Isabel reached out for his hand, urging him toward her. “Here, Uncle, please sit down and tell me everything. I cannot believe that Philippe could have done anything so dreadful as you say.”
Once again he sat beside her, his arm draped absently about her shoulder. “He succumbed to Henry’s doubletalk and went back on every pact we’ve made. He fully restored Adele’s lands to her and her possessions, including the promise of the full dower settlement upon Louis’s death. Before my own eyes your husband was reconciled with her and his four uncles, whose rights were likewise reinstated.” He paused, but before Isabel could say anything he continued, “Adele is also allowed to return to court, remaining close to Louis till his death.”
Isabel tugged at his arm, a little shaken, but eager to put them both at ease. “But surely it’s no more than Adele deserves. Her lands are her own by right of birth and marriage. It would be unseemly that she be penniless or deprived of her dower. She is, after all, still the queen while her husband lives. …”
Flanders would hear no more. His wild gesture of protest sent Isabel’s flower crown spinning to the ground as his arm flailed out in exasperation. “Don’t you understand? Is it possible that a niece of mine cannot see what is at stake here?” he blustered. “By realigning himself with the Champagnois he is in effect removing me and your family from influence in this land!”
Isabel’s eyes were downcast as she stared unseeing at the circlet of flowers on the ground. His words echoed in her mind. Could it be true? She couldn’t bear to look at him and see the truth of it in his eyes so she kept her gaze distracted. “Has he turned against us then?” she finally asked, her voice thin as glass. “Is the coalition between us forfeit?”
“It could be that serious, yes,” he sighed in pain and puzzlement. Then with trepidation he finished, “I can see that I am displaced, that is certain.”
“Oh no,” she gasped. “Philippe respects you. He relies upon your advice. He needs your help.”
“Don’t forget, my child, he is also profoundly under the influence of young Harry Plantagenet. I think he has a hand in this.” He was silent then, his thoughts running deep and dark. He did not really believe that Philippe had been influenced by a third party against the Flemish alliance. Flanders’ powers of persuasion were equal to anyone’s. The puzzle was young Philippe himself. Had Flanders misjudged him? It seemed that he had. This boy who had shorn himself of outside influences with the help of Flanders had now tossed him off as well! The realization was galling, the prospects disconcerting. Since April, Flanders had scarcely ceased to congratulate himself on his wily manipulation of the young Capet. Now he himself had been manipulated, set aside, made to play the fool. He looked at the lovely girl beside him—his bridge to ultimate power. She looked as insecure as he felt at that moment. Her bottom lip trembled slightly. “What does this mean for us?” she asked him. “Has the alliance been broken? What did Philippe say to you? Did you question him on the matter?”
Flanders was almost too humiliated to answer. When he did his voice was low. “He informed me that he had the right to do as he wished, and that he may be better served if I returned to the north for a time.”
Isabel shook her head in wonderment. “But you have been here with us since our arrival. You and Philippe were constantly together.” Exasperation nearly strangled her. “Oh, I don’t understand what this is all about! If only there were something I could do to help you!”
“Yes,” Flanders answered forlornly, “if only . ..” His mind was in a turmoil of pondering. How long would it be before Philippe decided to cast off Isabel, making the Flemish alliance completely void? The thoughts tumbled on in worrisome succession. “I’m tired,” he sighed. “I’ve been riding all morning.” He stood up, his hands on his lean hips as he gazed ahead into the warm summer sky. “I’ll sleep for a while and see you later in the day.”
Isabel started to rise but he motioned her down. “No, don’t get up, stay here in the sun. It will help ease that pallor.” He brushed a hand against the softness of her cheek and bent to kiss her.
When he was gone Isabel sat for a long time, very still. In her mind hope and fear collided. Danger threatened, presaging downfall. Shivering, she chased the fear to the back of her mind, locking it away. But when she bent to the ground to retrieve the circlet of flowers her hand drew back in horror. It was covered with flies.
The vexing heat of the afternoon dissolved into drizzly chill once the sun slept. Flanders was not soothed. A man of action enraged at his inability to act, he stalked about his room shackled by impotent fury.
Over and over the humiliating scene at Gisors swam in his mind like a sunspot. Philippe Capet, his own creation, fawning and timid before Henry of England, relinquishing every bold step that Flanders had plotted. Reliving it in his mind Philip d’Alsace could almost weep for the frustration he felt.
Wine cooled his scalding sense of shame but with it came gloom and depression. The more he drank the more he hated Philippe. He vowed revenge; first silently, then shouting it to the vaulted ceiling of his room. It was his shouted curses that roused Isabel.
She stood in the doorway to his room. To his blurred, slanted glance she seemed a shadow. Cautiously she came closer, her face at once flooded with the glow from the hanging torches, her hair on fire with light. “Uncle Philip?” she asked furtively. “I heard you calling out, are you all right?”
He pushed himself up on the bed—how had he gotten there?—and saw her standing some distance away. “Come here,” he beckoned, “sit with me awhile. I am in need of pity.”
Without hesitation she crossed the floor until she stood before him, inclining her head slightly to look with concern into his face. “Are you sick?” she asked carefully. “Your face is so flushed.” She placed the tips of her fingers to his forehead. Her touch was cool and reassuring. “You feel so hot,” she said. “Can I bring you some water, or some steeped herbs to drink?” Her eyes were wide with concern.
The act of sympathy warmed him. “Just sit with me a bit,” he told her. She nestled willingly in his lap, her arms wound round his neck, her cheek against his shoulder. “You’re still upset aren’t you?” she asked. “And that’s why you’ve been drinking.” When he didn’t answer she sighed softly, “I’m upset too. I’ve been thinking all day about what you told me. I’m worried. If Philippe has truly turned against us, what can we do?”
He didn’t reply, except to tighten his arms around her, pulling her closer. For a long time they sat silently together while firelight chased dim shadows across the wall. “How long before you must leave?” She whispered the question into his ear.
Against the brilliance of her scented hair he whispered back, “A few days, perhaps less. I want to see Philippe when he returns. Perhaps . ..” he let the sentence trail off into silence.
Isabel raised her head to look at him and he could see that her cheeks were wet. “I don’t think I can stand it here alone,” she told him. “I’ll miss you when you leave, I wish I could go with you.”
“This is your home now, pet,” he answered, only hoping that it would still be true after what had happened at Gisors. “And you will get used to it. You must. It’s all still so new to you, of course you feel uncomfortable.”
“This is an awful place,” she answered in a steady voice even as fresh tears stained her cheeks. “I’m alone, alone all the time. The loneliness is unbearable.”
“You have Edythe,” he reminded her. “Surely she has taken good care of you.”
“She is homesick too. Besides, it isn’t the same. I miss my family. Little Henry and Baldwyn and Sibylla. I miss my mother. And my father. And I shall miss you.” Her voice quavered. “I have no friends here; no one. If this is to be my new life, I would just as soon be dead.”
“Now, now,” he tried to comfort her. his lips brushing her cheek, her soft hair, her throat, “don’t cry, don’t cry, my lovely. …” His temples throbbed and his dizzy vision was useless so he closed hi
s eyes, his giddy senses drowning in her. They were the same flesh, the same soul. She belonged to him, not to that gloomy boy who had betrayed him.
Against the pressure of his kiss her lips were full and moist. His hands groped lower, pushing up her skirt, caressing the softness of her back. Isabel’s lids fluttered at the sensation of his gentle touch, his fingers like music on her skin.
His hold on her grew tighter, she could feel the fierceness firing his blood as he kissed her, his lips on her throat. Easing the fragile web of silk from her shoulders, Philip put his face to her breasts—oh Christ, more rich and ripe and beautiful than even he had imagined! Isabel clutched him all the closer, her arms devouring him, fingernails digging into the flesh of his shoulders and bringing blood. “I love you,” she gasped. “I love you so much!”
Even through his clothes she could feel the sudden rush of moisture against her leg; the fresh sweat on his face as he lowered his head to her shoulder. She kissed the top of his head, nuzzling her cheek against the burnished gold of his hair.
Flanders brought her hand up to his lips, kissing her fingers where the blood was. “Sweet, so sweet …” he murmured.
A RECONCILIATION between Philippe and his relatives was formally celebrated at a banquet on Midsummer’s Eve. Adele, flaunting her redeemed status, effected a lavish scene. Minstrels and ballad singers were brought from Champagne. Experienced cooks and pastry-makers were selected to create fabulous delicacies, illusion foods and table settings. Once more mistress of the Cite Palais, she revelled in the snub to Philip d’Alsace and his niece.
Flanders, guarding what was left of his diplomatic sway with the French monarchy, had stayed on in Paris, but the outlook was dreary and enemies surrounded him. Always brilliant and talkative, tonight he sat dejectedly by, watching Adele (ever the poseur) as she made spirited conversation and danced with her youngest brother: Stephen, the handsome and brilliant young Count of Sancerre.
Subdued and watching with the same reticence as Flanders, Philippe Capet sat beside his uncle William, the Bishop of Rheims. Depressed at his inability to deal with the English king, Philippe worried further about his rift with Flanders, now that he was more firmly blocked than ever by his mother and her brothers. Demoralized and gloomy, he felt as though his weakness was obvious to all, that everyone was laughing at him.
Near him sat two other men, both in a quandary. Maurice de Sully watched the festivities with shaded interest, with instincts attuned to the essence beneath the gaiety. Like Flanders he resented the re-emergence of the Champagnois and wondered what new method of political infighting could succeed in detaching the boy Philippe from them. For himself he was not overly concerned; even the spiteful Adele accredited his worth to the crown in matters both sacred and secular. He worried seriously though about the damage she and her brothers could bring upon France, with their heedless spending and their unwary political adventures, before Philippe could assert himself against them.
Hughes de Puiseaux’s mood was darker. Restive, he sat at the side of his pallid wife; his slender fingers toyed absently with the food before him. His spirits were steeped in gloom. Upon his appointment as Lord Chancellor to Louis in 1178 Hughes had allied himself closely in friendship with Philip of Flanders, believing that greater security lay in partnership with him than the Champagnois. Now Hughes de Puiseaux’s status was unsure, his faith in Philippe Capet waning. The chancellor was only thirty-four, elegantly handsome, and despite the past rancor between himself and Adele he had noticed the sly and covetous looks she cast his way, even tonight. Hughes had charm and a comely appearance—more solid currency than intelligence or ability; if circumstances demanded, he would spend it.
Isabel was late coming down. She was very late. She had very nearly decided not to come at all—for what joy was there in celebrating her rivals’ resumption of power? Then she decided that her absence would seem a token of Flemish surrender, so she dressed, and then descended to the music and voices below.
Emerald silk chainse long-sleeved and trailing, the Byzantine emeralds from Philippe, unbounded fair hair flowing out shimmering and free to her waist—Isabel stood very still watching, peering past the musicians to the long center table. She saw her uncle at once, near him Philippe and Sully; handsome Hughes de Puiseaux with his less attractive wife. Sitting near them, beside her husband Harry Plantagenet, was Marguerite, Philippe’s half-sister. She was dark and sleek like her mother (one of Louis’s trio of black-haired wives). From across the length of the room Isabel could hear Marguerite’s animated, girlish giggle.
There was another woman swirling in a profusion of persimmon-colored silk, dancing a tourdion with a handsome dark-haired man Isabel had not met. Adele was very tall and slender, impressively attractive. Her black hair was plaited into four braids looped at the back of her neck. Her loose silken sleeves skimmed the floor, the knotted girdle at her waist sparkled with pearls.
The air was soft with the sound of flutes, dulcimers and gigues. Isabel crossed to the table, seating herself in the empty chair between Philippe and Sully. The bishop nodded to her with a smile, but Philippe leaned toward her and scowled, “Where have you been? You should have been here an hour ago!”
She reached for the silver porringer which sat on the table between them and poured her cup full with wine. “What is this?” she asked, holding the henap under his nose.
“Raspberry wine,” he snapped, careful to keep his voice low. “Don’t change the subject! I asked you where you have been for the past hour.”
She drank. The wine was thick and sweet with a sour undertaste but it was good and she emptied the cup. At her elbow the ewerer offered a dish for her hands. Isabel washed them quickly, then accepted the linen cloth the serving girl held out to her. Philippe dismissed them both with a curt nod, then brought his attention back to Isabel. “I was speaking to you.”
Her hands sagged in her lap and she turned to him with a curious expression. There was a gulf between them. There was probably nothing she could say to take that disagreeable look off his face, but she tried. “This celebration is for your family and you are welcome to enjoy it. But under the circumstances I’m sure you can see that it is a little unreasonable to expect me to join in.” She reached her hand out toward a platter of dried fruit and began to fill her plate but Philippe’s strong fingers circled her wrist in restraint. “Just who do you think you are speaking to?” he asked. “And just who do you think you are?”
Isabel had never known an unkind touch and the startled look showed in her eyes. But his meanness fueled her presumption and she shot the words back at him, “I think I am the unwilling spectator of my own misfortune, and of your refusal to stand up to your mother and her family!”
His hold grew tighter, crueler—and yet his fingers communicated an odd sensation of pleasure to her. He read the feeling in her face and sent the same look back to her. Just as Isabel thought she would faint from the pain, he released his hold on her. Her hand sped to her lips, her tongue caressing the ugly red bracelet on her wrist. In a voice that was barely audible she said, “Now that you have asserted your power over me, perhaps you might try to prove your manhood with the rest of your family… .”
Philippe gave her a long look, his expression unreadable. His coldness hid an unremitting incubus. He wanted to be nice to her, to tell her he was sorry. He ached to reach out his hand and touch that flagrant mane of golden hair, that white throat glistening with emeralds. Her stubborn Flemish pride was a goad to him, infuriating, vaguely threatening. She was not the passive child he had envisioned when Flanders had suggested her as a bride. The French boy had been indifferent to the choice of a marriage partner—Flanders’ arrangement had been inspiring: the offer of Artois, the lineage link to Charlemagne had been prize enough. Philippe was too young, too indifferent to women to care what female would eventually bear the next king of France. His concern was to survive politically in spite of his relatives’ designs upon his own power.
Yet here she
sat, something a world apart from what he had expected. A beautiful child-woman. a subtle, taunting spur to his emerging manhood. She had the aura of provocative sensuality: a beckoning light in her eyes that had disturbed and aroused him since their first meeting. He looked at her now: her sullenly inclined profile, the tremulous lower lip set in pouting, the fine hair shimmering with highlights. The muscles in his abdomen jerked and his throat constricted. He longed to shake her rebellious nature into blind submission, to pummel her with fists and angry kisses—to break her obstinacy with force, and bring her to her knees before him in servile, obedient pleasure.
His thoughts convulsed reason and he beat them back, hating her, hating himself, hating his own isolation most of all. He tried to lay his distemper at the bottom of cup after cup of the wine, ignoring the pale-haired girl beside him—ignoring her though his thoughts were suffused with her. The duller his brain grew the fiercer smoldered his inner pain. He was so tense that when he felt her hand suddenly on his forearm he fairly leapt from his chair. Her touch was agony to his tightly-strung nerves and he yanked his arm away from her. Fighting to catch his breath, Philippe got to his feet and hurried from the hall, without a word to anyone.
Isabel sat staring straight ahead. She seemed to be watching the dancing, but she saw nothing. She felt as though she would cry at any moment. Sully saw her unhappiness and leaned closer, patting her hand affectionately. “You haven’t eaten a thing, child,” he reminded her. “Come, let me get you some food. What would you like?”
Isabel surveyed the table in a quick glance. It was a tempting array but she felt too unhappy to eat. “I’m not very hungry,” she admitted.
“Now you must have something,” he chided amiably, lowering several stuffed figs to the pewter dish before her, and adding an almond cake dusted with marzipan. He was very nice; his kindness eased her a little in this company and she rewarded him with a small smile. “Thank you, perhaps some pork with plum sauce, if there is any. It was always served at our table.”
The Rain Maiden Page 8