The Rain Maiden

by Jill M Philips

  The tone of her voice was so honest, so utterly lacking in affectation, it was impossible to pull a cynical face or hide the impulse which told him now to take her in his arms. Isabel was sweetness itself! Why was it always so difficult to be kind to her?

  Wretchedness only served to intensify her beauty, and when she looked at him the sense of betrayal was too strong to face. Oh, Isabel! He fell into her arms weeping—speaking her name over and over like a plea.

  Whatever they had done to hurt one another in these last months while they were apart no longer mattered; all that had gone before was meaningless. What love could not make right again, at least passion could erase.

  Their tears and sweat mingled, giving strong scent to the perfume on her skin. Lips, arms, legs—Isabel clung to him with every part of her. She knew nothing, felt everything, wanted more.

  His strength and her desire were overwhelming, and the power of it threatened to damn her or kill her, or both. Each gasp that came from Isabel’s lips seemed to be a living thing, her own life spewing out as if he was taking more than just her body. Her love, her mind, her soul—everything was his.

  “Give me a son, Isabel,” Philippe cried out as her sharp nails flayed his skin. “Give me a son!”

  All the promises of heaven and salvation paled beside the human thrill of flesh on flesh. She cried out with her own fulfillment, and an instant later Philippe bathed her body in his warmth. Their forgiveness was complete.

  “I never want to be apart from you again,” she sighed, and raised her face to lick the beads of sweat from his beard.

  Twice more that night he took her, and it was dawn before he left the room. Isabel was asleep by then, a death-like sleep of bliss and exhaustion and no dreams. As she slept the bruises darkened on her skin.

  SCRAPS OF FOOD littered the council table. Empty plates and nalf-filled henaps glinted in the light of a dying fire. Voices that had earlier been pitched in tones of reason were now raspy and argumentative, giving evidence of weary men who had been closeted together for too many hours.

  They had been convened since early morning and now it was evening. The winter sun had set unceremoniously an hour ago. At the far end of the table sat Henry Plantagenet, hunched over a stack of unrolled maps and other papers. He looked rumpled and ill-slept. Clustered about him were Archbishop Walter of Coutances, Earl of Essex William de Mandeville, and two of the king’s sons, John and Godfrey.

  Across the room from the others stood a third son, handsome Richard Plantagenet, the remaining member of the assembly. He stood sullenly before the fire, the bright color of his hair rivaling the thick gold chains about his neck. His broad back was turned toward the others, and his purpose was greater than a need to warm his hands and face. As long as Richard didn’t look at them, it was easier for him to ignore what they were saying. Not that it mattered.

  Talk, talk, talk! What good was this endless wrangling? They had been at Aumale for two weeks and nothing of any importance had been decided yet. Squabbling was the business of clerks and clerics, not soldiers! Richard’s nature rebelled against the inactivity more and more as each day passed. It was mid-February and the snow pressed close against the fortress. Hunting, even riding for pleasure, was impossible in this weather. Richard felt as though he’d been sealed into a tomb. Here they sat, locked in stubborn arbitration over minor points, while the danger of an invasion from the south grew every day.

  Henry slammed his fist on the table and Richard started at the sound. “I don’t understand it!” the king blustered and jabbed a thick finger against the map which lay before him. “Our last reports say Philippe Capet had one thousand of his men no closer to the Normandy border than Chantilly. Now we hear rumors that he has moved them and two thousand more as far south as Blois. How could he do that in so short a time? Is it Normandy he wants, or Anjou?” Henry spit upon the floor to show his rage.

  The archbishop shifted in his chair and cleared his throat. “Whichever one he wants, my lord, an invasion at this time and in this weather would be inconceivable.”

  Godfrey bent low over Henry’s shoulder, squinting at the map for a moment. Then he straightened up, snapping his fingers at John, who lolled in disinterest at the other end of the table. “Bring us another candle, boy,” Godfrey ordered.

  Richard turned his head in time to catch the knowing look John passed him. Neither of them had any love for their half-brother. Richard merely thought Godfrey a fool, but John was deadly jealous of him. He despised all rivals for Henry’s affection, and Godfrey was the greatest rival of all. Pouting, John set another candle down before them, lingering at his father’s elbow for a word of thanks. When none came he went back to his place at the other end of the table and slouched in his chair, barely listening to what was being said.

  “Perhaps these aren’t the same troops.” Godfrey pointed to the curving line that divided Blois from Tours. “Perhaps these,” his finger moved northward, stopping at the inked inscription Vexin, “are the men your son Geoffrey raised prior to his unfortunate end.” He allowed himself a secret little smile. Godfrey never tired of reminding Henry that his legitimate sons were treacherous.

  His attitude was so transparent it made Richard want to vomit. From across the room he bellowed, “For Christ’s sake, Godfrey, is your brain between your horse’s ass? The men that my brother Geoffrey raised were mercenaries, men who fight for pay and pay alone. They don’t stand their post for six months out of loyalty.” He stamped a spitting ember into blackness with his boot.

  The archbishop tapped at the map with his knuckles. “I think perhaps they have been paid. It’s not unlikely Philippe Capet would seek to keep them in his service, especially if he is planning an invasion.”

  “He’s planning something,” Henry mumbled. “What are we going to do about it?”

  William of Essex clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back in the chair. “There isn’t much we can do in this weather. Actually, Henry, I wouldn’t worry, not till spring comes. Capet’s no general, not on his own. His best adviser is the Count of Flanders, and we know he is in Soissons now. As long as those two are kept apart there’s no great danger to us.

  John dangled a bit of beef between his fingers and tucked it into his mouth. All this talk of invasions and moving troops was boring, but de Mandeville’s comment had given him an idea. John smiled engagingly and directed his words to Henry. “Maybe we should send soldiers to Soissons to capture the Count of Flanders. That would keep him out of Capet’s reach.”

  He had thought it was a brilliant plan, but the others appraised him with collective annoyance. “This is serious, my boy,” the archbishop muttered, “we aren’t playing games here.” To the king he said, “How many men does Capet have, do we know?”

  “It’s hard to say,” Henry answered, and propped his feet upon the table. “What matters most is how quickly he can move them.”

  “What matters most,” Richard corrected him, “is where they are. This new information about troops near Tours is a puzzle. I think we may have misread the situation, and it is Tours, not Normandy, which is in danger. For myself—”

  “For myself,” Henry interrupted him, “I am here because of you. You brought me here with your constant belly-aching and your urgent letters. You tell me Normandy is in trouble, and I come running. Now you reverse yourself. What help is that to me?”

  In defense of himself Richard shouted back, “I’ll tell you if you give me the chance to explain!” He expelled a long breath and wiped the moisture from his brow. “When I wrote to you I did not know about the troops at Blois and Chartres. I was certain Capet was after Normandy. I still believe he is. But I think he plans to make his first move in the south and that means Tours, perhaps even Anjou. God knows his ambition could embrace them both, and Normandy.”

  Henry considered that for a moment, then dismissed it. “No,” he replied, “I don’t think so. Philippe is much like his father—always envying me my most prized domain. It’s Normandy
he’s after. I know how that boy thinks.”

  Insensitive bastard. Richard tossed aside his empty henap in disgust. “You don’t know how he thinks! You don’t know anything about him! Face facts; this isn’t your precious Louis we are dealing with. He can’t be trusted—I’ve been telling you that for years. He’s a threat to you, can’t you see that?”

  “Threat …” Henry waved the word away.

  “Yes!” Richard barked. “Philippe would piss in the Sacred Chrism if it would buy him one single town in our domains!”

  Henry’s face went livid. “And just what do you know about him, about his methods? He’s no friend of yours.”

  “That’s right,” Richard countered, “and he’s no friend to you either. I don’t claim to know him well but I’ve watched him since he came to the throne six years ago. He alienated all his family, everyone! He doesn’t care who he uses as a foil against his enemies. I’ve never liked him, never trusted him. Believe me. Father, I know what I say. I have a soldier’s instinct about these things.”

  Before Henry could respond to that, Godfrey stepped forward. “I think you should remember who you are talking to.” He mouthed the words priggishly and stole a glance at Henry to see what his reaction was. The king looked up; a tight smile of appreciation for Godfrey, a warning expression in his eyes for Richard.

  John yawned noisily into his fist. “Are we finished?” he asked. “If I don’t get some fresh air I’m going to pass out.”

  “Go ahead.” Richard muttered, “we won’t miss you.”

  “Shut up!” Henry yelled, and shoved the porringer to the floor. “I’m sick of this continual bickering. We have important work to accomplish.”

  “Well we’ve been here all day, every day, for two weeks and nothing’s been decided yet,” John sulked, but nobody was listening.

  John was a petulant, spoiled young man, but he was sensitive, too, and Henry’s attitude bruised his feelings. It was always this way when there were other people around, and most especially Godfrey. Whenever he was there John found himself displaced in his father’s affections, and that was unbearable because he reveled in Henry’s love and favoritism. How much nicer it had been in England, when he and Henry had spent so many hours together, sharing the same plate, the same wine, the same women. That was the way John liked his father best and in later years he would remember him that way.

  He nodded, nearly dozing, and de Mandeville cleared his throat. “If Prince John is tired, I’m sure we would have no objection to his leaving. …”

  “Prince John is not tired,” Henry snapped, “and he is not leaving. No one is, until we settle this.”

  Richard came to the table and sat down, poking his fingers amid the discarded bits of beef. His body ached for want of exercise, and his eyes were tired. “I don’t see what there is to settle, Henry,” he said, then stuck a piece of meat between his teeth and chewed it. “When this weather clears we should mobilize our forces and move south to protect Tours and Anjou. It is not a problem of troops. It is a problem with Philippe himself. As soon as possible you should meet with him in person. Let him know that England will not tolerate his interference. Stand up to him.”

  “I don’t need you to tell me how to deal with a king!” Henry shouted, “I was leading my mother’s troops against King Stephen ten years before I made you in your mother’s womb!”

  “A slight exaggeration,” Richard muttered, tight-lipped.

  “If I might speak,” Godfrey interceded, “I think the king knows best how to approach this problem. Whatever judgment he makes is good enough for me.”

  Richard glared at his half-brother and hated him. “No one asked you,” he said.

  A dull pain had settled on either side of Henry’s forehead and he tried to soothe it away with the gentle pressure of his fingertips, making tiny circular patterns at his temples. Rage was costly and he felt the effects of it more keenly each year. In two weeks he would be fifty-four, and that was old. He looked Richard fully in the face. “William is right,” he said, trying to sound reasonable. “Capet can’t do anything in this weather. Let’s make our plans, then when the weather has cleared …”

  “There is more at stake here than the weather,” Richard cut into the middle of Henry’s sentence. “Our biggest problem is Philippe. You must not appear to be afraid of him.”

  “Afraid?” The utterance was somewhere between a laugh and a snarl. “Why should I be afraid of him? He’s just a boy.”

  The force of Richard’s fist against the table sent some of the maps skittering to the floor. “He’s not a boy! Blood of Christ, Henry, he’s not fifteen years old any more! He’s a treacherous, devious man. He’ll do anything he can to bring you down.”

  Stubbornly Henry defended his position. “What makes you the authority on his character? I’ve had more dealings with him in the past than you have. He’s headstrong, I’ll admit, and ambitious. But he’s reasonable. I’ve helped him in the past, many times. He’ll remember that.”

  Richard wanted to scream his frustration, but he only clenched his fists together in his lap. “Was he remembering your kindness while he and Geoffrey plotted the overthrow of Normandy? You’ve seen the proofs from our men in Brittany; you know what Philippe and Geoffrey were up to. If Geoffrey hadn’t got himself killed in Paris they may have been able to pull it off. Do you think Philippe is going to forget those ambitions just because you pat him on the back and give him a little fatherly advice?”

  Henry stroked his beard in silence. “It was Geoffrey who instigated that,” he said at last. “He was trying to get at me by encouraging Philippe’s ambitions.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Geoffrey was always a troublemaker.”

  It was all so sad and funny and so typical of his father. Richard’s strong mouth twisted in an ironical smile. “That’s right, blame it on Geoffrey. It makes it so much easier, now that he’s dead and can’t defend himself.”

  Henry’s voice was hard. “You know what he was like. He would have done anything to hurt me.”

  “Yes,” Richard agreed. “I should know. He dumped enough shit on me.”

  The pain in Henry’s head was like a burning rock behind his eyes. He rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward, squinting at his son. “We both know what Geoffrey was. And I say that without his influence Philippe would never have concocted such a plan.”

  The thousand perfidities of Geoffrey’s nature replayed themselves in Richard’s mind. “Yes,” he said sadly, “Geoffrey was the devil’s handmaiden and the world is better off without him. But you are blind to the truth. You always have been. So long as you can blame your sons for all the evils done to you, there’s no need to look elsewhere. Don’t you see what traps you lay for yourself? Blame your sons, blame your wife! Blame everyone except those who are most guilty! You see conspiracy in every act of every person where it least exists, but when it is right before your face you ignore it and call it friendship. Jesus, Henry, open your eyes!”

  William de Mandeville covered his face and the archbishop turned his head away. This bitterness between Henry and his sons would destroy them all some day. How many wasted hours had they endured in silence, while King Henry and his sons exhumed every dread act of the past?

  They were like two stags locked together by the horns: Henry and Richard staring at one another, alone in their anger. “You have no right to speak to me that way,” Henry blustered, spewing his beard with spit. “You’ve been party to a few rebellions against me yourself!”

  John sipped nervously at his wine, wishing that the two of them would stop. He didn’t like to hear the fighting. It recalled bad memories of dark rooms at night and tears; shouts and accusations and whispered plots of betrayal; wars and scheming older brothers; and a mother taken away in chains when he was hardly old enough to say her name. He wished the ugly pictures in his mind would go away, but only drink did that, or the soft feel of a woman’s skin.

  Richard’s voice shook with emotion and self-pity.
“I’ve paid for every blow I struck against you, Henry. I’ve apologized and knelt before you asking pardon, but you’ll never let me forget! The past is all that counts with you. You drag it out at every opportunity, reading out the list of your misfortunes like God’s book of judgment.” He got to his feet, kicking the chair aside. He was disgusted with the situation, with himself for allowing Henry’s words to hurt him. “I’m sick to puking with all of this,” he mumbled. “Let’s just forget it.”

  “No, let’s not forget it!” Henry shot back. “You brought it up. You finish it!”

  “Finish what?” Richard bellowed. “You don’t want to hear anything I have to say. I tell you, Philippe Capet is an enemy, but all you can see is what your sons have done wrong.”

  “With good cause.”

  “Jesus!” Richard shouted. “Henry, have you forgotten why we are here? The King of France is planning to invade some part of our domain: south, north—it makes no difference. The most important thing is that we crush him and his ambitions before it is too late!”

  They were startled by the sound of another voice: both Henry and Richard had almost forgotten there were other people in the room. Archbishop Walter coughed into his hand and then he said, “You make it sound like doomsday, Richard.”

  “It may well be,” Richard answered, rubbing the sweat from his beard. He made a gallant attempt to control himself. “Look, all of us have the same idea or we wouldn’t be here in the first place. Philippe Capet is about to start a war against us! That much is obvious. He’s no fool; he clearly feels that he is ready. That should tell us something.”

  It was all too much: the worry, the fighting, the incessant recriminations. Once Henry had been a match for anything but now it seemed so futile. But he couldn’t weaken; not in front of Richard because that’s what Richard wanted. With a grunt Henry took up his henap and slaked his thirst. To Richard he said, “I’m no fool either. I’m not afraid of Philippe, and for good reason. This act of his, pushing his troops about the map, is just his way of challenging me. It’s a bluff, no more. As soon as we make a show of strength he’ll gather up his men and run back to Paris.”