ON AN EVENING IN mid-March, two months after she had met Henry again, Bellebelle walked down the street toward the Blue Cock. Business was slow tonight and when the bells rang for Compline, she had decided her working day was over. Bellebelle had made it a point to visit the tavern every night after her last customer was gone, to see if Henry had left word for her. Hawke had not objected, when she told him she was trying to solicit customers. She would tell him the same tonight—if he should catch her there.
About to enter the tavern, Bellebelle came to an abrupt stop. Through the open door she could see the beak-nosed cleric Henry had called Thomas sitting at one of the tables. He seemed to be alone, at least Henry wasn’t with him as far as she could tell. Was the cleric waiting for her?
If the cleric saw her in her striped cloak he would at once know the truth about her. Bellebelle quickly slipped off her cloak and hid it behind the wooden post used for tethering horses.
The moment the cleric saw her enter he beckoned with an impatient finger.
Her heart thumping, Bellebelle threaded her way around the dicing players in the middle of the floor, and pushed past the drinkers at the counter.
“I’ve been waiting for you. No cakes tonight?” the cleric asked with a dark unblinking stare.
“I—I sold them all. Left me tray at the cookshop.”
“My lord duke of Normandy asked me to find you. He’s very busy at the moment and soon returns to Rouen, but he has not forgotten you and, in fact, has made arrangements for your future welfare.”
The cleric’s disapproving expression, the scornful note in his voice made it all too clear what he thought of these “arrangements.”
Speechless, Bellebelle nodded.
“I’ve found temporary lodgings for you in a decent quarter of London near St.-Martin-le-Grand. If you can be ready the day after tomorrow, someone will be waiting for you at the tavern by Nones.”
So Henry had not forgotten about her! Filled with joy, she even wanted to throw her arms around the cleric.
“Yes,” she said. “I be ready.”
The cleric rose to his feet, towering over her like a thin black crow. “It is a great honor for someone such as yourself to become the paramour of a future king. I hope you realize your good fortune and will conduct yourself accordingly.”
“I do,” she whispered. “Oh I do, Father, and I be ever so grateful. Please tell Henry—the duke what I said.”
“I’m an archdeacon, not a priest. My name is Thomas Becket.”
Bellebelle wondered what she should call him.
The cleric gave her a curt nod, then handed her a buckskin pouch jangling with coins. “Should you need to provide yourself with anything—”
“I still has the money Henry won,” Bellebelle said. “He left it behind but I saved it all for him. Every penny.”
“Very commendable, I’m sure. Nevertheless, my lord duke wanted you to have this. Are there any questions?”
She shook her head. The cleric gave her another look that made her feel less than the dirt beneath his feet, then walked out without a backward glance.
“Who gave you leave to come here?” The sound of Hawke’s voice made Bellebelle jump. She hid the bag of coins behind her back.
“No customers since Vespers. I thought I—might find one here. Like I been doing. You didn’t say anything before.”
“No, and I haven’t seen any customers either, and you been here most every night.” He paused. “But looks like you did well for yourself just now.” Hawke pulled at his chin. “That churchman do look familiar. I knows I seen him somewhere before. You servicing him later tonight, Belle?”
“No.”
It was not surprising that Hawke should be in the tavern; he came almost every night. It was just her ill fortune that he should have seen her encounter with the cleric.
“What’d he want then?”
“He—he wanted to know if there be boys at the brothel. Then—then he quick changed his mind.” It wasn’t true, of course, but if the cleric had visited the brothel Bellebelle felt certain he would have asked for a boy.
Hawke spat on the floor. “Them clerics! Full of the same unnatural vices as the rest of us but hiding their sins behind their cassocks. Makes me fair sick it does.” He paused and shook his head. “Can’t place where I seen him, but I knows I have. A tankard of ale might perk up me wits.” He gave her a sharp glance. “Go on then, get back to the house. You never know who might turn up, even this late. I’ll be along shortly.”
He went up to the long counter and Bellebelle quickly left the tavern, retrieving her cloak outside. How was she going to tell Hawke she was leaving? She didn’t dare say that the future king of England would be providing for her. For one thing Hawke probably wouldn’t believe her but if he did, there be no telling what he would do. In order not to lose her services, Hawke might see to it that Henry learned the truth about her whoring—which could easily destroy this one chance of escape. Not that Hawke hadn’t been fair with her over the years. He had been. But he was first and foremost a man of business and wouldn’t want to forfeit the money she brought him.
Bellebelle decided to pray to the Holy Virgin/Eleanor—still one and the same in her head—and ask for guidance.
When she reached the safety of her chamber and lit the candles, Bellebelle sat on the bed and, pulling the drawstring of the bag, poured a handful of shining silver coins on to the faded coverlet. Holy Mary, this was more money than she had ever seen in her life. This, combined with Henry’s winnings—She gasped. The answer lay right in front of her. Mary/Eleanor had guided her without even being asked.
There came a knock at the door. Quickly she gathered up the coins and dropped them back into the bag, sliding it under the coverlet.
“Bellabella, mia cara,” called a voice through the door.
It was the Italian scribe from the Temple who often came late in the evening. The thought of his pounding away at her, crying out to Santa Maria in the heat of his lust, plus the overpowering stink of garlic, made her flesh crawl. As of this moment she was no longer a whore and the sooner everyone found out the better.
“I be unwell,” Bellebelle called out. “Get another whore tonight.” When she had her courses she refused to service anyone. Now she held her breath.
The scribe shouted a stream of Italian—it sounded like curses—then stomped off down the passage.
A short while later, without any warning, Hawke burst into the chamber. “What pig’s piss is this about being unwell? You been with customers all day. Signor Luigi, he’s very upset. He’s a good, steady one, Belle, and I won’t have his nose put out of joint.”
When Hawke was disgruntled his scar seemed to quiver like a crimson snake. He walked over to the bed, hands on hips, and glared down at her.
“He’s not the only one complained today either. That vintner from Charing, he says you didn’t look interested when he showed hisself to you. I had my work cut out to calm him down.”
The vintner from Charing, who only wanted to abuse himself in front of her, demanded that she watch him every second as if she enjoyed it.
“I seen him so many times how can I keeps on pretending I enjoys it? Especially when I doesn’t.”
“Because he’s paying you, girl, that’s why, and don’t you forget it. You’re not his judge, Belle, and whether you enjoys it or not got nothing to do with anything. Business is business.” Hawke gave her an exasperated look. “What’s got into you lately? Your mind not on your work these days, and that’s a fact.”
“I—I has other things to think about.”
“Such as what? I’m losing patience, girl. I’m going to tell Signor Luigi you’re ready now and it was all a big mistake. When he comes you apologize, hear?”
Trembling, Bellebelle got to her feet. “No. No more customers, Hawke. I—I be leaving.”
Hawke gave an incredulous laugh. “Leaving? Are you daft? To go where? This be the best brothel in the city.”
“I know.” Bellebelle took a deep breath. “I—I got me a steady customer who wants to set me up private-like.”
“Who? Why didn’t he ask me? You’re my property and you can’t go nowheres without my leave.” Hawke unbuckled the heavy leather belt studded with silver that he always wore around his ample girth. “You be lying to me, girl, I can always tell. Now, I never touched you, has I? Not once in all the time you been here. But, by Christ, I’ll beats the truth out of you if I has to.”
Bellebelle backed away. “I not be lying, I swears it. There do be someone who wants me to belong only to him.”
Hawke lifted the belt, then brought it down so that it fell within a hair’s breadth of her shoulder, hitting the floor instead. Terrified, she thought her heart would stop, and held her hands out in front of her in a placating gesture.
“Hawke, please—”
“The truth, Belle.” Hawke lifted the belt again then slashed it directly across her hip.
She screamed; the sharp bite of the studded leather cut right through her gown and chemise into her flesh. It burned like fire. If he continued to beat her, her body might be so marked that Henry would become suspicious. That mustn’t happen.
“All right! It’s the king.”
Hawke, his arm raised, slowly let it fall. “King? What king you mean?”
“He not be king yet. Duke Henry of Normandy.”
Hawke eyed her suspiciously. “Better not lie to me, girl, I’m warning you.”
Bellebelle turned, ran to the bed, and snatched the pouch from beneath the coverlet.
“Here. I be going to give this to ye—you—anyways to make up for me leaving. You can see I not be lying.” With shaking fingers she held out the pouch.
Dropping the belt to the floor, Hawke grabbed the pouch and examined its contents. “By Christ, someone wants you mighty bad that be for sure.” His voice had changed.
For a long moment Hawke stared at her, the candlelight casting shadows across the hairless head and puckered face. Then he snapped his fingers.
“That cleric I saw you with be Thomas Becket, archbishop’s deacon. Now I remember. They do say he’s to be the next king’s chancellor. It’s all beginning to come together. Well, well, who’d a thought it, eh?”
He bent to pick up his belt and, holding the pouch in his teeth, buckled it round his middle. “You should have told me right away, Belle. Where’d you meet Duke Henry of Normandy? I never seen him here.”
She told him about her first meeting with Henry on the bridge, how they had met in the tavern, and she had sneaked him into the brothel.
“That be the whole tale, I swears it.” Bellebelle gave Hawke an apprehensive look. “But you won’t tell him, will you?”
Hawke didn’t say anything. She could see him turning the matter over in his head, wondering what would best serve his interests. Bellebelle felt the sweat gather under her arms. After a long pause, during which she felt her life hang in the balance, he slowly shook his head. She almost wept with relief.
“Well, you’re a sly one all right, and that’s a fact. It not be in my interests to tell the duke about you. It be more in my interests to have you become his private doxy.”
She frowned. “But then you lose me services.”
“Use your wits, girl. While she lasts, a duke’s—or king’s—whore be a person of consequence. When you comes back here I can sell you for more. A lot more.”
“But I never coming back!”
Hawke gave her a pitying look. “Don’t be daft. How long you think Duke Henry’s going to stay interested in one tart? You smarter than that, Belle. You better pray King Stephen dies soon, that’s all I got to say. The sooner the duke becomes king, the better for you.”
Bellebelle stared at him. Henry wouldn’t tire of her. He might amuse himself with other whores, as all men did, but he would always come back to her, she’d make sure of that.
“You be a good girl, Belle, never caused me no trouble, and I like you,” Hawke continued, “so’s I’ll give you some advice.”
Bellebelle wanted to shut her ears to anything else he might have to say.
“May be the duke wouldn’t like you being a whore, but lying to him be worse. Men don’t like to be lied to, see, makes them feel like fools, like someone took advantage of them. One day the duke’ll find out. No telling what he do then. But you tell him straight out, see, and you’ll last longer. Now that’s a fact.”
Bellebelle smiled. She had no intention of telling Henry anything about her past.
Hawke held up the pouch of coins. “I’ll take half for my trouble in replacing you. You best keep the rest in case you gets asked why you spent so much so fast with nothing to show for it.”
There was no reason to tell Hawke she still had Henry’s winnings. Bellebelle watched while he poured a third of the coins onto the bed. “Take that with you. The other third I’ll put aside for you when you comes back.” He paused. “If you still got your looks, o’ course, and not be infected. You might need the money then. Can’t say fairer than that, now can I?”
Bellebelle walked with him to the door. “I won’t need the money, Hawke,” she said. He was going to let her go without trouble and she felt dizzy with gratitude. “Or ever have to come back, because Henry says he’ll take care of me. But I’ll never forgets you letting me go like this.”
Hawke shook his head. “Too trusting by half, Belle, that’s your trouble.” His wintery eyes warmed for an instant. One hand lightly brushed her shoulder in a gesture that was not quite affection. “Money’ll be here when you needs it—and you will.”
He left, closing the door softly behind him. In the next chamber someone started laughing. The sound of drunken singing wafted up from the street. A door banged shut. Hawke was wrong, Bellebelle thought. She felt lightheaded, her spirits flown with confidence. She would never need Hawke or the brothel or the money ever, ever again.