Free For the King’s Favor by Elizabeth Chadwick Page A

well.
    “Was a thousand marks all you could offer the King by way of a bribe?” he scoffed at Huon, striking first and feigning amused contempt.
    Huon flushed. “I doubt you could offer him better.”
    Roger shrugged. “We shall see.” He made to push past and Huon stepped to bar his way, but did not complete the manoeuvre. De Glanville leaned against the outer wall in watchful silence, observing but not taking part, and Will hung back looking anxious and biting his lower lip. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, either piss or put your cock in your braies,” Roger said scornfully.
    Huon whitened. Roger fixed his stare on de Glanville. “Or perhaps you are waiting for someone else to piss for you. That’s more in keeping, isn’t it?”
    Huon seized Roger’s arm. “You’ll not win this,” he spat, his voice saturated with loathing.
    “Watch me,” Roger retorted. Shrugging himself free of Huon’s grip, he strode out of the latrine alcove. His heart was banging in his ears and he felt nauseous. He had no doubt that Huon would be doing just that—watching him and it made the space between his shoulder blades prickle as if he’d fallen in a patch of nettles.
    ***
    Gundreda frowned at the chemise she had just picked up off the returned laundry pile. There was a tear in one of the seams that hadn’t been there before it had gone to the washerwoman and still a hint of grime at the cuffs. Why could no one ever do a job properly? The bread at court was either undercooked or burned, and the wine undrinkable. The mattress last night had bounced with fleas. She felt like throwing up her hands and retreating to Bungay, but she couldn’t. There was too much at stake. And now the ripped chemise on top of all else. She wanted to weep and scream and swear and stamp, but it would all take too much effort.
    The sound of a male throat being cleared made her look up. Roger de Glanville was standing in the doorway, his fist clenched against his lips. She didn’t know whether to welcome the distraction or be irritated by it.
    “Countess, I would have a word, if it please you,” he said.
    It made a difference to be addressed with courtesy, she’d give him that. Heaving a sigh, she gestured at the pile of linens. “I shouldn’t have paid the laundress until I’d looked at these. Why is it so difficult? Do I ask too much?”
    “My lady, of course you do not.”
    She heard the placatory note in his voice and knew he was humouring her, but at least there was compassion in his eyes—something she had never seen in her husband’s. In twenty years of marriage, she could not remember a single kindness from Hugh. “No,” she said. “You do well to remind me.” With a sigh she gestured wearily to her maidservant. “Put these in the coffer, and make sure you scatter fleabane between the folds.” She looked at de Glanville. “A word about what?”
    “About the future.”
    “What of it?”
    “This dispute over your son’s inheritance may not be resolved for months or years. You will need an advocate at court to fight your case and make sure it does not become buried.”
    Gundreda gave a harsh laugh. “You tell me nothing I do not already know.”
    “Your stepson is a determined young man.”
    “He is nothing!” She spat the last word. Ever since arriving at Framlingham as a shrinking unwilling bride, she had felt little but antipathy towards Roger. Her early overtures to him had been rebuffed with angry tears and outbursts of rage. It wasn’t her fault that his parents’ marriage had been annulled and his mother sent away, but he had blamed her nevertheless and she had possessed neither the time nor inclination to deal with his hostility. She couldn’t help it that she wasn’t the sainted Juliana. When she complained to her new husband of his son’s behaviour, Hugh had predictably thrashed the boy black and blue, and Roger had blamed her for that too. Their mutual dislike had continued on a subdued level. Roger persisted in