For the King’s Favor (3 page)

The heavy rain of the last two months had made the ground muddy at best and much of the meadow adjoining the swollen river was a bog. The river Lark was running in spate and the only way forward was over the bridge.

Roger joined the front rank of de Bohun’s knights and faced the road, his heart pounding in full, solid strokes and his belly churning. There was no retreat from this and if he died in battle, so be it. He was done with turning the other cheek.

The scouts came galloping back to their commanders to report that Leicester’s army was sighted, but was spread out and straggling rather than holding tight formation as his troops strove to find solid paths through the mire. Those in the vanguard were churning up the ground and hampering the men following behind, but still it was a formidable array. Roger glanced round and saw his uncle drawing up to support de Bohun’s left flank, while de Luci took the right. Everything became still on the edge of the storm and Roger felt the electric moment prickle through his veins.

Fixing his gaze forward again, he saw Leicester’s banner and the glitter of mail worn by the better protected knights—men with whom he had recently sat at meat in Framlingham’s great hall and who were now his enemy. He raked his gaze across the field, searching for yet more intimate prey, and finally located the saffron and red Bigod standard at the back, close to the baggage detail. Wily bastard, Roger thought, shaking his head. His father was near enough to give the impression of support, but had left himself room to flee if necessary.

De Bohun raised his sword to de Luci and de Vere, who saluted in reply; the heralds blew on their hunting horns, signalling the attack. As de Bohun spurred his stallion, Roger pricked Sorel’s flanks and roared his own battle cry: “Saint Edmund! Saint Edmund!” Anketil at his left shoulder, he spurred towards Leicester’s knights who were galloping to meet the royalist charge. One of their number hurtled straight at him, spear levelled, clods of moist earth showering from his stallion’s hooves. Roger adjusted his shield and twitched the rein so that Sorel canted to the right. The knight tried to turn, but was taken by the warrior on Roger’s left. Roger lifted the banner, raised it on high, and planted it in the heavy soil with a deep thrust, the energy shivering up his arm and neck and into his skull. Then, right hand free, he drew his sword.

For all his father’s antipathy towards him, Roger had received a thorough grounding in weapons skills, and of his own talent he excelled at swordplay. Men saw his slender build and underestimated his tensile strength, his speed, and his balance. Now his blows bore the force of anger, but he controlled and contained the blaze within him. He had seen men become white-hot with battle rage and usually they died. When it was kill or be killed, you had to know what you were doing if you wanted to survive. Building up a steady rhythm, he and Anketil wove through the battle as if performing a deadly progressive dance, engaging partners and, as each partner fell away, moving on to the next and the next. Roger uprooted the banner and planted it again and again in each new place he chose to dance. His sword blade developed a pattern of random scarlet swirls and the blows absorbed by his shield scuffed the blazon to a smudge resembling the heart of a fire. Sorel’s chestnut hide darkened to the colour of raw liver, but not for a moment did Roger slacken his momentum.

Leicester’s core fought back hard, but the edges were weak and began to crumble and collapse, and without that support, the backbone disintegrated under the continued onslaught. The weight of numbers was all surplus flesh devoid of muscle and will. Suddenly Roger found himself bereft of a dancing partner. Leicester’s knights were disengaging, fleeing, throwing down their arms, surrendering. The Flemish mercenaries, earlier so bold, turned tail and were pursued by de Luci’s infantry and the local militia brandishing their scythes and pitchforks. Teeth bared, air rasping in his throat, Roger uprooted the banner of Saint Edmund again and rode hard for the baggage wains and pack ponies, intent on reaching them before they were robbed.

Deploying his men with a few sharp commands, Roger secured the Earl of Leicester’s baggage supplies, seeing off would-be looters and scavengers with the voice of authority, backed up by the sharp end of lance and sword. In his peripheral vision he noticed a string of laden pack ponies trotting back the way it had come, escorted by several serjeants. There was no sign of the Bigod standard but Roger recognised the men by their familiar red and gold shields. Leaving Anketil to guard the baggage, he gathered a handful of knights and spurred in pursuit of the escapees. Sorel was tiring, but was still faster than the laden ponies, and the Bigod soldiers could not guard them and fight at the same time.

“Go!” Roger bellowed to his father’s serjeants as he overtook them and slewed Sorel across their path, sword drawn. “I grant you your lives but leave the baggage. Otherwise let this field be your grave.”

The men hesitated, eyes darting.

Roger unfastened his ventail and addressed their leader, while beneath him Sorel sidled and pranced. “Torkil, you know me. In Christ’s name, man, see sense and save yourselves. I don’t see my father hanging back to defend his baggage, do you? I will kill you if I must and that is no idle threat.”

The serjeant licked his lips and glanced at his companions. “Lads,” he said and, dropping the lead rope on the foremost pack pony, dug his heels into his gelding’s flanks. Roger watched the men gallop off. If they survived this rout and had any sense, they’d seek employment elsewhere than at Framlingham. Grasping the rope that Torkil had dropped, he handed it to one of his knights and returned to the baggage line.

De Luci had pursued the fleeing Earl of Leicester and his wife, trapping them against the banks of the spated river Lark. The Countess, clad in a hauberk as if she were a man, had pulled off her fine rings, including her precious sapphire one, and tossed them all into the river so that her husband’s enemies should not have them. She and Leicester were brought to the baggage camp and placed under close guard in Leicester’s wain, Petronilla having first been relieved of her mail shirt and her long dagger.

As Roger dismounted from Sorel, Aubrey de Vere walked up to him and clapped his shoulder. “You fought well,” his uncle said with a smile of acknowledgement for a deed well accomplished. “Today you have redeemed the honour your father has sold. You have become your family’s future.”

Roger swallowed and said nothing. His uncle’s words settled upon his shoulders like a thick cloak, but for the moment he couldn’t decide whether they were a protection against the cold, or something that was going to smother him.

Castle Hedingham, Essex, July 1174

Juliana, former Countess of Norfolk, now Lady Maminot of Greenwich, gazed at the slender young man standing uncertainly in her chamber doorway. Dear Holy Mother, her son looked nothing like the image she had carried in her mind these last five years. Gone were the final vestiges of boyhood softness and in their place was a man’s hard strength of bone and a soldier’s burnish.

“Roger!” Rising from the window seat where she had been working at her embroidery, she hastened to him with one arm outstretched.

He hesitated, then took her hand and knelt to her in formal greeting. “My lady mother.”

Juliana looked down at his bent head. His hair was cut short for wearing under a helm, but was still as she remembered: fine-textured but plentiful and the soft brown of shadow-darkened sand. A lump tightened her throat and surprised her for she never cried. Not even when his father had done things to her no woman should have to endure. “There is no need to stand on ceremony with me,” she said and raised him to his feet. She was tall for a woman and his height was only a finger length above hers, although he had a goodly advantage over his father. Hugh had hated the fact that she was bigger than he was and counted it one of her many transgressions. “Let me look at you.”

He stood calmly under her scrutiny, but a flush rose from his throat into his face. The stubble of what would be a strong beard if he let it grow gave outline to a square chin and mobile, well-shaped mouth. His eyes were a mingling of grey on blue, and they too reminded her of a north coast seashore. Perhaps that was where his essence came from, blown into Framlingham on the stormy night of his conception, for there was little of Hugh to see in him. She noted that he wore both sword and spurs and although his tunic and person were clean, an aroma of hot horse clung to him.

“It has been too long,” she said, “far too long.” Reaching out to touch the side of his face she thought with regret of all the years that might have been and never were. Hugh had banned her from seeing Roger after the annulment and Walkelin had made it clear that Hugh of Norfolk’s spawn was not welcome at Greenwich. Hedingham, the abode of Juliana’s brother, Aubrey, Earl of Oxford, was neutral territory and a place where mother and son could meet on rare occasions like this.

“Have you travelled far?” She signalled a loitering servant to bring wine and drew him to the window seat where she had been sewing.

“From the King’s camp at Sileham.”

“Ah.” She waited while the attendant fetched cups and a platter of spiced marrow tarts. “You are with the King then?”

“Yes, madam.” He drank some wine and ate one of the tarts. She suspected that he was ravenous, although he was being politely restrained—unlike his father. Control, she thought. He had that from her…and his ability to be still in the storm. She had heard about his prowess at the battle of Fornham in the autumn. Aubrey said the victory had been overwhelming despite odds of four to one and that Roger had borne the banner of Saint Edmund into battle and fought out of his skin.

“Your father…” She stopped herself with a sip of wine. There was no point in being corrosive; it was in the past and she would never vent her spleen on her son. She had heard that following the defeat at Fornham, Hugh had bought off the justiciar and paid a thousand marks to make a truce. Whatever his claims of persecution and impoverishment under King Henry’s rule, he remained one of the wealthiest men in the kingdom. Being what he was, her former husband had used that truce to make his own pacts with the Flemish. More mercenaries had arrived, better trained this time, and he had taken them to Norwich and sacked the city. As usual, he had overreached himself and underestimated the King. She had daily cause to be glad her marriage to him had been annulled, even if she was no longer a countess. Let Gundreda have those gauds and suffer Hugh’s brutish demands. Her one regret was losing her child.

“…has dug his own grave with his shovel of greed, and perhaps mine with it,” Roger said grimly. “He’s been commanded to submit to the King and he must because the rebellion has failed and there’s no one left to stand beside him.”

Juliana knitted her brows. “Why do you say he has dug your grave too? Surely the way you have fought in the King’s service this past year will stand you in good credit?”

“The surrender terms are punitive. My father’s treachery cancels out my loyal service to Henry. Burning Norwich was the final straw. The King won’t leave him the wherewithal to rebel again.”

“And the terms are?” She looked at him over her cup, striving to appear detached and serene.

“He is to send all of his mercenaries back to Flanders and he is to pay another fine—I don’t know how much, but it won’t be small…”

She waited, knowing there was more because what he had said thus far was surmountable.

“The King intends to raze Framlingham.”

Juliana’s brows arched towards the fluted edge of her wimple. “What?”

“All the defences are to be destroyed.” He gave her a sick look. “Henry’s employing the carpenters even now and he’s put the work into the hands of Ailnoth his senior engineer. Bungay’s threatened too, although Henry hasn’t decided yet. Certainly he’ll garrison it with his own men. He’s also going to withhold the third penny of the shire and exercise distraint on goods and chattels.” His eyes were storm-grey now. “By his lights he’s being generous. He’s allowing my father to remain Earl for his lifetime.”

Juliana bit her lip. This was bad news indeed. “For his lifetime?” she repeated.

He nodded. “And then the King renegotiates with his heirs, and that means he could withhold the right to the title of earl, and the revenues that go with it. My stepmother…” His expression twisted. “My stepmother is angling for what is left of the inheritance to go to my half-brother.”

Juliana was appalled. “That will never happen!” She stiffened with indignation. “You are Norfolk’s rightful heir!”

“I have the better claim, but it won’t stop her from bringing her demands to court.” His gaze was bleak. “There will be a fight every whit as bloody as a trial by combat. She will try to claim the invalidity of your marriage to my father, and say that I am bastard-born.”

Juliana’s eyes flashed. “Then she will find herself pitched against the might of de Vere. How dare she!”

“Because she wants the best for her sons—or at least the best she can salvage.” He drew himself up. “It’s my battle to fight, and I will deal with it the best I can. I am not a fool. I will come for help if I need it.”

“And it will be given. I have always regretted—” She compressed her lips. She could tell by the way he was attending studiously to his wine and not meeting her gaze that it was too late for all that, and men as a rule did not deal well with such conversations. “I want the best for you too,” she amended, “more than salvage, more than crumbs.”

“For the moment my father is still alive,” he said abruptly, “and may yet live for many more years. It’s rumoured he’s withdrawing to the court of Philip of Flanders.”

“You think it true?”

He gestured assent. “I do not suppose his pride will let him stay in England.”

“And your stepmother?”

“I understand she will dwell at Bungay with the younger son, although the older one may also exile himself in Flanders to prove how dutiful he is.” The flat tone of his voice revealed what he thought of that particular notion.

“And you, my son?” she asked. “Where will you call home?”

“If my father does go into exile, I will go to Framlingham.”

“Even if there is nothing there but grass?”

Now he did meet her gaze, and his eyes were as hard as sea-tumbled flints. “You can pitch a tent on grass,” he said. “You can use it to feed a horse; you can build again.” After a moment he reached for another tart.

She studied his hands: the firm fingers; the thumbs that curved away from the upright like her own. They weren’t large, but they had symmetry and strength. A new scar, campion-pink, inscribed the base of three fingers on his left one. His skin was tanned to the start of his tunic cuffs, and dusted with fine gilt hair. She remembered when she had held the hands of a little boy. White, unmarked, soft, their story unmapped beyond fine sketch lines on either palm; sometimes grubby from childhood play in the dust. She would take them between her own and wash them clean in the ewer with fine soap of Castile. Now they were the hands of a man—scarred, experienced, no longer a mother’s to hold, but caught in the waiting moment before they grasped a wife’s, or were themselves grasped by the tiny, dependent clutch of the next generation. “Yes,” she said. “I understand. If you don’t believe you can start again, where do you go indeed?”

***

Roger came to Framlingham Castle ahead of Ailnoth the engineer and his team. The sun was low on the horizon and a hot summer day had drenched the land in heat so that the soon-to-be-demolished palisade timbers gave off a haze of stored warmth. Roger handed his horses to a groom and had an attendant take his baggage roll to the hall, where he had also directed his small entourage. Then, with only Anketil in tow, he mounted the wall walk and faced the sunset.

He had spoken to his mother of pitching a tent, and indeed had been prepared to do just that in order to claim his inheritance, but in the event, Henry had shown a glimmer of mercy. Tomorrow the destruction would begin, but Ailnoth and his crew had instructions to leave the stone great hall and chapel standing, and the kitchens, byres, and utility buildings. What was to be destroyed were the battlements, the gatehouse tower and guardrooms, the earthworks and defences—everything that had made Framlingham a stronghold. But at least he had a place to live.

His father had not stayed in the royal camp beyond making his formal surrender. Having agreed to all the terms in a voice devoid of emotion, he had departed, intent on taking ship for Flanders with his mercenaries. He hadn’t spared a single look for his eldest son, as if by refusing to acknowledge his presence in the King’s campaign tent he could wipe him from existence. All Roger had seen was an old man, deflated, beaten, almost used up, but still existing on the dregs of his bitterness and venom.

“My father wouldn’t stay to see all this pulled down.” Roger pressed the flat of his hand against the sun-warmed oak, now in shadow. “But someone has to bear witness. Someone has to watch it all come down and face the consequences.” He looked round at Anketil, resolution firming his jaw. “Someone has to rebuild.”

“Sir?”

“You fall over, you get up again,” Roger said. “This was my father’s castle. The next one will be mine.”