Harry’s sensitive lips sulked in pouting. “Why are you so bloody narrow-minded? What is so wrong if I indulge myself with sporting?”
“Tournaments are dangerous events to no purpose,” Henry shouted, “where young men spar for glory that is meaningless. It is a fool’s pastime and that is why I outlawed them in England.”
“I don’t always take part in them,” Harry snapped. “Often I only wager.”
“Which is exactly why you are here now, penniless, with your hand outstretched to me!”
Harry stood for some time, examining the meticulous trim of his fingernails. Without looking up at his father he said curtly, “Gambling is in my blood. It is one of the few enjoyable things I have in my life. Would you deny me that?”
Henry soothed his throbbing temples with the light pressure of his fingertips. His voice was sad but stern. “Well, you’ll get no money from me, my lad.”
“Is that your final word?”
“It is.”
Harry turned on his heels. His words, spoken softly, trailed off on the air. “Then I shall go elsewhere.”
“To whom?”
Nothing Henry would say could convince Harry that he was wrong. “To Philippe,” he answered. “I have credit with him if not with you.”
Henry closed the distance between them in a few quick steps. Affection had weakened his resolve. Tenderly he put his arms around his son. “Understand my reasons and try to respect them. At least, let us part as friends.”
Harry shrugged free of his father’s embrace. His eyes were cold, accusing. “No,” he said, “we’ve never been friends.”
To the noble Count of Flanders Philip d’Alsace from Philippe Capet, by the Grace of God Almighty King of the French, greetings …
May it please you to accept condolences of this Most Christian Realm at the death of your much loved wife Elizabeth, of the County of Vermandois.
May it be noted according to the marriage contract between myself and my esteemed wife Isabel of Hainault that under present circumstances the county comprising the territories of Valois and Vermandois be ceded immediately in the name of my wife to be held in trust by the undersigned,
Philippe-Auguste
Written by my Hand; Paris
22nd day of June, Year of Our Lord 1182
“Where are we going?” Edythe asked, drawing the fine bone-handled comb through Isabel’s hair. “You haven’t told me yet.”
“Chantilly,” Isabel answered, “to Chateau Jolie. Philippe’s father built it for his first wife, Eleanor, because she couldn’t stand this place.” She surveyed the room with a chilly, observing look. “I can appreciate her misery.”
Edythe gathered the golden mane tenderly between deft fingers, rolling the hair into an upswept crown of swirls and adorning it with a circle of pearl-studded hair pins. When she had finished she bent to the dressing table and took up the dangling peridot earrings, and began affixing them to Isabel’s ears. “I don’t know that you should be traveling at all,” she complained. “You should be kept restful and well-covered.” Her practiced hand went to the young queen’s forehead. “Your fever still has not broken completely.”
Isabel turned slightly on the stool, contemplating their reflections in the mirror: her own blond gracefulness, Edythe’s sweet, mild face. Still watching the mirror, Isabel said, “I don’t happily anticipate the journey, but I will be glad to be out of Paris for a while and in the country once again. God in heaven, I swear it is these stone walls which have made me ill!”
She had been ill for several weeks. It had been an early, hot summer in Paris—stifling and humid—and Isabel had wilted like a pale spring flower. Since mid-June she had languished in bed, often refusing food. Philippe had finally grown alarmed at her waning health and now he had ordered her to take few weeks in the country to recover her strength.
Isabel was buffing her fingernails against the pale blue silk of her chainse. “I wish Philippe were coming with us,” she mused. “I will miss him.”
Edythe had begun collecting Isabel’s toiletries from the dressing table surface, cradling the sardonyx, onyx, and amethyst jars in the crook of her arm. Isabel realized that the girl’s silence was deliberate. Her voice was curious as she asked. “You don’t like him, do you, Edythe? You don’t like my husband.”
Edythe bent to her task, concealing the vials and bottles within the damask linings of the ashwood traveling chest. When she had finished she strapped the laces and secured the handles and the clasp. “Everything has been packed,” she said without a smile.
Isabel took hold of her hand gently, probing the fingers in a questioning touch. “Why don’t you like him?”
“It is nothing to you, Belle,” Edythe leveled her gaze to her mistress’s eyes. “I want you to be happy. I don’t think you are happy here.”
“But that isn’t Philippe’s fault,” Isabel argued gently. “I am homesick. And except for you I have no friends here. If I seem unhappy it is because of that, not because of Philippe.”
Edythe’s shoulders sagged a little as though in resignation. She had her own feelings, and her reasons for them. But it was futile to argue with Isabel. They were as close as the sisters they undoubtedly were, yet Edythe was and always would be the inferior. It was something she could not allow herself to forget.
Isabel took Edythe’s mood for submission, yet she believed she had sensed a flicker of jealousy. Rising, she affixed the pearl-edged girdle about her waist. “Edythe,” she said suddenly, “you are nearly sixteen. Shall I find a husband for you?”
Edythe’s expression was indistinct, but a hint of color came upon her cheeks. “Would you have me married? Is that what you wish?”
Isabel tilted her head prettily, her right earring touching her shoulder. “Only if it is what you want.”
“Not against my wishes?” Edythe asked.
“Never.”
Edythe swung her own light cloak about her shoulders. She wanted very much to be quit of this room. “I have no wish to be a wife,” she said bluntly. “And even if I did, who would marry me?”
Affection tempered Isabel’s reasoning. “Many men,” she said without hesitation, a pure, sweet smile curving her lips. “I don’t think you realize it, but you are so pretty, Edythe. Let me find someone for you.”
Edythe’s nervous hands fiddled with the tassles on her cloak. She looked down at her flat chest, further down at her twisted ankle. “Love makes a liar out of you, Belle,” she replied. “I am a cripple.”
Isabel’s hand brushed softly across Edythe’s face, tucking the long brown hair behind an ear. “It isn’t right that you should spend your whole life looking after me, Edythe.”
Her hand closed around Isabel’s. “Let be,” she said simply. “I don’t want a husband. Understand me, and please abide by what I ask.”
The young queen shook her head. “If you should change your mind?”
“I shall not.” She glanced around and saw Robert of Clermont peering furtively from beyond the curtained archway. Edythe turned back to Isabel. “The lord constable is waiting. It is time for us to leave.”
Clermont entered, took up the chest and started once more toward the door, both young women beside him. Suddenly Isabel came to a stop and looked up at him. “I must see my husband before I leave here.”
“Your husband is with the Bishop of Paris, child,” he answered reprovingly.
She hesitated. “Nonetheless, I will be away for several weeks and I should like a few moments with Philippe before …”
Clermont’s voice was rude, his manner an insult. “The bodyguard is prepared and waiting. The weather is questionable. We will doubtless encounter rain. If we do not leave now there is very little chance we will reach Chantilly before tomorrow night. Let us be on our way.”
Isabel had stubbornness of her own and it surfaced now. “Lord Constable,” she tried to keep the complaining tone from her voice, “is time of so much importance in this?”
His lean, cra
ggy face was expressionless but his dark eyes glinted a sense of anger as he surveyed her pale and golden beauty. “I am due back in Paris in three days’ time. I will have to ride night and day as it is.” Again that look as he defeated her attempt to speak. “Forgive me, but I have more pressing matters on my head than escorting the queen.” He hoisted the chest upon his shoulder, gave a small grunt, and motioned to Isabel and Edythe that they should go before him.
Isabel followed them both down the echoing corridors and the stairs and outside into the pearl-grey Paris morning. The sky was fretted with high, humid clouds. It looked like a pot of clotted cream.
“Jailers,” she whispered under her breath.
Perhaps it was coincidence, but Philippe Capet was also in conference with the Bishop of Paris on the 27th day of July when Harry Plantagenet came to Paris. On this occasion Sully was immediately dismissed for the day.
“You’ve changed, do you know?” Harry mused, and after a while he sat up and began pulling on his clothes. Philippe reached his hand across the bed and stroked Harry’s shoulder.
“I suppose I have. I’m older.” His fingers played gently across the deep bruises which mottled the fair skin of Harry’s back and shoulders. “Who have you been sporting with? This looks very bad. Does it hurt?”
Harry shrugged. “Not too much. It isn’t what you think. I collected these purple badges at a tournament a few weeks ago. I don’t compete as well as I used to.”
Philippe let his arms hang limply at his sides and took an audible breath. “Those stupid tournaments! You’ll kill yourself someday. And for what? In that at least I wish you would concur with your father.”
Their relationship had suffered through absence and events. Harry sensed the separateness. He felt puzzled, tired, and sorely dissatisfied. “Leave me alone,” he muttered.
Philippe sat up, pushing his tangled black hair away from his face. “What’s wrong? You’re so peevish.”
Harry pulled on his fine linen smock and started to do up the laces, tiny close-woven strips of embroidered damask. “Everything is wrong. I lost miserably in the tournaments at Lille. It wasn’t even my money—I had borrowed it from William Marshal. I don’t ride or fight well anymore. I don’t feel well. I’m not strong.” He took a breath. “It must be rather apparent to you that I’m not very good at anything anymore. Kind of you not to mention it.”
“Oh, Harry, really,” Philippe teased, but he felt uneasy. It wasn’t like blithe Harry to be depressed. Philippe reached for his hand, Harry pulled away. He sounded as though he were about to cry. “How could you understand? It must be wonderful to be seventeen and able to rise to every occasion.” He bit off the words with irony. “Well, that’s what being a king does for your confidence.”
Philippe thrust aside the covers, got swiftly to his feet and strode to the other side of the bed. He stood for a moment facing Harry, looking down at him, pensive and concerned, then knelt before him, his cheek against Harry’s lap.
“Do you want to know the real reason I came here?” Harry asked, absently coiling his fingers in disheveled black curls. “To ask your help.” His voice went lower. “To borrow money. I’m not proud of myself, God knows.” He sucked in his cheeks and bit his tongue to keep from crying. “But I did miss you, Philippe, you must believe that.”
Philippe’s arms were around him, strong and sustaining. “It doesn’t matter. For whatever reason, I’m glad you came to me.”
Later, when daylight had fled from the farthest comers of the room, Harry lay restfully in Philippe’s arms. “I remember the first time I ever saw you,” he mused. “I had come to Paris with Father, who was here to see Louis about that damned Becket business. You were just a little boy, not even five years old. You were sitting off in the corner watching everything.” He rolled over on his stomach and laid his chin upon Philippe’s chest. “Becket was very taken with you. He told me once that you were the most amazing child he had ever seen.” Harry was full of memory now, taking pleasure in it. He squeezed Philippe’s hand lovingly. “Later, when I would come to visit Louis, I remember how you would look at me, your eyes so incredibly big and black. You were so intense, so intelligent. I think I must have loved you even then.”
Philippe was remembering too. “I worshipped you. You were glamorous, everyone loved you. That’s what impressed me more than anything, why I wanted so much to be like you. Because you were loved, and I wasn’t—because you were so happy, and I was unhappy.” He clasped Harry’s hand tighter, imparting a meaning which surpassed words. “I was a lonely little boy. You were good to me and I idolized you.” He was silent for a moment. “Louis never cared for me. That troubles me more than you can know.”
Harry left a pattern of kisses on Philippe’s chest, then raised his head to look fully into his face. “Henry loves me, or so he says, and God knows I’m none the better for it.” He shook his head. “A father is a curse to his children, and sons are nothing but grief to him.” Harry left off speaking for a while as he stroked Philippe’s arm. “Thanks be to God I’ve no son. I’d hate to see the loathing in his eyes like that which I feel for my father.
The light had all but gone; there was a cool silence within Philippe’s room. He held Harry close, even as he snuggled his face in the softness of the pillow and smelled the sweet residue of narcissus there. Philippe closed his eyes, trying to banish all thought of her, but could not. She had been three weeks in Chantilly and he longed for her even as he felt vague relief at her absence. It was always the same. She both tempted and tormented him. Her beautiful face haunted his dreams. In defense of his fearfulness he pulled Harry closer and whispered in his ear, “You shall have all that you wish, whatever you need.”
The remnants of Harry’s pride wilted a little at that. “On what security? I must tell you truthfully, Philippe, that if you loan money to me there is little guarantee that I will be able to repay it.”
Philippe’s fingers entwined with Harry’s. “It is no loan.”
“A gift then? Charity?”
“Not charity. Repayment for friendship and kindness. For the love which you showed to a lonely little boy.” There was a stab of feeling in his voice. “Harry, I’m lonely still… .”
A soft, sweet kiss banished a tiny portion of the memory; the mild sound of Harry’s voice dispelled the rest. “Never lonely, not so long as I am with you, love.”
As they slept a light breeze came up off the river, filling the room with scent of night-blooming flowers. Faint patches of stars glistened in the heavens, and torchlight rippled upon the smooth surface of the Seine. The people of Paris slept, unknowing that their king lay in the arms of an English prince, while a balmy redolence of narcissus hung over him and seeped into his dreams.
Isabel’s return to Paris, which had been planned to coincide with the celebration of her husband’s seventeenth birthday, was delayed when she suffered her second miscarriage of the year on the 19th of August. In answer to Edythe’s frantic missives, Philippe sent four of the finest physicians in Paris to care for her at the Chateau Jolie in Chantilly.
They could do little for her. She needed Philippe and the assurance of his love for her; his attention and concern. She did not realize that Philippe was deeply involved in his own worries which, though not caused by Isabel in any way, were attributable to her, and compromised her position.
Robert of Clermont had been scheduled to serve as emissary for his king at a meeting with Philip of Flanders at Amiens on the 15th of August, the Feast of the Assumption. It was to be a conventional occasion at which time the Count of Flanders was to formally concede his hold upon the territories of Vermandois and Valois, giving them over to the custody of Philippe Capet.
But when Robert arrived at Amiens he was met instead by one Tristan de Brandeis, the local burgher and Philip’s vassal. The Count of Flanders had conveniently absented himself to Valenciennes but the message he had left behind with Tristan was emphatic: No Vermandois.
Humiliated and subdued,
Robert returned to Paris with that message where he stoically bore the shouted rage of his king. A contract had been signed—Flanders had promised those territories upon the death of Elizabeth! Flanders had to capitulate because the law decreed it so! Hughes de Puiseaux was sent scurrying to the archives library to dig out the copy of the marriage contract.
Philippe held the document between unsteady hands and read the fateful passage: “…in the event of the death of Elizabeth, the true Countess of Vermandois and Valois, these lands and their said appointed revenues shall be ceded in their entirety to Philippe of France, as a portion of the dowry achieved by his wife, Isabel of Hainault, in the situation that: the Count of Flanders has no heir of his body; and the matter of transfer is agreeable to both the kingdom of France and the County of Flanders at such time as is dictated by events herein described above… .”
Philip d’Alsace’s elegant smugness laughed out at him from the ink-scored parchment. A legal trap. A clever double-meaning. A sharp two-edged argument. This was reprehensible, and the King of France would not be the unwitting victim of such mockery!
At once he authored a stentorian reply to the Count of Flanders, demanding the surrender of Vermandois and Valois, threatening the use of an outside arbitrator to decide the matter. Then, with righteous forbearance, Philippe put his hand to an urgent message directed to Henry of England, expressing outrage over this new interference by Flanders and requesting the English king’s help in open mediation between the three parties. That accomplished, he wrote yet one more communique: to Emperor Frederick, d’Alsace’s overlord, announcing the count’s decision in the matter of Valois and Vermandois, and petitioning intercession by the Holy Roman Empire.
The Rain Maiden Page 20