The Rain Maiden

by Jill M Philips

  Whether he whispered her name or screamed it he could not remember, only that in an instant she took him beyond anywhere he had ever been. Then shivering with her own satisfaction she spoke his name and grew limp against him, her head coming to rest upon his shoulder like a slumbering child.

  It was a while before he could think or even move. Isabel covered his lips with her warm, moist mouth, and stroked his hair. Her languorous kisses stirred him again and this time, driven by lust rather than love, he pushed her down upon the bench and sprawled over her, taking her with a force that sent his own head pounding.

  His energy had dislodged the last neat swirls of her hair and when he had finished Isabel lay silently breathing through her open mouth, her face framed by sweaty curls. She let him hold her for a little while, then gently eased out of his embrace to rise and dress herself once more, without a word. He sat watching her, then stooped to retrieve her discarded gloves, curling his fingers around them. They were still imprinted with the warmth of her hands. “Don’t go to Gisors,” he said suddenly, his voice sounding too loud and urgent. “You must know how doubtful it is that King Henry will do anything to help you.”

  She had nearly finished dressing, but paused to cast a vaguely disapproving look in his direction. “You arranged this for me. Why do you suddenly change your mind?”

  “Because it’s foolish. If Philippe truly wishes to divorce you he will do it. You cannot stop him. Accept that. Come back to Troyes or Chalons with me and I will make you my wife.”

  Isabel took the gloves from him and fitted them carefully over her hands. “You have a wife already.”

  “I would divorce her tomorrow if I could marry you.”

  Isabel’s deft hands fluttered over her disheveled hair, capturing bits of it into place with pearl-edged pins, then she covered it all with her cape and hood. “And you have a son,” she reminded him. “No, Henri, don’t try to dissuade me. I know what I must do.” She felt at her earlobes, the dainty fingers securing hanging pearls the size of moonstones. Then with a sigh she finished, “If Philippe succeeds in his plan to divorce me, I shall consider your offer of marriage. If not,” she drew back a little into the shadows, and the darkness swallowed all but her eyes, “then we shall have other meetings, I promise you.” There was a hushed rustle of velvet as she moved to the door, holding out her hand for him to follow. “Come now,” she whispered, “we must go.”

  On the evening of the following day the band of travelers halted at Nantes for a meal and a night’s rest. But while the monks ate, Isabel sat in the library of the chapter house, looking out the window at yet another cathedral going up across the road, and wrote her ultimatum.

  Inspired, her wits sharpened by purpose and lack of sleep, she wrote the document through without an error or a change. Then she read it, made her copies, and went to bed.

  In the event that my marriage to Philippe-Auguste, true King of France, is dissolved, I—who am called Isabel de Hainault—declare myself deserted and abandoned by him, my rightful husband in the sight of God; and by my family equally forsaken, for they have refused to substantiate my lawful inheritance, the counties of Vermandois and Valois; and it is this which has caused my husband to estrange himself from me.

  Since my first-betrothed partner, Henri Count of Champagne, has since married and made himself an heir on the body of his wife, I have no “husband presumptive.” Being that is true, and I am two months less four days short of the fourteenth anniversary of my birth, I declare myself as ward of Henry, King of England; by right of prior contract (which read) he is my own guardian and I am in his care till such time as my husband reinstates me as his wife and queen; or, in case of the divorce being fact, the King of England selects for me another husband.

  If Count Baldwin of Hainault and Count Philip d’Alsace of Flanders—who are my kin in the flesh—will not sustain my rights and inheritance; if my husband—who has known me in the sense of a wife—will not shelter me nor give me succor, then by my will be it known: That they have, by right of LAW, foresworn their claims to me; and I shall obey as the will of good King Henry dictates, or his pleasure is known. I put this down in my own hand and by no false will am swayed; but say that having taken refuge in prayer and the Sacrament and acknowledging the blood sacrifice of my Maker—as I pray for His grace,

  Signed, my hand and seal,

  Isabel, lately called Queen of the French

  Mantes, Abbey of Ste. Gabrielle

  January 16, 1184

  Ralph of Newstead, burly and ill-mannered, directed Isabel to a small audience chamber, where she could wait until the king would see her. For a while she occupied herself with the view from the window, but soon it grew too dark to see beyond the shaded glass.

  Worn by the past three days and nights of little rest, Isabel pulled a chair close to the fire and sat down, rubbing her palms together. Her fingers felt stiff from clutching the reins and her back ached for a soft bed. Having reached her destination, she felt almost too tired now to accomplish her purpose. Depression stooped her shoulders. Perhaps this had not been such a clever idea after all.

  She was dozing, her head tilted toward her shoulder, a stray lock of hair brushing her cheek, when Henry burst into the room. “My child,” he called out, striding up to her, “welcome to Gisors.”

  She was on her feet in an instant, bending her body in a show of courtesy, but when she nearly toppled over in weariness Henry took up her hand in a firm grip. “Spare yourself, girl. Protocol between royalty is something I dispensed with years ago.” Giving her a closer look, he said, “You have grown even more beautiful since our first meeting, if that is possible. And I have grown older. Now how may I help you?”

  During the long ride from Paris she had prepared a greeting but now her tongue felt thick and awkward in her mouth. “My lord,” she stammered, unable to say more.

  He put an arm about her shoulders, steadying her. “Come, child,” he said, “share a meal with me and rest yourself. There is time enough to talk when you feel stronger.”

  Smiling gratefully through her daze of weariness, Isabel let him lead her from the room.

  An hour later she felt stronger, sustained by good beef and raisin wine. There was no mention of politics as they ate, only talk of small matters, and before long she felt relaxed in his company, studying him over the rim of her cup.

  He looked much the same as she remembered him from Rennes, although she supposed the dimly-lit surroundings concealed the traces of age on his face. He was not handsome, and yet his total appearance was very pleasing. His hair and beard were an exact match of reddish-brown hues, but with a fair cast, thick and full. Neither tall nor short, his body was ably made and marked by a rugged dignity. His eyes were the finest feature in his face. They were storm-grey, and even in the dimness, bloodshot, full of disappointments.

  After he had eaten very little, Henry pushed his plate aside with as much vigor as some men might fill it up again. He watered his wine liberally and then sat back to drink it, his chin tilted toward the ceiling. “Your husband wishes to divorce you,” he began, “and you want me to change his mind. Is that it?”

  “Has Philippe been in contact with you?” she asked warily, dabbing at her lips with a cloth.

  “No, but news of that sort travels fast.”

  “My uncle, then?” The sound of her own voice gave Isabel confidence. “Has he enlisted you in his wicked plot to discredit me?”

  His voice was sharp and direct. “Flanders is my friend, but that’s no concern of yours. It should be enough that I am willing to hear your part of the story. Don’t badger me, just state your purpose.”

  Only a few minutes ago she had felt as though she liked him. He had seemed reachable and pleasant. Now he was talking like a politician. The change angered her. Making a slight move to rise, she said, “If, as your attitude dictates, your sympathy rests with my uncle’s point of view, there is little need for me to say anything. It seems to me you have already made up your
mind not to help me.”

  The sound of his heavy fist against the table silenced her. “Sit down!” he barked, “and stay sitting until I have given you leave to go!” When Isabel had obeyed, paled by fright at his anger, he pointed a finger at her. “I have had more than my share of trouble these past few years, and much of it has come from your family. Not your fault, I realize, but all the same the problems between Philippe and your uncle have taken my attention away from my own concerns far too often. Your husband writes to me, insisting that I put an end to Flanders’s threats of war. Flanders implores me to take his side against Philippe. I’ve had my belly filled to puking with this situation. They both want my help, and yet behind my back the two of them connive to sustain the rebellion of my own sons against me.” The show of anger had subdued her, but a touch of spite still rang in Isabel’s voice. “Then why do you have to do with any of them? I should think that it would be easier for you to close your ears to all entreaties, rather than have to pick and choose between them.” The somber lines of his face creased in an ironic smile. “It is not easy for a king to do anything. You see child, power is not only a tool, it is a weapon. A weapon which can just as easily be used against me as to my good. Because I have power, others often seek to engage me in disputes which have no benefit to me, but which can cause difficulties. Therefore it is sometimes advantageous for me to withhold help when it is asked.”

  She answered him without flinching. “Then why don’t you simply say no to Philippe and my uncle? You seem to be saying no to me!”

  Her arrogance tickled his anger and yet it excited him because it hinted at a precocity and wildness even more tantalizing than her beauty. Had this girl-queen come here with a plan to seduce him to her will, to bargain for his favor with her body? That thought was pleasant. She was young, but he’d known virgins younger than her, and as he studied the rich curves of her body with discreet awareness he realized happily that this girl was no virgin. Even two years ago at Rennes he had contemplated her full breasts and wide-spread hips with voluptuous satisfaction. No girl developed as well as that and as young without having been fucked well and often. Even as he considered that, Henry cleared his throat and spoke pragmatically, as though her body was the farthest thing from his thoughts. “Don’t be pert with me, Isabel. You will hear my opinion when I am prepared to give it.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Now tell me, where is this letter you mentioned to me earlier?”

  From within the travel-worn folds of her black velvets, Isabel withdrew the rolled sheets, offering the top one to him. Henry took the paper and held it close, squinting at the fine, small script. Then with a grunt he got to his feet and walked to the fire grate in the wall. Leaning close to the light he read the document once, and then again. When he had finished he turned his back to Isabel and stoodfacing the fire.

  She waited for his response. Finally, spurred on by anxiousness, she explained, “I mean to send one to Philippe, one to my father, and one to my uncle.” She rushed to the end of the sentence, then stopped abruptly… with your approval, of course.”

  Henry came back to the table and placed the letter in front of her. He dropped himself onto the bench, his back to the table, regarding her with a pensive scrutiny for what seemed a very long time. Unsure if her spirited essay had displeased him, Isabel fussed with a loose coil of her hair, ringing it about her finger in an effort to ease her nervousness. “That’s quite an epistle,” he finally said, and she looked up. “You certainly have your uncle’s talent with words.”

  “I can reword it if you think it is too bold,” she offered, trying to sound meek.

  He chuckled. “Bold it is, most definitely. A bold and empassioned letter written by a bold and impassioned young woman.” His hand hovered over hers for an instant, then he patted her fingers and laughed as he did so. “That letter is sure to put the fear of God into those three peacocks. Very clever of you to use me as a threat. None of them is likely to miss the point of that.”

  Her cheeks colored and she turned her face away, but Henry took her chin between his fingers and turned her to look at him. “No, don’t blush because you think you ought. You were right to speak as you did. An invalidation of the marriage contract would cause you to belong to me …” His eyes read her face as though he had divined some hidden truth betrayed by her expression before he finished, “… in the purely technical sense of the word, of course.” After a pause he took his hand away and got stiffly to his feet. “Tomorrow I will see to it that your messages are dispatched, one to each. Then we shall talk more.” He reached down for her arm and helped her to her feet. “Now I will show you to your room.”

  Isabel gathered up her papers and put them into Henry’s outstretched hand. As they walked together toward the stairs she looked up at him, a tiny smile on her lips. “Would it be inconvenient for me to have a bath?” she asked hopefully. “I would sleep so much better if I could.”

  “Of course,” he responded. “I’ll instruct one of the girls to help you.”

  He led her to a room on the second floor, where her baggage had already been deposited. He fussed with the lock, then the heavy oak door swung open. “If memory serves me, you should be more comfortable here than at the Cite Palais,” he observed. “Here at least it is possible to keep out the winter drafts.” Isabel paused halfway inside the room. “I’ll get Theresa to haul in a tub for you,” he promised. Then he started off down the corridor.

  “Henry,” she called out and he stopped, looking back over his shoulder. Her eyes were enigmatic, hard to read. “Thank you for your help. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate it… .”

  “We’ll talk tomorrow,” he said, and winked at her. “Enjoy your bath.”

  NIGHT WAS COMING on like a triumphant army, its shadows sweeping over the land. Beyond the promontory the sea stretched away into blackness, the darkening sky nibbling at its edges.

  The cold was intolerable and Philippe quaked with it, his hands thrust deeply into the furrows of his sable pellison. The wind shrieked in his ears and he had to lean forward in the saddle to hear what Geoffrey was saying before the wind could blow the words away.

  “… Brittany tests a man,” Geoffrey repeated, his voice piping and shrill. “There is no better place on earth to train an army.” He touched Philippe’s shoulder. “Have you thought a little of what we discussed at dinner last night?”

  Philippe nodded, his frigid fingers gripping the reins tighter, restraining the restless dance of his horse. “Good,” Geoffrey remarked, “let’s go back and talk more on it.” He indicated the clouds above, which rode the sky like phantom sailing ships. “It will be raining soon. We’ll have to ride hard to get back without being drenched.” He jabbed a booted heel into his horse’s side and they started off in a run, the pair of them, horse and rider, fleeing across the sand like a drunkard chasing the moon. With difficulty Philippe turned his mount into the wind and, flinching, followed far behind.

  They sat cross-legged, close as lovers, on the fur mat before the open fire, drinking mulberry wine from the same cup, their knuckles still white with cold. “But I don’t understand,” Philippe protested, “what difference it should make to you if I divorce Isabel.”

  Geoffrey rubbed a hand across his chin, wiping away the droplets of wine that glistened on the hairs of his beard. “A divorce is silly,” he explained. “You give away too much and yet gain nothing.”

  “What else can I do?”

  “Look;” Geoffrey reasoned, his hand resting lightly upon Philippe’s knee, “forget trying to get the better of Flanders. You never will. You’ll never get Vermandois either, at least not without a long fight, perhaps not even then. So you will have severed your marriage for no purpose. Where is the sense in all that?”

  Philippe’s dark eyes mirrored a sense of hurt. “And what about the rest of it?” he asked. “How can I keep a wife who has been the willing concubine of her father and uncle?”

  “That is not so strange,” Geoffrey replied
, tucking a bit of bread into his mouth and washing it down with wine. “My own father was sleeping with both Marguerite and Constance for years before marrying them off to Harry and to me. It happens all the time.” He grinned. “That is a king’s prerogative.”

  Philippe looked instantly insulted. “Only for men like your father.”

  Geoffrey shrugged. “That was what I meant, of course. Old Henry must possess every girl who incites his interest. It might be that d’Alsace and Baldwin are the same. But Isabel belongs to you now. Why give her up merely because they had her first? Forget divorce. Forget Vermandois. You would do better occupying yourself in holding the Vexin against my father. It is worth ten times more than a Frisian swamp.”

  Philippe bristled. “I don’t need you to tell me which lands are vital!”

  Geoffrey tempered his voice with softness. “I was only suggesting you look elsewhere.”

  “But Vermandois is mine!” Philippe insisted, his tidy mind locked into the logic of his proposition.

  “Listen,” Geoffrey exhorted, nearly upsetting the wine in his eagerness, “what would you say if I offered Brittany to you instead?”

  Philippe laughed politely. “You can’t be serious.”

  “But I am.”

  “Why? To affront your father?”

  Handsome Geoffrey conceded the point with an impish smile. “If I said not, you would know me for a liar. But that is only one part of my plan. Surely you can’t have missed the implication of my gift.”