Beloved Enemy (42 page)

“A pity ye can’t recognize the genuine article. But mayhap ye’d be more interested in a sliver o’ the true cross? Or this?” He dug into his purse and pulled out a shriveled piece of skin.

“What’s that?” Thomas wrinkled his nose.

“Foreskin, ye worship.”

Henry gave a shout of laughter. “God’s splendor! He’s got one of his own, I don’t doubt.”

“It be from Our Lord’s circumcision. The genuine article.”

“You must be mistaken,” said Thomas. “I’ve seen the original in Rome.”

“Rome, did you say?” Henry clapped his hand to his heart. “How could you have seen it in Rome when I saw it in Paris?”

He and Thomas broke into peals of laughter at the same moment.

Black Hugo shoved the relics back into his purse. He gave Henry a long hard look. “Ye with the short mantle, now I ain’t seen ye in here ’afore, has I?”

“If you say so.”

“I do say so. Black Hugo never forgets a face. Ye looks like a man o’ means, a person of some consequence like. How about a toss of the dice for ye? Two silver pennies says I can beat ye three out of three.” His eyes, black with enmity, challenged Henry.

“I don’t advise this, my—Henry.”

Ignoring the concern in Thomas’s voice, Henry rose to his feet. His blood was racing and the frisson of danger that ran through him was exhilarating. After weeks of dealing with cautious prelates and shifty nobles, here at last was an enemy he could do battle with.

“Three out of three. I accept.”

They followed Black Hugo into the center of the floor where the dicing players made room for them. Several men, obviously Hugo’s cronies, knelt on the floor next to him.

“We’ll use me own dice,” Hugo said, accepting three dice from one of the men.

“Don’t play with his dice,” Thomas said in an undertone. “I’ll get the guards from outside—in case we need support.” He withdrew from the circle of players.

“The dice already on the floor are the only dice I’ll play with.” Henry went down on one knee.

Hugo gave a reluctant nod.

“Well then, let the game begin,” Henry said. He was going to beat this scurvy knave. Curtmantle, was it? By God, tonight these people would have cause to remember him.

T
HERE WAS A HEATED
argument going on between two of the whores, both of them flown with ale, when Bellebelle let herself out the door of the brothel-house. One claimed the other had stolen her customer, and Hawke was trying to make peace. Frightening as he looked, the brothelmaster was not a bad sort. Much better than Gilbert had been. He rarely beat them—he almost never had to as his person was such that few disobeyed him. Nor did he ever cheat them out of their hard-earned wages. With the yowls and threats of the whores still ringing in her ears, Bellebelle trudged wearily down the narrow cobbled street deserted now by all but a few passersby. It was very dark, the moon hidden behind a bank of charcoal clouds, but unseasonably warm for January.

Coming abreast of the Blue Cock tavern Bellebelle stopped. The young girl who sold honey cakes leaned heavily against the wall. Her tray of golden cakes lay on the ground beside her.

“Ye—you be all right?” Bellebelle asked, approaching her with concern. Shivering all over, the girl was coughing into a soiled white cloth.

“Sure and I don’t know,” the girl gasped, doubling over. “I been walking the streets since Terce. Then cookshop told me they be wanting cakes in the tavern here. Suddenly I comes all over weak like, chilled to me very bones. I be fine in a moment.”

“Here. This will keep you warm.” Bellebelle took off her striped cloak and placed it over the girl’s shoulders. “Let me take the tray in for you. Rest yourself. I be right back.”

The cake-vendor nodded gratefully.

The tray, made of stout wood, was so heavy Bellebelle wondered how anyone found the strength to carry it. Inside the tavern she looked about for a place to set it. Amid the crowd of dicing players kneeling in the center of the floor, a youth suddenly looked up. Their eyes met for a brief moment before Bellebelle edged over to a long table and laid the tray down on one corner. Already the small of her back ached and she rubbed it before straightening.

Something about the young man’s ginger hair and freckled face looked vaguely familiar but she couldn’t place where, exactly, she’d seen him before. A customer perhaps? Probably. She’d had so many over the last five years they were all starting to look alike: a great faceless body heaving and grunting over her. Except for her regulars, Bellebelle doubted she’d recognize a customer for certain even if he ran into her in the street.

As she was about to leave, a loud oath made her turn. Bellebelle recognized several whores from the brothel-house hovering over the players, looking for business, as well as the familiar crowd of ale vats, and the wandering minstrels singing for a penny.

“God’s blood,” snarled the same voice. “It do be your roll o’ the dice.”

Now Bellebelle could see that the voice belonged to Black Hugo, whom she’d met on her first visit to the brothel-house. Although she’d never had any personal dealings with him, she saw him from time to time, and knew he was feared by everyone—except Hawke. Along with his cronies, Black Hugo could usually be found gambling in the tavern. A pile of silver coins lay in the center of the floor alongside several peg-tankards of ale. Black Hugo pointed to a player in a brown cloak whose head was bent over the dice. It was the same youth Bellebelle felt she’d met before.

Curious, Bellebelle joined the group of whores. The young man turned the three dice over in his hand, shook them, then shot them on to the floor. A natural seven. There was a mutter of interest from the onlookers as they pressed closer to the players.

“A lucky throw,” said one of the girls.

Bellebelle could see Black Hugo’s one good eye narrow as he slid two coins across the floor.

“These say ye can’t do it again.”

She watched the youth blow on the dice, rub them in his hands, then let them go again. Bellebelle leaned forward. Sweet Marie, another seven! Around her she heard murmurs of surprise mixed with oaths. Black Hugo, his eye smoldering like a hot coal, exchanged a few words with his ruffians who looked darkly at the dice lying on the floor.

Bellebelle wanted to tell the player to take his winnings and leave, quickly, before Black Hugo and his cronies turned on him. The youth suddenly leaned forward into the torchlight so that she could see him clearly.

“Fortune smiles on me tonight,” he said.

What was it about that voice—not the usual Norman-English or Saxon accent but almost pure Norman—that sounded so familiar? Like a minstrel’s song played long ago and now forgotten. But when the chord was strummed again something inside remembered. No question now—she’d met this youth before, not at the brothel-house in Gropecuntlane, but at a totally different time and place. At Gilbert’s? No—but Southwark felt right. Suddenly she saw herself on London Bridge with her mother and Morgaine and some of the other whores. Then came a picture of a boy with reddish hair and gray eyes leaning over the rail at London Bridge. Bellebelle gasped aloud. Impossible! Could this really be the same boy? The one who had been so special to her—the only other person besides herself who had actually seen her magic fish? For years she had continued to think of him, then gradually the memory had faded.

What was his name—it was just on the tip of her tongue—he’d said he come back to London and he had. Her heart surged in expectation, then plummeted. Of course he wouldn’t remember her. Why should he recall the filthy little urchin he met on the bridge at least nine or even ten years ago?

“Do ye mean to try another pass or not?” Black Hugo’s words came out in a low growl. “That be what, we agreed, Curtmantle.”

“My name is Henry. Naturally, honor demands I give you another chance to win your money back.”

Henry. Yes, that was the name. In the smoky glow of the torchlight, his face was flushed; his eyes blazed with excitement.

Surely he was not going to try another pass? Bellebelle looked around the room to see if he had brought any friends with him. Yes, there were four men-at-arms near the door and a man of the cloth in a black cowled robe, an anxious look on his face, trying to signal Henry. He must now be a person of some importance to have all these attendants with him. Hadn’t he told her his father was the duke or count of … she couldn’t remember.

“Go on then,” Black Hugo said between his teeth.

Other players added their coins to the pile. By now everyone in the tavern, even the most hardened drinkers at the tables, had gathered around the gamblers. A tense silence fell over the room as Henry picked up the ivory cubes and muttered a prayer. He rattled the dice then shot them on to the floor. Another seven! Holy Mary Virgin! Bellebelle, who had watched dicing players since she was old enough to walk and learned her numbers as a result, had never seen the like. There was a sharp intake of breath from the crowd. Then everyone began to talk at once.

With a great roar Black Hugo leapt to his feet, a long knife appearing magically in his fist. “The rogue switched the dice. These be cogged dice.”

The crowd fell silent. Bellebelle saw all eyes turn toward Henry, not sure whether to believe Black Hugo or not. In one quick gesture, Henry scooped up the pile of coins, dropping them carefully into the pouch attached to his leather belt. Then, as if he had all the time in the world, rose to his booted feet. Bellebelle noticed he wore no sword, only a knife. The crowd moved closer, surrounding him.

“Cogged dice is always the cry of a bad loser, a spoilsport,” Henry said. Unflinching, he faced the crowd of hostile faces, the threatening gaze of Hugo’s cronies, and Black Hugo himself, knife pointed straight at him.

Bellebelle felt her eyes grow moist. How fearless he looked and sounded. Just as he had in London with the Flemish soldiers. Didn’t have no wishbone where his backbone ought be, then, and he didn’t now. The crowd noticed it too, she saw, and that held them back. But for how long?

Before Bellebelle had time to think, she heard her own voice ring through the air. “I be standing right behind him. I sees no sign of cheating. Did you?” She dug her elbow into the ribs of the whore next to her.

“Ugh—no. I sees nothing neither.”

“See? The gentleman here didn’t cheat none,” Bellebelle said. “He won by honest means. We do vouch for him.”

Black Hugo glared at her and shook his knife. She shrank back.

Henry swung round. His eyes widened in surprise although it was obvious he didn’t recognize her. Swords drawn, the men-at-arms closed round him. Even the cleric drew a knife from the sleeve of his robe and shouted:

“Go now, my lord. We’ll hold them back.”

“This way,” said Bellebelle, noting the cleric had called him “my lord.” She grabbed Henry by the wrist and battled her way through the crowd toward the front entrance.

“Look at the chicken-hearted cur hide behind that cunt’s skirts.” Black Hugo’s voice bellowed after them like the roar of a bull.

“No whoreson calls me a coward.” Henry shook himself free, turned and lunged back, pulling his knife from its sheath.

The cleric sidestepped between him and Black Hugo. Bellebelle again grabbed Henry, this time by the arm, and pulled with all her might while the cleric shoved and pushed at his back. Between them, they managed to get him through the open doorway and onto the street.

Behind them she could hear Black Hugo cursing. At the doorway the cleric turned back. Bellebelle could only pray that he and the men-at-arms would keep Hugo and his cronies from following them until she had gotten Henry to safety.

Henry in tow, Bellebelle raced past the astonished cake-vendor who was still wearing Bellebelle’s striped cloak, down the short distance to the brothel-house. She flung open the door, relieved to hear no sound, groped her way up the narrow staircase dragging Henry, stumbled against two customers in the dim glow of the torchlit passage, and finally reached her chamber. Once inside she shut the door behind them. After catching her breath she quickly lit the candle stub in the iron holder that sat on the oak chest.

She saw Henry look curiously round the room and her heart froze. He was sure to catch sight of the nettles and rusty leg irons hanging on the wall. How could she explain these to him?

“God’s eyes, is this a brothel? Are you a tart? I thought you were selling cakes of some sort.”

Bellebelle, who had just knelt to stir up the coals in the brazier, cringed at the note in his voice. She could not bring herself to tell him she was a whore. But there was no way she could avoid telling him at least part of the truth.

“Me—me friend be a whore. I—I shares this chamber with her sometimes and pays rent to the brothelmaster. When I be out selling she uses it for the customers.” It was a feeble excuse but, if he were unfamiliar with the habits of London brothels and whores, he might believe her. She rose to face him. “Ye—you don’t remember me, does you?”

Henry frowned. “Someone as lovely as you? I’m sure I would have remembered if I’d met you before.”

“It do be about nine or ten year ago now. On London Bridge. I showed you the fish. Remember?”

After a moment’s puzzled silence she saw a grin of amazement cross his freckled face. “Of course I remember. God’s eyes! Can you possibly be that grubby little rat?”

She nodded.

“I would never have known you. So you sell cakes now? A thankless job I would think.” He looked about him. “Is there any wine about? I could use a goblet.” He walked over to the wall, fingered the leg irons curiously, raised his brows, then sat down on the bed and began to pull off his boots. “To each his own, but it’s a strange place to live …”

“At least it be a roof over me head,” Bellebelle was horrified to hear herself say. “Have you ever spent your days, rainy or bright, trudging through the muck and filth o’ the streets carrying a tray that be heavier than you? I not be ashamed of where I lives.”

In the long silence that followed, Bellebelle felt sure she had offended him. What had goaded her to speak so strongly? When she dared to look up she found his piercing gray eyes resting on her in a thoughtful gaze.