TO EVERYONE’S SURPRISE, JEHAN de Mornay remained Bellebelle’s faithful customer. The whores said his devotion wouldn’t last, but three years after breaking her maidenhead, he still came regularly to the brothel-house. He had taken no steps to remove her from the Bankside but then again she had not dared to raise the issue—and probably never would. She was only sixteen or seventeen—no one knew for sure—with many good years still left her, said Gytha.
One afternoon in mid-July, Morgaine and Bellebelle crossed the river into the city of London. They had persuaded Gilbert to let them have a few hours off and after much grumbling he had agreed, provided they were back to service the evening customers. The air was cool, the day filled with sunshine, the sky a clear blue dotted with puffs of white cloud.
Bellebelle sauntered slowly across the bridge, dressed in a blue-and-white striped cloak over a new rose-colored gown that Jehan had brought her, a small leather bag of coins tied round her waist underneath her chemise. A group of youths were out on the river tilting in small boats. She was reminded of the boy, Henry, she had met so long ago, and wondered, as she had so often before, what had happened to him. She paused for a moment to look over the railing but the fish was nowhere to be seen.
Morgaine grabbed her hand, hurrying her along, only slowing when they reached the Strand. Bellebelle, who had not been in London for almost a year, was amazed at the number of open stalls and taverns lining the streets. At least twice as many as she remembered. There was so much more to see now that her eyes hardly knew where to look first. Red-cheeked citizens, after a brief glance at their striped cloaks, good-naturedly jostled Bellebelle and Morgaine aside to stand in line at the public cookshop which sold coarse meats as well as quail and pheasant.
Caught up in the air of excitement, Morgaine and Bellebelle visited the stalls, eagerly eyeing bolts of wool and silk, leather boots from Spain, strings of onions and garlic from Brittainy.
“Ye’d never think there be a war going on,” Bellebelle said. “Not here in London leastways.”
Morgaine nodded. “It do be like Gilbert say. War or no war, some things goes on no matter what. Trade, food, and whoring.”
By the admiring looks cast in her direction, Bellebelle was sure that, except for the striped cloak, no one would ever guess she was a whore, especially one from the Bankside stews.
“Come on now. We don’t want to run out of time.”
To Bellebelle’s surprise, Morgaine seemed to have a particular destination in mind, darting down one twisted street after another. Finally she asked for directions and they came to a narrow lane.
“This be it. Gropecuntlane.”
“Why we here?”
“It do be the home of a famous brothel, not like Gilbert’s place and them rotten stews.” Morgaine’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “Different type whores work here.”
“How different?”
“Well, the girls would ’ave better conditions to work in, wouldn’t they? Only service rich or noble clients, I suppose, which means ye earn more money. All like Jehan only better.”
They started slowly walking down the lane, which grew wider as they approached a row of tall wooden houses smeared with black, red, and blue paint.
Morgaine pointed out a wooden house with closed blue shutters that looked like a private dwelling, yet was different in some way from its neighbors. Down the lane stood a tavern with a freshly painted sign picturing a crowned blue cock. Next to the tavern was a cookshop, wreathed in a haze of smoke. Compared to Gilbert’s brothel and the Bankside this area looked less dirty and not as dangerous.
“Look! That must be it.” Morgaine nudged Bellebelle in the ribs. “What would ye say to working in such a place? That’d be grand, eh? A lass as looks like you wouldn’t have no trouble finding work here. Shall we go in and have us a look round?”
Bellebelle stared at her in disbelief.
Morgaine laughed. “Cat got ye tongue?”
“How could I leave me mam? Ye know how she be needing me.”
“O’ course I does,” Morgaine said in a soothing voice. “We just be seeing what it be like, look ye, that’s all. Not a word to Gil or ye mam, but I be trying for a way to get ye out of Gilbert’s stew, Belle. I knows ye been wanting that for donkey’s years.” Morgaine shot her a quick glance. “When the right time comes, I mean.”
Church bells rang the hour of Nones.
“Didn’t know it be so late. We must be off now, Belle.”
All the way across the bridge, Bellebelle could think of nothing but Gropecuntlane. The idea of servicing only noble or wealthy clients like Jehan, in pleasant surroundings, opened up a whole new world. Her head buzzed with the possibilities. If a whore worked hard in such a place she might be able to make a lot of money, save some of it, and leave the brothel before she became too old or worn out. If she could find a way to take Gytha with her, find a small place to live out of Southwark … her dream of bettering herself suddenly seemed within reach.
“Gilbert’ll take a stick to us,” Morgaine said, practically running now. “We best hurry.”
Bellebelle’s heart sank. She’d forgotten about Gilbert. He would never, never allow her to leave. He owned her as he did all the other whores. She remembered the chilling tale Gytha had once told her about a doxy who tried to leave the brothel-house. Gilbert had caught her and beat her so cruelly she was marked for life. The poor drab could no longer work and was thrown out into the street to beg for her daily bread.
They reached the brothel just as the sun began to set. The tavern next door was already filled with the sound of drunken laughter and curses. Bellebelle noticed five horses being watched by grooms in livery.
When they entered the brothel-house, Gilbert grabbed Bellebelle and fairly shoved her up the stairs.
“Why you been gone so long, eh?” he asked, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Well, never mind that now. Got a party o’ knights drinking in the tavern. A Fleming be with them, seems to be in charge. Ordered a fine supper from the cookshop, and then called for five o’ me best whores. Ye both be needed. Look sharp now, girls, and make your self’s ready.”
This evening there was an unusual air of excitement about the brothel. In the passage upstairs, the whores, dressed in clean chemises, could hardly conceal their eagerness, except for Gytha, who was already in her cups and oblivious to what was going on.
The whore from Flanders followed Bellebelle into her cubicle while she hurriedly removed her cloak, gown, and bag of coins. When she was clad only in the oat-colored chemise, she splashed water on her face from the cauldron.
“Your mam’s been svilling ale all day, yah. She be getting vorse, Belle, like she don’t care no more if she be alive or dead.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I caught her vashing herself out three and four times today with vater and vinegar, and scratching herself like a bitch mit fleas. You know vat dat means !”
Bellebelle looked at her in horror. The burning sickness! Each whore dreaded it, lived in constant fear of it, and knew that its onset meant the end of her life as a whore—if she got caught—or, in some instances, an early death.
Bellebelle had no time to question her further. There came the sound of bawdy laughter at the bottom of the stairs and she barely had time to arrange her hair, pinch her cheeks to make them look redder, and smile in the foolish way customers seemed to expect.
Her heart pounding, Bellebelle stepped out the door.
Gilbert, carrying a lighted torch, was puffing up the stairs. Of the five men who followed him, only one caught Bellebelle’s attention. Around his neck he wore a silver chain from which hung a large silver medallion set with five green stones that blazed with fire in the torchlight. His fixed smile and dead eyes made Bellebelle feel sick to her belly. Beside her the Flanders whore gasped.
“Meine Gott! It’s him—”
Bellebelle could see she had gone pale under the painted crimson of her cheeks. “Who?”
“Dat von—dat Fleming—” She pointed a fearful finger at the man with the silver medallion. “I know dat devil in Bruges. Varn whoever—”
One of the knights approached them with a snigger. “Which milk cow’s got the biggest udders?”
The Flanders whore immediately pulled down her chemise revealing pendulous white breasts.
The knight reached out and fingered a rouged nipple. “This one’s for me.”
Her relief visible, the Flanders whore and the knight disappeared into her cubicle. Another knight picked the plump, giggly whore Agnes.
To Bellebelle’s dismay she saw the Fleming’s gaze immediately fasten on Gytha. He pointed a languid finger at her and something flickered deep within the snakelike eyes. Suddenly Bellebelle felt overwhelmed by a sense of foreboding so intense she almost cried out. Even without the warning she would have known, instinctively, that this man was not like the others, but one of those with a touch of the devil in him.
Bellebelle tried to signal her mother but Gytha, unsteady on her feet, paid no attention and, Fleming in tow, lurched into her cubicle. Too late. Morgaine, who had overheard the Flanders whore’s warning, pressed Bellebelle’s hand.
“Me room is close by ye mam’s and ye be next door,” she whispered hurriedly. “Keep a sharp ear out for anything that sounds—out of the way, look ye. Take this.” She slipped Bellebelle her bone-handled knife.
Bellebelle nodded and instinctively hid the knife behind her, wondering what she was supposed to do with it. In truth, she didn’t really know what Morgaine meant. In the brothel-house there were all sorts of odd sounds that were a natural part of the surroundings. How could she recognize one that was really unusual?
There was no time for further thought as her customer walked toward her. A stout man approaching his middle years, he gave Bellebelle a weary smile. Once inside the cubicle he threw himself down on the bed with a sigh, and asked Bellebelle to take off his boots and massage his feet. She did as he said, first laying the knife on the table next to the bed. Thus far, she could detect no noise from her mother’s room next door.
The customer, who told her his name was Ralph, did not appear to notice her uneasiness or lack of attention. Instead, thank the Holy Virgin, he seemed more eager to talk than to swive her. He explained that he had ridden in from York with his own men and one Hans de Burgh, who commanded a troop of the king’s Flemish mercenaries.
“De Burgh,” she repeated distractedly, to show she was listening.
“A proper bastard if ever there was one. Christ, the tales I could tell you! The man’s no better than an animal, like most of them are, but de Burgh’s mother is Norman which makes it all the harder to understand. However, the king dotes on his Flemings so we must put up with them.”
Bellebelle forced a smile, continuing to massage his feet while she tried to listen for any sounds that might be coming from next door. Suddenly, she realized that the man he was speaking about might well be the Fleming with her mother.
“Be he here?” she asked.
“Yes, of course. De Burgh’s the man wearing a silver medallion set with emeralds. The one who took the flaxen-haired doxy.”
Bellebelle’s fear increased. If even his companion called him an animal …
“We defeated a raiding party of Scots in York,” Ralph was saying now, “and just returned to London for reinforcements to take back north with us. There’s a major battle expected with the king of Scotland and his great-nephew from Normandy, Henry Fitz-Empress …”
Bellebelle nodded, not really taking in what he said. Fortunately, a whore was never expected to answer.
Ralph gave a huge yawn. “I’m getting too old for these campaigns, by God. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind if I just—” He fell sound asleep right in the middle of his sentence.
Relieved, Bellebelle quickly got up from the bed and crept over to the wall. Pressing her ear against it she listened carefully. For a while she could hear nothing, yet her uneasiness grew. It dawned on her that it was the total absence of any noise at all that was so frightening. Suddenly she heard a low chuckle that froze the blood in her veins. Then absolute silence.
Later, she could not remember picking up Morgaine’s knife which she must have done, for when she slipped out of her cubicle and quietly opened the door to her mother’s, it was gripped firmly in her hand.
The sight that met her eyes was out of some impossible hellish nightmare. Gytha, gagged tightly with one of her own stockings, her hands tied above her head with the other, was spattered with blood. Her eyes were wild with terror, her face contorted in a frozen scream. Her legs twitched and jerked, while the Fleming, naked, crouched on his knees over her body. A twisted smile on his face, he slowly and methodically dug into her flesh with a long knife.
No time to call for help. This devil was hurting her mother and must be stopped. Instinct flung her headlong into the cubicle; her body hurtled toward the bed with the speed of an arrow. As de Burgh scrambled off Gytha’s body, Bellebelle’s arm took on a life of its own, raising itself high above her head. With all the strength she possessed she brought her arm down, driving the point of Morgaine’s dagger deep into de Burgh’s side.
His hands shot out, gripped Bellebelle’s throat with iron fingers, squeezing until she felt the chamber begin to spin. Then, his eyes glazing, he suddenly toppled sideways over Gytha’s body.
Bellebelle, gasping for air, rolled him off the body and onto the floor. Her mother’s eyes were now closed, her face slack. She had fainted. Kneeling beside her, Bellebelle tore the suffocating gag from her mouth, undid the stockings, and, weeping and choking, tried to staunch the blood oozing in rivulets down her naked body. To her horror, she could see that Gytha had also been burned with a candle, for there were angry red welts and dried wax over her breasts.
A noise at the door. Bellebelle turned her head to see Morgaine, fully dressed, standing in the open doorway. She entered, closing the door softly behind her.
“I left mine asleep,” she said, her eyes raking in the situation in one fierce glance. “By St. David, I knew that beast be trouble but never like this.” She walked over to de Burgh’s body and looked down at the waxy face. “Holy Mother of God, have ye killed him then?”
Killed him? Uncomprehending, Bellebelle stared at the inert form. Had she actually killed de Burgh? Stricken, she looked at Morgaine.
“I—I doesn’t know.”
“Looks dead to me.” She prodded him with her foot.
“Dead? But I—”
“Ye must leave, Belle. At once. His men’ll be through soon and come lookin’ for him. It won’t take them long to learn who the culprit be, look ye. They’ll be after ye quick as lightning and if they catch ye—” Morgaine crossed herself. “They can see what he done but he be the king’s man, and ye and Gytha just be whores. They’ll pay Gilbert to keep his mouth shut and who’s to know?” She touched Bellebelle’s bruised throat. “Here.” She pulled the necklace of blue stones from around her neck and slipped it over Bellebelle’s head. “For protection against the evil forces o’ darkness.”
“Me mam—I can’t leave her.”
Morgaine bent to examine Gytha’s prone body, lifted her eyelids, then nodded. “Thank the Holy Virgin she fainted, or she’d be screaming to high heaven and ye’d have no chance to escape. We’ll look after her, Belle, don’t be feared. She’s been cut up and burned but nothing that won’t heal in time. It do look worse than it be. Ye saved her from … never mind.”
She gave Bellebelle a push. “Grab your things, only what ye can carry easy like. Get over to London if ye can. To Gropecuntlane. They’ll take ye in, like I told ye. Don’t show ye face in Southwark. This be your chance, lass! Take it. Go now, d’ye hear? Now!”
Bellebelle’s last sight of the cubicle was of her mother’s bruised body; Morgaine coolly pulling out the knife from de Burgh’s side, carefully wiping the blood-stained blade on the bed-sheet, and tucking it away under her skirts.
In a daze, Bellebelle ran out of the chamber. The passage was empty. She softly opened the door of her own cubicle. Snoring fitfully, the customer, Ralph, slept on. Hastily she rinsed her bloody hands in the cauldron of water, tied the bag of coins round her waist under the blood-stained chemise, slipped on the clothes she had worn earlier that day, stuffed a few belongings into a straw basket, then tip-toed out of the cubicle.
Numb with fear, her throat aching, she stood irresolute for a moment, not knowing what to do. Then the sound of giggles and lusty male laughter sent her scurrying to the top of the stairs.
With a last fleeting look of anguish at her mother’s door, Bellebelle carefully crept down the stairs, crossed the tiny hall, and cautiously opened the door a crack. The shouts and singing from the tavern would cover any noise she made. Pushing the door all the way open she peered out. A short distance away she could see the outline of the horses and the grooms talking among themselves. A picture of her mother’s burnt and cut body swam before her eyes and for a moment she swayed unsteadily. Sounds from above now, someone pounding on a door, and raised voices. With a prayer to the Holy Virgin to keep her safe, Bellebelle turned and ran down the dark passage that led to the back entrance.
She slipped through the open door, raced across the dirt courtyard, then out the rear gate. An unseen silent shadow, she sped down the deserted street, away from the brothel-house, away from her beloved, helpless mother, away from the only life she had ever known. The night closed round her like a warm protective cloak. Soon she was lost amid the dark twisted alleys of Southwark.