The Rain Maiden

by Jill M Philips

  Their outstretched hands met and he kissed hers, taking care not to brush her fingers with the roughness of his beard. “I have been out here most of the day,” she answered. “I was going in now to find Edythe. Have you seen her? She went with some of the others to look at the fair.”

  He still held her hand. “I thought you might have gone.”

  Isabel looked up at him. He was so tall, like the rest of Philippe’s family. “I didn’t feel like going,” she answered, shifting on her feet. “Philippe’s away. Besides, it would only give the people of Paris another chance to hoot and sneer at me.” She began walking again, Henri following close beside her, but after a few steps her feet stopped on the path. “I left my prayer book in the garden,” she said, making a little nervous half-tum, and then, . . no matter. I’ll send one of the stewards for it later.” She sat down on the edge of a bench beneath one of the huge oak trees. “Sit with me, Henri.” She patted the place beside her. “I need your company today.”

  They talked for a while of unimportant things, and as they did Isabel lifted her chin to scan the tops of the trees. They were nearly barren, yet some sparrows played at being leaves on the topmost limbs. “Those birds see more of Paris than I do,” she observed.

  Henri’s dark eyes mirrored a true feeling of sympathy, and Isabel looked closely at him. He had a good face. Handsome, if one didn’t look too closely or too long. There was a certain softness to his expression, an almost feminine curve to his lips that contrasted with Philippe’s bold, sullen features. Like all the Champagnois he dressed well, though the rich dark colors he chose made his skin look as white as a girl’s.

  “There are finer places than Paris to see,” he was saying, and Isabel knew by the note of pride in his voice he was referring to his native Champagne, where he ranked above all other men. “Troyes is an exciting city, Isabel, much like Mons—you would like it I think. Nearby, my chateau sits on the Seine tributary and overlooks the plain. Champagne is like nowhere else. The air is warm and dry and sweet to the senses. It is beautiful. I would love to show it to you.”

  Isabel tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and silently scoffed at his pretensions. Aloud she said, “And would your wife make me welcome?”

  He drew nearer. “I would.” His hand found hers. “No, don’t look away, Isabel. I must speak my heart. To see you each day, to be in your company, having only your friendship and knowing I can never have more, is torment to me. I love you so much …”

  She pulled her hand away. “I am the king’s wife.”

  “You should have been mine.”

  Why couldn’t he simply be her friend and leave it at that? Isabel sighed in vexation. “You married shortly after I did. If you were so sick with love for me, why were you so anxious to take another bride?”

  Henri winced as though her words had hurt him. “I married to secure my inheritance. It was my father’s wish. Blanche was his choice, not mine. She means nothing to me.”

  Isabel gave him a queer smile, both sad and amused. “I wager there are many men who feel as you do.”

  A tiny spark of cruelty flashed in his eyes. “And is your husband one of them?”

  So this was where he had been leading her. The composed expression of her face soured into petulance. “I know this: he is not sitting in a garden with another man’s wife proclaiming his love for her.” She glared at him from behind the barricade of her sentence.

  Henri’s words came close on the edge of hers as though he had known what she would say. “That is because my cousin the king loves no one. He has no emotions. It is his nature.”

  Isabel could be angry, yet laugh at the irony of his words. “You don’t know him as I do, that much is obvious,” she scoffed.

  That intimation made it easier for him to want to hurt her. “And do you know how he feels about you?”

  He had no right to question her, provoke her, whatever his motives. “These are private matters,” she declared and gave him a sideways, warning glance that proclaimed queenly authority.

  Henri grasped her hands firmly. “These are matters which touch me too deeply to be ignored. You were promised to me, Isabel! It was only through your uncle’s manipulations that my marriage contract to you was put aside and Philippe was allowed to take you for himself. There was nothing legal or ethical about it, yet men who knew better and had the power to avert it, like your father, stood by and did nothing, for the sake of their own gain.”

  Exasperated she cried out, “Why are you reminding me of all this? I had no say in any of it!”

  Henri looked down at the hem of his surcoat, which had fallen over her skirt, blue against blue like a small lake. “You could have loved me as your husband, Isabel,” he said sadly. “You could love me still.”

  She thrust his hands away, anger shining in her eyes. “It is not your disappointed love that makes you speak so, it is resentment at being cheated of what was yours—a signed contract, a piece of paper—how dare you call that love? You are no different from my uncle or my father. None of you care anything for my feelings.”

  His arm flailed out in protest, nearly hitting her. “I am the only one who cares! Don’t you understand what is happening? While we sit here arguing, Baldwin and your uncle are planning a military seizure of Vermandois and your husband is this far away from annulling his marriage to you in retaliation.” Henri leaned close, his voice pitched low and earnest. “I could have let you find out later, from your family or your husband, but I came here today, determined to save you whatever heartbreak I could.”

  Flustered and unbelieving, Isabel leapt apart from him, and color infused her cheeks. “I don’t know what you are talking about or what you think you know. There have been bad feelings between Philippe and my family in the past, and the matter of Vermandois is still unsettled—but this talk of war and divorce is new to me. Where did you hear such a thing, and from whom?”

  Henri folded his hands across his knee and explained. “I was in the corridor this morning when the king was talking to Hughes de Puiseaux. A communique had just arrived from Philip of Flanders. The count has married again and taken back Vermandois for his bride. Hearing this, your husband was furious and swore that if Baldwin of Hainault would not aid him in forcing Flanders to cede Vermandois to France, he would cast you off to spite them both. Those were his exact words.”

  There was too much plausibility in what Henri had said for Isabel to feign disbelief any longer. So that was the reason Philippe had left Paris so suddenly this morning; the reason her recent letters to Baldwin and her mother had gone unanswered, and Flanders had disregarded his niece’s many written pleas for unification. Damn them all! She felt dizzy, unable to take it all in. “I don’t understand,” she muttered. “Why didn’t Philippe say anything to me? How could he . ..” she took a breath, “how could they do this to me? How could they be so cruel?” She covered her face with a fluttering hand.

  Henri held on to her free hand for an instant, then let his fingers slip away. He could only guess at what she must be feeling. He stood up, looking down at her bowed head and the hair that lay like golden streamers over her sagging shoulders. “Come inside,” he offered gently, “rest. Warm yourself by the fire. Have some food, some wine. You’ll feel better.”

  Isabel looked up at him, her eyes dry and defiant. “I’m not cold and I’m not hungry. I just want to be left alone.”

  Henri stood awkwardly by, hunching his shoulders and looking at her with pity. Isabel waved him away. When he reached out his hand she turned from him. Her voice was as cold as she could make it. “Why don’t you go and have your dinner? You’ve accomplished what you came here to do.”

  “I never meant to hurt you,” he muttered, and walked away as Isabel stared after him, saying nothing.

  That night it rained, and by morning Isabel’s abandoned prayer book was only a little lump of mush, its ruined pages stained by faded colors which dripped into the ground and were lost forever.

  FLANDERS
welcomed Philippe Capet to Amiens.

  He had already achieved the greatest part of his victory: Philippe had come to him. So when they met in private ceremony at Flanders’s chateau outside the city, the count was bold and assured. There was something more, however, that Philippe, even in his disordered state of nerves, could sense. Philip d’Alsace was aglow with the resurgence of youth.

  Beside him was a slim, dark-haired girl, richly dressed. She had a bearing of shy dignity and kept her eyes level to the floor. Flanders introduced her as Beatrice of Portugal, the new Countess of Vermandois—his wife. She greeted the king in a few faltering words of French, then retired to the far side of the table to take her meal in silence while her husband and Philippe exchanged words she could not understand. When the meal was finished Philippe dismissed her and she went obediently to her room, having played her ceremonial part for the evening.

  They were alone now. Flanders smiled and stirred melted honey into his wine. “You’ve grown to manhood well,” he nodded to Philippe. “And I? I am young again. Soon I shall have the son I have prayed God for all these many years. You cannot know the joy I feel.”

  Philippe could manage little more than a sour smile. “Soon? Not so by the look of your wife’s flat belly.”

  Flanders shrugged congenially. “We have been married only a short while. If she is not yet pregnant she shall be, soon enough.”

  The king ignored the boast. “I did not come here to talk of that,” he said sharply, then reminded Flanders of his purpose. “Vermandois was promised to me and I intend to have it.”

  Arrogance rang in Flanders’s voice. “You have not met the conditions of the contract. You have no son. Also, at the time of your marriage I had no idea I would yet have a chance of an heir for myself. That changes everything.”

  Philippe sat tense and straight, taking his wine in little sips. “Amiens itself was part of the dowry settlement,” he reminded him, “and though you may occupy the city, the bishopric belongs to the crown of France under a law of vassalage concluded during my grandfather’s reign.”

  Framed by the fire, Flanders sat with wings of flame upon his shoulders, and laughed. “History and logic in one lesson,” he taunted. “Do you really think I’ll be put off by a sixty-year-old point of law? Take your case to the Bishop of Amiens if you like; you are free to do so.” He leaned back, propping his booted feet on the edge of the table. “Take it to the pope. But by the time all the legal entreaties have been accomplished I will have my son, and every part of Isabel’s dowry will rightfully revert to me. That too is the law.”

  For a while neither of them spoke. Flanders sat back, a bemused and leisurely smile on his face, and filled his belly with wine while Philippe stared dismally down into his own cup. He was a fool to have come here, and despised the impulse which had made him do it. His memory strayed back over the past four years to the promising beginning they had made. There had been so much to bind them together then. Now they were less than strangers. Yet there was no time to pity present circumstances. Both were locked into their stubborn positions, but more than a piece of land was at stake. Vermandois was a symbol of power, a final proof of who was stronger.

  To plead with Flanders was useless and demoralizing. Only one way remained. Philippe squared his shoulders and folded his arms across his chest. “I won’t be cheated,” he declared. “If you persist in withholding my wife’s inheritance I will fight you every way I can. I’ll send an army against you if I must.” He saw a flicker of amusement dance in Flanders’ eyes, remembering that it had taken the King of England and three of his sons to thwart an earlier Flemish uprising, and Philippe tried to erase the memory with his next words. “Don’t think I cannot do it. Much has changed since you knew me last.”

  “I wouldn’t doubt it,” Flanders tossed the words back at him, “but all this threatening is useless to both of us. There is an easier way.” He drank deeply, watching Philippe over the rim of his cup, purposely delaying, making the king fidget in his chair. Finally Flanders set down the empty henap and pushed it aside. “Say what you like, my boy, you will never defeat me in the field. No one ever has. And despite what allies might rally to your cause, you will never get your father-in-law to help you.” He grinned, full of satisfaction. “Baldwin has already pledged himself to me.”

  Philippe had supposed that the vacillating Baldwin had been bullied into supporting the Flemish position, but the count’s next words undercut any illusions he may have had about changing Baldwin’s mind. “Don’t think that a threat to divorce his daughter will work to your advantage. Baldwin owes too much to me. Ours is an old tradition, an old family. Isabel’s situation, though unfortunate, means little beside that.”

  So it had all been arranged! Philippe could envision them, plotting together in a tight little circle of conspiracy while defrauding him of his rights and laughing as they did so! But before he could speak, Flanders had waved a hand, petitioning silence. “Let me put my solution.” He spoke the words as if he had memorized them. “Vermandois and its annexed portions are mine. They shall remain mine, whatever you do. Still, in view of our past friendship, and to save you embarrassment, I would like to suggest an amicable settlement.” He paused, affecting drama. “If you agree to divorce Isabel you will release us both from our original obligation. Divorce would void your promised inheritance, but in a way which reflects no weakness on your part. I will have my lands back and you will not have been shamed by it. To make amends for your loss I shall make you restitution of 6,000 sous.” He cocked an eyebrow in emphasis. “I am not ungenerous. You will be free to make yourself another, more providential marriage, and the whole business will be ended without bloodshed or disgrace.”

  Philippe stared back, uncomprehending. Flanders, who had worked so diligently for the Franco-Flemish alliance, was now petitioning for its dissolution. And divorce! Philippe had threatened it often enough, usually as a means of determining Isabel’s loyalty, but never in earnest. Flustered, the king nearly upended his wine cup. Then, steadying it between his hands, he replied stiffly, “You have misread me. I don’t want to divorce Isabel.”

  Flanders’ eyes glittered as cut stones, cold and brilliant, empty of feeling. “Are you quite sure?” Then he laughed. “I know that look. You’re itching for her even now, aren’t you?”

  Philippe’s cheeks flushed hotly. “So what if it’s true?” he snapped.

  Flanders repaid him with a malicious look. “She’s exquisite, isn’t she? All that gold silk and fair white flesh and eyes that promise everything.” He stared off toward the shadows, biting ruthlessly at his thumbnail. “Christ, what man wouldn’t think twice before throwing all that away?” The sweat dribbled from his upper lip onto his chin. “Ask Baldwin. Ask me.”

  He hadn’t meant to go that far. He’d wanted only to taunt Philippe into accepting the divorce. But suddenly the need to tell was a torrent inside him, rushing to his brain and spilling heedlessly from his lips till all of Isabel’s secrets had been betrayed.

  When he had heard all that he could suffer, Philippe bolted from the room, chalk-white and puking. As soon as he reached the edge of the corridor he stopped and slumped against the wall. Above the sound of his own sobs, Philippe could still hear Flanders laughing.

  Isabel sat with hands in her lap while Philippe repeated Flanders’s cruel disclosures, not bothering to ask if they were true because her silence answered that. Her composure in the face of his accusations was astounding. When Philippe left her room he was closer to tears than she was.

  Isabel followed him out into the corridor, however, catching hold of his sleeve, forcing him to look at her. “Are you going to send me back to Hainault? Divorce me? What?” she demanded.

  “I don’t know,” he answered grimly. Then after a moment he said, “I wish that I had never met you.”

  She could not see his face, as it was swathed in shadow, but his voice was full of scorn and Isabel drew back. “I would have told you the truth if you had ever aske
d me,” she replied, and then, sounding almost haughty, “I can’t believe you never guessed it.”

  “Christ!” he muttered under his breath, and walked away.

  The rains came in November, heavy, lasting for days.

  Adele’s entourage made slow progress north through dripping woods and dismal countryside. She had been absent from Paris for many months. The dispute with Philippe over Agnes’s safety had kept Adele away, and news of Marguerite’s residence at the palace had provided still further incentive. She had even less tolerance for Marguerite than Isabel did.

  Adele was restless and unhappy. Age had made her desperate. She was now forty-two and her beauty was fading. Though she pampered herself it was impossible to forestall the inevitable. She brooded endlessly. Since there was not enough to keep busy with in the administration of her lands, she diverted herself with new lovers.

  Once discreet, she had now grown careless about her paramours, no longer choosing solely from the ranks of the nobility. How boring such men could be! They were too involved with their own power. Adele needed the stimulation and novelty of a different kind of man.

  One in particular had recently caught her eye. He was a handsome blond musician newly brought to court to “cheer” her. His name was Michel, and though fairly commonplace among handsome blond musicians he did have the distinction of being exactly four months younger than her own son. Adele fawned over him in the disquieting fashion of a mother/lover.

  It didn’t matter to the dowager queen that the liaison exposed her to gossip. No one dared criticize her openly except the clergy, and most of the bishops tactfully ignored the indiscretions of the woman who gave so generously of her wealth to the church. Sully was one of the few clerics honest enough to disapprove of her behavior regardless of favors, but he was too honorable to spread calumnies, even when they were deserved. Gratified by her long absence from Paris, he could afford to be charitable.