The Rain Maiden

by Jill M Philips

  At last they stood still and Geoffrey took his hand away. Isabel stared out over the expanse of the field, unable to believe the transformation. All the debris had been removed and the ground was smooth with fresh-turned earth. The old stands had been replaced by strong new ones. A wooden fence surrounded the entire area like a Saxon stockade.

  Isabel shivered in the wind and took hold of Geoffrey’s hand for warmth. “Why have you done all this?” she asked. “I don’t understand.”

  “As a surprise for Philippe.”

  It was clear to her now, what he intended, and her doubt grew. “This is hardly the sort of surprise that Philippe will appreciate.”

  Geoffrey gazed proudly at his achievement. “He asked me to restore it and that is what I have done.”

  Flakes of snow tickled her face and Isabel brushed them away with a gloved hand. “Yes, but you’ve prepared the field for tournaments again, and you know Philippe’s edict against them.” She shook her head doubtfully. “He won’t like this, I can promise you.”

  “The law restricts tournaments as regular events,” he reminded her, “but this is something special. Between the two of us I’m sure we could convince Philippe to allow a single tournament in honor of his birthday this summer. It was for that very reason I had all this work done.” He smiled engagingly at her, a small boy begging for a second candied apple. “He will be twenty-one in August. I want to give him a spectacular show to honor the occasion. Don’t you think he would agree to that?”

  Her tone was skeptical. “It would take a great deal of convincing.”

  He put his thumb beneath her chin and raised her face toward his. “That is your job, Isabel. With a little delicate pressure applied in the right places …” Then he laughed. “My dear, you could convince the devil to take a bath in holy water. Please, won’t you use your charms to help me accomplish this?”

  He was such a good friend to both her and Philippe. In the weeks since Philippe had gone away to Burgundy she had been in his company every day. In the evenings he played music for her and sang lovely songs that he had written. He was cheerful and so good to be with. Little Jacquie-Marie adored him. Perhaps one little talk with Philippe wouldn’t hurt… .

  Isabel smiled and gave him her answer. “Very well, I shall speak to him about it. But remember Geoffrey, I cannot promise that he will agree. Also, you must let me choose the proper time.”

  “It is in your hands,” he said and kissed her gloved palms in mock subservience.

  Isabel laughed, then pointed to the middle of the field where some shapeless object lay atop the clods of dirt. “What is that?” she asked.

  Geoffrey leaned slightly forward, squinting. “I don’t know.” He started walking toward it, and when he had nearly reached the middle of the field, stopped and bent toward the ground. His hand paused above a heap of twisted entrails protruding from the belly of a mangled dog. The animal’s tan hide was soaked in scarlet, and without thinking Geoffrey dipped his fingers in it. Then as if he had been bitten he pulled his hand away.

  “What is it?” Isabel called out to him, her words blown by the wind.

  Geoffrey wiped his fingers on the lining of his pellison and stood up. Why was he trembling? “Blood,” he called back.

  FOR THE FIRST TIME in more than twelve years, Eleanor of Aquitaine was coming home to France.

  Henry had summoned her to Normandy and she had no illusions about his reason. He had kept her cruelly imprisoned for all these years, separated her from her sons, humiliated her with his mistresses. He wouldn’t have granted her this sudden benison unless it had some profit to himself.

  At Bayeux, when Eleanor arrived there from her frigid crossing, Henry met her and explained his purpose. He wanted her to take back the Aquitaine from Richard, and reassert her rights as duchess there. It would make the barons easier to deal with, he pointed out, because they resented Richard and his constant involvement in other wars.

  Eleanor was not fooled. She knew Henry’s intentions. By forcing her to take back Richard’s territories, her husband meant to curb their son’s growing power. John’s ridiculous attempts at seizing Richard’s domains had resulted in ignominious failure, so now Henry had decided to extort the territory by legal means. What a ruthless hypocrite he was, and how she loathed him!

  At the taole they sat across from one another, separated by many years of bitterness. Henry put his terms to her and she listened, unmoved by the protestations of sincerity. In the end Eleanor agreed to what he wanted, because there was very little else that she could do. Everything she had or hoped to have depended on his favor. Her imprisonment at Salisbury was not pleasant, but Henry could make her circumstances far worse if she defied him. So finally she signed the paper that he rudely thrust at her, but what she signed and what she promised in her heart were two different things.

  Richard arrived in Bayeux two days later and graciously accepted Henry’s edict. Grim-faced and silent he stood before his parents and their assembled witnesses, and put his hand to the document which released the Aquitaine to Eleanor. It helped him to know the spirit in which she had agreed to this. He knew she would never sell him out, not for all the threats that Henry could make. She would hold the Aquitaine, but she would hold it for him, and when it became possible for her to do so, she would return it. Nothing could ever make him doubt her.

  But still it was shameful to stand before all these people and play at giving up his rights, merely to satisfy Henry’s greed and stubbornness. Richard held himself erect and kept his chin high while the ceremony lasted. Later, when he was all alone, he drank too much and cried himself to sleep.

  Yellow gold. The light of a thousand torches. Music, dancing. Much that was good to eat. Laughter and light conversation. Wine that was red and lips that were even redder. Rich scents of cinnamon and lavender and orange peel. Silver platters filled with a dozen kinds of roasted game and fruits that dripped with honey. Silks of many shades. Jewels that burned with light against the whiteness of a woman’s skin.

  There was Christmas feasting at the Cite Palais.

  It was the most fabulous celebration Paris had seen in fifty years. The Christmas court was a glittering congregation of poets, clerics, chroniclers and nobles from all over France, come to revel in the hospitality of their young king and his splendid Flemish wife.

  Isabel had arranged this festivity with Geoffrey’s help. Philippe, who knew next to nothing of the social arts, was amazed at how the great hall had been transformed to lavishness and glitter. Even Adele, who was praised for her abilities as a hostess, was grudgingly impressed by Isabel’s magnificent array of guests.

  What a lot of famous people had been assembled here!

  Robert de Torigni, the abbot of Mont St. Michel, sat at the king’s table beside his long-time friend the Bishop of Paris. Like Sully, he was a builder, a man of intense vision. He had made many improvements upon the Mont, that glorious abbey put up by the Benedictines two hundred years before. The edifice was a legend among the French, and de Torigni loved it with the kind of intimacy and passion only true men of the spirit can understand. Yet on the parvis this morning, standing in the snow in front of Notre Dame, the old abbot had looked upon Sully’s unfinished masterpiece and wept. Later he had told the king, “When it is completed no cathedral this side of the Alps will compare to it.”

  Another guest at this festivity was poetess Marie de France. She was a distant cousin to Geoffrey Plantagenet, related through the Angevin bloodline. She was partly English but the French liked her for her eccentricities and talent. Marie was wealthy, pretty and indifferent to conventional behavior, as artists often are. She had traveled extensively in Europe and the East, where she had met and married a penniless Norman knight, and all for love. The French adored the tragic and romantic poetry she wrote, and Isabel, who so loved the arts, admired her very much.

  So did Marguerite Capet, Marie’s close friend, who sat nearby. Marguerite had been surprised at the queen’s invitation to
come back to court for this occasion. Isabel did not like her; that had never been a secret. Yet in these last few days she had received Marguerite with courtesy and friendliness and had even given her a fine white velvet chainse decorated with pearls as a gift. After Twelfth Night Marguerite would once more be returned to the convent outside of Paris, but for now it was pleasing to feel young again, and to dance with handsome men.

  Isabel was a vivid flash of color in scarlet silk and new rubies, which Philippe had brought back from Burgundy for her. She was poised and laughing and exquisite, and if any of these people in the room had doubted that a girl so young could make a suitable queen for France, they did not doubt it now. They watched her, some with satisfaction, some with envy, and there was one among the company who watched her more closely than the rest.

  From over the shoulder of his uncle Theobold, Count Henri of Champagne followed Isabel’s every movement with his eyes. It had been more than a year since he had seen her last, and in that time a day had never passed when he had not thought of her. The memory of that single night in the herbarium burned in his mind like a brand. He had known the deepest and most secret beauty of her body. Now here she sat, close enough for him to touch, ripe and forbidden.

  Henri watched. She left her place beside the king and came farther down the table to greet Alain de Lille. He was a scholar-poet and a theologian, a virtual hermit who had lived in Paris during the early reign of Philippe’s father, but who had long since removed himself to Citeaux. There he lived simply, mingling with students, working at his writing. He spent little time in the great world these days, yet at the bidding of the queen he had come back to Paris for this celebration. Alain had known her only from her letters; she had flattered him with her knowledge of his writing. Then when he was introduced to her in person he had been so overwhelmed by her beauty he had composed a poem for her on the spot.

  Henri watched, envying the old man her company, and Geoffrey watched too, thinking he had never seen a fairer face in all the world. Philippe looked on in fascination. She was so completely his now; he could ignore the other eyes that praised her. Yet he felt a prick of jealousy all the same. Beauty, charm, grace, and intelligence. She radiated them effortlessly, like Geoffrey did, and Philippe felt awkward in comparison. Isabel and Geoffrey. They were rare and shimmering things and they belonged to him. He loved each of them all the more because he had the other; they were two separate aspects of a single passion. They gave him everything he needed, and they promised more. Isabel had already given him a daughter and soon, perhaps next year, she would bear him a son. Geoffrey had pledged Brittany to him, and soon the two of them would take Normandy for themselves.

  Philippe listened to the sounds around him, voices and music, and basked in all the surfeit that success can bring. He felt his power growing every day. How far he had come in just these last twelve months; how much more would be accomplished by the following Christmas? With Isabel and Geoffrey to inspire him, there was no limit to what he could do. Philippe drank his wine and watched his two lovers with a greedy and secret joy.

  The year 1185 was waning.

  The year 1186 awaited like a flaming dawn.

  Having successfully waged war against Flanders and the Duke of Burgundy, Philippe Capet turned his attentions to yet another conquest.

  The viscounty of Berry had been disputed for many years, claimed by the kingdoms of both France and England. Its first association with France had come in 1100, when fat and sensual Philippe I had purchased it with his own wealth in order that he could legally seduce its heiress. Because his passion, like his appetite, was never sated, the king had soon tired of his toy and he had cast her aside without ever bothering to annex Berry to the crown.

  When Henry of Anjou had become King of England he had brazenly taken Berry as his own, since it touched conveniently upon the borders of his domains in Anjou and the Aquitaine. King Louis had sent troops to recapture it, but that was only a half-hearted gesture, since he had known Henry would continue to frustrate his claims of ownership. Finally a settlement had been concluded which satisfied them both. Louis had pledged his young daughter Alais to Henry’s son Richard in a marriage bargain, then had tossed in the promise of Berry as her dowry. A pact to this end had been signed by the two kings in 1177.

  Now, nine years later, that marriage was still only a promise written in faded ink on dusty parchment tucked away within the archives of the Cite Palais. Yet on the strength of that betrothal, Henry still claimed Berry as his own. Tired of the delay, Philippe decided to dispute the hypocrisy of that position. He sent a communique to Henry. If Richard did not marry Alais within the month, France would take Berry back. He waited for an answer but received none, then wrote again. Once more his demands were ignored.

  That was all it took for Philippe to make his decision. He began preparing an expedition into Berry. By the time spring came, he would be ready to seize it for himself.

  While Philippe trained his men for war, Isabel was busy hatching her own plans. Before Christmas she had sent a letter to Gilbert of Mons, warning the chancellor to cast a cautious eye upon Philip d’Alsace. She also had a suggestion for bringing Hainault closer into France’s bosom. Her brother Baldwyn and her sister Sibylla were now fourteen and twelve, and it was time that marriages be arranged for them. Without consulting Philippe, but in the hope that he would agree to her choices, Isabel offered the following names as spouses for them. Baldwyn would marry Marie, the youngest sister of the king’s own cousin, Henri of Champagne. Sibylla would be given to William de Beau-jolais, a young seignior from the Burgundian line of Philippe’s family. There must be no time wasted in deliberation. Isabel urged an immediate reply, and signed her name.

  Fair is she, Isabel the queen,

  Of lovesome form and eyes aglow.

  No one can see her but his tongue

  Turns golden in her praise.

  No sun can look upon her but turns pale

  With envy at such beauty.

  She springs from legend, might runs in her blood;

  From lineage ancient and austere,

  Invoking dreams of battles won

  By Carolingian steel;

  Of triumphs slumbering in her past,

  Of glory living in her eyes.

  All Paris knows her for their loved queen

  And praise her for her radiant smiles.

  Yet behind a dove-like gaze her eyes conceal

  An aspect of refined and infinite mystery.

  She is a mythic queen, from pages old,

  The like of beauty never seen before

  By this old world …

  Geoffrey Plantagenet

  Lais and Ballads

  March, 1186

  Philippe had agreed without too much coaxing. He took little interest in the marriages of his cousins, and in any case no one could claim that Isabel’s family was unworthy of such connections with his own. Baldwyn and Sibylla could marry whichever of his kin Isabel selected. It was really quite inconsequential to him. He didn’t know that Isabel had contracted this arrangement to protect her father against Flanders and himself. If he thought on it at all, Philippe supposed that she was merely exercising one of her few prerogatives as queen. He should have known better, but then, he really didn’t know her very well.

  Baldwin was worried about money.

  It was Easter, and he had gathered his barons and retainers at his home in Mons. The news he had to give them was not pleasant. He was deeply in debt. Flanders had still not paid the reparations owed him, and since then there had been another war against the Duke of Brabant. The deficit had risen to over forty thousand Valenciennes livres—an extraordinary amount. Regretfully Baldwin announced that he would have to impose huge tax increases on his subjects in order to raise the money that he needed. There was grumbling among the men assembled, but just a little. Baldwin was well loved by his people, and they were willing to sacrifice for his greater good.

  After everyone had left he sat pensive
ly before the fire in his room, plagued by the thought of his debts, and worried about the upcoming marriages of his children. Yet another tie to Philippe Capet. Was it worth the political entanglement?

  Margot read his silence as misgiving, and came to sit on the arm of his chair to cheer him. Her fingers tickled playfully at his beard as she leaned close to him. “What is wrong?” she asked, cooing in his ear.

  Baldwin reached up and took hold of her hand. “I need your counsel,” he sighed. “I can’t be sure of my decisions anymore. Did I do right in sanctioning these marriages? Will they work to our advantage, or will this be just one more thing I will regret in time?”

  It was easy for Margot to become impatient with her husband whenever he behaved this way. She was never weak or indecisive. But her love had always found excuses for him in the past, and it always would. She leaned closer, winding her arms about his neck. Her breath was sweet in his face, her voice was mellow. “This is a wonderful chance for us to forge a better relationship with France. God knows we need it, Baldwin, now that my brother has deserted us. We can consider ourselves very fortunate that Isabel looks after our interests so well. It is a cause for rejoicing, my darling, not for worry.”

  A shaft of sun coming through the window caught the sheen of her unbound hair, turning it into ribbons of light. She was such a lovely, golden thing! How many thousands of times had he lain on Margot, lived in her?—then later, holding her in his arms, listened enrapt to her soft words of advice on matters of state and war, too complex even for most men to understand. How strange it was: she had come to him as a child—now, in experience, she had grown older than he.

  They kissed, their arms entangled, strands of golden and brunet hair mingling. He nestled against her breast, drawing comfort from the warmth of her body. “I need you, Margot,” he whispered. “I need you for so many things.”