The Rain Maiden

by Jill M Philips

  Isabel drank a little more, then handed the cup back to him. “Thank you. I don’t mean to try your patience, but suddenly I’m quite out of breath. I suppose I may have caught cold on the trip. I catch colds easily.”

  “You probably need to sleep a while,” Philippe suggested. “I will leave you then.” Quickly he turned from her and started to walk away.

  Tears moistened her eyes in helpless sadness. All during the journey from Mons she had postponed this moment in her mind: when she would be left alone for the first time in this strange new place. “Please don’t go,” she called out suddenly. “Stay a bit and talk to me.” He turned and gave her a quizzical look as she persisted. “Just a little while.”

  He came and sat in a chair beside her, feeling awkward and wondering what she wanted and why she looked so sad. Her head was tilted downward, her small pointed chin tremulous as though she meant to cry. If she did he wouldn’t know what to do. Doubtless she was feeling homesick but he didn’t know what to say to make her feel less so. When she raised her head she looked directly into his eyes. “Philippe, tell me truly, is this place as old as you say?”

  Her face was so lovely, her expression so arresting that he found it difficult to concentrate on her words. She had to ask the question again before he answered sharply as if distracted, “Why, yes, of course.”

  “I think many terrible things must have happened here,” she mused. “There is a strange feeling within these walls—I cannot quite describe it.” She averted her eyes. “That corridor is terrifying. …”

  He nodded. “This place affects everyone that way the first time, Isabel. It is not a very convivial place.” He gave a muffled laugh. “If you knew the history of this land and those who have ruled it, you would not have to wonder.”

  “I do, a little,” she answered, so grateful not to be alone, happy even for his distracted presence. “I think that many people have been unhappy here.”

  She made him unaccountably nervous. It was so hard not to look at her, yet her beauty intimidated him because a child should not look like her or speak like her. She didn’t seem like a child at all but a miniature goddess, lapped in velvet and peering at him through eyes that held some strange message he could not decipher. Her actions had an inexplicable language all their own. During the ride from St. Denis that morning she had lain so warm and sweet and languid against him, stroking his hand, then pressing her body closer, as though to deliberately arouse him. She was so young. She couldn’t possibly be awake to subtle sexual exchanges. And still …

  He looked away from her and found his voice. “I told you it was built over seven centuries ago. I’m sure many scenes of unhappiness and cruelty have been played out here.”

  She thought of the Merovingian king Chilperic and his demon queen Fredegunda; of the pagan Clovis and his passionate Christian wife; of Philippe’s own great-grandfather and his bigamous union with Bertrada of Anjou. A hundred years ago another Capetian king, Henry I, had brought an unhappy Russian bride to this place; and lovely Constance of Castile (the mother of Philippe’s two half-sisters) had died in childbirth here, perhaps in this very room. A chilly specter of apprehension settled over her and she caught up his hand, clutching it tightly, the nails biting into his palm. “It’s going to be so lonely for me here,” she whispered. “Whatever am I going to do to pass the time?”

  There was something threatening in her touch and Philippe eased his hand away. “Sully could arrange for tutors for you,” he suggested. She didn’t answer at first, then after a while, her mood suddenly shifting, she smiled teasingly at him. “I have heard it said that you were a most unwilling student.”

  His look was an amalgam of surprise and anger. “Who told you that?”

  “My uncle.” She was pulling the gold clips from her hair, easing the strands out long and loose over her back. She turned to him with a small smile on her lips, a suggestive look in her eyes. “He told me that even as a very little boy you preferred to keep your own counsel, to sit by yourself, meditating and communing with your thoughts.”

  He eyed her steadily for a moment before answering, “And did your uncle also tell you that what I learned from him was worth more than anything I learned from my academic lessons?”

  “What did you learn from him?” she asked.

  “To be independent—how to get what I want, and how to hold on to it.”

  She studied his face intently as though memorizing his features. “Is that so important?”

  “It’s everything.”

  For a while they sat in silence—she toying with the opal marriage ring on her finger, he sipping absently at the liquid she had left in her cup and watching her, and wondering. “Your name, in the Flemish language, is Elizabeth, is it not?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “I was given that name at my birth. But we are a combined French and Flemish speaking culture and I have always been called Isabel. It was my mother’s own preference, using the French form. She has some Angevin blood, did you know? So as you see I have a little French in me.”

  “You speak the language very well,” he observed. Then, draining the last of the tisane from her cup he rose to his feet. “I have to leave you now. I will send up one of the stewards with your things. The girl can help you to get settled in.” At the doorway he paused. “Flanders and I will be leaving for Gisors in a few days. I’ve been summoned there by Henry of England. He thinks I’ve been too harsh with my mother—throwing her out, and taking away her lands and all that. While I was in the north with your family, she and her brothers went to him for aid and now he has intruded into the matter.”

  Isabel got up from her chair and came to stand beside him, peering into his face. She was very small and barely reached his breast. “Philippe,” she asked, “was it my uncle’s idea that you send your mother away?”

  She saw the muscle in his cheek tighten as he looked down at her with black unstinting vision. “It was my decision,” he underscored the words, “and you for one, my pretty child, can be glad of it. My mother is no one you would want to meet.”

  “May I meet your father then? I would like to very much.”

  He gave her an exasperated look.“Why?”

  “Well,” she stammered,“because he is my father-in-law.”

  Philippe shook his head. “He’s a dying old man. He’s nothing anymore. What could be gained from meeting him?”

  “But surely,” she persisted, tugging lightly at his arm, “I should meet someone from your family. I want to know them.”

  He felt trapped, anxious. The touch of her fingers tightened the throb in his groin and he jerked his arm away. Her alluring charm rendered him helpless and angry. His voice was sharp. “My dear Isabel, there is no one in my family fit to know. As far as I am concerned I have no family. Don’t bother yourself with thoughts of them. Just stay in your room and amuse yourself as best you can. Don’t go out, don’t leave this room. Everything you need will be brought to you.”

  Incredulous, she stared at him. “You make me sound like a prisoner,” she gasped.

  He just looked at her for a moment, dizzied by the sea-green of her eyes. “I almost forgot,” he said. “I have something for you.” He disengaged something from his belt, then unwrapped the cloth pouch and extracted a glimmering item, holding it out to her. “It’s Byzantine,” he explained. “My father brought it back from Antioch years ago.”

  The delicate filigree melted in her hand like fine golden lace. The necklace was studded with emeralds and edged with huge hanging pearls, arranged pendant style. Isabel held the necklace between trembling hands and bit back the tears. It was the most beautiful piece of jewelry she had ever seen. She jerked her head up and stared at him, trying hard to convey her feelings through her eyes, and met a dark enigmatic look. “Oh it’s so lovely,” she finally said. “Thank you, Philippe.”

  He hesitated for a moment, then bent and placed a chilly kiss on her forehead. “Goodbye. I will look in on you before I leave for Gisors.” He
made a move toward the exit then halted, turning back to her. “About this place,” he muttered, “it is a bit like a prison. …” Then he pushed aside the velvet drape and ducked out.

  For a long time Isabel stood alone where he had left her, weighted down by weariness and depression and enveloped in the ominous wraith of fear. She tried to relive the singular tinge of excitement she had felt on the slope a few hours ago, looking down at Paris for the first time, but the stone reality around her dashed the memory, and something—some dimly half-remembered dream—flared in her mind as the emeralds glinted up at her. Green fire. Something about drowning …

  She fought this mood. You will become accustomed to it and once you do it will seem like home to you. But she was lying to herself and she knew that she was. This place would never become a home to her and she would never be happy here.

  The thought stunned her even as she considered it. Why not happy? It was her present state of mind that darkened the future and whispered disquiet in her ear. She needed courage. More than anything she needed sleep.

  Pulling off her cape and bliaud, Isabel stood in the center of the room wearing only her thin silk shift. Her gaze played over each comer of the room. The far wall was dominated by a great tapestry depicting the crowning of Charles the Great by the pope. In the foreground the bed sat upon a high raised dais, decorated with blue hangings and coverlets. A low dressing table with a silver mirror stood near it. Around the floor sat several large chests. It was only then that Isabel noticed the sweet scent of rose water, which had been sprinkled over the carpet. She told herself that Philippe must have personally arranged this for her, that she should be grateful to him, yet her feeling of unrest remained.

  In front of the mirror she removed the shift and began to comb her hair, carefully fanning the golden strands out loosely over her bare shoulders and arranging the ends which hung below her hips. Then she stepped back, examining her pensive reflection. A ripely budding figure, a face which might have been molded by an artist. Still staring into the mirror she affixed the necklace around her waist like a girdle. The emeralds gleamed against the whiteness of her belly; gold-coddled pearls nestled in the golden fleece below.

  Upon the dressing table lay the small enameled box. Isabel picked it up and held it in the palm of her hand. It was oblong-shaped, of wood, and with a green and blue enameled falcon gracing the cover. Carefully she opened it and took out the ring secluded beneath its black velvet covering. She recognized this gift at once—her mother’s gold and pearl ring. Isabel had always admired it, and had often heard the story from Margot of how it had been handed down through seven generations of her mother’s Frankish forebears. Tears stung Isabel’s eyes as she looked down at the ring in her hand. Then she slipped it onto her finger beside the grey Byzantine opal Philippe had put there.

  Depression prevailed and her mind fogged over with weariness. Retreating to the bed, she closed the curtains around her. Then surrounded by shivering walls of blue, Isabel cuddled naked against the bedclothes and closed her eyes. Bathed in this sleepy warmth, encircled with gold and emeralds, she fell asleep.

  The days passed in bland inactivity for Isabel. Sometimes in the evening she walked in the gardens behind the palace but mostly she kept to her room. Lonely and discontented, she slept the days away. At night she sat by the window, wakeful and restless, looking out toward the west where the river widened till it merged with the black of the sky. Unfeeling, unthinking, staring out at an undifferentiated landscape until her eyes burned with the first red rays of the sun, Isabel would drag herself to bed and sleep the hours away till the next night’s vigil.

  By the end of the first week she was drugged from excessive sleep—her health undermined by nights spent breathing unwholesome air that drifted up from the river—and she caught the cold she had been fighting off since her arrival in Paris. Then, protesting feebly against Edythe’s kind ministrations and endless cups of herbal posset, she slept day and night, lost in a dream where ghosts of long-haired kings and their barbarian queens roamed the corridors outside her room—until sleep itself was the enemy.

  ON A COOL June morning Henry II of England rode out with his small entourage to the spreading elm tree at Gisors on the southern frontier of Normandy—the traditional meeting place between French and English kings.

  Some years ago Henry had stood in this very spot, negotiating with Louis of France, who had sheltered the rebellious Thomas Becket in his flight from English royal justice. While the two kings had grappled with the controversial matter, a dark-visaged little boy had stood by, apart from his father but watching the proceedings with uncanny interest. It had been Henry’s first view of Philippe Capet.

  Now after eleven years Henry would meet him again.

  Motioning his men to stay at a distance, Henry brought his horse forward till he was at Philippe’s side. They dismounted at the same time and stood face-to-face. After only a momentary hesitation. Henry hugged Philippe to his bosom in genuine affection. Wily statesman though he was. and possessed of the ferocious and legendary Angevin temper when incited to rage. Henry was really a fond and loving man. Though sorely reviled by his own four sons he was unreasonably devoted to them. His own John was only slightly younger than this boy. But Johnny could be jovial and responsive to affection, while Philippe seemed devoid of the human juices. There was nothing of Louis in him in looks or manner.

  His emotions locked up. his voice betraying nothing, Philippe returned the kiss that Henry bestowed upon him. Henry kept a friendly arm slung about Philippe’s shoulder as he examined the youth. “How tall you are,” he finally exclaimed, “and you are a fine handsome boy too. But so serious for your age. Can you not spare a smile for your father’s old adversary? You see, boy, when you were ill last fall and all France feared you might die, I too offered prayers for your safe recovery. I am glad to see that they were well answered.”

  Philippe gave him a nervous half smile and answered with only superficial politeness. “My thanks to you, then. It is my hope that you still have my well-being at heart, for I must admit surprise at being summoned here, especially since you have been in conference with my mother and her brothers.”

  Henry steered Philippe toward a patch of spreading shade offered by the huge limbs of the old tree. Apart, with the French delegation, Philip d’Alsace sat his horse anxiously, watching this pantomime.

  “My boy,” Henry said with fatherly concern, “you must realize that you have wronged your mother. Now I understand your desire for independence. It is a noble trait in any young ruler, and more to the point, a most necessary one. But you must be fair as well. Your mother has a legal right to her lands and to a draft from the treasury so long as your father lives. Upon his death she has the right to her dower territories and settlement, a provision made upon her marriage to your father. It is due her under the law. If you wish to rule justly, you will not try to set aside her claims… .”

  Every vague point of debate, every cool argument that Philippe had prepared at Flanders’s coaxing came unfastened in his mind and slid from his tongue in pointless rebuttal as Philippe struggled to match Henry’s skill with words. Time was against the French boy, and experience. At last he was learning why his father had been beaten down in every negotiation with Henry Plantagenet. Humiliated, anxious to end this ordeal of shame, Philippe assented to every point raised by Henry. At the end of the day they all rode away together to Henry’s chateau on the Normandy border, where the English king presided personally over a reconciliation between Philippe and all his relatives. Afterwards there was a great banquet and celebrating.

  Philippe Capet had failed ignominiously in his first attempt at independent sovereignty.

  Isabel was in the garden weaving a wreath of white roses for her hair when Philip d’Alsace arrived. For a moment he stood apart, out of her view, admiring the sight of her—her head bent in earnest concentration, her delicate fingers gingerly removing the thorns and ringing the stems together with soft golden threa
d.

  Sensing a familiar presence, Isabel started slightly and sat up straight, looking at him. Her lips parted in a smile. “Uncle Philip!” she called out, and ran to him. He clasped her in his arms, lifting her off the ground to kiss her on the lips. Under the firm pressure of his thumbs he could feel her budding form and the sensation communicated a tingling that was much too pleasant, so he quickly set her down beside him. Isabel clung fervently to his waist, burying her face against his chest. “Oh Uncle, how wonderful to see you. But so soon! I didn’t expect you and Philippe till tomorrow evening at the earliest.” She looked up into his face, then peered beyond him. “Is he with you?”

  “No.” Flanders answered, his voice tight. “I came ahead of the others. I wanted a chance to talk to you before I go back to Ghent.”

  Isabel’s tiny hand rested at his elbow and she led him over to the bench where she had been sitting, urging him down beside her. She cuddled lovingly against him, stroking his arm and rubbing her cheek against his shoulder.

  He looked down at her fondly and pulled her closer. “You look pale,” he said after a while.

  “Only a cold. I’m better now. Mostly I’m starved for company, and news. Tell me. how did it go with King Henry?”

  His handsome face turned somber as he studied her in silence. “Your loving husband has dealt us both a foul blow,” he finally told her.

  For a second the meaning of his words did not register in her mind. Her puzzled eyes tried to read his expression without success. “What are you saying? What happened at Gisors?”

  Philip d’Alsace got to his feet and began pacing restlessly in front of her. His rage was tempered with humiliation and his voice with dismay. “Your husband has betrayed us!” In answer to her attempt at objection he snapped vehemently, “There is no other word for it!”