For the King’s Favor Read Free

said with a mordant smile. “Where else?”

Two
    Abbey of Saint Edmund, Suffolk, October 1173
    In the guest house at the abbey of Saint Edmund, Roger bowed his head and knelt to his maternal uncle, Aubrey de Vere, Earl of Oxford, and to Richard de Luci, justiciar of England. “I offer myself in the King’s service,” he said, “and I yield to his will.”
    De Luci, a hardbitten warrior and statesman whose loyalty to King Henry was unshakeable, studied Roger dispassionately. “Be welcome,” he said. “The more we have to swell our numbers the better.” He gestured Roger to rise and take a seat before the hearth. A chill wind rattled the shutters and whistled under the door, making Roger very glad of his fur-lined cloak. The abbey grounds swarmed with the troops of the royalist army, their tents a patched and campaign-worn village of canvas. The commanders and their knights were preparing to bed down in the guest hall and sundry chambers—wherever there was space for a man to roll himself in his cloak. The town and abbey precincts were already bristling with refugees, driven from their homes by the depredations of Leicester’s Flemings and huddling in what shelter they could find. Many of the displaced had grim stories to tell of pillage, murder, and rape. Roger tried not to think of how close he had come to adding more of the same to their tally and prayed for forgiveness and God’s guidance to do the right thing.
    De Luci sat down beside him. “In truth, I am surprised to see the heir of Hugh Bigod in my camp,” he said. “What brings you here to us?”
    Roger leaned towards the fire and folded his hands between his knees. He rubbed his thumb over the bandage and felt the pain spark. “If you want the simple truth, I am here because of my father.”
    De Luci raised his brows and glanced at de Vere.
    “Your father?” De Vere’s hawkish features creased in puzzlement.
    “I didn’t want to follow his path,” Roger said. “All my life I have striven to obey him and do my duty as a son, but when he asked me to raid the lands of Saint Edmund, I realised I could follow him no further without damning my soul.”
    De Luci gave him a hard stare. “How do we know this is not a ploy hatched by your father to ensure the Earl of Norfolk has a foot in each camp?”
    “You do not, my lord, apart from my word of honour.”
    “Which is not the same as your father’s word of honour,” his uncle remarked sardonically. “Men shake his hand and then check to see that the rings are still on their fingers.”
    “No, my lord, it isn’t.” Roger was too intent and serious to respond to his uncle’s acerbic humour. “He sent me to raid the abbey’s lands and I came to you instead.” His mouth twisted. “I won’t return to him whatever happens; that part of my life is finished.”
    De Vere and de Luci exchanged glances again. His uncle signalled a squire to pour wine for Roger. “How many men does Leicester have with him?”
    “Skilled, or rabble, my lord?”
    “All told.”
    Roger took the cup and gave them the information they desired. It wasn’t betrayal. It was strategy and proof of good intent. “They outnumber you four to one, but from what I have seen, your men are better organised and equipped.”
    De Luci pinched his upper lip and gave Roger a considering look. “Come with me,” he said.
    Alert with tension, Roger followed him from the guest hall and into the great abbey church of Saint Edmund. The smell of incense fragranced the air and the encroaching night was illuminated by the soft glow of lamps and islands of clustered candlelight leading the way down the massive nave. Beyond the choir at the eastern end of the great church stood the shrine of Saint Edmund, the Christian East Anglian King, martyred by the Danes three hundred years ago. A gabled canopy embellished with panels of beaten silver and coruscating with precious stones covered the tomb and reflected the light from candles and altar