Beloved Enemy (58 page)

Eleanor wrinkled her nose. “Don’t I always make much of your sainted mother? Playing the Old Testament Ruth can be a great strain.”

Henry chuckled. “Yes, you’re very good with her, Nell. Sometimes it isn’t easy, I know.”

They walked into the drafty hall, so much smaller and less prepossessing than the one in Rouen.

“In the expectation that she might come, I’ve invited several of her old friends from the past—Earl Robert of Leicester, his twin brother, Waleran of Muelan, and the bishop of Winchester,” Henry continued.

“Old friends?” Eleanor raised her brows. “Old adversaries, would be more apt. Particularly Bishop Henry, Stephen’s brother.”

“Oh, I think all those fences are mended now. And if not, it’s high time they were.”

The evening of the empress’s arrival, Henry gave a great feast in her honor. She seemed delighted to see her old associates, and they talked away until well after Compline.

“Now does the lion lie down with the lamb,” Eleanor whispered in Henry’s ear, observing them.

“Not a lamb among them,” Henry said with a grin.

The following morning, accompanied by Eleanor and his mother’s three old friends, he took the empress to see his heir, young Henry, who was at his lessons with his tutor. Henry was foolishly fond of his eldest son. A captivating boy with laughing green eyes and honey brown hair, it was impossible not to spoil him, so great was his charm.

“Maman, here is the eldest sprig on the ever-growing Plantagenet tree,” Henry said. “Henry, your grandmaman—”

There was a strangled sound. Henry turned. His mother clutched her throat and swayed on her feet. He, de Beaumont, and Bishop Henry all sprang to her side, fearing she would fall. Between them they half-carried her, white and trembling, to her quarters.

“What could have upset her?” Henry later asked the three men.

They shook their heads, avoiding Henry’s eyes, yet he had the feeling they all suspected the cause. It was maddening.

The next day, claiming that she was ill, the empress insisted on returning to Rouen, allowing only Bishop Henry to accompany her. While Henry did not believe she was ill, it was evident that she was very badly shaken. By what?

“I suspected our son had a lethal charm but I didn’t think it would fell his own grandmother before he even opened his mouth,” Eleanor said.

Under leaden skies, they watched the empress ride out of the courtyard in a litter.

“I can’t understand it.” Henry had been brooding on the incident ever since yesterday and could not shake off a feeling of unease. “Why would she react to young Henry that way?”

A brisk Channel wind flipped the edges of his short blue cloak; rain began to fall. Hastily they walked back inside the castle keep just as the bells rang for Terce.

Eleanor looked thoughtful. “I had the impression that he reminded your mother of someone and it shook her.”

“Yes, that makes sense. But who? Why?”

“I can’t imagine. William—may God rest him—looked like your mother.” She signed herself, as she always did when her late son was mentioned. “Matilda favors you more than me. Richard resembles my father and grandfather. But now that I think on it, young Henry doesn’t look like anyone I know.”

Henry stared out the half-open door of the keep, wondering if he should attend Mass. The bishop of Rouen was going to officiate, and he tended to drone on forever no matter how many times he was told to keep the sermons short and to the point.

“It’s bound to cause talk, Nell, my mother’s leaving like that. Everyone will wonder why.”

“I wouldn’t let it worry me. People always find something to gossip about.”

“Well, it is worrying me. It’s unlike her to behave so oddly.”

The castle steward shuffled by, aided by a knobbed stick. A grizzled man of mature years, he had been at Cherbourg since time out of mind.

“A moment, please,” Henry said.

“Eh?” The steward stopped. “Did you speak, Sire?”

Henry raised is voice. “Young Henry, does he remind you of anyone?”

“Who?”

“My son and heir, young Henry. Does he resemble anyone you know?”

“Your eldest son?” The steward scratched his head, frowned, then broke into a pleased smile, “Now that you mention it, my lord, indeed he does. Why, he’s the image of the Old King of England.”

Henry stared at him. “My grandfather?”

“No, no, Sire. Like Stephen of Blois he is, to the very life.” The steward gave a creaky bow and shuffled away.

“There you are. Our son reminded your mother of her cousin Stephen, her greatest enemy. Naturally she would react—Henry? Henry! Are you all right?”

Henry, who felt as though a stallion had kicked him in the belly, was incapable of speech. Eleanor put a hand on his arm. He shook it off. The steward’s words threatened to open the floodgates of the past, unloosing a tide of half-forgotten memories that he had thought washed away forever.

He pulled his wits together. “I’m fine, fine. I think I will attend Mass.”

“You don’t look fine. Such a long face.” Eleanor paused, her hazel eyes wide with concern. “Come, sweet love, only last night you were telling me how wonderful the past year has been. The next will be even better. Put this trifling business with your mother from your mind and let us make this Christmas a joyous affair.”

Nell was right. What was the matter with him? He had garnered success upon success and there was no reason why it should not continue. Yet Henry could not shake off a feeling of doom. All too similar to the one last night. Had his years of unbroken triumph come to an end?

T
HOMAS BECKET WAS HALFWAY
out the door of the chancery before he remembered Bellebelle. “By the Mass, I knew there was something I’d left undone. That whore’s money!”

There was a startled silence in the chancery.

“Ah—which whore is that, my lord chancellor?”

“By the Mass, that’s very good. Which whore indeed.” Thomas gave a grim smile. “You may well ask, William. I intended to take care of it—” He slammed a thick sheaf of parchments against the oak table. “Well, mea culpa, there’s no help for it now. I must get to Southampton while the weather holds. If I don’t take ship for Normandy within the next few days I could be delayed for weeks by winter storms. The Bermondsey whore has not yet been paid this month, and—” He looked around the chancery. “I put the money down somewhere, intending—now where in God’s name did I put the wretched thing?”

One day, Thomas promised himself, one day he would tell Henry straight out exactly what he thought of his goatish behavior: the extra work it caused, the lies it required, not to mention all the stipends to be paid out.

“Is this what you’re looking for, my lord chancellor?” One of the clerks held up a calfskin bag clanking with coins.

“God be thanked, there it is. I must leave this in your hands, William.”

The secretary looked overwhelmed. “Yes, my lord chancellor, I understand, but we have so much work here today—I’m not sure I can do it until the end of the sennight.”

“Too late. It’s already overdue, and the king sets great store by that—creature.” Thomas swallowed an impatient sigh, forcing a smile. “In truth, I don’t see why you need take it to Bermondsey yourself—though it’s not a task can be given to just anyone, is it? Servants gossip like the plague and discretion is—Ah! I have it. A troop of the marshal’s knights have recently returned from the Welsh marches. I’ve seen a few just idling about, seemingly with little to occupy them. Get one of them to do it for you.”

“Of course, my lord chancellor, you can safely leave the matter to me.

Accompanied by William, Thomas left the chancery. Outside, his retinue was waiting with the saddled horses, three sumpter beasts, and two carts filled with all the documents and records needed for a traveling court, as well as his own personal belongings. He might be gone on progress through Henry’s domains for as long as six months—one never knew—and nothing must be left to chance.

“The money will be there today, William? I intend to tell the king as much.”

“Indeed, as God is my witness. A safe journey.”

William Fitz-Stephen was about to return to the chancery when he saw across the courtyard one of the marshal’s knights. On impulse he hailed him. This one would do as well as another. The man turned and limped toward him. Around his neck a silver medallion set with emeralds caught fire from the rising February sun.

“I wonder if I could impose upon you, sir—that is if you’re not on duty at the moment?”

“No. You’re the chancellor’s secretary, aren’t you? Vhat is it you vant?” The man spoke with a Flemish accent.

“It’s a favor for the chancellor.” William lowered his voice discreetly. “In truth, it’s really for the king—that is to say the queen. Would you ride over to Bermondsey with some money for his—Her Majesty’s—seamstress? We’re very pushed in the chancery just now, and I’d be most grateful. I’ll give you exact directions.”

The knight gave a gutteral laugh. “No need. I know the place, though I never saw this—seamstress. It’s in the next parish to Bermondsey, I believe. I accompanied the king there about a year ago—the chancellor vas there.” He winked. “Don’t vorry, I can hold my tongue.”

“Good. It’s a delicate matter …If you’ll give me a moment I’ll get the money. I’m much obliged to you.”

“No trouble. Alvays glad to be of service to the chancellor.”

A few moments later William returned with the bag of silver coins which he handed to the knight, who stuffed it into his tunic. “I’ll get my horse and leave at vonce. You vill be sure to tell the chancellor it vas I who did you this favor, yah?”

“Naturally—if you tell me your name.”

“De Burgh. Hans de Burgh.”

When the priory bells struck None, Bellebelle opened the door of her cottage and stepped out into the garden. The wolfhound, tied to a wooden post by a frayed rope when he was outside so he wouldn’t get after the chickens, was curled into a woolly gray circle. Seeing her, he thumped his tail on the hard ground.

Bellebelle turned her face up to the fading rays of sunlight before glancing down the path for a sign of Geoffrey returning from his lessons. Since he had turned four and was so big for his age, Bellebelle allowed him to walk the three leagues to and from the priory school by himself, but did not draw an easy breath until she saw his sturdy figure trudging home.

After a moment she saw her son running down the path toward her. She caught him in her arms and hugged him tightly before leading him inside the cottage.

“One of the boys said a two-headed calf was born in the next village,” Geoffrey said, removing his cap and cloak. “What do you think of that?” His eyes were round with wonder.

“Well, I never. Saw it himself, did he?”

“No. But he heard tell of it by someone who had. Is Father coming tonight?”

Bellebelle, cutting a chunk of wheaten bread from yesterday’s loaf, sighed. “Now Geoffrey, you know he still be gone on progress to the Cont—the Contin—”

“The Continent. I thought he might be back. How long does it take to travel through one’s domains? I miss him.”

“So do I, Son, but the king has lots of land to inspect. Could take a very long time. Con-ti-nent,” Bellebelle repeated. “Continent.” Her speech continued to improve but was still far from perfect.

It seemed like years since she had seen Henry, but in truth it was only the end of last August. She should be used to his long absences by now, but she wasn’t and knew she never would be. Bellebelle set steaming wooden bowls onto the table. It was the first day of Lent so they were having pickled herring, covered in a hot parsley sauce to hide the salty taste.

Geoffrey chatted about what had happened at the priory while Bellebelle listened, encouraging him to share his day with her.

When Henry was gone, her son’s company was the only thing she had to look forward to. Halfway through the meal there was a brisk knock at the door.

“Go see to it, Son. It must be the woodman come with more logs. We been running low.”

Geoffrey ran to the door; she could hear a low murmur of voices.

“It’s a knight from the chancery, Maman.”

“That be—is a relief. The money’s late this time.”

Bellebelle wiped damp hands on her brown kirtle. With a smile on her face she walked toward the door then stopped in her tracks. In the open doorway facing her, eyes blazing in a face the color of death, stood the man she most dreaded to see, her worst nightmare come to life.

The strange incident with the empress at Cherbourg had unforeseen consequences. That occurrence—or Eleanor supposed it was that—had unsettled Henry to the point where he came dangerously close to making a fatal error in judgment.

It was late February of the new year, 1159. She and Henry had left Cherbourg for Rouen, where they awaited the arrival of Thomas Becket who was to accompany them on their progression through Normandy, Anjou, and Aquitaine. Since the incident with young Henry and his mother, Henry had come to her bed nightly. Eleanor had discerned an inner tension in him, a mounting uneasiness against which he was seeking protection. Just the contact of her warm body seemed to calm and soothe him.

If Henry was unsettled, so was she, Eleanor realized. Again and again her mind would return to the entry in the Pipe Roll. The name Bellebelle continued to haunt her. She had known Henry was lying when he denied knowing any such person, an indication that there might be something special about Bellebelle. Perhaps she meant more to him than the other bawds he used. The possibility was like a dagger twisting inside her.

Hurt, angry, and not a little jealous, Eleanor’s natural impulse was to make an issue of it with Henry, and thus relieve her feelings. Yet another part of her held back. He was so preoccupied, and did she really want to know the truth? After all, Henry had not changed toward her in any way whatsoever. He was as loving, as tender as always. He obviously needed her. In the past, Eleanor had not allowed herself to be bothered by his other women, but then they had posed no threat. On the other hand, she agonized, it was inconceivable that some tavern wench or lowly village girl could pose a threat. Round and round her thoughts churned. She had no one to talk to, no one to advise her, no one to comfort her—as Henry had. If only they dared communicate truly with each other, give full vent to the doubts and fears that festered inside.