The Rain Maiden

by Jill M Philips

  Henry was relieved when that matter was settled. He did not want a breach between Hugh and himself because he truly loved the man. The fatal break with the archbishop Becket was still a scar on Henry’s conscience, a painful one. He wanted no more quarrels with churchmen who were close to his heart. Henry was more sentimental than most men knew.

  He was also more cunning.

  When spring came, Henry was ready with a new conspiracy.

  The man who had been outwitted by the French king had set his mind upon a plot against his own son. Although Henry had promised to aid Richard in every way he could, he was secretly complicating his son’s efforts to prepare for the crusade. He had already sent a great deal of money south into the keeping of Richard’s enemies, men like Aymar of Angouleme and Geoffrey of Rancogne. The purpose was to buy their cooperation in an insurrection against Richard. Raymond of Toulouse, another long-time rival of Richard’s, had been similarly bribed.

  Henry was taking no chances. The longer Richard could be kept in the south, the longer his commitment to the crusade could be postponed—and with it, Henry’s own.

  By the middle of April Isabel had once again discovered she was pregnant. She cursed her carelessness and even hoped in secret that she would miscarry. Four pregnancies in three and a half years! That was enough.

  She said nothing of this to Philippe. He was leaving soon with his army and would probably be away all summer. Meanwhile she began to make preparations of her own. With Philippe gone there would be no reason to remain in Paris through the summer. Isabel had decided to spend the hot months at Chateau Jolie in Chantilly.

  She would have liked to leave her children behind at the palace but knew she didn’t dare. If anything happened to them while she was away, Philippe would never forgive her. So she would have to take them; Edythe too, and a few of the palace serving girls as well, since the chateau had no permanent household in residence.

  There was one thing more: Isabel had written a letter to Henri of Champagne and sent it on to Troyes. Her message was deliberately vague, in the event it fell into other hands. I am spending the summer at Chantilly, it said. He could decipher the hidden meaning for himself.

  Bad luck.

  Richard had suffered nothing but bad luck since coming south from Normandy three months ago. In February he had sent off a letter to William of Sicily, asking for a loan of money and supplies for the crusade. King William was a close friend; he was also Richard’s brother-in-law, the husband of Joanna Plantagenet, Richard’s favorite sister. It was May now, and still no answer to his request! Richard waited anxiously for it to come. He had hoped to be on his way to the Holy Land by June.

  That seemed unlikely now because there were other circumstances to frustrate his plans. A new rebellion had suddenly broken out in Poitou, instigated by Richard’s old enemies Ay mar of Angouleme, Geoffrey of Rancogne, and Geoffrey of Lusignan (who was older brother to the King of Jerusalem). Settling this was going to take time. They had captured a few of Richard’s castles and now he would have to assemble a band of his Brabantine mercenaries to recapture those holdings.

  Richard had many faults, but dishonesty was not one of them. It would never occur to him that this rising had been deliberately planned and financed by his father in order to keep him busy on the continent. He didn’t realize Henry was that desperate.

  In England, Henry spent his days in desperation.

  There was ugly news from France. In Normandy John reported that once again Philippe Capet was busily engaged in building a fortress close to the frontier. The bastard! Just who did he think he was dealing with? If Capet’s actions went unchecked for too much longer, the whole future of England’s might, and Henry’s, would be at stake.

  At fifty-five Henry Plantagenet was still more vigorous and active than most men who were years younger than himself. But he was tired. He had spent his whole life fighting: first to secure his possessions, then to hold on to them. Now, when he should have been enjoying the result of his perseverance, he was being forced to fight again.

  He left London and went to Woodstock. Alais Capet was there, and Henry wanted a few days alone with her before leaving England. Whenever he needed rest and quiet, he went to her. She was many things to him: an understanding friend, a gentle lover, a patient companion. He hadn’t always been good to her, but she was very dear to him. Sometimes he felt that in all the world there was no one who truly loved him—loved him completely and with gentleness—except for Alais.

  She lived on the fringes of his life, yet she never complained. She had loved him for too many years to resent what he had done to her: ruined her chances of marriage, caused her name to be dishonored in all the courts of Europe. It was unlikely that she even blamed him for that.

  To be the mistress of a king was lonely. Alais had no friends, no family to cheer her. All she had was Henry, and she had reconciled herself to that many years ago. She clung to it. It was all she had.

  They had eaten and made love.

  Henry lay in Alais’s arms, wondering what her astute half-brother was doing in Normandy. He didn’t want to think of things like that, at this moment all he wanted was to enjoy the feel of her fingers as she stroked his hair, and listen to the soothing way she spoke his name.

  “Sleeping?” She bent close to whisper in his ear.

  Henry shook his head. “Just relaxing, just enjoying you.” He tightened his arm around her waist and kissed the dark folds of her hair that brushed his arm.

  “You were so quiet at dinner.”

  His answer was a deep sigh as he snuggled closer, hiding his face between her breasts. God, what comfort in the flesh of a woman! Passion, and then peace. That’s what a woman’s love had always meant to him. He felt his loins stir at the touch of her. There was such wisdom in flesh; the only wisdom.

  Her voice was soft, but he could feel the resonance of the words as she spoke them with his face against her breast. “How long can you stay with me this time?”

  Henry raised his head and looked at her, then brought his hand up to caress her cheek. He had an almost fatherly affection for Alais, and why not? She had come into his care as a child, and in his mind—no matter how many years she had been in his bed—she was a child still.

  “My sweet little girl,” he mused, “how I will miss you when I return to France.”

  She looked at him hopefully, her dark eyes forming a question. “Couldn’t I go with you?”

  “No,” he said immediately, “I want to keep you safe, far out of the reach of Richard and your brother.” His head sank to her breast again. He loved her breasts. They were big, the way he liked them, with dark, heavy nipples that tasted sweet when he sucked them. “Hold me,” he whispered, flicking his tongue over her skin.

  Alais held his head between her hands and kissed his shaggy hair. “My brother …”the word sounded strange in her mouth. “It seems so odd to say it. I’ve never even met him.”

  “That’s no great loss to you,” Henry grumbled, “he isn’t worth the knowing. It’s hard to believe the two of you shared the same father in sweet Louis. Philippe is nothing like him.”

  “I’ve heard it said his wife is very beautiful.”

  She wasn’t baiting him. She knew better than to do that. But she was insecure. Alais was little more than plainfaced, and her lonely life discouraged any trappings of glamour in her dress. That didn’t matter to Henry. He chose his women for their willingness and not their beauty. Alais didn’t have much passion in her nature, but she was willing, always ready to submit herself to all the sexual whims of the king. Henry liked variety in his bed, and Alais did her best to make him happy.

  “She is beautiful,” Henry answered and raised his head to look into Alais’s calm face. “She’s very sweet too, much too sweet for that cold-blooded bastard. He nearly divorced her once. How much better it would have been for her if he had done so.”

  The images wavered in his mind: Isabel’s lush beauty, plundered by her husband’s cruel
hands; her darling golden cunt, so wet and hot, stuffed with the famous Capet treasure. How Henry would have liked to keep her for his own. A girl like that could make a man stay young forever!

  Alais read his expression and she felt a little sad, but as always her concern was for him. “Is there trouble in France?” she asked. “Is that why you have to go back?”

  “It’s nothing I care to talk about now,” he told her. “I just want to enjoy being with you.”

  She tried once more to convince him. “I wouldn’t cause you any trouble if you took me with you, Henry.” Her eyes begged him to agree, and she hugged him closer. “It hurts me so much whenever you go away.”

  He pulled her down beside him on the bed. “I’ll come back to you the first chance I get.”

  They kissed, and for a long time they held one another without speaking. Alais was feeling cold and afraid, and she did not know why. She could not count the number of times she had said goodbye to him, but she’d never felt so threatened as she did tonight. Kissing the creases on his brow she murmured, “I’m going to miss you, my love.”

  “And I shall miss you.”

  His voice had the sound of tenderness and it put tears in her eyes. “Henry,” she whispered to him, “I wish at least one of our children had lived. Then I would always have some part of you with me.”

  Henry twisted over on his back and peered up at her. “It is possible we will be lucky yet,” he said, and a glimmer of lust shined in his grey eyes. “I’m still man enough to make a child.”

  “I know that you are,” Alais responded, and passed her fingers lightly over his beard. He needed to be assured often of his virility these past few years. His goat-like abilities had been legend since his teens; he feared to lose his manhood. The flesh was everything to him.

  For herself, Alais didn’t care. Her love for Henry was not a sensual thing. He was her symbol of strength, and her protector; the only man she had ever cared for. Alais bent to kiss his lips. “You are a wonderful lover,” she murmured.

  Her words and her kiss relaxed him and he reached to coil a lock of her hair around his finger. Then suddenly the smile faded and his expression grew sober. “Have you been happy with me, Alais? Tell me honestly, have you?”

  How could he wonder? Her voice trembled with emotion as she answered. “My life would have been nothing without you.”

  “Oh Alais …” His big hands engulfed her frail shoulders. “Do you remember the first time I took you? You were twelve, just a child.”

  She remembered. “I loved you even then,” she mused, but her lips tightened. “And you loved Rosamunde.”

  Yes, Rosamunde. The essence of her gentle spirit seemed to linger, in this house Henry had built for her at Wood-stock and this bed where he had made love to her a thousand times. Alais had been too young to be jealous of Rosamunde then, but in the years that followed, the memory had flayed her, he could tell.

  “Don’t speak of Rosamunde,” he said. “She doesn’t exist, except in memory. You’re the only woman in my life now, and the only one I love.”

  Alais wanted, needed to believe him. “I know that,” she answered. “And I want you to know this: no other woman has ever loved you as I do. Not Rosamunde. Not Eleanor. Not anyone.”

  Gratitude touched him like a sweet kiss, and Henry’s eyes filled with tears. “My darling girl,” he said, enveloping her in his arms, “you mean more to me than all the rest put together, and I will never let you go.”

  Her breath stirred like a light breeze on his face as she spoke. “I have no wish to go anywhere, except to follow you.”

  His smile was kindly and appreciative, it smoothed the lines of care from his face, making him look handsome and years younger, the way Alais first remembered him. “Neither of us are going anywhere right now,” he said. “We’re going to stay here in this bed.” He rolled her over on her back and rested his chin between her breasts. “I’m going to fuck you till the sun comes up.”

  Alais tried to free her mind from all thought as he kissed her and ran his hands along her hips, but one matter tickled at her consciousness, keeping her distracted. “You didn’t bring Johnny with you this time, did you?” she asked. She hoped he hadn’t.

  Henry raised his head from her breasts. “I know you don’t like him, Alais, but he’s a good boy in his own way, and he’s very fond of you.”

  Alais smiled a sad, ironic smile. Because of that “fondness” of which Henry spoke, she had been forced to take John to her bed many times. Henry had wished her to do it, had instructed her. He was obsessed with giving Johnny everything he wanted. It flattered Henry’s vanity and made him feel as if he was a loving father. He didn’t seem to care how Alais felt about it. Nor did John.

  At first Alais had been unwilling to be mistress to her lover’s son, but she’d soon learned to tolerate the situation. And she felt a little sorry for John. He was a misfit. Often when she held him in her arms she had the feeling it was really a mother’s love he needed.

  Alais could sympathize with that.

  Her own mother had died giving birth to her, and less than two weeks later Louis had wed Adele of Champagne. Alais, the unwanted infant princess, had been sent away to live with the Capet relatives in Dreux. Then, at the age of seven, she’d been given over to the care of the Plantagenets, for she had already been betrothed to their son.

  In her whole life Alais had seen her father fewer than a dozen times. Often, when she was just a girl, she had lain in Henry’s arms and dreamed of the fair-haired man so far away in Paris, whose face she could barely recall.

  Henry’s voice brought her back to the present.

  “Johnny’s in Normandy,” he explained. “That means there’s only me for you to entertain, my love.”

  She ran her fingers through his hair. “Johnny’s just like the rest of us,” she mused. “He only needs to feel that he is loved.”

  He nestled his beard against the soft white flesh of her belly. “Oh, Alais, Alais, Alais,” he moaned, “I love you so very much …”

  Later she lay contentedly beneath the weight of his heavy body as he thumped against her and sought to prove he was just as much a man as he had ever been. “Is it good? Is it good?” Henry grunted in her ear, as Alais held him close and whispered yes, trying to forget that soon—so very soon—he would be gone from her again.

  It was good. When it was over Henry pulled the coverlet up around her sweaty shoulder, and kissed her with the fondness of a loving father. “Sleep, sweet girl,” he said, and closed his eyes.

  Richard had known frustration in his life, but never anything as bad as this! Since April he had been engaged in a series of wars with the rebellious barons of Poitou. No sooner had he defeated them—driven their numbers back to Taillebourg, taken the fortress and secured it, scattered his enemies—then he was faced with yet another crisis.

  Count Raymond of Toulouse, Richard discovered, had been sending money and troops to the aid of the rebels. The count was an old rival and Richard’s blood grew hot with rage when he heard of his treachery.

  Richard took an army and ravaged the border of Toulouse. He even captured Raymond’s lover, Peter Seilun, who was also a high-ranking magistrate of the county. When Raymond found out that his “favorite” was being held a prisoner under barbarous conditions, he retaliated with an army of his own. As a result there were some border skirmishes where many men died, but Richard would not release his celebrated prisoner for any amount of money or any amount of threats.

  Now it was Raymond who took hasty action. He ordered the capture of several members of King Henry’s household who were traveling through Toulouse and had them imprisoned. It was considered a most savage deed. Travelers from any royal court were supposed to be assured their safety. Raymond had broken the code of chivalry, and Richard was going to make him pay for it!

  Complications. Recriminations.

  Richard had involved himself in a ruinous turn of events. What money he had been able to raise for his
venture to the Holy Land had been spent to pay his mercenary troops. Wasted money. Wasted time! And for all of it, Richard was still no closer to leaving on his grand crusade.

  At this point Philippe Capet entered the situation, when he came to negotiate between the two men at Toulouse in early June. Because their counties were a part of the continental domain, both Richard and Raymond were the vassals of the King of France. Philippe intended to use his authority to bring about a settlement of the hostilities. War among his vassals meant plundered villages, burned crops, ruined herds. It meant a loss of revenue to the crown.

  He tried to mediate between the two men, but his efforts were in vain. Neither Richard nor Raymond were willing to compromise. Both complained to Philippe of injuries done them; both demanded restitution for their trouble. For three days Philippe heard their disputations, and found little satisfaction in his role as peacemaker.

  He was especially disgusted with Richard, whose decision to take the cross had changed everything. When they met at Toulouse Richard’s attitude was cool, dispassionate. The love relationship that Philippe had hoped would grow into a solid political alliance had deteriorated badly during months of separation.

  Frustrated and disappointed, Philippe withdrew, leaving the quarrelsome rulers to resolve their own differences. For if Richard would not be a lover or a friend, then he could damn well be an enemy for all Philippe cared! He left Toulouse and set about his own plans.

  Philippe went back to Chateauroux.

  He occupied the town with mercenaries, and dreamed of even greater things. There was a plan for the full-scale invasion of the Aquitaine. Who could stop him? Henry was still in England, and his troops in Normandy were under John’s command (that said enough right there). Richard was far too involved with his little wars to notice an advance by Philippe’s troops. He would be sorry. They would all be sorry.