Beloved Enemy (59 page)

In the end, Eleanor decided to do and say nothing. Like Pandora’s box in the Greek fable she had heard about, it seemed wiser to leave well enough alone—for the moment. In any case, Henry’s bizarre announcement wiped everything else from her mind.

It occurred one morning in late February while they were in Rouen.

“We must start thinking about having young Henry crowned,” Henry said to Eleanor, without preamble.

Along with the empress and Earl Robert of Leicester, they stood on the banks of the Seine watching a crowd of workmen hoist wood plankings in the construction of a new bridge across the river.

It was such an extraordinary suggestion that Eleanor stared at him in amazement, noting out of the corner of her eye that his mother, suddenly pale, was gazing at him in a kind of horror. There had been no warning, no hint of any kind that such thoughts weighed upon his mind—unless—could his need to seek comfort from her be related in some way? It seemed impossible.

“He’s only four years of age—a bit young, and I don’t see the need, Sire,” said Earl Robert, who was due to leave for England to resume his post as co-justiciar as soon as the chancellor arrived.

“Not to mention the fact that you’re bursting with good health.” Eleanor could not understand what lay behind this astounding statement. But she knew Henry well enough to know that something drove him.

With a brooding expression on his face—one that had become increasingly familiar since the Christmas court—Henry gazed out at the brown water moving sluggishly under an iron-hued sky.

“It is never too soon to begin thinking about ensuring the succession,” Henry said. “The practice is common enough in France, and other places on the Continent.”

“This is not France, I’m thankful to say. You have three sons, Henry. The succession is secured.”

“I must agree with the queen,” de Beaumont said. “Such an action serves no purpose at this time, and has no precedent in England. As you are well aware, Stephen of Blois attempted to have Eustace crowned in his lifetime—without success. The archbishop of Canterbury absolutely refused, if you recall, despite Stephen’s threats. After all, Sire, where is the urgency? You are not yet twenty-six years of age!”

“Next month.” Henry turned to his mother. “What are your thoughts on the matter, Madam?”

“I have no thoughts on the matter,” she said in a terse voice.

Eleanor observed that Earl Robert kept stroking his short, pale beard or touching the hilt of his sword in an aimless manner, betraying some inner agitation. He and the Empress Maud avoided looking at each other. Something was afoot here, but what?

After a moment’s silence, Henry shrugged dismissively. “All right. Perhaps the decision was hasty. We can discuss the matter again when young Henry is older.”

Eleanor saw him make a visible effort to collect himself. “Well, de Beaumont.” Henry forced a smile. “What do you think of my plan regarding Toulouse?”

Henry appeared to have forgotten that, initially, Toulouse had been her plan. But then, like a great many ideas she had originated, Henry had adopted it as his own. At the moment, Eleanor thought it politic not to remind him.

“An excellent plan, Sire,” de Beaumont said, obviously relieved at this change of subject. “Of course, you will need to get King Louis’s agreement on a campaign there, since he is the count of Toulouse’s overlord, as well as your own.”

“Not too difficult.” Henry turned to Eleanor. “Didn’t you tell me Raymond of Toulouse abuses his wife, Louis’s sister?”

“It is common knowledge in Aquitaine.”

Leicester pursed his lips. “Unfortunately, the count’s wife is his property to treat as he will. Louis cannot interfere—officially, that is. Count Raymond is still the king of France’s vassal, and Louis is honor-bound to protect him from attack, just as he would you, Sire.”

“The matter of his sister aside, Louis and I are allies now,” Henry said. “Why would he contest this venture? Or take Count Raymond’s side against mine?” He shrugged impatiently. “Until I hear otherwise, when we get to Poitou I’ll start assembling an army.”

They continued to walk along the banks of the Seine. Whenever she thought of the impending campaign, Eleanor could hardly wait for it to start. It had been easy to convince Henry. His appetite for conquest remained unappeased no matter how much land he gobbled up. To regain control of Toulouse had been her family’s dream since before she was born, for it was the gateway to the south—Provence, Barcelona, the Mediterranean. Without it, Aquitaine was more vulnerable to her enemies; with it, the duchy was virtually impregnable. Furthermore, whether he gave her credit or not, she
had
suggested the campaign to Henry. Eleanor saw his response as a propitious sign, a sure indication they were joint comrades in all ventures. It took some of the sting out of the Bellebelle affair.

“I knew von day I’d find you,” said Hans de Burgh, stepping inside and closing the door. “Und now, at last, I have.”

It was the first time Bellebelle had ever heard him speak. Before her eyes he became another person: a cruel glitter appeared in his pale blue eyes; his lips stretched over his teeth into a mockery of a grin, reminding her of a death’s head. A scream died in her throat; her legs felt frozen to the floor.

Unable to find her voice, she put out a trembling hand to her son, who was staring at de Burgh as if he could not believe this was the same man who had been at the door.

Bellebelle gestured wildly. “Geoffrey—run—get help—quickly,” she managed to whisper.

“Stay vhere you are—Geoffrey is it? Your vhelp, yah?”

Geoffrey looked first at her then at de Burgh.

“Go, Son.”

Geoffrey made for the door. De Burgh grabbed him around the waist and held him fast. “I said stay.”

“Leave him be,” Bellebelle cried.

“Let me go.” Geoffrey tried to shake himself free but de Burgh only held him tighter. “You’re hurting me—stop.”

Released from his spell, Bellebelle flung herself at de Burgh and began to pummel his shoulder. He let go of Geoffrey, caught Bellebelle by her arm, and threw her to the ground with such force that for a moment she could not breathe. Geoffrey was out the door like a streak of lightning. De Burgh made no attempt to follow. His eyes were filled with a reddish glow, crazed with hate. They never left her face.

“Bitch. Filthy cunt,” he said, hissing between his teeth like a serpent. “Every step I take is like a knife in my hip because of you.” He rubbed a hand over his side. “You’ll pay for it. Oh yah, whore’s brat, you’ll pay.”

“You murdered my mother,” Bellebelle said, her voice rising. “First you tortured her and then you murdered her!”

“The cunt deserved it! She had the burning sickness. I could have died.”

De Burgh drew back his booted foot and kicked her in the hip. With a scream of pain she tried to scramble away but he blocked her path.

“The nights I’ve spent dreaming of this moment, thinking, planning all I vould do to you.” Slowly he drew out a short-bladed knife from the sheath that swung at his leather belt. “You remember vhat I did to your mother, yah? First I do that to you—” He chuckled, that same blood-chilling sound she remembered from the brothel-house in Southwark.

For the first time in years an image of her mother’s blood-stained body flashed before Bellebelle’s eyes. De Burgh came closer, impaling her upon his madman’s gaze so that once again she felt terror constrict her. He dropped down on one knee. With a quick thrust he slashed the bodice of her kirtle, then ripped it open, exposing her breasts. Suborned by the intensity of his hatred, she was powerless to move, her mind unable to function.

There was a low growl. De Burgh ignored it. Bellebelle twisted her head. Geoffrey stood in the doorway holding the wolfhound by the rope.

“You touch my mother and I’ll set Valiant on you. I’ve trained him to attack and he’ll do so at my command.”

De Burgh turned his head. The wolfhound bared its pointed teeth and snarled while Bellebelle hastened to her feet, clutching the torn pieces of her bodice together. Valiant had only attacked small game, but the Fleming wouldn’t know that. De Burgh’s arm, which had shot forward to stop her, hung poised in midair.

“Oh, Son. That—that be quick thinking,” said Bellebelle in a quivering voice, her chest heaving.

Geoffrey’s entrance had broken her bondage; she could think again. “But we need not set Valiant on this scum. He forgets who I—who we belong to. What you think the king’ll do if ought should happen to me?”

She saw the red haze of madness fade from de Burgh’s eyes. His jaw hung slack; his arm dropped; he rubbed a hand over his eyes and stared at her as if he had never seen her before—which in a way he hadn’t, Bellebelle realized.

“You mean—you are—
Gott in Himmel,
of course.” He signed himself. “I did not think—” He rose to his feet and reached inside his tunic. “Here.” He flung a pouch of coins onto the floor.

“Get out,” said Geoffrey. “Don’t ever come back. When I tell my father what you tried to do to my mother …”

De Burgh gave a shaky laugh. “Your mother passed you off as the son of a king? You could be a butcher’s bastard for all he knows, yah.” He eyed Bellebelle as if she were vermin to be put down. “I vonder now, does King Henry know vat you vere? That you tried to kill me?”

“O’ course he do,” she said quickly, too quickly, dropping her gaze.

De Burgh gave her a long speculative look, his composure gradually returning. “I suspect he knows nothing—and vhen he finds out, for I vill tell him, you can be sure of that—how long you think you vill last?” He snapped his fingers. “That long. He von’t care vhat happens to you. Then I’ll be back, yah. To finish vhat I started.”

“The king is gone, he’s on the Continent,” Geoffrey said, his face white, his gray eyes enormous.

“But he’ll be back. In time. I can vait.”

With an evil grin, de Burgh slid out the door, his eyes on the wolfhound. A few moments later Bellebelle heard the sound of horse’s hooves trotting away. Geoffrey ran to the door.

“He’s gone.”

Suddenly Bellebelle began to weep. Gone. How long would it be before her life with Henry was gone too?

F
OR ELEANOR, THE NEXT
few months slipped by in a flurry of preparation for the war in Toulouse. First Henry solicited contributions from towns, sheriffs, moneylenders, even the Church. Anticipating an outcry, he ordered Thomas Becket personally to collect from the abbeys. In the spring, Henry issued a summons to his vassals in England, Normandy, and Aquitaine to assemble at Poitiers by the end of June. He then went to Paris, confident Louis of France would support him. But, to Eleanor’s consternation, Louis was noncommital. The count of Toulouse was his vassal; his sister’s safety was involved. He preferred to remain a bystander.

“What is Louis up to?” Eleanor asked Henry the day after he had returned from Paris. “I don’t trust him.” For the first time she was experiencing a niggle of doubt about this enterprise. “He should support you, not remain aloof. This holier-than-thou attitude is typical of him. Does he forget his disastrous attempt to take Toulouse eighteen years ago?”

Henry shrugged. “What does it matter? He hasn’t said anything either way and in his case a wink’s as good as a nod. I’ve an unbroken string of victories to my credit. Toulouse will be no different.”

Nor could Eleanor see any reason why Toulouse would be different, yet Louis’s apparent unwillingness to take sides continued to trouble her. She insisted on accompanying Henry on the campaign and he agreed.

On a day in late June, Henry’s army left Poitiers. His brilliant host included not only barons from his own domains but the king of Scotland, the count of Barcelona, and several of the count of Toulouse’s dissatisfied vassals. By early July they had encamped outside Toulouse’s walls and settled in for a long siege.

Henry, as usual, had brought his clerks, and, with Eleanor’s help, busied himself with the constant administrative chores of his empire: issuing writs, reading over judicial cases, and even listening to those subjects persistent enough to follow him to the gates of Toulouse.

In September, Louis revealed his true colors.

He suddenly appeared before the city gates, unattended by troops or guards. Like a penitent, he humbly asked permission to enter the city to safeguard his sister. Had she been present, Eleanor knew, she would have seen through this ploy. But she had gone to Foix for two days to visit a distant relative. When she returned, she found, to her horror, that Louis had been allowed to enter the city, and Henry was planning to call off the siege.

“But you cannot do that,” she said, unable to believe either that Louis had been so wily or Henry so willing to back down. “To have come this far for nothing—no, you must go through with it.”

“How can I? Louis is my overlord. If I attack him, what sort of example do I set for my own vassals?”

Thomas, an unlikely ally, sided with her for the first time. Having brought along seven hundred knights of his own household—which indicated the size and wealth of his own establishment—Eleanor suspected that Thomas hoped to make a great military showing. It was becoming more and more obvious that the chancellor thought himself a great baron, preferring to forget he was ever an archdeacon in holy orders.

“Louis has aligned himself with your enemies and deserves no consideration, Sire,” Thomas said. “You will be the laughingstock of all Europe if you end the siege now. Everyone will say Louis has outwitted you.”

“Not in my presence, they won’t.” Henry’s face grew purple, and Eleanor expected that any moment now he would fall on the floor of the pavilion in one of his uncontrollable rages.

To her surprise he did not lose control, but she could tell that he was adamant, and argument was useless. In some way she had never been able to grasp, Henry had developed a curious affection for Louis whom, by turns, he had outfought, outwitted, yet made friends with. Why he would throw away all his advantages on the threshold of a successful siege was beyond her comprehension.