Beloved Enemy (18 page)

Other members of Louis’s council looked at Eleanor askance and muttered among themselves.

They were all gathered in Louis’s council chamber on a cold day in February in the year 1146.

“Either I—and my women, of course—accompany you on this pilgrimage, Louis, or I will forbid the Aquitainian knights from joining you, just as I warned you I would. They will listen to me, and you cannot force them with threats and punishments as you did in Poitiers.”

Louis paled, as he always did when she mentioned what he had done in Poitiers. He sent Abbé Suger an imploring look. The abbé, whom Eleanor knew disapproved of the pope’s venture, no longer made the slightest effort to hide his dislike and distrust of her.

“Such a journey is most ill-advised, Madam. I do not think Louis should go. What will become of France if he is killed or maimed? As for yourself—”

“I’ve decided to go, Louis,” Eleanor said, ignoring Abbé Suger. “If you persist in your objections, you are aware of the consequences. Let me remind everyone here that many noble women were present on the first crusade. Even today the roads of Aquitaine are always thronged with pilgrims en route to Compostela, many of whom are women. My grandfather himself told me that the Margravine Ida of Austria raised her own troops and rode at their head.”

The council members looked at each other in dismay.

“I believe she was lost during the massacre,” said Abbé Suger. “It is something to think upon.”

The Troubadour had said Ida was captured by a powerful sultan and disappeared into his harem, a far more romantic fate.

Several days later Louis told her his council and the Church had reluctantly agreed to her joining them.

Eleanor herself went to Aquitaine to gather those knights and ladies she intended to take with her, and to appoint a loyal vassal who would manage affairs in her absence. In the duchy she was surprised by unexpected resistance from several of her chief vassals, who reminded her that their fathers and grandfathers had considered the first crusade a destructive venture: lands had been mortgaged to raise money and more men had died than returned. Why then should they risk their lives for strangers?

Eleanor finally persuaded a number of her barons to participate. Still there was only a half-hearted response, not only from the southerners but the French vassals as well. Solidly behind the crusade and worried by the lack of volunteers, the pope sent an urgent appeal to Bernard of Clairvaux, who agreed to speak at an open assembly in the hillside town of Vezelay in Burgundy on the thirty-first of March. The news brought such a multitude that a platform had to be set up outside the church so that everyone could hear him. Looking frailer than ever, the redoubtable Bernard addressed the huge crowd in a voice of thunder, urging everyone to forget their personal differences and unite against the infidel to free the Holy Land.

“All sins will be forgiven,” he cried. “There will be an everlasting reward in heaven for those who take up the cross.” Next to him lay a huge pile of red felt crosses. Bernard held one up. “A red cross on his tunic will be the sign of the crusader.”

There was a great roar of approval from the crowd. Louis, overcome with religious fervor, fell weeping to his knees and prostrated himself before the Cistercian monk. Eleanor, moved despite herself, also vowed to take the cross.

Bernard raised skeptical brows. “I have noticed you are most pious, Madam, when your own interests happen to coincide with those of Holy Church.”

After receiving her cross, Eleanor and several of her more daring companions vanished from the hillside. They returned some hours later. Astride white horses, dressed in crimson boots and white tunics, bright red crosses prominently displayed across one breast, they created a sensation. Swords held aloft, they galloped through the crowd, exhorting the faint of heart to follow God’s call. There was little the shocked Bernard could do as a host of recruits fell all over themselves to take the cross.

Soon the entire crowd of barons, knights, churchmen, and humble folk were clamoring to get their crosses. The sun had set and darkness fallen, but still the people came.

Originally intended to begin in the spring of 1147, the crusade was delayed by enormously complicated preparations: taxes had to be raised all over Europe to pay for the gigantic enterprise; decisions made as to whether to travel by land or sea.

It was June of 1147 before the great host finally assembled at the Abbey of St. Denis outside Paris. Pope Eugenius III himself was there to invoke God’s blessing upon the crusaders. As far as the eye could see there was a vast army of knights from Brittainy, Burgundy, Normandy, Paris, and Champagne, as well as Eleanor’s vassal knights from Aquitaine. Foot soldiers had been gathered from every hamlet, town, and farm. In addition there were bishops, chaplains, barefoot pilgrims, beggars, and even felons, all hoping for salvation. Strings of horses led an endless train of arms, armor, catapults, battering rams, and movable towers. Wagons groaned under the weight of food and pavilions.

Eleanor was aware that men looked with disapproval at the huge numbers of her own retinue of lady companions, their maids, and troubadours; not to mention the vast array of carts to hold chests of bedding, robes, gowns, jewels, cooking and washing utensils, barrels of Gascon wine, and other necessities Eleanor had insisted they could not do without. Even pet falcons, strapped to their mistresses’ wrists, had not been forgotten, despite Bernard’s specific injunction not to bring them.

“Do you intend to loose the falcons against the infidel,” asked Abbé Suger pointedly, “while the troubadours lull the enemy into submission?”

Eleanor disdained to answer, relieved that the abbé would be left in France, managing the realm in Louis’s absence. Despite the many complaints about her entourage and the vast amount of baggage, Eleanor had no intention of letting anyone spoil this journey. Filled with anticipation, she felt certain she was setting forth on a glorious adventure; one destined to change her life.

T
O EVERYONE’S SURPRISE, JEHAN
de Mornay remained Bellebelle’s faithful customer. The whores said his devotion wouldn’t last, but three years after breaking her maidenhead, he still came regularly to the brothel-house. He had taken no steps to remove her from the Bankside but then again she had not dared to raise the issue—and probably never would. She was only sixteen or seventeen—no one knew for sure—with many good years still left her, said Gytha.

One afternoon in mid-July, Morgaine and Bellebelle crossed the river into the city of London. They had persuaded Gilbert to let them have a few hours off and after much grumbling he had agreed, provided they were back to service the evening customers. The air was cool, the day filled with sunshine, the sky a clear blue dotted with puffs of white cloud.

Bellebelle sauntered slowly across the bridge, dressed in a blue-and-white striped cloak over a new rose-colored gown that Jehan had brought her, a small leather bag of coins tied round her waist underneath her chemise. A group of youths were out on the river tilting in small boats. She was reminded of the boy, Henry, she had met so long ago, and wondered, as she had so often before, what had happened to him. She paused for a moment to look over the railing but the fish was nowhere to be seen.

Morgaine grabbed her hand, hurrying her along, only slowing when they reached the Strand. Bellebelle, who had not been in London for almost a year, was amazed at the number of open stalls and taverns lining the streets. At least twice as many as she remembered. There was so much more to see now that her eyes hardly knew where to look first. Red-cheeked citizens, after a brief glance at their striped cloaks, good-naturedly jostled Bellebelle and Morgaine aside to stand in line at the public cookshop which sold coarse meats as well as quail and pheasant.

Caught up in the air of excitement, Morgaine and Bellebelle visited the stalls, eagerly eyeing bolts of wool and silk, leather boots from Spain, strings of onions and garlic from Brittainy.

“Ye’d never think there be a war going on,” Bellebelle said. “Not here in London leastways.”

Morgaine nodded. “It do be like Gilbert say. War or no war, some things goes on no matter what. Trade, food, and whoring.”

By the admiring looks cast in her direction, Bellebelle was sure that, except for the striped cloak, no one would ever guess she was a whore, especially one from the Bankside stews.

“Come on now. We don’t want to run out of time.”

To Bellebelle’s surprise, Morgaine seemed to have a particular destination in mind, darting down one twisted street after another. Finally she asked for directions and they came to a narrow lane.

“This be it. Gropecuntlane.”

“Why we here?”

“It do be the home of a famous brothel, not like Gilbert’s place and them rotten stews.” Morgaine’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “Different type whores work here.”

“How different?”

“Well, the girls would ’ave better conditions to work in, wouldn’t they? Only service rich or noble clients, I suppose, which means ye earn more money. All like Jehan only better.”

They started slowly walking down the lane, which grew wider as they approached a row of tall wooden houses smeared with black, red, and blue paint.

Morgaine pointed out a wooden house with closed blue shutters that looked like a private dwelling, yet was different in some way from its neighbors. Down the lane stood a tavern with a freshly painted sign picturing a crowned blue cock. Next to the tavern was a cookshop, wreathed in a haze of smoke. Compared to Gilbert’s brothel and the Bankside this area looked less dirty and not as dangerous.

“Look! That must be it.” Morgaine nudged Bellebelle in the ribs. “What would ye say to working in such a place? That’d be grand, eh? A lass as looks like you wouldn’t have no trouble finding work here. Shall we go in and have us a look round?”

Bellebelle stared at her in disbelief.

Morgaine laughed. “Cat got ye tongue?”

“How could I leave me mam? Ye know how she be needing me.”

“O’ course I does,” Morgaine said in a soothing voice. “We just be seeing what it be like, look ye, that’s all. Not a word to Gil or ye mam, but I be trying for a way to get ye out of Gilbert’s stew, Belle. I knows ye been wanting that for donkey’s years.” Morgaine shot her a quick glance. “When the right time comes, I mean.”

Church bells rang the hour of Nones.

“Didn’t know it be so late. We must be off now, Belle.”

All the way across the bridge, Bellebelle could think of nothing but Gropecuntlane. The idea of servicing only noble or wealthy clients like Jehan, in pleasant surroundings, opened up a whole new world. Her head buzzed with the possibilities. If a whore worked hard in such a place she might be able to make a lot of money, save some of it, and leave the brothel before she became too old or worn out. If she could find a way to take Gytha with her, find a small place to live out of Southwark … her dream of bettering herself suddenly seemed within reach.

“Gilbert’ll take a stick to us,” Morgaine said, practically running now. “We best hurry.”

Bellebelle’s heart sank. She’d forgotten about Gilbert. He would never, never allow her to leave. He owned her as he did all the other whores. She remembered the chilling tale Gytha had once told her about a doxy who tried to leave the brothel-house. Gilbert had caught her and beat her so cruelly she was marked for life. The poor drab could no longer work and was thrown out into the street to beg for her daily bread.

They reached the brothel just as the sun began to set. The tavern next door was already filled with the sound of drunken laughter and curses. Bellebelle noticed five horses being watched by grooms in livery.

When they entered the brothel-house, Gilbert grabbed Bellebelle and fairly shoved her up the stairs.

“Why you been gone so long, eh?” he asked, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Well, never mind that now. Got a party o’ knights drinking in the tavern. A Fleming be with them, seems to be in charge. Ordered a fine supper from the cookshop, and then called for five o’ me best whores. Ye both be needed. Look sharp now, girls, and make your self’s ready.”

This evening there was an unusual air of excitement about the brothel. In the passage upstairs, the whores, dressed in clean chemises, could hardly conceal their eagerness, except for Gytha, who was already in her cups and oblivious to what was going on.

The whore from Flanders followed Bellebelle into her cubicle while she hurriedly removed her cloak, gown, and bag of coins. When she was clad only in the oat-colored chemise, she splashed water on her face from the cauldron.

“Your mam’s been svilling ale all day, yah. She be getting vorse, Belle, like she don’t care no more if she be alive or dead.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I caught her vashing herself out three and four times today with vater and vinegar, and scratching herself like a bitch mit fleas. You know vat dat means !”

Bellebelle looked at her in horror. The burning sickness! Each whore dreaded it, lived in constant fear of it, and knew that its onset meant the end of her life as a whore—if she got caught—or, in some instances, an early death.

Bellebelle had no time to question her further. There came the sound of bawdy laughter at the bottom of the stairs and she barely had time to arrange her hair, pinch her cheeks to make them look redder, and smile in the foolish way customers seemed to expect.

Her heart pounding, Bellebelle stepped out the door.

Gilbert, carrying a lighted torch, was puffing up the stairs. Of the five men who followed him, only one caught Bellebelle’s attention. Around his neck he wore a silver chain from which hung a large silver medallion set with five green stones that blazed with fire in the torchlight. His fixed smile and dead eyes made Bellebelle feel sick to her belly. Beside her the Flanders whore gasped.

“Meine Gott!
It’s him—”

Bellebelle could see she had gone pale under the painted crimson of her cheeks. “Who?”

“Dat von—dat Fleming—” She pointed a fearful finger at the man with the silver medallion. “I know dat devil in Bruges. Varn whoever—”