Beloved Enemy (21 page)

Bellebelle stared at the figure of the Virgin directly in front of her, then gasped and rubbed her eyes. What was happening? Was she losing her wits? She clapped her hands over her mouth to keep from crying aloud. Slowly, gradually, the statue began changing into that of a royal queen, cloaked in majesty, ablaze with light, her presence filling the chapel with an awesome power.

Impossible, but the figure looked like Eleanor of Aquitaine, exactly as Jehan had described her. Help me, Bellebelle cried, help me. Was that a smile on the queen’s face? The chapel grew dim before her eyes. Then—the pain in her heart eased; the fear, gnawing like a rat at her belly, subsided. Morgaine’s voice, as clearly as if she were standing beside her, said: “Now don’t ye get no wishbone where ye backbone ought be, lass, how many times I told ye that? Get yeself over to London.”

Until this moment she had completely forgotten Morgaine’s words about the brothel-house in Gropecuntlane. A whisper of hope swept though Bellebelle. If she could get safely to Gropecuntlane, Morgaine had said they would take her in. The knight had repeated something Ralph said about returning to York. He and his knights could well be gone by now. The sheriff had never seen her. In the crush of dawn traffic across the bridge, she might pass unnoticed. If she hurried—suddenly, Bellebelle caught her breath, gripping the wooden pew in front of her.

Her mother’s death had released her forever from the prison of the Bankside stews. Morgaine had told her to grab her chance at a better life. Now, with a clear conscience, she could do just that.

Tears of relief blurred her eyes. Thank you, thank you, thank you, she voiced her gratitude aloud in a passionate litany. When Bellebelle wiped the tears away, the vision had faded, the statue looked as it had before. The chapel was exactly the same. Only she was changed.

H
ENRY OF ANJOU SAT
brooding in his pavilion on the edge of the thick woods that backed the city of York. Should he give vent to his true feelings? Certainly he had every right to do so, considering how he had been cheated. When he had sailed from Normandy six months ago to be knighted by his great-uncle, King David of Scotland, he had envisioned a glorious battle against King Stephen, usurper of his mother’s throne.

After landing on the English coast he had gone straight to Bristol to visit his cousin William, who had inherited his father’s earldom of Gloucester, and was a staunch supporter of the Angevin cause. Accompanied by a small group of knights supplied by William, Henry had traveled the back roads from Bristol to Scotland in order to avoid royal troops as well as the vicious brigands who made the main highways so dangerous. He had been appalled at the sight of deserted orchards, half-tilled fields left idle, the smoking ruins of manors and farms, the bodies of slaughtered beasts—and men. Whether the result of brigands or the king’s troops,
his
land had been desecrated. Henry could hardly wait to exact his vengeance.

After the expected battle with King Stephen, from which, of course, he would emerge the triumphant victor, Henry saw himself taking his rightful place as ruler of England in his mother’s name. All had gone as he envisioned: he had been properly knighted by his great-uncle, and persuaded him to come to York with his troop of Highlanders to do battle with the English king.

Then, just a few hours ago, the Scottish king had informed him that Stephen’s troops, far outnumbering his own, were heavily massed around York, with more arriving daily; they had little hope of winning even a skirmish much less a pitched battle, said his great-uncle. Sick with disappointment, Henry wanted to storm about the pavilion, throw himself on the ground, and give vent to one of his violent, screaming rages. But, surrounded by the respectful glances of the ferocious Highland lords, he held himself in check. After all he was a knight now, with a shining image to uphold.

In the strenuous effort to suppress his anger, Henry felt as if a tight helmet had been jammed down on his head; he began to gnaw his nails in agitated frustration. Cheated, that was exactly how he felt: cheated of a chance to cover himself with glory, win accolades from his great-uncle of Scotland, and impress his parents, the count and countess of Anjou. If he had been successful against Stephen he might have persuaded them to make him duke of Normandy, a title inherited by his mother but held, temporarily at least, by his father. One day he would make Stephen pay for this humiliation, one day when he was king—

“My lord, will you take some wine?” His squire, Jocelin, knelt before him holding out a wooden tray with wooden cups.

Henry grabbed a cup, downing it in one swift gulp, then stood up. “Jesu, I cannot just sit here like a penned sheep and do nothing!” He grabbed his short yew bow and a quiver of arrows which he slung over his shoulder, then searched in his scuffed leather saddlebag for an old ivory hunting horn, whose leather thong he slipped round his neck. “I am going into the woods and shoot a stag for our dinner tonight.”

To his dismay six dour knights rose with him. “I would prefer to go alone. Just a short way into the forest. I don’t even intend to take my horse. Just the dogs.”

His great-uncle’s grizzled men, all proven warriors, exchanged worried glances.

“Ach, laddie, that is to say, m’lord, but ye canna go alone—” one began.

“Stop them from following me, Jocelin. I dinna need a covey o’ bloody nursemaids to follow on ma heels,” Henry mimicked under his breath, fuming at the “laddie.”

Followed by two enormous wolfhounds belonging to his great-uncle, he strode quickly out of the pavilion, made his way through the Scots camp, and disappeared into the thickly wooded forest. He fervently hoped he could find a stag, even a fox would serve, but he had to kill something or burst.

Great-Uncle David fully expected him to leave the environs of York by morning and find his way back to the coast, then set sail for Normandy. The idea that he must slink away from Stephen’s forces like a craven cur almost made him choke with injured pride.

“God’s eyes,” he shouted, and kicked violently at the spongy turf with a muddy black boot. Immediately the pressure in his head lessened.

A rustle in the trees. Henry spun round, whipping out his blade from the leather sheath attached to his belt. A brown-and-white hare jumped from behind a beech tree and disappeared into the green brush. The dogs, barking furiously, sped after it. Henry sheathed his knife, called the dogs back, then fastened leather leashes round their strong muscular necks. He pushed deeper into the forest.

His soft leather boots made no sound as he stalked through the woods. A short brown cloak over a dark green tunic girded by a belt with gold clasps, a brown cap on his head, blended in perfectly with the tawny green of the thicket. Verdant moss covered the ground; majestic beeches, crowned with shiny green branches in midsummer, towered over him. Through the pillarlike trunks Henry caught a glimpse of a small clearing filled with wild foxglove, lacy ferns, and thick gorse bushes.

A branch snapped. Henry sank to his knees behind a thorn bush. The hounds growled softly. Peering out from beneath his cover, Henry saw a large brown buck bound into the clearing, head lifted, wet nose snuffing the wind. His short tail switched back and forth and one hoof pawed the ground. Not the ten-branched stag he’d longed for, still … Quietly Henry slipped off his bow and notched an arrow to the string. Then, loosing the dogs, he jumped to his feet and burst into the clearing. The wolfhounds leapt toward the buck, who, in the instant of flight, seemed to pause midair. Henry’s bow twanged, the arrow buried itself in the buck’s right flank. The beast staggered then raced out of the clearing; the hounds, giving furious tongue, tore after it.

Henry followed and a short distance away found the stag fallen to its knees, the dogs closing round it. In one quick movement Henry drew his knife across the buck’s throat. Hot blood spurted from the mortal wound, the terrified eyes glazed over. Gently he put his hand on the noble head and velvet muzzle, overcome with that momentary sense of compassion and awe that always accompanied a successful kill. For an instant, victor and victim, hunter and hunted, were joined in some ancient tribal rite of blood bondage.

Henry’s anger drained away with the lifeblood of the buck; a feeling of calm came over him. As the dogs lapped the blood that was slowly seeping into the ground, he pulled the arrow out of the buck’s soft flank, wiped it off on his tunic, then replaced it in the quiver.

There was a crash in the underbrush and several of his great-uncle’s men appeared.

“M’lord, ye must return to the camp at once. King David says the enemy forces be blocking all roads out o’ York. Ye must leave now, he says, through the woods. Tomorrow be too late.”

Henry gave them a sullen look. “I’ll be there directly. The buck needs to be carried back.”

While the knights tied the buck’s legs to a branch, Henry realized that his trip to York had been a complete waste of time. No battle, nothing to show for his efforts in persuading his great-uncle to march from Scotland to York. Perhaps, on his way back to the coast, he could persuade his cousin William to accompany him on a foray into the south of England. Even a minor battle would help. Anything to prove himself worthy of the ducal title.

Instinct told Henry that the time was ripe for him to take over Normandy. King Louis was still on crusade and could not interfere. By the time the French monarch returned from the Holy Land, he, Henry, could be solidly established, and Louis would be forced to recognize him as the rightful duke.

He was sixteen and his life was slipping by. At this rate he would never make a name for himself.

Swept along by the crowd of people crossing the bridge, Bellebelle could not believe that it was only yesterday she had made the journey with Morgaine: excited, filled with hope. Today she felt penned in by bleak gray skies, an emptiness in her belly, and a desperate need to escape before it was too late. She shivered; a chill lingered on the damp river air, more like November than July, and she missed her cloak, which by law she had to wear.

When she saw a boy leaning over the wooden railing she ran over to him with an eager cry.

“Henry?”

The child turned and gave her a puzzled glance. Bellebelle backed away with an awkward smile. Was she going daft? Henry would not still be a young lad but a youth of at least fifteen or sixteen by now.

“Make way, make way for the king’s troops,” shouted a voice behind her.

Hooves drummed behind her. The crowd of people scattered to the railings. Fear gripped her as she recognized a party of Flemings approach. Keeping her back to the men, Bellebelle stared at the barges and rounded sailing cogs filling the Thames. The hoofbeats thundered by. When she could no longer hear them she peered into the murky waters for a glimpse of her magic fish, but not daring to linger, continued on her way.

Just as she reached the Strand the bells rang for Terce. Bellebelle ducked into a deserted alley, lifted up her skirts, and took a coin from the pouch around her waist. Famished, she bought a hot ham-and-eel pasty from the cookshop, and though it burned her mouth almost swallowed it whole. At a stall selling bolts of cloth she bargained for a soiled end piece of gray striped wool and used it as a shawl around her shoulders. With food in her belly and no longer so cold, she felt a surge of newfound confidence, certain of finding work in Gropecuntlane and eluding the Flemings.

In the next instant Bellebelle was torn by guilt and pain. Her mother had just died a terrible death, and she had not thought of her, not one time all the way across the bridge. How was it possible to feel confident? Was it because of what had happened in the Lady Chapel? Or because the priest had pointed out that her mother’s death had been more of a blessing than a curse? No matter the cause, she knew that Gytha would want her to escape the Flemings and survive. Of course she would always miss her mother, but, somehow, the bone-chilling sense of horror connected with her death had lessened. For this she was grateful.

A pack of lean dogs trotted past her with a snarl. She would need a stick of some sort to protect herself, she realized, if the dogs of London were as fierce as the dogs on the Bankside. Turning off the Strand she walked down a wide street behind two carts loaded with baskets of eggs, wheels of cheese, wooden cages of hares, and squealing piglets.

Mingling with the noise of the pigs, the clatter of wheels and hooves were the cries of street-vendors selling their wares, the odors of spices, leather, and roasting nuts.

“Fine ripe cheeses from Cheshire!”

“Fresh milk! Here be fresh milk from Kent!”

“Hot chestnuts, a ha’penny for a cone.”

Bellebelle passed a row of open-fronted stalls. One appeared empty but somewhere in the back she could hear the click-clack of a shuttle as a weaver moved it to and fro upon the loom. In the next stall a cobbler hammered at his last; further along, a saddler twisted his awl. In the next street, a carpenter polished one leg of a newly made stool. Bells rang everywhere: from the necks of sheep and goats being driven through the streets, in the hands of beggars, pealing from the churches.

There was a sudden commotion and Bellebelle stepped back out of the way as a hurdle drawn by two horses bumped through the street spattering mud. A man was roped to the hurdle with a round loaf of bread tied under his chin. Jeers and taunts were thrown at him as he was dragged by.

“What’s he done?” Bellebelle asked the carpenter by whose stall she had stopped.

“That be baker down the street. Probably sold moldy bread or cheated on the weight of it. Law has to make a public example of suchlike, don’t they?” The man threw a piece of wood at the baker.

Behind the hurdle came a cart pulled by a mule and driven by a grinning youth. In the cart was a young girl clad in a chemise and a hood of coarse cloth. She held aloft a penitential wand; her skin glowed red and prickly from the cold, and tears ran down her face. Bellebelle felt sick to her belly. She knew the girl must be a prostitute, as she had seen this kind of punishment before. The offense might be anything from being infected with the burning sickness and keeping it secret, to not wearing her striped cloak. Heartsick, she watched passersby throw clumps of mud and refuse at her.