For the King’s Favor Read Free Page A

lamps as if the surface of the metal was running water upon a bed of jewelled pebbles. Standing in a filigreed socket at the side of the saint’s tomb was a banner, its saffron silk gleaming in the light from the altar lamp. Gold and red tassels hung from the tabs attaching it to its pole and embroidered in the centre of the silk was a red crown, pierced by arrows.
    “This is the standard of the ancient rulers of this land,” de Luci said. “Edmundsbury was once their seat, as you must know. Your uncle was intending to bear this banner into battle, but perhaps he can be prevailed upon to relinquish the responsibility to another of his kin.”
    Roger’s hair prickled at his nape and rose on his wrists. He flickered a glance at de Luci, but there was no censure in the justiciar’s eyes, no contempt or preemptive expectation of failure. “My lord, I will willingly bear it in his stead—if you and he will permit it.”
    De Luci clapped a firm hand on Roger’s shoulder. “It is for the saint to decide. But since you are here before his shrine, and not robbing his lands at the point of a sword, I would say he has already spoken.”
    Roger stared at the banner. Gold filaments on the top tassel caught in a movement of air and gently wafted. “My lord, I beg leave to pray.”
    De Luci nodded. “As you wish. When you are ready, seek me out.” He left, the soles of his shoes making no sound on the chapel floor. Roger breathed deeply, inhaling the scents of the church, seeking spiritual calm. His father had scorned Roger’s need for moments like this, alone with God. He said that lingering in churches was for monks, foolish women, and men with addled pates, but Roger valued the time in which to be tranquil, to set all in order with his maker, and to gather mental strength. His opinion of what addled a man’s pate had never been the same as his father’s.
    He closed his eyes and, as he prayed, the darkness behind his lids yielded to the image of the banner surging in a stiff breeze and his hand gripping the shaft. Beyond it he could see Framlingham ringed by flames. Further back still, and scarcely glimpsed, new towers rose out of the ashes and he could not tell if the red and gold dancing along the battlements was his family’s banner, or the destruction of fire.
    ***
    Gundreda, Countess of Norfolk, watched her husband making final preparations to leave with Leicester’s army, and knew she had to act, because this might be her last opportunity. He was well past seventy years old, even if he was still hale and strong. There was no certainty he would return from this foray. She knew from the way he was stamping about with a complexion as red as a boiled crab’s that she was chancing his temper, but a slap or a kick was a risk she would have to take if she was going to secure her sons’ inheritance.
    “I knew Roger would do this to you,” she said. “You’ve never been able to rely on him and now he has proven his worth by turning traitor.” She studied him from beneath her lids to gauge his response. On receiving the news that instead of raiding the lands of Saint Edmund’s abbey Roger had taken a contingent of knights and serjeants loyal to him and declared for King Henry, Hugh had swiped all the silver cups off the sideboard, torn down a hanging, and smashed a footstool against the wall.
    He glowered at her. “Why should you put your oar to rowing the boat, woman? He’s the misbegotten son of a whore; I already know that without you telling me.” He put his foot up on a coffer to tighten the fastening on one of his spurs.
    Gundreda folded her hands in her lap and looked at them rather than at him, so she would not appear too assertive. He only liked assertiveness if he could beat it down and dominate it. “Because, husband, if he is the things you say, he should not be your heir. You have two loyal sons at home who are worth twice his mettle, and they do not defy you.”
    He finished the adjustment to his