Beloved Enemy (46 page)

She screamed; the sharp bite of the studded leather cut right through her gown and chemise into her flesh. It burned like fire. If he continued to beat her, her body might be so marked that Henry would become suspicious. That mustn’t happen.

“All right! It’s the king.”

Hawke, his arm raised, slowly let it fall. “King? What king you mean?”

“He not be king yet. Duke Henry of Normandy.”

Hawke eyed her suspiciously. “Better not lie to me, girl, I’m warning you.”

Bellebelle turned, ran to the bed, and snatched the pouch from beneath the coverlet.

“Here. I be going to give this to ye—you—anyways to make up for me leaving. You can see I not be lying.” With shaking fingers she held out the pouch.

Dropping the belt to the floor, Hawke grabbed the pouch and examined its contents. “By Christ, someone wants you mighty bad that be for sure.” His voice had changed.

For a long moment Hawke stared at her, the candlelight casting shadows across the hairless head and puckered face. Then he snapped his fingers.

“That cleric I saw you with be Thomas Becket, archbishop’s deacon. Now I remember. They do say he’s to be the next king’s chancellor. It’s all beginning to come together. Well, well, who’d a thought it, eh?”

He bent to pick up his belt and, holding the pouch in his teeth, buckled it round his middle. “You should have told me right away, Belle. Where’d you meet Duke Henry of Normandy? I never seen him here.”

She told him about her first meeting with Henry on the bridge, how they had met in the tavern, and she had sneaked him into the brothel.

“That be the whole tale, I swears it.” Bellebelle gave Hawke an apprehensive look. “But you won’t tell him, will you?”

Hawke didn’t say anything. She could see him turning the matter over in his head, wondering what would best serve his interests. Bellebelle felt the sweat gather under her arms. After a long pause, during which she felt her life hang in the balance, he slowly shook his head. She almost wept with relief.

“Well, you’re a sly one all right, and that’s a fact. It not be in my interests to tell the duke about you. It be more in my interests to have you become his private doxy.”

She frowned. “But then you lose me services.”

“Use your wits, girl. While she lasts, a duke’s—or king’s—whore be a person of consequence. When you comes back here I can sell you for more. A lot more.”

“But I never coming back!”

Hawke gave her a pitying look. “Don’t be daft. How long you think Duke Henry’s going to stay interested in one tart? You smarter than that, Belle. You better pray King Stephen dies soon, that’s all I got to say. The sooner the duke becomes king, the better for you.”

Bellebelle stared at him. Henry wouldn’t tire of her. He might amuse himself with other whores, as all men did, but he would always come back to her, she’d make sure of that.

“You be a good girl, Belle, never caused me no trouble, and I like you,” Hawke continued, “so’s I’ll give you some advice.”

Bellebelle wanted to shut her ears to anything else he might have to say.

“May be the duke wouldn’t like you being a whore, but lying to him be worse. Men don’t like to be lied to, see, makes them feel like fools, like someone took advantage of them. One day the duke’ll find out. No telling what he do then. But you tell him straight out, see, and you’ll last longer. Now that’s a fact.”

Bellebelle smiled. She had no intention of telling Henry anything about her past.

Hawke held up the pouch of coins. “I’ll take half for my trouble in replacing you. You best keep the rest in case you gets asked why you spent so much so fast with nothing to show for it.”

There was no reason to tell Hawke she still had Henry’s winnings. Bellebelle watched while he poured a third of the coins onto the bed. “Take that with you. The other third I’ll put aside for you when you comes back.” He paused. “If you still got your looks, o’ course, and not be infected. You might need the money then. Can’t say fairer than that, now can I?”

Bellebelle walked with him to the door. “I won’t need the money, Hawke,” she said. He was going to let her go without trouble and she felt dizzy with gratitude. “Or ever have to come back, because Henry says he’ll take care of me. But I’ll never forgets you letting me go like this.”

Hawke shook his head. “Too trusting by half, Belle, that’s your trouble.” His wintery eyes warmed for an instant. One hand lightly brushed her shoulder in a gesture that was not quite affection. “Money’ll be here when you needs it—and you will.”

He left, closing the door softly behind him. In the next chamber someone started laughing. The sound of drunken singing wafted up from the street. A door banged shut. Hawke was wrong, Bellebelle thought. She felt lightheaded, her spirits flown with confidence. She would never need Hawke or the brothel or the money ever, ever again.

E
LEANOR WATCHED WITH CONCERN
as the physician laid his hand on Henry’s forehead.

“A high fever,” he said. “The duke must be bled, then purged.”

Henry groaned. “No … too much to do … not ill.” He struggled to sit up but immediately fell back on the pillow.

“Of course you’re ill,” Eleanor said, trying to hide her alarm. She had never seen Henry so weak. “You must do as he says.”

They were in her mother-in-law’s solar in the ducal palace at Rouen, which had been turned into a sick room for Henry’s benefit. After more than a year in England, he had finally returned to Normandy in late April. A month later she had accompanied Henry on a trip through Aquitaine which had been cut short to handle an uprising in Anjou. This was followed by a skirmish with King Louis’s forces on the Vexin border, from which Henry had just recently returned.

It was now mid-October and for the past three days he had been lying ill of a fever, refusing to allow Eleanor to call in the physician. The Empress Maud was away, visiting the abbey at Fontevrault, so Eleanor had no one to consult. This morning Henry had not been able to get out of bed; his skin was so hot that Eleanor, fearing for his life, had overrode his protestations and called in the physician.

Under her watchful eye, the physician placed leeches over Henry’s body, relieving him of a half-pint of blood, then proceeded to mix the purge. In the fifth month of her second pregnancy, Eleanor gagged when the physician lifted Henry’s head and poured the evil-smelling concoction down his throat. Within an hour it proved effective as a purge, but the fever did not abate.

Despite continued bleedings and purges, Henry grew steadily worse. His wasted body and incoherent gibberish drove Eleanor to the point of distraction, increasing her fear. Hourly she was on the point of sending to Fontevrault for the empress, but stubborn pride made her hesitate. Her imposing mother-in-law was the only woman who had ever made Eleanor feel inadequate. If she could not care for her own husband … what kind of a wife would the empress think her? What kind of a wife would
Henry
think her?

How she wished she had listened more closely when her mother, aunt, and other relatives in Aquitaine had tried to teach her about brewing herbs and simples. It had all been written down, some in Provençal, some in Latin, she remembered. Surely she must have taken some of that material with her when she left Poitou. In France she had never nursed Louis or anyone else, leaving such care in more skilled hands.

After searching through various unpacked boxes, Eleanor finally unearthed some leaves of parchment bound together that contained various jottings on how to handle fevers, swellings, and other ailments. One remedy seemed appropriate for Henry’s condition. She decided to mix the brew herself.

Since all household duties had remained in her mother-in-law’s capable hands, it took Eleanor a while to locate the kitchen. In the pantry she found a goodly stock of herbs and mixed dried febrifuge, verbena, and root of sassafras in a mortar, then ground them together with a pestle. Next she emptied the mortar into an iron pot, filled it with water, and brought the whole mixture to a boil over the fire.

“Lady, let me add a dried bat’s wing to that potion,” said one of the cooks who was watching. “The empress always says there be nothing like dried bat’s wing for bringing down a fever, so I keeps a supply on hand.”

“Yes, all right. If you think it will help.” The redoubtable Maud seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of useful knowledge, for which Eleanor was duly grateful. But sometimes she felt like closing her ears when someone prefaced a sentence with “The empress says …”

The cook added the bat’s wing and a pinch of salt, then said the Pater Noster seven times while stirring vigorously. After the mixture had boiled, it was cooled and strained into a silver goblet. Eleanor returned to the solar and gave Henry the potion. For a while he continued to toss about uneasily, then gradually became less restless and finally dropped off to sleep. The physician said this was a most favorable sign, so Eleanor, who had sat up with him for several nights, lay her aching body down on a pallet beside the bed and immediately fell asleep.

When she woke to the sound of the Prime bells ringing, the chamber was filled with pale sunlight streaming through the narrow window slits. Shivering, Eleanor rose, rubbed her aching back, and walked to Henry’s bedside. He was still sleeping quietly. Placing her hand on his forehead, she found it cool and damp. Praise the Holy Mother, the fever had broken. She was so relieved she decided she would actually attend the next Mass and light a candle to express her gratitude.

The coals in the brazier had burned down to ash so Eleanor opened the door of the chamber, ordered the servitor who slept across the threshold to bring fresh coals and some warmed wine, then pulled up a cushioned stool. She took Henry’s hand in hers, laid it against her cheek, and tenderly gazed down at his slack face. It was so rare to see him weak and helpless. Always energetic and spirited, Henry was constantly in action, never needing or wanting to be looked after. How often, in the few times they had been together since their marriage, had she longed to nurture and care for him. Far more than she had ever wanted to nurture her two daughters by Louis, or even her infant son. Eleanor knew that her maternal feeling for little William was inextricably bound with the political significance of the birth of an heir.

It wasn’t that she wanted Henry to be ill or unable to care for himself. Of course she didn’t. But still, now that he lay in such a sorry state, she found herself treasuring every moment that he depended upon her. If only he would do so more often. Especially where Aquitaine was concerned. The thought of her duchy reminded Eleanor of the sinister incident that had occurred at Limoges during their progression through Aquitaine the previous June …

She and Henry had traveled into the Limousin as far south as the craggy landscape of Gascony. Everywhere Eleanor journeyed she was followed by her entourage of poets, women, knights, and troubadours. Henry had been very affable and relaxed, not in his usual tearing hurry to be somewhere else. He hunted and flew his falcon, drank sparingly of the hearty Bordeaux wines, joined in the constant merriment, and made no objection to the ever-present songs of courtly love and storytelling. Despite the thinly veiled antagonism of some of Eleanor’s vassals, he kept his temper in check—until they reached Limoges. After a rapturous welcome by the townsfolk, they had pitched their pavilions outside the city walls for the night.

They had been eagerly awaiting their supper when the cook in charge of the ducal kitchen tent approached Eleanor in her pavilion.

“Lady, the town has failed to send us the usual customary provisions.”

“It must be an oversight,” Eleanor said. “I will tell the abbot of St. Martial’s. He deals with such matters.”

“No, let me go.” Before she could protest Henry had bounded out the pavilion door.

When he returned thirty minutes later his face was flushed, his eyes blazing. “You know what that smirking abbot had the gall to tell me?”

Eleanor, along with her women, had been reclining against a pile of cushions listening to a troubadour. Now she held up a hand for silence. “Smirking? That doesn’t sound like the abbot.”

“Indeed? Listen to this: The town is only obligated to victual the duke and duchess when they lodge within the city’s walls. Did you know that?”

“Of course I knew that.” Eleanor shrugged. “Sometimes they victual us anyway, sometimes—they need persuading. Those are the Limousins for you. Unpredictable and self-willed. Since time out of mind.” She smiled. “Let me have a word with the abbot myself.”

“You’re missing the point.” His flush deepened. “Is this the town’s idea of obedience to their duke and duchess?”

“Henry, this means nothing. Just a little show of resistance.” She rose to her feet. “That’s all.”

“That’s all? That’s
all?
By God’s splendor, they need to be reminded who’s master here.” His face was now gorged with blood.

“They’re more apt to do as we wish if reminded who is mistress.”

There was a moment of tense silence while she and Henry stared at each other.

“Mistress or master, I won’t allow either of us to be insulted.”

“Henry, no insult is intended. I understand these people and they mean no harm. Humor them.”

His face was slowly turning a deeper crimson; one hand clenched his sword hilt. Eleanor could feel his hot gaze upon her as one of the women brought her a cloak to throw over her shoulders.

“I will be back shortly,” she said, and opened the door of the pavilion.

Outside, enveloped in a warm purple dusk, she had started toward the abbey when there was a strangled cry, then the sound of something falling. This was followed by the screams of her women. Eleanor rushed back inside.

For the second time Eleanor witnessed Henry in the grip of a fire-breathing rage. Shrieking, kicking, and cursing, his hands pounded at the floor, his eyes rolled back into his head. The women’s screams increased; the troubadours backed as far away as possible from his thrashing body. Swords upraised, a handful of knights raced into the pavilion. If one added a troupe of jugglers and acrobats one might take the whole business for a mummers entertainment.