world outside the womb had been the squashy comfort of a milky breast, the sight was arousing beyond belief.
Her teasing, shocking dance became too much for some of the more worked-up soldiers in her audience, who seized her off the table and bore her to the straw in a corner of the room. One man thrust himself between her spread thighs while his friends made demands on her hands, her mouth, between her milky breasts. Anketil, Hamo, and Oliver shouldered their way forwards to watch while they pondered taking their turn. Roger followed on their periphery, but as he gazed on the rutting, bucking mass his lust evaporated on the instant, leaving disgust and a feeling of drained sorrow that was akin to awakening in the aftermath of a sinful dream. What his men did was up to their personal consciences, but Roger had seen enough. Turning on his heel, he left the guardroom, but on his way out he tossed a coin among the spill of silver on the table and reaffirmed his personal vow never to take a woman except in full respect and honour.
Eight
Winchester, Easter 1179
Having dismounted in the stable yard at Winchester Castle, Roger handed his palfrey to a groom. A brisk April wind flirted with the kingfisher feathers in his scarlet felt hat, and the tilted brim shaded his eyes from the bright spring sunshine. Two doves bowed and pirouetted in courtly dance to each other on the stable’s shingled roof. He smiled wryly to see them, reminded of the dances in the King’s hall. It was easier for doves to find a mate than for people.
He had been absent from court on his demesne lands near Bayeux for several weeks, but it didn’t do to stay away for too long. Out of sight meant out of mind, and he needed to keep himself noticed and positively so. Since Henry’s eldest son and heir was visiting his father, putting in an appearance now was a politically prudent move. Apart from his visit to the family estates, Roger had been continuously with the King. He had witnessed charters, administrated, worked on judicial tasks, kept long hours, and ensured that Henry saw him keeping those long hours. He had fostered friendships, made contacts, established himself. Wheel-greasing was essential, but that grease had to be applied with diligence rather than slathered on superficially for effect. Deep was what mattered, and deep involved a lot of hard work and thought.
He turned to the horse on the lead rope behind his courser and undipped the rein. The mare was a gift for Henry from Roger’s stud at Montfìquet. Her coat had the sheen of pale honey, dappled over the rump with chains of darker amber. Her mane and tail glittered like silver snow and her gait was so smooth that it would carry a rider all day without leaving him a bone-jarred wreck. At forty-six, Henry was reaching an age when such comforts were more important than they had once been.
He was giving his groom detailed instructions about the palfrey’s care when another man arrived with a destrier and a packhorse on a lead rein. Roger’s gaze went first to the horses and admired the young red-gold stallion and the knight’s handsome iron-grey palfrey, both superb animals. Then he looked at the rider and realised why the quality was so high. William Marshal was the commander of the Young King’s military household. He was a renowned champion of the tourneys and unbeaten in foot combat and throwing the stone. The young bloods of the court all aspired to emulate him.
William nodded to Roger, although his gaze too focused on the horseflesh rather than the man holding it. “A fine beast, my lord,” he said admiringly.
Roger smiled with pleasure and a note of pride entered his voice. “It’s a gift for the King. Bred at Monfiquet.”
“And a kingly gift indeed. I have heard many fine things about the Bigod bloodstock. May I?”
Roger gestured obliging assent. William had a groom hold his own horses and came to inspect the golden ambler. He ran knowing hands over grooved shoulder
Her teasing, shocking dance became too much for some of the more worked-up soldiers in her audience, who seized her off the table and bore her to the straw in a corner of the room. One man thrust himself between her spread thighs while his friends made demands on her hands, her mouth, between her milky breasts. Anketil, Hamo, and Oliver shouldered their way forwards to watch while they pondered taking their turn. Roger followed on their periphery, but as he gazed on the rutting, bucking mass his lust evaporated on the instant, leaving disgust and a feeling of drained sorrow that was akin to awakening in the aftermath of a sinful dream. What his men did was up to their personal consciences, but Roger had seen enough. Turning on his heel, he left the guardroom, but on his way out he tossed a coin among the spill of silver on the table and reaffirmed his personal vow never to take a woman except in full respect and honour.
Eight
Winchester, Easter 1179
Having dismounted in the stable yard at Winchester Castle, Roger handed his palfrey to a groom. A brisk April wind flirted with the kingfisher feathers in his scarlet felt hat, and the tilted brim shaded his eyes from the bright spring sunshine. Two doves bowed and pirouetted in courtly dance to each other on the stable’s shingled roof. He smiled wryly to see them, reminded of the dances in the King’s hall. It was easier for doves to find a mate than for people.
He had been absent from court on his demesne lands near Bayeux for several weeks, but it didn’t do to stay away for too long. Out of sight meant out of mind, and he needed to keep himself noticed and positively so. Since Henry’s eldest son and heir was visiting his father, putting in an appearance now was a politically prudent move. Apart from his visit to the family estates, Roger had been continuously with the King. He had witnessed charters, administrated, worked on judicial tasks, kept long hours, and ensured that Henry saw him keeping those long hours. He had fostered friendships, made contacts, established himself. Wheel-greasing was essential, but that grease had to be applied with diligence rather than slathered on superficially for effect. Deep was what mattered, and deep involved a lot of hard work and thought.
He turned to the horse on the lead rope behind his courser and undipped the rein. The mare was a gift for Henry from Roger’s stud at Montfìquet. Her coat had the sheen of pale honey, dappled over the rump with chains of darker amber. Her mane and tail glittered like silver snow and her gait was so smooth that it would carry a rider all day without leaving him a bone-jarred wreck. At forty-six, Henry was reaching an age when such comforts were more important than they had once been.
He was giving his groom detailed instructions about the palfrey’s care when another man arrived with a destrier and a packhorse on a lead rein. Roger’s gaze went first to the horses and admired the young red-gold stallion and the knight’s handsome iron-grey palfrey, both superb animals. Then he looked at the rider and realised why the quality was so high. William Marshal was the commander of the Young King’s military household. He was a renowned champion of the tourneys and unbeaten in foot combat and throwing the stone. The young bloods of the court all aspired to emulate him.
William nodded to Roger, although his gaze too focused on the horseflesh rather than the man holding it. “A fine beast, my lord,” he said admiringly.
Roger smiled with pleasure and a note of pride entered his voice. “It’s a gift for the King. Bred at Monfiquet.”
“And a kingly gift indeed. I have heard many fine things about the Bigod bloodstock. May I?”
Roger gestured obliging assent. William had a groom hold his own horses and came to inspect the golden ambler. He ran knowing hands over grooved shoulder
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