The Rain Maiden

by Jill M Philips

  Geoffrey was determined to remedy that in a hurry. The nobles had money and they would pay. But he had returned for still another reason. Geoffrey was on the brink of triumph, and now he wanted a son.

  The sweat dripped from his beard onto her breasts.

  Geoffrey was pushing, filling his wife with the promise of an heir. It was all he needed to excite him and that was good, because she brought nothing to the experience. Constance lay beneath him, still as a dead woman, taking her breath in tiny gasps. But they were gasps of exertion, not pleasure.

  Because she hated it, and tried to close her ears to the sounds. Passion made every man ridiculous. The halting breath, the leaping buttocks, the stupid words that meant nothing. He was her husband and she loved him—yet at times like this she loathed him because what he was doing to her had no relation to love.

  Too often at night the memory came back.

  Geoffrey’s father, the old king, smelling of sweat and things that were worse than sweat, pushing himself between her legs. He had told her she would be grateful to him someday for all he had taught her, but Constance had only learned to hate him for it. She hated Henry and the memory of those times to this day.

  With a groan Geoffrey rolled off of her and lay on his back, arms covering his face. Sneering, he acknowledged her muffled sigh of relief—so glad that the ordeal was over and she could go to sleep. Cold-blooded bitch. Did she think it was a joy for him to spend himself inside so spiritless a woman; did she think her cunt was made of gold? Well, she could relax. As soon as he planted the seed of his child within her belly, she could have her chastity and her empty bed. It would be no sacrifice for Geoffrey. He didn’t care much for women anyway. At least not women like his wife.

  But there were other women. Women who burned with the kind of passions only men were supposed to know. Eleanor, his mother, she was one of these, at least she had been when she was young, and Philippe’s mother too. Adele was middle to her forties, yet she still burned; her cunt was hot. Geoffrey knew that from experience. More than once when everything was dark and secret she had slipped into his room at the palace and kept him panting through the night. Geoffrey smiled to himself. Some women never lost their appetites.

  And there was Isabel. She had never been in his bed, but he had wished her there. So had she; Geoffrey had sensed her desire. He had even thought of going to her, thought about it often. But always something had held him back. What? Love of Philippe? Fear of Philippe?

  Geoffrey looked over at his wife. He could barely see her face in the darkness, but he knew that she was sleeping. Her chest rose and fell in a rhythm of shallow breathing. The flesh between her legs must still be sticky with his love, but Constance was asleep.

  Constance wanted a son as much as Geoffrey did. She knew the importance of an heir in order to secure her own position. Though she was Duchess of Brittany by right, she only reigned because Geoffrey was her husband: Geoffrey was an English prince, and Brittany belong to England.

  A son would protect her power and her future. There was very little else for her to care about. So she was joyful to find that she was pregnant by the first week in August. When she told Geoffrey, he said he knew she was carrying a son.

  Immediately they left Rennes for Paris, arriving on the 16th of August, just in time for Geoffrey to organize the tournament that he had planned for the French king’s twenty-first birthday celebration. Isabel had sent a letter to Rennes at the end of June, saying that Philippe had been persuaded to allow it.

  Later when she thought about that awful day, or dreamed of it, Isabel could not remember the events in any logical succession. The images leapt in her mind, distorted fragments of reality: cheers, grinning faces, hot sun burning on her shoulders, and the dreadful stink of blood.

  It had all begun so happily. A thousand nobles dressed in bright, brave colors; a hundred banners fluttering overhead. Strange how the colors fixed themselves in her memory, as though they mattered. Herself in a pale pink chainse sheer as a spider web, sitting close beside Philippe. Marguerite Capet, dressed all in purple, flushed with excitement because in two days’ time she would leave her dreary widow’s life behind in Paris and go to Hungary to marry King Bela. And Constance, her icy blond beauty set off by a bliaud of frost-blue samite, raising her cup to toast the champion knights as they rode by.

  Geoffrey, in green trimmings, had smiled beneath his visor. He trotted his horse to the railing, lifting his lance in honor of the king, then led his group of knights to the center of the field. It was only meant to be a mock battle; just a display of skill with weapons. Finesse in handling pole-axe, lance, and sword. No blood. That was against the code of such events, outside the law of chivalry.

  How had it happened, what had started it? Just a little thing; no one remembered. There were insults, shouts of protest exchanged between the knights. Most of the spectators thought it was a part of the performance. Somehow a French knight’s hauberk was sheeted, pierced. Horses clashed; there was a cry of vengeance. Geoffrey was unhorsed and thrown to the ground. The French knights scattered his comrades, pressed forward—near. “Give way!” they shouted. But he would not conform to custom by laying down his sword beside him in the dirt.

  Instead he threw his helmet to the ground, and sweat shined on his face. He cursed the French knights, called them cowards, spat on them. Horses charged. Of their own accord? Because they were driven forward? No one knew.

  Geoffrey was down, hidden from view of the spectators by churning hooves. Philippe screamed. The guards reached out and grabbed the king or he would have thrown himself into the arena. Constance sobbed and clung to Marguerite, who sat beside her, numbed by shock. Isabel watched the scene helplessly, and in silence. Then puffs of tan dust obscured it all.

  A distraught band of people huddled in the great hall that night, waiting for news. Constance slept sitting up in a chair, two of her attendants nodding at her feet. Isabel paced the room in tireless repetition. Whenever she paused or sat down even for a moment, her anxiousness soon propelled her to her feet once more.

  Hours passed and others joined the dismal circle. Wine was brought and drunk. No one spoke. Henri of Champagne followed Isabel’s every movement with his eyes but she didn’t seem to notice. Marguerite sobbed relentlessly, hour after hour. This tragedy was a keen reminder of her husband’s death. William of Rheims kept a quiet vigil with his rosary beads. Beyond the hall, near the palace doors, were members of the king’s own personal bodyguard. They stood shoulder to shoulder and their swords were drawn in an attempt to keep out the curious mob that pressed closer from outside.

  In an anteroom across the corridor from the great hall, Geoffrey lay unconscious on a bed of straw, surrounded by a dozen surgeons. They bound his wounds tightly and gave him belladonna to drink, but there was little they could do to stop the bleeding and nothing they could do to stop the pain.

  Sully was there to perform the sacrament of Absolution, and the king was there to hold his lover’s hand. The surgeons would have preferred that Philippe wait with the others, but he would not be moved. He bent close, leaning upon the body of his friend, staining his own clothes with Geoffrey’s blood.

  Dawn, opaque and humid, came at last. Geoffrey groaned and mumbled Philippe’s name. The surgeons leaned closer; one of them pressed a cup to Geoffrey’s lips. He coughed and spit the liquid out; he shivered. Then with a long sigh he lay back upon the bed, unmoving.

  Sully muttered words in Latin; his right hand made the airy sign of a cross. The surgeons put their instruments away. The Duke of Brittany was dead, they told the king. There was nothing more that could be done for him. Philippe stared back at them, smiling queerly, as though he hadn’t heard.

  For over an hour he sat there, still holding Geoffrey’s hand. Finally Sully bent down and whispered something in the king’s ear. Philippe looked up, dull-eyed, uncomprehending, then stumbled to his feet.

  Geoffrey’s grip held fast. Philippe began to tremble, then to weep. One of t
he surgeons rushed forward to pull the hands apart. He could not do it. They had to break the dead man’s fingers before Philippe could be free.

  A decision had to be made.

  Church law was adamant on this point: all those who died in tournament play died in a state of mortal sin. Such men as these were denied church burial and all other blessings which any other man, however sinful, was allowed. When the bishops Sully and William reminded the king of this he grew hysterical, screaming curses at the Church, at the pope, and at God Almighty. He vowed that his friend would not be treated like an excommunicant, laid low in unhallowed ground. He would take his own life rather than consent to such a thing! Before their startled eyes Philippe pulled forth a dagger and flayed the skin of his left forearm to prove he was in earnest.

  Sully called the guards and ordered that the king be taken to his room and watched closely. Then he and William of Rheims retired to the council room to seek a solution. Neither of the men could ignore the way in which Geoffrey had died, but their concern for the king’s wellbeing overwhelmed all other considerations.

  After hours of deliberation William snatched up a fragment of discarded hope. Nine years earlier, when Geoffrey had been knighted by his father’s hand, he had made a pledge to fight in the Holy Land. He had taken the Crusader’s cross as proof of his intentions. Though the vow had never been fulfilled, the promise was enough, according to Church edict. All those sworn to defend Christendom were entitled to everlasting life in God’s kingdom.

  The two bishops agreed that Geoffrey’s covenant assured his salvation. To dispute any controversy they decided to announce that the duke had died, not of his wounds, but of a fever. It was not for the sake of Geoffrey’s soul or reputation that these two men of God had agreed upon the lie, but for Philippe. He would surely go mad if some way was not found to assure the soul of his beloved a place in heaven. When Sully told him of the decision, the king fell sobbing to his knees. Sully held him to his bosom, and stayed with him throughout the night.

  In her own room Isabel listened to the sounds of weeping. Philippe. Constance. Marguerite. The whole of the Cite Palais was lamenting. The cries echoed up and down the corridor, and seemed to bleed into the walls. Isabel pulled the coverlet up around her face and willed herself to sleep. Anything was better than living through these hours. Anything. Even nightmares.

  Philippe would not see her; why, she didn’t know. On the morning of Geoffrey’s funeral Isabel went to her husband’s room and was turned back by the guards, at his command. He was busy. He could not see her. That is all that they would say.

  From his place at a table in the room, Philippe listened as Isabel argued with the men. insisting they allow her to come in. Her voice, pitched high like that, usually annoyed him, but today it was something he could ignore. There was so much else to distract him. He stared for a time at the sheaf of blank parchment in front of him. Then he pressed a trembling hand to the paper, and wrote the news of Geoffrey’s death. He affixed his seal and signed it, then thrust it into the hands of a waiting messenger. The letter was for Henry Plantagenet, in London.

  It was noon and raining as the funeral cortege made its way from the palace down the twisting, narrow road to the other end of the island where the unfinished cathedral sat, the Seine lapping just beyond it.

  Geoffrey would spend eternity at Notre Dame. It was the king’s wish. Philippe wanted Geoffrey there, as close to him as he could be. Some, like Sully, thought it a wish born of morbid fascination, but Philippe was in no state to be disputed.

  Like the central figure in an epic tragedy, he rode slowly behind the funeral cart, his eyes fixed straight ahead. He was flanked on either side by Isabel and Constance, both dressed in somber shades of grey, their blond hair completely covered by circlet and veil. Behind the royal trio walked a gathering of nobles, followed by Carthusian monks and white-robed Cistercians. At the rear of the parade was a contingent of knights from the king’s household guard.

  Before the great altar Sully spoke his mass. Then, to the accompaniment of a final prayer, all that was mortal of Geoffrey Plantagenet was lowered into the tomb within the vault below. There was a sudden rush of incense as funeral vases, filled with smoldering scents of herbs and oils, were lowered into the darkness to be sealed up inside the tomb.

  It was all too much for Philippe. He gave a great cry and rushed forward, as if to throw himself into the vault. The guards pulled him back and wrestled him to the floor. He sobbed throughout the remainder of the ceremony, and Isabel wept too at the sight of her husband, restrained by soldiers and yelping like a dog gone mad.

  When the service was over the king was removed to the palace and put to bed like a child. Guards were placed outside his room, for Sully feared what he might do if left alone. At last Philippe fell asleep, his senses dimmed by exhaustion and wine that was laced with herbs.

  Isabel remained sleepless for many hours, her mind locked into replaying every detail of the past three days. There seemed to be no end to sorrow in this unhappy place; she’d known so much of it in the last six years. Isabel shivered beneath her skin, remembering her first impression of the Cite Palais: forbidding, grim, uninhabitable. In all this time she’d never learned to feel at home within its dim corridors and grey stone walls.

  No happiness; none. She closed her eyes against the images of death, and things worse than death, but they mingled in her mind with half-forgotten dreams and fears as yet unrealized. There was a sense of uncompleted doom in all of this, as if Geoffrey’s death was the precursor of yet more misfortune in the time to come.

  Sleep made Isabel the prisoner of disordered dreams, in which Geoffrey joined the myriad of restless spirits who roamed the corridors outside her room. Sometime before dawn he came and stood beside her bed, his face bone white and ghastly. He whimpered piteously, then opened wide his bloodless arms and called her name.

  Henry received the news of Geoffrey’s death with little emotion. He loved his children, all of them, but had always regarded Geoffrey with suspicion. This clever son of his had gone to Paris and thrown himself upon the bosom of the French king. Now he was dead and all it meant to Henry was that the clever son had ceased to be a threat.

  Reports from France declared that young Capet was prostrate in his sorrow, his body sickened and his mind unhinged by constant grieving. Let Philippe Capet shed all the tears that needed weeping. The King of England had better things to do. It surprised Henry that his son should have invoked such loyalty. He had been cold and heartless beneath the exterior of his charm, always needing to buy the goodwill of others that his nature could not earn. But not so with Philippe. That was a puzzle. Of course those two had shared more than friendship. Henry’s lips twisted in an ironic sneer. Whatever that corrupt alliance had betokened, it was over now.

  But there were complications resulting from Geoffrey’s death, and they pricked at Henry’s mind. Grief-stricken though he was, the King of France had been keen-witted enough to send a list of exorbitant demands to Henry. Capet claimed wardship of Geoffrey’s daughter, and the child Constance carried in her womb. He also petitioned custody of Brittany now that Geoffrey no longer lived.

  Furious, Henry had dispensed of these demands by tearing the letter into pieces with his teeth. The promises his son had made to the French king had no meaning now, and Philippe Capet could be damned if he believed Henry would honor whatever treason they had worked between them.

  Problems, problems, everywhere he looked! With Geoffrey’s death Richard became the logical successor to the crown and that meant admitting something Henry was unready to accept. Richard was certainly the best choice, possibly the only choice, but Henry rebelled against the idea. He didn’t like Richard or his way of life. He didn’t wish to hand over the promise of his crown to a man who wore more jewels on his person than any woman: a man who took smooth-faced boys to his bed.

  What galled Henry most was the fact that Richard was so infuriatingly capable: as a soldier, as a leader—it wa
s even possible he had the makings of a statesman. While Richard was not easily loved by people as Harry had been, he was respected, and he was feared.

  Henry feared him too. He feared his abilities, the growing power that threatened to eclipse his own. If he was to name Richard as the successor now it might prove troublesome. Indeed, it would prove troublesome. Assured of the crown, Richard might decide to hurry things along, assert his reputation in other areas besides Poitou and the Aquitaine—Normandy, for instance. The thought of that sent Henry’s blood pounding.

  John. He wanted John to succeed him, but Henry knew he couldn’t make his wishes known as yet, though many people, and that probably included Richard, might have already guessed that was his intention. Yet it was important for Henry to keep his sons guessing. Any public word on the matter and Richard would take it as a challenge; the reprisals could be disastrous. As for John, he was not ready to shoulder such responsibility. He was still too immature; he had a lot to learn. But if Henry had to give up his power to anyone—and someday he would have to, though he loathed to think on it—at least it was going to be to the son he loved best, and trusted.

  There was still another son he cared for—a bastard by a woman whose name Henry had never known. Godfrey of Lincoln had been the king’s chancellor for several years. He was a good worker, and loyal, too, with a singularly unimaginative but useful intelligence. Godfrey was thirty-five; he had been in the king’s service since the age of seventeen.

  Thirteen years ago, in a fit of fatherly affection, Henry had named Godfrey as Bishop of Lincoln. Though he had retained the title, Godfrey had never allowed himself to be consecrated because he believed himself unfit for such a holy office. Blunt and simply spoken, he was at heart a soldier, and had spent most of his adult life in the field. Recently he had decided to step down as bishop in order to devote his time to soldiering and the business of being chancellor. Those offices, plus the honor of being at his father’s side, were reward enough for him. As for any other pretentions Godfrey may have had, he dispensed them through his writings, which could be suffocatingly self-righteous, as Isabel of Hainault had discovered when he attacked her innocent involvement with the Capuciati movement.