Beloved Enemy (70 page)

“Do you now threaten me because I will not grovel at your feet?” She twisted back and forth, trying to free herself from his grip. “How long have you know this creature that means so much to you?”

“Since I was ten years old. I—” He suddenly let go her hands and gingerly touched the welt on his face. “I hold—held—her in great affection. You, I love. She takes—she took nothing from you, Nell, I swear it, but she has been like a part of myself—”

“Since you were ten?” Eleanor’s eyes glittered with tears; her voice dropped to a whisper. “You have known this tart since you were a child? Why, she knew you before I did!”

Henry jammed his thumbs into his belt and thrust his head forward. “No, I knew you first, remember? I was only three or four when you first bewitched me at your wedding feast in Bordeaux, an awed little boy, so smitten by the great lady that he gave her flowers by the roadside.”

They stared at each other for a long moment before Eleanor spoke again. “The boy is only a little older than young Henry, you said. You must have bedded her in London before you were crowned, while I was still in Normandy?”

“Yes, yes, yes! Mea maxima culpa! What does it matter now? As you must know, there have been others—there will always be others. None of them important. Only this one whom I have known for so long.”

Henry turned away as if he could not bear to see the queen’s face, frozen into a mask of pain. Eleanor tried to speak but no sounds came forth.

Watching them, Bellebelle felt her own heart must break.

“However, the bitch has betrayed me, and I intend to root her out of my heart. But the boy is not accountable for her actions! He did not ask to be born, and he must not suffer for it.”

Eleanor had found her voice. “His suffering? What about my suffering? Must I have this mongrel under foot as a constant reminder of your faithless nature?”

“God’s eyes, if you would only let me explain the circumstances …”

Bellebelle had heard enough. More than enough. She backed away from the door and staggered down the passageway. The protective veil which shielded her had been torn aside; she felt like a raw open wound. To have been the cause of the naked anguish she had seen in Eleanor’s eyes, the open enmity between Henry and his queen, filled her with so much guilt she did not think she could bear it. If only she could weep, there might be some relief, but she felt beyond tears.

She was at the end of the passage now. Hesitating, she wondered which way she should turn. The scene she had just witnessed—no, not just witnessed but been a part of—swam before her, blurring her vision. She fell back against the wall.

There was no possible way she could ask Henry to return Geoffrey. Not now. From all he had said, and how bitterly he had said it, Bellebelle doubted if Henry would ever be willing to see her again. She could either take Geoffrey away by stealth, some time in the future when Henry was not in London, and try to make some sort of life for them both, or leave him to be educated by his father who, from all she had heard, would do right by him.

She could try to take him away now, of course, but she was sure to be stopped and questioned. She felt so shattered, so filled with pain, she did not know what to do. The thought of losing her son was more than Bellebelle could support. But what would be best for Geoffrey? She must have time to think, to decide …

Right now all she wanted was to escape from Tower Royal and her overwhelming sense of shame. If only she could flee from the hateful words that still rang in her ears, blot out the rage and hurt that still stung …Behind her she heard voices.

Bellebelle darted round the corner then down another passage. The winding staircase lay just ahead. She half-slid down the stairs, almost falling in her haste, ran along another passage that looked familiar, then through the pantry and kitchen, out the door into the courtyard. She raced all the way around the side of the white stone walls to the front courtyard of the Tower. Guards were stationed by the keep and next to the open courtyard gates. A line of traffic—knights on horseback, clerics, and richly clad burghers on foot—came and went across the wooden drawbridge that spanned the moat.

Bellebelle joined the crowd, crossed the moat, then found herself in the outer bailey. Within a few moments she was through the outer gates and onto the road that would lead her into London.

Bellebelle vaguely recalled that Tower Royal lay not too far from Aldgate. Not that it mattered where she was, or what road she followed. The thoroughfare into London was thronged with carts, horses, and people on foot. With no destination in mind, she let the crowd carry her aimlessly along, jostling her this way and that, through the massive city gates, which she barely glanced at, into the heart of London.

She was only half aware of the gray shroud of smoke hanging in the air, the soot covering the cobblestones. Had the city always been this dirty? She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d walked London’s streets. Bellebelle had no idea how long she’d been walking until the tangy odor of roasting chestnuts brought her up short. Ahead lay a cookshop; she was at the Strand, near the foot of London Bridge. The open stalls filled with bolts of cloth, strings of onions and garlic, the lilting London voices—all were now achingly familiar.

Bellebelle started to walk across the bridge, pushed along by the crowd. There was a slight movement at her skirts. Looking down she saw the grimy, birdlike face of a street beggar, a practiced pickpocket by the way he’d sidled up to her. Habit made her tighten her hold on the basket, and ensure the purse of coins was still tied safely under her skirts, before shooing him away. At the far end of the bridge two women in striped cloaks called out to the men going across. The sight added to her pain, unexpectedly calling up memories of Gytha and Morgaine.

Bellebelle turned away and stopped to lean over the rail. A line of wool barges floated downstream. She could hear the familiar call, “Through, through.” There were the tilting boats, the wherries that carried passengers up and down the river. Why it must be years since she had crossed the bridge on foot, not since she’d lived in Southwark, in fact. In Gropecuntlane she’d been afraid she’d run into the Flemings. In the village, fearful of being recognized by an old customer, she had avoided going to the Strand or the area of London around the bridge. Occasionally she’d made trips to St.-Martin-le-Grand, where Geoffrey was born, but that had been years ago.

For something to do, Bellebelle listlessly unwrapped the cheese and bread from the basket and took a bite, not really tasting the food. A few feet away she caught sight of the ragged little pickpocket again, eyeing her with hungry eyes. He must be about Geoffrey’s age or even younger, but looked old and hardened by the wicked world of the London streets. She held out the bread and cheese; he approached her warily, like a wild badger she’d once seen in the woods behind her house, snatched the food from her hand, and wolfed it down before disappearing into the crowd.

Was that how she had looked—was it really seventeen years ago?—when a well-dressed boy, a very prince to her innocent eyes, had given her a pork pasty to eat? Close to this very spot he had boasted what he would do when he became king of England. A great deal of which he had actually done. The earlier desolation, which had receded for an instant, now flooded her. Drowning in anguish, Bellebelle watched the muddy water swirling beneath her. She was now twenty-eight years of age, or thereabouts, and she felt as if her life had come to an end. She could think of no reason to go on living.

At some point between leaving the Tower and where she now stood, Bellebelle realized, a decision had been made: she would leave Geoffrey where he was. Henry could make the boy’s fortune; what right had she, a former whore with no prospects, to spoil her son’s future? No right at all. What could she offer him? Only a vast love that accepted him exactly as he was, with naught wanting. It was not enough. Despite the damage she had done—the terrible pain and shock she had caused the queen, Henry’s rage and distrust—Geoffrey must not suffer. Henry was right about that. If her son came back to her, in time he would grow ashamed of what she had been and want nothing to do with her.

But with Henry he would have the chance to truly better himself, the chance she had never really had, the chance that wretched street urchin would never have. There was no question in her mind that Henry would either persuade or force the queen to take Geoffrey in. Eventually, even Eleanor would come to see Geoffrey’s worth. Would the queen mistreat him, take out her anguish on the boy? No. Bellebelle felt certain that was not her way of dealing with matters. Despite the violence and bitterness of Eleanor’s reaction, Bellebelle could not find it in her heart to blame her.

Bellebelle finally understood that powerful as she might be, Eleanor was human after all, not a painted statue of the Virgin, but a mortal woman who had been hurt to the quick, just as she, Bellebelle, was hurt. Underneath they were the same. Two women who loved Henry and suffered at his hands.

If she, Bellebelle, did nothing to interfere, Henry would see to it that Geoffrey flourished and prospered. Perhaps, one day, he might become a knight, or a merchant, even a scholarly clerk, for already he could read and write. There were no limits to how high the bastard son of a king might rise. If her life were finished, the boy must still have his chance.

On a sudden impulse she leaned over the rail and threw her basket into the water. It bobbed for a moment or two then slowly sank between the tiny waves. Such an easy way to disappear really. The jumping off would be hard but then, like the basket, you would feel nothing, just slowly pass from view into the deep river and be carried out to sea. So easy—Bellebelle took a deep breath and leaned far over the rail.

It was then she saw the long silver fish with big green eyes.

“V
ERY WELL, EXPLAIN. I’M
listening. How did you first meet this strumpet?” Eleanor clasped her hands tightly in front of her bosom, as if, by so doing, she could hold back an enraged demon struggling to burst through the confines of her flesh.

“She was no strumpet then. Bellebelle was about ten years of age—her birth date is unknown—when I first met her on London Bridge …” Henry frowned, walked over to the open door and shut it.

Bellebelle! Sweet St. Radegonde, she might have known!

Listening to Henry’s explanation, each word deepening the wound in her heart, Eleanor still could not believe that he had dared to impose this whore’s bastard upon her. Rumors about his lecherous behavior, gossip about his misbegotten offspring, even specific knowledge of one or two that Henry had taken an interest in was painful enough. But at least she had been spared any actual contact with the children involved—or their mothers. There was no direct threat to
her
world.

Eleanor could just imagine the salacious comments and ribald remarks—all at her expense—that would circulate through the court. Her pride was so outraged at the possibility she could barely contain herself from screaming her fury aloud.

With a supreme effort of will, she forced herself to listen to the tale of Bellebelle’s degrading life in a Southwark stewhouse, her attack on a Flemish knight, the mother’s murder, her flight into London and another brothel, then, over ten years later, the hostile confrontation with the Fleming in her home.

“Apparently young Geoffrey had the wit to loose the wolfhound on that Flemish scum,” Henry said, “and thus saved her from his savagery.”

Despite her anger and hurt, Eleanor was moved. “You met her again only by chance?”

“In a tavern, long before I was crowned. Where she rescued me from a band of ruffians.” Henry shook his head in amazement. “The incredible part of this is that I myself only discovered the real truth about her life within the last two months. Can you believe that she actually deceived me all these years?”

“Which only goes to show that she is far, far cleverer than you have given her credit for—and you more gullible.”

“Apparently. But I still cannot easily accept that she lied, that she can never again be trusted.”

“
You
lied to
me!
Are you no longer to be trusted?”

Henry, standing by the window slit, swallowed. “An omission is hardly a falsehood. There is a world of difference.”

“Is there? I call it splitting hairs. In any case I don’t intend to play whore’s advocate.” Eleanor walked over to an oak table and poured herself a goblet of wine from a silver pitcher. She took a sip of the ruby liquid and set it down again. “You truly don’t intend to take up with her again?”

Henry put his hand to his heart. “You have my sworn word. I will take an oath, if you wish, on any sacred relic you care to name.”

“Why is it the Normans are so eager to swear a sacred oath and so little inclined to abide by it?”

“You cannot accuse me of that, surely?”

Eleanor no longer knew what to believe. From the way Henry spoke about this doxy and her son, she knew that they had deeply touched his life in some inexplicable way that was no less painful because she could not comprehend it. What she
could
comprehend—it kept staring her in the face—was the galling realization that this Bellebelle was Henry’s age while she was eleven years older. There was no avoiding the fact that the gap between eighteen and twenty-nine, when they had married, was easily bridged. Between twenty-eight and thirty-nine lay the edge of a chasm that would yawn wider with each passing year.

Henry came up behind her and warily slid his arms around her, moving his hands up to cover her breasts. “Nell—”

In a violent gesture, Eleanor thrust his hands away. How dare he try to cozen her in such fashion! She turned around; Henry seized her hands.

“God’s eyes, your fingers are like ice.” He rubbed them between his palms. “Do not punish the lad for the sins of his parents,” he said softly. “Please, may I bring him to you?”

They were at an impasse. She was not winning the battle with the tactics she was now using. Might she be better served by agreeing to see the boy? She was not wholly convinced that this child was Henry’s, regardless of whom he was said to resemble. He could be anybody’s by-blow, one that this very clever tart had foisted off on Henry as his own. Yes, perhaps by seeing the child, she could persuade Henry it was not his own. Also, truth to tell, by now she had grown curious.