Authors: Ellen Jones
Ever since coming to Gropecuntlane four years ago—or was it five? Bellebelle had been careful not to cross the river into Southward Not only was there the risk of being recognized—although that incident was probably long forgotten—but she could not bring herself to stir up painful memories by going back. Although she would never forget Gytha and Morgaine, that part of her life, particularly the near-murder of de Burgh, was something she wanted to bury forever.
She thought of herself as being born on the day she arrived at the brothel-house in Gropecuntlane.
Bellebelle slipped the coins under the slops bucket. More than half went to the brothelmaster but there still was some left over which she would dutifully save. She pulled on her red and blue striped cloak with distaste, hating the fact that she always had to flaunt her profession when she left the brothelhouse. Mustn’t grumble, she chided herself again. She had a night to herself; there was the pork pasty, a half-pint of ale, and good company to look forward to.
In the purple twilight, Thomas Becket and his charge, Duke Henry of Normandy, walked their horses through the streets of London. They were followed by a guard of four men-at-arms who carried torches. It was unusually mild and Thomas watched the duke breathe the crisp January air with relief.
“What’s this place?” Henry asked as they came upon a maze of open stalls where a babble of different languages assailed their ears. “I recognize French, Italian, Spanish—where are we?”
“West Cheap,” Thomas said. “The merchants are probably just closing up for the night.”
“God’s eyes, a veritable rat’s nest of noise! You can hardly hear yourself think. And what a stink of slops.”
Thomas felt a tightness in his chest. Before he could stop himself, he said, “It may seem like a ‘rat’s nest’ to you, my lord, but this is where I was born and, despite the stink of slops, spent a happy youth.”
An instant later Thomas was appalled at his own audacity. He had trained himself never to lose control and now …What had gotten into him? He had thought himself no longer bothered by his humble origins, and reprimanded himself for the sin of pride. He had so wanted to make a good impression. What would the Duke think?
“Well, I didn’t mean to offend you, Thomas. You’ve obviously come a long way since then. We’re none of us bound by our past.”
A long way indeed from the poverty of Cheapside where the Beckets, the only Normans in a small area thick with families whose roots went back to Saxon times, were looked down upon. Poverty, mingled with the knowledge that he was different from the other lads who teased and hounded him, had set Thomas apart. On the other hand, having to survive in the rough and tumble of the London streets had made him strong, good with his fists, and willing to fight. No, not bound by the past but bound to it, Thomas wanted to say.
“My father was a poor but well-respected Norman burgher,” he said instead. “My mother was the finest woman who ever drew breath. Although my blood may not be royal, my great-grandfather fought with the Conqueror’s foot soldiers at Hastings. I’m not ashamed of my origins.”
He sounded defensive and touchy even to his own ears.
“Why should you be?” Henry looked around. “Tell me of this area. It appears to be most unusual.”
Thomas swallowed, knowing the duke was trying to put matters right by changing the subject. “Indeed. A veritable Tower of Babel, my lord, as you noted, filled with different races and people.” He had his voice under control now. “You can find anything here: the best goldsmith’s work in England, ginger, nutmeg, embroidered vestments, trinket boxes from France. London has everything.”
“So I’ve heard.” The duke smiled and spurred his horse forward. “The one time I was in London I gawked like a country bumpkin from the provinces—which is exactly what I was. Right now I’m not in the market for goods though, but sport.”
“I didn’t know you were ever in London, my lord.”
“Only once as a child.” His voice was dismissive. “Now, what taverns can you recommend?”
Thomas slowed his horse to avoid a pile of rubble in the street. “Taverns? Ah, well, I’m not too familiar with—” He sounded like a prude, and changed his tactics. “There’s Billingsgate where the wine shops are. But such places are frequented mostly by sailors and other lowlife.”
Thomas found it hard to keep the distaste from his voice. “There’s Southwark, but it’s more dangerous than any area in London. Filled with loose women, robbers, cutpurses, and other knaves who’d as soon slit your throat as give you greeting.”
“A veritable sewer of villainy to hear you tell it. I hadn’t realized we were in the very heart of Sodom and Gomorrah.”
Thomas felt himself flush. “I didn’t mean to give that impression at all.” He had been so drawn to this young duke and now he couldn’t seem to put a foot right. What had happened to his usually calm and diplomatic demeanor?
“It’s all right, Thomas, I was only teasing you.” The Duke paused. “Tonight—tonight, Thomas, I’m in the mood for a touch of sin, as it happens.” He reined in his horse. “Look, down there—”
The Duke pointed toward a lane that turned off the street. At the far end could be seen a tavern sign painted with a blue cock. In the flickering light of a torch carried by one of the men-at-arms he peered at the name scrawled on the side of a wooden building. “Grope—cuntlane? Now that sounds most promising. A willing doxy or doxies is just what I need.”
Thomas kept any feeling of revulsion out of his voice. “Ah—well, the name is familiar, of course, but I’ve never set foot in Gropecuntlane. In truth, it has a most unsavory reputation, and at night—”
“Unsuitable for an archbishop’s cleric, I know, but it holds no terror for me. In fact, the very place for what I have in mind. However, you’re excused if you don’t want to accompany me. Or perhaps you can recommend a better place? A friend of mine in Angers, also a cleric as it happens, always knew the best taverns and whores in the city.”
Thomas recognized he was being tested in some fashion, away from the safety—and sanctity—of Canterbury’s influence. Tested for what? he wondered.
“It isn’t that I don’t want to accompany you, my lord—”
Of a sudden Thomas was ten years old, a student at Merton Priory outside London, being dragged from sleep in the middle of the night while his bed was searched for nocturnal pollutions. Tears pricked his eyes now as they had then. He could still feel the agonizing sense of shame when such pollutions were found and he was forced to sing seven penitential psalms right then, with another thirty in the morning. The snickers and taunts and mocking looks of the other boys—it had happened so often—Dear God, why, why should he remember this now?
“You were saying, Thomas?”
The duke’s voice forced him to pull his thoughts together.
“Yes. Even though I’m not a priest, my lord, I’ve—I’ve—sworn myself to celibacy.” He steeled himself for the response.
The duke laughed. “God save us, I won’t hold your virginity against you. I’ve known enough holy men who preach against the sin of fornication with one hand while fondling doxies with the other. It’s a rare privilege to meet someone who actually practices what Holy Writ preaches. Just don’t tell me you abstain from ale as well?”
Surprised and relieved, Thomas felt a glow of affection spread through his body. “No, my lord, not in moderation. I’ll gladly share a peg-tankard with you. What says Holy Writ? ‘Take a little wine for thy stomach’s sake.’ ”
“Amen to that.”
Thomas laughed, joined by the duke, the feeling of camaraderie strong between them.
They rode down the street, dismounted before the tavern and tied their horses to the wooden post. The sound of raucous laughter and voices raised in song reverberated on the night air. Leaving the men-at-arms outside, Thomas and the duke approached the tavern.
Henry paused just inside the tavern doorway, one foot across the threshold. The air was so thick with the mingled fumes of sour wine, smoke from the tallow candles flickering in iron cressets around the walls, and the sweat of bodies pressed close together, that he felt queasy. A long counter stretched half the length of the room. On the wall behind it a variety of cloaks and tunics, hose, and even a pair of leather boots hung from short wooden poles. From the center of the room came the rattle of dice and the calls of the dicing players. Through an open doorway echoed the sound of a lute and drunken voices raised in song.
It was Henry’s first experience with a London tavern; the air of expectancy pulsing through the room was contagious.
There was a moment of silence when they entered while everyone’s eyes turned in their direction. This was followed by hoots of laughter as they walked toward the counter.
“Where you be from, Curtmantle?” called a voice. “The Welsh hills?”
“Brought your priest with you, did you?” shouted another. “How about your mam? Does she know you’ve left home?”
Henry’s face grew red. He had worn an old tunic, scuffed black boots, and a brown cloak especially made for him in Poitiers.
“Why is everyone making sport of us?”
“It’s your short cloak, my lord,” said Thomas in a low voice. “Cloaks are much longer in England than on the Continent. It makes you look conspicuous. I should have warned you.”
“But short cloaks are the latest style, according to Eleanor. Everyone in Poitiers wears one.”
“This is London, my lord, and London is the world to these people. It might be best to remove it.”
“I’ll not have them laughing at me, by God. I’ve a good mind to tell them just who I am.”
“I suspect it’s just as well they don’t know who you are, my lord.”
“Well, I’ve no intention of removing my cloak.”
Henry, spoiling for a fight, pugnaciously pushed his way through the men crowding the counter. They gave way, eyeing him askance.
“A peg-tankard of ale,” he said between his teeth, “and be quick about it.”
“Yes, Sir Curtmantle.” The tavern keeper behind the counter gave him a toothless grin as he pushed the tankard toward him. “Right away, your lordship.”
The men at the counter snickered.
Before Henry could take action, Thomas grasped his elbow and steered him firmly away from the counter.
“Pay no attention to these rogues, my lord,” Thomas said, after they had made a place for themselves on a bench at one of the trestle tables filled with drinking men. “They’re just playing with you now. But they’d like nothing better than an excuse to start a fight. Don’t give it to them. Best we drink up and then leave.”
Seething, Henry took a deep swallow of ale. “Don’t call me by my title. Henry will do for tonight.”
Thomas nodded, then, to Henry’s astonishment, pulled a short-bladed knife from the scrip at his belt and tucked it into his sleeve.
“I thought men of the cloth weren’t supposed to shed blood,” he said, wishing he could take on all the rogues in the tavern single-handedly.
Thomas gave him a faint smile. “We’re not. I don’t intend to use it—except as I must to defend myself or you. In truth, I prefer using my fists—although it’s been years since I tested them—and nothing forbids me to do that.”
Henry looked belligerently around the tavern, slightly disappointed to find that no one was now paying them the slightest attention. He turned back to Thomas.
“Good with your fists, are you? You must teach me. Tell me, where does a cleric learn how to wield a knife?”
“At a noble’s castle—Pevensey. I’ve never actually had to use the knife, but I could if needed.”
The pride in his voice was evident. “I’m glad to hear it. Pevensey? That’s on the Sussex coast, isn’t it? What else did you learn there?”
Henry took another swallow of ale then passed the tankard to Thomas who took a small sip.
“Skill at arms; how to ride, hunt, and care for a falcon. How to serve my lord at table; the manners of a gentleman, of course.” He paused. “And my place in the hierarchy.”
The cleric’s lip twisted, and there was an edge to his voice that made Henry give him a sharp look. “After Pevensey?”
“St. Paul’s in London, then Paris, training at law—finally a home with my lord archbishop of Canterbury, who sent me to Bologna and Paris again for further grounding in canon and secular law.”
“And is archdeacon of Canterbury your place in the hierarchy?”
Thomas smiled faintly. “Perhaps not my final place. It lies in God’s hands.”
“As well as others. A man with the abilities of a knight, the learning of a clerk, and the cunning of a lawyer, who knows his way about the world—well, that is a rarity indeed.”
“So I understand.”
The note of pride had given way to complacency. Amused, Henry was not displeased to see that, despite a defensive manner concerning his humble origins, Thomas had a sense of his own worth when it came to his accomplishments. Nor was he above bending a few ecclesiastical rules. Thank God for that. A cleric with no mind of his own, dancing always to Canterbury’s tune, could have no place in his administration. Henry was seriously considering the idea of finding room in his household for this gifted cleric. However, it might be worth testing him further.
“’Evening, Your Worship.”
Henry looked up. A hulking man with a black patch over one eye stood over them. He gave Thomas an oily smile.
“Me name’s Hugo, Your Reverence, Black Hugo they calls me. I ’as something ’ere as might interest ye.”
“I don’t think so,” Henry said.
“I was speakin’ to his holiness, not ye.”
Hugo forced a place for himself next to Thomas. “I know as ye’ll be interested ’cause this be the genuine article.” He took something out of the soiled purse attached to his cracked leather belt and rubbed it against his sleeve. “A lock o’ Our Lord’s hair.” He held out a lock of dirty black hair tied at one end with a piece of string.
Henry raised his brows. “Looks like horsehair to me.” He was curious to see how the cleric would handle this.
Hugo shot Henry a hostile glance while Thomas took the lock of hair and made a great show of carefully examining it. “By the Mass, it
is
horsehair. I fear someone has swindled you, my good fellow.” He laid it on the table.