Beloved Enemy (16 page)

“C’mere, girl.” Gilbert beckoned her.

She walked over to the table, trying not to shrink from the look of disappointed lechery reflected in nine pairs of eyes. Steeling herself, she cast an anxious sideways glance at the man who had won the right to break her maidenhead.

Suddenly Bellebelle felt giddy with relief. He was youngish, plump, with a ruddy face. The fur-lined cloak, black velvet tunic, and gold chain around his neck indicated to Bellebelle that he was prosperous. He gave her a timid smile which she returned.

Quickly slipping on her clothes, she left the room, anxious to tell her mother that the gentleman who won her seemed the kind that would be easy to please. In truth, Bellebelle realized in surprise, she was now actually looking forward to tomorrow night when her life as a working whore would begin at last.

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING ALL
the whores crowded into Bellebelle’s tiny chamber. Newly scrubbed, the cubicle contained a charcoal brazier, a wooden bed with a thick straw mattress, rickety stool, one bucket for slops, another for water, and a scarred wooden chest. It was the very first place that belonged entirely to her and she loved it.

The day was unusually mild for midwinter. Bellebelle, perched on the stool, watched Gytha lounging on the mattress in a white chemise and coarse wool stockings, sipping from a wooden cup of foaming ale. Since sun-up the whores had been telling tales of how they lost their maidenheads, and giving Bellebelle the benefit of their experience.

“Always vash your lower parts, yah, mit vite wine or fresh animal piss,” said a buxom whore newly arrived from Flanders.

“We drinks mostly ale here. Gilbert would never give us white wine. Anyways, vinegar and water be just as good. But I’ve taught the lass all that,” Gytha said. “What herbs to use and when. Belle don’t want to be caught out like I was with her.”

“Ye must always pretend to be pleased,” said a plump girl, Agnes, with a giggle, making a place for herself on the bed. “I often close me eyes and gasp loudly as if I would fair swoon away.”

“Some fools’ll believe anything.” Morgaine appeared in the doorway. “More important to beware of men as has a touch of the devil in them, look ye.” She crossed herself and then held up two fingers in the ancient sign to ward off evil.

“Like that funny customer who wanted to be whipped?” Bellebelle looked questioningly at her mother, shuddering at the memory of Gytha standing over the man, beating him with a soft calf whip which he himself had brought, while she fondled his private parts as he howled in pleasurable pain.

“No. T’weren’t no harm in him,” said Gytha, “nor the poor soul as had me put him in rusty leg irons ’afore he could do anything. But there be a few like to cause pain, though Gilbert don’t favor suchlike.”

Bellebelle knew that Gilbert’s establishment did not provide really hurtful practices as did some other brothels on the Bankside.

“Honest fornication, that’s what I be selling,” Gilbert often proclaimed with a righteous air. “None o’ those devilish perversions for me. I don’t ’old with children under twelve, boys o’ any age, nor nothing that draws blood. No heavy violence, says I, or out ye goes.”

“I seen that Londoner as won ye, and he don’t have an evil look. I asked me runes to be certain.” Morgaine smiled reassuringly at Bellebelle, who knew that the Welsh whore kept a wooden box of stones with strange markings on them similar to the blue necklace she wore.

The other whores crossed themselves upon hearing about the runes. Bellebelle did not know why they feared Morgaine and her magic stones. How was this different from the power they said lay in the crucifix?

“O’ course he might be one of those as wants ye to call him father or brother, or calls ye by the name of one of his sisters, or his mother,” Gytha said. “Daft in the head but t’ain’t no harm in them neither. Each to his own, says I.”

She giggled. “Morgaine, ye remember that funny old man who called us all Sister Mary and blessed us afterward?”

“The one turned out to be a country priest? I’ll not soon forget him.” Morgaine rolled her eyes. “We had to pray ’afore and after. Fair wore out my knees it did.”

“Then ’afore he left he tries to get us all to give up our sinful life,” Gytha said.

Morgaine snorted. “Give up our sinful life, says I? Why the bishop o’ these parts would fair starve if we was to do that. Who do ye think Gilbert pays his rents and license fees to? I asks. Bishop o’ Winchester, that’s who. They all be alike, them churchmen, preachin’ against sin with the one hand and collecting the wages of sin with the other.”

“Strangest one I ever had could only be pleasured if I stood naked ’afore him and wrung the neck of a chicken,” Gytha said, shaking her head in wonder. “Gilbert charged him double, to pay for the chicken, then sells the dead bird to the cookshop.”

The whores burst into laughter but Bellebelle felt sick to her stomach, hoping she would never have to hurt anyone as part of her duties—either man or bird. She enjoyed taking care of people, and liked to give pleasure, but she could not bear the thought of causing pain. Hopefully, the man who won her would want nothing unusual.

That night when the rich burgher from London, whose name was Jehan de Mornay, appeared, he was far more anxious than Bellebelle. When she stood naked before him, her flesh glowing in the light of a single candle, he stared at her as if caught in a spell. His hands trembled as they touched her budding breasts. Bellebelle, who had been steeling herself for a rougher assault, felt surprised—and relieved—at how gentle he was. He spent a long time examining her body and caressing it, before finally entering her.

She was prepared; he was slow and careful, but still it was painful, more painful than she had expected, and Bellebelle could not keep from crying out when he broke her maidenhead. Moments later he spilled his seed. Thank the Holy Mother, it was over. Jehan seemed embarrassed by the blood-spattered sheets and distressed at Bellebelle’s obvious discomfort. She was grateful he was so concerned, and when he left without making another attempt, she wept with relief.

When Jehan had gone, she washed herself with the vinegar and water Gytha had provided for her. Bellebelle quite liked Jehan but the whole business, despite all her knowledge, was far worse than she had imagined. How could the whores endure it night after night, year after year?

“Mustn’t grumble, lass,” said Morgaine later, applying a healing ointment to Bellebelle’s afflicted parts. “I knows ye hated it, but it could’ve been even worse, look ye. The tales I could tell—” she shook her head and crossed herself. “St. Mary Magdalene watches out for whores and she was with ye tonight.”

The other whores assured her she would get used to it and not even think about what was happening. But Gytha cried and cried, then drank herself into a dead faint. Bellebelle spent the rest of the night holding her mother in her arms.

To the envy and amazement of the whores, Jehan de Mornay arranged with Gilbert that Bellebelle should be his private doxy while he was in London. Neither Gytha nor Morgaine, the queens of the brothel, had ever received such an offer. Gytha was torn between fits of jealousy and bursts of pride. Bellebelle accepted her good fortune as a matter of course. After all, she had dreamed of something like this happening, and now it was coming true. She saw it as the first step in realizing her plan of getting out of Southwark.

Despite the civil war that continued to rage between King Stephen and his cousin, the Empress Maud, Jehan’s business interests often took him across the Channel to Normandy and Paris. When he was gone, Bellebelle was free to accept other customers—which she did only when Gilbert forced her. While Jehan was in London he came to Southwark two or three times a sennight, bringing her a continuous stream of gifts.

For the first time in her life Bellebelle had new clothes, not an old gown cast off by either her mother or one of the other whores. Her first new gown was of pale cream sendal with long flowing sleeves to wear under a blue wool tunic bordered in red and green around the hem. It was very fashionable in Paris, Jehan explained, where Queen Eleanor set the style. In addition, he bought her gold and black leather shoes, white woolen stockings, a gold brooch set with seed pearls, and a black cloak striped in red, the hood and inner lining covered with gray squirrel fur. Never in her life had she seen anything so wondrous. When Bellebelle was alone she sometimes stroked the fur as if the animal were still alive.

In addition to gifts, Jehan also brought her news of the world across the Channel.

“There have been serious disturbances in Outremer. Pope Eugenius III dictated a bull urging King Louis and all his faithful vassals to protect Eastern Christendom from possible infidel attack,” he told her one night in early March. “The Holy Father promises them remission for their sins. It is said Louis will go to appease God, who has failed to grant him a son. In a hundred and fifty years of Capet rule there has always been a male heir.”

“What sins could he have committed that God would not grant him a son?” Bellebelle gave him a puzzled look. They were sitting on her bed eating roast chestnuts which Jehan had brought her from London.

Jehan shrugged. “Despite his reputation for saintliness, King Louis is far from being a saint—in my opinion. Take the affair of the queen’s sister, Petronilla, and Ralph of Vermandois, for example.” He clucked disapprovingly. “Surely you have heard? It was the talk of Paris.”

“I doesn’t remember. What happened?”

Jehan settled himself more comfortably on the bed. “Ralph was married to the sister of the count of Champagne. A very powerful lord. He persuaded three bishops to annul the marriage—with Louis’s connivance it is said—so he could wed Petronilla. The enraged count of Champagne appealed to the pope, who not only excommunicated the adulterous pair, but Louis as well!”

Bellebelle nodded. She had heard about excommunication from Morgaine. “So that be why he must appease God?”

Jehan threw a dried-up chestnut across the chamber. “In part. It gets worse. Goaded, so they say, by Queen Eleanor, to take action against the count of Champagne, Louis invaded the count’s lands, and set fire to the houses and huts in the town of Vitry.” Jehan’s voice dropped to a hush. “Thirteen thousand inhabitants fled into the sanctuary of the cathedral, but the flames spread to the roof, which caught fire. All those trapped inside perished.” He crossed himself.

Bellebelle gasped aloud. “How horrible! Poor souls. No wonder the king wants to make amends.”

Jehan sighed. “Louis has fallen into a deep melancholy, I hear. Mortifies his flesh and will not eat. Apparently impressed with this evidence of true remorse, the pope has just granted Louis a full pardon and restored him to the bosom of the Church.”

“Do the Franks hold this against him?”

Jehan shook his head. “The French love Louis. In truth, everyone blames Louis’s queen, Eleanor of Aquitaine. If she had not backed her sister’s sinful cause, people say, none of this would have happened. There’s vicious gossip against her, especially from the Church, who has always hated her from the day she married Louis.”

Bellebelle popped a chestnut into her mouth. “Why does they hate her?”

“The prelates say she influences Louis against them, and behaves in a manner unbecoming to the wife of a reigning monarch.”

Bellebelle felt a spurt of sympathy for this French queen, who was not the only one having difficulties with the Church. After all, Morgaine was always in trouble with the priest at St. Mary’s. “What do the Church object to? Besides the—the affair of her sister.”

“What don’t they object to! The most recent example is the queen’s desire to join the crusade—if it ever occurs. She has threatened to prevent her vassals in Aquitaine from going—which, as duchess, is her right—if she cannot go too. It’s the talk of Paris.”

“Has you seen her? What do she look like?” Bellebelle bit into another chestnut.

“Beautiful beyond belief.” Jehan kissed his fingers. “With the face of an angel, a body to match, and the presence of—of the queen that she is. Louis makes a poor show beside her.” He went on to describe Eleanor in glowing detail.

Bellebelle, who could tell that Jehan, though disapproving, greatly admired the French queen, was stunned by his words. She was unable to imagine a woman who had so much power she could get her own way with men. It was men who ruled the world; women counted for nothing.

“The Frankish barons and the Church also resent the fact that Eleanor is duchess of Aquitaine in her own right,” Jehan continued. “So much power should not be in the hands of a woman, they say.”

Bellebelle shook her head. “I doesn’t understand. If Mary can be the Queen of Heaven in—in her own right, like you said, what be wrong with Eleanor being duchess?”

Jehan chuckled. “It seems logical if you look at it that way, but don’t let the priests hear you.”

Bellebelle sighed. How she would love to meet this fascinating and strong-minded queen! Impossible, of course. But even knowing that somewhere such a woman existed was a kind of comfort.

From then on, whenever Bellebelle prayed to the Holy Virgin, an image of Eleanor of Aquitaine, as Jehan had described her, always appeared in her mind. The French queen became like her very own magic stone, a protection against the fears and evil of the only world she knew.

O
NE SUNNY AFTERNOON IN
March of the year 1145, Eleanor was lounging in her solar in the refurbished Cité Palace. Her ladies were clustered around her while an Aquitainian troubadour sang a
jot d’amour.

The steward entered with the news that Bernard of Clairvaux had arrived at the palace and requested an audience with her.

“I don’t wish to see him,” she said with a twinge of unease. “Make my excuses. Conduct him to the king instead. He is sure to be in the chapel.”

The steward bowed and left.

Eleanor hoped he would hold firm to her instructions. The Cistercian monk was quite capable of persisting until he got his way. He did not recognize obstacles, she had observed, only challenges to be overcome. What could Bernard want with her this time? It was probably to do with the pope’s intention to recapture Eastern Christendom from the infidel. The Holy Father was preaching another crusade and urging the Franks to take a leading role. Eleanor had told Louis that if he would not let her go, she would refuse to let the Aquitainian knights take part. The interfering abbé had no doubt got wind of this. Sometimes she wondered if he had spies listening at doors all over Europe.