Beloved Enemy (65 page)

Riding beside him in full mail, three blackbirds emblazoned on his shield, his helm on the cantle of his saddle, Henry could feel Thomas stiffen. The wave of disapproval that radiated from him was almost palpable.

“I sense you disapprove, Thomas?”

“It is not for me to disapprove anything Your Majesty chooses to do, but I believe your time would be better spent in more uplifting pursuits.”

“Oh come, don’t be so sanctimonious. What harm is there in a night’s sport? Next you’ll be telling me I set a bad example.”

The three knights who accompanied them laughed.

Thomas flashed him a dark look. “In truth, my lord, you do. It’s not the doxies that worry me, but the girls of good family I object to.”

“Do you indeed.” Henry paused. “Have you ever noticed that these ‘good families,’ so called, have something in common?”

Thomas frowned. “Something in common?”

“I mainly seduce the daughters of those nobles who supported Stephen—or were suspected of supporting him. Some of these treacherous knaves were clever about hiding their allegiance.”

He could hear Thomas’s sudden indrawn breath. “In truth, I had not made the connection. It is still a poor excuse, my lord, unworthy of you.”

“I have no need of excuses, I’m merely explaining. The girls—and their fathers—are usually well-compensated, as you know. I receive a certain satisfaction, not necessarily of the flesh, mind, but—” He shrugged. “I don’t know. Worthy or not, it pleases me.”

“Is the world your trough, my lord, to wallow in as you please?”

“God’s eyes, Thomas, but you can be a self-righteous prig!” They were riding on the edge of the cathedral square now. “The trouble with you, chancellor, is that you’re almost forty years of age and still a virgin. You’re not a priest. No one could say you violated your holy vows if you fell from grace. It would do you a power of good, you know.”

“I’ve taken my own vow of chastity, as you are well aware. Nothing could tempt me to break it. Now—if you have no further need of me at this moment, I have some business to attend to at the cathedral.”

“By all means.” Henry reined in his horse. Thomas trotted off in the direction of the cathedral, his back stiff with indignation. “Tut, tut. Someone’s nose is twisted out of joint.”

“He’d loosen up, I warrant, if he’d yield to his natural inclinations,” said the knight riding beside him.

“We all admire the chancellor, my lord, but he’s a cold fish when you come right down it,” said another knight. “Perhaps he doesn’t have natural inclinations.”

A picture of Thomas in the Verte Forest popped into Henry’s mind. “Oh, he has them, I have no doubt of that.”

Why he had no doubt was not something Henry cared to dwell on. He had been flown with wine that night, the events were hazy, but there was something about the experience that made Henry uncomfortable, something other than the bizarre blood ceremony he and Thomas had performed: a faint shadow, ephemeral as gossamer—whose exact nature he had no desire to explore. At the time, the ceremony had offered all the forbidden excitement of two boys indulging in a secret ritual, playing at being one of the Knights Templar, but now …

As a result of that night, Henry was aware that a different kind of bond, however tenuous, had been formed between Thomas and himself, a bond to which he could put no name except blood brotherhood. He was still not sure of the implications involved, but whenever the word came into his mind he felt a wolf walk over his grave.

“It is easy for a man to say nothing would tempt him to break a vow of chastity when he’s never been tempted, my lord.” The knight beside him gave Henry a goatish smile. “He should be put to the test.”

“Indeed he should! Why didn’t I think of that? This Millette now, a comely trollop is she?” Henry spurred his horse forward in the direction of the ducal palace.

“A true wanton,” said the second knight with a wink.

“A man would have to be dead not to respond to her wiles,” added the first knight.

“Bring her to the palace tonight. Discreetly. I will see that Thomas stays there and not with the monks at the cathedral.” A slow smile spread across Henry’s face. “Well, my holy archdeacon, let us see how you fare in the face of this Eve. Will you refuse to taste of this forbidden fruit, I wonder?”

It had suddenly become of paramount importance to him that Thomas be tested.

That night Henry waited alone in his large bedchamber. Half-asleep, he sat on a wooden chair draped with scarlet cloth, the arms and legs of which were carved in ivory to represent the head and feet of a wild boar. Outside, a November storm beat heavily against the stone ramparts; howling gusts swept through the cracks in the walls, causing the tall white tapers to flare in their silver holders. Despite the number of copper braziers warming the chamber it was still very cold. He fervently hoped Eleanor had arrived at Dover by now.

Where were those blasted knights? It must be well after Compline. Thomas had come in about an hour ago and gone to his own chamber. He had planned to sleep in the guest house attached to the cathedral, but Henry had insisted he stay in the ducal palace.

The greyhound curled up at Henry’s feet whined, and Henry rubbed his booted foot against its back. He felt disgruntled and out of sorts, having had a most unsatisfactory discourse with his mother. He knew the empress had never liked Thomas Becket, but he had not been prepared for the violence of her reaction when he told her that he was planning to make the chancellor archbishop. They had argued off and on most of the afternoon, and all through supper, with no resolution in sight. Arguing with his mother was like poking at a spitting wildcat with a short spear.

Her reasons for not appointing Becket made no sense at all to him, and it was unlike the shrewd, practical empress not to make sense. The gist of it—similar to Eleanor in fact—was that, as chancellor, Thomas did the king’s bidding; as archbishop he might be far less amenable. After all, then he need only answer to the pope. Who could predict what Becket would do, given so much power? Power altered men in the most unlikely ways imaginable; there was sure to be conflict between Canterbury and the crown. So on and so forth, God’s eyes, he feared she would continue all night.

Henry was beginning to chafe against the cords these two powerful women in his life were so ready to bind him with. He hated being wrong, or told what to do, even when he asked for advice. That was the wondrous thing about Bellebelle. She never made him wrong or asserted her own ideas to challenge his own. Although Henry sensed that Bellebelle joined his wife and mother in her dislike of Becket, at least she had the good sense to keep her tongue from wagging.

There was a soft knock on the door. At last! Two knights entered escorting a third person heavily wrapped in a cloak. The cloak was removed to reveal Millette, a tall, saucy-looking bawd, with white skin and masses of pale red hair curling around her face and down her back.

“You know what’s wanted of you?” asked Henry.

“Yes, me lord duke, I does indeed.” She tossed back her mane of hair. “I’ve had me many a priest, in secret, and they’s no different than anyone else when I gets through with them. All tomcats is gray by night.”

One of the knights grinned. “Take your clothes off, wench, and show the king your wares.”

The girl sauntered over to one of the charcoal braziers, removed her cloak, a blue shawl, red kirtle, and chemise, then, mother-naked, strutted up and down in front of Henry. She was certainly well-formed. Although Henry’s taste was for slender, slim-hipped women, her swelling hips, round belly, and creamy thighs were beguiling. To be unmoved by her bosom a man would, indeed, have to be either blind or near death. He felt his loins stir.

“Do you lie down, Sire, and let Millette show what she can do. Resist her—if you can”

Henry got up, removed his clothes, and lay down on the wide bed. Millette slithered over to the bed like a sinuous serpent and leaned over him. He lay absolutely still, trying not to respond. First she swung her hair over her head and swept his face and chest with the silky mane. She climbed on top of him, pressed her breasts against his face, then brushed a nipple across his mouth. Henry could feel himself becoming even more aroused but kept his lips firmly shut. She pried open his mouth and thrust a large pink nipple inside.

“That’s it, Millette, don’t let up,” cried a knight.

Accompanied by further shouts of encouragement, the bawd took Henry’s hands and cupped one around each heavy breast while she leaned over him. After a moment she squirmed down his body until she reached his member. Taking it between her breasts she swung them back and forth until he was gorged with blood.

“Eh, you’ve a proper belly-snapper, me lord, and look at the size of it.”

The knights gave a ribald laugh. Henry, breathing heavily, was having a difficult time now but still forced himself not to touch her. Next she slid up his body and crouched on her knees right in front of his face. She took her middle finger, licked it, then ran it up and down her moist sex. Henry’s excitement grew; he could not look away but remained unmoving. Suddenly she slid backward, raised up and slowly impaled herself upon him. The sight of his stiff member slowly disappearing into the patch of carrot hair inflamed him. With great effort Henry managed not to respond. It was now a matter of pride that he keep control. But Millette knew a few tricks he had not counted on. Within moments he had lost all mastery as she rode him with such skill he was soon helplessly bucking and tossing under her while she drew his seed out of him as if she were drawing water from a well. He was chagrined to realize he could not have stopped her no matter how hard he tried.

“Well, I don’t see how Thomas can resist you,” he said, at last, drained, but wanting her to be gone.

The lush body now looked like overripe fruit, and Millette’s overblown breasts were as appealing as his daughter’s wet nurse’s. This was the way he usually felt when such brief forays were over. In truth, he much preferred seducing to being seduced and found himself resenting the fact that she had more or less forced him into a response against his will.

“That’s what we thought, my lord,” said one of the knights. “Some of us have put a wager on it. But we can’t hardly find anyone to wager that the chancellor won’t succumb.”

“For the sake of argument I’ll wager two silver pennies that he will resist her.” Henry quickly put on his clothes.

Millette gave a throaty laugh while she dressed.

The plan was to have her slip into Thomas’s chamber and then into his bed. A knight was to stand guard by the door, and early in the morning, before Prime, Henry would burst into the chamber and catch his chancellor in flagrante delicto. An inspired thought came to him. Although he wanted to see his priggish chancellor humbled by the needs of the flesh, his pride in tatters about his feet, at the same time he wanted Thomas to resist. It was like a toss of the dice, just the sort of gamble Henry loved. If Thomas did indeed resist—he would make him archbishop of Canterbury. If he succumbed …

Henry was awakened by one of the knights shaking his arm.

“Cock-crow, my lord. Prime will sound any moment. This is the time to catch Becket.”

Henry rolled out of bed, splashed water on his face from a silver basin, and pulled on his drawers, hose, and shirt. A taper still burned in its holder, casting long shadows over the chamber.

“What happened?” he asked the knight.

“We led Millette to the door of the chancellor’s room, she slipped in, and nary a peep since. Jocelin and I took turns guarding the door but no one came out. She’s done for him, m’lord.”

Henry felt both relieved and disappointed. When tempted, Thomas was obviously like other men—so be it. Why then did he feel let down? No matter. He had lost the wager with himself and must look elsewhere for an archbishop.

He followed the knights out the door and down the passageway to the small chamber Thomas occupied. Henry burst into the room, throwing the door wide. A single glance told him the narrow wooden bed had not been slept in. At the far end of the chamber, Thomas and Millette, fully clothed, knelt in prayer in front of the prie-dieu. They turned, startled. Thomas rose to his feet and lifted the bawd to hers. Millette’s face was pale but composed; her hair scraped back and covered with her shawl. She looked so different from last night that Henry was not sure he would have recognized her on the street.

“I’d like the wages due me, me lord, so’s I can pay a dowry to enter a nunnery,” she said in a subdued voice.

Thomas gave her a benign smile and patted her on the shoulder. “Wait for me in the chapel, my child, and I will bring you your money.”

Millette nodded dutifully, looking up at him with a reverent, grateful smile, then walked past the dumbfounded knights, an amazed Henry, and out the door.

“Another lost ewe returned to the fold,” Thomas said, a look of triumph crossing his face.

Foolishly pleased, Henry shouted with laughter. He turned to the two knights. “I’ve won my wager so you two can pay what is owed me as well, then escort her to the chapel. I’ll send Sister Millette to no less a place than Fontevrault, by God!”

The knights, still unable to believe the evidence of their own eyes, handed Henry two silver pennies each, then hurried after the tart. Henry, digging into the pouch at his belt added several more then poured the shining silver into Thomas’s hand.

“Was this your idea?” Thomas gave Henry a quizzical look.

“No, as a matter of fact, it wasn’t, but I didn’t discourage those who wanted to put you to the test. After all, when you consort with lusty young warriors, such practical jests must be borne with good grace.”

Thomas looked deeply into his eyes. “You did not really believe I would fall victim to that temptress of Satan, did you?”

Uncomfortable under his intense scrutiny, Henry turned away. “You heard how I wagered. I merely wondered if you would resist temptation when faced with it; you did. There’s an end to it.”

He felt an overpowering need to get out of this chamber, away from the burning look in Thomas’s eyes. Quickly, he strode to the door, opened it, and stepped out into the passage.