Beloved Enemy (68 page)

Bellebelle smiled down into Geoffrey’s shining eyes. “Think of that. But no word when he be coming back?”

“No.”

When Geoffrey ran off to play with a new greyhound puppy Old Ivo had brought him, Bellebelle felt giddy with relief. She was reprieved for a while longer.

The following week, on a brisk day in mid-December, she walked into the village and stopped for a natter with the alewife and to buy a pitcher of ale.

“The king be back.”

Bellebelle dropped her wooden pitcher of ale.

“Now that be a clumsy thing to do, Belle.” Elfgiva surveyed the pool of brown liquid soaking into the ground. “I just finished brewing a new batch.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” The smell of barley-malt was particularly strong today.

“Ye’ll have to pay for another quart. I not be in this business for charity, mind.”

“No.” With trembling fingers, Bellebelle dropped another coin into Elfgiva’s stained palm. “Are you—certain about the king? Geoffrey said nothing about it.”

“O’ course I be certain. Come for the Christmas court, he has, not two days since. Me son, the one that be reeve over to manor, said he had it right from the steward’s mouth.” She gave Bellebelle a sly poke in the ribs. “Ye’ll be seeing him soon yeself, like as not. Been—let’s see—nigh on over two years now as I recollect?”

Bellebelle nodded, picked up the wooden pitcher, and waited while Elfgiva filled it to the brim. “Well, I best be off. Thank you.”

“Anything wrong, Belle?”

She forced a smile. “No. Nothing wrong.”

Elfgiva gave her a sharp look then shrugged as she set up her alestake, a long pole with a bush on the end, so customers would know a new batch of brew was for sale.

On the way home Bellebelle wondered how long it would be before de Burgh saw Henry. Then, how long after that before Henry would come riding over to Bermondsey and—do what? She had no idea, that’s what was so fearful. As she had warned Geoffrey, in the heat of an upset Henry was capable of anything. She was not afraid of him hurting her—not her body. Whatever his threats and angry moods, at heart Henry was not a man of blood. How many times had she heard him say that only a dolt ruled by force rather than reason? But she knew he would not readily forgive her lies. Not right away. She could only pray to Mary-Eleanor and hope against hope that Henry would not abandon her and Geoffrey.

Shortly after Twelfth Night, in the new year, 1162, on a sundrenched morning that felt more like April than January, Bellebelle finished collecting the hens’ eggs into a straw basket hooked over one arm.

“To see you now it’s hard to believe you were once afraid of the hens.”

Bellebelle froze. Heart hammering, she slowly looked up. Henry was standing outside the gate. Alone. Some distance away, well out of earshot, three knights milled about, their horses tied to a tree. She hadn’t even heard the beasts approach. A brown hunting cap covered Henry’s head, a short green cloak swung from his shoulders, and his boots were the usual scuffed brown adorned with red spur-leathers. He looked just the same and her heart turned over. Perhaps—her eyes met his and she saw they were like ice on a winter pond.

He knew.

“Aren’t you going to ask me in?”

Bellebelle quickly opened the gate and led him into the house. The wolfhound and the greyhound puppy, now trained to not attack the hens, growled as Henry approached. When he stooped to pat them their tails began to wag.

Inside she laid the basket of eggs on the table and stirred up the fire in the hearth with unsteady hands. Henry removed his cloak and looked around him.

“Nothing has changed in—is it over two, almost three years? Except you’re more beautiful than I remembered. Thinner though, and fine drawn. Tight as a bowstring. Like you looked when I first met you. Aren’t you getting enough to eat?”

“I—I’ve not been very hungry of late.”

“Perhaps your conscience troubles you?”

Bellebelle felt her lower lip tremble. Holy Mother, was he going to bait and badger her first? “I missed you, Henry. Geoffrey missed you.”

“I understand he’s doing very well at his lessons, and highly thought of at the priory.” Henry paced restlessly around the room, touching the chimney, running a finger down a long wooden spoon hanging on the wall, reaching up to swat a bunch of drying herbs. “I missed you too, Belle. And Geoffrey. God save me, that’s the bloody trouble, how much I missed you.”

He walked up to her and grabbed her chin in iron fingers, tilting her face up. “I never expected treachery from you, of all people. Even now, looking at you, I find it hard to believe.” He let go her chin and ran his fingers up her cheek. “You skin is like the dew on a rosebud; your eyes such an unusual blue—serene as a summer evening when the light fades from an unclouded sky. Such an innocent expression. Such a sweet nature.”

“Henry—I—” She suddenly began to cry.

“It won’t do,” Henry said in a savage voice, his hand dropping to his side. “God’s eyes, you think to cozen me with tears after the japes you played on me? To think I harbored a filthy whore, a near-murderer!” He slammed his fist down upon the table so hard the eggs rattled. “Worst of all, you lied to me! You lied to me!” he suddenly shouted. “To me! To your king, the man who took you in from the stews of iniquity, who protected you, asked nothing of you save that he be allowed to visit you from time to time. You didn’t trust me enough to tell me the truth!”

Bellebelle fell to her knees at his feet on the dried rushes of the floor. “How could I tell you? I was afeared of what you might do,” she said, through her sobs. “I loved you so much—how could I tell you what I been?”

“Tell me now. All of it. I heard what that Flemish swine had to say—Thomas brought him to see me. Let me hear your version of the tale. But it better be the truth this time …”

Bellebelle took a deep shuddering breath and told Henry everything that had happened to her from as far back as she could remember, through her meeting with him on the London Bridge, her encounter with de Burgh in Gilbert’s brothel-house, her mother’s death, her flight to Gropecuntlane, her meeting with him in the Blue Cock, and why she had been carrying the tray of honeycakes without her striped cloak.

“You took me for a vendor of honey cakes and I let you think I was—I doesn’t—don’t know why. Didn’t want you to think ill of me for being a whore.”

Henry again banged his fist on the table. “How do you think I feel now?” His voice was like a growl in his throat, his face slowly turning a deep red. “It hardly pleases me that my son’s mother is a whore and a felon, reared in a stewhouse, and I knew nothing about it!” He glared down at her.

Bellebelle threw her arms around his booted legs. “Can you forgive me?”

“What’s forgiveness to do with it? It’s trust. How can I ever trust you again?” His eyes, gray pools of bitterness, were the eyes of a stranger; he gave a sudden wild laugh that sent a chill through her. “Except for my children, and possibly Thomas, I’ve only truly loved you, my mother, and late father—” He suddenly paused, a spasm of pain contorting his face which was now a strange purplish color. “And Eleanor. Two of you I can no longer trust.”

Who was the other one? she wondered. His mother? Or Eleanor? What could they have done?

Without warning, Henry fell suddenly to the floor. His body jerked uncontrollably, his head arched against the rushes. He began to gnash his teeth; his lips, flecked with white foam, were drawn back in a wolfish snarl, reminding her of a mad dog she had once seen that had terrorized Southwark. Incoherent sounds issued from his throat.

Afraid to touch him, Bellebelle did not know what to do. She had never seen anyone have a fit before, and was petrified he would die in front of her eyes. Scrambling to her feet she ran out the door, bolted through the gate, and shouted for the knights. The hounds began to howl. The knights came running and burst into the cottage.

“Be—is he dying?” Bellebelle could barely get the words out. Henry’s thrashings had subsided somewhat, his face was slowly losing that awful purple color, but he was still mumbling senselessly.

“No. Just one of His Majesty’s rages,” said a knight, unruffled by what he saw. “He’ll have to be bled is all.” Between them the three knights lifted Henry in their arms and carried him out the door.

“You must have greatly angered him,” said another knight, giving her a curious glance over his shoulder. “I haven’t seen one of these in at least two or three years.”

Numb with anguish, Bellebelle watched the knights carry Henry to his horse and lift him onto the saddle. His head had fallen forward onto his chest and he seemed to be asleep. A knight climbed up behind him and held Henry round the waist. Another knight un-tethered the king’s stallion and, after mounting his own, led the animal by the bridle. The third brought up the rear. Soon the party was lost to view behind a bend in the path. She was alone.

Badly shaken, Bellebelle said nothing to Geoffrey who, having heard at the school of the king’s return, eagerly awaited his father’s visit. She had heard tales of the king’s rages—Henry had even warned her in jest about his fearful temper—and he had on occasion been short with her. But Bellebelle had been totally unprepared for what she had witnessed. Never had she caught so much as a glimpse of that violent, crazed side of him. Now, having once seen Henry in that demonlike state, she knew she would never forget it. When the king failed to return, Bellebelle knew that all her earlier fears were justified. Would he ever be able to forgive or trust her again? Time and again she had heard him say that he never forgot a good turn nor an ill one. Geoffrey was desolate and cried himself to sleep each night until she gave him a greatly altered explanation of Henry’s visit.

Each day Bellebelle expected something dreadful to happen. What form would it take? Guards suddenly arriving and forcing her to leave the house, shattering her life-long dream of being safe and secure? This was her recurring nightmare.

But nothing occurred. Bellebelle heard the king was on progress through England with plans to improve the castles of Windsor, Arundel, Oxford, Scarborough, and many others. January passed into February. The chancellor’s secretary brought her money as usual; on the surface everything seemed the same. In early March she heard Henry had returned to London.

One day in the second week of March, Geoffrey did not return home from the priory school. Bellebelle waited until she heard the Vespers bell, which meant he was an hour late, and then, carrying a lighted torch, she set out in the chilly darkness to look for him. It was difficult to believe that harm had befallen him. After all, Geoffrey was over seven years of age, knew the path and the village as well as she did. He must have been kept at the school for some reason. Any moment now she would see him trudging down the path.

When Bellebelle got to the church, it looked deserted but through the narrow stained glass window depicting the healing of the lepers she could see a dim light. She pushed open the wooden doors and walked inside. By the light of two tall tapers set into huge gold candlesticks, she saw the prior kneeling in front of the great silver crucifix above the altar. He signed himself, rose to his feet, turned and walked down the aisle. He stopped short when he saw her.

“What brings you here, my child? Evensong is over.”

“It’s Geoffrey, Father, he didn’t come home,” Bellebelle said. “School be closed surely. Where could he be?”

The prior looked at her in surprise. “Why—merciful heavens, Daughter, didn’t you know? The king himself came and took Geoffrey away—oh, just after Sext it was.”

Bellebelle felt the breath leave her body. She swayed on her feet. The prior ran toward her, grabbed her torch, and caught her by the arm.

“Are you ill? Let me get you some wine.”

She shook her head. After a moment she was able to stand. Slowly the breath came back into her body.

“Where—where did the king take him?”

The prior frowned. “Let me see … I think he said … was it Westminster? No, Tower Royal, that was it. He was going to have the boy educated in London, he said, by the canons of St. Paul. A great opportunity, a sign of the king’s favor—” He stopped. “You didn’t know?”

Unable to speak, Bellebelle shook her head. She pulled her cloak closely about her and stepped outside.

The prior followed, handing her the torch. “Are you all right? Please, remember how fortunate you are that the king takes such an interest in your son, a bastard after all. You should be grateful that God has seen fit to smile on this child of sin.”

His voice followed her, a ghostly echo in the darkness. The thought flashed through her mind that in the very worst moments of her life she was always in a church. Stunned and disbelieving, she stumbled down the path that led to the cottage. Halfway there she dropped her torch, and started to run. She could hear the beating of her heart, the sound of her feet pounding against the frozen ground. On either side of the path the bare trees, like lonely black sentinels, seemed to close in on her. A full moon lit up the clear night sky. Gasping, she reached the cottage.

Inside, Bellebelle lit the fire and poured herself two cups of ale, downing one after another. On the table lay Henry’s mother’s silver-and-gilt chess set, the ivory figures laid out neatly on the squares just as Geoffrey had left them. The sight was like a knife twisting deep into her breast. Without her son, the cottage at this hour was like a tomb. How could she bear it night after night?

“Geoffrey!” Bellebelle grabbed the bishop, his favorite figure, and clutched it to her heart, screaming his name aloud over and over again.

The ale made her head swim and she finally dragged herself up the stairs to the bower where she fell, fully clothed, onto Geoffrey’s trundle bed next to her own. Henry had taken his revenge. He had done it in his usual clever way, for if she protested he could accuse her of denying her son the opportunity for a princely education.

But the thought of being without Geoffrey filled Bellebelle with such an overpowering anguish that she did not see how she could bear it. She must not let it happen; she must find some way to appeal to Henry. He was not all revenge and cruelty; he was capable of great goodness. She knew that he was. Help me, as you always have, she prayed to Mary-Eleanor. Please, help me to get my son back, please …Darkness descended. Still clutching the ivory bishop, Bellebelle slept.