Beloved Enemy (74 page)

“Of course I agree,” Bellebelle whispered unhesitatingly. “If Henry do come riding up to the cottage I can’t stop him, but I never bed him again if that be what you really mean. Though he never be interested in me like that, except as a way to remind himself he be a man. Like it be expected of him.”

Eleanor was surprised at this unexpected directness—and the whore’s astute perception of Henry. “Yes. That is what I meant.”

She stopped, at a sudden loss for words, aware that it was becoming harder and harder to see this whore in the guise of a foe. She was losing control of this encounter and must get it back.

“If you need money as well to persuade you—” Eleanor began.

Bellebelle looked affronted, as Eleanor had intended she should.

“No. I gives you my word. I never do anything to cause trouble for Henry, or make you hurt, or try to come between you. I never did come between you. Not for a single moment, I swear it. If only you believe me.” Her eyes glistened with unshed tears.

It struck Eleanor with all the force of a winter gale that the whore—that Bellebelle—loved Henry, just as she did her son. Truly loved Henry. Every bit as much as she did, and far more selflessly. She suddenly felt ashamed. In that instant, the knot of anger and jealousy dissolved. Here was no enemy, no calculating, formidable rival out to gull her or use Henry. A mixture of courage and cowardice, strength and helplessness, submissiveness and independence—Bellebelle was, in truth, simply a woman. Just like herself. A great burden began to lift from her shoulders. Relief and understanding slowly started to replace resentment, jealousy, and fear.

“Forgive me,” she heard herself saying, “I now understand why Henry wanted you for a—friend all these years. He was—most fortunate.”

Impulsively she held out her hand. A transformation came over Bellebelle’s face. With a radiant smile she seized Eleanor’s hand and pressed it to her lips. Her gaze contained such heartfelt admiration that Eleanor, dazzled by the light, had to look away.

She beckoned to Geoffrey, who had never taken his eyes off them. He came running over.

“Your mother may see you whenever she wishes. I will arrange it with the steward, but I caution you both to be discreet. Don’t mention this to your father, Geoffrey, or anyone else for that matter.”

His eyes shining with relief, Geoffrey nodded and hugged his mother. Bellebelle whispered something in his ear. He turned to Eleanor and hugged her about the waist. As she bent to return the embrace, Eleanor’s eyes met Bellebelle’s. For an instant they shed their separate identities of queen and whore, as they exchanged a look of triumphant complicity. Each had had her own private battle with Henry; together they were about to secretly outwit him in overturning his thoughtless injunctions. Not a major triumph, perhaps, but no victory, however small, was to be wholly discounted where Henry Plantagenet was concerned.

Bellebelle turned to go. “Thank you, Madam. I should have known you be the one to help me. Just like you always did.”

Much moved, Eleanor watched her cross the courtyard, a brave little figure who cast a shadow that was larger than life.

“What did your mother mean,” Eleanor said to Geoffrey, as they walked around the Tower to the front courtyard, “about my having helped her before?”

“Oh, when she was very young she admired you so much, Madam, that she thought you and the Virgin Mary were the same person. She used to pray to Mary-Eleanor, she said. Of course she knows better now.”

“I’m sure she does,” said Eleanor, staring at this miniature Henry with tearful eyes. “I’m sure she does.”

T
HE DAY AFTER ELEANOR
left for Dover to set sail for Normandy, Henry decided to ride over to Bermondsey. While there he would stop at the village and see Bellebelle one last time. He would give her news of Geoffrey and persuade her not to attempt to see the boy again, aware that in the past fortnight she had made several attempts to do so. He must put a stop to it.

While he sorely missed Bellebelle’s soothing, nurturing presence in his rough-and-tumble existence, he still resented the fact that she had kept her unsavory past a secret for so many years. Women were such able dissemblers, far better than men, now that he thought about it.

He left before dawn, taking a few huntsmen and hounds with him, hoping for some sport in the forest behind the village. By the time Henry rode through Bermondsey, the morning mist had cleared. Sunshine splashed across a land coming into bud this April day. Valley, marsh, woodland, and strip-patterned fields, all wore the fresh green livery of spring. In the meadows, ewes and their lambs grazed on young shoots; cows and heifers lowed in the byres. In one of the orchards belonging to the manor he had given Eleanor, villeins were already at work pruning plum and apple trees. They doffed their caps and called out greetings. Henry waved in return.

He was not breaking his promise to Eleanor by this visit, he assured himself, nor had he any intention of doing so. They had been estranged ever since Geoffrey came to Tower Royal, and Henry missed her badly—her warmth, her gaiety and wit, the sheer excitement of her presence. She was so infinitely satisfying that when he was actually with her he never thought about other women. If only he could get her to understand that. When he was gone, of course, it was another matter entirely, which she had seemed to accept.

Yesterday morning, when Eleanor stopped by Westminster to pick up young Henry and take him to Dover, he thought he detected a thaw in her icy attitude toward him. God’s eyes, he certainly hoped so. Matters between them could not go on as they were. He had not even told her yet that Thomas had agreed to become archbishop of Canterbury.

Henry came upon Bellebelle on her knees in the garden, planting seeds in a furrow. There were smears of mud on her cheeks, dark wisps of hair had come loose from the single braid she wore, and her hands were smeared with earth. An apprehensive look crossed her face when she saw him standing outside the gate.

“I leave for Normandy tomorrow,” Henry said without preamble. “Before I left I wanted to tell you that Geoffrey fares very well.”

Her face was pale as she rose to her feet, brushed the dirt from her hands, and opened the gate.

“I—I be glad he’s well. Do he go with you?”

“No. I hold my Easter court at Falaise, and it would not be politic to have him there—at the moment. When he’s older, of course, he can accompany me everywhere.”

She appeared ill at ease, unwilling to meet his gaze; unusual for her. Well, it was an awkward moment, after all.

“Will you not offer me a cup of ale?”

He followed Bellebelle into the cottage where she poured him a cup of foamy brown ale from a wooden pitcher. He drank it off at a single gulp then prowled restlessly about the narrow space.

“See here, Belle, I may have acted hastily when I took Geoffrey as I did. However, I was very angry with you at the time. But now—I see that the matter could have been handled very differently. And should have been.” He stole a glance at her from the corner of his eye. She was very still. “Having said that, let me add that the deed is done and I honestly believe it best for the boy to stay where he is. He has a fine mind and I want him educated at St. Paul’s with an eye to a career in the Church.”

Bellebelle frowned. “Geoffrey be—is more of a warrior inside than a churchman. Such a life might not be to his liking.”

“How can he know his own mind at this age? There is more to being in the Church than preaching at the pulpit. Look at Thomas. Lawyer, statesman—why, the possibilities are limitless. I will decide what’s right for Geoffrey. Now, without intending any offense, Belle, I really believe it’s in the boy’s best interests if you don’t see him—not until he is much older anyway, and understands about—your early life.”

“That I were a whore, you mean?”

“As well as the unsavory business with your mother and de Burgh. But yes, generally, that is what I mean. I want to give Geoffrey the chance to rise above his early origins. Make something of himself.”

“You think I hold him back?”

“I did not say that. It is—well, the Church frowns on accepting bastards these days. He’ll need all the advantages I can give him.” Henry gave her a winning smile. “Meanwhile, you can stay in this house as long as you wish, and I’ll see you’re provided for.” He paused. “By the way, I know you’ve tried to see Geoffrey. The steward had orders to forbid it. He still does.”

Bellebelle grew red. When she poured herself a cup of ale he saw that her hands trembled. “You be bribing me to stay away from Geoffrey and not cause no trouble?”

Her directness was unsettling. “It is not how I would have put it—”

She gave him a crooked smile. “I knows you for a long time, Henry. In Gropecuntlane, you once told me you say what you mean but don’t always mean what you say. It sounded like gibberish at the time. Tell me then, how would you put it?”

“Don’t try to make me feel sheepish, Belle.”

“Then stop trying to pull the wool over me eyes.”

Henry burst into unwilling laughter. “By God, that was close to the mark! All right then, that is how I’d put it.
Quid pro quo.
It’s the way of the world. Satisfied?” There was something different about her, a subtle change he could not quite identify.

She poured him another cup of ale. Henry sipped it. “If I were you I’d put Gropecuntlane and your life there behind you now. Unless, of course—” He raised his eyebrows.

“No. That life be—is finished. After knowing you how could I ever …” The tearful note of finality in her voice could not be questioned.

“I’m relieved to hear it.”

“But I not be ashamed of that life anymore.” Bellebelle’s eyes suddenly flashed in a way he had never seen. “I did earn me keep and that be better than begging in the streets.”

“It is indeed.” Henry put his cup down on the table and took her hands in his. They were warm and still trembled slightly. “Let us part friends, Belle. I’ve no wish to hurt you. As I said, this house is yours.” He brought one of her hands to his lips. “You’ve earned it. Putting up with me all these years—well, it can’t always have been easy.”

Her dark blue eyes glistened. “Never had no cause for complaint.” She swallowed. “Until I decides what I going to be doing, I’d be grateful for somewheres to stay.”

“There is no need for you to do anything, or go anywhere. You now own this house. It will be so stated in the parish records. I said I would take care of you, and I will—providing you keep your part of the bargain, and not see Geoffrey.”

Bellebelle pulled her hands free then turned away, picked up a long knife, and began to cut thick chunks from a loaf of maslin bread. Henry took her silence for assent.

She offered him a piece of bread; he took it.

“I saw the Fleming’s head on Aldgate, Henry. Thank you. Now, finally, that whole coil be—is over.”

“De Burgh got a better death than he deserved. Oh, I almost forgot.” Henry fumbled in the purse at his belt and pulled out a silver medallion set with five emeralds. “Here. This is yours if you want it. A
memento mori.
”

Bellebelle stared at the medallion then slowly reached out her hand. “Me—memento what?” She examined it cautiously, as if it were a viper that might bite her.

“Remember death. This death in particular. De Burgh’s paid the debt he owed you for your mother.” Henry took a bite of the bread. Made of mixed wheat and rye, it was coarse and chewy, not what he was used to.

To his surprise Bellebelle slipped the chain over her head.

“I never forget you gave me mam justice, Henry. Never.”

He looked away, embarrassed at the intensity of her gratitude, glowing like a candle in her eyes. “I miss you, Belle.” Henry was surprised at the gruff note in his voice. “In my own way, I love you—still. I imagine I always will.”

“I knows. I feel the same.”

Their eyes met and held. Henry reached out his hand, then, with a deep sigh, let it drop. Too much had come between them. They could never be as they were. There was no need to explain, for in the wordless way he and Bellebelle had often communicated, he knew she understood.

“I would like to do something for you,” he said, to cover his sense of loss and inadequacy.

“You done so much already. If not for you I still be lying on me back to earn me bread, still be almost like a prisoner to some brothelkeeper, having to wear what they tells me, do what they tells me—no better than some poor serf chained to the land.”

“It does seem unfair when you put it like that.”

“Whores deserves justice too,” she added with a flash of indignation, then clapped a hand over her mouth. “Listen at me, will you?” Her face grew rosy. “Mustn’t grumble, I’m out of all that now.”

“You were very eloquent. Well, I must be off, Belle.” With an effort of will, Henry walked to the door and out into the garden. He would never have believed how hard it was to leave her. Bellebelle followed. “I’ll see you get news of Geoffrey, of course, and remember, this is your home.”

At the gate he turned. “I still think of you—I will always think of you—as one of my closest confidantes, the very first friend I met in London.”

Tears ran down Bellebelle’s face, making narrow tracks in the mud smeared on her cheeks. At the moment she looked almost like the dirty urchin he had first met on London Bridge.

Henry walked through the gate and closed it behind him. “Should you find yourself in any difficulty, the chancellor’s secretary, Fitz-Stephen, will know what to do, where to reach me if I’m available. He’ll also bring your money each month.”

“Thank you.” Bellebelle wiped her eyes. “Oh! A while back I walked across the bridge and saw the fish. I never believe he still be there. I meant to tell you right away.”

“The fish?”

“Never mind. I wish you good fortune, Henry.”

It seemed a fitting note on which to take his leave.

Henry did not turn around; no purpose was served by looking back over your shoulder. Filled with a vast regret, a hollow ache in his heart, he mounted his roan stallion, whistled to the hounds, and, followed by the huntsmen, rode off in the direction of the woods.