For the King’s Favor (21 page)

He had been on tenterhooks ever since the labour had begun more than half a day since; had never realised until now how time could stretch for ever and be a punishment. He had thought himself skilled in the art of waiting and being still, but ever since Ida’s travail had begun, he had been pacing the hall like a caged beast, snapping at men who asked thoroughly innocuous things of him. The news, brought to him by a smiling, tiptoeing woman, that Ida had been safely delivered of a son filled him with so much relief that it had numbed him.

From the new golden oak cradle, the cat-like mewing of a newborn infant drew him across the room to look down. His son had been unwrapped and placed naked on a soft lambskin so that Roger could inspect him and see for himself that everything was intact and as it should be. The baby wailed and thrashed its tiny arms and legs like a drunken carole dancer. Its face was red and the rest of it a flushed pink. Roger’s numbness dissipated like smoke in the wind.

“A fine, healthy boy, my lord,” said the midwife, smiling at him.

Roger nodded, unable to speak. He felt pride, jubilation, and virility. He could now look Henry in the eye with composure.

Dame Cecily picked up the baby and, having expertly swathed him in a linen wrap and then a warm blanket, gave him to Roger. For a moment, he was nonplussed. Then, with an instinct he had not known he possessed, he cradled the fragile little skull and small body along his arm. The baby looked into his face with a quizzical expression that bore the wisdom of ages. Ancient and newborn. His father’s face; his grandfather’s face. His own and Ida’s. For an instant it was almost as if he could see a line of generations stretching to the horizons of distant past and a future long after he was gone.

With tender care, he carried the baby to the bedside. Ida was sitting up against the plumped bolsters. Her hair was freshly braided and, although she looked tired, her eyes were sparkling and there was a smile on her lips. He kissed her gently and sat down.

“The women say you are well…” he said awkwardly.

She nodded. “I am, my lord, even if it was hard work.”

“You’ve done the name of Bigod and de Tosney proud.”

“I hope I have.” She continued to smile but tears filled her eyes.

“Never doubt it. You have given us a son and even more cause to strive for our future.” He set his free hand over hers in sudden concern. “Ida?”

“It’s usual, I’m told,” she said with a shaken laugh. “Women always weep after a birthing. Their humours are imbalanced. Let me hold him.”

Gingerly Roger handed the baby to her and watched her cradle him. The way she held their son, her downcast tear-dewed lashes, the blue of the loose gown she was wearing, made him think of the Madonna. Perhaps it was blasphemous to do so, but he hoped God would understand and forgive him. This was no virgin birth, but she was a virtuous wife.

“I have sent word to your brother and my mother,” he said. “I’ll have a messenger take the news to my vassals and the Abbot at Edmundsbury. I’ll send a courier to the King too.”

There was a sudden air of tension in the chamber. Mention of Henry was like the pain from a shallow, sharp cut that was slow to heal and, even on a joyous occasion such as this, still had the ability to sting. “Who knows, now we have an heir, he might grant me my patrimony.” He spoke with more hope than conviction on that score. Indeed, he thought, it might even work the other way. Henry might just be petty enough to withhold his favour now that the family line in male tail was secured.

Roger stayed with Ida until she began to droop with exhaustion and the midwife murmured diplomatically but firmly that she needed to rest. He would rather have remained with his wife and newborn child, but he knew his knights were waiting to celebrate with him and broach the tun of good wine saved for the occasion. “I’ll visit again on the morrow,” he said, kissed her, and went reluctantly to the door. On the threshold, he turned and saw her plant a kiss on the baby’s head before handing him to the midwife, and felt an all-consuming love.

Ipswich, May 1183

Ida was singing a nonsense song to Hugh and making him giggle by blowing on his neck when Roger breezed into the private chamber of their Ipswich house. Her heart quickened at the sight of him. He had been campaigning with Henry across the Narrow Sea and was but recently home. The soldiering had made him hard and fit and put vitality in his step. Ida had missed him terribly, and even now could hardly bear to have him out of her sight, although he had absconded just after dawn to talk business with Alexander, his wharf master.

Hugh squealed at the sight of his father and bounced up and down in Ida’s lap. An expression of pleasure and pride on his face, Roger picked up his son and held him above his head. Hugh giggled immensely at this treatment and Roger laughed back at him for a moment, before lowering him and supporting him within the crook of his arm and against his chest. Hugh immediately grabbed for the jewelled cross Roger was wearing round his neck and gave it an experimental bite with his new teeth. Then he pulled away, head wobbling slightly, his gaze fixed on the gleaming red stones, a line of dribble connecting him to them.

Roger grinned. “A taste for gold already, I see.”

“He has my appreciation of colours,” Ida replied sweetly. “Have you finished your business?”

“Most of it, but there are still a few things left to do.” He kissed Hugh’s cheek, swung him around, and handed him to Emma, a rosy-cheeked young woman they had employed to help as a nursemaid. “Look after him awhile,” he told her. “Ida, fetch your cloak.”

A little mystified but smiling, Ida donned her mantle and, taking his arm, followed him from the dwelling. In the spring sunshine, the river Orwell swirled in changing shades of green, grey, and blue and a variety of vessels bobbed at their quayside moorings. The crew of a Baltic galley toiled to unload honey, wax, and barrels of pitch brought from the heart of the Rus lands. Furs too of beaver, sable, and wolf. There was even the rare and magnificent pelt of a white bear. The latter fascinated Ida. “My great-great-grandsire had a cloak made of such a beast,” she said, touching the thick, silver-cream pelt. “I think the King of Scotland has it now. My great-aunt took it with her when she married him.”

Roger smiled to himself. Ida made little of it, but her cousin removed was William the Lion, King of Scotland. “Would you want such an item for Framlingham?” he asked.

She gave him a secret look through her lashes. “Perhaps as a bedcover for the coldest nights.”

He squeezed her waist. “I can think of a better cover than the pelt of a bear.”

“So can I, but sometimes it is not to hand. I think, though, I would rather our bedcover was of my own work,” she said with double entendre and reached up to stroke his cheek for the joy of touching him. “That is part of the pleasure, after all.”

His colour darkened and he gave a husky laugh. “Indeed so.”

“So perhaps some more cloth and embroidery silks are in order, no?”

Roger laughed harder. “How can I refuse?”

Arm in arm, they strolled along the quay, inspecting the wares for sale. There were markets further into the town, but many of the shipholders had permission to sell straight from their vessels for a fee. One captain had African pepper for sale and Ida had him grind up a sample in a pestle and mortar. She sniffed the aromas and tested the merest dab on her tongue, then promised to send along the household steward to discuss amount and costs. A sample of Burgundian wine from a vintner’s galley cleaned the peppery heat from her mouth and Roger ordered three tuns for the household. There was an ivory teething ring for Hugh, dangling on a ribbon of scarlet silk, and a new hat for Roger, understated, but of luxuriously napped wool in a shade somewhere between purple and midnight-blue. Ida took great pleasure in standing close up to her husband, brushing his hair out of the way with her fingers, and arranging the hat to suit. It was all about touch, and by the time she was satisfied with the correct angle and the look of it upon him, she was a little breathless and suffused with warmth.

True to his word, Roger bought her some good Flemish wool from a shipmaster with a consignment of cloth and a tumble of silks in rainbow colours from another trader. Ida pounced on the latter with a cry of delight that made Roger grin and want to take her straight to the bed they had earlier been discussing.

Returning from their foray, however, all notion of dalliance was set aside by the sight of the horses tethered in the yard. “Visitors,” Roger said with curiosity and the mildest touch of concern as he recognised an aristocratic black courser with a brocade saddle cloth and silver pendants suspended from the breast-band. “It’s Uncle Aubrey. I wonder what he wants.”

***

Sitting in Roger’s barrel chair by the fire, his expression sombre, Aubrey de Vere rubbed his hands over his knees. “I gather the messenger from Ranulf de Glanville has not yet found you?”

Roger shook his head. “De Glanville usually leaves messages to me until he is forced to send them.”

His uncle raised his brows.

“Since one of the justiciar’s brothers is wed to my stepmother and another is constable of the keep at Orford, shall we say that we do not dwell in each other’s bosoms.”

De Vere gave him an astute look, but forbore to comment on the matter. “You should know that de Glanville has put all of England on the alert and the Earls of Gloucester and Leicester have been arrested.” He bent a severe look upon Roger. “You, nephew, are on a warning.”

Roger stared at him in astonishment. “What?”

His uncle grimaced. “The Young King is in rebellion again across the Narrow Sea. He’s sacking churches and shrines to pay his soldiers and the Limousin is burning. He had two of his father’s heralds killed under a banner of truce and when the King himself went to negotiate, the boy’s soldiers shot an arbalest quarrel through his cloak.” His lips curled as he said “boy’s,” and the title spoke of all he felt, since the Young King was almost thirty years old. “If Henry wasn’t struck, it was by God’s mercy. He doesn’t want the rebellion spreading to England as it did the last time, and de Glanville has a remit to take into custody all those who would rise in arms against him. Given what happened ten years ago, he’s being cautious.”

Roger felt sick with anger. “Surely the King does not believe I would turn rebel?”

His uncle looked grim. “If he did, you’d already be in a cell with your lands confiscated. This is by way of a warning that you be careful what you do. If you are to benefit from this and not suffer you must keep your eyes open and your senses alert.”

“The King is my lord and I will serve him to the best of my ability as I have always done,” Roger said stiffly, feeling insulted.

“You have heard no word of rebellion? No rumours?” De Vere gestured towards the door. “None of the shipmasters or sailors have said anything?”

“Not so much as a fart. Even if the King and his sons are quarrelling across the Narrow Sea fit to make each other’s ears bleed, no one has yet tried to bribe me with an earldom—from either side, more’s the pity. Perhaps Justiciar de Glanville should sort through his own mattress for fleas before inspecting mine.”

His uncle gave him an eloquent look. “De Glanville is loyal to the King. I dare say he will sort very thoroughly through his own mattress, but not in public.”

“No.” Uttering a deep sigh, Roger made a gesture of acceptance and conciliation. “Yes, my lord. I will look to my lands and warn the reeves of the coastal villages to be on their guard.”

De Vere nodded approval and pushed back his sleeves as if preparing to get down to work now that the telling was done. “They’re a troublesome brood and no mistake. You see baby birds in the nest, mouths agape for as much and more than their parents can stuff down their maws. Henry’s sons are like that. Whatever he gives them it will never be enough.”

Roger stared at his own baby son, nestling in Ida’s lap, contentedly chewing on the new ivory teething ring. “Perhaps it is indeed that way for birds and kings,” he replied, “but I swear to God that I will raise no child of mine to be the like of Henry’s.”

Ida bit her lip and dropping her gaze, nuzzled Hugh’s soft blond hair.

“Do you not fight with your own half-brothers over what is yours and what is theirs?” de Vere asked with a mordant smile.

“No, I fight with them over what is mine.” Roger gave a reluctant huff of laughter. “Hah, you entangle me in my own net, but I still mean it. Henry’s heir is a vain, spoiled child who wants the world on a golden plate and thinks his looks and his smile ought to be enough reason to give it to him. Richard sees his life reflected in the blade of a sword, Geoffrey’s a conniving snake and John’s a brat who thinks it fun to set fire to a cat’s tail and watch it yowl. I am not royalty, but I can do ten times better than that.”

***

Arms pillowed behind his head, Roger lay in the cramped bed box that his chamberlain had set up on the dais of their quayside hall. Curtains screened him and Ida from the other sleepers in the rest of the room. His uncle, being a guest of standing, had the privilege of the main chamber on the floor above and the good big bed.

Ida set her hand on his chest, spreading her fingers across the triangle of skin exposed by the open laces of his shirt. “You have been very quiet,” she said.

He gave a soft grunt and lowered one hand to touch her hair. “I’m just digesting the news my uncle brought to me.”

“The King will not move against you…against us.”

He heard the note of anxiety out of her voice. “Who is to say what the King will and will not do?” he asked sourly. “I am valued, but I am not trusted. That much is obvious.” He made an impatient sound. “I think we are safe. As my uncle says, had Henry wanted, he could have ordered me arrested with the Earls of Gloucester and Leicester, and de Glanville would not have hesitated to do so given the chance.”

Ida pulled gently at his chest hair. “I am sad for the King, and I am sad for his sons. I…” He heard the pain tightening her throat and he tensed too because he knew where this was leading. “When you said earlier God forbid you raise sons the likes of his, I could not help but think of…of all of them.”

He exhaled on a deep sigh. “Ida, you cannot change that part. It was the King’s decision to keep the boy, and whether right or wrong it was final.”

“Yes, I know, I know.” She turned into his arms and pressed her face against his neck. “But it hurts…every day it hurts, even though I have sworn not to think on it.”

“Then concentrate on the beautiful son you do have—that I have given you and who will never be taken away.” His tone was brusque because he had his own raw insecurity. He would never admit to being jealous because it was unmanly, but the feeling rode him hard when he thought of what Ida had been to Henry.

“I do,” she answered in a quavery voice. “I thank God for him every day. You and he are my world and my consolation.”

He had used that word to her in the orchard on the day they had decided to marry and now wished he had not, for Ida had taken it from him and used it for her own. A consolation might be either an assuagement, or a substitute for something one could not have.

Rolling over, he kissed her with slow, tender thoroughness. He unfastened the tie on her chemise and drew the garment over her head, following it with his shirt, and he made love to her with a blend of fierceness and delicacy that was all consuming. Ida responded eagerly, first whispering, then crying his name and clutching him to her. As Roger moved within her, he swore he would expunge all thoughts of Henry from her mind, all memory that her body had of another’s touch. All there would be was him.