Beloved Enemy (13 page)

“Ye’ll find out quick enough, young master, if there be one egg cracked or a hen hurt. Stop that fighting at once or—” Anson broke off and listened intently. “What be that noise?”

There was the sound of many hoofbeats coming up swiftly behind them. Henry sat up. All he could see was a great cloud of dust.

“Must be enemy troops,” William said, peering into the distance. “Certainly not my father’s men this close to London. Jesu, suppose they stop us?”

“Suppose they do?” Henry rubbed his aching nose. “We’re just farm boys going to market. Why would we interest Stephen’s troops?”

“Now I told ye lads what to do if we be stopped,” Anson said quickly. “Keep down in the straw and mayhap ye won’t be seen.”

A few moments later a large troop of Flemish mercenaries came up directly behind the cart. Anson pulled at the reins and the horse swerved sharply off the road. Henry and William sank into the straw while the troop trotted past. One of the soldiers at the end of the column slowed and rode up alongside the cart.

“Vat ye got here, old man?” He had a thick Flemish accent.

“Just eggs, cheese, and chickens to sell at market in London, good sir,” said Anson.

Henry could hear the tremor of fear in his voice.

“Yah? Und this?” The soldier had removed his sword from its scabbard and parted the straw. “Are these lads for sale too?”

A few of his companions chuckled. To Henry’s horror the soldier deliberately lifted his sword high and brought the point slowly down toward William, who, petrified, reminded Henry of a rabbit looking at a stoat.

He sat up and glared at the soldier. “Stop that. You might hurt him.”

“Listen to the cockerel crow!” The soldier gave him a wolfish grin. “Yah, I might hurt him—and vat vould you do about it?”

The sword continued down, missed William’s leg by no more than an inch it seemed to Henry, passed through the wooden cage, and speared a chicken, who squawked loudly then abruptly stopped as the sword went through its innards.

The soldiers laughed uproariously while their companion withdrew his sword, wiped off the blood on William’s jerkin, and returned it to his scabbard.

“Be thankful it vasn’t you, little cockerel,” he said to Henry.

The troop passed in a flurry of dust. Anson steered the horse and cart back onto the road. “By me faith, God was watching out for us,” he said in a trembling voice. “Gave me a fair turn that did. If we wasn’t so close to London I’d turn back, I would. Master William, ye no be harmed?”

“He’s fine,” Henry said, noting that William was incapable of speech. Flecks of blood dotted the straw and were splattered over the chickens, who screeched to high heaven. “I’ll see you’re reimbursed for that chicken, Anson.”

The only reply was a grunt.

Henry looked at his cousin in concern. A smear of crimson stained his tan jerkin; his face was the color of new cream. He looked as if he were fighting back tears.

“Whoreson Flemish pigs.” Henry gnawed his lip in frustration.

The king had imported the Flemish mercenaries and their captain, William of Ypres, from Flanders, to help fight the Angevin forces. Henry knew from his mother and uncle that they were considered little better than animals, hated and feared by both sides.

“One day I’ll make them sorry,” he said.

William suddenly turned and began to throw up over his side of the cart. Henry, pretending not to notice, looked intently at a turreted manor house clothed in ivy, then a wooden cottage with a roof of thatched reeds.

The Fleming’s taunt, “little cockerel,” echoed mockingly in his ears. How he would have liked to retort in kind, even run the bastard through if he’d had a sword. Sometimes it seemed like he would be ten years old forever, that he could not grow up fast enough. God’s eyes! One day he would be taken seriously. One day, nobody would dare to mock him. The first thing he would do when he became king of England was get rid of such filthy scum as the Flemings.

When
he became king, he repeated to himself like a talisman, not even allowing himself to think,
if.
From as far back as Henry could remember, he had known he would inherit his father’s counties of Anjou and Maine, and fall heir to his mother’s crown in England and her duchy of Normandy: twin legacies passed on to her by her father, the late King Henry.

If there were any justice in this world, his mother would be on the throne this very moment. Her father had forced his magnates to swear homage to her and honor her as queen after his death. What the nobles had done instead was to allow his mother’s scheming cousin, Stephen of Blois, to usurp the throne at the king’s death. More than half the loyal barons broke their sworn oath and crowned Stephen king.

Henry, only two at the time, had been unable to grasp the far-reaching implications of what had occurred. But his heart had understood only too well that his safe and well-ordered world, as well as everyone’s around him, had been turned upside down. For the next few years, bewildered and upset, he had witnessed his mother veer between anguish and icy rage, his father storm angrily about the castle, swearing vengeance. Everyone had trusted and loved Stephen of Blois, his uncle Robert had said again and again. The result of Stephen’s betrayal had made a searing impression, one that Henry knew would mark him for life.

From that moment on, Henry was well aware that he had never fully trusted, nor taken for granted, anything or anyone—except his mother and father, of course. Behind a loving friend who swore the most sacred oath, there might well hide a treacherous heart. Nor had he forgotten the pain of being separated from his parents when, four years ago, his mother had sailed to England to reclaim her throne, and his father had set off to capture Normandy from Stephen’s forces. Fortunately his father had sent for him in Angers, and the last year had been spent in Rouen before sailing to England to join his mother.

His father had made good headway; Normandy was almost recaptured. But in England the civil war between King Stephen and his mother still raged like a pestilence, with never an end in sight.

A brisk wind sprang up, ruffling the straw in the cart. The road dipped, leaving the wooded hills behind. In the distance Henry caught another glimpse of the Thames and a huge tower.

“That’s Westminster,” said William, pointing. His face, though still pale, was now composed.

“You’re—feeling better?”

“Yes. Fine. Thank you for—for trying to help.” Embarrassed, he slid his eyes away. “I hope I would have done—that is to say, had the courage to do the same.”

Henry felt a glow of pride at this unaccustomed praise from his older cousin. It lessened some of the guilt he felt for having brought about the situation. He could just hear his father: “If you’d thought about the consequences in the first place you wouldn’t have needlessly endangered three lives.”

The road suddenly dropped again. Below, mill wheels turned in a small river that flowed into the Thames. Farther on a wooden bridge led to a gate in the city’s walls. Henry caught a sweeping view over the massive walls of the city and into the teeming thicket of chimneys and houses. A variety of sounds assailed his ears: the guards shouting on top of the walls, the throngs at the gates clamoring for entrance into London.

Old Anson crossed the bridge, skirted the city wall, and took a lane to the left that led to open ground. The bells from all the churches in London rang the call to Terce as he pulled the cart to a stop.

“This be the market site o’ Smithfield,” he said. “It be as far as I go. If ye want to get into the city ye’ll have to walk through Aldergate there on ye own.” He pointed some distance away. “I’ll sell me produce and be ready to leave no later than Nones. Ye be back by then and we’ll return to Wallingford. By Nones, mind. And be careful in London.”

Henry and William jumped down from the cart. By the time they reached Aldergate they found themselves amid a great crowd of people, horses, and carts. His heart pounding with excitement, Henry looked up at the eighteen-foot-high walls and the double swinging doors of heavy oak, reinforced with iron. Surmounting the gateway was a blood-stained human head fixed upon a pike. Ravens clustered about the eyeless face.

“Is this a sample of the king’s justice?” Henry could not help repress a shudder.

“More likely his Flemish captain’s. Stephen’s too soft for any real justice.” William looked warily around them. “Do you stay close to me. I’m familiar with London and can show you the sights. On your own you won’t know where to go and are sure to get lost.”

They passed through the gates and entered the city. The street they were on, fully ten feet across, Henry marveled, led to Newgate Street, William told him, and St. Paul’s churchyard where a great cathedral was still undergoing construction. Henry, trying not to gawk at everything he saw, wondered if it would be completed by the time he became king. The air, smelling of fish, ale, wool, and dried leather, was intoxicating.

They turned down another street and followed an alley that led to the quays. The haunting calls of the boatmen, shrill cries of eel-wives selling their wares on the bridge, had a strange, almost magical sound that stirred Henry’s blood. My city, he thought. This is my city.

“Here’s a public cookshop,” William said. They stopped and bought a cone of roast chestnuts and two ham-and-eel pasties.

Munching on their pasties Henry and William wandered about the quay. Both upstream and down, Henry could see row upon row of docks and wharves where burly seamen, coarse smocks pulled up over their belts, loaded and unloaded cargo from moored ships.

William pointed in a lordly gesture. “These boats sail to and from Nantes, Flanders, Normandy. Even the Levant. You have to admit, Cousin, both Anjou and Normandy are mere backwaters compared to London.”

Henry merely grunted, unwilling to state how impressed he was, but relieved that William seemed quite his old superior self again.

“We’ll have time to cross London Bridge before meeting Old Anson at Smithfield,” William said.

Just as they stepped onto the bridge a band of youths ran past pursued by a group of soldiers. Henry was knocked to his knees. By the time everyone had rushed by, Henry’s chestnuts were scattered over the ground and William had vanished. A group of small, ragged urchins swarmed over the wooden planks, scrambling to pick up the fallen chestnuts. His hose torn, his blue jerkin muddied, Henry picked himself up. At least he still had his pasty.

There was such a press of people coming and going across the bridge that Henry was swept up in the crowd. He was almost halfway across before he was able to stop and catch his breath. Still no sign of William. Obviously his cousin had been pushed one way and he another. Should he go look for him? No. William boasted of his familiarity with the city; he was bound to be fine. Henry would ask the way back to Smithfield when the time came and all would be well. In truth, it was far more exciting to be on his own.

He took another bite of his pasty and leaned over the wooden railing. A sharp river wind brushed his hair and blew salt spray into his face. Suddenly he felt someone sidle up beside him. Henry turned his head. Standing next to him was a girl. She looked to be his own age as far as he could tell. A faded yellow gown, much too big for her, hung on her skinny frame; her face was streaked with soot and her hair was a jungle of thick black curls. She also smelled strongly of spoiled fish, sour ale, and even more unpleasant odors. Henry moved away from her, but she didn’t seem to notice as she stared intently at the swirling muddy waters below.

“Look there! Quick! Do ye see him?”

“See who?”

“That great silver fish. Long as me arm he be with big green eyes.”

Henry peered into the water. “I don’t see any fish. It’s too muddy to see any. Furthermore, I never even heard of a fish that looks like that.”

“Well, he be there right enough. If ye knows how to look.”

Her garbled speech, different from any he’d heard, was barely understandable, her voice harsh to the ear with a kind of lilt to it.

“Is this your idea of a jest?” He gave her a suspicious glance. “I don’t believe any such fish exists so don’t try to tell me somebody caught one.” He took another bite of his pasty.

“Ooh no. Ye could never catch him. He just be there to look at.” Her eyes followed his hand.

“Are you hungry?”

She nodded and he handed her the eel-and-ham pasty.

She almost snatched it from his hands, rewarding him with a smile. Immediately her face was transformed. Now Henry was aware of enormous dark blue eyes and little white teeth. Under the soot and grime he imagined she might look quite pleasing. He watched while she took a dainty bite.

“Ooh, grand that be,” she said, gravy dribbling down her chin.

“I’m glad you like it.” He paused. “My name is Henry. I’m visiting my mother here in England.”

“Don’t ye have no father then?”

“Of course I have a father. Everyone has a father.”

She stared at him in silence for a moment. “Where ye father be?”

“In Rouen at the moment. He’s count of Anjou but acting as duke in Normandy—until I can take over for him.” He stole a glance to see how she reacted to this.

The girl nodded and took another bite of the pasty. “Normandy. Where’s that then?”

“Across the Channel. Near France.”

“I hears tell of France. Ye been there?”

“No.” Henry paused. “But I met the French queen.”

“Ye never!”

“By God’s eyes, I did! I even gave her flowers.”

She stared at him, her enormous blue eyes glowing with admiration. “Be she—beautiful like they all says?”

Henry, who only remembered an overall impression of loveliness, smiled. “Indeed.”

She sighed. “Ye be here for long?”

“Not too long. My father relies on me, you know.”

She nodded again and handed him back the pasty with dirty fingers, the nails caked with mud. “I knows right off ye wasn’t from London, o’ course, but I never met no foreign person before. That must be why ye talks so funny-like. I be named Bellebelle.”

Henry swallowed, pleased that she accepted everything he said without question. “You can keep the pasty. I’m not hungry. What an odd name.”