Beloved Enemy (52 page)

Misty-eyed, Bellebelle watched him. When she’d discovered she was carrying Henry’s child, only a month after he had set her up as his mistress in London, she had at first decided to try and rid herself of it, terrified that Henry would turn her out. But, to her surprise, he was pleased, urging her to have the child. He had taken it as a sign of his manhood, reminding her that his grandfather had had a slew of bastards.

A smaller version of Henry with his russet hair and gray eyes, Geoffrey was strongly built and already tall for his age. A studious child, he was self-willed, sometimes quick to anger, though without Henry’s violent temper. The prior at the priory school where Henry had arranged for Geoffrey to be educated when he turned three, had told her that he was unusually intelligent for his age, extremely apt at his lessons, and would go far in life. Bellebelle was not sure whether the prior—always courteous but ill-at-ease in her presence—had said this to flatter her, knowing whose son Geoffrey was, or because he really believed it.

Certainly
she
believed he would go far, and was determined to make Geoffrey believe it as well. Geoffrey spoke nothing like she did, thank the Holy Mother—although her speech was continually improving, Henry said—but like his father and the other nobles she’d met. Even a bastard could move up in the world, Henry said, and a king’s bastard had a deal more opportunity than most. After all, hadn’t his great-grandfather the Conqueror been a bastard?

Geoffrey smiled at her and began to eat his food with pleasure. Bellebelle loved her son so much that sometimes it was like a throbbing ache in her heart. Despite the pinpricks that plagued her, time and again she thanked the Holy Virgin for sending her this precious gift.

Two days later Henry arrived in typical fashion: unannounced. Unexpected. With all the fury of a summer storm. The usual entourage accompanied him, most of whom he dispatched to the Saxon manor house in Bermondsey or one of his lesser manor houses, leaving the rest to shift for themselves in the village or camp in the freezing woods.

“You look more fair than ever, poppet,” Henry said to Bellebelle as he entered the hall, then bent his head to kiss her on the mouth. “Here.” He thrust something soft and silky into her arms.

Bellebelle shook it out. It was a cape of blue samite, a fine silk threaded with gold, and the loveliest thing she had ever seen.

“Oh, Henry,” she whispered, laying the silk against her cheek. “How can I ever thank you? But samite! It do be so costly.”

“
Is
costly. The treasury can afford it these days. Come here, Son.”

Geoffrey ran eagerly to his father, who picked him up and ruffled his hair. “Wait until you see what I brought for you!”

Through the open door Bellebelle could see knights, squires, and clerks milling about the garden. Near the gate stood a fair-haired knight with a pointed beard leaning on a thick oaken stick. He was talking to Thomas Becket, who frequently accompanied Henry on his visits. The chancellor was always polite in his words, as he had been when she first met him at Gropecuntlane. His manner, however, still conveyed what he really felt: she was the king’s doxy, less than the dirt beneath his feet, and Henry would tire of her soon enough.

Bellebelle’s gaze again passed over the fair-haired man talking to the chancellor then returned. The hairs at the nape of her neck prickled; her heart jumped. Why? Only a glimpse of his profile was visible yet something about him seemed terrifyingly familiar. Had she seen him before in Henry’s retinue? No. He was someone new. The man shifted his weight slightly, turning toward her. A ray of sunlight glanced off a large silver medallion set with five emeralds hanging round his neck. Where had she seen …Stifling a cry, Bellebelle shrank back from the door, slammed it shut, then ran over to the stairs. Her body trembled violently and she had to stop herself from rushing up into the bower and hiding under the bedclothes.

It was Hans de Burgh, the Fleming she had almost killed. The man who had murdered her mother.

T
HOMAS BECKET, HAVING ACCOMPANIED
Henry to Bermondsey and seen him settled in for a day or two with the minor whore, returned to London. He arrived shortly after Vespers, in time for a late supper. In his mind he always referred to Bellebelle as the minor whore, to distinguish her from Eleanor, who was the major whore. The other whores Henry used Thomas dismissed as temporary conveniences, like the necessary woman who emptied the chamber pots. On the whole he preferred the minor whore. She was compliant, submissive, and knew her place.

When Thomas entered his private quarters at the chancery, his secretary was there to greet him, as well as his body servant and a page.

“A pleasant journey, my lord chancellor?” his secretary inquired.

“I would hardly call a visit to a bawd’s house—even a royal bawd’s house—pleasant.”

“No, my lord, I only meant—”

“I know what you meant, William.”

Thomas smiled. To be addressed as “my lord” never failed to send a frisson of enjoyment down his spine. “Are there many guests tonight?”

“The hall is packed to overflowing.” The secretary paused. “The queen is here. She heard that some missives had arrived from Aquitaine and had not been sent to her—despite repeated requests. So she came herself.”

Thomas stopped in the process of discarding his riding clothes. “The queen is here? Now?”

“I put her in an antechamber to await your return.”

The body servant helped Thomas don a silk shirt of a pale gold color, while the page held up a silver mirror.

“By the Mass, does the queen imagine I exist solely to be at her beck and call? That every time a missive or two arrives from Aquitaine I’m meant to drop everything and rush over to Tower Royal to put them personally into her hands?” He gave the secretary an accusing stare, as if he were to blame. “Does she think I have nothing better to do than pay court to the puffed-up idea of her own self-importance?”

He knew he was working himself up into a state of self-righteous indignation but chose to continue. “Is the woman unaware of the difficulties of my office? The endless work, the worry, the plots and snares connived at by my rivals?” If someone had asked him about the specifics of these plots and snares he would have been unable to supply any details, but he felt certain they existed.

Thomas remained motionless while his servant slipped over his head a long red tunic embroidered with the golden lions of Anjou—to match the shirt—then his red hood and mantle.

“Sometimes, William,” he said to the secretary, “my life is so wearisome that I would gladly give up the vexations of court life and retire to an abbey.” He sighed. “To think there are those who envy me! If they only knew …” Facile tears sprang to his eyes.

“Indeed, my lord chancellor, but think of all the good you accomplish. Without your help, the administration would fall to ruin. Without your help, how would the king ever have brought peace to England?”

The secretary’s words soothed him as Thomas remembered the first hectic year of Henry’s reign, when together—sometimes, unfortunately, accompanied by the queen—they had subdued an unruly kingdom, divided in its loyalties, torn asunder by nineteen years of strife and bloodshed. Never would he forget the burned villages, the folk dying daily of starvation, once-prosperous men reduced to begging in order to survive.

Week after week, from dawn until far into the night, Thomas had followed the young king to remote castles, far-flung abbeys, and walled towns, covering the length and breadth of the English realm. It was said that no other ruler, not even the Conqueror himself, had ridden as far and wide as Henry had done, and still did for that matter. Not one corner of the kingdom was neglected, Thomas could attest to that. Wary at first, the country had eventually welcomed their new master; even the powerful magnates who had done as they pleased under Stephen had been brought to heel, forced to acknowledge the presence of a truly strong king.

Over one thousand unlicensed castles had been torn down, the Flemish mercenaries banished, criminals punished, men wrongfully dispossessed reinstated to their manors. The roads were safe again; folk no longer needed to lock their doors at night; cattle and sheep grazed in peace.

“Henry Secundus is a mighty king, who sees justice done,” men said of him.

It gave Thomas an intense feeling of satisfaction and pride to realize what a significant contribution he had made in creating this happy state of affairs. He and Henry were as well suited to one another as a hand that fits perfectly into a leather gauntlet.

“Oh yes, my lord chancellor, I almost forgot,” said William. “Word came from Canterbury. The archbishop wishes to see you—when you can be spared from your duties, of course.”

With a twinge of guilt, Thomas sat on an embroidered stool while the page and body servant pulled on red boots of soft Spanish leather. He had ignored several summons by Theobald in recent months. It was just that he was so busy he simply couldn’t find the time to make the five-hour ride to Canterbury. In truth, Thomas knew that was not the only reason. Theobald had more or less planted him as a spy in Henry’s administration. After three years he no longer felt like Theobald’s man but Henry’s. It created a certain awkwardness between himself and his former master.

“Write the archbishop that I will visit him as soon as may be, always his devoted son et al—you know the form, William.”

“Yes. The queen, my lord chancellor …”

“The queen can wait. No one asked her to come.”

Thomas looked down at the new boots, aware that Theobald would not approve of them. Perhaps the summons was to chastise him. I realize this is not the way a cleric would ordinarily dress, he argued in his head with an invisible Theobald, but it befits my station as chancellor of England. What about your abundantly stocked stables, well-equipped ships, luxurious chancery, and nobly born pages—like the one now struggling with your boot? echoed Theobald’s reproving voice. It does honor to the Church, Your Grace. And to yourself, my son? Thomas could not deny that. It flattered him that so many great families fought to place their sons in his dignified and elegant household so that they might learn courtesy and manners. Some even tried to bribe members of his household to recommend their children.

“I must find time to visit Theobald,” he said aloud. “He wasn’t at all well last time I saw him.”

There was a knock on the door. William opened it a crack then turned to Thomas. “A page. The queen is aware you have returned and wants to know how long you intend to keep her waiting.”

All thought of Theobald vanished. Thomas flushed at the rebuke, glancing at himself in the silver mirror held up by the page, not displeased by the gold-and-scarlet reflection that shimmered back at him.

“Now. I will see the wretched woman now.” He sighed. “Bring me the dispatches.”

When he arrived at the antechamber, Eleanor, accompanied by two Poitevin equerries, was pacing up and down. She was sumptuously dressed, as usual, in a dark blue cloak lined with gray fur, over a crimson tunic bordered in green and blue. She carried a pair of leather gloves in one hand. Her face—which, against all nature, seemed to grow lovelier with each passing year—was taut with suppressed anger. Thomas was not surprised. He had deliberately kept her waiting; the insult was not lost on her.

“I understand you returned from Bermondsey an hour ago. Do you know how long I’ve been kept waiting?” she asked in an icy voice.

“Alas, I was not told of your arrival, Madam,” Thomas said, shutting the door behind him. It was an obvious lie and would not fool her. But he did not care.

“Not told? What a slovenly household you run, Master Thomas. Who would have thought it?” The queen looked him up and down with no attempt to conceal her outrage—or dislike. “Where are my missives from Aquitaine? I know you received them some time ago.”

Thomas felt the heat rise to his face. Did she have a spy in his household? Arrogant Aquitainian whore! She had the tongue of a viper. “Only a few days. My secretary is bringing them now. Perhaps you will tell me what they contain? If any concern the king’s business …”

“You will be the first to know.”

William entered the chamber and handed the dispatches to Thomas who handed them to Eleanor. Without looking at them, she gave the sealed squares of parchment to one of the equerries, pulled her cloak tightly about her shoulders, slipped on the furred gloves, and walked to the door. The equerries followed.

“Did the king say when he would return?” She asked over her shoulder.

“No, Madam. But he should not be gone long. A day or two at the most.”

Eleanor opened the door. “Some business in Bermondsey?”

“Business? You could say that, Madam. Indeed, that would be one way of putting it.”

For a moment Thomas saw her hesitate, sorely tempted to ask more questions. Then she strode out without a backward glance. Let her wonder what Henry was up to, Thomas thought spitefully. Had he dared he would have dropped even less subtle hints. His hatred of the queen, which grew stronger with each passing year, sometimes caused him to behave without his usual circumspection. Any disquiet he could cause Eleanor filled him with satisfaction, and he had to guard himself whenever he was around her.

Sometimes Thomas felt that he and the queen were in a perpetual clash of arms, two champions in the lists, each parrying and thrusting in an effort to outdo the other and win the prize—Henry. He had just won the last bout.

Repressing the unwanted thought that his behavior smacked of childishness and was unworthy, Thomas paused at the entrance to his hall. Filled as usual with visiting dignitaries, guests, as well as his own staff, he gazed with pleasure at the elaborate tapestries, brick hearth and chimney, the fresh straw laid down daily so that those who could find nowhere else to sit might repose comfortably on the floor without spoiling their clothes.

Knowing all eyes were upon him, Thomas strode majestically through the crowd until he came to the high table, laid with gold and silver plate, savory dishes, and fine wines from Bordeaux and Gascony. He seated himself in the center of the table. While others indulged their appetites, Thomas ate sparingly of roast wildfowl and pickled salmon. Ecclesiastics were not permitted to eat any four-footed creature. Unlike many a gluttonous priest, Thomas followed that rule to the letter. While others drank heartily of ruby wine and brown ale, he sipped only boiled water flavored with fresh mint. Aware that he was the center of attention—as well he should be—Thomas made a great show of how abstemious he was. What did it matter if people whispered in corners that his life was unsuitable for an ecclesiastic—even one in minor orders; that his show of wealth and magnificence indicated an inappropriate worldliness.