Beloved Enemy (20 page)

The bells had rung for Lauds before Gytha’s body was cleaned up. Morgaine wrapped it in a sheet to be taken the next day to unhallowed ground, where Gytha would be buried in a pauper’s grave—where they would all end.

Morgaine decided that tomorrow she would make one of her now infrequent trips to St. Mary Overie, light a candle to the Virgin, whether that whoreson priest liked it or not, and pray that somewhere, somehow, Bellebelle would find a safe haven. I be proud of ye, lass, she said to an invisible Belle; ye didn’t show no wishbone where ye backbone ought be.

Bellebelle had no idea where she was. She must have been wandering through Southwark for hours as she had heard the church bells strike not only the midnight hour but Lauds as well. She had decided to wait until Prime then return to the brothel-house no matter what the danger might be. Despite Morgaine’s reassurances, she could not just abandon her mother. Now she found herself in a web of narrow deserted streets that looked frighteningly unfamiliar, at least in the darkness.

Her body felt sticky with sweat and she was exhausted. Unable to go on she stopped for a moment to lean against the wooden wall of a house and catch her breath. She closed her eyes and immediately saw an image of her mother’s cut and burnt body, the figure of de Burgh toppling over sideways, the hilt of Morgaine’s knife protruding from his side.

She had killed a man.

Bellebelle knew she had done this but could not accept the terrible impact of such a crime. How could she, the gentlest of souls, who could not bear to hurt a living thing, even an insect, have murdered a fellow creature? Filled with horror, she felt black bile rise in her throat, and she looked down at her hands.

The sound of footsteps and raucous laughter intruded on her thoughts. Turning sharply she saw a band of youths lurching down the street toward her. Clad in black, they had the carefree look of student clerics. Praying they wouldn’t notice her, Bellebelle tried to flatten herself against the wall of the house.

“Oh, I say, what have we here?” a drunken voice called out as one of the youths caught sight of her. “By all that’s holy, a tart! What luck.”

“How can you tell?” asked another slurred voice.

“She’s wearing her striped cloak, fool.”

In the glow of a full moon, Bellebelle saw there were four youths, all drunk, and of a mind to make mischief. Immediately they closed round her.

“We have already paid homage to Bacchus,” announced one of the youths. “Now we must honor fair Aphrodite.” He belched loudly. “Lie down, O beauteous goddess, and let us worship at your—ah—shrine.”

There was a chorus of laughter. Hands tore at her cloak, which fell to the ground. Bellebelle could smell their hot wine-breath in her face, feel clawing fingers scrabbling at the skirts of her gown. She twisted and turned, pushed and blindly struck out at them. Terrified, she began to scream at the top of her lungs.

Above her head there was the sound of scraping wood as shutters were flung open and an outraged voice called out:

“’Ere, stop that at once! At once I say! The watch’ll be making ’is rounds any moment now and you best be gone ’fore he returns. What’s the world coming to when honest folk can’t get a decent night’s sleep?”

The students stopped their assault and began to hurl insults at the voice above. While they were distracted, Bellebelle ducked and shoved between them, but could not retrieve her cloak from where it lay on the cobblestones. As she dashed down the street she turned her head to see a night-capped figure silhouetted in the window empty a bucket of slops over the students. Amid the howls and curses that followed no one bothered to pursue her. She ran on, swallowed up in the darkness.

Bellebelle had finally slowed to a fast walk when she heard the click of horses’ hooves some distance behind her. It must be de Burgh’s men looking for her. Even in Southwark, it was unusual for travelers to be riding the streets so late. Except for the unruly students she had met no one but a few stray dogs. Clutching her basket which, somehow, she had managed to hang onto, she started walking quickly down a wide street. This looked vaguely familiar. An imposing structure loomed out of the darkness and she realized it was the bishop of Winchester’s house, with its large wharf and landing-place. At least she knew where she was now.

As the pounding hooves grew closer Bellebelle turned a corner and started running. At the end of the cobbled street she turned to see two riders rounding the corner behind her. Catching sight of her they spurred their horses forward.

Looking wildly for a means of escape, Bellebelle swerved left, saw a dark narrow alley, and slipped into it. Her heart pounded, her breath sobbed in her throat, and her legs felt as if they might buckle at any moment. Just ahead lay a wooden gate leading into a yard. She ran through the gate. Beyond rose the massive stone edifice of a church. On the eastern side a narrow door lay slightly ajar. Behind her the pace of the hoof beats increased. Bellebelle sped toward the door. Half falling, she stumbled headlong through the opening.

Barely able to see, Bellebelle made her way down an aisle with row after row of pews on either side. Her shoes sounded loud as drum beats against the tile floor. The aisle came to an end; she turned a corner and saw that she had entered a small chapel. It looked familiar. Surely this was the Lady Chapel at St. Mary Overie’s, where Morgaine had taken her a year ago last Easter. It must be. The church, she remembered, was near the bishop of Winchester’s dwelling. Now it was deserted, a little fearsome in the semi-darkness, with its empty pews and flickering candles. Her chest heaving, Bellebelle collapsed onto a pew. With any luck at all her pursuers would not think to look inside.

When her eyes adjusted to the dim light she saw a figure some distance in front of her, and she almost screamed. The figure did not move and after a moment Bellebelle realized it was the statue of the Holy Virgin that stood in front of the altar. Candlelight illuminated gold-encrusted blue robes over a white gown and the jeweled circlet atop her wimpled head. A gold scepter rested in one hand, an orb of the world in the other.

Voices and footsteps sounded outside the chapel.

“Most unlikely you will find your fugitive tart in the church,” said a strange voice, “and if you did there is naught you can do to her while she’s here in sanctuary.”

“Not in the church, no,” replied another voice. “But if she
is
here, she’ll have to come out sooner or later. When she does, the Sheriff of Southwark—whom we’ll inform—will be waiting. This business is in his borough and if we cannot find the cunt tonight it is his duty to search for her and bring her to justice. We return to York with a detachment of troops to do battle with the Scottish king and his nephew, Henry of Anjou.”

It must be one of the knights in Ralph’s party. Bellebelle fell to her knees, clasped her hands in front of her and screwed her eyes shut tight. The knights, initially flown with wine, had only seen her in her chemise in flickering torchlight. With these other clothes on she did not look like a doxy, and they might not recognize her. Thank the Holy Mother she had lost her striped cloak, which would have given her away immediately. Now they might mistake her for a predawn worshipper.

The footsteps entered the Lady Chapel then paused.

“But if the girl’s mother is still at the brothel-house surely she’ll return there?” the first voice asked.

“Someone will apprehend her if she does, Father,” the knight’s voice answered. “T’wont do her much good though. The Fleming, de Burgh, killed the mother when he found out she had the burning sickness. The whole place is in an uproar. Can’t help feeling sorry for the little cunt. De Burgh acts crazed sometimes, likes to cause pain. The mother was bleeding like a butchered sow when I saw her. The girl was only trying to protect her mother when she stabbed him. But his captain won’t like it, no matter the reason.”

For an instant the words did not penetrate. Gytha dead? By de Burgh’s hand? But she had killed him. Surely she’d not heard right. It must be a terrible mistake. The footsteps got louder.

“What a ghastly sight for the daughter to see. May God have mercy on her—and the poor mother as well. To die like that—”

The priest—he must be a priest or the knight would not have called him father—paused. “The girl will be taken to the Clinke, I suppose? One can only hope the full circumstances of her case will be weighed before justice is meted out.”

The voices sounded closer now. Bellebelle repressed a scream. The Clinke was Southwark’s worst prison, with a fearful reputation.

“For a whore, Father? In these lawless times?” The knight gave a grim laugh. “She’ll rot there for sure—if she lives that long. When de Burgh’s Flemings return from York and have their sport with her, there won’t be much left. De Burgh himself will see to that. He never forgets a slight much less a near mortal injury.”

“Spare me the unsavory details.”

For a moment Bellebelle felt her whole body grow slack with relief. He was not dead, just wounded! Thank the Holy Mother, she had not killed anyone. But her mother …

Booted feet stopped beside her pew. Frozen with horror Bellebelle could hear her breath rasp in her throat. Her heart seemed to have stopped. She knew the law forbade a person to be dragged out of sanctuary—

“Who’s this?” It was the knight’s voice.

Any moment now iron fingers would grab her by the arm and pull her out of the pew. But with Gytha dead, did it really matter what happened to her? If she died in the Clinke or on the streets of Southwark or by the hands of de Burgh’s Flemings—what difference would it make? Her life was over.

“Ah—” there was a long pause. “I believe I’ve seen her here before. Hardly the one you’re looking for.”

There was a grunt and the footsteps continued down the aisle, retreating further and further away.

After a long silence Bellebelle opened her eyes, still expecting to see the knights in front of her, ready to haul her off to the Clinke. A plump black-robed priest with a tonsure of gray hair stood by the pew, his arms folded across his chest.

“You’re the doxy they want, aren’t you?”

Bellebelle gasped. “No. No. I’m not.”

“Do you now add falsehood to your other sins?”

“How—how did ye know?”

He pointed to her necklace of blue stones. “I’m Father Sebastian, and I’ve seen that heathen bauble before, on the Welsh bawd who comes here from time to time. You’re from that same evil house of the devil?”

She nodded dumbly.

“My poor child,” the priest said, signing himself, “what a terrible way for you to hear of your mother’s death, may God grant her mercy for her sins. I will give you sanctuary for this night but no longer. You’ll fare better away from these parts in any case. The Flemings, a lawless breed, are quite capable of storming into the church and taking a felon by force, no matter what that Norman knight says.” He crossed himself. “When he described what might happen to you, I found myself unable to tell them you might be the one they want. As Our Lord was merciful to the Magdalen, how could I do otherwise?”

“Thank ye,” she said through frozen lips, the meaning of his words lost on her. “I be grateful for lodging.”

He looked at her closely. “Come, let me give you some wine and a crust of bread. Then I will hear your confession.”

Bellebelle, still carrying her basket, followed him out of the Lady Chapel into a small chamber that had a pallet and blanket on the floor, shelves stacked with wax candles and black robes. On a small table was a wooden pitcher of wine, wooden cups, and a half-eaten loaf of bread. A candle stub sputtered in a rusty iron holder.

“Father—I doesn’t want any—any confession, but I can repay ye kindness with silver.” Bellebelle, feeling like she was made of wood, started to lift her skirts but the priest held up his hand in a stern gesture.

“Holy Church cannot accept the wages of sin.”

He tore off a chunk of the bread and handed it to her, then poured a cup of wine from the pitcher. “Give up your wicked life. That is how you can repay me. What says Leviticus? ‘Do not prostitute thy daughter, to cause her to be a whore: lest the land fall to whoredom, and the land become full of wickedness.’ ”

She stared at him mutely, bit off a piece of bread, and slowly began to chew. It was hard and dry, difficult to swallow. When he handed her the wine she downed it at a single gulp, wondering why Morgaine spoke so harshly of this priest who had saved her from a terrible fate. At the thought of Morgaine, Gytha’s body swam before Bellebelle’s eyes. The numbness suddenly dissolved as sobs of anguish welled up from the very depths of her being. When she heard the cries, like the inhuman wails of a stricken animal, she did not at first recognize that they were coming from her own throat.

“Remember this,” said Father Sebastian. “Had your mother lived she would have been thrown out into the streets to die a slow and painful death from the burning sickness. Despite the violence of her end, God, in His infinite wisdom, has been merciful.”

Bellebelle did not know how long she wept but when at last the choking sobs came to a shuddering stop she felt drained and empty. The priest was still there, watching her.

“Perhaps it is no accident that in your hour of travail you came upon St. Mary Overie,” he said. “God rest you, my child.”

He left the candle stub burning and closed the door behind him.

Trembling with exhaustion, her head reeling from the wine which she was unused to, Bellebelle lay down on the pallet. Within moments she was asleep.

She woke to the sound of the bells tolling the hour of prime. Shivering in the early morning cold, Bellebelle rose, straightened her clothes, and, basket in hand, slipped quickly out of the tiny room. She wanted to be gone before the service started and anyone saw her. Her heart ached, her head felt as if it were stuffed with feathers. Uncertain where to go she crept back into the Lady Chapel and slid into a front pew. She was hungry and thirsty, but food and drink were not as important as safety. It was obvious she could never return to the brothel-house again. But where could she go? Who would take her in?