The Rain Maiden

by Jill M Philips

  Philippe had an answer, one that he had rehearsed a dozen times since the possibility of this brilliant plot had struck him. He extracted a second document from his sleeve and waved it under Richard’s nose. His voice was hard-bitten in revenge. “Perhaps my lord Richard would prefer these terms.” Philippe bent his head to the paper as if to read, but he had already memorized the words. He quoted them aloud with relish. “In exchange for receiving the overlordship of Aquitaine, Anjou and Maine; as well as the hand of Alais Capet who is his promised bride, my son Richard shall be denied the crown of England at my death, which, with its attendant portion Normandy, shall be settled upon my best beloved child and heir—Prince John …”

  Philippe’s head jerked up and he glowered at Richard, who stared back at him, stunned to stupefaction. Philippe smiled a hideous, hateful smile. “Congratulate yourself. You have the Aquitaine back in your keeping once again, with all its pretty singing boys and good French wines.”

  Flanders and the king’s Champagnois uncles knew nothing of this secret alliance between Philippe and Henry. Like Richard, they stared glassy-eyed at one another. Then with one accord all attention shifted to Henry. His face had gone a dour grey and he was trembling violently.

  Philippe’s smiling face bleared before his eyes. Henry lunged forward, grabbing the forbidden document, but Philippe snatched the paper from his reach and thrust it at Richard’s chest. “Read it,” he demanded.

  “There is no signature!” Henry shouted, spit dribbling on his beard, “I signed nothing, do you hear? This is a foul trick . . He pointed vehemently at Philippe and croaked out the words, “He did this! He did this!”

  Philippe laughed wickedly. “You did it to yourself, old man! You thought you could appease my appetite with this,” he threw the original agreement with its stated terms of settlement into the air and it came to land at Henry’s feet. “But instead you only showed everyone what a liar and a fool you really are!” He turned to Richard, who still held the traitorous document in his hands. “Is that written in your father’s hand?” he asked.

  Richard nodded ruefully, too distressed to speak.

  “Then you know that what I told you more than a year ago is true. Your father means to invalidate your claim to the succession. In return he promises to give you what is already yours by right!” Philippe’s lips twitched sourly but his black eyes shined with a glow of triumph. “Can you look at that paper and deny what I have said?”

  Again Richard nodded. There were tears on his face.

  The onlookers were silent. A sense of collective embarrassment hung in the air. Henry was flailing his arms, shouting wild curses at Philippe. Godfrey came forward to restrain him. John looked on, befuddled, not quite able to assess the situation. His brow wrinkled but there was a smile of gratitude on his face, for he had understood one thing which had been uttered here this morning and it was enough. Henry had named him to wear the crown.

  All at once there was a sound of muttering among the company, who seemed to be caught midway between dismay and awe at Philippe’s brazen tactics. Richard, having calmed himself, came forward and faced his father with a look of unrelenting hatred. His voice was as hard as he could make it. “So at last I see what kind of man you truly are! By the blood of our Savior, I swear to you I would just as soon be dead as learn what I have learned before these witnesses today …”

  “It was all his doing!” Henry screamed, fighting Godfrey’s hold on him. “Don’t you understand what he is doing? In separating our loyalties he has beaten both of us! Can’t you see that? Are you a fool?”

  “Yes, I am a fool,” Richard declared wretchedly. “I am the biggest fool in all the world, but only because I believed the oaths you swore to me!” New anger seized him and he drew back his hand as if to hit his father. Then, just as readily, Richard let the arm fall limply to his side. “You aren’t even worth the effort,” he declared, and turned his back to Henry’s piteous cries.

  Richard went to Philippe, and threw himself at the king’s feet. “I pledge myself to your service, and before these people here assembled, do homage to you for the English territories in France.” He reached up to clasp Philippe by the hand. “And I do beg you to forgive my father’s ignominy, and not judge me by his acts of treachery.” He kissed the signet ring on Philippe’s hand.

  Philippe stooped, drawing Richard to his feet, and the two men embraced like brothers. The French king bestowed the kiss of peace. Then he whispered something into Richard’s ear.

  Henry’s mouth was frozen in a speechless gape. Suddenly he saw it all, in a flash of recognition more real than any he had ever known. Philippe had planned this; he had never intended to negotiate a settlement of peace! One by one he had stolen Henry’s sons away, bribing them to his will with shrewd promises and a treacherous, indecent love. Lies, all lies.

  Pushing his courtiers aside, Henry stumbled from the tent. Outside he fell upon the ground and lay there until Godfrey came to lift him up, mumbling words of comfort. It was the dutiful offering of a son to his despairing father, but Henry was too miserable to care. He wept into the rough wool of Godfrey’s pellison, and for the first time in his life Henry knew it was too late.

  Philippe Capet had beaten him.

  The game was almost over.

  By evening the clouds had broken, spilling rain. It flooded the river at its banks and turned the ground to slippery, yellow mud. The French wrapped themselves against the cold and huddled in their tents close beside smoking charcoal burners, while rain soaked through the shivering canvas walls.

  The English had gone that afternoon, all but Richard. He’d remained to ponder his decision and the changes it would mean in his life. There was no going back now; he knew that. Henry’s betrayal—offering the crown to John in a written proof of his deception—had been the final one.

  Richard had made the best choice, the only choice.

  Outside, the sky was very dark. The wind had blown the moon away. Richard followed a ceremonial row of torches to Philippe’s tent. He entered, bringing a little of the rain and wind with him. With a jerk he pulled the flap shut and secured it.

  The gold-trimmed hangings and painted fleur-de-lis shimmered in the light of a low-banked fire. Philippe was sitting up in the bed, covered with a silver foxfur, looking pleased. He extended his hand toward Richard. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  For just an instant Richard hesitated, then he rushed forward and dropped to his knees beside the bed. Philippe tossed the fur aside and reached for him.

  “My love,” he said.

  TRAPPED in a cover of grim November fog, Henry and a diminished group of followers went south to Anjou. John and Godfrey were with him, also Marshal and other members of the king’s circle of close friends and advisers. But there were many men who stayed away, and Henry read a rueful message in their absence. They were waiting to cast their lot with the victor when the wars began in spring.

  For the present, bad weather and the approach of Christmas had put an end to this season of tribulations and Henry was glad of it. There was no escaping from what awaited him in the coming months, but for now it was good to rest at the fortress in Saumur and spend his days in quiet brooding.

  It was obvious that he was ailing, though Henry tried to hide the symptoms of his pain. As each day passed he grew more determined to avenge his son’s disloyalty. Philippe scarcely mattered now. It was Richard whom Henry wanted to bring down.

  The days grew colder, winter deepened. Henry watched from his window as the landscape paled and ice slowed the rushing current of the Loire. He prayed, and waited for the spring.

  And dreaded it.

  In the dim bedroom there was the sound of gentle breathing. On the wall a slender shadow rose and fell, and a girl’s voice whispered, “Do I please you well, my lord king?”

  Henry was lying on his back, the girl over him. He reached to stroke her moving hips. Soft flesh. Strong bones. Christ, the marvel of a young girl’s body. “Ah, that’s it,
that’s it, my precious! How young you make me feel. How kind you are.”

  Their hands met in mid-air, fingers braided. “It is you who are kind,” she answered. “I’ve eaten good food for the first time in many months since coming here. And since you took me to yourself, I’ve had a warm dress and a new cloak as well. …”

  Breath rumbled in his chest. “A fair exchange.”

  For a while there were no words between them, only sounds of love. Later, when the last murmur had died away to the dark comers of the room, she lay above him, nearly dozing, while Henry ran his fingers through her long black hair. “Say your name, my child,” he prodded.

  She laughed. It was a low and husky sound, a woman’s sound. “You know it well as me, I’ve told it to you before.”

  “Tell me again.”

  “My name is Eleanor,” she said. Then teased, “Eleanor, the king’s young whore.”

  He gave a little laugh, then sobered, trying to remember: how the name had sounded on his lips a thousand times, how it had felt to say it. But too much time and too much pain had gone between. He held the other Eleanor close upon his breast and asked, “How do you come to have a noblewoman’s name?”

  Her kisses fell upon his face, light and eager. “I may be a whore: my mother too. But my father was cousin to the king of Arles. Because I had his blood in me, my mother named me so.”

  “She named you well,” he said, then clasped her in a powerful embrace.

  Afterwards she gathered up her clothes and prepared to go. Henry was half asleep, but at the sound of the door creaking open he stirred and sat up on the bed. “Don’t go,” he muttered, his hand outstretched.

  She came toward him, clothed in shadow. “Have you not done with me?”

  Their hands met and he kissed hers, smiling into his beard. “At my age, child, one never knows, but I’ll say this. I’m far too old to waste a night by passing it alone.” He could smell the leavings of his passion on her, and it roused him to lust again.

  She giggled as his eager hands tugged roughly at the opening of her chainse. “Careful, lord, you will ruin it.” He ripped the cloth down below her waist and pushed his face between her breasts. “You shall have another one,” he swore.

  Henry forced her to the floor and sprawled over her. “Do you promise?” she whispered in his ear.

  “Yes,” he answered, unable to say more.

  The king, and a new dress. Contented, Eleanor sighed, then smiled into the dark.

  Sibylla was sitting by the window with her sewing.

  “You are really much more talented than I,” Isabel observed, looking down at her own ragged stitching. “Somehow I always manage to spoil the pattern.”

  Sibylla compared their efforts discreetly and nodded.

  The two women laughed.

  Close by, sitting on the rug in front of the fire, the children halted briefly in their playing, curious to see what the adult merriment was made of, then they went back to their game. Jacquie-Marie was amusing little Louis and Gabrielle by building towers out of wooden blocks.

  The two sisters returned to their sewing, silent for a while. Outside the comfort of Isabel’s warm room the rain was coming down, sounding like a rushing river from the sky. It had rained every day since the beginning of December, and Christmas was little more than a week away.

  Sibylla was very near her time of delivery and she grew more excited as each day passed. She yearned to present her darling William with a namesake and heir. Her prayers were ceaseless and fervid petitions to that end. Secure in her faith, she knew God would not fail her.

  Isabel was pregnant once again and she too hoped for a son, but more than that she prayed for a healthy, living child. She could not help but think the many miscarriages and still-births had hurt her chances for giving birth in the future. Just one more son, she prayed. Another heir. Then the succession would be safe should anything unforeseen befall little Louis, and she would have done her duty as Philippe’s queen.

  There was little doubting that Sibylla saw pregnancy as an unequalled blessing. Like their mother Margot, it seemed to enhance her well-being. Certainly marriage and motherhood had transformed Sibylla from a pretty girl into a vibrant woman. And she was so happy. Contentment glowed in her eyes and she was always smiling.

  Isabel envied her: pitied her too. It was unreasonable for anyone to be as innocent and trusting as Sibylla was. Isabel, who had lived for so long on the edge of anxiousness and desperation, felt a mingling of awe and irritation for her sister’s attitude of calm.

  Isabel looked past her at the children. Gabrielle was the very image of Sibylla as a child, with her brown hair and hazel eyes. Louis resembled Isabel more each day, while Jacquie-Marie was Champagnois dark, with her father’s stubborn jaw. It was odd to see a parent’s features reflected so clearly in a child’s face. It blurred the line between generations, and seemed to make time stand still.

  Not so many years ago she and Sibylla had sat together on the floor, playing games full of childish imagination. Those had been such carefree days, at home in Mons, secure in the closeness of a loving family. Isabel had not known anything so comforting as that since then. Children were lucky to be children. She had grown up far too young.

  Louis scurried over to her and was pulling at her skirt with chubby fingers. Isabel lifted him to her lap and held him close against her shoulder, murmuring a Flemish melody that Margot had sung to her when she was little. Louis snuggled his face at the neckline of her chainse and Isabel unloosed the front, offering him one of her white breasts. He took the nipple in his mouth and sighed with childish satisfaction.

  He was such a sweet and sensitive child, quite different in temperament from Jacquie, who was headstrong and defiant like her father. Louis was timid and gentle, and though he seldom cried, he coveted attention. Philippe adored him, and so did Edythe, who was virtually the child’s nursemaid. But Louis was happiest when he was cradled in his mother’s arms.

  “You’re so lucky, Isabel,” Sibylla smiled, and a wistful look lighted in her eyes. “If I can have a son for William I will never ask God for another blessing.”

  Isabel reached out to take her sister’s hand and squeezed it lovingly. “My prayer is that He will keep you safe during your childbed, for that is the most important thing of all. You are very young, Sibylla, and you have many years to give birth to sons for William.”

  “I know,” she answered, and her gaze carried to the little girls on the floor. Gabrielle had fallen asleep with her head in her cousin’s lap, and Jacquie, in an imitation of her mother, was singing softly to the child. It was all so lovely and sad: so temporary. Sibylla bit her lip and said again, “I know . ..”

  Smoke came from the chimney of the woodcutter’s hut.

  Philippe and Richard had come to the forest of Vincennes for hunting, but the rain had banished them indoors. There were other sports. For ten days they had scarcely left their bed.

  Philippe turned over on his stomach and rested his cheek on Richard’s hip. He yawned with pleasure. “I fear I could become very satisfied with a life like this.” Then he laughed. “You are a wicked influence on my usually prudent habits.”

  Now Richard laughed, and reached down to lose his fingers in Philippe’s thick black hair. “There is nothing prudent about you, my love, in bed or any other place. At Bonsmoulins you vanquished Henry and proved him for the liar he truly is.” Richard paused, and then his voice grew stern, self-blaming. “You saw it all along, Philippe—you saw his deception—while I, his son, was blinded to the truth for years. The bastard. The damned double-dealing bastard!”

  “Calm yourself,” Philippe said, climbing over Richard to lie at his side. Their chins were almost touching. “Henry isn’t a problem to either of us, not anymore. Come spring, we’ll drive him out of France, and take all his territories this side of the Channel for ourselves.” His strong teeth gleamed as he stretched his lips into a sneer. “It will be so easy. By the time we take the field in spring, two
thirds of all his army outside of Normandy and England will have come over to our side. Think of it, Richard! All shall be ours! And when Henry sees what we can do to him and he realizes at last the threat we are to him, he will be forced to accept you as his heir.”

  Their tongues met in a slippery kiss, then Philippe lowered his face, biting the gold chains that decorated Richard’s neck, unfastening them with his teeth. Richard’s thick arms closed tight about Philippe’s waist, holding him in a brutal grip.

  But something was tugging at Richard’s mind, taking him away from Philippe, even in the circle of his arms. He could not keep it to himself, he had to say it. “Is that the same arrangement you made with my brother Geoffrey? Was he to gain the crown in return for giving you everything you want in France?” The last was spoken bitterly.

  Philippe sat up abruptly, staring down into Richard’s blue, accusing eyes. “We have no secrets, you and I. God knows we have become as close as flesh can be. Why should it bother you to know that Geoffrey and I once loved each other?”

  “It’s not the love that troubles me,” Richard grumbled, “it’s knowing that the two of you made plans together.”

  Philippe’s fingers brushed lightly over Richard’s knee. “I can’t believe that after all that has gone between us this past month and these last few days you could be having second thoughts about casting in your lot with me.”

  He would not be misled. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  Philippe crossed his arms over his naked chest and glowered arrogantly down at Richard. “It was hardly the same situation, my friend! Your father was in a more powerful position at that time. I could hardly have hoped to bring him to his knees three years ago! And besides, Geoffrey didn’t care about the crown. He only wished to make me happy, to give me anything I wanted.”