THOMAS BECKET, HAVING ACCOMPANIED Henry to Bermondsey and seen him settled in for a day or two with the minor whore, returned to London. He arrived shortly after Vespers, in time for a late supper. In his mind he always referred to Bellebelle as the minor whore, to distinguish her from Eleanor, who was the major whore. The other whores Henry used Thomas dismissed as temporary conveniences, like the necessary woman who emptied the chamber pots. On the whole he preferred the minor whore. She was compliant, submissive, and knew her place.
When Thomas entered his private quarters at the chancery, his secretary was there to greet him, as well as his body servant and a page.
“A pleasant journey, my lord chancellor?” his secretary inquired.
“I would hardly call a visit to a bawd’s house—even a royal bawd’s house—pleasant.”
“No, my lord, I only meant—”
“I know what you meant, William.”
Thomas smiled. To be addressed as “my lord” never failed to send a frisson of enjoyment down his spine. “Are there many guests tonight?”
“The hall is packed to overflowing.” The secretary paused. “The queen is here. She heard that some missives had arrived from Aquitaine and had not been sent to her—despite repeated requests. So she came herself.”
Thomas stopped in the process of discarding his riding clothes. “The queen is here? Now?”
“I put her in an antechamber to await your return.”
The body servant helped Thomas don a silk shirt of a pale gold color, while the page held up a silver mirror.
“By the Mass, does the queen imagine I exist solely to be at her beck and call? That every time a missive or two arrives from Aquitaine I’m meant to drop everything and rush over to Tower Royal to put them personally into her hands?” He gave the secretary an accusing stare, as if he were to blame. “Does she think I have nothing better to do than pay court to the puffed-up idea of her own self-importance?”
He knew he was working himself up into a state of self-righteous indignation but chose to continue. “Is the woman unaware of the difficulties of my office? The endless work, the worry, the plots and snares connived at by my rivals?” If someone had asked him about the specifics of these plots and snares he would have been unable to supply any details, but he felt certain they existed.
Thomas remained motionless while his servant slipped over his head a long red tunic embroidered with the golden lions of Anjou—to match the shirt—then his red hood and mantle.
“Sometimes, William,” he said to the secretary, “my life is so wearisome that I would gladly give up the vexations of court life and retire to an abbey.” He sighed. “To think there are those who envy me! If they only knew …” Facile tears sprang to his eyes.
“Indeed, my lord chancellor, but think of all the good you accomplish. Without your help, the administration would fall to ruin. Without your help, how would the king ever have brought peace to England?”
The secretary’s words soothed him as Thomas remembered the first hectic year of Henry’s reign, when together—sometimes, unfortunately, accompanied by the queen—they had subdued an unruly kingdom, divided in its loyalties, torn asunder by nineteen years of strife and bloodshed. Never would he forget the burned villages, the folk dying daily of starvation, once-prosperous men reduced to begging in order to survive.
Week after week, from dawn until far into the night, Thomas had followed the young king to remote castles, far-flung abbeys, and walled towns, covering the length and breadth of the English realm. It was said that no other ruler, not even the Conqueror himself, had ridden as far and wide as Henry had done, and still did for that matter. Not one corner of the kingdom was neglected, Thomas could attest to that. Wary at first, the country had eventually welcomed their new master; even the powerful magnates who had done as they pleased under Stephen had been brought to heel, forced to acknowledge the presence of a truly strong king.
Over one thousand unlicensed castles had been torn down, the Flemish mercenaries banished, criminals punished, men wrongfully dispossessed reinstated to their manors. The roads were safe again; folk no longer needed to lock their doors at night; cattle and sheep grazed in peace.
“Henry Secundus is a mighty king, who sees justice done,” men said of him.
It gave Thomas an intense feeling of satisfaction and pride to realize what a significant contribution he had made in creating this happy state of affairs. He and Henry were as well suited to one another as a hand that fits perfectly into a leather gauntlet.
“Oh yes, my lord chancellor, I almost forgot,” said William. “Word came from Canterbury. The archbishop wishes to see you—when you can be spared from your duties, of course.”
With a twinge of guilt, Thomas sat on an embroidered stool while the page and body servant pulled on red boots of soft Spanish leather. He had ignored several summons by Theobald in recent months. It was just that he was so busy he simply couldn’t find the time to make the five-hour ride to Canterbury. In truth, Thomas knew that was not the only reason. Theobald had more or less planted him as a spy in Henry’s administration. After three years he no longer felt like Theobald’s man but Henry’s. It created a certain awkwardness between himself and his former master.
“Write the archbishop that I will visit him as soon as may be, always his devoted son et al—you know the form, William.”
“Yes. The queen, my lord chancellor …”
“The queen can wait. No one asked her to come.”
Thomas looked down at the new boots, aware that Theobald would not approve of them. Perhaps the summons was to chastise him. I realize this is not the way a cleric would ordinarily dress, he argued in his head with an invisible Theobald, but it befits my station as chancellor of England. What about your abundantly stocked stables, well-equipped ships, luxurious chancery, and nobly born pages—like the one now struggling with your boot? echoed Theobald’s reproving voice. It does honor to the Church, Your Grace. And to yourself, my son? Thomas could not deny that. It flattered him that so many great families fought to place their sons in his dignified and elegant household so that they might learn courtesy and manners. Some even tried to bribe members of his household to recommend their children.
“I must find time to visit Theobald,” he said aloud. “He wasn’t at all well last time I saw him.”
There was a knock on the door. William opened it a crack then turned to Thomas. “A page. The queen is aware you have returned and wants to know how long you intend to keep her waiting.”
All thought of Theobald vanished. Thomas flushed at the rebuke, glancing at himself in the silver mirror held up by the page, not displeased by the gold-and-scarlet reflection that shimmered back at him.
“Now. I will see the wretched woman now.” He sighed. “Bring me the dispatches.”
When he arrived at the antechamber, Eleanor, accompanied by two Poitevin equerries, was pacing up and down. She was sumptuously dressed, as usual, in a dark blue cloak lined with gray fur, over a crimson tunic bordered in green and blue. She carried a pair of leather gloves in one hand. Her face—which, against all nature, seemed to grow lovelier with each passing year—was taut with suppressed anger. Thomas was not surprised. He had deliberately kept her waiting; the insult was not lost on her.
“I understand you returned from Bermondsey an hour ago. Do you know how long I’ve been kept waiting?” she asked in an icy voice.
“Alas, I was not told of your arrival, Madam,” Thomas said, shutting the door behind him. It was an obvious lie and would not fool her. But he did not care.
“Not told? What a slovenly household you run, Master Thomas. Who would have thought it?” The queen looked him up and down with no attempt to conceal her outrage—or dislike. “Where are my missives from Aquitaine? I know you received them some time ago.”
Thomas felt the heat rise to his face. Did she have a spy in his household? Arrogant Aquitainian whore! She had the tongue of a viper. “Only a few days. My secretary is bringing them now. Perhaps you will tell me what they contain? If any concern the king’s business …”
“You will be the first to know.”
William entered the chamber and handed the dispatches to Thomas who handed them to Eleanor. Without looking at them, she gave the sealed squares of parchment to one of the equerries, pulled her cloak tightly about her shoulders, slipped on the furred gloves, and walked to the door. The equerries followed.
“Did the king say when he would return?” She asked over her shoulder.
“No, Madam. But he should not be gone long. A day or two at the most.”
Eleanor opened the door. “Some business in Bermondsey?”
“Business? You could say that, Madam. Indeed, that would be one way of putting it.”
For a moment Thomas saw her hesitate, sorely tempted to ask more questions. Then she strode out without a backward glance. Let her wonder what Henry was up to, Thomas thought spitefully. Had he dared he would have dropped even less subtle hints. His hatred of the queen, which grew stronger with each passing year, sometimes caused him to behave without his usual circumspection. Any disquiet he could cause Eleanor filled him with satisfaction, and he had to guard himself whenever he was around her.
Sometimes Thomas felt that he and the queen were in a perpetual clash of arms, two champions in the lists, each parrying and thrusting in an effort to outdo the other and win the prize—Henry. He had just won the last bout.
Repressing the unwanted thought that his behavior smacked of childishness and was unworthy, Thomas paused at the entrance to his hall. Filled as usual with visiting dignitaries, guests, as well as his own staff, he gazed with pleasure at the elaborate tapestries, brick hearth and chimney, the fresh straw laid down daily so that those who could find nowhere else to sit might repose comfortably on the floor without spoiling their clothes.
Knowing all eyes were upon him, Thomas strode majestically through the crowd until he came to the high table, laid with gold and silver plate, savory dishes, and fine wines from Bordeaux and Gascony. He seated himself in the center of the table. While others indulged their appetites, Thomas ate sparingly of roast wildfowl and pickled salmon. Ecclesiastics were not permitted to eat any four-footed creature. Unlike many a gluttonous priest, Thomas followed that rule to the letter. While others drank heartily of ruby wine and brown ale, he sipped only boiled water flavored with fresh mint. Aware that he was the center of attention—as well he should be—Thomas made a great show of how abstemious he was. What did it matter if people whispered in corners that his life was unsuitable for an ecclesiastic—even one in minor orders; that his show of wealth and magnificence indicated an inappropriate worldliness.
He, Thomas Becket, was the second man in the realm, next to the king, and he intended no man should forget it. In time, perhaps, few would remember that he had been poor Thomas of West Cheap, a hard-working cleric of modest origins. Once dependent upon the bounty of great nobles and powerful churchmen, these men were now dependent upon him! Truly, it illustrated the teaching of the Gospel.
Later, after his guests had left or retired for the night, Thomas dismissed his secretary and attendants, then withdrew to the privacy of his own chamber where only a monk in black cassock and sandals awaited him. In his hands the brother held a supple green birch rod; Thomas felt the monk’s gaze on him while he removed his mantle, tunic, and gold shirt. When he had stripped to his drawers, he knelt shivering on the cold tiled floor. The monk handed him a silver crucifix which Thomas held pressed to his lips, while under his breath he began to recite the first of thirty penitential psalms.
Bowing his back, Thomas tensed for the first blow. When it struck, like a flame searing his shoulders, he felt a bolt of sensation, an agony that was almost pleasurable, shoot through his whole body. While this ordeal was not something he enjoyed as such, Thomas had spent so many years subjugating his true feelings while he followed the orders of the great and powerful that these beatings often provided a new, heightened awareness of himself. Any sensation that he allowed himself to experience—even pain or hatred—was better than constant repression. Thus Thomas subjected himself to this ritual at least three times a sennight. He deemed the chastisement necessary, for he knew himself guilty of the sins of pride, of believing himself superior to other men, of excessive worldliness in his enjoyment of luxury, of not loving God sufficiently, of never having felt His presence—defects of character he quite readily gave up to his confessor.
But the main reason he endured flagellation was the secret sin he had deeply buried, never confessed, barely even acknowledged to himself: his passion for Henry; his need to battle the queen and take her place in Henry’s heart—a need he did not understand, and one that, au fond, filled him with horror. Depraved and shameful in Thomas’s own eyes, his unnatural longing, this compelling drive, must be scourged from him. Only then would God show Himself to him, the most unworthy of His servants.
That same night after Henry had bedded her, Bellebelle lay next to him staring up at the oaken beams of the ceiling. Over the years she had managed to suppress the incident concerning her mother. But all day, to her dismay, she had been reliving every grim detail of her struggle with de Burgh in the Southwark brothel-house, her midnight flight through the twisted alleys of Southwark to St. Mary Overie, and only half-listening to Henry, who, propped up on one elbow, was describing his recent adventures with his usual gusto.
It never failed to surprise her that Henry seemed to prefer talking to bedding her, actually expecting her to listen and discuss matters with him, something no customer had ever asked of her.
Henry commented frequently on the current state of the realm, his desire to see justice done, his constant troubles with France, his less-frequent problems with unruly Aquitaine. Most often, however, especially since the death of his first-born son, William, six months ago, he talked of his family: his mother in Normandy, his rebellious brother in Anjou who was demanding that Henry turn the county over to him per their father’s will, and, unceasingly, Eleanor.
Bellebelle could never hear enough about Henry’s queen and their growing brood of children. She thought a lot about Geoffrey’s two half-brothers and sister. How she wished her son could meet the elder son, Henry, born three years ago, the only girl, Matilda, and the younger boy, Richard, born a year ago, in 1157.
Tonight, however, she felt so preoccupied that it was an effort to listen to Henry.
“… knew I was right about him.”
“Who?” She had totally lost the sense of what he was saying. Something about Louis of France. Bellebelle forced herself to listen.
“You haven’t been paying attention. I was telling you about my latest triumphs.”
“Over Louis of France. Yes, I were listening.”
“Was listening. I told everyone he would have a daughter with that Castilian wife, and now he has.”
“Why be that a triumph for you?”
“Is. Ah, you may well ask. I intend to marry my son Henry to that daughter, Marguerite, I think they call her. Now if Louis will only continue to produce daughters, my son will one day rule both France and England. Think of that, Belle! In June I plan to send Thomas to France to make an official offer for the girl.”
Bellebelle managed a smile. “Be—is there another triumph?”
“Another—ah, so you were listening. Yes, I’ve finally subdued the Welsh barons.”
Welsh. Bellebelle thought immediately of Morgaine and touched the necklace of blue stones which she still wore faithfully.
“I’m hardly a novice at warfare, Belle,” Henry said, “but I’ve never seen anything like the Welsh. They never heard of rules or chivalry, won’t fight on level ground, and prefer to cut off their enemies’ heads rather than hold them for ransom.” He shook his head. “But a truce has finally been declared, thank God. I doubt I or my troops would survive another campaign.”
When Henry talked of war and fighting she wondered why a Fleming like de Burgh was still in England. Despite the risk involved in asking such a question she had to know.
“When you fight a … a campaign, does … do you still have the Flemings?” She tried to make her voice sound as if she were only mildly interested.
In the glow of a single candle Bellebelle could see a puzzled look cross Henry’s face.
“What a question! Of course not. I got rid of all that scum during the first year of my reign just as I told you I would on the bridge in London. What made you think of the Flemings?”
Bellebelle’s throat felt dry and she hesitated. Unless she said she recognized de Burgh, she would never know the reason he had not been banished. His presence threatened not only her whole new world, but perhaps her very life; she had to know. Heart pounding, she took a deep breath.
“I thought as I recognized someone in your party from me days selling honey cakes in the tavern. No one I knows, mind, just someone as used to come into the tavern to—to play dice and drink ale. He—was supposed to be a Fleming.”
“You must be mistaken. There are no Flemings in my entourage.” Henry fixed her with one of his unblinking stares that made her feel all trembly inside. “What man do you refer to?”
“The fair bearded one who wore the silver medallion inlaid with all them emeralds.”
“The fair man with the silver—oh, you must mean the one that’s slightly crippled—I can’t think of his name just now.” He paused, frowning. “By God’s eyes, you’re right, you know, he is a Fleming. Half anyway. His mother is of good Norman stock, I hear, and her family are distant relations of my marshal of England.” Another pause. “Yes, I remember now that John—he’s the marshal—interceded on this man’s behalf. Very convincingly as I recall. As a result, I didn’t banish him with all the others. I’ve never even spoken to—I think his name’s de Bragh or de Brugh, something like that—he’s just one of the marshal’s knights. In fact, this is the first time he’s accompanied me.” Henry continued to watch her intently. “What a memory you have. This man must have made quite an impression for you to remember him all these years.”
Bellebelle squirmed under his close scrutiny, hiding her fear behind a crooked smile. “It were—was—the silver medallion with all them green stones.”
“It certainly is distinctive.” Henry yawned, blew out the candle, rolled over on his back, and within moments appeared to have fallen asleep.
Trembling, Bellebelle let out a long breath. Now, at least, she knew why the Fleming was still in England, and even half-remembered her customer, Ralph, saying something about de Burgh being part Norman. The danger however was just as real. If he continued to travel with Henry’s entourage, then sooner or later he would be sure to recognize her and tell Henry what she had done to him. Henry might see that she had acted to save her mother, and not hold that against her, but her life in the Bankside brothel and then at Gropecuntlane would be sure to come out. How would he feel about the mother of his beloved Geoffrey having been a whore?
“Is something on your mind, Belle? You seem troubled, unlike yourself.”
Henry’s sleepy voice startled her.
She hesitated. Now was the moment to speak out but the words caught in her throat. “I be fine. Tired.”
“Then God rest you, poppet.”
“God rest you, Henry,” she whispered.
Her heart beat so fiercely she was sure he must hear it. Carefully she turned over on her side. You could never tell with Henry. Sometimes she felt as if he had eyes in the back of his head that could see right through her. Bellebelle understood him well enough to know that he wouldn’t like her lying to him over the years. There was no telling how he would take it. Unless she avoided de Burgh, he was sure to find out. For a time, perhaps, she might be able to stay out of the Fleming’s sight. But one day …