Beloved Enemy (56 page)

“To her great credit, Thomas. It behooves you to give the lady her due.”

Thomas colored at the rebuke and patted the scrip at his belt. “She sends you a message.”

Henry could not stop himself from grinning. There was young Henry, Richard, Matilda, and now—“We must call this one Geoffrey, after my late brother—and my father too, naturally.”

His eyes met Thomas’s, who looked away first, both of them well aware that this was not the first son called Geoffrey.

“Madam the queen thought you might wish to call him Geoffrey, and that is the name he will be given at the christening ceremony. She hopes to join you in Normandy within the next month or two.”

“What an amazing woman. The Channel lies between us yet she discerns what is in my mind. Extraordinary.” Another son! He was filled with a sense of well-being.

When he had been rubbed down, Henry sat naked on a wooden stool while his face was shaved and his hair combed. To his amusement, Thomas, ill at ease, his face flushed, continued to gaze at everything in the chamber but himself. Too prudish for his own good. Henry wondered what the austere chancellor might do if ever confronted with a situation where he was sorely tempted. It might make an entertaining exercise …

“All is well in England? The Welsh are still quiet?”

“Yes, Sire, to both questions. Everyone rejoices at the birth of a new son.”

“And how fares my family in Bermondsey?” When he was not in London, which was much of the time, he always asked Thomas to keep an eye on Bellebelle and their son, whom he dearly loved.

“I send one of my men at frequent intervals; mother and child fare well.” Thomas paused. “Which reminds me—touching upon the matter of that Flemish knight you asked about some months ago—his name is Hans de Burgh, by the way—sorry to have been so long about this business but what with the journey to Paris and all, I’ve had very little time to pursue any inquiries personally.”

A servant slid a blue tunic over Henry’s head. “I’d almost forgotten, it’s been so long.”

“One of my clerks looked into de Burgh’s past. The main thing about him seems to be a reputation for excessive violence. This penchant for brutality led to a singular incident in a brothel-house—”

“In London?”

“Southwark, about ten years ago—”

Henry, pulling on a pair of black leather boots, stopped. “Southwark, you say?” Bellebelle was from Southwark.

“In a brothel-house, as I was about to tell you, Sire. Apparently de Burgh had attacked a whore and was stabbed by her daughter, also a whore as it happens—his limp is the result of that wound.”

“Extraordinary.” Henry grew thoughtful. “Unusual behavior for a whore, wouldn’t you say? She must have been sorely provoked.”

“Indeed. In the event, the whore—the mother that is—was ultimately killed. By de Burgh himself, I’m told.”

“By God’s eyes! Was he ever brought to justice?”

“For the murder of a whore? Hardly, Sire. But it was during the final years of Stephen’s reign, remember, a time of great lawlessness, as you well know. In truth, it seems a sordid, tangled affair, and my information is hearsay and what little the sheriff’s records show.”

From the distant past a memory surfaced. Henry saw himself on the London Bridge with Bellebelle. Nearby stood a group of women in striped cloaks, one of whom was her mother or so she had said. Whores? It seemed likely. On the other hand, Bellebelle had never said her mother was a whore, and until this moment he had forgotten all about the other women in the background. A terrible suspicion crossed Henry’s mind which he instantly dismissed. Impossible. Bellebelle would have told him the truth about her past. There was not a lying bone in her body. He would stake his life on that.

Although it made no sense, in many ways he regarded Bellebelle as a wife and Eleanor as a mistress. Bellebelle was safe, loyal, and absolutely to be trusted. Eleanor was passionate, volatile, ambitious, and—it wasn’t that he didn’t trust her exactly, but underneath the sparkling surface he sensed secret depths unknown to him—even, perhaps, to her. Strange. Henry was suddenly reminded of the story of the Greek, Odysseus, Eleanor had told him about. Only who was the wife, Penelope, and who was the siren, Calypso? He gave an involuntary shiver, which meant a wolf had walked over his grave—for the second time.

“What became of the whore, the daughter, who stabbed de Burgh? Was
she
ever brought to justice?”

“No. I’m given to understand she escaped. A search was conducted but the doxy was never found,” Thomas said. “De Burgh almost died of the wound and spent a long time recovering with his mother’s people in Kent.”

“I trust he’s stayed out of trouble since that incident?”

“Apparently. As a mounted knight, his limp does not impair his skill with sword or bow, and he is known as a ferocious warrior who gives no quarter. John the Marshal has only good things to say of him. That’s all I was able to discover.”

“Which is a great deal more than I expected. Thank you. Not that it’s of any importance now.” Henry stood up and roughly shook Thomas’s shoulder. “Not compared to a third son, eh? Tell me, who does he favor?”

But the picture of Bellebelle and the women in striped cloaks stayed in his mind. Instinct told Henry that this affair was not over, and of a sudden he wished to high heaven that he had never pursued the matter. No good would come of it.

E
LEANOR STOOD UP, HUGGING
herself in an effort to ward off the December chill that still managed to seep through the cracks in the wall, despite the lined tapestries and two burning charcoal braziers.

“How many more left, Master Matthew?”

The chaplain, Henry’s old tutor, who acted as her secretary, scrutinized the sheaf of parchments that lay on a small oak table before him. “Two more, but if you’re tired, Madam, they are not urgent, and can wait until the morrow.”

“Weather permitting, I leave for Southampton to take ship for Normandy in the morning—if we can get the packing finished by then, and the treasury pays what is due me.” She glanced round the disordered solar, at her women folding gowns, mantles, headdresses into open boxes and saddlebags; piling roped bundles one on top of another.

There was a tiny yelp. Eleanor glanced down. At her feet, young Henry, almost four, and Matilda, age two-and-one-half, were teasing a greyhound puppy. Baby Geoffrey, now well over two months and sturdy as an oak sapling, slept in his wooden cradle; fourteen-month-old Richard, clutching a wooden knight in his chubby fist, dozed on the blue-canopied bed. Eleanor’s gaze rested lovingly on Richard, whose corn gold hair and bright blue eyes were so like that of her father and grandfather.

She loved her other children by Henry, relieved to find she was capable of maternal feelings after all, but when Richard had been put into her arms and she had met his milky blue stare, it was as if he had reached out and clutched her heart. An instant bond was formed, stronger than any she had experienced with the others.

At his birth, the chroniclers resurrected an ancient prediction of Merlin the Magician: “The eagle of the broken covenant shall rejoice in her third nesting.” They had interpreted this prophecy to mean Eleanor, because she spread her wings over two realms, France and England. This son, they claimed, would strive in all things to bring glory to his mother’s name.

To her surprise Henry had taken strong exception to the fact that Richard was singled out.

“By my reckoning, if you count Louis’s daughters, our William—who is no longer alive to bring you glory—Henry, and Matilda, Richard is your sixth child,” Henry had said, “not your third nesting. How can civilized Christians believe such pagan nonsense?”

“Don’t take the matter so seriously,” she had said. “He is the third nesting if you leave out the girls—which most chroniclers, being male, are prone to do.”

The result of this was twofold: first, the English began to call her “the eagle,” even as they referred to Henry as “the lion,” a flattering reference to his grandfather, the first Henry, as well as the arms of Anjou. The second result was that Henry conceived a resentment against Richard. Tender and attentive with his other children, he ignored Richard. Henry will get over this dislike, Eleanor told herself without any real conviction. She had observed that once Henry decided how he felt about someone, he rarely changed his opinion. Thus he was steadfast and loyal to those he saw as friends, and bitterly opposed to those he perceived as enemies—whether deserved or otherwise.

“Madam?”

With a yawn, she strolled over to the narrow window. “What next?” There was a light fall of snow covering the courtyard where, despite the cold, people milled about, clapping their hands, hugging themselves, and blowing on their fingers to keep warm.

“The monks of Reading complain that they have been robbed of certain lands they own in London. The sheriff ignores their plight, they say.”

In the gray light of this December afternoon, Eleanor could see the great minster across the way, and a stretch of road that ran through the village of Charing to Ludgate. The road was thick with people on foot, men driving carts drawn by horse or mule, and riders on horseback coming from and going to London.

“Tell the sheriff of London—” she began. “Let me see—yes, tell him that he is to look into this matter, and should it be true, ensure that these lands are returned to the monks without delay so that in future I shall hear no more complaints about deficiencies in law and justice. Farewell.” She frowned and turned away from the window. “Too harsh?”

“Not to my way of thinking, Madam. The sheriff needs to be reminded of his duties. Let me get that all down. A moment.” The chaplain bent his head, picked up his stylus, and began to write on his wax tablet, which later would be transferred onto parchment. When he had finished he picked up another letter. “Now—this last one is from the abbot of Abingdon, who complains that certain services owing to him have not been performed.”

“What services?” Eleanor walked back to one of the few chairs in Westminster with arms.

“Some quarrel about statute labor. Not very specific, I’m afraid.”

“Let the chancellor deal with him.”

“He’s still with the king in Normandy, isn’t he?”

“Is he? He should be back by now.”

When Henry and Becket were both away at the same time, Eleanor issued many documents in Henry’s name, frequently in both their names together, rarely in her name alone—which sometimes rankled. In addition, at Henry’s side, she meted out judgment at the official courts which were held every year in one or another of their cities: Bordeaux, Poitiers, Le Mans, Bayeaux, or London.

While Eleanor appreciated the fact that Henry allowed her some participation in the administration of the kingdom, he still remained unwilling to appoint her regent in his absence.

“You let your mother act as regent in Normandy,” she had told him.

“When you’re as experienced as my mother, we will discuss the matter again,” was his response. “I share quite enough power with you.”

Eleanor had stifled further comment, knowing it would only lead to an argument—which she would not win. But she could not stifle the seeds of resentment growing within her. She had done very well in Aquitaine ruling alone—and Henry knew it.

Meanwhile, when the king was absent from England, the co-justiciar, Richard de Lucy, acted as regent. Becket and Leicester, as well as others, dealt with important affairs of state; she was left the crumbs, dull, routine tasks that others were glad to shunt aside. Like this dreary business with the abbeys.

Always jealous of his authority, Henry, Eleanor had observed, delegated responsibility only when forced to do so to serve his own self-interest. His empire was far too large for him to supervise personally, and he was careful whom he chose to wield power in his stead. Eleanor was sure Henry trusted her, not only as his wife, but as someone who would not shirk her duties. With his propensity for hoarding power, she sometimes wondered if he also recognized—although he would never admit it—that she was capable of ruling as well as any man he had appointed to office. Was this why she was given only minor matters to deal with?

“Are you wool-gathering, Madam?”

Eleanor smiled. “Indeed. All right, Master Matthew, to work! Ah—hmm—to the knights and men holding land and tenures from Abingdon Abbey, greetings.” She paused. “Tell them—tell them that I command they provide the abbot with those same services which—which—”

“Their ancestors provided in the days of King Henry the First?”

“Yes, very good. Add, grandfather of our sovereign lord. If they will not obey, the king’s justice will force obedience and so on. That is the gist of it. I leave it to you to fill in the details.”

“I understand.”

There was a knock on the door which then opened. Eleanor looked up to see framed in the entrance the Poitevin clerk she had sent to the treasury an hour earlier.

“They say the Queen’s Gold has been paid, Madam.”

“Who says so?”

“One of the clerks in the treasury,” he said. “I told him we hadn’t received it.”

“Did you check the Pipe Roll?”

“Oh.” The clerk colored. “I didn’t think of that.”

Eleanor stood up. “Always check the Pipe Roll when in doubt. The chancery clerks generally keep the records current. Paid, was it? Well, I shall go myself and see what has happened to the gold. After Christmas, the king and I will probably tour Anjou and Aquitaine. Who knows when I’ll return. I need my portion now and cannot wait upon a dilatory clerk.”

She turned to Master Matthew. “I had best take care of this matter.”

“Indeed, Madam, we are through. A good journey on the morrow.”

Eleanor smiled as he slowly gathered up sheafs of parchment, stylus, and wax tablets, then hobbled out. She took her doeskin bag from the clerk, pulled on a fur-lined hooded mantle, left her quarters, and started across the courtyard to the chancery. The snow had been trodden down to slush and she had to pick her way with care. As she greeted well-wishers, Eleanor wondered if someone in the treasury was trying to deceive her. After all, they had been paying her—albeit reluctantly—since the first year of Henry’s reign. Although her payment was often late, this was the first time it had not arrived at all.