world-weary shake of her head. “I dare because I have nothing left to lose. I dare because if you think a few years of attention from a king is endurance, you should have tried twenty with Hugh Bigod and then another twenty striving for what is yours by right. It is you who knows nothing…Countess.”

A part of Ida wanted to curl up and die from the onslaught, but she summoned her strength, calling upon the woman beyond the frightened girl, calling upon the wife, the mother—the Countess, indeed. Imagining Juliana, she cloaked herself in dignified composure. “Those are harsh words,” she replied with icy calm. “There are parts of my path you would be unable to tread, but I am sorry for your own plight. I do not think you came here to trade insults—cousin.”

Gundreda drew back like a fighter disengaging from the fray and Ida saw a flicker of self-irritation cross the older woman’s features. “No,” she said, “I did not, but even so I will not apologise for what I have already said.”

“Then we are equals in that at least,” Ida inclined her head. Marie was staring at her with round eyes and an open mouth. It boosted Ida’s conviction that she was right to respond as she had. Let her daughter learn by watching how to deal with a vile situation.

Roger and Hugh arrived from the stables then, Hugh plucking burrs of straw from his cloak, Roger rolling down his tunic sleeves which had been pushed back, exposing his freckle-dusted forearms. He cast his gaze over the visitors and greeted them with cold courtesy. “To what do we owe this pleasure?” he asked.

“Come now, my lord, surely you must know,” Gundreda said in a hard voice.

“Well, I know it isn’t a social visit, although you are welcome to dine and rest your mounts. We never turn visitors away from Framlingham.” Roger eyed Gundreda’s second escort. “I do not think I have made your acquaintance before, messire.”

The young man bowed. “I am Ranulf FitzRobert. The lady Gundreda’s husband was my great-uncle.”

Roger’s gaze grew thoughtful. This then was the former justiciar’s grandson. The Archbishop of Canterbury was his mother’s cousin. The young man, although still in wardship, had recently become heir to some rather useful lands in Yorkshire following the demise of his two older brothers. Roger had been meaning to investigate the situation and find out the precise details of the inheritance.

Gundreda gave an impatient shake of her head. “I have no intention of eating your bread or drinking your wine,” she snapped. “I am here on a matter of unavoidable business. I would not be here unless I was forced.”

Roger sat down on the bench. “And what business would that be?” He glanced at his half-brother, but Will, true to form, was saying nothing and hanging on to the garment hem of his mother’s dominant personality.

The lines around Gundreda’s mouth deepened. “You are involved in the King’s investigation into the fines for all widows and wards, are you not?”

“It is my brief to investigate their status,” Roger agreed.

Gundreda took a deep breath. “Then you will know I am bereaved of my second husband…and I would not be wed again—ever, and to that end I offer a fine of one hundred marks to keep myself in honourable widowhood.”

Roger gave her a puzzled frown. “But that is indeed a matter for the courts, madam. Why come to me? I do not think anyone would dispute your decision or your fine.”

“Hah, I am not so sure,” she said bitterly. “I would not want my goods and chattels distrained by the King’s ‘officers’ or have a marriage forced upon me because I was in default.”

Roger ignored her insinuation. “I am sure the exchequer officers will find a fine of that sum in order,” he said icily.

Gundreda returned him a withering look that suggested she did not believe him. “I desire to set my life in order and to do that I need to see myself and my sons settled. We must come to terms over the matter of your father’s estates. You have the King’s ear and it seems you always will. I cannot match you, but I can be a thorn in your side—a constant one, I promise.” She stood up straight. “I have come to negotiate a settlement. My sons need something to live on—something out of the inheritance.”

Roger suppressed the urge to enquire why her sons were not old enough to sort matters out for themselves. Huon wasn’t present and anyone would think that Will was a deaf mute. “Then I suggest you do indeed stay to dine,” he said. “It is going to be a long negotiation.”

***

Ida sat at her sewing in the upper chamber of the old hall. Birdsong rippled through the open shutters and late afternoon sunlight streamed over the swept floor. Outside, she could hear the children chasing about on the sward, Ralph the loudest as usual.

“I always knew Gundreda was a termagant,” Roger said wryly, “but I never realised how much.”

Ida took several small, neat stitches while she composed herself. She hadn’t told Roger about the fraught exchange between herself and Gundreda. Whatever hurt she had taken from it, she preferred to tend it in private. Besides, Gundreda’s words about her forty years of struggle had pricked Ida’s conscience. “It is a shame that you could not reach an agreement,” she said after a moment.

Roger grunted. “I will not give up lands for which I have paid a thousand marks, especially not to set up my half-brothers when I have the future of our own sons and daughters to think of.” His mouth twisted. “I suppose she is hoping that I’ll receive yet another fine and that it’ll make me more lenient. That is why she told me she was paying a hundred marks not to wed again. It will put her in good graces with the new chancellor.”

Ida rested her needle. “The dispute has been running for more than twenty years. Perhaps it is worth a little sacrifice to see it put to rest?”

Roger scratched the day’s stubble on his jaw. “I am prepared to give some ground, but not yet. It is like buying or selling a horse. You bargain. She wants peace; I want to stop being milked of fees for lands that are mine by right.” He waved his hand. “We can’t go forward anyway until she brings Huon to the discussions and I think he would rather stick knives in his own face than negotiate with me, but we’ll see.”

Ida resumed her stitching. Humming dreamily to herself, Marie came into the room carrying a bunch of cowslips, and purloined an earthenware cup in which to put them. Then she went to the cradle to coo over her baby sister.

Ida said softly so that Marie would not hear, “Ranulf FitzRobert is rather personable.” She kept her eyes on her work, but her mind was picturing the young man who had accompanied Gundreda and her son. He had a pleasant mien, quiet, but self-assured and well-mannered. Had Ida been Marie’s age, she would have been smitten.

“I liked him well enough,” Roger said.

Glancing up, Ida saw that he was watching her with quizzical eyes and a smile on his lips.

“A match with the de Glanville family would be very useful,” Ida said. “It would be like stitching a loose thread into a garment. It would give us our own kinship with the Archbishop of Canterbury, and we still have two other daughters we can match elsewhere.”

“I had been considering either a Marshal marriage for Marie, or a de Warenne,” Roger replied, “but Marshal will be looking to unite his heir with Aumale and Marshal has a daughter, so we can match the other way if necessary. I agree with you that young FitzRobert is worth consideration. By all means, let us welcome him again. Invite him for some hunting in the deer park. He’s about Hugh’s age, so I dare say they’ll make good companions and we can further think on the matter.”

Ida smiled over her sewing. “I do not believe you will have to invite him very hard,” she said.

***

“You have done what?” At Bungay, Gundreda’s eldest son threw up his hands in disbelief. “Jesu God, Mother, have you lost your wits? I’ll never give up what is rightfully mine—never. Do you hear me?” Tears blazed in Huon’s eyes.

Gundreda winced as he kicked a stool across the room, narrowly missing one of the dogs. “I am totally within my wits,” she retorted stiffly. “I weary of the battle. Your stepfather was the one with the lawyer’s abilities. Longchamp is dead. What else am I to do? If you want to continue the fight then do so, but I will pay my hundred marks to live a widow and retire to the cloister.”

His voice cracked. “I didn’t endure the hell of Outremer for this!”

Gundreda shook her head. “I know you did not, but there is nothing else to be done. Your half-brother is willing to negotiate, but he wants you to come to the table and talk with him face to face. I told him you would come to Thetford a week from today.”

He bared his teeth. “Hell will grow icicles around its door before I do that, Mother. I still cannot believe you went to him. You are no better than a whore!”