For the King's Favor (4 page)

Windsor Castle, September 1176

Ida de Tosney studied the wall hanging in the chamber, admiring the way the embroiderer had combined two shades of blue thread and mingled it with green to depict the river where the hunting party in the picture had paused to water their horses. She imagined how she would work such a scene, perhaps adding a line of silver to the water and a fish or two. She loved planning embroideries and although she had but recently turned fifteen years old, she was an accomplished needlewoman.

Her rose-coloured gown was embellished with vine-leaf coils of delicate green thread at the sleeves and neckline. Small clusters of garnet grapes adorned the scrollwork, and the outline borders were worked with seed pearls. The belt, double-looped at her waist, was of her own weaving, and it too was decorated with pearls, for she was an heiress and these were her court robes, especially made for her presentation to the King whose ward she was. Beset with anxiety, she had imagined the moment a hundred times, envisaging her curtsey, the rise and the step back. She hoped that if he spoke to her, she would be able to make an appropriate answer.

Her maid Goda twined gold ribbons through Ida’s thick brown braid, whilst Bertrice tweezed Ida’s eyebrows until they were shapely arches and Ida tried not to flinch.

“You have to look your best for the King,” Bertrice said with a practical nod. “If he likes you, he’ll deal well with your wardship and find you a good husband.” She patted a moist, lavender-scented cloth against Ida’s brows to remove any redness, and then smoothed the area with a gentle fingertip.

“Perhaps you’ll even find a husband today, among the courtiers,” Goda said, optimistically. “It wouldn’t do to look ungroomed, would it now, young mistress?”

Ida blushed and made herself stand still while the women completed her toilet. She knew they were anxious she should please the King, because it reflected on their care of her. She wanted to please the King too, for her own sake as well as theirs; and, as they said, some of the men looking on might be in search of a wife. Although still innocent of the world, Ida had begun to notice the assessment in men’s glances—the way their eyes lingered on her lips and her bosom. Such attention created a warm glow in her solar plexus even while it scared her. Something told her that here was power and here was danger, and both were frightening new territory.

An usher arrived to take Ida to the great hall where, together with other wards and supplicants, she was to be presented to the King before dinner. Goda gave a few final tweaks to Ida’s gown and draped a midnight-blue cloak at her shoulders, fastening it with two round gold clasps. “Good fortune, mistress,” she whispered.

Ida gave her women an apprehensive smile as they curtseyed to her. Taking a deep breath, she followed the usher from the room.

In the great hall she was bidden to wait with a group of others, all clad in finery and glowing from recent ablutions. Ida, being the youngest, apart from an adolescent youth who was a royal ward like herself, had a place near the end. The smell of rose water, tense sweat, and new woollen cloth filled Ida’s lungs each time she drew breath. She clasped her hands in front of her so she would not be tempted to fidget as some of the others were doing, and kept her eyes modestly lowered, although now and again she peeped from beneath her lids to see what was happening around her.

Trestle tables had been set up for the main formal meal of the day. On the dais, the board was covered by a cloth of embroidered white napery and the dishes, cellars, and cups standing upon it were of silver gilt, some of them inlaid with gemstones. Two pantlers were busy carving oblongs of bread into flat trenchers for holding meats in sauce, and other servants were bringing jugs of wine from the buttery to a side table. Despite feeling anxious, Ida still managed to be hungry. She hoped her stomach wouldn’t rumble when she had to curtsey before the King.

When Henry finally arrived, he breezed into the room as if blown by his fanfare and the group scarcely had time to curtsey and kneel. His auburn hair was cropped close to his head in a practical manner, unadorned by oils or crimping, and his clothing was commonplace in comparison to those of his supplicants and guests. If Ida hadn’t been forewarned about his preference for practicality, she would have mistaken him for an attendant, and his marshal, bearing a golden rod of office and wearing a sumptuous scarlet tunic, for the King.

Glancing upwards through her lashes, she watched Henry arrive at the presentation line and begin moving along it, pausing for a brief word to each person. His voice had a harsh edge, as if he had been inhaling smoke, but he spoke well and pleasantly and had a way of putting people at their ease. Although he had bounced into the hall, she thought he was limping a little now and wondered if his shoes were pinching him. She noticed a scratch on the back of his right hand that looked as if he’d had a tussle with a dog or a hawk. Numerous rings adorned his fingers and she had seen him take a couple off and present them to others in the line as gifts. She supposed he must have a coffer full of them for such events. Certainly, he wasn’t wearing the rings to show off the beauty of his hands which were rough-skinned, as if he’d been engaged in manual labour all day.

His glance flickered to her as he spoke to the youth standing at her side. Ida, looking up at that same moment, was briefly snared in a stare as bright as sunlit glass. Hastily she dropped her gaze, certain he would think her rude and mannerless.

“Ida de Tosney,” said the marshal. Ida curtseyed again, keeping her focus on the minute stitches in the hem of her dress. Then she felt a forefinger beneath her chin, tilting it up.

“A most graceful curtsey,” Henry said, “but I would have you stand straight and look at me.”

Ida summoned her courage, did as he asked, and was again caught in that predatory crystal stare.

His finger moved, to touch one of her gold cloak clasps. “Ralph de Tosney’s little girl,” he said softly. “When last I saw you, you were a red-cheeked babe in your mother’s arms, and now look at you—grown enough to have a babe of your own.” His eyes followed his words up and down her body and heat burned Ida’s face. “But still red-cheeked,” he added with a smile.

“Sire,” she whispered, feeling embarrassed and frightened. The looks she had received from young men in passing were as nothing compared to the way the King’s gaze was devouring her.

“Your modesty becomes you,” Henry said and moved to the youth at her side, but he cast a lingering look over his shoulder.

Quailing with embarrassment, Ida awaited a dismissal that did not come. There was still time before the dinner hour and the King wanted to speak further with his wards and charges. He had a chair fetched and a fine cushioned stool which he bade Ida set under his left foot.

“The pains of old age,” he told her with a wry smile. “I would have the sight of your youth and beauty take them away.”

“Sire, you are not old,” Ida said politely as she arranged the footstool to his liking, which took several attempts. She had to touch and lift his leg, which was an intimate thing to do, and all the time she was aware of his scrutiny and was embarrassed. Having performed the duty she started to retreat to an unobtrusive place at the back of the gathering; he would have none of it and beckoned her to stand at his side. “Be my handmaiden,” he said.

Ida saw some of the experienced courtiers exchange knowing glances and their looks tied her in knots. Henry engaged the rest of the group in conversation, but now and again he turned round to her with a glance or a gesture. She responded with tentative smiles but felt the strain at the corners of her mouth. She hated being singled out. As always when faced with things that worried her, she turned her mind inwards to embroidery. Fabric of gold damask silk covered the footstool with an exquisite diamond lozenge pattern. She began assessing how to recreate it on a rectangle of tawny wool she had in her sewing casket.

“You are lost in reflection, little Ida,” Henry said with amusement. “Tell me what deep thoughts you hold in your head.”

She reddened and darted a worried glance around at the rest of the gathering. What must they think of her? “I…I have no deep thoughts, sire,” she answered tentatively. “I was only thinking about the pattern on your footstool and how I would work an embroidery of my own.”

She saw laughter fill the King’s eyes before she lowered her own. Now he would mock her, and indeed he did, but with kindness and a note in his voice that made her shiver. “Ah,” he said, “if only all the women I have known had minded their needle, perhaps I would be a less haunted man today.”

“Sire?”

“No matter.” He shook his head. “You remind me, Ida, that there is still innocence in the world and gentle moments remaining in life—and that is one of the rarest and most difficult things anyone could do.”

Ida saw sadness in his eyes and, despite her discomfort and unease, it awoke her compassion. His words lit a small flicker of warmth inside her too to think she had given him something others could not.

A courtier mentioned a piece of gossip he had heard—that Hugh, Earl of Norfolk, had taken the Cross and departed for the Holy Land with the Count of Flanders.

Henry’s jaw dropped in astonishment, then he gave a short bark of laughter and clapped his hands on the arms of his chair. “Hugh Bigod a crusader? Now there’s a sight I’d like to see!”

“That is what I heard said, sire.”

“God’s blood, the old bastard must be four score years by now!” Henry gave a vigorous shake of his head. “It’s a long way to go in order not to have to return to England and face me and his ruins!” He smiled at Ida and brushed his hand against her skirt as he spoke.

She wondered if she was supposed to nod agreement or make a witty comment. Uncertainly she said, “Sire, perhaps he has gone on crusade for the benefit of his soul.”

Henry snorted. “Hugh Bigod has no soul. If he ever had one, he traded it to the highest bidder years ago.” He waved his hand in dismissal. “If the rumours are true, let the Saracens have him, but from what I saw of the Earl’s condition at Sileham, I doubt they’ll be granted that pleasure.”

A steward bowed before him and informed him that the meal awaited his pleasure to dine. Henry gestured acknowledgement and bade Ida lift his foot from the stool and assist him to rise. He leaned on her and for a brief moment his hand rested at her waist and his gaze plundered her bosom. “We will talk again,” he said. “I have enjoyed your company and I would not have you hidden away to bloom out of my sight.”

As he left to take his place at the high table, Ida curtseyed to him and concealed her hands beneath her cloak, so that no one would see them shaking.

***

That night as Ida was about to retire, John FitzJohn, the King’s marshal, came to the door of the women’s chamber with the message that the King desired to talk to Ida about the matter of her wardship and marriage.

Ida’s women swiftly began dressing her again, because one did not deny a royal summons, especially when delivered by an official of the marshal’s stature—even if it was at night when most of the court had retired.

“Well,” Bertrice said breathlessly as she retied the lacings on Ida’s gown, working swiftly from armpit to hip, “you seem to have snared yourself a king.”

Ida shivered. She didn’t feel like the one doing the snaring. “What am I to do?”

Bertrice fastened the ends of the laces. “Treat it as an opportunity. He hasn’t had a mistress since Rosamund de Clifford died in the spring.”

Ida stared at the woman aghast. “You are saying I should yield to him!”

Bertrice’s eyes were knowing and shrewd. “My love, unless you want to spend the rest of your life wedded to some dolt chosen out of his displeasure at your refusal, you will do as he bids you tonight. And then you can have whatever you want for the asking. A woman who has a king’s favour is a power to be reckoned with.”

Ida thought she was going to retch. “If I had known, I would have dressed in my drabbest gown and not washed for a week.” She looked reproachfully at her women, for they were the ones who had stressed the need to make an impression. “He wouldn’t have noticed me then.”

“Oh, I think he would, my sweet. Pure gold is always pure gold.” Bertrice fetched a comb and with swift strokes worked Ida’s oak-brown hair into a sleek skein before rebraiding it with silk ribbons.

“If the King commands, you must do his bidding,” Goda said. “Bertrice is right. If you do as he says, you will have power from this.”

Beyond the door a masculine throat was impatiently cleared. “When you are ready, my lady,” said the marshal.

In her mind’s eye, Ida imagined hiding under her bed or absconding out of the window, but in reality there was no escape. Perhaps he really did want to talk about her wardship, she thought, clutching at straws. Taking a deep breath and raising her head, she went to the door. The marshal bowed to her, holding his golden rod of office as he had been holding it earlier that evening, his expression carefully impassive.

“Am I to bring one of my women?” she asked tentatively.

“No, demoiselle, that will not be necessary.”

He had a youth with him who lit their way by lantern along corridors and up and down stairways to the royal apartments. The marshal was tall and moved with a soldier’s long stride so that Ida almost had to run to keep pace with him. “It is very late,” she said, and received no reply. She looked over her shoulder, but the way behind was pitch dark beyond the dull halo of lantern light. There was nowhere to run. “Please…” She caught at his sleeve.

He slowed and stopped, but not because of her. They had arrived at a guarded doorway. “Demoiselle,” he said, and gently removed her hand from his arm. “The King greatly honours you by this summons. No ill will befall you.”

How many times had he done this before? Ida might be innocent, but she was not entirely without knowledge. The King’s ushers and marshals were responsible for regulating the royal concubines. It was their duty to control the hidden underbelly of court life. But she wasn’t a concubine; she was the King’s ward—an heiress. How many other heiresses and wards had trodden this path at the marshal’s side in the dark watches of the night? He said she was to consider herself honoured, but it didn’t feel like that. It felt sordid, clandestine, and terrifying.