Beloved Enemy (53 page)

He, Thomas Becket, was the second man in the realm, next to the king, and he intended no man should forget it. In time, perhaps, few would remember that he had been poor Thomas of West Cheap, a hard-working cleric of modest origins. Once dependent upon the bounty of great nobles and powerful churchmen, these men were now dependent upon him! Truly, it illustrated the teaching of the Gospel.

Later, after his guests had left or retired for the night, Thomas dismissed his secretary and attendants, then withdrew to the privacy of his own chamber where only a monk in black cassock and sandals awaited him. In his hands the brother held a supple green birch rod; Thomas felt the monk’s gaze on him while he removed his mantle, tunic, and gold shirt. When he had stripped to his drawers, he knelt shivering on the cold tiled floor. The monk handed him a silver crucifix which Thomas held pressed to his lips, while under his breath he began to recite the first of thirty penitential psalms.

Bowing his back, Thomas tensed for the first blow. When it struck, like a flame searing his shoulders, he felt a bolt of sensation, an agony that was almost pleasurable, shoot through his whole body. While this ordeal was not something he enjoyed as such, Thomas had spent so many years subjugating his true feelings while he followed the orders of the great and powerful that these beatings often provided a new, heightened awareness of himself. Any sensation that he allowed himself to experience—even pain or hatred—was better than constant repression. Thus Thomas subjected himself to this ritual at least three times a sennight. He deemed the chastisement necessary, for he knew himself guilty of the sins of pride, of believing himself superior to other men, of excessive worldliness in his enjoyment of luxury, of not loving God sufficiently, of never having felt His presence—defects of character he quite readily gave up to his confessor.

But the main reason he endured flagellation was the secret sin he had deeply buried, never confessed, barely even acknowledged to himself: his passion for Henry; his need to battle the queen and take her place in Henry’s heart—a need he did not understand, and one that,
au fond,
filled him with horror. Depraved and shameful in Thomas’s own eyes, his unnatural longing, this compelling drive, must be scourged from him. Only then would God show Himself to him, the most unworthy of His servants.

That same night after Henry had bedded her, Bellebelle lay next to him staring up at the oaken beams of the ceiling. Over the years she had managed to suppress the incident concerning her mother. But all day, to her dismay, she had been reliving every grim detail of her struggle with de Burgh in the Southwark brothel-house, her midnight flight through the twisted alleys of Southwark to St. Mary Overie, and only half-listening to Henry, who, propped up on one elbow, was describing his recent adventures with his usual gusto.

It never failed to surprise her that Henry seemed to prefer talking to bedding her, actually expecting her to listen and discuss matters with him, something no customer had ever asked of her.

Henry commented frequently on the current state of the realm, his desire to see justice done, his constant troubles with France, his less-frequent problems with unruly Aquitaine. Most often, however, especially since the death of his first-born son, William, six months ago, he talked of his family: his mother in Normandy, his rebellious brother in Anjou who was demanding that Henry turn the county over to him per their father’s will, and, unceasingly, Eleanor.

Bellebelle could never hear enough about Henry’s queen and their growing brood of children. She thought a lot about Geoffrey’s two half-brothers and sister. How she wished her son could meet the elder son, Henry, born three years ago, the only girl, Matilda, and the younger boy, Richard, born a year ago, in 1157.

Tonight, however, she felt so preoccupied that it was an effort to listen to Henry.

“… knew I was right about him.”

“Who?” She had totally lost the sense of what he was saying. Something about Louis of France. Bellebelle forced herself to listen.

“You haven’t been paying attention. I was telling you about my latest triumphs.”

“Over Louis of France. Yes, I were listening.”

“
Was
listening. I told everyone he would have a daughter with that Castilian wife, and now he has.”

“Why be that a triumph for you?”

“Is.
Ah, you may well ask. I intend to marry my son Henry to that daughter, Marguerite, I think they call her. Now if Louis will only continue to produce daughters, my son will one day rule both France and England. Think of that, Belle! In June I plan to send Thomas to France to make an official offer for the girl.”

Bellebelle managed a smile. “Be—is there another triumph?”

“Another—ah, so you were listening. Yes, I’ve finally subdued the Welsh barons.”

Welsh. Bellebelle thought immediately of Morgaine and touched the necklace of blue stones which she still wore faithfully.

“I’m hardly a novice at warfare, Belle,” Henry said, “but I’ve never seen anything like the Welsh. They never heard of rules or chivalry, won’t fight on level ground, and prefer to cut off their enemies’ heads rather than hold them for ransom.” He shook his head. “But a truce has finally been declared, thank God. I doubt I or my troops would survive another campaign.”

When Henry talked of war and fighting she wondered why a Fleming like de Burgh was still in England. Despite the risk involved in asking such a question she had to know.

“When you fight a … a campaign, does … do you still have the Flemings?” She tried to make her voice sound as if she were only mildly interested.

In the glow of a single candle Bellebelle could see a puzzled look cross Henry’s face.

“What a question! Of course not. I got rid of all that scum during the first year of my reign just as I told you I would on the bridge in London. What made you think of the Flemings?”

Bellebelle’s throat felt dry and she hesitated. Unless she said she recognized de Burgh, she would never know the reason he had not been banished. His presence threatened not only her whole new world, but perhaps her very life; she
had
to know. Heart pounding, she took a deep breath.

“I thought as I recognized someone in your party from me days selling honey cakes in the tavern. No one I knows, mind, just someone as used to come into the tavern to—to play dice and drink ale. He—was supposed to be a Fleming.”

“You must be mistaken. There are no Flemings in my entourage.” Henry fixed her with one of his unblinking stares that made her feel all trembly inside. “What man do you refer to?”

“The fair bearded one who wore the silver medallion inlaid with all them emeralds.”

“The fair man with the silver—oh, you must mean the one that’s slightly crippled—I can’t think of his name just now.” He paused, frowning. “By God’s eyes, you’re right, you know, he
is
a Fleming. Half anyway. His mother is of good Norman stock, I hear, and her family are distant relations of my marshal of England.” Another pause. “Yes, I remember now that John—he’s the marshal—interceded on this man’s behalf. Very convincingly as I recall. As a result, I didn’t banish him with all the others. I’ve never even spoken to—I think his name’s de Bragh or de Brugh, something like that—he’s just one of the marshal’s knights. In fact, this is the first time he’s accompanied me.” Henry continued to watch her intently. “What a memory you have. This man must have made quite an impression for you to remember him all these years.”

Bellebelle squirmed under his close scrutiny, hiding her fear behind a crooked smile. “It were—was—the silver medallion with all them green stones.”

“It certainly is distinctive.” Henry yawned, blew out the candle, rolled over on his back, and within moments appeared to have fallen asleep.

Trembling, Bellebelle let out a long breath. Now, at least, she knew why the Fleming was still in England, and even half-remembered her customer, Ralph, saying something about de Burgh being part Norman. The danger however was just as real. If he continued to travel with Henry’s entourage, then sooner or later he would be sure to recognize her and tell Henry what she had done to him. Henry might see that she had acted to save her mother, and not hold that against her, but her life in the Bankside brothel and then at Gropecuntlane would be sure to come out. How would he feel about the mother of his beloved Geoffrey having been a whore?

“Is something on your mind, Belle? You seem troubled, unlike yourself.”

Henry’s sleepy voice startled her.

She hesitated. Now was the moment to speak out but the words caught in her throat. “I be fine. Tired.”

“Then God rest you, poppet.”

“God rest you, Henry,” she whispered.

Her heart beat so fiercely she was sure he must hear it. Carefully she turned over on her side. You could never tell with Henry. Sometimes she felt as if he had eyes in the back of his head that could see right through her. Bellebelle understood him well enough to know that he wouldn’t like her lying to him over the years. There was no telling how he would take it. Unless she avoided de Burgh, he was sure to find out. For a time, perhaps, she might be able to stay out of the Fleming’s sight. But one day …

T
WO DAYS AFTER HE
had left Henry in Bermondsey, Thomas sat at the head of a long table in his chancery by the Thames, a stone’s throw from the gray hulk of Westminster.

On one side of the table his secretary, William, read aloud dispatches from all the far-flung reaches of Henry’s vast empire: Northern England, Normandy, Anjou, Aquitaine. There were applications for opening a lawsuit; a missive from Henry’s lieutenant in Poitou, complaining that the Poitevin lords paid no attention to his orders; letters from scholars seeking benefices; venomous notes from bishops accusing the king’s judges of encroaching on their jurisdiction. If true, a very serious charge indeed. Lay judges had no business interfering in ecclesiastical courts.

In a separate pile were several unopened missives, newly arrived from the seneschal in Poitou, addressed to the queen. Probably complaining about Henry’s lieutenant. The documents were carefully sealed with a special red seal, and it would have been obvious if they had been opened. By rights all such documents should come directly to the chancellor, and Thomas considered it a bypass of his authority that he could not read them first. But the queen had made a point of demanding that all such dispatches addressed to her should initially be read by her; Thomas did not want a repeat of the scene of two nights ago.

Henry, who officially ruled in Aquitaine, allowed his wife to still believe she was the dominant authority. One day, however, Thomas hoped that Henry would stop indulging his queen. Her receipt of special payments from the exchequer—referred to as the Queen’s Gold—was shocking enough, a complete break with precedent. Whatever degree of unofficial control Eleanor managed to retain over her duchy was even more intolerable.

In Thomas’s opinion women had no place in the administration of government. He even questioned the wisdom of allowing the Empress Maud, virtually acting as regent in Normandy, to actually sign charters without royal authority, in her and Henry’s name! But as her son lived in a state of unqualified admiration regarding his mother, Thomas, like everyone else, tread carefully where the tough old empress was concerned.

In England, at least, he did his best to see that the Aquitainian whore was relegated to the background. Not too difficult, since she had been kept so busy performing her primary task of producing children that she had little time to meddle in state affairs.

On the other side of the table a set of clerks copied the minutes of decisions taken in the royal council: grants of land awarded, marriages of royal wards—every decision of the king’s that must be recorded for posterity. A clerk brought Thomas a pile of his own dispatches to be sealed, along with the great Seal in its wooden box, and the container of sweet-smelling green beeswax. Thomas sealed all his own letters; he enjoyed the ceremony of affixing to parchment this emblem of his power.

“Here is a letter from a knight in the north country,” said William, scrutinizing a square of parchment, “reminding the king that he was promised a good-sized fief.”

Thomas raised his brows. “Presumptuous of him. What service did he render, pray?”

William cleared his throat. “This knight is the father of Mistress Margaret. You may recall—”

“Yes, yes, I remember now. When you draw up the grant be discreet. Don’t mention the services rendered.”

A clerk down the table snickered.

Thomas fixed him with a steely glare. “Does something amuse you, Master Paul? It is well to remember that charters are available to the public and can be seen by anyone. We don’t want tongues to wag any more than they already do.”

He repressed a sign of irritation. If only Henry’s personal life were not so undisciplined! Thomas had little fault to find with Henry the king; he worked hard enough for ten men. Even Henry’s passion for hunting and hawking took second place to that of keeping the peace in his far-flung realm. Although he was greedy of gain, jealous of his power, and sometimes harsh—only to be expected in a son of Normandy—the prosperity of his subjects and his desire for justice and order were Henry’s greatest concern. A good king now; in time, with his, Thomas’s aid, possibly a great one.

“This foolish business with women will be the king’s undoing if he does not prove more discreet,” Thomas said in an undertone to his secretary. “I do not speak of doxies, or bedding a village girl for a night. These matter little.”

“I understand, my lord chancellor. Even establishing a mistress of low birth and acknowledging her son as his own can be explained away. You refer to the king’s habit of seducing young women of good family.”

“Extremely dangerous.” Thomas sighed.

“Thus far, no irate father has objected,” William said in a barely audible voice. “All have quietly accepted the wages of their daughters’ sins.”

“For which we must thank Our Heavenly Father. I live in constant fear that one day His Majesty will go too far and bring down upon himself, and the realm, some grave trouble that a fief will not assuage—nor a wife eleven years older than her husband, forgive.”