THERE WAS A HEATED argument going on between two of the whores, both of them flown with ale, when Bellebelle let herself out the door of the brothel-house. One claimed the other had stolen her customer, and Hawke was trying to make peace. Frightening as he looked, the brothelmaster was not a bad sort. Much better than Gilbert had been. He rarely beat them—he almost never had to as his person was such that few disobeyed him. Nor did he ever cheat them out of their hard-earned wages. With the yowls and threats of the whores still ringing in her ears, Bellebelle trudged wearily down the narrow cobbled street deserted now by all but a few passersby. It was very dark, the moon hidden behind a bank of charcoal clouds, but unseasonably warm for January.
Coming abreast of the Blue Cock tavern Bellebelle stopped. The young girl who sold honey cakes leaned heavily against the wall. Her tray of golden cakes lay on the ground beside her.
“Ye—you be all right?” Bellebelle asked, approaching her with concern. Shivering all over, the girl was coughing into a soiled white cloth.
“Sure and I don’t know,” the girl gasped, doubling over. “I been walking the streets since Terce. Then cookshop told me they be wanting cakes in the tavern here. Suddenly I comes all over weak like, chilled to me very bones. I be fine in a moment.”
“Here. This will keep you warm.” Bellebelle took off her striped cloak and placed it over the girl’s shoulders. “Let me take the tray in for you. Rest yourself. I be right back.”
The cake-vendor nodded gratefully.
The tray, made of stout wood, was so heavy Bellebelle wondered how anyone found the strength to carry it. Inside the tavern she looked about for a place to set it. Amid the crowd of dicing players kneeling in the center of the floor, a youth suddenly looked up. Their eyes met for a brief moment before Bellebelle edged over to a long table and laid the tray down on one corner. Already the small of her back ached and she rubbed it before straightening.
Something about the young man’s ginger hair and freckled face looked vaguely familiar but she couldn’t place where, exactly, she’d seen him before. A customer perhaps? Probably. She’d had so many over the last five years they were all starting to look alike: a great faceless body heaving and grunting over her. Except for her regulars, Bellebelle doubted she’d recognize a customer for certain even if he ran into her in the street.
As she was about to leave, a loud oath made her turn. Bellebelle recognized several whores from the brothel-house hovering over the players, looking for business, as well as the familiar crowd of ale vats, and the wandering minstrels singing for a penny.
“God’s blood,” snarled the same voice. “It do be your roll o’ the dice.”
Now Bellebelle could see that the voice belonged to Black Hugo, whom she’d met on her first visit to the brothel-house. Although she’d never had any personal dealings with him, she saw him from time to time, and knew he was feared by everyone—except Hawke. Along with his cronies, Black Hugo could usually be found gambling in the tavern. A pile of silver coins lay in the center of the floor alongside several peg-tankards of ale. Black Hugo pointed to a player in a brown cloak whose head was bent over the dice. It was the same youth Bellebelle felt she’d met before.
Curious, Bellebelle joined the group of whores. The young man turned the three dice over in his hand, shook them, then shot them on to the floor. A natural seven. There was a mutter of interest from the onlookers as they pressed closer to the players.
“A lucky throw,” said one of the girls.
Bellebelle could see Black Hugo’s one good eye narrow as he slid two coins across the floor.
“These say ye can’t do it again.”
She watched the youth blow on the dice, rub them in his hands, then let them go again. Bellebelle leaned forward. Sweet Marie, another seven! Around her she heard murmurs of surprise mixed with oaths. Black Hugo, his eye smoldering like a hot coal, exchanged a few words with his ruffians who looked darkly at the dice lying on the floor.
Bellebelle wanted to tell the player to take his winnings and leave, quickly, before Black Hugo and his cronies turned on him. The youth suddenly leaned forward into the torchlight so that she could see him clearly.
“Fortune smiles on me tonight,” he said.
What was it about that voice—not the usual Norman-English or Saxon accent but almost pure Norman—that sounded so familiar? Like a minstrel’s song played long ago and now forgotten. But when the chord was strummed again something inside remembered. No question now—she’d met this youth before, not at the brothel-house in Gropecuntlane, but at a totally different time and place. At Gilbert’s? No—but Southwark felt right. Suddenly she saw herself on London Bridge with her mother and Morgaine and some of the other whores. Then came a picture of a boy with reddish hair and gray eyes leaning over the rail at London Bridge. Bellebelle gasped aloud. Impossible! Could this really be the same boy? The one who had been so special to her—the only other person besides herself who had actually seen her magic fish? For years she had continued to think of him, then gradually the memory had faded.
What was his name—it was just on the tip of her tongue—he’d said he come back to London and he had. Her heart surged in expectation, then plummeted. Of course he wouldn’t remember her. Why should he recall the filthy little urchin he met on the bridge at least nine or even ten years ago?
“Do ye mean to try another pass or not?” Black Hugo’s words came out in a low growl. “That be what, we agreed, Curtmantle.”
“My name is Henry. Naturally, honor demands I give you another chance to win your money back.”
Henry. Yes, that was the name. In the smoky glow of the torchlight, his face was flushed; his eyes blazed with excitement.
Surely he was not going to try another pass? Bellebelle looked around the room to see if he had brought any friends with him. Yes, there were four men-at-arms near the door and a man of the cloth in a black cowled robe, an anxious look on his face, trying to signal Henry. He must now be a person of some importance to have all these attendants with him. Hadn’t he told her his father was the duke or count of … she couldn’t remember.
“Go on then,” Black Hugo said between his teeth.
Other players added their coins to the pile. By now everyone in the tavern, even the most hardened drinkers at the tables, had gathered around the gamblers. A tense silence fell over the room as Henry picked up the ivory cubes and muttered a prayer. He rattled the dice then shot them on to the floor. Another seven! Holy Mary Virgin! Bellebelle, who had watched dicing players since she was old enough to walk and learned her numbers as a result, had never seen the like. There was a sharp intake of breath from the crowd. Then everyone began to talk at once.
With a great roar Black Hugo leapt to his feet, a long knife appearing magically in his fist. “The rogue switched the dice. These be cogged dice.”
The crowd fell silent. Bellebelle saw all eyes turn toward Henry, not sure whether to believe Black Hugo or not. In one quick gesture, Henry scooped up the pile of coins, dropping them carefully into the pouch attached to his leather belt. Then, as if he had all the time in the world, rose to his booted feet. Bellebelle noticed he wore no sword, only a knife. The crowd moved closer, surrounding him.
“Cogged dice is always the cry of a bad loser, a spoilsport,” Henry said. Unflinching, he faced the crowd of hostile faces, the threatening gaze of Hugo’s cronies, and Black Hugo himself, knife pointed straight at him.
Bellebelle felt her eyes grow moist. How fearless he looked and sounded. Just as he had in London with the Flemish soldiers. Didn’t have no wishbone where his backbone ought be, then, and he didn’t now. The crowd noticed it too, she saw, and that held them back. But for how long?
Before Bellebelle had time to think, she heard her own voice ring through the air. “I be standing right behind him. I sees no sign of cheating. Did you?” She dug her elbow into the ribs of the whore next to her.
“Ugh—no. I sees nothing neither.”
“See? The gentleman here didn’t cheat none,” Bellebelle said. “He won by honest means. We do vouch for him.”
Black Hugo glared at her and shook his knife. She shrank back.
Henry swung round. His eyes widened in surprise although it was obvious he didn’t recognize her. Swords drawn, the men-at-arms closed round him. Even the cleric drew a knife from the sleeve of his robe and shouted:
“Go now, my lord. We’ll hold them back.”
“This way,” said Bellebelle, noting the cleric had called him “my lord.” She grabbed Henry by the wrist and battled her way through the crowd toward the front entrance.
“Look at the chicken-hearted cur hide behind that cunt’s skirts.” Black Hugo’s voice bellowed after them like the roar of a bull.
“No whoreson calls me a coward.” Henry shook himself free, turned and lunged back, pulling his knife from its sheath.
The cleric sidestepped between him and Black Hugo. Bellebelle again grabbed Henry, this time by the arm, and pulled with all her might while the cleric shoved and pushed at his back. Between them, they managed to get him through the open doorway and onto the street.
Behind them she could hear Black Hugo cursing. At the doorway the cleric turned back. Bellebelle could only pray that he and the men-at-arms would keep Hugo and his cronies from following them until she had gotten Henry to safety.
Henry in tow, Bellebelle raced past the astonished cake-vendor who was still wearing Bellebelle’s striped cloak, down the short distance to the brothel-house. She flung open the door, relieved to hear no sound, groped her way up the narrow staircase dragging Henry, stumbled against two customers in the dim glow of the torchlit passage, and finally reached her chamber. Once inside she shut the door behind them. After catching her breath she quickly lit the candle stub in the iron holder that sat on the oak chest.
She saw Henry look curiously round the room and her heart froze. He was sure to catch sight of the nettles and rusty leg irons hanging on the wall. How could she explain these to him?
“God’s eyes, is this a brothel? Are you a tart? I thought you were selling cakes of some sort.”
Bellebelle, who had just knelt to stir up the coals in the brazier, cringed at the note in his voice. She could not bring herself to tell him she was a whore. But there was no way she could avoid telling him at least part of the truth.
“Me—me friend be a whore. I—I shares this chamber with her sometimes and pays rent to the brothelmaster. When I be out selling she uses it for the customers.” It was a feeble excuse but, if he were unfamiliar with the habits of London brothels and whores, he might believe her. She rose to face him. “Ye—you don’t remember me, does you?”
Henry frowned. “Someone as lovely as you? I’m sure I would have remembered if I’d met you before.”
“It do be about nine or ten year ago now. On London Bridge. I showed you the fish. Remember?”
After a moment’s puzzled silence she saw a grin of amazement cross his freckled face. “Of course I remember. God’s eyes! Can you possibly be that grubby little rat?”
She nodded.
“I would never have known you. So you sell cakes now? A thankless job I would think.” He looked about him. “Is there any wine about? I could use a goblet.” He walked over to the wall, fingered the leg irons curiously, raised his brows, then sat down on the bed and began to pull off his boots. “To each his own, but it’s a strange place to live …”
“At least it be a roof over me head,” Bellebelle was horrified to hear herself say. “Have you ever spent your days, rainy or bright, trudging through the muck and filth o’ the streets carrying a tray that be heavier than you? I not be ashamed of where I lives.”
In the long silence that followed, Bellebelle felt sure she had offended him. What had goaded her to speak so strongly? When she dared to look up she found his piercing gray eyes resting on her in a thoughtful gaze.
“Nor should you be. This is the second time tonight I’ve caused offense by my thoughtless words. Thank the Lord, I’ve been spared that kind of life.” He ran a hand through his thatch of hair. “Look, I meant no harm. We must all live as best we can with the resources God has granted us. At least you’re not a whore like your poor friend. Am I forgiven?”
Bellebelle swallowed, then forced herself to give him a tentative smile. All the warmth and affection she had felt for the young boy on the bridge returned in a flood. Reassured, he lay back on the coverlet and stretched out his arms in a wide gesture, as if embracing the chamber.
“By God’s splendor, did you ever see the like? Three sevens in a row. What sport, eh? A game to remember.” He glanced over at her. “I think you may have saved me a few scrapes and bruises tonight. What a stroke of fortune to run into you again after all this time. A fortunate night all round.” He gave her a crooked smile. “I must confess I don’t remember your name, though I remember everything else about our encounter. An odd name, I do recall that. Something to do with a church perhaps?”
“Bellebelle,” she said, relieved that he had let the matter of the brothel drop. In truth she had probably saved him more than a few scrapes and bruises. If ever a man had murder in his heart that man was Black Hugo.
“Yes, of course, Bellebelle. But christened something else, I think you told me.”
“Ykenai. No one ever calls me that.” Fancy him remembering. Pleased, she poured him a cup of red wine from the wooden pitcher that was reserved only for Lord Crowmarsh. Normally she drank ale or mead, wine being a great luxury and kept solely for the customers.
“What you be doing in such a place as the Blue Cock?”
“I’m duke of Normandy now, and heir to the English throne, just as I told you I’d be. I came to London some weeks ago with the king. Today I got impatient with all the formal discussions and legal claptrap—so I finally persuaded a cleric to show me something of the night life of the city. We stumbled upon the tavern by accident.”
She handed him the wooden cup. “I remembers now what ye told me on the bridge, and do be glad you got what you been wanting.”
Henry sat up, drank thirstily, then made a face. “The vintner who sold you this should be hung. When I’m king, all the wine will come from Gascony or Bordeaux. The only thing in England fit to drink is ale. You work for the tavern owner?”
“In a manner of speaking I does, but gets me wares from the cookshop,” Bellebelle said, trying to remember the little she knew about the cake-vendor’s life. “Sells them wherever I can.” She was anxious to change the subject. “How soon will you be king then?”
Henry put the cup on the floor, lay back, and closed his eyes. “As Stephen ails so frequently I give him a year or two at the most. Then my wife, Eleanor, and I will be crowned. I also have a son so the succession is assured.”
She could hardly believe her ears. “You mean—you be the duke who married Eleanor of Aquitaine?”
“Yes, a year and a half ago now. Why do you look so shocked? I’m a most fortunate man.”
He was married to Eleanor of Aquitaine! Tears stung her eyes. “Oh my lord, you do be blessed! You give her flowers once too, ye told me.”
“Yes, when she was queen of France. God’s splendor, what a memory!” He gave her a puzzled look. “Indeed I am blessed. But how extraordinary. You sound as if—well, as if you know Eleanor. In truth, I’m surprised you’re so well-informed.”
People were always sailing back and forth across the Channel, carrying the latest news and gossip with them. Most travelers stopped at the brothels and taverns, so the whores were among the first to hear what was happening. Bellebelle knew that Eleanor’s marriage to the French king had been dissolved almost as soon as it happened. News that she had married the Norman duke had arrived in London not long after.
She picked her words with care. “In the streets of London we hears everything that goes on across the Channel.”
“I’ll remember that in future.”
“Shall I look down the street, and see what’s become of your men? That cleric now, I hope he be all right. ’Course he had him a knife, and were showing it.”
“Master Thomas can look after himself. I’ll leave in a moment.”
But Henry made no move to go. He had apparently accepted her tale and was too full of himself to notice it was pierced with holes. It was foolish not to tell Henry the truth. After all, she would probably never see him again so what harm could it do?
Yet something inside her winced at the thought of admitting to him she was a whore. She desperately wanted Henry to think well of her, and now he was kindly disposed to her sorry tale of being a seller of honey cakes. But if he discovered she be a doxy? Although they needed them, Bellebelle knew well enough what men thought of whores: a vessel for their lust, like Morgaine had often said, to be used at will then discarded like an old wooden cup and tossed on the dungheap ’til the next time they needed a willing furrow to seed. One of her customers, a prosperous farmer from Kent, had told her he came to London only to seed her furrow. It had made her feel like that was all she was, a strip of dirt.
Bellebelle felt Henry watching her through half-closed lids. Even in the dim light of the flickering candle she recognized the look.
“Come here,” he said, patting a place beside him on the bed.
She walked over to the bed and sat down. Henry stroked her hair, winding a long black ringlet round and round his finger. For a long time he said nothing.
“What I remember most about you on the bridge was how easy it was to be with you, how effortless to talk to you. Everyone I know is always judging, weighing my words, looking for significance in everything I say.” He gave her a sideways glance. “Do you still see the fish?”
“No, me lord. Not for years now.”
“Henry, if you please.” He paused. “I’m surprised you never wed. You must have had many offers.”
Bellebelle shook her head. “After the hard life me mam led with a shiftless man—me father whom I never set eyes on—well, all I wanted was to get out of Southwark. Be me own mistress like.” She was amazed how easily the lies rolled off her tongue.
“God’s eyes! Spare me! You sound like my wife. Or my mother. A woman is never her own mistress. She always needs someone to guide and advise her, rescue her from harm, see she’s not gulled by some rogue.” Henry looked impatient. “But that appears to be something certain women refuse to acknowledge. In truth …” He smiled. “You know, you’re much too fair to be tramping about London selling cakes.”
“I doesn’t know about that.”
He ran a finger down her neck. “Well, I does. Has it ever occurred to you that your lot would probably be much easier if you were a whore, like your friend?”
Bellebelle looked away so she wouldn’t have to meet his eyes. “I doesn’t know. It be a hard life too. Ye—you—be scorned and outcast—like that dog in Holy Writ I heard tell about.”
“Pariah?”
“Aye, that be the word. Work in a brothel be like being in the Clinke, and the brothelmaster, the jailer. Ye—you—can’t come and go as you please, always having to wear—” She stopped abruptly.
“The Clinke?”
“A Southwark prison.”
“Go on. You were being very eloquent.” His voice was unexpectedly gentle. “I hadn’t realized how badly off such poor wretches are.”
“No more to say.” Bellebelle took a deep breath. “Tell me about your son.”
“My son, William?” Henry’s face broke into a ready smile. “I haven’t yet seen him. Think of it, Bellebelle, Louis of France was married to my wife for fourteen years and had only two daughters. After less than a year of marriage my beloved Eleanor gives me a son. What do you think of that, eh?”
“Ye must have a mighty hammer and anvil with which to forge sons, my lord,” she said, “and a willing wife to receive them into her belly.”
She was on the point of adding that Eleanor of Aquitaine was someone she had long admired, when Henry burst into a shout of laughter.
“Now there’s a bawdy wench! A mighty hammer and anvil, eh? I like that! By God, I’ve a good mind to show you myself.” He pulled her down on top of him in a great hug. “You’re right about my wife, though. Willing certainly. Also charming and beautiful and oh so loving. She sparkles like wine from the vineyards of Champagne. I’m going to tell you a secret. I have the feeling you can keep a secret, Belle. I love my wife dearly.”
Bellebelle stared at him, not understanding. Henry rolled her away from him and propped himself up on one elbow with a sigh.
“No, no, that’s not it. It’s more than love. I feel consumed by her, almost overwhelmed, as if—” He sighed again. “I think when people love too much they give up something of themselves, allowing someone to possess them. I’m putting it badly but it’s difficult to explain. Anyway, no one knows how I feel. Certainly not Eleanor. Not even my mother.”
Bellebelle felt a sharp prick in her heart, as if Henry had just plunged a knife into her breast. Of course he would love such a woman. It was only fitting, and she didn’t begrudge Eleanor the tiniest morsel of Henry’s love. Why then did she ache inside? Were it because no one had ever loved her like that and probably never would?
“But why doesn’t you tell her how you feel?” she asked finally. “Surely it would please her.”
“Indeed it would. Nothing would please her more. But it would also give her power over me. If you give away your power, people use it against you. Love is a dangerous weapon in the wrong hands.”
Bellebelle thought for a moment. She had only loved her mother and Morgaine, and a stray three-legged dog she fed for years. “But surely you can trust her not to harm you?”
“Can I? No one can be wholly trusted, Belle. Didn’t you once tell me you were raised on the streets of Southwark? I would’ve thought you had learned that as the first lesson of survival.”
Bellebelle, who never expected anything of anyone, could not think of what to say. Such matters never occurred to her. But considering it now—in truth, she neither trusted nor distrusted; you just accepted what was there and accommodated to it. That was how she had survived. How to explain that to him?
Henry was watching her, his eyes shiny with that same look of carnal lust she saw every day of her life. Strange. The lust never seemed to be connected with her even though it was released through her. Nor had she, herself, ever felt it—or met a whore who had. The whole idea of what men wanted and so eagerly sought remained something of a mystery. Vaguely disappointed and almost without thinking she rolled down her woollen stockings and pulled off her blue dress.
“How did you know I wanted you to do that?” Henry looked surprised. “I knew you couldn’t still be a virgin … not living in these parts and doing what you do.” He undid his belt, and laid the pouch on the floor.
She gave him a half-smile, making no objection when he slipped off her chemise.
“Trust,” he repeated, pulling off his hose and tunic. “It’s important to have someone close to you whom you can trust.” He rolled her over onto her back, almost as if he were thinking of something else, and, without preamble, slowly entered her. “Someone to confide in who isn’t involved in your ordinary life.” She winced at his size, larger than what she was used to. “Someone—am I hurting you? Sorry.” He slowed his pace. “Someone who is absolutely safe, who can cause you no harm, offer no threat.”
Bellebelle wondered if he wanted her to lie absolutely still, as some did, or move with him, or call him sweet names. Dare she interrupt his flow of words to ask? There were tricks she’d learned that would increase his pleasure but if she were too artful he might suspect. Best to do nothing at all.
“That cleric I met, Thomas, I’ve taken to him, but with a churchman …”—his breath quickened—“… you can never be wholly sure … and Eleanor … I always wonder … will she be more loyal to Aquitaine … than to me? Nothing is more … important … than loyalty.” Suddenly he spent his seed and his body sagged against hers. For a moment he was silent.
“Well,” Henry said, brisk again as he rolled off her. “That was sorely needed. It helps to air one’s thoughts.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “I must find my men. Poor Thomas will be beside himself with worry by now.”
He jumped off the bed and began pulling on his hose and tunic. “I have a proposition for you, Bellebelle. It saddens me to think of all the deprivations such a gentle creature as yourself must endure day after day. How would you like to stop selling honey cakes, leave these detestable lodgings, and belong entirely to me? Be at my disposal when and as needed.”
Bellebelle slipped on her chemise while she searched his face. Was he jesting? Could he be so cruel?
“I would like nothing so much,” she whispered, her heart in her mouth. “Do ye mean this, my lord?”
He sat down to pull on his boots. “Henry. I only say what I mean.” He winked. “But do I always mean what I say? In this case I do. Give me some time to arrange my affairs here. If I were already king it would be a simple matter but as I’m not—in any case leave it to me.” He leaned over and nuzzled her neck. “It won’t all be a bed of roses, you know. People who find out will call you the king’s whore. Revile you for that. Be jealous of you. Are you prepared to live with these thorns?”
“Oh yes. But your wife, the queen to be. What will—she say?” The idea that she might in any way cause Eleanor pain or sadness was like a heavy weight pressing against her chest. She would rather stay where she was.
“This has nothing whatsoever to do with Eleanor. Still, she must never know.” Henry gave her a stern look. “Never. And if you’re discreet she won’t. After all you’re not likely to move in the same circles, are you? However, eventually it might be best to move you out of London entirely.” He stood up and fastened his scruffy leather belt around his waist. “It behooves a king to have a mistress, you know. Or even more than one. A testimony to his manhood. My grandfather had upwards of twenty bastards.”
Bellebelle felt tears well up in her eyes. Henry, hardly pausing for breath, did not notice but strode to the door still talking.
“Can you be found here or in the tavern?” he asked, opening the door.
“Leave word at the tavern,” she said quickly as she pulled on her chemise.
Henry stormed through the doorway like a whirlwind and strode down the passage, never once looking back. She could hear him jump down the steps whistling a tavern tune. When he left, Bellebelle collapsed on the bed in a flood of tears. Was it really going to happen? Would she truly be free of whoring at last? She had once believed her dream of having a better life would be fulfilled in Gropecuntlane. Matters had not turned out as she expected. But this time—this time it seemed as if the dream were almost within her grasp. She wanted it so badly that she felt her heart would break into tiny splinters if she were denied it now.
On the other hand, how could she bring herself to do anything that might hurt her idol, Eleanor—who had saved her in the Lady Chapel at St. Mary Overie? But Henry does love her, she argued with herself. He doesn’t love me, he just wants me to listen and bed with him sometimes. What she has is much more precious. I’m not taking anything away from her.
Bellebelle suddenly thought of Hawke and caught her breath. How could she persuade him to let her go? Everything seemed against her—Suddenly she saw the pouch with the coins Henry had won.
Bellebelle looked for her cloak before remembering the cake-vendor still had it. She grabbed the pouch from the floor by the bed and dashed down the passage and staircase. Clad only in her chemise, she stepped out into the street. At the far end of Gropecuntlane a group of horsemen were just disappearing around the corner.
Voices raised in song echoed from the tavern. A drunken customer dressed only in shirt and hose lurched through the open door. A sudden gust of wind made her shiver; the tavern sign with its painted blue cock creaked back and forth on leather hinges. Three men darted out of a narrow alley and ran down the street chased by the watch shouting threats. From an upstairs window came the sound of a grunt followed by a squeal.
Bellebelle rubbed a hand over her still-wet eyes and stumbled back into the brothel-house. The entire evening felt so strange. Mayhap she’d only dreamed it. Only in dreams did a Southwark whore ever become mistress of the king of England.