Beloved Enemy (57 page)

Her entrance into the chancery caused a minor uproar. The clerics sprang to their feet, mouths hanging open.

“I wish to check your records,” she told the chancellor’s secretary, William Fitz-Stephen. “The treasury clerks claim my gold has been paid and it has not. You should have a record of payment in the household expenditures.”

“Yes, of course, but this is most irregular.” He stopped and swallowed. “What I mean, Madam, is that there is no need for you to check yourself. I will be glad to do it for you.”

“I prefer to do it myself, thank you.” She looked around the chamber and spied the Pipe Roll on a large oak table.

“But I must ask the lord chancellor’s permission—”

“Pardon? Did I hear you say, ask the lord chancellor’s permission to let the queen of England—”

“Let her look, William.”

Eleanor glanced up as Thomas Becket, magnificently clad in scarlet robes, stepped into the chamber.

“Thank you, Thomas. I’m surprised to see you, having just heard you were still in Rouen. How fares my lord?”

“Very well, Madam. You leave for the coast tomorrow?”

Eleanor walked over to the table. “Yes.”

Fitz-Stephen, obviously in a quandary, followed on her heels, then stepped directly in front of her, blocking her access to the Pipe Roll. “My lord chancellor, I really feel it would be better for me to—”

“Stop dithering like a blue jay, William. Let the queen do as she wishes.”

“But, my lord, you don’t understand—” There was a note of desperation in the secretary’s voice that caused Eleanor to glance sharply from one man to the other.

“I understand perfectly,” Becket said. “Now do as I say, and step aside.”

The secretary, his face white, fell silent and stepped to one side. Sweet St. Radegonde, what bees’ nest had she stumbled into? Obviously Fitz-Stephen feared she might see something in the Pipe Roll; Becket was not concerned whether she saw it or not. Eleanor’s skin prickled with a sense of foreboding.

She felt the chancellor’s gaze penetrating her back as she unrolled the stitched parchment sheets and began to peruse the recent entries. She went back for several weeks, then months, but could find no entry for her payment during the last three months.

“There is no record of gold to the queen,” she said aloud. “You can see for yourselves.”

“If there is no record then it has not been paid,” said Becket. “We pride ourselves on keeping all household expenditures current, don’t we, William?”

“Indeed, my lord chancellor.”

Puzzled, Eleanor could see nothing written that would have caused the secretary such agitation. She spread out the sheets so that they could be rolled up neatly, when an old entry caught her eye. “… for cloaks and hoods and for the trimming of two capes of samite for the clothes of the queen and Bellebelle.”

Bellebelle? Why was that name coupled with her own? Who was she? The date was last February, a little over ten months ago. Eleanor’s head felt like an iron helm enclosed it; there was a tightness in her breast.

“Who is Bellebelle?” she asked Fitz-Stephen.

His eyes shied away from hers. “I … that is to say—” he looked imploringly at Becket.

“You can tell her, William, it’s all right. This creature is a distant relative of my secretary,” Becket said in a voice that reminded Eleanor of honey oozing from the comb. “A—seamstress by trade, isn’t she, William? From Bermondsey, I believe.”

The secretary, in an agony of embarrassment, muttered something unintelligible. Poor man. She could almost feel sorry for him.

Eleanor felt her face grow hot. Did Becket think she was a fool? A relative, indeed. Did he really expect her to believe such a blatant lie? Bellebelle. Why, the very name had a decidedly carnal ring to it. She met the chancellor’s gaze squarely. Something like enjoyment flashed in his dark eyes; his lower lip twisted into the mockery of a smile. Chilled, Eleanor realized Becket didn’t expect her to believe him. Quite the contrary. He had
wanted
her to find the entry, with all its damning implications, waited for her to find it so he could gloat over her discomfort. Well, she would not give him the satisfaction.

“How thoughtful of you to provide so well for your relatives, William Fitz-Stephen.” Ignoring Becket, head high, Eleanor walked slowly out of the chamber, smiling at the clerks as she passed.

Outside the chancery, Eleanor took a deep breath to steady her trembling knees before turning toward the treasury. She didn’t know with whom she was more outraged, Henry or his devious chancellor. A blast of icy wind twisted across the courtyard that almost sent her reeling. From the very moment they met, she had known that Becket disliked and disapproved of her. But to deliberately sow discord between Henry and herself …It suddenly occurred to Eleanor that Thomas Becket might not be merely an irritating antagonist but a potentially dangerous enemy.

As for Henry …Ahead loomed the south wing of Westminster where the accounts not housed at Winchester were kept. No time now to deal with the continuing throb of mingled anger and savage jealousy over this Bellebelle.

Inside the stone chamber, there was the usual bustle of activity as the treasurer and his clerks, overseen by several chamberlains, reckoned sums on talley sticks and arranged counters into one or another of the columns on a black-and-white chequered cloth resembling a chessboard that sat atop a long table.

“According to the Pipe Roll, my gold has not been paid,” she said to the treasurer.

“So my clerk later discovered, Madam. It was his error, for which I humbly apologize. We have it right here.” The treasurer gave her a rueful smile. “Treasury people are worse than moneylenders. If they can find an excuse not to pay they won’t.”

Eleanor forced a laugh, gave him the doeskin bag, and waited impatiently while he filled it with silver coins from a wooden coffer. In truth, this habit of strict accountancy was one of the reasons for the success of Henry’s monarchy. When she recalled the appalling negligence of Aquitaine—not to mention her own—where money was concerned, she could not but admire this miserly approach.

By the time Eleanor left the treasury, the tide of jealous rage had not abated, nor had it increased. It was just there, a dull ache in her heart. Climbing the winding staircase up to the solar, Eleanor remembered the flash of enjoyment in Becket’s eyes, the smirk curling his lip, and knew that a sense of pride must never permit her to mention the incident to Henry. If she could keep from it. After all, she was a royal queen, a great duchess. How could she allow herself to be troubled by the bawds Henry bedded for his temporary convenience? Such feelings were beneath her.

Yet the name lingered in her head, insistent as a wave pounding upon the shore. Bellebelle. Samite was a very rich and costly gold-threaded silk. Henry had brought her a cape of the same material. Had he had them both made at the same time? Try as she would, Eleanor could not stop the thoughts that tumbled about like a frenzied troupe of jongleurs. Bellebelle. Was she a night’s pleasure or the companion of weeks? Even months? Was the girl fair to look upon? And, the most dreaded question of all, was she young?

H
ENRY INTENDED TO HOLD
his Christmas court at Cherbourg on the Normandy coast. He was still in Rouen when Eleanor arrived in mid-December, bringing with her for the first time young Henry and Richard, leaving Matilda and the baby, Geoffrey, behind. Henry had sent Thomas back to England with some signed charters to be put into immediate effect, and instructions to return no later than February so that he might accompany the royal entourage on a progress through Anjou and Aquitaine. Then he rode to Cherbourg to join Eleanor.

The queen had retired for the night, Henry was told, when he arrived at Compline; he raced up the winding staircase of the small castle and burst into the chamber. Eleanor, in a furred robe, was sitting up in the crimson-canopied bed while one of her women rubbed her hair with pumice so that it gleamed like bronze in the flickering candle-glow. Between her exposed breasts, twice their normal size, Richard lay asleep. One of his fingers curled round a jutting coral nipple.

“Out, out, out,” Henry shouted, startling the ladies who scattered at his coming like so many frightened sheep. He wrenched the baby away from his nesting place and thrust him, howling with rage, into the arms of one of the women. “Take him with you.”

Henry knelt by the bed and gathered Eleanor into his arms, kissing her cheeks, the tip of her nose, and finally her lips, which opened gently under his. “The boy is too old to be sleeping with you like that. Unseemly at his age. Such pampering will only make him soft and girlish.”

“Sweet St. Radegonde, he’s only fourteen months old! And there’s no danger of his becoming soft and girlish, believe me. He’s the most like you of any of your sons, and already has the makings of a young warrior—which you’d know if you ever paid the slightest attention to him.”

He squeezed her tightly against him, drinking deeply of her mouth.

“Be careful,” she whispered against his lips. “I’m very sore. The wet-nurse’s milk disagreed with Geoffrey, and I had to nurse him myself for the last two months until a new nurse whose milk did not upset him could be found. The milk has not yet dried up. Generally, he’s been fussy. I hope this is not a harbinger of his future behavior.”

Henry lay down beside her, carefully nestling his head in the crook of her arm. “It’s hard to believe that just four years ago we set out from this very spot for my coronation,” he said, tracing the outline of her breast with a lazy forefinger. “What a long road we’ve traveled since then—”

“Without a single failure—”

“—and now we’re in control of all our possessions on both sides of the Channel.”

“With four children as the embodiment of our hopes for the future,” Eleanor said with a yawn. “Think how they will extend our power across Europe. A Plantagenet in every major duchy and county.”

“Young Henry will rule Normandy and England, of course, and mayhap France as well. Richard—”

“Duke of Aquitaine, naturally.”

“Perhaps. We can discuss it later.”

“No, Henry, I must insist. Richard will be duke of Aquitaine.”

Henry bit back his retort. No point in making an issue of Richard now. Let the future look to itself. “And Matilda?”

“Only the most high-born husband. A duke—”

“For my daughter? A prince at the very least.”

Eleanor laughed. “Or even a king—if any are still available.”

“What about Geoffrey?” Henry felt his eyelids grow heavy.

“Why should he not inherit Brittainy?” Eleanor kissed the top of his head.

“I have not yet fully secured Brittainy.”

“No, but you will.”

“Do you realize, Nell, that if we have another son, I will have run out of territory to give him?”

Eleanor groaned. “Sweet St. Radegonde, we’ve just had a son and you’re already talking about another! You must think my insides are made of old boot leather. Does your ambition know no bounds?”

“None. Does yours?”

Eleanor pulled his hair. “Now, if I still had Toulouse this unborn son could become its count. It was once part of Aquitaine, you know, and all the vital trade routes still run through it. It was my grandfather’s dream to recapture it for his heirs.”

Suddenly awake now, Henry propped himself up on one elbow. “I’d forgotten about Toulouse. Go on.”

“Well, it has all the Roman roads and waterways that connected Aquitaine to the Mediterranean. At one time it had a brilliant court, just like Poitiers and Provence. My father was born there; his mother, my grandmother, Philippa, ruled there. I’ve always considered it part of my rightful inheritance.”

In the light of the flickering candle, Henry could see her face glow with excitement. “Yes, but it hasn’t belonged to your family for fifty years at least.” He lay back with a sigh. “What I do not need is another rebellious territory. I already have more land than I can easily manage.”

Eleanor leaned over to brush her lips against his. “But you wouldn’t have to. I would be happy to manage it.”

“Didn’t Louis make an attempt to conquer it?”

“Oh, Louis. Trust him to botch everything he touches. Toulouse is a rich prize; its count, Raymond, is weak, inefficient, and on bad terms with his vassals. Not only that, he is at odds with his wife—”

“Who is also King Louis’s sister.” Henry yawned. “This is a totally foolhardy venture. Has anyone ever told you that you are an exceptionally greedy woman, Nell?”

She laughed softly. There was something about the way she laughed—warm, sensual, challenging. He butted his head between her breasts, his favorite place to sleep. “Enough talk of conquest. Let me think on it.”

How good it was to lie here with his loving Nell, dreaming aloud of a golden future. England at peace; the acquisition of northern Brittainy; the Vexin one day to return to the Plantagenet fold. Perhaps, in the future, Toulouse? That would certainly round off his holdings. It really had been a most glorious year, Henry thought drowsily, as he gave a contented sigh.

“Henry?”

“Hmm?”

“Who is Bellebelle?”

The question so shocked him Henry’s blood froze. For a moment he wondered if he dreamed the question. He pretended to be half-asleep. “Ah—the name is not one I recognize—why?”

“I saw it in the Pipe Roll.”

Why was she looking in the Pipe Roll? God’s eyes, the woman had the nose of a bloodhound! On the other hand, what fool had put Bellebelle’s name in the records? “I don’t know the name. Let us sleep, Nell.”

Eleanor kissed the back of his neck. “Let us indeed.”

Jesu! She knew how to pick her moment. Did she know more than she was saying? Henry experienced an unaccustomed spurt of guilt.

It was not a good omen. With a sense of doom, he wondered if the year that had begun so well would end that way.

After Mass the next morning, Henry received word that the Empress Maud would be arriving the following day, having set out from the abbey of Fontevrault a week ago, where she had spent the past month in retreat.

“This is the first time my mother has been able to attend a Christmas court since my accession to the throne,” Henry said to Eleanor as they strode down the passageway from the chapel to the hall. “She hasn’t seen any of her grandchildren since young Henry was an infant. We must make much of her coming.” The incident of last night might never have occurred. Nell was warm and loving, her usual carefree self. Still wary, Henry allowed himself to hope that she had believed him.