Authors: Ellen Jones
“So’s you once told me.” Bellebelle shook her head when he offered her a goblet.
“Speaks right proper now, I notice, don’t you?” He peered at her. “Found out about you, did he?”
Bellebelle nodded and glanced down at her fingers.
“Now you can’t say as I didn’t warn you. But he probably would’ve grown tired of you anyways. It’s the way of the world, and that’s a fact. Men always wanting new furrows to seed. But you lasted nigh on eight years, a long time for Henry Plantagenet from all what I hear about his lecherous ways. Even has a son by him, don’t you?”
“How’d you know all this?”
“You been gone too long, girl.” Hawke wagged a playful finger at her. “The brothels and taverns hear everything first, remember? Lion leave you well provided for? Reckon he must have or you’d be wanting work.”
“I’ve got a bit put by. Won’t starve anyways.”
Hawke snorted. “You always did have a head for money, Belle. But you let your heart be master just like all cunts does.” His eyes grew speculative. “Come for what you left then, I suppose?”
“Yes.”
Hardly daring to breathe, Bellebelle watched while he walked over to one of the iron-bound chests, squatted on his knees, unlocked it with a large rusty iron key, opened it, and lifted out a stained leather pouch, the same one Thomas Becket had given her in the tavern so long ago. He shook it and Bellebelle could hear the coins jangling. She closed her eyes and let out her breath in a long sigh. Thank the Holy Mother, Hawke had not played her false.
“There’s more here than you left,” he said, lumbering to his feet. “I borrowed your money so’s I wouldn’t have to go to Hakelot the Jew and pay usury. Want to count it?”
She shook her head. “I trust you. Why’d you need it?”
“Expansion, naturally. I bought the tavern next door, see, and the cookshop, put up the money for the pie shop as well, and have half-interest in the alehouse too. Of course, someone else has the running of them.” Hawke eyed her curiously.
“You be a woman of means now. What’re your plans then, Belle?”
“I don’t rightly know—yet. Me son, Geoffrey, going to be educated by the canons of St. Paul’s, then a career in the Church, so he don’t need me no more.”
“I should think not. His fortune’s made, I’d say. You’re free as a bird then, and still got your looks. Who’d a thought it, eh?” He shook his head in wonder. “Born under a lucky star you were, Belle, and that’s a fact. Thought about your future at all?”
“I was thinking that if I puts all me money together I might have enough to—” She stopped.
“To what?” Hawke prompted her. “Enough for a marriage dowry, mayhap? Plenty of men overlook you being a whore with enough silver to help them forget.”
“Never want to have a husband. Not for anything. Don’t need no one to care for me.” She paused. “I wants to do something for me-self. Something of me own. That no one can take away.”
Hawke gave a short laugh. “You don’t want much, do you? Eh, it’s a weary old world, Belle, for the likes of you and me. None of us gets what we want, and most of us settle for what we do get, and that’s a fact.”
Bellebelle was reminded of the conversation she had once had with Morgaine on the steps of the brothel-house in Southwark. What she had wanted then—to get out of the stews, to belong to only one man, to feel safe—had all come to pass. Some of it at least. Although not quite in the way she had imagined.
“Perhaps nothing ever be like you dreamed it would be,” she said slowly, “once you has it. That be what you mean?”
“Aye, that’ll do. You getting wiser with your years, girl, I’ll say that for you.”
From upstairs there was the sound of a heavy object hitting the floor; the ceiling rattled. Hawke gave an impatient sigh.
“By Christ, now what? Someone always be causing trouble.”
He walked to the door. “Best look into it.” He gave her the pouch. “You’ll find your money, like I said, and a bit extra for the use of it. I’m not a wealthy man, mind, but I pay me debts proper.”
Above, there was another loud noise. A female voice from one of the back cubicles shouted for quiet. From directly above, someone raised a drunken voice in song followed by a squeal of laughter. Bellebelle smiled at the familiar sounds that called up memories of Southwark, of Gytha and Morgaine. She rose and followed Hawke slowly to the door.
“Might build me an inn next,” Hawke said. “Somewhere outside London. After all, country’s at peace, thanks to the king, and growing all the time; trade’s increasing back and forth across the Channel. Means more travelers, which means more inns be needed, which means more customers wanting service, right?”
Bellebelle nodded. As Hawke opened the door for her, two young whores ran down the stairs and brushed by them.
“We be off to the cookshop, Hawke,” said one, over her shoulder. “No more customers to service. Won’t be long.”
Bellebelle watched them walk down the street talking and laughing. Something was different about them. What was it?
“They just left without asking you, Hawke. And weren’t wearing no striped cloaks!”
“Bloody whores don’t know their place, no more, they don’t. That’s ’cause of the new ordinance come out.” He raised his scraggly brows. “You mean you don’t know?”
“No.” Bellebelle was still staring at the whores in bewilderment. “What ordinance?”
“Well, it’s mostly meant for the Southwark stews ’cause most of the brothels be located on the Bankside, but I follows the new rules for brothels and whores just to be on the safe side.”
“New rules? I don’t understand.”
“Well, let’s see what I can recollect exactly. ‘That no stewholder … should let or stay any single woman, to go and come freely at all times when they listed. No stewholder to keep any woman to board, but she to board abroad at her pleasure …No single woman to be kept against her will that would leave her sin …’ It goes on with how much money I can take from the whores, how the whore has to lie with a customer all night if he pays, the bailiff has to inspect the stew every sennight, no married women or nuns to work here, and so forth. Marry, but there be over thirty items. Protects the whores and the customers too. Even I gets protection long as I be licensed.”
“You mean that whores don’t
have
to live in the brothel-house? They can
leave
whenever they wants?”
“Aye. That be part of it. Not like the old days, Belle, and that’s a fact.” He grinned. “Want to change your mind?”
“No.” Bellebelle felt a lump in her throat. “The king did this?”
“Aye. His council recently approved it, and the ordinance just been issued.” Hawke grunted. “Best see to the trouble upstairs now. Fare well, girl.”
“You too, Hawke.”
Bellebelle walked down the street in a daze. Her heart felt so full she thought it would burst. All those things she’d told Henry about her life in Southwark and Gropecuntlane—to think he’d actually listened, then gone and done something about it! She could hardly believe what Hawke had told her. At the top of Gropecunt—
Groppecountelane
now, she must remember that—Bellebelle turned for a last look. The tavern, the brothel-house—all behind her now. For good. She felt like singing aloud.
She passed the Strand, looked with a smile at the bridge bustling with foot-traffic, and walked back toward Aldgate. She passed the cemetery, then slowed her pace by the Benedictine convent. The bells from St. Paul’s rang for Nones. If she didn’t hurry she’d miss her ride with the farmer back to Bermondsey. Not that it mattered, she could always find another cart and driver to take her. There was no rush to return.
The convent had a small garden in front enclosed by a low wall of weathered gray stone. Odd, she’d never noticed that before. A nun in black habit was on her knees pulling out weeds. She smiled at Bellebelle, who came to a halt. The walk leading up to the convent door was paved with uneven flagstones scrubbed clean. Although located right in the heart of London the convent was very quiet, with a kind of soothing stillness.
Bellebelle had never been in a convent yet it felt so familiar, as if she had always known such a place without ever having been aware that she knew it. Impulsively, she turned up the walk. Elfgiva would say she was well and truly daft. Hawke would too. Even Henry would be astounded—but he would see the justice in it. Geoffrey would understand. So would Queen Eleanor. Even Morgaine, if she were here. Bellebelle knew she had enough, more than enough, for an ample dowry—and not for a husband. She smiled.
She had been avoiding this step all her life, Bellebelle realized, only to have come full circle. She had found what she had always been looking for, only to recognize it for the first time.
She had come home, safe, at last.
I
N LATE MAY, HENRY
and Eleanor accompanied Thomas Becket, Richard de Lucy, young Henry, and their entourage on the two-day journey to Barfleur. Here, Thomas, de Lucy, and young Henry would take ship for Southampton. It was a day of sparkling brightness which, to Henry’s mind, boded well for the voyage and events in England. A frivolous wind chased snowdrifts of cloud across an azure sky, dappling the sea in green and blue patches.
Henry and Eleanor took turns kissing and hugging their seven-year-old son, then lowered him carefully into a small boat. De Lucy climbed in after him; bulging saddlebags and roped bundles followed. A berner, two howling brachets clutched under each arm, jumped in behind them; lastly, a falconer, a hooded Icelandic peregrine anxiously clawing his gauntleted wrist, carefully slid down into the ship. This was Henry’s gift to his young son, who was overcome with the ecstasy of owning his first falcon, the excitement of the journey, and the anticipation of representing his father.
“Do as the chancellor and justiciar tell you, my son,” said Henry, gazing at his heir with affection.
To his great relief, as the boy grew older his body had become stockier and his hair had turned tawny-red, more like his own. With the exception of the green eyes, his earlier resemblance to Stephen of Blois became less pronounced with each passing year …
A sailor pulled on the oars; the small boat headed toward the hoy which, rigged fore and aft, lay bobbing in the white-capped shallows.
Eleanor turned to Henry. “I will wait for you down the quay, so that you may have a few words alone with our new archbishop-to-be.”
“Thank you, Nell.” He watched her walk down the quay, well out of earshot. “What a woman for tact, eh, Thomas?”
“Indeed.”
Waiting for the boat to return, Henry and Thomas stood close together, mantles billowing in the brisk Channel wind. Sunlight danced on the surface of the shining sea.
Impulsively Henry grabbed his chancellor by both arms and roughly shook him. “Well, my dear friend, when next we meet you will be the archbishop of Canterbury!” He made a great show of sniffing the air. “God’s eyes, do I already detect an odor of sanctity about you?”
Thomas laughed and tried to free himself from Henry’s grip. They wrestled briefly before Thomas freed his arms.
“How I will miss your witty tongue and our contentious debates. Who else can cross swords with me on virtually every subject? My boon companion, how large a hole you will leave.” Henry gave a mock sigh. “Well, you will still be my chancellor, I mustn’t forget that. We need not forego all our adventures together.” He chuckled. “Do you remember the time we wrestled near Tower Royal and that cheeky beggar ran off with your mantle? Or the time we had our first adventure together in that tavern on Gropecuntlane? What was the name of that rogue who wanted to sell you Our Lord’s foreskin?”
“Black Hugo.”
“What a memory. By God’s eyes, will I ever forget that night … all those sevens I threw, one right after the other …” He shook his head in wonder. “Fortune has rarely deserted me since, now that I think on it.”
Thomas gazed at him with an unfathomable look, then dropped his voice. “Do you also remember the night we swore a blood brotherhood?”
“What I recall is that we were both somewhat the worse for wine that night.”
“In vino Veritas …”
Thomas began.
“We must catch the wind, my lord chancellor,” called the sailor who had rowed back to the quay.
Slowly Thomas reached out his hand; Henry clasped it, then threw his arms around his friend in a hearty embrace. For an instant Henry was aware of a current pulling between them, an inner tension that gripped him from head to foot with all the force of a Channel undertow. He stepped back.
Thomas girded his scarlet robe and mantle up about his knees, and let the sailor assist him into the rocking vessel. The prow of the tiny boat headed for the moored ship.
On the quay Henry was acutely aware of the breadth of sea and sky, sunlight glancing off the breakers, Thomas’s scarlet figure upright in the prow, braced against the swing and surge of the boat against the green waves. All of it etched clear and fresh as a newly minted coin.
Suddenly, he was no longer alone. Eleanor stood beside him.
“Nell,” he began, and found, to his surprise, he could not go on. Sweat beaded his brow; the breath felt clogged in his throat. What in God’s name was the matter with him?
Eleanor clasped his hand in hers and squeezed it. The tightness in his throat loosened. A wave of understanding and tenderness flowed from her with such acute force Henry could have wept. There was no need to explain. Her very presence was enough—almost enough—to fill the sudden void. Henry had not expected to feel this—this inexplicable sense of emptiness. It was like losing father, elder brother, mentor, and merry companion all in the same moment.
Shaken yet comforted at the same time, Henry put his arm around Eleanor and kissed her softly on the lips. “I must rely on you now, my love, for all that Thomas gave me. You will be my confidante, my trusted advisor, my boon companion—as well as my heart’s love.”
“As always, my lord.” Her eyes swam with tears.
They stood thus, arms entwined, watching on the quay until the ship was only a blur on the far horizon. By the time it vanished, Henry had almost entirely recovered. What had gotten into him? There was naught to mourn, everything to celebrate. A renewed burst of confidence swept through him. All was well in his world, and not just in his world alone, but also those dependent upon him for survival.