Beloved Enemy (72 page)

Behind lay the remnants of her shattered childhood dreams. The safe secure life she yearned for had eluded her, she realized. Even while she thought she was living that life, danger had always lurked in the shadows. She had lived a lie, deceiving Henry, deceiving Geoffrey, her friend Elfgiva, and herself most of all. Even at this very moment she felt threatened. What would Henry do next? Now that the king was no longer her protector, de Burgh might think he could have a free hand with her. Menace seemed to lie in wait around every corner.

What she wanted right now, more than anything else in the world, Bellebelle realized, was to be comforted. Arms to soothe her; voices to reassure; a safe harbor. Where to find this?

Without conscious thought, she turned from the rail and began to walk across the bridge toward Southwark. It was just possible that Morgaine still remained in Gilbert’s brothel-house. The Welsh whore would help her, give her the comfort she so badly needed. She began to run.

When she reached Southwark, Bellebelle recognized the gray stone mass of St. Mary Overie on the left. She turned right and, slightly breathless now, ran along the Bankside, then darted down a narrow street. Nothing had changed. Heaps of refuse still lined the street; slops and rotten fish still stung the nostrils. Skinny wide-eyed children dressed in filthy rags scrounged in the dirt for a scrap of food. She threw a handful of pennies at them.

Bellebelle turned into an alley, then ran down another street. Over the roofs of hovels and buildings, she glimpsed the spires of St. Mary’s and St. Margaret’s. She must be getting close. Twice she slipped and almost fell into a pothole. Any moment now—Suddenly she came to a dead stop, then slowly retraced her steps. Had she gone past the brothel without recognizing it? Surely it had stood just here?

But where the tavern and brothel-house had been lay a heap of rubble, the crumbled remains of wood and stone. She stared down in disbelief.

An old woman hobbled by, carrying a wooden bucket of water.

“What happened to the—tavern as used to be here, Old Mother?”

“Burned to the ground it did, and the brothel-house too, good riddance to that, I says. Though there’s plenty more to take its place.” She crossed herself.

The woman’s dialect was so broad Bellebelle could barely understand her. Had she really sounded like that once? She hadn’t become aware how much her speech had improved over the last few years.

“When—how long ago?” It should be no matter for surprise. Fires were common in Southwark, all over London for that matter. But Bellebelle found herself unable to accept the evidence of her own eyes.

“’Round about when new king be crowned. Mayhap seven or eight year. Can’t remember exactly.”

“How did it happen?”

The old woman crossed herself again. “God struck them down like he did Sodom and Gomorrah. That be what Father Sebastian at St. Mary Overie’s say when it happen.”

Father Sebastian! Bellebelle gave a start of recognition, “What—what about the people inside? Be any still alive?”

“I doesn’t know. Fire started in the brothel-house first, they says, then spread to the tavern. But all the whores and customers gone to their doom, every last one of ’em, I heard. They’d burn in hell anyways, so what be the difference if they burns now?” She gave a loud cackle.

“Do you know where the whores be buried?”

“Now how would I knows that? In unhallowed ground like as not. Why ye asking?”

She gave Bellebelle a suspicious look, then hobbled on her way, water sloshing over the rim of the bucket. The bells from both churches rang for Sext at the same time. Bellebelle looked once more at the ruins at her feet. Her past was truly gone now; everything she had known turned to dust and rubble.

Almost with a will of its own, her body turned and began to retrace her steps. The woman had mentioned St. Mary Overie’s. Bellebelle let her feet lead her along the twisted alleys and narrow streets of Southwark, past the Clinke, and the bishop of Winchester’s ornate house, until she came to St. Mary’s. Perhaps Father Sebastian, the priest who had helped her once before, would know where the whores had been buried. At least she could pay her respects at Morgaine’s gravesite, and her mother’s too.

Bellebelle stood irresolute by the wooden doors, then pulled the blue shawl up over her head and walked inside.

A young priest she had never seen before stood in front of the altar while a long line of supplicants filed by to receive the host. After a moment’s pause, she walked listlessly down the aisle to the Lady Chapel.

There were a few women kneeling at prayer. Bellebelle slipped inside an empty pew. Here too nothing had changed. The cool interior was dimly lit by flickering candles. Before the altar stood the statue of the Virgin in her gold-encrusted blue robes, the jeweled circlet atop her wimpled head. Mary looked just as Bellebelle remembered. It seemed impossible now that she had ever confused the Virgin and Eleanor. She held no grudge, no resentment against the queen, but Bellebelle had seen the woman behind the crown.

In her hour of need, seeking comfort and succor, she had arrived at St. Mary Overie as she had once before. But what could this place possibly give her now? Her mother and Morgaine were gone. Eleanor’s power had disappeared; Henry had abandoned her and taken Geoffrey with him. Who was left?

The figure of the Virgin, surrounded by a halo of light, blurred before her eyes. What was happening? She opened her mouth but no sound came forth. Once again the Virgin merged into Eleanor as Bellebelle had first seen her, radiant and confident, to become the shocked, tortured face in Tower Royal. Then the face merged into her mother’s, then Morgaine’s, her words echoing loudly in Bellebelle’s ears: Life was never meant for them as had a wishbone where their backbone ought be. Morgaine’s face passed into that of the alewife, Elfgiva; into the laundress in the courtyard of Tower Royal; the old woman she had just seen by the ruins of the brothel. Then to Bellebelle’s shock and amazement the face became her own, smiling back at her, serene, at peace, radiating a power of comfort and love.

She had not been able to cry but now the healing tears streamed like a benediction down her face as she wept and wept and wept.

Bellebelle had no idea how long she had been in the Lady Chapel before she was able to collect herself and slip from the pew. She felt drained; shaken, but calm. Before leaving St. Mary Overie’s, she deposited several silver pennies in the poor box, then walked quickly outside. She had given away almost all her money except enough to pay the driver of the cart. The air had turned colder and the sky leaden. She took a deep breath, drinking in the freshness in huge gulps. If she was not going to miss her ride back to the village, she would have to hurry to get to Smithfield by Nones. Bellebelle walked back over the bridge. When she reached the Strand, she stopped to look around before continuing on her way to Aldgate, where she must pass through the city gates to get to the market site of Smithfield.

Surely the colors were brighter? The smells—roasting meat, hot bread—more fragrant? The citizens of London, had they always smiled so much? The red roofs of the city—had she ever seen them this clearly before?

There was so much to think about, so many decisions to make. But the main thing, despite the ache in her heart for her son and Henry, which would probably always be there, the main thing was that now she had hope. She knew, with absolute certainty, that she would survive, and with good grace.

Bellebelle crossed Newgate Street; ahead lay the familiar double swinging-doors of heavy oak reinforced with iron: Aldgate. There was the usual crowd of people, horses, and carts leaving and entering the city that there had been earlier, the same guards armed with spears pacing atop the mighty stone walls.

Suddenly Bellebelle was unable to move. Before she could prevent it, a scream issued from her throat. People eyed her curiously; a few even slowed their pace to see what had happened. One man asked if she were all right.

Oblivious to everything else, Bellebelle only had eyes for what she saw surmounting the gateway: the severed bloody head of Hans de Burgh. Passing through the same gate earlier, beset with anguish and loss, she had not noticed it. The Fleming’s head must have been cut off fairly recently. Perhaps even this morning or yesterday; the blood was not yet dried solid. A cluster of black ravens hovered atop the gate. As Bellebelle watched, one large raven swooped down and began to peck at an eyeball.

From across the span of years came the voice of a confident boy: “When I’m king of England there won’t be any need for bloody heads on the gates.” In truth, there had been very few.

Bellebelle had thought herself too drained to weep again, but the tears now gathering in her eyes were vastly different. She had not been abandoned after all.

Henry had taken Geoffrey—but he had given her justice.

“Y
OU REMIND ME OF A
coy virgin, Thomas, who says no but means yes.”

Thomas Becket, wearing a new scarlet tunic, glanced down to admire the pearls embroidered in the cuff of the sleeve.

“Virgins are something you know more about than I do, Sire, but where you are concerned, coy seems inappropriate.”

“Ha! Do you imply that in my presence they don’t remain virgins very long?” Henry turned his face up to the pale rays of the sun this balmy April morning.

“Did I say so?”

“That is what you meant. Confess now.”

“By the Mass, Sire, if I must always say what I mean—where will it end?”

“Where indeed?”

They grinned at each other. Seated next to Henry on a stone bench, Thomas lazily watched the stir of activity thronging the northern courtyard of Westminster. Huntsmen sharpened hunting-spears and polished horns; fletchers tested bow-strings and checked arrows; grooms curried chargers and palfreys, falconers sunned their hooded birds, fewterers aired shaggy wolfhounds, heavily built Hams, and wiry greyhounds. A stream of clerks, pages, sergeants, and men-at-arms came and went through the north gate in the outer walls of the palace.

“The See of Canterbury has been vacant a year, Thomas. The monks of Christ Church as well as the pope are pressing for a new archbishop.”

“The entire Church, not to mention your lay magnates, would be shocked if you chose your chancellor.”

Henry frowned. “What is that to me? Canon law says the canons of a cathedral chapter meet to elect a new bishop—in this case archbishop. In theory anyone is eligible—if I give my approval.”

“They expect you to appoint Gilbert Foliot, bishop of Hereford.”

Henry gave him an incredulous look. “Allow the Canterbury chapter to elect Foliot, who supported Stephen, as first magnate of the realm?”

“Head of the clergy, Sire.”

“You should know your history better than that, Thomas. Ever since Archbishop Anselm publicly rebuked my great-uncle, King William Rufus, for sodomy in the last century, Canterbury also represents the people.” Henry gave a mock sinister smile. “Against the tyranny of an absolute ruler. Or that is what Theobald once told me. A warning perhaps?”

Thomas felt himself flush; it was an ill-suited example and here-say at that. Why had Henry chosen it? “Our pious Theobald was apt to idealize the influence of Canterbury. And it’s St. Anselm,” he added, signing himself.

“There you are. An impressive posterity to look forward to.” Henry impatiently smote his fist into an open palm. “We’ve been over this a hundred times.”

“What will happen to my chancery?”

Henry shook his head in mock disbelief. “Not again! You will be both. The Holy Roman Emperor’s chancellor is also archbishop of Mainz.”

“So you keep reminding me, Sire, but the empire is—”

“Not England. If I hear that one more time I refuse to be responsible for the consequences.”

Thomas was well aware of the problems involved in holding both positions. Two separate viewpoints were needed to hold Church and state in equal balance. God and Caesar. Surely Henry knew that? But what he knew and what he wanted were at odds.

Thomas slid his gaze sideways at Henry, particularly pleased today by what he saw. Henry’s piercing gray eyes radiated warmth and merriment. For a wonder, even his clothes merited approval: the short reddish-brown mantle clasped at one shoulder with a gold brooch actually matched the gold-embroidered crimson tunic and tight-fitting crimson hose. Surely the russet boots of Cordovan leather were new? The queen must have had a hand in this new garb.

“You know Eleanor leaves for Dover later today?” Henry asked, as if he had read his thoughts. Not an uncommon occurrence when they were in harmony with one another. At Thomas’s nod, Henry continued. “She will stop by to pick up young Henry, then on to Normandy where I will join her within the sennight. And I expect your presence at the Easter court, as well.”

“Of course.”

“I’m bound to say Eleanor took that business with Bellebelle better than I had expected. She was most upset, of course.”

“So you said.” Upset was an understatement. Thomas had heard that since the incident over the bastard, Henry and Eleanor had been sleeping apart.

“Well, she had every right to be upset. Every right in the world. Nor is she over it. But early days yet. I fear I made rather a dog’s mess of it.” Henry gazed broodingly at a groom pacing his charger back and forth. “Women can be the very devil, Thomas. What it is to be a husband, a father, a king.”

“St. Jerome called women ‘the gate of the devil, the patron of wickedness, the sting of the serpent.’ ”

“Sounds like that old arch-misogynist. Hardly my view.”

“The boy, Geoffrey, thrives at Tower Royal?” Thomas asked, to distract Henry from the irritating subject of Eleanor.

The king smiled. “Indeed. Twice as bright as Richard, I’m told. How is young Henry progressing?”

“Charming, as usual. A pleasure to educate.” In some ways this was true. Thomas hesitated. “Of course, young Henry is no—ah—scholar, mind, but then—” He spread out his hands.

“The makings of a good warrior, though, eh? Excellent already at the quintain. Seen him myself.” Henry tapped a ringed finger against the side of his nose. “That’s another reason for you to be archbishop, Thomas. As I’ve told you, I intend to crown young Henry in my lifetime as they do in France and Germany. Since only an archbishop can consecrate a king, if there is trouble on this score—after all it’s never been done successfully in England—you will be there to support my intentions as efficiently as you’ve done everything else.”