Isabel stripped the bracelet from her wrist and flung it in his face. “Why should I? How dare you concern yourself with her comfort when you ignore mine! It is your indifference more than your family’s slanders which has made me a stranger here!”
“Enough, Isabel …” he warned her.
With all the arrogance of her Flemish heritage she glared at him. Haughty and contemptuous, she slid the sheet up over her shoulder, taunting him with her beauty. “Get out of my room,” she hissed, “and don’t come near me again until you’ve sent that bitch back to England.”
He sprang at her, twisting her arm brutally. “No one talks that way to me, by God!”
She shrieked for him to let her go, and when he tried to cover her mouth to silence her she sank her teeth into the palm of his hand.
For a moment Philippe sat staring at the wound, then angrily he pushed his hand into her face, smearing her cheek with blood as he shouted, “Do that again and you’ll be the one tossed out, not Marguerite!”
Isabel twisted away from him, holding the tassled velvet cushion against her breasts as if to protect herself. “Demands, threats!” she cried. “But for Marguerite soft words and smiles and all the time you can never find for me!”
He needed calm and quiet. She was turmoil. Exhausted by his own anger Philippe slumped forward, hands covering his face as he mumbled, “I don’t think I realized until just now how much like my mother you are. Neither of you can bear to have another female of rank around you.”
“Another woman,” she corrected him sassily.
Philippe took up her discarded bracelet and passed it back and forth from one hand to the other, as though trying to determine its weight. “Marguerite is my sister. I enjoy her company. I don’t see how even you could be jealous of something as innocent as that.”
She snatched the bracelet from him. “Can’t you? You’ve passed more time with her these last few months than you have with me in all the time I’ve lived here.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“It’s true!”
“Perhaps if you were as pleasant as she is I would seek you out more often,” he answered quietly. “You and everyone else make impossible demands upon me with never a kind word or action. Marguerite is the only one who offers me solace and friendship instead of criticism and contradictions.”
“Friendship?” Jealousy ate at her like acid. “You ridicule my every effort to be a friend to you. And even if she is pleasant, what right has she to be so? She is a widow. She should be in a convent grieving the loss of her husband, not living here at the expense of your purse and my patience!”
“She is kind,” Philippe insisted, “and kindness is no crime.”
“She is a vain, silly woman,” Isabel answered bitterly, “and I am sick to death of her. Tell me, what forged this great understanding between you and her—the fact that you bedded the same man? Does that work some excitement on your senses which I cannot offer?”
His clenched fists tightened. “You have a filthy mind and a cruel tongue. I should beat you for those words.”
“Do so.” she spat. “At least it would prove you are a man, instead of a simpering, sentimental—”
That was as far as she got before Philippe silenced her with a vicious slap. As she wept into her hands he sat, distraught and wordless. He wanted to feel sorry for her but could not; she was too pitiless herself to warrant pity from him.
“You have pushed Marguerite at me by your behavior,” he finally said. “You sit alone and sulk, you hide yourself away here or in that damnable library, you do anything to avoid seeing people. It is no wonder Marguerite has become so popular with everyone. She makes friends among the nobles, visits houses of charity, and patronizes the good sisters of St. Genevieve. She performs the duties of your office while you shun the court, yet you complain to me of her presence here. Make up your mind, Isabel. Either stop complaining and accept Marguerite, or handle the social life of the court yourself. In any case, remember the dignity of your office and behave like a queen.”
She sat up, rubbing her eyes. “Being Queen of France is nothing! And you know how I am treated! If I hide it is to escape humiliation at the hands of your subjects! What about me? Don’t you care about me?”
“I have tried to make things easier for you,” he shouted back, “and my efforts were resisted by everyone, including you. For pity’s sake Isabel, I am tired of being in the middle of your damned domestic tragedies.”
A ruby earring shimmered a warning from beneath the folds of her hair. “Why don’t you simply say what is on your mind. It isn’t my attitude toward Marguerite that is bothering you, it’s that business with the Capuciati, the things Godfrey of Lincoln wrote against me at the prompting of your pious churchmen!”
Philippe grabbed her by the shoulders, shaking her roughly. “Listen, I have suffered great humiliation from your entanglement with that group of heretics.”
She twisted out of his grip, her words poised and ready to fly at him even before he had finished. “How do you know they are heretics? What do you know of them? Is the Bishop of Lincoln suddenly your eyes and ears?”
Philippe’s hands were shaking and he braided the fingers together. “Religious and political matters are none of your concern.”
Her lips pursed in a sneer. “Godfrey of Lincoln is a fool! And he has a grudge against my family. He once lost a small fortune wagering against my uncle in a tournament and since that day he has hated me and my kind.” Isabel gave a disparaging little laugh. “Were he not the King of England’s bastard son, he would have risen no higher than a clerk in a counting house. Yet despite all that, you still take his word over mine!”
“You admitted that you sent the ring to Dujardin,” Philippe reminded her.
Her eyes flashed in contempt. “It was an act of charity, no more. How many times do I have to tell you that?”
“Such charity breeds ugly rumors.”
Her full bottom lip quivered in defiance. “Are you going to allow a bishop—a bishop of Lincoln, the last place God made!—to influence you against your own wife?”
“Shut up Isabel,” he threatened, jamming a fist beneath her chin. “I’ve had enough criticism from you for one night.”
“And what of me and my feelings?” she wailed. “Nothing I do pleases you or anyone else. I am criticized no matter what I do!”
“For good reason.”
“For any reason!”
Overcome by weariness, Philippe let his hands sag in his lap, palms up. The one was bruised and swollen, beaded with blood stains where she had bitten him. He studied the wound for a moment, then wordlessly held it out for her to see.
Penitently she entwined her fingers with his, resting her cheek upon his hand and cleansing it with her tears. Philippe gathered the weeping girl in his arms, wrapping his body around hers. She tried to speak but his kisses silenced her, his arms dispelling the clutching apology of her hands.
His kisses strayed over her beautiful, upturned face, his tongue darting out to lick away the blood from her cheek. She was a compulsion he could not resist and for a moment their lust transcended all that had gone before.
Some hours later Isabel awoke, peering from out of sleep-glazed eyes at the burning candles. She felt pinioned to the spot, then realized her hair was caught tight beneath the weight of Philippe’s shoulder. Smiling just a trace she reached out and barely touched her fingertips to his forehead.
Once again they had left everything unreconciled, discarded like trash around them, and somewhere outside this bed all the same problems remained. She had a sense of urgency, of time running out, of an immediate need to get up and wash her face, but she didn’t pursue it. It was cooler now. A breeze had come up from the river. On such a night sleep came easily.
She settled her head close on Philippe’s shoulder, and yawned into her outstretched hand.
To Richard, Duke of Aquitaine, Count of Poitou—from his father Henry of England—greetings and affecti
on. My son, in the wake of your brother’s much lamented death, it is my duty to prepare you for the role you must now occupy in his place.
Though I pray Jesus my own death be far removed, I must in consideration of the vast territories held under the crown of England, see to the best behalf of my affairs and beseech your aid in attaining a unity of purpose amongst the family of which you are now the eldest surviving son.
Therefore I entreat that you now give up all claims, all titles, possessions and accouterments as regards your past tenure as Duke of Aquitaine, and surrender the aforesaid duchy to the control of your brother John.
Acknowledging that such a transfer will require a considerable toleration on your part, I have prepared to pass to you the responsibilities which were the former property of your deceased brother, in preparation that you succeed me as king upon my death.
It would be an indication of your desire to heed my will that you come at once to Argentan in Normandy that we might debate these new proposals with members of my council, and in a spirit of renewed friendship and understanding.
Written this day, being Michaelmas, September 29th, 1183, by my own hand and witnessed by Ralph of New stead in my service, I commend me to yourself in true affection and respect.
Henry Rex
It was waiting for her somewhere behind a shivering veil of expectation and Margot lunged toward it, her body heaving and slick with sweat. Behind her crouching form she could hear Baldwin’s husky panting, yet she was alone now, alone in a universe of her own making. Pleasure caused her eyelids to droop, yet she kept her dizzied vision focused on the mirror before her.
Margot lived in that mirror now, only in the mirror. Golden hair, luxuriant breasts crowned with copper nipples, lustrous amber eyes giddy with sensuality—the image fascinated her. Baldwin’s hands were deft and subtle on her hips and abdomen where it swelled into her six-month pregnancy, but she barely noticed him. Alone she rode a whirlwind of lust to a frenzied counterpart within the mirror.
Exhausted, Margot slumped forward, burying her face in the fur, scenting the squander of old sweat and passion there. Cold now, she drew her hair about her shoulders and pressed her hands to her breasts for warmth. Baldwin leaned forward to kiss her, then swept up his velvet pellison and covered her.
Margot lay quietly, watching him pull on his clothes. “Are you going down?” she asked. “It is very late.”
He drew a hand across his beard, extracting a golden strand of her hair, then bent to do up his braies. “I have a few things to put in order before Flanders arrives. He should be here at first light.”
A slim hand crept from beneath the velvet and she stroked his knee. “Stay, I haven’t done with wanting you.”
He nuzzled her hand and kissed it. “I’ll be back later. But I need some time alone now, to think. Once your brother is here there will be no time for me to resurrect objections.”
Margot rolled over on her back and looked sleepily up at him. “What are you going to tell Philip?”
Baldwin gripped his hands together between his knees. “There is little I can say that he will accept just now.”
“Is it true he has married again?”
He nodded gravely. “And without any opinion from me. It seems nothing will persuade him against the course he has charted.”
Margot’s eyes had the gleam of a leopardess. “Does it mean war, my darling?”
He came to lie beside her, his head cushioned by her arm. “Flanders has determined to give Vermandois to his new bride; actually he has already done it. When Capet hears of this …” Baldwin let the sentence die on his lips. “I cannot see how our son-in-law, so keen to keep what has been promised to him, can submit to this. So inevitably war must come. Unless I can convince Philip otherwise.”
“Can you?”
He turned to look at her. “We both know the answer to that.”
She knew where his thoughts were. “And Isabel? What does this mean for her?”
“I cannot say. I am afraid to consider it. Perhaps, if Philippe truly loves her …” But it was too much to hope for.
Margot’s laugh was sour. “Love? Does that young bull love anything but his own power? He is a stranger to love. He turned his own mother out in the beginning, remember?” She pursed her lips in doleful memory. “How fortunate and promising things looked for us in France then.”
Baldwin stripped the cloak from her shoulders and warmed his face at her breasts. Margot felt her flesh respond to his touch but her mind was elsewhere. Teasing his neck with her fingernails she asked, “And if you dare to resist my brother, what then?”
He raised his head to look at her and his eyes communicated a sense of defeat. “If I resist, he will insist. If I stand on my resistance, then war will come.” Even as he spoke the words, the reality made him shiver. War with Flanders! It could mean the end of all Baldwin held dear.
Panic heated his desire and he pulled her hands to his belly, helping her to unloose the half-drawn laces. Willingly he bloomed once more within the clutch of her eager fingers as he murmured, “It seems then that to keep my own lands safe, I must make war upon my daughter and her husband.”
Margot eased her body over his, shuddering with pleasure at her ability to excite him after so many years of marriage. Isabel and her plight seemed very far away. Margot’s words drifted down to him like perfume. “Then you must do it,” she whispered.
NEAR THE MIDDLE of the third century A.D. a young apostle named Dionysius came to Paris to preach Christianity to the Gauls. He became the first bishop of Paris and was later beheaded at the order of the Roman governor, but the influence of his preaching changed Gaul forever. In 636 the Merovingian king Dagobert established an abbey on the place of the bishop’s martyrdom and called it St. Denis, from which time this spot became the sepulcher of Frankish kings.
The feast of St. Denis—bishop, martyr, and patron saint of France—was commemorated on October 9th, and for the whole week which encompassed that date church bells rang throughout the Ile-de-France and the people of Paris celebrated.
A few miles to the north of the city, thousands of pilgrims pitched their tents in the field beside the Orleans road and near the abbey which Abbot Suger had built in homage to St. Denis and named for him. These pilgrims came, many from far away, to receive the blessing of Bishop Sully as he passed among them, and to hear the sermons he delivered twice daily during the festival week.
In Paris a livelier pageant took place as noble and peasant, servant and scholar, priest and prostitute mingled joyously in the spirit of celebration. Thrifty Parisians opened their money pouches to buy souvenirs, wine, and food from the stalls set up along the bridge. Minstrels capered in the streets, masked and costumed, dancing to the music of flutes and drums, throwing kisses to the pretty girls who ringed the square to watch and listen. Even the workmen at Notre Dame ceased their labors to toast one another with wooden cups of free wine, which the merchants of Paris had provided in great copper vats at each street comer, and ill-humored professors from the cloister school topped their sober black mantles with garlands of autumnal flowers.
Isabel could hear the music in the palace garden where she sat alone, a tiny prayer book sagging in her lap. She had designed it herself with characteristic skill and delicacy—a project to occupy her time during one of Philippe’s absences from Paris. She turned the pages aimlessly, her eyes glancing over the words and drawings, but they were only gilded images upon a page, nothing more.
Isabel had been taught to believe that God lived in the words, in the drawings of martyrs and saints, but she could never find Him there. He dwelt in secret—in the mysterious recesses of the sacristy, in the high arch of cathedral spires, in the words of men like Sully. The realization of what He was eluded her. Sometimes, kneeling at mass, clutching a rosary in ardent prayer, Isabel experienced faint stirrings of spiritual ecstasy, but the feeling was vague and distant, something she could not touch or understand.
She sat now, fingering
a drawing of the crucified Christ, trying to feel something of His love and sacrifice, closing her eyes to fix the image in her mind—but it was Philippe’s face she saw instead. Between physical and divine love there was a great disparity: she cared too much for one to comprehend the other. God existed; that she knew. But He was very far away.
Her mind buzzed with distractions and she put the book aside. Philippe had left her bed before the sun was up to ride away on some urgent business, not saying where he was going or how long he would be gone. She resented these absences, which were the cause of so much discord between them. On nights he was away Isabel would toss restlessly in her bed, consumed by the jealousy of her suspicions. Who slept beside Philippe when she was not with him? By the time he returned Isabel was usually so angry and frustrated that she managed to spoil the reunion with complaints that ended in arguments. What a tangle it all was.
It was her own fault. How much less complicated her life would be if she did not love him. Love made her jealous, and jealousy made her vindictive and resentful. He didn’t love her as he should—and all the passion in the world wouldn’t change that. There was little enough tenderness in Philippe’s nature and what he had was meted out to Marguerite. Isabel seethed at the thought. She wanted all that he had to give.
Isabel could hear the laughter beyond the garden wall. It depressed her further to know all of Paris was celebrating while she sat alone. Edythe had gone to the fair with some of the palace serving girls, but perhaps she had returned by now. Isabel decided to go indoors. She and Edythe could take a meal together, and then read or play draughts before bedtime. The anticipation of companionship urged Isabel to her feet.
As she started back to the palace through the grove she met Henri of Champagne on the path. “I missed you in the library today,” he called out.
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