THOMAS BECKET WAS HALFWAY out the door of the chancery before he remembered Bellebelle. “By the Mass, I knew there was something I’d left undone. That whore’s money!”
There was a startled silence in the chancery.
“Ah—which whore is that, my lord chancellor?”
“By the Mass, that’s very good. Which whore indeed.” Thomas gave a grim smile. “You may well ask, William. I intended to take care of it—” He slammed a thick sheaf of parchments against the oak table. “Well, mea culpa, there’s no help for it now. I must get to Southampton while the weather holds. If I don’t take ship for Normandy within the next few days I could be delayed for weeks by winter storms. The Bermondsey whore has not yet been paid this month, and—” He looked around the chancery. “I put the money down somewhere, intending—now where in God’s name did I put the wretched thing?”
One day, Thomas promised himself, one day he would tell Henry straight out exactly what he thought of his goatish behavior: the extra work it caused, the lies it required, not to mention all the stipends to be paid out.
“Is this what you’re looking for, my lord chancellor?” One of the clerks held up a calfskin bag clanking with coins.
“God be thanked, there it is. I must leave this in your hands, William.”
The secretary looked overwhelmed. “Yes, my lord chancellor, I understand, but we have so much work here today—I’m not sure I can do it until the end of the sennight.”
“Too late. It’s already overdue, and the king sets great store by that—creature.” Thomas swallowed an impatient sigh, forcing a smile. “In truth, I don’t see why you need take it to Bermondsey yourself—though it’s not a task can be given to just anyone, is it? Servants gossip like the plague and discretion is—Ah! I have it. A troop of the marshal’s knights have recently returned from the Welsh marches. I’ve seen a few just idling about, seemingly with little to occupy them. Get one of them to do it for you.”
“Of course, my lord chancellor, you can safely leave the matter to me.
Accompanied by William, Thomas left the chancery. Outside, his retinue was waiting with the saddled horses, three sumpter beasts, and two carts filled with all the documents and records needed for a traveling court, as well as his own personal belongings. He might be gone on progress through Henry’s domains for as long as six months—one never knew—and nothing must be left to chance.
“The money will be there today, William? I intend to tell the king as much.”
“Indeed, as God is my witness. A safe journey.”
William Fitz-Stephen was about to return to the chancery when he saw across the courtyard one of the marshal’s knights. On impulse he hailed him. This one would do as well as another. The man turned and limped toward him. Around his neck a silver medallion set with emeralds caught fire from the rising February sun.
“I wonder if I could impose upon you, sir—that is if you’re not on duty at the moment?”
“No. You’re the chancellor’s secretary, aren’t you? Vhat is it you vant?” The man spoke with a Flemish accent.
“It’s a favor for the chancellor.” William lowered his voice discreetly. “In truth, it’s really for the king—that is to say the queen. Would you ride over to Bermondsey with some money for his—Her Majesty’s—seamstress? We’re very pushed in the chancery just now, and I’d be most grateful. I’ll give you exact directions.”
The knight gave a gutteral laugh. “No need. I know the place, though I never saw this—seamstress. It’s in the next parish to Bermondsey, I believe. I accompanied the king there about a year ago—the chancellor vas there.” He winked. “Don’t vorry, I can hold my tongue.”
“Good. It’s a delicate matter …If you’ll give me a moment I’ll get the money. I’m much obliged to you.”
“No trouble. Alvays glad to be of service to the chancellor.”
A few moments later William returned with the bag of silver coins which he handed to the knight, who stuffed it into his tunic. “I’ll get my horse and leave at vonce. You vill be sure to tell the chancellor it vas I who did you this favor, yah?”
“Naturally—if you tell me your name.”
“De Burgh. Hans de Burgh.”
When the priory bells struck None, Bellebelle opened the door of her cottage and stepped out into the garden. The wolfhound, tied to a wooden post by a frayed rope when he was outside so he wouldn’t get after the chickens, was curled into a woolly gray circle. Seeing her, he thumped his tail on the hard ground.
Bellebelle turned her face up to the fading rays of sunlight before glancing down the path for a sign of Geoffrey returning from his lessons. Since he had turned four and was so big for his age, Bellebelle allowed him to walk the three leagues to and from the priory school by himself, but did not draw an easy breath until she saw his sturdy figure trudging home.
After a moment she saw her son running down the path toward her. She caught him in her arms and hugged him tightly before leading him inside the cottage.
“One of the boys said a two-headed calf was born in the next village,” Geoffrey said, removing his cap and cloak. “What do you think of that?” His eyes were round with wonder.
“Well, I never. Saw it himself, did he?”
“No. But he heard tell of it by someone who had. Is Father coming tonight?”
Bellebelle, cutting a chunk of wheaten bread from yesterday’s loaf, sighed. “Now Geoffrey, you know he still be gone on progress to the Cont—the Contin—”
“The Continent. I thought he might be back. How long does it take to travel through one’s domains? I miss him.”
“So do I, Son, but the king has lots of land to inspect. Could take a very long time. Con-ti-nent,” Bellebelle repeated. “Continent.” Her speech continued to improve but was still far from perfect.
It seemed like years since she had seen Henry, but in truth it was only the end of last August. She should be used to his long absences by now, but she wasn’t and knew she never would be. Bellebelle set steaming wooden bowls onto the table. It was the first day of Lent so they were having pickled herring, covered in a hot parsley sauce to hide the salty taste.
Geoffrey chatted about what had happened at the priory while Bellebelle listened, encouraging him to share his day with her.
When Henry was gone, her son’s company was the only thing she had to look forward to. Halfway through the meal there was a brisk knock at the door.
“Go see to it, Son. It must be the woodman come with more logs. We been running low.”
Geoffrey ran to the door; she could hear a low murmur of voices.
“It’s a knight from the chancery, Maman.”
“That be—is a relief. The money’s late this time.”
Bellebelle wiped damp hands on her brown kirtle. With a smile on her face she walked toward the door then stopped in her tracks. In the open doorway facing her, eyes blazing in a face the color of death, stood the man she most dreaded to see, her worst nightmare come to life.
The strange incident with the empress at Cherbourg had unforeseen consequences. That occurrence—or Eleanor supposed it was that—had unsettled Henry to the point where he came dangerously close to making a fatal error in judgment.
It was late February of the new year, 1159. She and Henry had left Cherbourg for Rouen, where they awaited the arrival of Thomas Becket who was to accompany them on their progression through Normandy, Anjou, and Aquitaine. Since the incident with young Henry and his mother, Henry had come to her bed nightly. Eleanor had discerned an inner tension in him, a mounting uneasiness against which he was seeking protection. Just the contact of her warm body seemed to calm and soothe him.
If Henry was unsettled, so was she, Eleanor realized. Again and again her mind would return to the entry in the Pipe Roll. The name Bellebelle continued to haunt her. She had known Henry was lying when he denied knowing any such person, an indication that there might be something special about Bellebelle. Perhaps she meant more to him than the other bawds he used. The possibility was like a dagger twisting inside her.
Hurt, angry, and not a little jealous, Eleanor’s natural impulse was to make an issue of it with Henry, and thus relieve her feelings. Yet another part of her held back. He was so preoccupied, and did she really want to know the truth? After all, Henry had not changed toward her in any way whatsoever. He was as loving, as tender as always. He obviously needed her. In the past, Eleanor had not allowed herself to be bothered by his other women, but then they had posed no threat. On the other hand, she agonized, it was inconceivable that some tavern wench or lowly village girl could pose a threat. Round and round her thoughts churned. She had no one to talk to, no one to advise her, no one to comfort her—as Henry had. If only they dared communicate truly with each other, give full vent to the doubts and fears that festered inside.
In the end, Eleanor decided to do and say nothing. Like Pandora’s box in the Greek fable she had heard about, it seemed wiser to leave well enough alone—for the moment. In any case, Henry’s bizarre announcement wiped everything else from her mind.
It occurred one morning in late February while they were in Rouen.
“We must start thinking about having young Henry crowned,” Henry said to Eleanor, without preamble.
Along with the empress and Earl Robert of Leicester, they stood on the banks of the Seine watching a crowd of workmen hoist wood plankings in the construction of a new bridge across the river.
It was such an extraordinary suggestion that Eleanor stared at him in amazement, noting out of the corner of her eye that his mother, suddenly pale, was gazing at him in a kind of horror. There had been no warning, no hint of any kind that such thoughts weighed upon his mind—unless—could his need to seek comfort from her be related in some way? It seemed impossible.
“He’s only four years of age—a bit young, and I don’t see the need, Sire,” said Earl Robert, who was due to leave for England to resume his post as co-justiciar as soon as the chancellor arrived.
“Not to mention the fact that you’re bursting with good health.” Eleanor could not understand what lay behind this astounding statement. But she knew Henry well enough to know that something drove him.
With a brooding expression on his face—one that had become increasingly familiar since the Christmas court—Henry gazed out at the brown water moving sluggishly under an iron-hued sky.
“It is never too soon to begin thinking about ensuring the succession,” Henry said. “The practice is common enough in France, and other places on the Continent.”
“This is not France, I’m thankful to say. You have three sons, Henry. The succession is secured.”
“I must agree with the queen,” de Beaumont said. “Such an action serves no purpose at this time, and has no precedent in England. As you are well aware, Stephen of Blois attempted to have Eustace crowned in his lifetime—without success. The archbishop of Canterbury absolutely refused, if you recall, despite Stephen’s threats. After all, Sire, where is the urgency? You are not yet twenty-six years of age!”
“Next month.” Henry turned to his mother. “What are your thoughts on the matter, Madam?”
“I have no thoughts on the matter,” she said in a terse voice.
Eleanor observed that Earl Robert kept stroking his short, pale beard or touching the hilt of his sword in an aimless manner, betraying some inner agitation. He and the Empress Maud avoided looking at each other. Something was afoot here, but what?
After a moment’s silence, Henry shrugged dismissively. “All right. Perhaps the decision was hasty. We can discuss the matter again when young Henry is older.”
Eleanor saw him make a visible effort to collect himself. “Well, de Beaumont.” Henry forced a smile. “What do you think of my plan regarding Toulouse?”
Henry appeared to have forgotten that, initially, Toulouse had been her plan. But then, like a great many ideas she had originated, Henry had adopted it as his own. At the moment, Eleanor thought it politic not to remind him.
“An excellent plan, Sire,” de Beaumont said, obviously relieved at this change of subject. “Of course, you will need to get King Louis’s agreement on a campaign there, since he is the count of Toulouse’s overlord, as well as your own.”
“Not too difficult.” Henry turned to Eleanor. “Didn’t you tell me Raymond of Toulouse abuses his wife, Louis’s sister?”
“It is common knowledge in Aquitaine.”
Leicester pursed his lips. “Unfortunately, the count’s wife is his property to treat as he will. Louis cannot interfere—officially, that is. Count Raymond is still the king of France’s vassal, and Louis is honor-bound to protect him from attack, just as he would you, Sire.”
“The matter of his sister aside, Louis and I are allies now,” Henry said. “Why would he contest this venture? Or take Count Raymond’s side against mine?” He shrugged impatiently. “Until I hear otherwise, when we get to Poitou I’ll start assembling an army.”
They continued to walk along the banks of the Seine. Whenever she thought of the impending campaign, Eleanor could hardly wait for it to start. It had been easy to convince Henry. His appetite for conquest remained unappeased no matter how much land he gobbled up. To regain control of Toulouse had been her family’s dream since before she was born, for it was the gateway to the south—Provence, Barcelona, the Mediterranean. Without it, Aquitaine was more vulnerable to her enemies; with it, the duchy was virtually impregnable. Furthermore, whether he gave her credit or not, she had suggested the campaign to Henry. Eleanor saw his response as a propitious sign, a sure indication they were joint comrades in all ventures. It took some of the sting out of the Bellebelle affair.
“I knew von day I’d find you,” said Hans de Burgh, stepping inside and closing the door. “Und now, at last, I have.”
It was the first time Bellebelle had ever heard him speak. Before her eyes he became another person: a cruel glitter appeared in his pale blue eyes; his lips stretched over his teeth into a mockery of a grin, reminding her of a death’s head. A scream died in her throat; her legs felt frozen to the floor.
Unable to find her voice, she put out a trembling hand to her son, who was staring at de Burgh as if he could not believe this was the same man who had been at the door.
Bellebelle gestured wildly. “Geoffrey—run—get help—quickly,” she managed to whisper.
“Stay vhere you are—Geoffrey is it? Your vhelp, yah?”
Geoffrey looked first at her then at de Burgh.
“Go, Son.”
Geoffrey made for the door. De Burgh grabbed him around the waist and held him fast. “I said stay.”
“Leave him be,” Bellebelle cried.
“Let me go.” Geoffrey tried to shake himself free but de Burgh only held him tighter. “You’re hurting me—stop.”
Released from his spell, Bellebelle flung herself at de Burgh and began to pummel his shoulder. He let go of Geoffrey, caught Bellebelle by her arm, and threw her to the ground with such force that for a moment she could not breathe. Geoffrey was out the door like a streak of lightning. De Burgh made no attempt to follow. His eyes were filled with a reddish glow, crazed with hate. They never left her face.
“Bitch. Filthy cunt,” he said, hissing between his teeth like a serpent. “Every step I take is like a knife in my hip because of you.” He rubbed a hand over his side. “You’ll pay for it. Oh yah, whore’s brat, you’ll pay.”
“You murdered my mother,” Bellebelle said, her voice rising. “First you tortured her and then you murdered her!”
“The cunt deserved it! She had the burning sickness. I could have died.”
De Burgh drew back his booted foot and kicked her in the hip. With a scream of pain she tried to scramble away but he blocked her path.
“The nights I’ve spent dreaming of this moment, thinking, planning all I vould do to you.” Slowly he drew out a short-bladed knife from the sheath that swung at his leather belt. “You remember vhat I did to your mother, yah? First I do that to you—” He chuckled, that same blood-chilling sound she remembered from the brothel-house in Southwark.
For the first time in years an image of her mother’s blood-stained body flashed before Bellebelle’s eyes. De Burgh came closer, impaling her upon his madman’s gaze so that once again she felt terror constrict her. He dropped down on one knee. With a quick thrust he slashed the bodice of her kirtle, then ripped it open, exposing her breasts. Suborned by the intensity of his hatred, she was powerless to move, her mind unable to function.
There was a low growl. De Burgh ignored it. Bellebelle twisted her head. Geoffrey stood in the doorway holding the wolfhound by the rope.
“You touch my mother and I’ll set Valiant on you. I’ve trained him to attack and he’ll do so at my command.”
De Burgh turned his head. The wolfhound bared its pointed teeth and snarled while Bellebelle hastened to her feet, clutching the torn pieces of her bodice together. Valiant had only attacked small game, but the Fleming wouldn’t know that. De Burgh’s arm, which had shot forward to stop her, hung poised in midair.
“Oh, Son. That—that be quick thinking,” said Bellebelle in a quivering voice, her chest heaving.
Geoffrey’s entrance had broken her bondage; she could think again. “But we need not set Valiant on this scum. He forgets who I—who we belong to. What you think the king’ll do if ought should happen to me?”
She saw the red haze of madness fade from de Burgh’s eyes. His jaw hung slack; his arm dropped; he rubbed a hand over his eyes and stared at her as if he had never seen her before—which in a way he hadn’t, Bellebelle realized.
“You mean—you are—Gott in Himmel, of course.” He signed himself. “I did not think—” He rose to his feet and reached inside his tunic. “Here.” He flung a pouch of coins onto the floor.
“Get out,” said Geoffrey. “Don’t ever come back. When I tell my father what you tried to do to my mother …”
De Burgh gave a shaky laugh. “Your mother passed you off as the son of a king? You could be a butcher’s bastard for all he knows, yah.” He eyed Bellebelle as if she were vermin to be put down. “I vonder now, does King Henry know vat you vere? That you tried to kill me?”
“O’ course he do,” she said quickly, too quickly, dropping her gaze.
De Burgh gave her a long speculative look, his composure gradually returning. “I suspect he knows nothing—and vhen he finds out, for I vill tell him, you can be sure of that—how long you think you vill last?” He snapped his fingers. “That long. He von’t care vhat happens to you. Then I’ll be back, yah. To finish vhat I started.”
“The king is gone, he’s on the Continent,” Geoffrey said, his face white, his gray eyes enormous.
“But he’ll be back. In time. I can vait.”
With an evil grin, de Burgh slid out the door, his eyes on the wolfhound. A few moments later Bellebelle heard the sound of horse’s hooves trotting away. Geoffrey ran to the door.
“He’s gone.”
Suddenly Bellebelle began to weep. Gone. How long would it be before her life with Henry was gone too?