For the King’s Favor (27 page)

“When your mother contracted to wed my lord Bigod, your father said you were to remain in his household. She had to give you up; she was not permitted to take you with her, although it broke her heart.”

He nodded but continued to look at his hose because he didn’t entirely trust her words. Adults often said things they didn’t mean in order to get themselves out of tight corners. He felt resentful that no one had told him before—and left him to wonder and worry. “Why didn’t my father tell me?”

Hodierna gently brushed the hair off his brow. “I believe he would have done in time, but he thought he had some years yet to let you grow up. And as his last son, he didn’t want to lose you to another man’s household. He never had the opportunity to watch the others grow as he has had with you. He knew your mother would bear other children and have the duties of a wife to keep her occupied, and that since he begot you, you belonged to him. He would not give you to Roger Bigod to raise. I know it is hard for you to understand, but he meant the best for you.”

William compressed his lips and moved away from her smoothing hand. He wasn’t a baby to need that kind of comfort. Indeed, although he knew he was a child and people treated him as a child, he had long felt like an adult. His father had not lied—his mother was of good blood—but he still felt angry that she had gone on to make another life and he resented Roger Bigod for taking her away. But he would not have wanted him for a father above his own royal one. For Henry he felt only numbness. It was like a hard slap: that moment of burning between the deed and the sensation. “I do understand,” he said.

“You think you do,” Hodierna replied compassionately, “but these things will seem different when you are older. Come with me now and sit by the fire awhile and I’ll tell you what I can about your mother.”

Torn between wanting to know everything and remaining in ignorance, William stayed where he was, but finally, under Hodierna’s gentle coaxing, he let her lead him to the hearth. He listened to her and heard what she said, but her words seemed to come from a distance and he still couldn’t believe that his mother was living, breathing flesh, rather than a figment created in the flames like a winter’s tale.

Westminster, September 1189

Downriver from the city of London, the palace of Westminster blazed with torches, candles, and lanterns as dusk descended over the complex of halls, administrative buildings, and chapels. The reflection of the lights danced on the surface of the Thames like fallen stars.

Richard had been anointed and crowned King earlier that day in a gilded, glittering ceremony in the great abbey church, involving the earls, magnates, and bishops of England.

The feast in the great hall, which had been built a hundred years ago in the reign of the Conqueror’s son, William Rufus, was a purely masculine affair and the women, who had attended the coronation in the abbey, were gathered for a separate celebration of the event in the smaller White Hall, presided over by Queen Eleanor.

A fringed white towel over his shoulder, Roger attended to his ceremonial duties with the other royal dapifers, including Robert, Earl of Leicester, who had recently succeeded his father. Leicester was pledged to go on crusade with Richard to the Holy Land. The Earl was an accomplished soldier and his abilities would prove useful on a prolonged campaign. Roger knew, however, as did everyone else, that no matter how much Leicester strutted his importance at his steward’s tasks, Richard’s desire to take the new Earl with him on crusade was more about eliminating a threat at home than about having a competent commander on the field. His father had been one of the leaders of a rebellion that had almost destroyed the Crown. Richard wasn’t taking any chances.

Roger knew he too was under Richard’s scrutiny. Unlike William Marshal, he didn’t have an intimate history of royal service, nor Queen Eleanor’s long friendship and goodwill to recommend him. Everything still hung in the balance although, to Roger’s advantage, Ranulf de Glanville had been removed from the justiciarship and Richard had made it clear he expected de Glanville’s presence on the crusade. He was not to be left in control of England. Rumours of massive fiscal abuse were circulating that Roger could well believe, although proving that Ranulf had embezzled the money was more difficult. Ranulf wasn’t the only de Glanville taking the Cross. Gundreda’s husband was expected to go in support of his brother, and Huon was already pledged to the crusade. The only disadvantage Roger could see was that it would give them an opportunity to put themselves in good odour with Richard.

Roger’s gaze lit on a page of the royal household who was serving at the high table and performing his tasks with swift, meticulous precision. His dark hair gleamed against the rich red and gold of his tunic, and Roger recognised the deft movement of his hands because when at home he saw it every day as Ida plied her needle and wove braid on her loom. Roger had been too busy to notice the boy before, but now he paid attention, and his body tightened with instinctive resistance. As if Roger’s recognition was a magnet, the boy looked up and stared at him, and it gave Roger a shock, for his eyes were so like Ida’s—and yet unalike too, because Ida’s had always been fixed on him with the softness of love, and the boy’s were hard and hostile. Why should the child look at him like that unless he knew his background?

A fanfare sounded and Roger had to give his attention to his duties as another course was borne up the great hall to the dais. By the time Roger had ensured that the roasted peacock, its tail feathers decorating the dish in a sweep of iridescent colour, had been presented in fine order, the boy had gone.

Roger discovered him again a short while later as he was checking the salvers being sent into the women’s hall. Young William FitzRoy was peering round the open door into the chamber, gazing intently at the assembled ladies. Something in his posture spoke of biting hunger and a stab of compassion caught Roger by surprise. This could have so easily been himself once, hungering for something that had long been missing from his life.

As if sensing his presence, the boy turned, a flush creeping over his face. The look he cast at Roger was guilty, defensive, and angry.

Roger hesitated, uncertain what to say. He was never at a loss with his own son, but this wasn’t his son. He felt resentment and knew he shouldn’t, because the child was innocent. Henry’s was the sin. “That is a fine tunic you are wearing,” he said.

The boy jutted his chin. “It was given to me, by my brother the King.”

Roger raised one eyebrow at the emphasis on the last two words. The child’s attitude might either be caused by touchy pride or just mean he was a pretentious brat. “I am glad to see he cares for you,” he said. “You must have an important position at court, hmm?”

The boy nodded. “I am going to be a squire soon,” he said, then looked beyond Roger as the King’s brother, John, Count of Mortain, arrived, sauntering and hitching his braies as if he had recently visited the latrine.

“My lord.” Roger turned and bowed to him.

“Don’t you love family gatherings?” John asked lightly and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “What are you doing, little brother? Shirking your job to go peering at women through keyholes? Tsk, tsk. You should leave that to older men like my lord Bigod who have the wherewithal to do something about their desires.”

William’s complexion turned the same colour as his tunic. “I wasn’t. I was just…”

“…catching your breath for a moment,” Roger supplied helpfully, with a sidelong look of reproach for John. “It is always useful to know what is happening around you. As to looking through keyholes…I leave that to others who find such subterfuge appealing.”

John narrowed his eyes for a moment, then chose to be amused and gave his half-brother a playful cuff. “Go on, rascal,” he said. “Be gone.”

William ducked under John’s arm and darted away in the direction of the Rufus Hall. Hands on hips, John grinned in his wake. “I’m almost fond of the little runt. My father was always good to the bastards he begot on his whores. You can tell your lovely wife not to worry. Richard will see him advanced as was my father’s intention for him and should the responsibility fall to me, I will do the same…in memory.”

“Thank you, sire,” Roger said stiffly and, although he desired nothing more than to flatten his tormentor and stamp on his windpipe, controlled himself. John’s reputation for verbal cruelty and sly, underhand behaviour was notorious. He would never walk straight ahead if there was the delightful possibility of digging a tunnel, and whenever he spoke, his words made someone bleed.

However, as John went on his way, it occurred to Roger that perhaps John too had paused at the women’s hall, lured to gaze upon a mother he barely knew. You couldn’t go back and recover those missing years, but going forward without them in your baggage made it difficult to balance the weight of your life in adulthood. His own mother was not attending the coronation, but he knew how easily it could have been himself looking through that door.

***

William leaned against the wall of one of the outbuildings feeling utterly mortified. He had only wanted a swift look at the woman who bore him so he could fix her image in his mind. Ever since Hodierna had told him who she was, he had come to imagine her as a beautiful, ethereal lady like the Queen of Heaven, whom his father had tragically been unable to marry because he could not secure a divorce from Eleanor. It had been a true love match and her marriage to Roger Bigod was only one of convenience. The children she had borne of that marriage were products of duty, not love as he had been, and were of lesser blood. He had heard that the Bigod line stemmed from a common, impoverished hearth knight in the pay of the Bishop of Bayeux, whereas his own line was true royalty. His father had been a King; his half-brother was one. If his father had divorced Queen Eleanor and remarried, he himself would have been in line to the throne.

All he had wanted to do was look at his mother for a moment and find out if the sight of her evoked any memories. But he had been unsure who she was amongst all the shimmering silk-clad ladies. His blood had not cried out to any one of them in particular and it was frustratingly like the times when he had wondered which of the women in the domestic household had borne him, when the truth was none of them had. He could have asked, but it would have exposed his vulnerability and been embarrassing. Just now he had been utterly humiliated at being caught out by his half-brother and his mother’s husband—the man she had been made to marry. He thought of the hard, blue-grey stare and the set lips. How could she be happy with him? William told himself that his father had made the best decision. He wouldn’t have wanted to go and live in a poky tumbled-down manor in the middle of nowhere with a litter of snot-nosed half-siblings. Roger Bigod spoke French with a thick Norfolk accent. He probably let pigs wander about in his hall too. If William had been raised by him, he’d be halfway to a peasant by now. He pressed his head against the wall and clenched his fists and told himself that he was in the better place and had been given the meaty end of the bone, but it didn’t stop him from feeling as miserable as a starving, homeless cur.

He squeezed his eyes shut until the urge to cry had passed, brushed down his tunic, and returned to his duties in the Rufus Hall. His chin was up and his eyes were down. He made himself focus on what he had to do, as if the collecting of pitchers and aquamaniles to take them for refreshing was the most important part of his life. And in a way, it was, because it anchored him to stability and gave him a fixed point in the whirlwind.

***

Ida’s women curtseyed and left the chamber, drawing the door curtain across on the way to their own pallets in the small cubicle beyond. Seated on the bed, Roger set about undressing. Clad in her chemise, her hair loose, Ida washed her hands and face at the ewer and dried them on a fine linen towel.

“I saw your son,” he said. “Serving as a page at the high table. He worked hard and did well.”

Ida stiffened, her posture suddenly wary. “I saw him too, from a distance in the cathedral.” She slowly turned round, still drying her hands. “But not again after that.”

“He was busy, although I caught him looking through into the women’s hall.” He told her about his encounter with William and she hung on to his every word, her eyes brimming with hope and anxiety.

“Now that Henry is dead, perhaps it is time to rebuild bridges that are broken down,” he said quietly, “but it must be done with care for all concerned, lest more harm be done than good.”

“He knows who I am?” Ida said hoarsely.

He clasped his hands between his knees. “From what I gather, yes, but I do not think it is ancient information.” He sighed. “Henry wanted him raised at court in the manner of a prince, and that will not change with the new King, nor should it. The court is the boy’s home and he has embarked on his training towards knighthood…but the bonds should be acknowledged.” He unclasped his hands and came to embrace her. “It won’t be easy, for anyone, but given the fullness of time, it can be achieved—like the new bridge spanning the river.”

Ida reached on tiptoe to touch his face. “You give me hope to balance my fear.” Her voice quivered. “And you are generous.”

He made a face. “No,” he said, “I am selfish, more than you know.” He didn’t want to speak of his boyhood, the loss of his mother, and the struggles since then to adjust. He had not come to understanding until he was a grown man. He could also see now why his mother’s second husband had not wanted him intruding on the new marriage and claiming her attention. “He is a tie with the King,” he said instead, because it was a practical consideration and advantage and did not involve delving into emotional murk. “And such ties must be strengthened and fostered.”

Her face fell a little. “Yes, of course,” she said. “You are right.”

Unspoken between them lay the detail that before Henry’s death, she had been the glue that bound the arrangement together. Henry had had an interest in her well-being because of their son. But Richard was a step removed, and while he might acknowledge his bastard-born half-brother, he was going to set little store by his late father’s former concubine.

Roger took her face in his hands and kissed her. “I do not say it for that reason alone. I know how much he means to you. He cannot mean the same to me because he is not my flesh and blood and the man who begot him has sometimes seemed very close to being my enemy, but I am willing to lay the foundations now that…” He broke off with a shrug. He did not have to say the rest.

Ida set her arms around his neck and kissed him in return, and he knew that now was not the time for talking. Besides, he didn’t know what to say because for the time being he had run out of wisdom. Her skin bore the faint scent of rose water and there was a lingering muskier fragrance upon her throat of perfumed unguent. He nuzzled beneath her earlobe and felt her shiver.

As always when the subject of Henry arose, he was riven by jealousy—by the need for reassurance that she belonged to him alone. Drawing her to their bed, he laid her down upon it and made love to her with teasing, merciless delicacy. Tonight he needed to be the pleasure-giver arid kindle her body until she writhed and cried in the grip of sensations he knew with exultant certainty Henry had never once roused in her.