Beloved Enemy (43 page)

“Nor should you be. This is the second time tonight I’ve caused offense by my thoughtless words. Thank the Lord, I’ve been spared that kind of life.” He ran a hand through his thatch of hair. “Look, I meant no harm. We must all live as best we can with the resources God has granted us. At least you’re not a whore like your poor friend. Am I forgiven?”

Bellebelle swallowed, then forced herself to give him a tentative smile. All the warmth and affection she had felt for the young boy on the bridge returned in a flood. Reassured, he lay back on the coverlet and stretched out his arms in a wide gesture, as if embracing the chamber.

“By God’s splendor, did you ever see the like? Three sevens in a row. What sport, eh? A game to remember.” He glanced over at her. “I think you may have saved me a few scrapes and bruises tonight. What a stroke of fortune to run into you again after all this time. A fortunate night all round.” He gave her a crooked smile. “I must confess I don’t remember your name, though I remember everything else about our encounter. An odd name, I do recall that. Something to do with a church perhaps?”

“Bellebelle,” she said, relieved that he had let the matter of the brothel drop. In truth she had probably saved him more than a few scrapes and bruises. If ever a man had murder in his heart that man was Black Hugo.

“Yes, of course, Bellebelle. But christened something else, I think you told me.”

“Ykenai. No one ever calls me that.” Fancy him remembering. Pleased, she poured him a cup of red wine from the wooden pitcher that was reserved only for Lord Crowmarsh. Normally she drank ale or mead, wine being a great luxury and kept solely for the customers.

“What you be doing in such a place as the Blue Cock?”

“I’m duke of Normandy now, and heir to the English throne, just as I told you I’d be. I came to London some weeks ago with the king. Today I got impatient with all the formal discussions and legal claptrap—so I finally persuaded a cleric to show me something of the night life of the city. We stumbled upon the tavern by accident.”

She handed him the wooden cup. “I remembers now what ye told me on the bridge, and do be glad you got what you been wanting.”

Henry sat up, drank thirstily, then made a face. “The vintner who sold you this should be hung. When I’m king, all the wine will come from Gascony or Bordeaux. The only thing in England fit to drink is ale. You work for the tavern owner?”

“In a manner of speaking I does, but gets me wares from the cookshop,” Bellebelle said, trying to remember the little she knew about the cake-vendor’s life. “Sells them wherever I can.” She was anxious to change the subject. “How soon will you be king then?”

Henry put the cup on the floor, lay back, and closed his eyes. “As Stephen ails so frequently I give him a year or two at the most. Then my wife, Eleanor, and I will be crowned. I also have a son so the succession is assured.”

She could hardly believe her ears. “You mean—you be the duke who married Eleanor of Aquitaine?”

“Yes, a year and a half ago now. Why do you look so shocked? I’m a most fortunate man.”

He was married to Eleanor of Aquitaine! Tears stung her eyes. “Oh my lord, you do be blessed! You give her flowers once too, ye told me.”

“Yes, when she was queen of France. God’s splendor, what a memory!” He gave her a puzzled look. “Indeed I am blessed. But how extraordinary. You sound as if—well, as if you know Eleanor. In truth, I’m surprised you’re so well-informed.”

People were always sailing back and forth across the Channel, carrying the latest news and gossip with them. Most travelers stopped at the brothels and taverns, so the whores were among the first to hear what was happening. Bellebelle knew that Eleanor’s marriage to the French king had been dissolved almost as soon as it happened. News that she had married the Norman duke had arrived in London not long after.

She picked her words with care. “In the streets of London we hears everything that goes on across the Channel.”

“I’ll remember that in future.”

“Shall I look down the street, and see what’s become of your men? That cleric now, I hope he be all right. ’Course he had him a knife, and were showing it.”

“Master Thomas can look after himself. I’ll leave in a moment.”

But Henry made no move to go. He had apparently accepted her tale and was too full of himself to notice it was pierced with holes. It was foolish not to tell Henry the truth. After all, she would probably never see him again so what harm could it do?

Yet something inside her winced at the thought of admitting to him she was a whore. She desperately wanted Henry to think well of her, and now he was kindly disposed to her sorry tale of being a seller of honey cakes. But if he discovered she be a doxy? Although they needed them, Bellebelle knew well enough what men thought of whores: a vessel for their lust, like Morgaine had often said, to be used at will then discarded like an old wooden cup and tossed on the dungheap ’til the next time they needed a willing furrow to seed. One of her customers, a prosperous farmer from Kent, had told her he came to London only to seed her furrow. It had made her feel like that was all she was, a strip of dirt.

Bellebelle felt Henry watching her through half-closed lids. Even in the dim light of the flickering candle she recognized the look.

“Come here,” he said, patting a place beside him on the bed.

She walked over to the bed and sat down. Henry stroked her hair, winding a long black ringlet round and round his finger. For a long time he said nothing.

“What I remember most about you on the bridge was how easy it was to be with you, how effortless to talk to you. Everyone I know is always judging, weighing my words, looking for significance in everything I say.” He gave her a sideways glance. “Do you still see the fish?”

“No, me lord. Not for years now.”

“Henry, if you please.” He paused. “I’m surprised you never wed. You must have had many offers.”

Bellebelle shook her head. “After the hard life me mam led with a shiftless man—me father whom I never set eyes on—well, all I wanted was to get out of Southwark. Be me own mistress like.” She was amazed how easily the lies rolled off her tongue.

“God’s eyes! Spare me! You sound like my wife. Or my mother. A woman is never her own mistress. She always needs someone to guide and advise her, rescue her from harm, see she’s not gulled by some rogue.” Henry looked impatient. “But that appears to be something certain women refuse to acknowledge. In truth …” He smiled. “You know, you’re much too fair to be tramping about London selling cakes.”

“I doesn’t know about that.”

He ran a finger down her neck. “Well, I does. Has it ever occurred to you that your lot would probably be much easier if you were a whore, like your friend?”

Bellebelle looked away so she wouldn’t have to meet his eyes. “I doesn’t know. It be a hard life too. Ye—you—be scorned and outcast—like that dog in Holy Writ I heard tell about.”

“Pariah?”

“Aye, that be the word. Work in a brothel be like being in the Clinke, and the brothelmaster, the jailer. Ye—you—can’t come and go as you please, always having to wear—” She stopped abruptly.

“The Clinke?”

“A Southwark prison.”

“Go on. You were being very eloquent.” His voice was unexpectedly gentle. “I hadn’t realized how badly off such poor wretches are.”

“No more to say.” Bellebelle took a deep breath. “Tell me about your son.”

“My son, William?” Henry’s face broke into a ready smile. “I haven’t yet seen him. Think of it, Bellebelle, Louis of France was married to my wife for fourteen years and had only two daughters. After less than a year of marriage my beloved Eleanor gives me a son. What do you think of that, eh?”

“Ye must have a mighty hammer and anvil with which to forge sons, my lord,” she said, “and a willing wife to receive them into her belly.”

She was on the point of adding that Eleanor of Aquitaine was someone she had long admired, when Henry burst into a shout of laughter.

“Now there’s a bawdy wench! A mighty hammer and anvil, eh? I like that! By God, I’ve a good mind to show you myself.” He pulled her down on top of him in a great hug. “You’re right about my wife, though. Willing certainly. Also charming and beautiful and oh so loving. She sparkles like wine from the vineyards of Champagne. I’m going to tell you a secret. I have the feeling you can keep a secret, Belle. I love my wife dearly.”

Bellebelle stared at him, not understanding. Henry rolled her away from him and propped himself up on one elbow with a sigh.

“No, no, that’s not it. It’s more than love. I feel consumed by her, almost overwhelmed, as if—” He sighed again. “I think when people love too much they give up something of themselves, allowing someone to possess them. I’m putting it badly but it’s difficult to explain. Anyway, no one knows how I feel. Certainly not Eleanor. Not even my mother.”

Bellebelle felt a sharp prick in her heart, as if Henry had just plunged a knife into her breast. Of course he would love such a woman. It was only fitting, and she didn’t begrudge Eleanor the tiniest morsel of Henry’s love. Why then did she ache inside? Were it because no one had ever loved her like that and probably never would?

“But why doesn’t you tell her how you feel?” she asked finally. “Surely it would please her.”

“Indeed it would. Nothing would please her more. But it would also give her power over me. If you give away your power, people use it against you. Love is a dangerous weapon in the wrong hands.”

Bellebelle thought for a moment. She had only loved her mother and Morgaine, and a stray three-legged dog she fed for years. “But surely you can trust her not to harm you?”

“Can I? No one can be wholly trusted, Belle. Didn’t you once tell me you were raised on the streets of Southwark? I would’ve thought you had learned that as the first lesson of survival.”

Bellebelle, who never expected anything of anyone, could not think of what to say. Such matters never occurred to her. But considering it now—in truth, she neither trusted nor distrusted; you just accepted what was there and accommodated to it. That was how she had survived. How to explain that to him?

Henry was watching her, his eyes shiny with that same look of carnal lust she saw every day of her life. Strange. The lust never seemed to be connected with her even though it was released through her. Nor had she, herself, ever felt it—or met a whore who had. The whole idea of what men wanted and so eagerly sought remained something of a mystery. Vaguely disappointed and almost without thinking she rolled down her woollen stockings and pulled off her blue dress.

“How did you know I wanted you to do that?” Henry looked surprised. “I knew you couldn’t still be a virgin … not living in these parts and doing what you do.” He undid his belt, and laid the pouch on the floor.

She gave him a half-smile, making no objection when he slipped off her chemise.

“Trust,” he repeated, pulling off his hose and tunic. “It’s important to have someone close to you whom you can trust.” He rolled her over onto her back, almost as if he were thinking of something else, and, without preamble, slowly entered her. “Someone to confide in who isn’t involved in your ordinary life.” She winced at his size, larger than what she was used to. “Someone—am I hurting you? Sorry.” He slowed his pace. “Someone who is absolutely safe, who can cause you no harm, offer no threat.”

Bellebelle wondered if he wanted her to lie absolutely still, as some did, or move with him, or call him sweet names. Dare she interrupt his flow of words to ask? There were tricks she’d learned that would increase his pleasure but if she were too artful he might suspect. Best to do nothing at all.

“That cleric I met, Thomas, I’ve taken to him, but with a churchman …”—his breath quickened—“… you can never be wholly sure … and Eleanor … I always wonder … will she be more loyal to Aquitaine … than to me? Nothing is more … important … than loyalty.” Suddenly he spent his seed and his body sagged against hers. For a moment he was silent.

“Well,” Henry said, brisk again as he rolled off her. “That was sorely needed. It helps to air one’s thoughts.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “I must find my men. Poor Thomas will be beside himself with worry by now.”

He jumped off the bed and began pulling on his hose and tunic. “I have a proposition for you, Bellebelle. It saddens me to think of all the deprivations such a gentle creature as yourself must endure day after day. How would you like to stop selling honey cakes, leave these detestable lodgings, and belong entirely to me? Be at my disposal when and as needed.”

Bellebelle slipped on her chemise while she searched his face. Was he jesting? Could he be so cruel?

“I would like nothing so much,” she whispered, her heart in her mouth. “Do ye mean this, my lord?”

He sat down to pull on his boots. “Henry. I only say what I mean.” He winked. “But do I always mean what I say? In this case I do. Give me some time to arrange my affairs here. If I were already king it would be a simple matter but as I’m not—in any case leave it to me.” He leaned over and nuzzled her neck. “It won’t all be a bed of roses, you know. People who find out will call you the king’s whore. Revile you for that. Be jealous of you. Are you prepared to live with these thorns?”

“Oh yes. But your wife, the queen to be. What will—she say?” The idea that she might in any way cause Eleanor pain or sadness was like a heavy weight pressing against her chest. She would rather stay where she was.

“This has nothing whatsoever to do with Eleanor. Still, she must never know.” Henry gave her a stern look. “Never. And if you’re discreet she won’t. After all you’re not likely to move in the same circles, are you? However, eventually it might be best to move you out of London entirely.” He stood up and fastened his scruffy leather belt around his waist. “It behooves a king to have a mistress, you know. Or even more than one. A testimony to his manhood. My grandfather had upwards of twenty bastards.”

Bellebelle felt tears well up in her eyes. Henry, hardly pausing for breath, did not notice but strode to the door still talking.

“Can you be found here or in the tavern?” he asked, opening the door.