Beloved Enemy (73 page)

The business with young Henry was not “another” reason but, perhaps, one of the main reasons Henry wanted him for the See. Thomas knew, as few others even suspected, that the king lived in almost obsessive fear that his heirs would not succeed to the throne. Whether due to England’s lack of a regulatory system to provide for the succession, his mother’s bitter experience in being rejected by magnates sworn to uphold her claim to the throne, Henry’s own struggles to achieve the crown, or some other factor entirely was anybody’s guess. But the constant need to be assured that his heirs would inherit haunted the king.

Young Henry. Thomas sighed. What could he say? That England’s heir was spoiled, lovable, and inattentive to his lessons? That he possessed more comeliness and charm than was good for him? That he traded on these not inconsiderable assets to get his own way? Of course the boy was only seven. Plenty of time for him to grow into his vast responsibilities—or so Thomas fervently hoped. When thinking of the young prince, however, he was uncomfortably reminded of King Alfred’s dictum: Unlettered king, crowned ass.

“You favor the base-born Geoffrey, don’t you, Sire?” Thomas asked now, to avoid any further discussion of Prince Henry.

Henry gave a rueful smile. “In some ways. Although I adore young Henry as well.” He scratched the sleek head of a liam that had escaped its keeper to place its two front paws on Henry’s lap. “It was awkward explaining to Geoffrey that he might not be seeing his mother for a while, but he seemed to accept it.”

The liam leapt up and licked Henry’s face. “It’s Joyeuse, isn’t it?” He laughed, twisting his head away from the wet tongue.

“I can barely tell one hound from another,” said Thomas. “It never ceases to amaze me how you recognize each dog you’ve hunted with.”

“Well, Joyeuse is used for starting the quarry. Notice how heavily muscled he is compared to the others?”

Thomas, who could see little difference, nodded absently. He felt an unaccustomed spark of sympathy for Henry’s bastard son, removed so precipitously to alien surroundings.

“What else could the boy do, Sire, but accept his fate? What choice did he have?”

“Well-spoken, Thomas. Indeed, children are little better than pawns of their parents; parents are the pawns of House and lineage. We devise the rules then become prisoners of our own devising.” Henry sighed, patting the hound’s deep tan chest. “Are any one of us free to choose, I wonder? Are we not all the pawns of circumstance? Can this hound choose where or when or even what game he will hunt? It is a hard lesson Geoffrey must learn—the earlier the better.”

“God has given us free will, Sire. Some of us do not use it as wisely as we might.”

“There speaks the artful lawyer! Nor do I dispute that, but I fear I’m not up to a philosophical debate with you, Thomas. You usually win.” The berner came to retrieve his charge, who was led protestingly away. “I expect Geoffrey misses his mother; God knows I do.”

“The Southwark whore?” Thomas was honestly surprised. “Heaven only knows who she might have taken up with by now.”

Henry scowled. “Before I leave for Normandy, I had thought of paying her a visit to give her news of her son. But if she’s taken up with someone else, I’ll have her out of that house and without support so fast … do you know this for fact?”

“No. Just speculation. Once a whore, so to speak.” Thomas would have liked to say otherwise but did not dare. In truth, he had no idea what the little doxy was doing, nor did he care. That Henry still cared was only too obvious.

Sometimes Thomas wondered if Henry ever thought of their vow of blood brotherhood, and what else might have occurred beside the fire in the Verte Forest. Often—far too often—his thoughts returned again and again to the desires evoked that night—and forcefully repressed. Because he would never know Henry’s true feelings he felt vulnerable, at risk. Had Henry guessed, suspected, what lay in Thomas’s heart? The possibility tormented him. Outwardly, Henry seemed the same: trusting, comradely, affectionate. But it was impossible to tell what lay beneath that jovial exterior.

Thomas hated uncertainty, the need to keep watch and ward over all that he said and did. As primate of all England, he would not feel disadvantaged but almost Henry’s equal. His own man, so to speak, with only the pope to answer to—and the Holy Father was conveniently tucked away in Rome. But the unique quality of the relationship between Henry and himself, their close friendship and bantering camaraderie, would undergo a change. How drastic a change, Thomas could not predict. It was this uncertainty which made him withhold acceptance.

As well as the doubts about remaining Henry’s chancellor despite the king’s blithe assurance to the contrary. Strange that Henry did not perceive the pitfalls so readily apparent to a discerning eye. But then, the king had his blind spots. He charged ahead like a wild boar after its prey, seeing only the goal, not what lay beyond or on either side.

“What deep thoughts disturb my chancellor’s mind?” Henry put a hand on his shoulder. Thomas could feel that touch all the way down his arm to his fingertips … Jesu.

“Yes or no, Thomas? I would have an answer now or I
will
offer the post to that dry stick, Foliot.”

“Suppose a situation arose, Sire, that put the intent of Holy Church in direct disagreement with royal policy? What then?”

“That is exactly why I want
you
in Canterbury—a foot in both camps so to speak. Then such a situation would never arise.”

“Let me put it another way. Holy Church already believes you presume too much in her affairs. Suppose Canterbury itself were in opposition to the crown? Think of the strife that others could foment between us.”

Henry jumped up, stretched, and gave a sigh of exasperation. “Suppose we were all struck by a bolt of lightning within the hour? God’s eyes, anything is possible. But we have always agreed—Toulouse was an exception, I grant you. Why should our paths diverge once you are primate? You will be head of the Church and also tending to state affairs, thus leaving me free to devote more time to my Continental possessions. No matter the issue, you and I, together, can seek a resolution.” He rocked back and forth on the heels of his boots. “No more ‘What ifs.’ Yea or nay?”

The king was no longer to be denied. Thomas imagined himself as archbishop of Canterbury. Primate of all England! Second only to the king himself in greatness. To attain such heights of power … his mind reeled. But within the depths of his soul, Thomas knew himself for what he was—not a man single-mindedly devoted to God. In good conscience there was only one answer he could give Henry.

“I accept.” It was not what he had intended to say at all. Astounded by his own audacity, Thomas waited for a sign.

The world did not tumble apart. Lightning did not strike him down. The courtyard still bustled with activity. All was as usual. In the face of Henry’s broad grin of pleasure, the hand pounding his back in a burst of goodwill, Thomas drew a trembling breath. The words could not be retracted—nor did he wish to do so. Whether for good or ill, matters would fall out as God ordained they should.

“Madam?”

Eleanor, in the midst of helping the nurses get all her children into two litters in the front courtyard of Tower Royal, turned distractedly to see the steward’s troubled face.

“There is no time for me to deal with anything now. I’m trying to get the children settled so we can leave for Westminster, pick up Prince Henry, and proceed to Dover.”

He said something, but there was so much noise and confusion she could not hear. The courtyard of Tower Royal was filled with the sound of grooms still loading carts and strapping saddlebags onto sumpter horses. Baby Eleanor was crying. Matilda and her younger brother were quarreling over a wooden doll; Richard was sulking because he could not ride in the same litter with her.

“What? Speak up.”

The steward raised his voice. “That woman is here again. In the kitchen courtyard.”

Eleanor, about to climb into her own litter, paused. “What woman?”

The steward appeared embarrassed. “The—the bastard Geoffrey’s mother.”

Eleanor stiffened; her heart jumped a beat. She felt the familiar knot of anger and jealousy tighten in her chest. “What do you mean
again?
Do you tell me she has been here before?”

“Indeed, Madam. This is the third time in the last fortnight. I did not want to disturb you with the matter. Each time she comes, I faithfully relay the king’s explicit instructions that she may not see her son. Each time a guard escorts her out and tells her not to return. Only this time—” He hesitated.

“Only this time?”

The steward flushed with irritation. “This time, somehow the boy was outside. In all the commotion no one noticed. He saw his mother enter the courtyard, and now he is clinging to her and stubbornly refusing to let her go. Naturally, the guards are hesitant to forcefully lay hands on either of them. Since the king is at Westminster, Madam, I came to you for advice.”

“Yes. I see. All right. I will do what I can. She is in the kitchen courtyard, you say?”

“Yes.”

“Very well. Leave this business to me. See to matters here until I return. I won’t be long.”

Eleanor felt her whole body tremble in anticipation. So the enemy was at Tower Royal. Now. Never again might she have such a splendid opportunity. She adjusted her black cloak lined with ginger fox fur and took a deep breath. Head high, she marched across the courtyard as if going into the lists, invisible lance in hand, shadowy sword and buckler by her side. The whore was persistent, she would give her that. So was her son. Eleanor thought about Henry’s bastard.

Despite her bitter resentment, she found it impossible to hold a grudge against the little chap. Geoffrey was so bright, so personable and eager to please, surprisingly well able to defend himself against the hostile forces arrayed against him.

These forces consisted of Richard, who had immediately taken against the newcomer in a rage of jealousy that was quite unlike him, and her own Geoffrey, a devious child at three, who covertly stirred up trouble between the boy and the other children. Matilda, a gentle child, might have welcomed him if she weren’t so intimidated by Richard. Young Henry, ensconced in Becket’s household, had yet to meet him.

When she arrived in the kitchen courtyard, Eleanor found herself confronted by an amazing spectacle. Directly in front of her, ringed by guards and curious household servants, stood a slender young woman with a thick braid of curly black hair hanging over one shoulder. Geoffrey was holding on to her as if his life depended upon it.

The crowd fell back at Eleanor’s approach. She came to an abrupt halt, unable to move. Her heart felt as though it would burst inside her. So this was Bellebelle. The whore had skin the color of new cream and enormous eyes of an unusual dark blue. Her lips, the stain of crushed summer strawberries, were tightly clenched in a face taut with defiance. She looked impossibly young. With a start of angry surprise, Eleanor saw that she was wearing a black cloak lined with ginger fox fur, exactly like her own! Henry must have had two made, as he had the samite cloaks she had seen listed in the Pipe Roll.

She was not sure what she had expected but certainly not this exquisite creature that looked like a doe beset by hounds, vulnerable enough to break your heart.

Without warning, all of Eleanor’s doubts and fears surged up in a huge threatening wave. Regardless of what Henry said or promised, or truly intended, could he really give up anyone as lovely as this?

Bellebelle had gone deathly pale when she saw Eleanor, but she held her ground, tightening her grip on Geoffrey.

“I don’t mean to take him away,” Bellebelle said in a tremulous voice that held the lilt of the London streets overlaid with a refined veneer. “I just wants to see him sometimes.”

Was it only Geoffrey she wanted to see? Or was she hoping to meet Henry as well? Did the whore still think to get her claws into him? Despite Bellebelle’s air of helplessness, Eleanor was filled with distrust. Silk over iron was probably a more accurate assessment.

“Leave us,” she said, dismissing the guards and the crowd of scullions, laundresses, cooks, and other servants. “Return to your chores.”

They dispersed. Eleanor could just imagine the gossip that would run like wildfire through the Tower, then spread to the court. Well, there was no help for it.

“I would talk to your mother alone, Geoffrey. Do you wait over there—” She pointed to a far corner of the courtyard. “Nothing will happen to her,” she said, noting his fiercely anxious look. The boy had not been clinging to his mother, she realized, but protecting her.

Geoffrey looked up at the whore who nodded; he ran off. Eleanor watched until he was well out of earshot. She had quickly determined exactly how to foil this threat and thus ensure her own security.

“I know who and what you are. Henry has told me all about the—liaison and how it began,” she said, “so don’t try to gull me.”

Bellebelle stared at her in silence.

“Now,” Eleanor continued, “I’m willing to make an arrangement with you.”

A wary look flitted across Bellebelle’s face. “What kind of arrangement, Madam?”

“You must undertake never to see the king again. I want your solemn promise.”

Bellebelle shook her head in obvious bewilderment. “But Henry won’t have nothing to do with me anymore. Not after—not after all that’s happened. He doesn’t trust me.”

“That is what he says now. If you know him as well as I think you do, then you also know that Henry is impulsive and unpredictable. He can blow hot or cold at a moment’s notice.”

Bellebelle gave a reluctant nod. “But I don’t think he will change his mind about me. He never forgets an ill turn, he says. My lying to him … no, Madam, it do be finished between us. But even when he were—was keeping me, I never be a threat to you. Never for a single minute. He loves you, Madam.”

Eleanor stiffened. “I don’t need reassurance from the likes of you about how my husband feels.” She swallowed her resentment. “If you agree never to see him again, I will arrange matters so that you may see your son. If you break that promise—and I shall know if you do—you will never see Geoffrey again.”