Beloved Enemy (45 page)

“The Lady Eleanor will not like this,” Thomas felt bound to say.

“Why should she object? You will hardly be at the duke’s side as a representative of Holy Church, which, I agree, she would not like. You will be a member of the new king’s administration, like his marshall or his chamberlain. You will ride with him, hunt with him, accompany him on such misadventures as last night—it was this escapade, in fact, which decided me. It should be an easy matter to insinuate your way into his confidence, inspire his trust, guide his decisions, and counter all undesirable influences.”

Theobald blithely rolled these off as if they were talleys or revenues rather than the daunting challenges Thomas knew them to be. He was again tempted to tell the archbishop of the hostility between himself and the future queen but held his tongue. Such a revelation might prompt Theobald to change his mind and recommend someone else for chancellor. Here was his chance to leap into prominence and show the world what he could do. He had no intention of losing this golden opportunity.

“Your Grace, I will endeavor to serve Holy Church to the best of my abilities.”

“As you have demonstrated time and again.” Theobald patted him on the arm.

Still in a pleasurable state of shock, Thomas withdrew. He could hardly wait to see the expression on Roger de Pont l’Évêque’s face when he heard the news.

When Thomas left, Theobald sank exhausted onto his chair, then passed a trembling hand over his veined forehead. Had he made the right decision? One that would truly serve Holy Church? He had acted on some deep instinct, sensing the empathy between the duke and his archdeacon at the council meeting last night.

Becket was a model of efficiency with a fine legal turn of mind and modest eloquence. In addition, the man had risen well above his humble beginnings and was anxious to better himself. He shouldered responsibility with ease; kept the Commandments, and prayed conscientiously. What more could one ask? But at the back of Theobald’s mind lurked a faint reservation. Was it the hastiness of his decision? Or something more deep-seated? In truth, something had always disturbed him about Thomas. What was it? His overly formal manner? The reserve that kept others at arm’s length? The sense that he always held himself under a tight rein? Perhaps all of these.

The answer eluded him and Theobald closed his eyes with a weary sigh. Although Stephen was still nominally king, in Theobald’s mind Henry’s monarchy had already begun. It was now that all the pieces on the board must be set in place so that there would be a smooth transition from one reign to the next. He and Henry had privately discussed various nobles to occupy the principal posts in the new administration, and had already decided as co-justiciars, Robert of Leicester and Richard de Lucy, both holdovers from the last reign. John the Marshal, whose grandfather and father before him had also been marshals of England, was another one. But until that moment in the council when he had seen the spark ignite between the duke and his archdeacon he had never thought of Thomas Becket as chancellor.

The post did not officially rank as importantly as chief justiciar, who represented the king when he was absent. Even the posts of constable, marshal, steward, and chamberlain stood higher than that of chancellor of England. But that position held the greatest potential of power. The chancellor was the king’s personal assistant and secretary, always at his side. Privy to all decisions. For an ambitious man there was no limit to the influence he might wield.

Becket was the perfect man for the post in every way, Theobald argued with himself. Then why was he questioning his own judgment? He sat up straighter. Of course. The truth was that though he trusted Thomas, was fond of him, and relied upon his judgment, the archdeacon’s true character, complex, remote, had always eluded him. And though scrupulous in abiding by the rules, he was not a man who served God for love of Him. Yes, he had it now.

Unlike some of his other deacons, Theobald knew Thomas to be chaste—not, he now suspected, because he was in minor orders and had taken a vow of chastity—but because his essentially cold nature had no inclination toward joys of the flesh. He had not given up anything that he really wanted in the first place. Did Thomas feel strongly about anything or anyone? If so, Theobald had never seen evidence of it. What then was the main spur that goaded his archdeacon? Self-interest?

It was a disturbing thought.

Yet he had no doubt that Thomas—who could be all things to all men—would make an excellent chancellor. His very lack of spiritual fervor would be an advantage, and probably endear him to the future king. Henry would need a strong man beside him to help govern an empire that stretched from the Scottish marches to the Pyrenees. Thomas already served Holy Church with unswerving zeal and loyalty. There was no reason to suppose he would not serve the English crown, the Angevin realm as a whole, in like manner. Unlike the duchess Eleanor, who would always put the interests of Aquitaine first.

He
had
made the right choice. Theobald gave an audible sigh of relief, pushing aside the persistent niggle of doubt that refused to be stilled. He could put his mind to rest regarding the future king of England. That left only the unsolved question of the lady of Aquitaine.

O
N AN EVENING IN
mid-March, two months after she had met Henry again, Bellebelle walked down the street toward the Blue Cock. Business was slow tonight and when the bells rang for Compline, she had decided her working day was over. Bellebelle had made it a point to visit the tavern every night after her last customer was gone, to see if Henry had left word for her. Hawke had not objected, when she told him she was trying to solicit customers. She would tell him the same tonight—if he should catch her there.

About to enter the tavern, Bellebelle came to an abrupt stop. Through the open door she could see the beak-nosed cleric Henry had called Thomas sitting at one of the tables. He seemed to be alone, at least Henry wasn’t with him as far as she could tell. Was the cleric waiting for her?

If the cleric saw her in her striped cloak he would at once know the truth about her. Bellebelle quickly slipped off her cloak and hid it behind the wooden post used for tethering horses.

The moment the cleric saw her enter he beckoned with an impatient finger.

Her heart thumping, Bellebelle threaded her way around the dicing players in the middle of the floor, and pushed past the drinkers at the counter.

“I’ve been waiting for you. No cakes tonight?” the cleric asked with a dark unblinking stare.

“I—I sold them all. Left me tray at the cookshop.”

“My lord duke of Normandy asked me to find you. He’s very busy at the moment and soon returns to Rouen, but he has not forgotten you and, in fact, has made arrangements for your future welfare.”

The cleric’s disapproving expression, the scornful note in his voice made it all too clear what he thought of these “arrangements.”

Speechless, Bellebelle nodded.

“I’ve found temporary lodgings for you in a decent quarter of London near St.-Martin-le-Grand. If you can be ready the day after tomorrow, someone will be waiting for you at the tavern by Nones.”

So Henry had not forgotten about her! Filled with joy, she even wanted to throw her arms around the cleric.

“Yes,” she said. “I be ready.”

The cleric rose to his feet, towering over her like a thin black crow. “It is a great honor for someone such as yourself to become the paramour of a future king. I hope you realize your good fortune and will conduct yourself accordingly.”

“I do,” she whispered. “Oh I do, Father, and I be ever so grateful. Please tell Henry—the duke what I said.”

“I’m an archdeacon, not a priest. My name is Thomas Becket.”

Bellebelle wondered what she should call him.

The cleric gave her a curt nod, then handed her a buckskin pouch jangling with coins. “Should you need to provide yourself with anything—”

“I still has the money Henry won,” Bellebelle said. “He left it behind but I saved it all for him. Every penny.”

“Very commendable, I’m sure. Nevertheless, my lord duke wanted you to have this. Are there any questions?”

She shook her head. The cleric gave her another look that made her feel less than the dirt beneath his feet, then walked out without a backward glance.

“Who gave you leave to come here?” The sound of Hawke’s voice made Bellebelle jump. She hid the bag of coins behind her back.

“No customers since Vespers. I thought I—might find one here. Like I been doing. You didn’t say anything before.”

“No, and I haven’t seen any customers either, and you been here most every night.” He paused. “But looks like you did well for yourself just now.” Hawke pulled at his chin. “That churchman do look familiar. I knows I seen him somewhere before. You servicing him later tonight, Belle?”

“No.”

It was not surprising that Hawke should be in the tavern; he came almost every night. It was just her ill fortune that he should have seen her encounter with the cleric.

“What’d he want then?”

“He—he wanted to know if there be boys at the brothel. Then—then he quick changed his mind.” It wasn’t true, of course, but if the cleric
had
visited the brothel Bellebelle felt certain he would have asked for a boy.

Hawke spat on the floor. “Them clerics! Full of the same unnatural vices as the rest of us but hiding their sins behind their cassocks. Makes me fair sick it does.” He paused and shook his head. “Can’t place where I seen him, but I knows I have. A tankard of ale might perk up me wits.” He gave her a sharp glance. “Go on then, get back to the house. You never know who might turn up, even this late. I’ll be along shortly.”

He went up to the long counter and Bellebelle quickly left the tavern, retrieving her cloak outside. How was she going to tell Hawke she was leaving? She didn’t dare say that the future king of England would be providing for her. For one thing Hawke probably wouldn’t believe her but if he did, there be no telling what he would do. In order not to lose her services, Hawke might see to it that Henry learned the truth about her whoring—which could easily destroy this one chance of escape. Not that Hawke hadn’t been fair with her over the years. He had been. But he was first and foremost a man of business and wouldn’t want to forfeit the money she brought him.

Bellebelle decided to pray to the Holy Virgin/Eleanor—still one and the same in her head—and ask for guidance.

When she reached the safety of her chamber and lit the candles, Bellebelle sat on the bed and, pulling the drawstring of the bag, poured a handful of shining silver coins on to the faded coverlet. Holy Mary, this was more money than she had ever seen in her life. This, combined with Henry’s winnings—She gasped. The answer lay right in front of her. Mary/Eleanor had guided her without even being asked.

There came a knock at the door. Quickly she gathered up the coins and dropped them back into the bag, sliding it under the coverlet.

“Bellabella,
mia cara,
” called a voice through the door.

It was the Italian scribe from the Temple who often came late in the evening. The thought of his pounding away at her, crying out to Santa Maria in the heat of his lust, plus the overpowering stink of garlic, made her flesh crawl. As of this moment she was no longer a whore and the sooner everyone found out the better.

“I be unwell,” Bellebelle called out. “Get another whore tonight.” When she had her courses she refused to service anyone. Now she held her breath.

The scribe shouted a stream of Italian—it sounded like curses—then stomped off down the passage.

A short while later, without any warning, Hawke burst into the chamber. “What pig’s piss is this about being unwell? You been with customers all day. Signor Luigi, he’s very upset. He’s a good, steady one, Belle, and I won’t have his nose put out of joint.”

When Hawke was disgruntled his scar seemed to quiver like a crimson snake. He walked over to the bed, hands on hips, and glared down at her.

“He’s not the only one complained today either. That vintner from Charing, he says you didn’t look interested when he showed hisself to you. I had my work cut out to calm him down.”

The vintner from Charing, who only wanted to abuse himself in front of her, demanded that she watch him every second as if she enjoyed it.

“I seen him so many times how can I keeps on pretending I enjoys it? Especially when I doesn’t.”

“Because he’s paying you, girl, that’s why, and don’t you forget it. You’re not his judge, Belle, and whether you enjoys it or not got nothing to do with anything. Business is business.” Hawke gave her an exasperated look. “What’s got into you lately? Your mind not on your work these days, and that’s a fact.”

“I—I has other things to think about.”

“Such as what? I’m losing patience, girl. I’m going to tell Signor Luigi you’re ready now and it was all a big mistake. When he comes you apologize, hear?”

Trembling, Bellebelle got to her feet. “No. No more customers, Hawke. I—I be leaving.”

Hawke gave an incredulous laugh. “Leaving? Are you daft? To go where? This be the best brothel in the city.”

“I know.” Bellebelle took a deep breath. “I—I got me a steady customer who wants to set me up private-like.”

“Who? Why didn’t he ask me? You’re my property and you can’t go nowheres without my leave.” Hawke unbuckled the heavy leather belt studded with silver that he always wore around his ample girth. “You be lying to me, girl, I can always tell. Now, I never touched you, has I? Not once in all the time you been here. But, by Christ, I’ll beats the truth out of you if I has to.”

Bellebelle backed away. “I not be lying, I swears it. There do be someone who wants me to belong only to him.”

Hawke lifted the belt, then brought it down so that it fell within a hair’s breadth of her shoulder, hitting the floor instead. Terrified, she thought her heart would stop, and held her hands out in front of her in a placating gesture.

“Hawke, please—”

“The truth, Belle.” Hawke lifted the belt again then slashed it directly across her hip.