THE CART BOUNCED OVER a rut in the road. Henry of Anjou, jolted awake, poked his head up through the straw to see a pearly dawn break over the wooded English countryside. He pushed aside a wooden cage of clucking chickens and several wheels of white cheese then sat up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. They had left Wallingford at Matins. Surely they should be nearing London by now?
“Are we getting close?” he called softly to the driver of the cart.
Old Anson turned his black-capped head and glowered. “Keep your head down, Master Henry, for Lord’s sake, how many times must I tell ye we be in enemy territory? Aye, soon be there by me reckoning.”
London! At long last he would finally see for himself this noble and celebrated city that his mother had told him about, the city which, more than any other, represented his birthright. When Henry had heard that London lay less than a day’s journey from Wallingford where he was currently staying with his mother and uncle, he had been determined to see it for himself—despite the ongoing civil war between his mother and the cousin who had usurped her throne, King Stephen. Due to the danger involved he had been strictly forbidden to leave the castle grounds.
The dawn mist was just starting to burn off and Henry, wide awake now, inhaled deep breaths of the spring air as he looked around him. The trees were still barren of leaves but there was the loamy scent of sap rising and the earth had already put forth young green shoots. As far as he could tell the road was deserted.
“There’s no one about to see me, Anson,” Henry said.
“Sleeping, wasn’t ye? We passed a party o’ pilgrims a ways back, a cart or two going to market same as us, and a litter accompanied by armed knights. Next time could be a band o’ the king’s Flemish mercenaries. Suppose they stop us and ye get caught? Can’t ye get it through ye head, Master Henry, there be skirmishes raging all about us! Now if ye don’t keep down like I says we goes straight back to Wallingford.” He leaned over to spit on the ground. “Must’ve been addled in me wits to ever let ye and Master William talk me into this harebrained foolishness.”
Henry gnawed at his lip. The old man was quite capable of doing what he said. “I’ll be careful.”
The only response was a doubtful snort.
Henry prodded his cousin, William of Gloucester, with his elbow. “Wake up. We’ll soon be there.”
William, eldest son of Henry’s uncle, Earl Robert of Gloucester, sat up with a yawn, scratched his crop of nut brown hair, and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.
“God’s eyes, mind where you go.” Henry carefully moved a straw basket of eggs. “Anson’ll kill us if we upset his precious eggs.” He lowered his voice. “He saw some armed knights ride by and now he’s talking about Flemish mercenaries. I think he’s scared.”
“Of course he’s scared. Do you blame him?” William shivered. “This journey’s filled with danger. Even though you seem to regard it as nothing but a lark.”
Henry, loath to admit the possibility of any real danger, wished he had kept silent. He watched the fields and undulating downs stitched with countless hedges stretch away to the purple horizon. Not once in all the days of cajoling and finally bribing Old Anson, chief wheelwright in the village of Wallingford, to take William and himself to London had he given serious thought to the possible consequences of getting caught. Of course, he knew London was held by his mother’s arch-enemy, King Stephen, but the fact had no real meaning for him.
Aware that he was able to persuade most people into doing what he wanted, the risks involved did not concern him. Or so Henry’s father, the count of Anjou, never tired of telling him over and over and over again. Thoughtless. Reckless. Foolhardy. These were only a few of the count’s favorite expressions when it came to his son and heir. It was a good thing he paid them so little mind or he would never make anything happen.
“Well, I’m not,” Henry said with an air of defiance.
“Not what?”
“Afraid.”
“You would be if you had any sense. If you’d lived here these past four years, instead of only a few months, you’d have reason to be afraid, let me tell you.”
“I didn’t think you were a coward, Cousin.”
William threw a fistful of straw at him. “Hold your tongue, boy. You’re only ten. I’m thirteen and soon to be knighted. Treat me with proper respect or I’ll make you sorry.”
Henry scowled, hating to be reminded of his age. Had it really been so long as William said? He reckoned on his fingers: Stephen usurped his mother’s throne in 1135; she had set sail for England in 1139 to reclaim it. It was now 1143. Four years. His cousin was right.
Henry watched William collapse on the straw and stare at a pale blue sky streaked with wisps of white cloud. “God’s teeth, if my father ever finds out about this I won’t be able to sit for a week.” He glanced at Henry. “And if your mother gets wind of it—in truth, Cousin, I’d rather deal with my father ten times over than explain to my aunt Maud why I let you talk me into risking our lives just to show you London. I might even prefer dealing with the Flemings.”
The cart swayed as it labored up a hill. Below lay the green and blue reflection of the Thames River. Henry knew exactly what William meant.
Yesterday, when his mother and uncle had suddenly been called away from Wallingford, leaving William and himself in the care of an overburdened castellan, Henry had decided the time was ripe for his planned escapade. Such a moment might not come again. But the possibility, remote as it was, of having to face his formidable mother was so daunting that he instantly retreated from the thought.
He sent William a sullen look. “I’m supposed to be heir to the throne, king of England one day. I just want to see London, my future capital. Is that so terrible, I ask you?”
“God’s teeth! Do you forget that London is violently opposed to your mother and all things Angevin? What do you think would happen if King Stephen got his hands on you?”
Since Henry had never entertained such a possibility he had no ready answer.
“Well, I’ll tell you, blockhead,” William continued. “You’d be held for ransom; the war would be over; your mother’s cause lost, and all the misery and fighting we’ve endured over here on your behalf would have been for nothing. Do you understand? Nothing! My father’s lands would be confiscated, your mother would never be queen, and even if Stephen let you live, you would never be king of England.”
There was a note of bitterness in William’s voice that Henry had never heard before. He wondered if his cousin blamed his mother for returning to England to fight for her crown, thus plunging the country into civil war.
“You shouldn’t have come if you think it’s so dangerous.”
“Someone with sense had to look after you.”
Henry threw himself on William and began to pummel him with both fists. William punched him in the nose with such force Henry could hardly breathe.
“I don’t need any looking after,” Henry said, gasping. “Nor to be kept out of danger. I was sent here to be a rallying point for my mother’s supporters. Everyone knows I’m going to be king of England one day. How can anything happen to me?”
“Ye’ll find out quick enough, young master, if there be one egg cracked or a hen hurt. Stop that fighting at once or—” Anson broke off and listened intently. “What be that noise?”
There was the sound of many hoofbeats coming up swiftly behind them. Henry sat up. All he could see was a great cloud of dust.
“Must be enemy troops,” William said, peering into the distance. “Certainly not my father’s men this close to London. Jesu, suppose they stop us?”
“Suppose they do?” Henry rubbed his aching nose. “We’re just farm boys going to market. Why would we interest Stephen’s troops?”
“Now I told ye lads what to do if we be stopped,” Anson said quickly. “Keep down in the straw and mayhap ye won’t be seen.”
A few moments later a large troop of Flemish mercenaries came up directly behind the cart. Anson pulled at the reins and the horse swerved sharply off the road. Henry and William sank into the straw while the troop trotted past. One of the soldiers at the end of the column slowed and rode up alongside the cart.
“Vat ye got here, old man?” He had a thick Flemish accent.
“Just eggs, cheese, and chickens to sell at market in London, good sir,” said Anson.
Henry could hear the tremor of fear in his voice.
“Yah? Und this?” The soldier had removed his sword from its scabbard and parted the straw. “Are these lads for sale too?”
A few of his companions chuckled. To Henry’s horror the soldier deliberately lifted his sword high and brought the point slowly down toward William, who, petrified, reminded Henry of a rabbit looking at a stoat.
He sat up and glared at the soldier. “Stop that. You might hurt him.”
“Listen to the cockerel crow!” The soldier gave him a wolfish grin. “Yah, I might hurt him—and vat vould you do about it?”
The sword continued down, missed William’s leg by no more than an inch it seemed to Henry, passed through the wooden cage, and speared a chicken, who squawked loudly then abruptly stopped as the sword went through its innards.
The soldiers laughed uproariously while their companion withdrew his sword, wiped off the blood on William’s jerkin, and returned it to his scabbard.
“Be thankful it vasn’t you, little cockerel,” he said to Henry.
The troop passed in a flurry of dust. Anson steered the horse and cart back onto the road. “By me faith, God was watching out for us,” he said in a trembling voice. “Gave me a fair turn that did. If we wasn’t so close to London I’d turn back, I would. Master William, ye no be harmed?”
“He’s fine,” Henry said, noting that William was incapable of speech. Flecks of blood dotted the straw and were splattered over the chickens, who screeched to high heaven. “I’ll see you’re reimbursed for that chicken, Anson.”
The only reply was a grunt.
Henry looked at his cousin in concern. A smear of crimson stained his tan jerkin; his face was the color of new cream. He looked as if he were fighting back tears.
“Whoreson Flemish pigs.” Henry gnawed his lip in frustration.
The king had imported the Flemish mercenaries and their captain, William of Ypres, from Flanders, to help fight the Angevin forces. Henry knew from his mother and uncle that they were considered little better than animals, hated and feared by both sides.
“One day I’ll make them sorry,” he said.
William suddenly turned and began to throw up over his side of the cart. Henry, pretending not to notice, looked intently at a turreted manor house clothed in ivy, then a wooden cottage with a roof of thatched reeds.
The Fleming’s taunt, “little cockerel,” echoed mockingly in his ears. How he would have liked to retort in kind, even run the bastard through if he’d had a sword. Sometimes it seemed like he would be ten years old forever, that he could not grow up fast enough. God’s eyes! One day he would be taken seriously. One day, nobody would dare to mock him. The first thing he would do when he became king of England was get rid of such filthy scum as the Flemings.
When he became king, he repeated to himself like a talisman, not even allowing himself to think, if. From as far back as Henry could remember, he had known he would inherit his father’s counties of Anjou and Maine, and fall heir to his mother’s crown in England and her duchy of Normandy: twin legacies passed on to her by her father, the late King Henry.
If there were any justice in this world, his mother would be on the throne this very moment. Her father had forced his magnates to swear homage to her and honor her as queen after his death. What the nobles had done instead was to allow his mother’s scheming cousin, Stephen of Blois, to usurp the throne at the king’s death. More than half the loyal barons broke their sworn oath and crowned Stephen king.
Henry, only two at the time, had been unable to grasp the far-reaching implications of what had occurred. But his heart had understood only too well that his safe and well-ordered world, as well as everyone’s around him, had been turned upside down. For the next few years, bewildered and upset, he had witnessed his mother veer between anguish and icy rage, his father storm angrily about the castle, swearing vengeance. Everyone had trusted and loved Stephen of Blois, his uncle Robert had said again and again. The result of Stephen’s betrayal had made a searing impression, one that Henry knew would mark him for life.
From that moment on, Henry was well aware that he had never fully trusted, nor taken for granted, anything or anyone—except his mother and father, of course. Behind a loving friend who swore the most sacred oath, there might well hide a treacherous heart. Nor had he forgotten the pain of being separated from his parents when, four years ago, his mother had sailed to England to reclaim her throne, and his father had set off to capture Normandy from Stephen’s forces. Fortunately his father had sent for him in Angers, and the last year had been spent in Rouen before sailing to England to join his mother.
His father had made good headway; Normandy was almost recaptured. But in England the civil war between King Stephen and his mother still raged like a pestilence, with never an end in sight.
A brisk wind sprang up, ruffling the straw in the cart. The road dipped, leaving the wooded hills behind. In the distance Henry caught another glimpse of the Thames and a huge tower.
“That’s Westminster,” said William, pointing. His face, though still pale, was now composed.
“You’re—feeling better?”
“Yes. Fine. Thank you for—for trying to help.” Embarrassed, he slid his eyes away. “I hope I would have done—that is to say, had the courage to do the same.”
Henry felt a glow of pride at this unaccustomed praise from his older cousin. It lessened some of the guilt he felt for having brought about the situation. He could just hear his father: “If you’d thought about the consequences in the first place you wouldn’t have needlessly endangered three lives.”
The road suddenly dropped again. Below, mill wheels turned in a small river that flowed into the Thames. Farther on a wooden bridge led to a gate in the city’s walls. Henry caught a sweeping view over the massive walls of the city and into the teeming thicket of chimneys and houses. A variety of sounds assailed his ears: the guards shouting on top of the walls, the throngs at the gates clamoring for entrance into London.
Old Anson crossed the bridge, skirted the city wall, and took a lane to the left that led to open ground. The bells from all the churches in London rang the call to Terce as he pulled the cart to a stop.
“This be the market site o’ Smithfield,” he said. “It be as far as I go. If ye want to get into the city ye’ll have to walk through Aldergate there on ye own.” He pointed some distance away. “I’ll sell me produce and be ready to leave no later than Nones. Ye be back by then and we’ll return to Wallingford. By Nones, mind. And be careful in London.”
Henry and William jumped down from the cart. By the time they reached Aldergate they found themselves amid a great crowd of people, horses, and carts. His heart pounding with excitement, Henry looked up at the eighteen-foot-high walls and the double swinging doors of heavy oak, reinforced with iron. Surmounting the gateway was a blood-stained human head fixed upon a pike. Ravens clustered about the eyeless face.
“Is this a sample of the king’s justice?” Henry could not help repress a shudder.
“More likely his Flemish captain’s. Stephen’s too soft for any real justice.” William looked warily around them. “Do you stay close to me. I’m familiar with London and can show you the sights. On your own you won’t know where to go and are sure to get lost.”
They passed through the gates and entered the city. The street they were on, fully ten feet across, Henry marveled, led to Newgate Street, William told him, and St. Paul’s churchyard where a great cathedral was still undergoing construction. Henry, trying not to gawk at everything he saw, wondered if it would be completed by the time he became king. The air, smelling of fish, ale, wool, and dried leather, was intoxicating.
They turned down another street and followed an alley that led to the quays. The haunting calls of the boatmen, shrill cries of eel-wives selling their wares on the bridge, had a strange, almost magical sound that stirred Henry’s blood. My city, he thought. This is my city.
“Here’s a public cookshop,” William said. They stopped and bought a cone of roast chestnuts and two ham-and-eel pasties.
Munching on their pasties Henry and William wandered about the quay. Both upstream and down, Henry could see row upon row of docks and wharves where burly seamen, coarse smocks pulled up over their belts, loaded and unloaded cargo from moored ships.
William pointed in a lordly gesture. “These boats sail to and from Nantes, Flanders, Normandy. Even the Levant. You have to admit, Cousin, both Anjou and Normandy are mere backwaters compared to London.”
Henry merely grunted, unwilling to state how impressed he was, but relieved that William seemed quite his old superior self again.
“We’ll have time to cross London Bridge before meeting Old Anson at Smithfield,” William said.
Just as they stepped onto the bridge a band of youths ran past pursued by a group of soldiers. Henry was knocked to his knees. By the time everyone had rushed by, Henry’s chestnuts were scattered over the ground and William had vanished. A group of small, ragged urchins swarmed over the wooden planks, scrambling to pick up the fallen chestnuts. His hose torn, his blue jerkin muddied, Henry picked himself up. At least he still had his pasty.
There was such a press of people coming and going across the bridge that Henry was swept up in the crowd. He was almost halfway across before he was able to stop and catch his breath. Still no sign of William. Obviously his cousin had been pushed one way and he another. Should he go look for him? No. William boasted of his familiarity with the city; he was bound to be fine. Henry would ask the way back to Smithfield when the time came and all would be well. In truth, it was far more exciting to be on his own.
He took another bite of his pasty and leaned over the wooden railing. A sharp river wind brushed his hair and blew salt spray into his face. Suddenly he felt someone sidle up beside him. Henry turned his head. Standing next to him was a girl. She looked to be his own age as far as he could tell. A faded yellow gown, much too big for her, hung on her skinny frame; her face was streaked with soot and her hair was a jungle of thick black curls. She also smelled strongly of spoiled fish, sour ale, and even more unpleasant odors. Henry moved away from her, but she didn’t seem to notice as she stared intently at the swirling muddy waters below.
“Look there! Quick! Do ye see him?”
“See who?”
“That great silver fish. Long as me arm he be with big green eyes.”
Henry peered into the water. “I don’t see any fish. It’s too muddy to see any. Furthermore, I never even heard of a fish that looks like that.”
“Well, he be there right enough. If ye knows how to look.”
Her garbled speech, different from any he’d heard, was barely understandable, her voice harsh to the ear with a kind of lilt to it.
“Is this your idea of a jest?” He gave her a suspicious glance. “I don’t believe any such fish exists so don’t try to tell me somebody caught one.” He took another bite of his pasty.
“Ooh no. Ye could never catch him. He just be there to look at.” Her eyes followed his hand.
“Are you hungry?”
She nodded and he handed her the eel-and-ham pasty.
She almost snatched it from his hands, rewarding him with a smile. Immediately her face was transformed. Now Henry was aware of enormous dark blue eyes and little white teeth. Under the soot and grime he imagined she might look quite pleasing. He watched while she took a dainty bite.
“Ooh, grand that be,” she said, gravy dribbling down her chin.
“I’m glad you like it.” He paused. “My name is Henry. I’m visiting my mother here in England.”
“Don’t ye have no father then?”
“Of course I have a father. Everyone has a father.”
She stared at him in silence for a moment. “Where ye father be?”
“In Rouen at the moment. He’s count of Anjou but acting as duke in Normandy—until I can take over for him.” He stole a glance to see how she reacted to this.
The girl nodded and took another bite of the pasty. “Normandy. Where’s that then?”
“Across the Channel. Near France.”
“I hears tell of France. Ye been there?”
“No.” Henry paused. “But I met the French queen.”
“Ye never!”
“By God’s eyes, I did! I even gave her flowers.”
She stared at him, her enormous blue eyes glowing with admiration. “Be she—beautiful like they all says?”
Henry, who only remembered an overall impression of loveliness, smiled. “Indeed.”
She sighed. “Ye be here for long?”
“Not too long. My father relies on me, you know.”
She nodded again and handed him back the pasty with dirty fingers, the nails caked with mud. “I knows right off ye wasn’t from London, o’ course, but I never met no foreign person before. That must be why ye talks so funny-like. I be named Bellebelle.”
Henry swallowed, pleased that she accepted everything he said without question. “You can keep the pasty. I’m not hungry. What an odd name.”
“It do be different. Me mam says I be christened Ykenai—a Saxon name, but folks all calls me Bellebelle.” She stuffed the rest of the pasty into her mouth and waved toward the far side of the bridge. “I be from Southwark.”
She finished eating, licked the crumbs from her fingers, wiped her nose with her forearm, then leaned companionably over the railing with him. Together they watched a group of boys tilting in small boats. Perched in the prow and holding lances, the youths skimmed across the water toward a shield hanging from a pole. They hit the target and fell into the river. Henry and Bellebelle laughed along with everyone else.
“I comes here every chance I gets,” Bellebelle said. “Whenever I can get me mam to take me.”
“Where is she now?”
Bellebelle gestured toward a group of women in gaily striped cloaks huddled together farther down the bridge. Henry noticed that some passersby shouted remarks at the women but he was too far away to hear what was said. One man even threw what looked like a dead fish at them.
“Why are they being treated like that?”
Bellebelle scuffed a worn shoe on the wooden plank; her eyes clouded over, her face grew flushed, and she did not answer.
Behind them a sudden commotion shifted Henry’s attention. Approaching were two of the soldiers he had seen earlier with a youth in tow, obviously drunk. They were driving him along with harsh blows and whenever he faltered or stumbled they kicked him with their heavy boots. The boy had tears running down his face.
“There’s no call to treat the wretch that way,” said Henry. “He’s too flown with ale to walk properly.”
“Them’s the king’s Flemings,” Bellebelle whispered. “Best stay out o’ their way.”
The accursed Flemings again. Henry stepped forward. One of the soldiers stopped, gave him an insolent stare, then pushed him aside. Everyone on the bridge scattered as far away from the soldiers as possible. Henry, feeling the first flush of rage wash over him, was about to stand his ground when he felt a surprisingly strong hand grab his arm and forcefully yank him back to the railing.
“Are ye daft?” The fear in Bellebelle’s voice was palpable. “This be London and the Flemings has a free hand. Ye can’t do nothing. No one can’t do nothing.” She paused. “But ye would’ve tried, wouldn’t ye?”
“One day it will be different,” Henry said between his teeth, swallowing his anger as the soldiers moved on. “Believe me it will. When I’m king of England there won’t be any need for bloody heads on the gates, and I will see justice done to poor creatures like that.”
Bellebelle nodded, looking at him in awe. “O’ course ye will, cause ye don’t have no wishbone where ye backbone ought be. Anyone can see that.”
He smiled at the odd phrase, noting that she hadn’t even questioned what he’d said about being king. “Thank you. I’d best be going. I’ve lost my companion and need to get back to Smithfield. Can you tell me how?”
Bellebelle gave him detailed directions then looked over the railing again, resting her chin on her hands. Henry squinted his eyes, staring into the water.
“I see the fish,” he said.
Bellebelle turned and gave him a radiant smile.
When Henry reached Smithfield, the bells were just striking Nones. William was waiting and so relieved to see him that he pounded him on the back.
“God’s teeth you had me worried. I looked for you everywhere. What happened to you?”
Henry shrugged. “Nothing, really.”
All the way back to Wallingford while William talked about his adventures with a would-be pickpocket, Henry thought about Bellebelle and London and the Flemings. There had been an odd feel to the city, something he couldn’t quite name. Certainly he’d never been aware of that feeling in the cities of Angers or Rouen. It was like—yes, he had it now—like a ship with no one at the helm.
When he was king, Henry decided, anyone who walked into London would know immediately that someone was in control, guiding the ship.