Less than a mile to the south of Chartres Cathedral was a grove of yew trees. The grove and the cathedral were the only interruptions on the landscape. Between them stretched the barren and shaded plain of Beauce.
Philippe stood, leaning pensively against a tree, thinking nothing, feeling much. It was dark now, too dark to see well, but he could just barely decipher the noble contours of the cathedral.
There was peace here, as much peace as he could ever seem to find. The tantrum with Isabel—the way he had treated her—weighed down his spirit, and he had other causes for self-reprobation. In the fourteen months since his accession he had managed to alienate nearly every significant vassal within the perimeters of the Ile-de-France. His uncles were all thoroughly disgusted by his high-handedness. The Count of Flanders and his clan of Flemish nobles (including Isabel’s father, no doubt) were all but severed in their transient loyalties to the French king.
And Harry? That was bitter. How could England and France ever be allies, Harry? Philippe remembered saying it to him once; it seemed a long time ago. But it was true. More to the point, Harry knew it to be true. Not one word had passed between them at Rennes; not one word when there had once been so much love. That was where the wound bled the worst.
Philippe drew in an ardent breath as though to soothe his soul. There was a pungent scent of rain in the air—a storm hanging onto the coatsleeve of evening. This was a strange place, not new to him; he’d been brought here by his father as a child. Even then Philippe had been engulfed by a limitless thrill. The cathedral of Chartres was built on the ruins of the druidic past: in the crypt was the pagan grotto with its ancient Virgini Pariturae (“black virgin”) carved by Druids in the hollowed trunk of a pear tree. A pagan relic, a Christian sacristy. Like thousands of pilgrims who came to Chartres to “breathe in the Spirit,” Philippe sensed a supernatural magnetism here, as if a rude-faced god lived ’neath the ground. It was not holiness one felt here; it was Life.
Beside him he felt the air stir lightly, caught the scent of sweet narcissus, felt the softness of her hair brush across his hand. Philippe turned swiftly around. Isabel was standing beside him.
She had changed her clothes, uncoiled the plaits from her hair. It hung long and loose, stray strands of it caught up by the breeze. The night hid the color of her chainse, but Philippe could see the glint of silver hanging from her ears—delicate silver webs encrusted with stones. Yet it was her eyes which held him, her eyes luminescent in the shadowed splendor of her face.
She was too wise to speak; she felt his mood. In mute and subtle eloquence she brought his right hand to her lips and kissed it, lingering over each finger in tender salutation.
Shame swept over him at her gentleness, and in an instant he had clasped her in his arms, holding her in a close embrace against his chest. Sweetly her arms went around his neck and she rested her head upon his shoulder. Philippe inclined his head to meet her lips, and in the second before his eyes closed he saw the purpling smear surmounting her cheek where he had hit her.
Her lips were moist, delicate. Her kisses proclaimed a fierce forgiveness. When at last he was breathless Philippe raised his head to look down into her face. God how sweet she was! The night-shadows gave her an eerie beauty; the spell she wove about his senses shaded every thought and feeling, and he whispered, “My blood is filled with you, my body, my soul… .”
Carefully he lowered her to the ground, then lay down beside her, his arms still encircling her, his lips against her throat. Isabel clung with fervor to him, inciting, tempting. This was more than a girl he held in his arms; more than a wife or queen. She was the living embodiment of a legend, descended from a line more royal than his own. She was the stuff of history—and she was young, and sweet, and willing.
It was not the place he would have chosen, yet suddenly he needed more of her than kisses or caresses. This was what he had fought against since his first sight of her. Even then he had wanted her but the fear had held him back. Now the fear was more intense than ever, but passion melted it into merciful oblivion.
Untangling himself from her streaming hair, Philippe took the hem of her chainse between livid fingers and ripped the heavy velvet up beyond her crotch. Too eager now for restraint, too enflamed to be tender, his hands were strong, pulling her tight against him as he invaded her body, lunging forward and taking her with a violence born of lust and love, frustration and fear. Her responses were rich, provocative and as savage as his own. Philippe had expected at least a pretense of shyness from her but there was none as her avid eyes impelled him and her perfume mingled with the sweet scent of her body.
He clung to her like one under sentence of death, blind to everything but the beauty of her face; until even that vision dimmed and he was drowning, flesh and spirit, within her. Then he sagged upon her body in weariness, and then he slept as Isabel held him, stroking his hair and caressing the crown he still wore.
For a long while Isabel lay motionless beside Philippe in this moody shadowed place as the mist settled over her like a shroud, and then at last she slept. In a dream she waded, sodden-haired, through rushing water—buoyed upwards by the current—her body pleasantly appeased by the sensation, until the power of the water overwhelmed her, and covered her, and she floated to the surface, quite drowned.
HUGHES DE PUISEAUX was waiting for them at the mouth of the Grande Pont entrance to the Ile de la Cite. Splendidly dressed in bliaud and braies of white velvet hung with golden tassels, astride a cinnamon-colored mount, he made a noble sight against the dreary grey horizon. Yet seeing him Isabel went a little faint inside. This was no formal greeting. Something was wrong. She sensed it in her soul.
Philippe felt it too. His features grew pale with apprehension as he prodded his horse forward to confer with his chancellor. Unable to hear their spoken exchanges, Isabel watched anxiously. At de Puiseaux’s words the young king became animated, and thrust out his arms as though in disbelief. Unmoving, too fright-ridden to think, Isabel watched as de Puiseaux produced a folded document and handed it to Philippe, who read it with darting attention. When he had finished, or perhaps before, he threw it to the ground, jerked his horse around and trotted it back toward the royal cortege.
Isabel felt her stomach muscles jerk and her throat go dry as Philippe drew his horse up beside hers. His florid expression told her that something terrible—something terrible involving her—had once again threatened him, and she cringed.
“Your uncle!” he bellowed at her, “your damned uncle has got together with my uncles Theobold and Stephen and the Duke of Burgundy as well to make war on me and invade the eastern borders of the Ile-de-France!”
Anger surmounted her fear of him and she shouted, “Why are you blaming me? You said that your uncles are involved as well!”
Philippe leaned forward, his face so close that he might have kissed her but instead he gave her a cruel and accusing look. “You knew of this! Why didn’t you tell me?” When she didn’t answer he continued, “De Puiseaux told me that Gilbert of Mons came to Paris in September while I was away. You saw him—he must have told you something. You deliberately kept it from me—why? Blood of Jesus Christ, I swear you are a worse traitor than your uncle is.”
Isabel’s hands flew out, grabbing blindly for him but he swatted them away, ignoring her entreaty. Tearfully she persisted. “I didn’t tell you because I never had the chance! When you came back from Burgundy I never had a moment alone with you—you ignored me all during the trip to Rennes and while we were there …”
“I would have listened if you had made it known that you had urgent news that would not wait!” he shouted, trying to keep his nervous horse steady beneath him. “You purposefully kept that information from me to give your uncle a chance to put his conspiracy into action!”
“I would never do such a thing!” she cried. “You know that I wouldn’t!”
“I don’t know!” he shouted back, impervious to the scene they were playing in public. “That ado
ring uncle of yours has done everything in his power to frustrate and debase me. Now you have helped him gain time. What were you doing at Chartres, trying to soften the blow you knew would be waiting for me upon our return? What a scheming little bitch you are! Well you’ll have no further chances to use your charms on me because I am finished with you. No matter what happens, I am finished with you!”
“Philippe!” she screamed, still reaching for him, but he had already turned away. “Take her back to the palace,” he shouted to Robert of Clermont, then gestured with a wave of his arm to Hughes de Puiseaux. Isabel felt her horse being urged forward by the bodyguard and in desperation she turned back. “Philippe!” she screamed. “Philippe!!” A sense of peril seized her with such force that she shrieked frenzy to the sky till blackness swam before her and she fell forward. One of Philippe’s men was quick to gather her into his arms before she could fall and be trampled beneath the hoofs of the horses. At that moment it would have been the kindest favor heaven could have granted her.
Less than a week after his marriage to Constance, Geoffrey of Brittany was called away from Rennes on the order of his father. The young duke was obliged to ride the ninety-five miles to Le Mans in a swirling snowstorm. When he arrived at his father’s fortress on the evening of the third day, it was Richard who greeted him.
“Where is Henry?” Geoffrey asked, stomping the wet snow from his boots and tossing off his drenched cloak and mantle. “His message was so urgent I thought for certain you and Harry had started another rebellion against him.”
“Nothing as bad as that,” Richard answered, watching Geoffrey cross the expanse of the hall toward the fire. “Harry is here, in fact, upstairs somewhere sleeping off a hangover. I’m not even sure what father wants from us, he hasn’t told me yet. I think he wants to talk to the three of us together.” He followed Geoffrey, stopping at the long wooden table to pour a henap of wine which he gave to his brother.
Still trembling with the cold, Geoffrey turned from the fire and accepted the drink without a word, eyeing his brother as he drank. Richard was always magnificently dressed, no matter what the occasion. Tonight he was wearing a blue velvet tunic with gold-braided surcoat. Geoffrey smiled to himself. Richard wore blue as often as he did to emphasize the color of his eyes. Geoffrey knew of his older brother’s many submissions to vanity, including the fact that Richard used a mixture of lemon and saffron to lighten his hair. Richard was an unflagging egotist, and no one knew that better than his astute younger brother.
“You look like a drowned cat,” Richard scoffed in answer to Geoffrey’s silent appraisal. Reclining against the back of the wooden chair, Richard propped his feet on the table. “Come sit, my brother—have another drink with me and tell me how you like wedded life.”
Geoffrey settled himself across from Richard and poured himself more wine. “I hardly know.” Richard pushed the platter of bread and beef across to him but Geoffrey declined with a shake of his head. He reached into the inner folds of his bliaud for the leather-wrapped pouch, extracted it and withdrew a rolled stern of rice paper filled with sage and hashish. Pulling the table candle close, Geoffrey stuck the slender roll between his lips and lit it. Observing Richard’s raised eyebrow, he explained, “This is the only way I can face the patriarch. Otherwise I can’t even talk to him.”
“Well he doesn’t approve, I can tell you that,” Richard reproved him stoically.
Geoffrey laughed without restraint. “And of course he does approve of all the other things we do. Of your drinking and plundering and your pretty French boys; of Harry’s debaucheries and his gambling and devotion to his cups; of Johnny’s quirky pastimes and adolescent penchant for whores—a few months ago he deliberately set the hair of some dirty little kitchen slut on fire, did you know that?” He leaned back in his chair, resting his aching muscles. He flashed a sarcastic smile at his brother. “Oh, she didn’t die, by the way. Yes—father has so much to admire in all of us. Just as we have so much to admire in him… .”
Richard’s expression was serious as he surveyed his brother’s face. “It isn’t so very amusing. I’ve had my belly full of this dissension we’ve had to endure as our birthright; our inheritance of being part of this accursed family.”
Geoffrey gave his brother a mocking smile. “You’ve said it often enough: From the devil we came and to the devil we will go.”
Richard didn’t answer. He sat gloomily, his head thrust forward, melancholy chafing at his soul. Geoffrey watched him closely: the set mouth, the stalwart jaw, eyes like cut sapphires that always managed to convey a hard and cynical expression. Despite resembling his father so much, Richard had a very different bearing. Henry’s countenance was so energetic he seemed animated even in moments of inactivity. Though Richard was equally vigorous, when still, his aspect was one of heaviness—phlegmatic and unyielding.
Richard sensed Geoffrey’s scrutiny and answered with a dark scowl. “What in hell are you staring at?”
“I’m trying to comprehend your mood,” Geoffrey answered lightly. “I will admit I expected a choicer welcome than this: you sunk in gloom, father and Harry nowhere to be seen. I am tired. I’ve been riding for three days.”
“Stop complaining,” Richard muttered. “I’ve already ridden for a fortnight without pausing more than two days in between, and then for battle. …”
Geoffrey swooned pleasurably in the influence of forgetfulness, but his wits were still sharp and he laughed aloud at the seriousness of his brother’s words. “Richard, you are talking to me, not some pretty ballad-singer to impress with tales of bravery and fortitude. I’ve lived in the shadow of your glory for years. Spare me the chivalrous details tonight.”
Richard’s mouth curved into a sour expression. “What would you know? Like Harry, you only play at being a soldier.”
“Calm down—I’m not in the mood for this,” Geoffrey snapped. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.” He made a move to rise.
“Sit down,” came the command from across the room. Neither of them had noticed Henry Plantagenet standing at the entry way to the hall. At his words Geoffrey slumped reluctantly back into his chair.
Henry contemplated his sons in silence for a moment, then walked briskly toward them. He patted Richard’s shoulder as he passed, then came to stand beside Geoffrey. After only a moment of hesitation he bent and kissed his son on the cheek. Then he flung himself into a chair beside Geoffrey. “I’m glad to see you got here so quickly. Did you have a difficult journey?”
“It snowed all the way,” Geoffrey answered, “and I would be interested to know what it is that was important enough to drag me away from Rennes less than a week after my marriage.”
“It is regrettable but necessary,” Henry answered firmly. “How is Constance?”
“Probably happier than when I left her,” Geoffrey chuckled. “Somehow I don’t think my presence enthralls her.”
“Then you shouldn’t mind being dragged away.”
Geoffrey narrowed his eyes and set his lips tightly. “Is this a guessing game? I presume what you wanted to say is important, so would you kindly enlighten us? I’ve been traveling for three days, and since I don’t have Richard’s remarkable capacity for endurance, I would like to sleep.”
Henry poured himself a drink and folded his arms across his chest. “Philippe Capet needs our help. I’ve learned that the Count of Flanders plans to invade the Ile-de-France with the help of Hugh of Burgundy and two of Philippe’s Champagnois uncles. We have got to end this before it goes too far to be stopped.”
Geoffrey nodded, saying nothing, but Richard was instantly angry. “Why can’t Philippe fight his own battles? I’ve got enough trouble trying to keep peace in Poitou. Why should I have to involve myself and my men in some family spat between the Capetians and the Champagnois?”
Henry slammed a fist down violently upon the table. “You will do it because I order it!” he shouted. “Damn you, I want peace on the continent! You should be smart enough to know
that we all have too much to lose if war breaks out in earnest between those two factions. And as for keeping the peace in Poitou, you could do that easily enough if you weren’t constantly pitting one baron against another like dogs in an arena. Jesus, haven’t I taught you anything?” After a moment Henry sighed heavily, dispelling some of his anger. When he continued his tone was subdued. “So far I believe Flanders has been bluffing, but we can’t be sure. I’ve been told he tried to drag Frederick of Germany into this business, but he refused, of course.”
“I wouldn’t trust Frederick,” Geoffrey remarked with coolness. “You have had your share of disputes with him in the past. And remember, with Philip d’Alsace there is always room for worry. He is the most persuasive man alive.”
Henry gave his son a disparaging look. No matter what he said, Geoffrey would be waiting at the other end of the conversation with an antagonistic, divergent opinion. How like Eleanor he was, even to his all-knowing smile and those mocking, deceptive green eyes. “I think I know Frederick’s mind at least as well as you do, Geof,” Henry said with finality. “He is a wise man, and knows better than to be taken in by one of Philip’s ridiculous attempts at seizing power. By God’s teeth, I thought Flanders himself had more sense than that.”
Harry came into the room just then, trailing sleepily over to the fire. He stood there for some time, gazing vapidly into the flames. “Come over here and sit down,” his father ordered. “I told you that I wanted to speak to the three of you together. Christ, can’t you stay sober long enough to carry on a conversation?”
Harry slumped into a chair beside Richard and gazed passively across at his father and Geoffrey. “I already know what this whole thing is about.”
The Rain Maiden Page 16