The Rain Maiden

by Jill M Philips

  Jealousy, too; he sensed that Isabel was very jealous of his relationship with Richard. Odd. She hadn’t seemed to mind Geoffrey. She probably resented the fact that Richard was immune to female charms. That was always certain to get a woman’s back up.

  Oh, well; perhaps the later stages of her pregnancy had depressed her. Maybe he should give her something, a token to let her know that her swelling belly had in no way defaced her beauty. Women needed to know those things. A new necklace, or a pair of combs. Yes, she might like that.

  He would see to it at once.

  In the middle of the first night in September, Isabel woke from another of her dreams. A sense of curiosity, sharper than fear, drove her from bed and led her toward the window.

  The scent of the river was very strong tonight; it seemed to penetrate every comer of the room. Isabel leaned far out of the window and the smell grew even stronger. She could see it too, coming off the river in a mist.

  Below, the garden was swathed in shadows; only the white flowers of the night were visible. The branches of the yews and white willows made soft noises in the breeze but as Isabel listened she could hear another sound. A wail that was faintly musical, like a song. Isabel. Isabel.

  She tensed. Someone was walking in the garden below, but it was too dark to see. After a moment the moon came out from behind the cover of a cloud and then Isabel could see him fully. His eyes rested on her face for just an instant.

  It was Geoffrey.

  In the morning Edythe found her on the floor, unconscious.

  Louis-Philippe Capet was born four days later, premature by one month.

  Isabel had been in the garden with her sister; they were talking, sewing. Sibylla left for only a few minutes. When she returned Isabel was gone. Shortly after there were shouts and screams coming from the river bank, and Sibylla rushed to the edge of the garden to see what had happened.

  Isabel had waded into the water, and had disappeared; she was drowning! Two soldiers leapt into the river from their place on the bridge and managed to reach her. Sibylla would never forget the sight of Isabel, her hair matted like seaweed, as they pulled her from the water. By the time she was taken to her own room, Isabel was already in labor… .

  Despite the early birth and Isabel’s difficult delivery, tiny Louis was healthy and strong. Philippe held his newborn son close in his arms, lightly stroking the infant’s soft blond hair. But there was little joy in the act as Philippe looked beyond his son to the bed where Isabel lay. She was so weak! The mid wives had done their best, but Philippe had sent for his physician, Giles de Jocelin. His opinion? Isabel would be fortunate to live through the night.

  Philippe should have stayed with her that night. But panic at seeing the life drain out of her was too horrible to face, so he went to his bed and lay there, wakeful all the night, mumbling frightened prayers.

  In the morning he went directly to Isabel’s room and was relieved to find that she was still alive. Edythe was asleep on the floor beside the bed, but Sibylla was sitting up in a chair, holding little Louis to her naked breast, nursing him.

  She looked up when Philippe came in. “How is she?” he asked.

  Sibylla looked as though she had been crying most of the night. “A little better, I think,” she answered, “but still bad. I’m so worried about her.”

  Philippe went over to the bed and stood for a while looking down at his wife. Her face was very pale and dotted with tiny beads of moisture. Her hair was a tangled mass of golden floss about her head. Please, Christ, keep her safe! She was sleeping fitfully and Philippe reached out his hand to touch her cheek. That seemed to unsettle her even more; she groaned and he took his hand away.

  “Where is de Jocelin?” he asked, turning to face Sibylla.

  She smiled wanly down at her nephew, then unsmiling faced Philippe. “He was in earlier and left some medicine, but we can not give it to her till she wakes.”

  He shook his head sadly, almost in desperation. “Why did she do it, Sibylla? What was she doing?”

  “I don’t know.” A sob caught deep in her throat. “I just can’t help feeling that if I had stayed with her, if I hadn’t left when I did …”

  “No,” he said, and the word managed to sound generous the way he said it. “I don’t think that would have made a difference. She’s been acting so strange lately. I don’t know what’s wrong with her. These past few weeks I’ve felt as though I couldn’t even reach her.”

  Have you tried?

  But Sibylla forced herself to hold back the words. It was not her place to say such things, not right to judge her brother-in-law, especially since he was the king. So instead she lifted Louis to shoulder level and held him out toward Philippe. “Would you like to hold your son for a while?” she asked.

  He came and took the baby from her arms. Sibylla had neglected to close the neckline of her dress, and suddenly Philippe found himself staring down at her beautiful young breasts. How sweet and wonderful, the change that marriage and childbearing could make in the body of a girl. She saw his scrutiny and moved quickly to cover herself, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

  “No don’t,” Philippe said, and reached out to stroke her left breast, his thumb nudging at the milk-sopped nipple. “You look so much like Isabel,” he muttered. His words made Sibylla blush deeper.

  At last he took his hand away and she fastened the front of her chainse. She didn’t know what to say, and in any case if she spoke now her voice would tremble.

  “It’s all right,” Philippe said in a voice that sounded as though he were laughing at her, “I’m not going to hurt you.” He handed the child back to her then, and left the room without another word.

  Sibylla held the baby close and shivered beneath her skin. No one had ever touched her in that way. Certainly not William. Even in his show of love he was respectful to her. But Philippe had touched her as if she were a whore. It shamed her to realize that the feeling had excited her.

  Tears hurried down her cheeks and fell on little Louis’s upturned face. Her lips began to move in silent prayer.

  Within a week Isabel had recovered sufficiently to take regular meals and spend some time each day nursing her child. She was delighted with her beautiful new son, and scarcely remembered the agony she had experienced in giving birth to him.

  She would have preferred to forget the incident just prior to having him, but no one would allow her to forget. Philippe. Sibylla. Sully. They all came in their turn to question her. Why had she gone into the river? It was all they could seem to think about.

  Philippe brought her a grey opal ring and necklace and spoke to her of duty. Sully lectured gently on mortal sin. Sibylla wept and said she didn’t understand why anyone so loved and beautiful should want to kill herself. Suicide. That is what they all believed she had tried to accomplish, and because of that they were ashamed of her.

  There was no way to make any of them understand. If she told them why she had gone into the river and what she had seen, they would think her mad. Was she? Isabel was afraid to ask herself the question.

  Illusion. Madness. Dreams. They mingled in her mind till she could hardly separate them. Even with her eyes closed Isabel could see the memory and she shivered at it. Geoffrey, beckoning to her from the middle of the water, holding out his arms and begging her to come to him.

  Richard prepared to leave Paris at the beginning of October.

  Philippe seemed mildly offended when Richard told him. “Why are you going now?” he asked. “You said that you might spend Christmas here.”

  “I intended to,” Richard answered, “but look at this.” He thrust a folded letter across the table at Philippe. “Henry is back in Normandy at last. That leaves Chinon free. I’m going there to take my part of all the treasure Henry’s hoarded away within its walls, and use it to fortify some of my castles in Poitou.”

  “You might throw a little of it my way,” Philippe sulked, “My expenses at your father’s hands last summer were very heavy
, and I was never indemnified for them.”

  There was a slightly contentious look in Richard’s eyes.

  “What expenses? The whole campaign was your doing, don’t forget.” He gave a chuckle. “You are very much like Henry in that way, if no other. You cling to every piece of silver …”

  Philippe held the letter in his hand for a moment, then tossed it back to Richard. “Wait till you have a kingdom of your own to manage, you’ll see. It takes money.”

  “I do know something of such things,” Richard answered. “I did more than wield a sword in Aquitaine, you know.”

  “Wielding a sword is your best talent,” Philippe replied. “Managing money is mine.”

  “Perhaps. Though it seems to me you spend more money than you ought in buying jewelry for your wife.”

  Philippe’s black eyes flashed a warning. “That is none of your affair.”

  “No,” Richard snapped, “but it is my opinion anyway.”

  Philippe crooked an eyebrow. “Wait till you have a wife of your own, you’ll see. It takes a lot of money.” They looked at one another for a moment, then both of them began to laugh.

  “She is very beautiful, it’s true,” Richard conceded.

  “She is that. And it is the least I can do for her after she gave me my son,” Philippe explained. He held out his hand toward Richard. “Come back soon,” he said.

  IN THE EAST the fabric of Christendom was unraveling, had begun in the summer of 1187 when a marauding band of Christian knights waylaid a group of Moslem pilgrims who were on their way to Egypt. Almost overnight the word went out to all the followers of Mohammed: destroy the Christian armies of the West.

  Guy de Lusignan had muscled his way to power in Jerusalem following the death of King Baldwin, so the burden of defending Christendom in the East fell on him. He was a brave man, but a foolish one, and his overconfidence resulted in his armies being defeated by the forces of Saladin in July. Guy was captured, and with him, the most sacred relic of all: the True Cross of Christ.

  At Saladin’s orders all Templar knights and Hospitallers captured at the Battle of Hattin were executed, but de Lusignan was set free. He had promised never to raise a sword against a Moslem again, but he broke that pledge soon enough and came back with another army.

  The Moslems were fighting from strength, and their capacity for revenge was brutal. One by one the coastal cities fell to their numbers: Acre, Haifa, Sidon, Beyrout, and Gaza. Finally, in October, after three months of fighting, Jerusalem was taken.

  Jerusalem the Holy, citadel of the Christian faith!

  The news sounded through Europe like the drum of Judgment Day. Pope Urban died shortly after the news was brought to him, and men everywhere spoke of seeing evil omens in the sky. It was as if the world were about to end.

  Richard was in Tours early that November when he heard what had happened, and suddenly the business of spending his father’s wealth on building up his fortresses meant nothing. Richard’s religiosity had always been very strong, but this new challenge was like a second baptism.

  Immediately he made a pledge to fight the captors of the Holy City. The newly chosen pope, Gregory III, had called upon the knights and princes of Europe to mount a new crusade. Richard made his promise a public thing when he took the cross from the hands of Archbishop Bartholomew of Tours. He was among the first to do so.

  It was the most meaningful act of his life.

  In Caen, Henry took the news in more pragmatic fashion.

  Jesus, what a time for this to happen!

  He had committed himself to make a pilgrimage to the Holy Land by signing that stupid truce with Philippe Capet. Now this! Henry would be hard-put to delay fulfilling that vow of service, with all of Christendom up in arms over the fall of Jerusalem and the other Latin strongholds. Henry’s anger was tinged with the shades of irony. My luck is made of shit.

  When he was told that Richard had already taken the cross, Henry was furious. How typical of his son to rush into this without first weighing the consequences, and those consequences could prove damaging to Henry.

  Richard was fanatical (Henry found him so) but he was no fool. He would never leave for the Holy Land before certain matters had been settled, things like the succession, for example. There were other concerns, too: the final disposition of Henry’s empire at his death—Richard would want assurance of what lands would be his if he was going to be away for several years. There was also the situation of his betrothal to Alais; that needed fixing. Richard would want answers, and he would want them very soon.

  Disconsolate, quite alone except for John and the most loyal of his retainers, Henry spent a dismal Christmas Day at the fortress in Caen. He was thinking seriously of going back to England at the beginning of the new year. That would be one way to escape responsibility for these decisions. He had all but decided to do so. Then Richard arrived at Caen, three days after Christmas.

  He was full of enthusiasm and plans, and though he may have given some consideration to the concerns Henry had envisioned, Richard was far more interested in borrowing money from him. It would cost far more to equip himself for an expedition to the East than he could manage from his income as Count of Poitou.

  For three days after his son arrived, Henry would not see him; for still another two he would not speak to him. Then at last, on the final day of the old year, Henry took his son aside and told him these words, which had been well rehearsed:

  “Because you are my son you are very precious to me, and it would grieve me deeply to be so abruptly parted from your company. For this reason I have decided we shall travel together to the Holy places: I, to fulfill my commitment of the truce, and you because you have so recently taken the cross. Side by side we shall fight to preserve the honor of our faith.”

  Richard was nothing short of astonished. He had begun to think his father would never speak to him again. Now these fine words! Was Henry being honest with him, and if he was, how soon would this joint pilgrimage commence? Richard had hoped to resolve all his business quickly and be on his way by June, but he doubted very much that his father had planned so early a departure.

  He put these questions to Henry.

  “My son,” Henry said, turning his backside to the fire, “we have many matters to settle before such a trip can be made, not least of which is our policy towards the King of France. With Philippe’s profound ambitions no longer a mystery to us we can hardly go off, the both of us, and leave our lands to his mercy.”

  Richard knew what Henry was implying. “What do you suggest?” he asked.

  The king rubbed his palms together, then hid them within the folds of his mantle. “Do you promise me, here and now, that you will stand with me against him? Will you give up your pretended allegiance to him?”

  Richard bowed his head. “I owe no allegiance to him, Father. Only friendship.”

  Henry’s voice grew sharper. “Will you submit yourself to my authority as you ought?”

  “I know that I have disappointed you in the past,” Richard admitted, “but there was no treachery in my actions, nor is there now. You must believe that.”

  “You stole my treasure from Chinon.”

  Cool but respectful, Richard answered, “I took that part of it which was mine.” He spread his arms in a gesture of exasperation. “Henry, for years you handed out money to Harry as if the world was his, but very often you have been unfair to me in that regard, and for less reason. I don’t waste wealth on gambling the way he did, and I don’t steal from my people either, as Geoffrey did.”

  Henry waved a hand to show he wasn’t interested in such comparisons. “Just give me your promise,” he said. His face was set in a grave expression. “Promise that you will enter into no agreement, political or otherwise with Philippe that will undermine my power.”

  Those were strong words and Richard couldn’t miss their implication. Henry seldom made any mention of his power diminishing in any way, simply because he refused to believe that it wa
s possible. If he could speak that way, then he was truly intimidated by Philippe Capet, and more so than Richard had ever supposed.

  “Do you promise?”

  “My relationship with the King of France is personal,” Richard explained. “I was his guest in Paris, not his fellow conspirator.” His voice went lower. “Although I do believe he would have liked for me to be.”

  “His friend,” Henry commented sharply. “Last winter you were the one who warned me of his treachery and malice. And now you consider him a friend.”

  Richard looked away; his voice was quiet. “You know what kind of a friend I mean.”

  “I do,” Henry grumbled, “and that in itself is a political affrontry to me. Three of my sons, all in their turn, running off to Philippe Capet whenever he snaps his fingers or shakes his penis!”

  “It is my own business, Father.”

  “My business is ruling!” Henry raged, “and I will not permit a son of mine to set up against me with my enemies! I’ve tolerated too much from all my sons in the past, I realize that, but I am not willing to allow it any more!”

  Richard touched Henry’s arm lightly. “Philippe is my lover, Henry, nothing else.”

  “Lover!” Henry scoffed. “Christ Jesus, that’s disgusting. Why does he constantly seek to seduce my sons, with that delicious little cat he’s married to?”

  “How do you know her?” Richard asked, frowning.

  The king’s face lighted with the pleasant memory of Isabel. “She came to me once,” Henry said and cleared his throat. “I did her a favor.” He smiled at Richard’s doubting look. “I saved her marriage.”

  “Whatever,” Richard said, and waved the words away. “In any case, Father, my lovers are my own business. God knows I’ve never concerned myself with yours.”

  “All right,” Henry agreed, “I shall say no more on that. But this much I will say. Swear your fealty to me anew, and before all the witnesses of my court, and you shall have all you need to subsidize your venture, I promise you.” He paused, and then reached out to clasp Richard’s hand. “Do this for me, Richard, and I shall forgive your many months of absence, and your neglect to answer my many letters.” The hand squeezed tighter. “As you once pointed out to me, it would be in both our interests to forget the past.”