Beloved Enemy (61 page)

In a lowered voice she told Ralph about the entry in the Pipe Roll and the Empress Maud’s initial reaction to her own grandson.

Ralph said nothing for a moment. When he did speak Eleanor had the feeling that he chose his words with care.

“There was talk at one time—oh, many years ago now, before you married Louis—that the empress would sooner have had Stephen of Blois as her paramour rather than her enemy. Even talk that the heir of Anjou was Stephen’s son—not that anyone believed such far-fetched rumors.”

Eleanor was dumbstruck. “I never heard such tales, nor can I credit them.” Her head whirling, what she did not say was that this rumor would explain why Count Geoffrey left Anjou to his second son should Henry inherit England, as well as the empress’s reaction to a grandson that resembled Stephen.

“Pure speculation, after all,” Ralph said, with a dismissive shrug. “Put no stock in it. I find it hard to believe this the cause of the Plantagenet’s ill temper. He must have heard the rumors before now. Why would they disturb him at this late date?” Ralph shook his head. “Nor does it signify one way or another as far as Aquitaine is concerned. What
does
signify is the chancellor’s influence as opposed to yours.”

“He will advise anything that makes less of my authority in the duchy. Sweet St. Radegonde, how I hate him,” Eleanor burst out.

Ralph put a finger to his lips, indicating the women in a far corner of the chamber. “Prudence. Prudence. At the moment you can do nothing about him, Niece.”

He left the bedside and walked over to the casement window. Eleanor followed.

“My hatred for—that person is only equaled by his hatred of me,” she said. “He is highly dangerous—not just to Aquitaine but to my welfare. He
wanted
me to see that entry in the Pipe Roll.”

“I don’t dispute that.” Ralph threw a quick glance toward the women, their heads together, busily working on a square of tapestry. “Do not let him bait you. What does it matter if the Plantagenet dallies here and there? Turn a blind eye—as my mother—your grandmother, Dangereuse, did. The Troubadour always came back to her in the end. By allowing him his freedom she bound him with threads of steel.”

“I will try to do that, Uncle. In truth, what disturbs me most is that Henry and Beck—that person are bosom companions in the business of the kingdom, in riding, hunting, hawking—there is little they do not do together except bed! He has cast some sort of spell over my husband, who consults him on everything. It’s intolerable.”

Ralph sent her a sharp glance. “Henry honors your bed as regularly as ever?”

“Of course.” Eleanor gave him a puzzled look.

“Then our friend does not have what he wants the most. Rest content.”

Speechless, Eleanor stared at her uncle. “You mean—? Uncle, you cannot expect me to believe—” She simply could not accept what he was implying. “It’s impossible. You must be mistaken.”

“Perhaps. But the signs are all there.” Ralph laughed and shook his head. “I would never have believed you to be so innocent, so unworldly. Truly, you never once suspected?”

“Never. But Henry—”

“Undoubtedly ignorant of his chancellor’s hidden tastes, which I’m quite certain will never be revealed. Even to himself he may not admit they exist—though I suspect he knows. So you see there is an underlying reason for his enmity toward you.”

Eleanor was astounded. It was the last thing she would ever have imagined, and it certainly gave her a rather different view of the situation. It would explain her jealousy, why she felt Becket was a rival. Always supposing her flamboyant uncle was correct in what he surmised, of course.

Ralph, who had been watching her, chuckled softly. “You must be more observant. Keep your eyes open to what is going on around you, not fixed on the Plantagenet like a besotted maid.” He wagged a cautionary finger. “Bide your time, Niece. You must be clever enough never to act precipitously toward Becket. Impetuous action has been the downfall of the dukes of Aquitaine for centuries. But women have always known how to wait. Mark my words, one day he will overreach himself. Your hour will come.” He reached out and squeezed her hand. “Meanwhile do nothing rash. You have Aquitaine to think of.”

When had she ever thought of anything else? Eleanor wondered. She had just learned two things of vital interest: Becket’s predilection for Henry; the Empress Maud’s dark secret—if both were even true. She turned them over in her mind. If Henry were not Geoffrey’s legitimate son he never would have been permitted to inherit either Anjou or the English crown. Suppose his bastardy were discovered at a later date? Could an annointed king be dethroned? She did not know. Certainly, his children would be tainted by illegitimacy. It was extremely doubtful if they would be permitted to inherit the English crown—the freewheeling days of the Conqueror were long gone, and Holy Church would no longer support the issue of a bastard. Henry’s enemies, what remained of the adherents of the House of Blois, and others, would not fail to seize the moment and turn it to their own advantage. Eleanor realized that she did not know the actual legalities that pertained in such a situation, and it was far too dangerous to ask. Not that legalities would matter. Just the rumor, widely circulated, would be sufficient to create havoc.

The resulting scandal could rock the House of Normandy to its foundations. The House of Aquitaine would be equally affected. Would her people accept a misbegotten duke—or one of his sons as future duke? At the very least, there would most certainly be more outbreaks of rebellion, unrest, uprisings in Aquitaine, perhaps in Anjou as well, even another civil war in England. The implications of Henry not being the count of Anjou’s legitimate son were so overwhelming they boggled the mind; Eleanor rejected the possibility as being too preposterous, the result of her upset with Henry, her resentment of Becket, a figment of her fevered imagination. She must have been mad to have ever seriously considered such an outlandish idea.

However, should there ever come a time when, her back against the wall, her duchy’s survival at stake, she, personally, needed a weapon with which to protect herself, another string to her bow, as it were … not that she ever would, of course, still …

She smiled at her uncle. “No. I will do nothing rash.”

A
FTER HER ENCOUNTER WITH
de Burgh, Bellebelle did not believe that life in the village of Bermondsey could continue on in its usual placid way. But it did. Swallows came in the spring; sheep were sheared in summer; hay harvested in the fall. Always on edge now, she saw no further sign of de Burgh but knew he was just biding his time, waiting for the king to return to England.

When her money was next brought from the chancery, and each time thereafter, the chancellor’s secretary delivered it. She never mentioned de Burgh and apparently the Fleming had said nothing to the secretary about her.

At first Geoffrey pestered her with questions about de Burgh: Where had she known him and why did he want to hurt her? Had he really murdered her mother? Was that why she had tried to kill him? Bellebelle told her son half-truths, vague about the details, never mentioning that she had been a whore, fairly certain, now that he was five, that soon he would no longer be ignorant of such things. What she did make clear was that she had been less than truthful with Henry about her past; it was possible the King would be displeased. After all, Geoffrey’s life might be turned upside down; he had a right to be forewarned.

“What do you think Father will do?” he asked.

“I don’t know, Son, and that be the truth. Henry do have a hot temper, you know that as well as I does.”

“Do. But he loves us, Maman—doesn’t he?”

“Aye, he do—does—that. But sometimes he does things without thinking them through like, then be sorry later.”

Geoffrey’s flint-colored eyes filled with tears. “That wouldn’t be fair to you, would it?”

“Mustn’t grumble, lad. Henry’s been good to us, and life not be fair or unfair. It just be like it is. We’ll be all right whatever he does.” She had no certainty of that but felt the need to reassure him. “Haven’t I told you time after time that you can’t have no wishbone where your backbone ought be?”

Geoffrey, still full of questions, was not satisfied, but seemed to understand there was nothing more she could—or would—tell him. Tall and bright for his age, he increasingly reminded Bellebelle of a youthful Henry. She had come to rely on him for almost everything: companionship, help about the cottage, and, ever since de Burgh’s visit, protection.

The day after the Fleming left she had told the couple from the village she would not need them any more. Terrified de Burgh might return, she did not want the couple spreading gossip about the village that might hurt not only herself but Geoffrey as well. It had been nothing less than a miracle that they had been gone when de Burgh came. Her son had struck up an acquaintance with an old woodman who cut wood for the priory school, and had persuaded him to bring kindling and logs to the cottage. A kindly soul who felt sorry for Bellebelle, the woodman, Old Ivo, had taken Geoffrey and her under his protection.

“You know, Belle,” Ivo told her one day when he was delivering a load of wood, “as you leads a quiet life, minds your own business, and doesn’t give yourself airs, people in the village saying you be none so bad.”

“I noticed that although most everyone still shuns me, a few greet me pleasantly. Sometimes they even stop to pass the time of day with me.”

Ivo nodded approvingly as he laid the pile of logs on the ground near the front door of the cottage. “That be a good sign. Won’t be long before they accepts you.”

So long as they never found out the truth. In time, the king’s doxy might come to be tolerated. But Bellebelle knew that growing up in a brothel, life as a practicing whore, and attempted murder were things respectable folk wouldn’t stand for. If they found out, and with Henry gone, the village folk might even try to drive her off—or worse.

“Why they take against me so?” she asked. “I never do them no harm.”

“No fault of yours, Belle,” Old Ivo said, straightening up with difficulty. “Comes from long before your time, it does. When I be a young lad, in the time of the Old King—the first Henry that is—there was a sickness swept through the village, mostly affecting the young ones. Many died, God rest them. There was a woman who lived alone in the woods, sold herbs she grew, and supposedly had the gift of healing. She were known to be the leman of the lord of the manor. Folk blamed her.”

“But why?”

Ivo shrugged. “She were different. The lord’s whore. No one protected her when he wasn’t there.”

Bellebelle stared at him. “What happened?”

“The village folk stoned her for a witch. In hard times, Belle,” said Ivo, “when folk be afraid, they turn back to the ways of their forefathers, the old gods.”

Bellebelle felt her skin prickle with goose bumps. It was a terrible tale and she wished she had never asked.

Now that the couple were gone, she cooked all the meals, having learned by watching the woman. Bellebelle knew she was not very good at it but at least they weren’t starving. With the woodman’s help she learned how to plant and weed the garden, milk the goat, snatch eggs from the hens, and even lay the fire properly. She was clumsy and had no feel for such work, but she was making do. When a few stunted cabbages, lettuces, and turnips appeared in her vegetable patch, she was filled with pride. The pear and quince trees bore fruit; the flower garden grew purple sweet-smelling lavender; parsley, sage, mint, and a rosemary bush thrived on their little plot of earth.

Bellebelle had bought herself two piglets last year and was going to have one of them butchered come Christmas. The woodman found a villein from the manor lands who was willing to help her for a fee. He had built a wattle fence around the cottage, which gave her a feeling of safety. She even made friends with the wolfhound, Valiant; after all, by his presence alone he had partially saved her life. Yet despite the fence, the wolfhound, and frequent visits from Old Ivo, the sense of threat remained, under the surface, like thunder in the air with no storm to be rid of it.

With Henry gone, Bellebelle received all the news of what was happening in the outside world from either Geoffrey, the woodman, or the village folk. Thus she knew that Louis of France’s second wife had died giving birth to his fourth daughter, called Alais, sister to Marguerite who was betrothed to Henry’s eldest son and heir. Folk said she was an unlucky child to have killed her mother and would come to grief. A month later the French king married his third wife, sister to the count of Blois-Champagne.

When Bellebelle stopped by the alehouse one October morning, in the year 1160, for her pitcher of ale, two women were there gossiping about the event.

“Such haste be shameless,” said one with a sniff, eyeing Belle-belle with hostile eyes.

“Oh, aye, that it be,” said the other, turning her back as if Belle-belle didn’t exist.

“T’won’t do no good neither.” The woman who brewed ale, a stout body of middle years with a red-veined nose and a ready tongue, shook her head. “The devil’s curse be on King Louis, else why do he have only girls instead of the sons he do need?”

All three women crossed themselves then made horns with their fingers. Bellebelle recognized the horns as the sign Morgaine had often made to avert evil. She had always been wary of the woman who brewed ale ever since she had called her the king’s whore in front of a whole crowd of people and shouted that Bellebelle had no right to a chimney. It was wise to tread carefully around the alewife, as the woman was a wealthy widow, of some importance in the village. One son ran the blacksmith’s forge next door, a dark cave with showers of sparks at the back of it. Another son was the reeve, chosen by the village folk to oversee all the work done by the villagers for the steward of the manor.

“Look what happened right here in England when the Old King had no sons,” the alewife was saying now. “Nineteen long years of trouble there was, when Christ and all His Saints—or was it angels?—slept, priest told us. Lord be thanked Lion and Eagle have so many.”