Beloved Enemy (40 page)

“… the clergy allowed to enjoy peace and be relieved of all exorbitant demands …” Whether famine, pestilence, fire, flood or war—trust the Church to think of herself first. “…Farms must be supplied with husbandmen …” Who else would they be supplied with, vintners? “… thieves and robbers punished with death, soldiers to exchange their swords for ploughshares.” Henry could just see some ham-fisted sergeant trying to cultivate a field. “… their spears—” The archbishop paused, obviously searching for the right phrase. “Ah—yes, their spears exchanged for—pruning hooks …”

Pruning hooks? God save us! Henry drummed his fingers on the polished oak table. He knew these were vital details in the treaty that would help restore the ravaged land to the condition of prosperity it had enjoyed under his grandfather. But why must it go on so long?

As the days and weeks passed, he had grown more and more impatient with these magnates and bishops who had so ill served their king and country. Throughout the civil war they had changed sides with such dizzying rapidity it was enough to make one’s head spin. One day they supported King Stephen, the next, his mother, the Empress Maud. Who among them could he trust now? In all fairness, Henry knew he could not blame the king alone for the sorry state of the land. And, if he were totally honest with himself, he acknowledged he quite liked Stephen personally. But liking a man did not mean one forgave him his evil deeds. Justice must be served.

Henry’s attention was distracted by the whining voice of a northern baron complaining that the woods adjoining a castle he had recently built were overrun with poachers and the sheriffs did nothing to prosecute them. What safeguards were to be made for unprincipled sheriffs?

Henry’s eyes narrowed. “Is this an unlicensed castle you built? Without the king’s leave?”

The man turned red as a beetroot, obviously wishing he had kept silent.

“God’s eyes!” Henry thrust forward a pugnacious jaw. “Scum like you are just as responsible for the state of my realm as is Stephen.” One freckled fist pounded the table. “My courageous mother endured scorn and vilification because of traitors such as you. As did all my loyal followers in England. She was the rightful ruler but forced to flee for her very life to escape your treachery.” His fist was now pounding the table with such force the flesh scraped raw.

“My lord,” began the archbishop.

Henry, his face gorged with blood, jumped to his feet and began to beat the table with both fists. “No! Let them hear the truth. While the land suffered, you greedy tubs of suet feasted comfortably in your halls, ignored what little royal authority there was, turned your back while my people were crushed, built unlicensed castles, and coined your own money!”

The rage welled up in his throat so thickly he feared he would choke.

“None can deny these accusations,” said Robert of Leicester in a soothing voice. “However, the weal of the land is of greater urgency, my lord, I think you will agree. We are all aware that justice must—and will—be served. At the proper time.”

There was a murmur of assent.

Breathing heavily, Henry sank back in his seat. He knew if he continued he would fall into one of his tantrums and lose control. This was not the time to give way to his rage. No doubt these magnates already thought him an untried youth. Someone they could lead round by the nose, as they had Stephen. Well, they would learn. By Christ, they would learn.

Every bone, muscle, and sinew he possessed was in a fury of impatience to set about his task of reforms. He could hardly wait to master these nobles’ arrogance and grind their pride into the dust. But he must bide his time. Until he was king he would not have a free hand. To relieve his feelings he grasped the pewter goblet of wine in front of him and ground the stem into the table.

The hairs on the back of his neck prickled as he felt someone watching him. Raising his head he met the quizzical gaze of the archbishop’s cleric, who had today for the first time attended Theobald at the council. The cleric frowned and shook his head, pointing with his finger. Henry saw that he had dug the edge of the goblet into the satiny finish of the table, leaving a ragged scar in the gleaming wood. God’s eyes!

Immediately he put his hands into his lap and gave the cleric a rueful smile. The man returned the smile, which warmed his rather serious face like a ray of sun lighting a wintery morning.

“Does anyone have anything to add?” Archbishop Theobald glanced round the table.

The black-robed cleric whispered something in his ear.

“Yes. Thank you. I think this might be a good time to address the matter of the debased coinage. My lord duke?”

“The cure is very simple: There can be only one standard of money—minted by the royal treasury alone—as there was in my grandfather’s day when the coin of the realm meant something. The number of licensed mints will be reduced and continuously inspected. I will have an honest penny in my kingdom or know the reason why.”

“An excellent point.” Theobald glanced down the table at the other barons, most of whom flushed and avoided the prelate’s gaze. “We must enforce that. Vigorously.”

Henry repressed a smile. Of course anything that would help fill the Church’s coffers must be enforced. Vigorously. Only four of the lords nodded agreement: his cousin William of Gloucester, the earl of Leicester, his bastard uncle Reginald of Cornwall, and a young man called Richard de Lucy. De Lucy had never sworn allegiance to Henry’s mother but had come to power under Stephen and now held the post of justiciar. An unassuming man with a broad open face and mild manner that inspired trust, Henry had immediately taken a liking to him. De Lucy, like Robert of Leicester, would be one of the men to bridge the gap from one reign to another.

“Now then—” the archbishop began then stopped as the black-robed cleric whispered something else in his ear.

“What’s that? Ah—it has been pointed out to me that the matter of unlicensed castles mentioned earlier has not been dealt with.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Henry said instantly. “All such castles must be razed at once. With no exceptions.”

The archbishop nodded his agreement as did a handful of barons. The rest of the magnates glared at Henry with undisguised hatred. No doubt he had made some new enemies in addition to his old ones. It mattered little. They could hate him or love him, as they chose—so long as they obeyed him.

He sent a glance of gratitude to the cleric who had reminded the archbishop of two vital points. As their eyes locked, Henry felt a chill of recognition race down his spine. Had he encountered another harbinger of his fate? And if so was it for good or ill? But, as in the case of Eleanor, it hardly mattered. Between this cleric and himself a tenuous bond was already forming.

Henry turned his head to meet the thoughtful gaze of the archbishop, who had obviously observed their brief exchange.

The talk at the table continued until the Vespers bell sounded. Henry was the first to leap up from his seat.

“After Vespers we will take supper and then resume for an hour or two,” said Theobald.

“I must be excused, Your Grace.” Henry walked with Theobald out the chamber door. “I will go from my wits if I have to face the walls of this chamber for another moment. Pray excuse me at tonight’s meeting. In truth, my head is stuffed so full of facts and figures it’s fit to burst.” He paused. “I intend to see something of London tonight.”

Theobald frowned. “We can easily postpone the next meeting but you are unfamiliar with the city, which is still not safe in these lawless times.” He glanced at his cleric gathering up sheets of parchment from the table.

“Thomas would be most happy to take you on a tour of the safer parts of London and see you come to no harm.”

With a smile the cleric turned. “I would be honored. Although from everything I hear the duke is well able to take care of himself. We could meet after supper if that is agreeable?”

Henry nodded. So—the cleric not only knew what points needed to be covered in the treaty, but also how to flatter. Well, he had no objection to flattery—especially when it was deserved.

The archbishop smiled fondly at the cleric. “This is a most valued member of my household, Archdeacon Thomas Becket. He’s been traveling to Rome and Normandy on your behalf, my lord, and returned only two days ago.”

“The cleric who visited my mother and wife in Rouen? Thank you for the messages you brought back. My family appears to be faring well.”

“Very well indeed. Your son looks the very image of you. I will see you after supper then?”

Henry felt absurdly pleased to hear that his firstborn son looked exactly like him. And his spirits lightened considerably at the prospect of exploring London in the company of a man who—he paused. A man who what? After all, Thomas Becket was a man of the Church and, as such, somewhat suspect. Although an archdeacon was usually an administrator in minor orders, and not necessarily ordained as a priest. In truth, Thomas did not have the look of an ecclesiastic, on the contrary—ah, a man knowledgeable enough to understand what must be done to salvage this ailing realm? A man who might share his hopes and dreams for the future of England? Henry was determined to find out.

B
ELLEBELLE WATCHED WHILE HER
customer, Miles, Lord Crowmarsh, dressed himself, left several coins on the oak chest, then walked stiffly to the door with the aid of a silver-headed cane.

“Thank ye, my lord,” she said.

“Thank
you,
my dear. Not ye.” Lord Crowmarsh wagged a reproving finger. “Remember what I’ve taught you. You’re doing much better in your speech. Keep working at it.”

“Thank
you,
my lord,” she repeated.

“Take care of yourself, Belle,” he said.

She forced a smile, almost screaming with relief when the door finally closed behind him, then collapsed onto the bed. With a grimace she examined her naked body. Streaks of purple wine had dried on her breasts and belly; the sheets had wet patches. It was a good thing Lord Crowmarsh was a nobleman and very rich—the other whores at Gropecuntlane called him Old Money Bags—or she would never put up with his peculiar ways.

A nice-looking man for his age—fifty if he was a day—and well-spoken, he had taken a fancy to her and wanted to improve how she talked. She looked like quality, why not talk like quality? Bellebelle didn’t see how this would benefit her but she was willing to try. Hawke also encouraged her.

“I can pass you off as a daughter of a good family fallen on evil times,” he said. “Forced to sell her body to support her destitute parents. Now that’s a teary tale as should appeal to those of my customers who feel guilty going to a brothel. You be worth more.”

Because Lord Crowmarsh was soft as a wet rag these days, his favorite sport—his only sport—was to slowly pour wine over her whole body and lap it up like a dog. No harm in it really but there was always such a mess to clean up after. Fortunately he was her last customer and the rest of the night she could do exactly as she pleased.

With a sigh Bellebelle got up and went to the iron cauldron of water warming next to the charcoal brazier. Taking a clean linen towel from the pile nearby she dipped it in the water and began to scrub off the wine stains. In truth, she’d rather have toothless Miles and the wine than the boastful wool merchant from Lincoln who stank of sheepskin, or the Italian scribe from the Temple in London who chewed garlic all the time so that the smell lingered for days after.

She dried herself with another towel, slipped on a linen chemise, then began to straighten up the chamber. First she changed the sheets, grateful, not for the first time, that Hawke’s brothel had a goodly supply of sheets and towels, plenty of coals for the brazier and a more gentlemanly type of customer than what she had seen in Southwark. The chamber itself, though small, was larger and more comfortable than the one in Gilbert’s establishment. The scarred furniture felt more solid, the bed wider and covered with a bright red, moth-eaten coverlet, its fur lining almost worn away. She’d found it on a trash heap but any one could tell it had belonged to quality folk.

While she made the bed, Bellebelle noticed that her supply of vinegar and water was running low; she’d have to ask Hawke for another full bucket. Also, she must remember to tell the brothel-master that the bunch of dried nettles hanging on the wall needed to be replaced. One customer wanted to be beaten with these but last time he’d complained the nettles had lost their sting.

The bells rang for Compline. Still early. Bellebelle walked to the pole protruding from the wall and took down an old blue kirtle. Thank the Holy Mother, Hawke had given her permission to go out after Miles left. She had been servicing customers all day; if she stayed inside one more moment she felt she would jump out of her skin. A walk to the cookshop on the corner was just what she needed. She’d have a pork pasty, treat herself to a half-tankard of ale at the tavern, and exchange natter with the other whores sure to be there. It was what she did every night Hawke allowed her out.

Bellebelle dressed listlessly, wondering who tomorrow would bring. Every day seemed the same now; sometimes she could no longer distinguish one from another. Or the months. Was this January or February? January. Not that it mattered. Recently she had begun to understand why Gytha always swilled ale. It made the time pass quicker, and the weary world look brighter. Thus far she had resisted following in her mother’s footsteps but when she thought of her future—what lay ahead? Age, sickness, an early death? She could hardly remember the happy dreams she had once cherished. When all was said and done, she was still a whore in a brothel-house.

Never mind. Mustn’t grumble. Bellebelle hated it when she felt sorry for herself. Especially when she thought of all she had to be grateful for: her escape from the Flemings, leaving the Bankside stews behind her and being taken on by Hawke. All she had to do was remember what happened to Gytha and she felt herself the most fortunate person in the world. As Morgaine had always said, life were never meant for them as had a wishbone where their backbone ought be.