Beloved Enemy (77 page)

“Try.”

“I feel—as if I have lost myself. Like a wanderer in the darkness without a beacon to light the way.”

He stared at her. “I don’t understand.”

“Nor do I, entirely.”

Henry ran his hands through his hair. “What do you want of me?”

She took a deep breath. “I want to go to Aquitaine.”

“Now?” What in God’s name was the matter with her? “But I need you here. With me. More than ever. Thomas will be leaving shortly, there are so many—”

“You always need me, and there will always be so many things far more vital for me to do than visit Aquitaine. Let me go, Henry. It will not be for long. This is something I
must
do.”

“If it is only a short trip then I will go with you. I haven’t been to the duchy since Toulouse.”

“No!” Eleanor closed her eyes for an instant. “No.” She walked over to him. “I would go alone. Without you or the children. Think of it as a pilgrimage. As if I were going to a Holy Shrine. You cannot begrudge me this one request.”

“But why?
Why?
”

“I told you I couldn’t explain.”

“I have never known you to be inarticulate before.”

“During all the time I was in France, all those miserable years I spent with Louis, when those oppressive churchmen were trying to control me and my duchy—despite the terrible tragedy of Vitry, the outrages committed in Poitiers, the senseless death of my uncle Raymond—I never lost sight of who I was. Now I no longer know.”

Henry laughed. “What nonsense. But of course you know.
I
know. You are my queen. Mother of the royal children. A woman of incomparable beauty and knowledge, without whom I could not run my kingdom or expand my empire.”

“That is exactly what I mean.”

Henry saw the suspicion of a tear in her eye. “I fear you’ve lost me.”

“Henry—”

“Dearest Nell, I refuse to let you go—” Henry swept her into his arms and began to kiss her with such passion that after a few moments her body began to respond.

Her lips opened under his and her arms twined themselves around his neck. The familiar urgent rapture overtook him, as it did her, blotting out everything but the hot intensity of the moment. To Henry’s surprise she forcefully pulled herself away, breathing heavily, and placed her hands against his chest.

“No,” she said in a gasping voice. “This will not make me change my mind.” She took a deep breath and with a hand on her heart steadied herself. “I love you. I want you. I have not and will not desert you—but this I must do. Whether you understand or not—allow me the grace to do what I must.” She paused. “I long for your agreement, but I am prepared to go without it.”

Open-mouthed, Henry stared after her as she turned and began to walk along the edge of the stream back toward the gates of the castle. A pilgrimage to Aquitaine?
Now?
God’s eyes! Women were the very devil! If he lived to be a hundred he would never understand them.

O
NE MORNING IN MID-MAY,
a month after she’d last seen Henry, Bellebelle rose before dawn. She put on a rose-colored kirtle, making sure the medallion of emeralds was tucked under her chemise and would not be seen. She wore it every day, right on top of Morgaine’s necklace of blue stones. She had thought touching anything of the wicked Fleming’s would be hateful to her, like holding a talisman of the Horned One. To her surprise, she had derived a curious strength from wearing it, almost as if it were a holy relic.

She broke her fast with bread and ale, then walked to the village green where she hoped to find a cart going to London. She was planning to see Geoffrey then continue on to Gropecuntlane and collect the money she had left with Hawke eight years ago. As always, the prospect of going to London excited her. In her heart she was really a city lass, the sights, sounds, and smells of London more to her taste than the dull country quiet.

Although there wasn’t a day she didn’t think of Henry, nor an hour that passed when she didn’t miss him, the pain had settled into a dull ache that was bearable. Bellebelle felt a slight twinge of guilt about going to see Geoffrey, but really there was no reason for it. After all, she hadn’t actually
promised
Henry she wouldn’t see her son. He had assumed she wouldn’t, but was that her doing? Besides, she had queen Eleanor’s agreement, didn’t she? That was what counted. When she thought about the queen a smile came to her lips. If she never saw her again, Bellebelle knew she had found a true friend; Geoffrey would always be safe in her keeping.

A cart rumbled by, and she persuaded the farmer and his wife to let her ride with them. She crouched down amid baskets brimming with red and green cabbages, strings of brown onions, fragrant bunches of leeks, yellow turnips, and baby carrots.

The farmer could not hide his interest. All too frequently he kept turning his head to look at her. The farmer’s wife, round and solid as a wine cask, eyed her with dislike and suspicion throughout the journey.

Bellebelle ignored both of them, her thoughts still turning on Henry. Sooner or later he was bound to find out about her secret visits to Geoffrey. Even the queen wouldn’t be able to protect her if that happened. Her heart jumped at the possibility. What would be the worst he could do? Make it impossible for her to see Geoffrey? Turn her out of the house and no longer provide for her? And if he did? Well, she didn’t have no wishbone where her backbone ought to be. Not anymore she didn’t. But she intended to be prepared—which was one of the reasons she was going to see Hawke.

The bells rang for Terce just as the cart pulled to a stop in East Smithfield near Tower Royal. Bellebelle thanked the farmer, then, ignoring his outstretched palm, deliberately put a silver penny into the goodwife’s hand. She was rewarded by an amazed smile and an invitation to return with them to Bermondsey. They would be leaving, said the goodwife, sometime in the very late afternoon between Nones and Vespers.

Bellebelle walked slowly toward the gleaming White Tower, its four turrets touched with fire in the morning sun. The goodwife’s whole manner had changed after Bellebelle paid her. Not for the first time, it occurred to her that folk were willing to overlook how they truly felt if money were involved. Once she had taken Geoffrey to St. Ethelred’s in Bermondsey for Sunday Mass. The priest had preached a sermon about how much easier it was for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to get into heaven. Bellebelle had found that strange and still did. Anyone who lived in Southwark knew that money was akin to lifeblood. With it all things were possible; without it you might as well be dead. Even Geoffrey had not been able to explain the sermon to her satisfaction.

Later, when Bellebelle asked Henry about it, he had called it a parable, not meant to be taken literally. He had pointed out that animals always did peculiar things in Holy Writ. Still, it had puzzled her. If what the priest said were so, why had she never seen anyone with wealth, including Henry himself, try to get rid of it, like money was truly a bad thing to have? Did people not want to get into heaven then? If the parable about the camel was not meant to be followed, why did the priest bother to tell people about it? It made no sense.

Yet something about the tale, as in all the tales she heard in Holy Writ, found a response within her. Perhaps Holy Writ wasn’t at fault—but that hardly no one ever followed what it said. Now wasn’t that a thought to be going on with!

Geoffrey was pleased to see her and boasted of how he had almost finished learning the Trivium and would soon graduate to a study of the Quadrivium.

She had no idea what he meant, but he looked happy and confident, which was all that mattered.

“Are you lonely,” Bellebelle asked, “what with the queen and everyone gone to Normandy for the Easter court?”

“No. I’m too busy. I have Master Adelhart, the tutor, all to myself, and by the time Father comes back I’ll have learned ever so much more.”

“You must go now, Mistress.” The steward approached them, glancing anxiously around him.

Although Bellebelle had been there a fair while, she felt she had just arrived. She and Geoffrey always had so much to say to each other.

“I understand. I’ll leave now.”

“You know you’re not to speak of seeing your son, or ever show yourself while the king is in residence.”

“No. Never.”

“If you don’t mind—someone might see you and ask awkward questions.”

They were in a deserted section of the kitchen courtyard, and the few people she could see were paying no attention to them. But the steward was not satisfied until he had seen her safely outside the gates of Tower Royal. Poor man. She felt sorry for him, trying to follow two opposing orders—Henry’s and Eleanor’s.

Bellebelle passed through Aldgate and into the city proper. De Burgh’s head, still on the gate, could no longer be recognized; the ravens had picked it clean. Bellebelle knew she should feel pity for him, but she was glad he’d gone to his doom, and there it was.

On her left a group of lepers begged for alms. She dropped a few silver pennies into a filthy hand that was half-eaten away. The sight moved her to pity and gratitude that she was not in such a horrible state. There was the familiar sight of Holy Trinity Priory on her right, a small Benedictine convent and cemetery on her left, then the street of market stalls selling fresh strawberries, mulberries, plums, and cherries. From the next street over, a shoe-smith’s forge rang so loudly she thought her ears would burst; the sight of a barber carrying a basin filled with blood made her sick to her belly.

She turned off onto a narrow street intersected with many lanes, slipped into a sinkhole, then fell almost ankle deep into a torrent of filthy water running through the deep gutters. Snapping dogs and hollow-eyed urchins, crawling with vermin, preyed upon piles of garbage. Two ruffians shouting curses ran down the street, almost knocking her down. The overall stench was enough to put you off your feed for days.

But this was London. As much a part of her as her own bones and blood. She felt truly alive for the first time in—well, she couldn’t even remember how long.

Bellebelle found herself on Gropecuntlane without at first recognizing it, the street had changed so much in the eight years since she’d been here.

“Is this near Gropecuntlane?” she asked a man carrying a bucket.

“This
is
Gropecuntlane. Or used to be.
Groppecountelane
is what we calls it now.” He winked. “Come up in the world it has. Just like the tavern down the street.” She followed his pointing finger to where a brand-new sign had replaced the Blue Cock sign. “Lion and Eagle be the new name.” He eyed her. “From around these parts, was ye?”

“I was.” She looked at him unblinking. “I were a whore. On this very lane.”

He appeared startled, then smiled and passed on. Bellebelle felt foolishly pleased with herself. Such a relief to tell the truth straight out like that.

Now she looked around her wonderingly, hardly able to believe her eyes. To think this prosperous and respectable street was Gropecuntlane. The tavern seemed brand-new, freshly painted, with another small building added to it. The houses glistened with coats of red and blue paint. There was an alehouse now, and a new pie shop with a long line of customers right next to the cookshop. Her eyes returned to the scarlet sign with its rough likeness of a gold lion and eagle. The same tavern where she and Henry had met again, now bore his—and Eleanor’s—name. How he would laugh at that. She must be sure to tell him, she thought, before remembering, with a stab of pain, that she was no longer in a position to tell him anything.

She swallowed the tears that welled up, and stared at the top of the street. Also new were the row of stationary carts where people were buying wood, charcoal, and water. She began to walk slowly along the street, then stopped.

Where was the brothel-house? Sweet Marie, she was standing almost directly in front of it. The house was almost unrecognizable with its rich new color of blue paint, plum-colored hinged shutters, and fancy curlicues decorating the door casement.

Her heart beating like a drum—she was still fearful of the brothelmaster, she realized—Bellebelle knocked on the door. It was opened by a neatly dressed young man.

“Yes?” He eyed her up and down. “Applying for a position?”

“I be here to see Hawke.”

“Who wants him?”

“Just say—someone as would like to see him.”

“Wait here.”

After a few minutes Hawke appeared, filling the doorway. He had grown stouter. Scowling, he glanced down at her, his scar livid and fearsome as ever.

“Well, what you want, girl? Looking for a position, are you?” He was dressed like a man of means, in red leather boots and black tunic. A black velvet cap covered his hairless head and a heavy gold chain lay on his chest.

“We’re full up at present, but—” His wintery eyes narrowed. “Don’t I knows you from somewhere? Worked for me, did you? I never forgets one of me girls. Seems like … wait … it’s right on the tip of me—by the Mass, it’s Bellebelle, isn’t it?” He gave her a brief smile that showed rotting teeth. “Come in, come in.”

Inside everything looked clean and freshly painted, with green rushes on the floor—unheard of in her day. Bellebelle followed him down the narrow passage into the chamber she remembered so well. This too had been painted, and now boasted a large polished oak table set with several pewter goblets, a silver pitcher, heavy pewter candlesticks with tall white tapers. In one corner stood two iron-banded chests, and there were several cushioned stools scattered about. Hawke pointed to a stool. Bellebelle sat down, her fingers laced tightly together.

“Marry, but I expected to see you back here years ago.” He actually seemed pleased to see her. “You looks sweet and toothsome as ever, but I would have taken you for a country lass in that garb. Come back to work, has you?” He stood over her, arms folded across his chest, head cocked to one side, lips pursed.

“No. I be finished with whoring for good.”

“Shame. I could sell the services of the king’s former whore for a bloody fortune, I could.” Hawke walked over to the table and poured himself a goblet of red wine from the silver pitcher.