Beloved Enemy (19 page)

One of the knights approached them with a snigger. “Which milk cow’s got the biggest udders?”

The Flanders whore immediately pulled down her chemise revealing pendulous white breasts.

The knight reached out and fingered a rouged nipple. “This one’s for me.”

Her relief visible, the Flanders whore and the knight disappeared into her cubicle. Another knight picked the plump, giggly whore Agnes.

To Bellebelle’s dismay she saw the Fleming’s gaze immediately fasten on Gytha. He pointed a languid finger at her and something flickered deep within the snakelike eyes. Suddenly Bellebelle felt overwhelmed by a sense of foreboding so intense she almost cried out. Even without the warning she would have known, instinctively, that this man was not like the others, but one of those with a touch of the devil in him.

Bellebelle tried to signal her mother but Gytha, unsteady on her feet, paid no attention and, Fleming in tow, lurched into her cubicle. Too late. Morgaine, who had overheard the Flanders whore’s warning, pressed Bellebelle’s hand.

“Me room is close by ye mam’s and ye be next door,” she whispered hurriedly. “Keep a sharp ear out for anything that sounds—out of the way, look ye. Take this.” She slipped Bellebelle her bone-handled knife.

Bellebelle nodded and instinctively hid the knife behind her, wondering what she was supposed to do with it. In truth, she didn’t really know what Morgaine meant. In the brothel-house there were all sorts of odd sounds that were a natural part of the surroundings. How could she recognize one that was really unusual?

There was no time for further thought as her customer walked toward her. A stout man approaching his middle years, he gave Bellebelle a weary smile. Once inside the cubicle he threw himself down on the bed with a sigh, and asked Bellebelle to take off his boots and massage his feet. She did as he said, first laying the knife on the table next to the bed. Thus far, she could detect no noise from her mother’s room next door.

The customer, who told her his name was Ralph, did not appear to notice her uneasiness or lack of attention. Instead, thank the Holy Virgin, he seemed more eager to talk than to swive her. He explained that he had ridden in from York with his own men and one Hans de Burgh, who commanded a troop of the king’s Flemish mercenaries.

“De Burgh,” she repeated distractedly, to show she was listening.

“A proper bastard if ever there was one. Christ, the tales I could tell you! The man’s no better than an animal, like most of them are, but de Burgh’s mother is Norman which makes it all the harder to understand. However, the king dotes on his Flemings so we must put up with them.”

Bellebelle forced a smile, continuing to massage his feet while she tried to listen for any sounds that might be coming from next door. Suddenly, she realized that the man he was speaking about might well be the Fleming with her mother.

“Be he here?” she asked.

“Yes, of course. De Burgh’s the man wearing a silver medallion set with emeralds. The one who took the flaxen-haired doxy.”

Bellebelle’s fear increased. If even his companion called him an animal …

“We defeated a raiding party of Scots in York,” Ralph was saying now, “and just returned to London for reinforcements to take back north with us. There’s a major battle expected with the king of Scotland and his great-nephew from Normandy, Henry Fitz-Empress …”

Bellebelle nodded, not really taking in what he said. Fortunately, a whore was never expected to answer.

Ralph gave a huge yawn. “I’m getting too old for these campaigns, by God. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind if I just—” He fell sound asleep right in the middle of his sentence.

Relieved, Bellebelle quickly got up from the bed and crept over to the wall. Pressing her ear against it she listened carefully. For a while she could hear nothing, yet her uneasiness grew. It dawned on her that it was the total absence of any noise at all that was so frightening. Suddenly she heard a low chuckle that froze the blood in her veins. Then absolute silence.

Later, she could not remember picking up Morgaine’s knife which she must have done, for when she slipped out of her cubicle and quietly opened the door to her mother’s, it was gripped firmly in her hand.

The sight that met her eyes was out of some impossible hellish nightmare. Gytha, gagged tightly with one of her own stockings, her hands tied above her head with the other, was spattered with blood. Her eyes were wild with terror, her face contorted in a frozen scream. Her legs twitched and jerked, while the Fleming, naked, crouched on his knees over her body. A twisted smile on his face, he slowly and methodically dug into her flesh with a long knife.

No time to call for help. This devil was hurting her mother and must be stopped. Instinct flung her headlong into the cubicle; her body hurtled toward the bed with the speed of an arrow. As de Burgh scrambled off Gytha’s body, Bellebelle’s arm took on a life of its own, raising itself high above her head. With all the strength she possessed she brought her arm down, driving the point of Morgaine’s dagger deep into de Burgh’s side.

His hands shot out, gripped Bellebelle’s throat with iron fingers, squeezing until she felt the chamber begin to spin. Then, his eyes glazing, he suddenly toppled sideways over Gytha’s body.

Bellebelle, gasping for air, rolled him off the body and onto the floor. Her mother’s eyes were now closed, her face slack. She had fainted. Kneeling beside her, Bellebelle tore the suffocating gag from her mouth, undid the stockings, and, weeping and choking, tried to staunch the blood oozing in rivulets down her naked body. To her horror, she could see that Gytha had also been burned with a candle, for there were angry red welts and dried wax over her breasts.

A noise at the door. Bellebelle turned her head to see Morgaine, fully dressed, standing in the open doorway. She entered, closing the door softly behind her.

“I left mine asleep,” she said, her eyes raking in the situation in one fierce glance. “By St. David, I knew that beast be trouble but never like this.” She walked over to de Burgh’s body and looked down at the waxy face. “Holy Mother of God, have ye killed him then?”

Killed him? Uncomprehending, Bellebelle stared at the inert form. Had she actually killed de Burgh? Stricken, she looked at Morgaine.

“I—I doesn’t know.”

“Looks dead to me.” She prodded him with her foot.

“Dead? But I—”

“Ye must leave, Belle. At once. His men’ll be through soon and come lookin’ for him. It won’t take them long to learn who the culprit be, look ye. They’ll be after ye quick as lightning and if they catch ye—” Morgaine crossed herself. “They can see what he done but he be the king’s man, and ye and Gytha just be whores. They’ll pay Gilbert to keep his mouth shut and who’s to know?” She touched Bellebelle’s bruised throat. “Here.” She pulled the necklace of blue stones from around her neck and slipped it over Bellebelle’s head. “For protection against the evil forces o’ darkness.”

“Me mam—I can’t leave her.”

Morgaine bent to examine Gytha’s prone body, lifted her eyelids, then nodded. “Thank the Holy Virgin she fainted, or she’d be screaming to high heaven and ye’d have no chance to escape. We’ll look after her, Belle, don’t be feared. She’s been cut up and burned but nothing that won’t heal in time. It do look worse than it be. Ye saved her from … never mind.”

She gave Bellebelle a push. “Grab your things, only what ye can carry easy like. Get over to London if ye can. To Gropecuntlane. They’ll take ye in, like I told ye. Don’t show ye face in Southwark. This be your chance, lass! Take it. Go now, d’ye hear? Now!”

Bellebelle’s last sight of the cubicle was of her mother’s bruised body; Morgaine coolly pulling out the knife from de Burgh’s side, carefully wiping the blood-stained blade on the bed-sheet, and tucking it away under her skirts.

In a daze, Bellebelle ran out of the chamber. The passage was empty. She softly opened the door of her own cubicle. Snoring fitfully, the customer, Ralph, slept on. Hastily she rinsed her bloody hands in the cauldron of water, tied the bag of coins round her waist under the blood-stained chemise, slipped on the clothes she had worn earlier that day, stuffed a few belongings into a straw basket, then tip-toed out of the cubicle.

Numb with fear, her throat aching, she stood irresolute for a moment, not knowing what to do. Then the sound of giggles and lusty male laughter sent her scurrying to the top of the stairs.

With a last fleeting look of anguish at her mother’s door, Bellebelle carefully crept down the stairs, crossed the tiny hall, and cautiously opened the door a crack. The shouts and singing from the tavern would cover any noise she made. Pushing the door all the way open she peered out. A short distance away she could see the outline of the horses and the grooms talking among themselves. A picture of her mother’s burnt and cut body swam before her eyes and for a moment she swayed unsteadily. Sounds from above now, someone pounding on a door, and raised voices. With a prayer to the Holy Virgin to keep her safe, Bellebelle turned and ran down the dark passage that led to the back entrance.

She slipped through the open door, raced across the dirt courtyard, then out the rear gate. An unseen silent shadow, she sped down the deserted street, away from the brothel-house, away from her beloved, helpless mother, away from the only life she had ever known. The night closed round her like a warm protective cloak. Soon she was lost amid the dark twisted alleys of Southwark.

“T
HE WOUND’S NOT MORTAL.
You’ll live,” the black-robed physician said upon bandaging de Burgh’s body.

“No thanks to that slut who tried to kill me,” de Burgh muttered. “Here, help me to my feet.”

Two knights helped him to stand, his body swaying between them.

Morgaine, sick with worry over what might be happening to Bellebelle, felt a sense of relief. At least the poor lass wouldn’t be accused of murder. The other whores, along with Gilbert, Ralph, de Burgh, and three other knights were crowded into Gytha’s cubicle.

The physician—usually flown with ale—who lived on the Bankside and sometimes tended them, shambled over to Gytha’s unconscious body. After a cursory examination he spread an ointment over her wounds and burns then turned to Gilbert.

“Did you know this one has the burning sickness? The cuts and burns will heal in time but the other—” he shrugged.

De Burgh hissed like an adder. “Whoreson! Swine!” He shook a threatening fist at Gilbert. “What kind of a hellhouse do you run here? Before I’m through, you’ll be in no condition to ever run a brothel again.”

“Jesu, my lord, I swear I knew nothing,” Gilbert said in a whining voice, his face ashen. “Me lords.” He turned imploringly to Ralph and the others. “Gytha kept it from me. How could I know?”

“Has the filthy bitch infected me, do you think?” De Burgh looked fearfully at the physician. His face, beaded with sweat, was the color of suet, his eyes bloodshot and wild.

Morgaine shuddered. He looked sick unto death, and if there was any justice in this world this fiend of Satan would die of either his wound or the burning sickness.

“Who can say, my lord?” The physician threw up his hands. “Some become infected, some do not. It lies in God’s hands.”

De Burgh shook off the support of the men. Before Morgaine or the others realized what he was doing, he had staggered over to the bed and picked up his curved dagger that still lay there covered with Gytha’s blood. He thrust the startled physician aside, then plunged the blade into Gytha’s breast.

“Stinking carrion bitch, may you rot in hell,” he cried, his face contorted with rage. Then, clutching his side, he began to sway on his feet. A crimson stain appeared on the white cloth.

The knights sprang after him and dragged him away, half-fainting, to a corner of the room. The whores screamed and covered their faces with trembling hands. With a cry, Morgaine ran to Gytha, although she knew the wound had done for her. Thank the Holy Virgin the poor creature had felt nothing.

“You’re well out o’ this mortal coil, m’dear,” Morgaine whispered as she wept over her friend’s lifeless body. “None can hurt ye now.” She signed herself then muttered a few words in Welsh.

After a moment she dried her eyes then pointed an accusing finger at de Burgh. “Murderer! Murderer!” She turned to the other men. “Ye been witness to cold-blooded murder. Will none o’ye see justice done?”

Gilbert, regaining courage, nodded. “Aye, she be right. First this man tortures me best whore and now he’s gone and killed her. I run a respectable house, I does, ye can ask anyone on the Bankside! Never had no trouble before that madman come.”

De Burgh slumped unconscious to the floor. Ralph gave him a contemptuous glance. “Madman is right. I knew that rotten scum would go too far one day. Get the swine out of here and take him back to London.”

One of the knights slung de Burgh’s body over his shoulder and carried him out of the chamber. The other two knights exchanged uneasy glances.

“When the king’s Flemish captain hears of this he’ll be ready to strangle that doxy with his own hands,” said one of the knights. “This is only a dead whore of no great account, but de Burgh is valuable to the captain. We cannot let her escape.”

Ralph nodded reluctantly. “No, the poor lass must be apprehended and brought to justice, though God knows she had provocation. Go after her, she’s on foot and can’t have gotten far. Then one of you inform the sheriff—there should be a sheriff of Southwark.”

The two knights quickly left the chamber.

“What about Gytha?” demanded Morgaine. If there was a sheriff of these parts, she’d never seen hide nor hair of him. Law on the Bankside? Not bloody likely. “Will ye no see justice done for her?”

Ralph sighed. “I fear de Burgh will never be brought to justice for this murder or for any of the other evil deeds he’s committed. But here’s compensation for you.” He poured some coins into Gilbert’s palm, a few into the physician’s, and the rest into Morgaine’s. “Divide this with the other whores.”

Morgaine threw him a contemptuous glance. Did he really think money would make up for the loss of her friend? She felt so helpless; how could she right this terrible wrong? In these lawless times, where the king’s writ carried almost no weight and hundreds died daily, who would care about the murder of one whore?