The Rain Maiden

by Jill M Philips

  The signature, scrawled in John’s own untidy hand, swam before Henry’s eyes. It was not possible. Despite all the other cruelties he had been forced to suffer in these past weeks, Henry could not believe that this was possible. It was some foul trick devised by Richard and Philippe Capet, another arrow aimed at his bleeding heart.

  John would never …

  The paper slipped from his hand onto the floor.

  It was true. In an instant the reality overwhelmed him. It was true. He groaned aloud, a cry so filled with pain that any man who heard it might think he had been run through by a sword. “Oh John,” he sobbed, “it was for you I incurred all this misery, for you that I threw my life away! Can you desert me now as all your brothers did? Oh John, my darling child, my heart!”

  Godfrey reached out to comfort him, but the broken king was past all means of comfort. He turned his face to the wall and would not be moved. “Let all things go as they will,” he muttered tonelessly. “I no longer care for myself or all the world. …”

  Those were his last clear moments. After that he slept in fitful snatches; woke, moaned, clung to Godfrey, sometimes recognizing him, sometimes not. Late in the afternoon he managed to pull the sapphire ring from off his finger and push it into Godfrey’s hand. “This is yours,” he whispered, “for you have always been a true son to me. Truer than any seed sown in the body of my wife. If God grants that I may live, I will set you higher than any man in my realm. But if I do not, then may God himself reward you for your goodness.”

  Godfrey wept. A father’s love was reward enough!

  Henry’s eyes seemed placid in his haggard face. “How I wish I could recall your mother! She must have been an angel to give birth to such a loving child.”

  “Not an angel,” was Godfrey’s choked reply, “a camp follower, a common whore …”

  Henry shook his head and tried to smile. “They are the only honest women on God’s earth.”

  Then he slept again.

  That evening they carried Henry to the chapel and laid him on the floor beside the altar. He had refused the Sacrament for these many days, but now he mumbled a confession and took the Host to cleanse himself of sin, to preserve the soul which he had promised to the devil on the day Le Mans was burned.

  God or the devil. It made no difference to him now.

  Once more he was put into his bed, knowing this time that he would never leave it. Godfrey held him, brushing away the flies that settled on his face. Only Godfrey, and no other, beside him now to share his desolation.

  Henry was too weak to say a single word, but even the fever could not burn from his mind the ugly images of regret. Silently he lay lamenting for the wasted efforts of his life: the silly toil which in the end had come to nothing.

  To know in death that life itself is futile: that is Man’s greatest punishment of all. Henry grieved for his life; not for the ending of it, but for the love misspent and the hope misplaced and all the other fond and precious feelings which had brought him here, to this.

  Despair and bitterness merged with truth as his senses faded.

  He was just a fool, and he was old, and he was dying.

  And there was nothing else.

  Henry died in Godfrey’s embrace at sunset on the following day. The bastard son, who had remained faithful while all the other sons proved false, gazed out the uncovered window at an early evening sky set with pink clouds too beautiful to be endured, and sobbed for the pity of his loss.

  Later that evening he and Marshal rode the short distance to Fontevrault Abbey, where they made provisions for the king’s burial and dispatched a message to Richard, telling of Henry’s death. By the time they returned to Chinon, most of the remaining household had fled, carrying away everything of value. Even the king’s body had been stripped, left naked on the bed without so much as a piece of linen to cover his shriveled member.

  Shame on a conquered king!

  Godfrey dressed his father in borrowed clothes, but there was not a single article of royalty with which to decorate his person. Marshal searched the ransacked chests and found a ragged piece of gold embroidery to fashion as a tawdry crown, and a wood staff which they put into his hands to serve as a makeshift scepter.

  In this travesty of royal state Henry’s body was borne down the hill early the next morning, supported on the shoulders of a few devoted knights. Godfrey and Marshal walked behind, joined at the last by Stephen, the Seneschal of Anjou, who, having taken dinner with the King of France only a few days ago, had now come to pledge belated honor to his fallen lord.

  As the cortege drew closer to the town they were besieged by a crowd of poorfolk seeking alms. It was the custom at the death of so great a statesman that a goodly amount of coins be given out to all in need. Their almoners empty, the mourners turned to the seneschal, for he was richly dressed and wore rings on every finger.

  “Give these good people something,” Marshal ordered him.

  Stephen’s heavy face flushed in surprise. “Why I have nothing to give them,” he insisted, “for the king’s wars with his son and Philippe of France have left me a poor and hungry man.”

  Marshal’s dark eyes flashed, warning of anger. “You look fat enough to me!” he declared, jabbing his fist into Stephen’s belly. “And if you have no wealth of your own you surely have some which is the king’s, for you grew rich in his service these many years, and profited by his bounty, to say nothing of what you undoubtedly stole from him!” He reached out and jerked several of the golden chains from Stephen’s neck, and tossed them boldly into the midst of the crowd. Men and women, with their vacant, gaping mouths, pressed forward, their dirty hands outstretched, fighting one another for the unexpected prize. It was a mocking conclusion to the tragic episode of Henry’s death.

  At Fontevrault some of the vanished dignity was restored to the king’s estate. A group of solemn nuns came out to meet the caravan, chanting psalms in voices that were high and sweet. It was a curious irony that of all the women who had known Henry’s love and held his scarred and husky body in their arms, there were only nuns to mourn him at his death.

  That evening, as a choir sang somewhere in the church, Richard came to stand a while near the high altar where his father’s body lay. None who stood close by, like William Marshal, could tell if the son’s passive expression denoted sorrow or relief.

  Richard stared down into his father’s face and felt nothing.

  He murmured a brief prayer, and as he did so a line of blood began to flow from the king’s nose, curving down into his beard. Richard knew this for an omen and stepped back, amazed.

  The blood was an accusation.

  Murderer, it said.

  Philippe was halfway to Paris when he heard of Henry’s death.

  Richard was King of England now.

  That meant their relationship would have to change. From this point on, their goals were bound to be in opposition to each other’s. Philippe took a few moments to brood over the situation. And then, impatient, he spurred his horse toward home.

  He was famished for Isabel.

  They had been apart for nearly three months, and suddenly he could think of nothing but sinking his flesh inside her. He’d been able to push her from his mind while he was in the field, spending his passion in Richard’s bed and the pursuit of Henry’s ruin. Now that was over and the lure of Isabel called him back to Paris. He didn’t even stop at Chartres to pray.

  He had never ridden so hard in all his life.

  Open-mouthed and panting, Isabel gazed up at the grey silk canopy and embroidered silver birds above her head. All of her feelings seemed captive to this moment, fused like those splendid birds upon the silk.

  She lay unmoving as Philippe pushed his face between her legs where she was already sodden. His tongue was an expert instrument, brutal and hard. Isabel could hardly summon the strength to respond to him, but she crossed her ankles behind his head and pulled him closer.

  If he did not fill her soon she would
go mad.

  But when he did she felt she would go mad as well. God, he was even more a man than she remembered! Why couldn’t he live in her forever? Why couldn’t she take his strength with her to the grave?

  Philippe’s hands cinched at Isabel’s waist and heaved her bottom up higher. This was worth a hundred victories over Henry, a thousand castles or a million crowns. He closed his eyes and pumped furiously against her.

  She held the Druid ring between her breasts and said his name.

  END PART V

  PART VI

  Summer, 1189

  RICHARD wasted no time putting his affairs in order.

  There was much work needed to be accomplished in France before he could think of crossing over to England for his coronation. He spent the remainder of July traveling through Anjou, Touraine, and Maine, laying down his dictates to the magistrates and barons, suppressing any hint of lawlessness which might have grown out of the recent wars.

  Richard was a harsh man and some of his doings seemed unfair. He promptly confiscated all the lands of all the men who had deserted King Henry, and yet he sought to reward those who had kept faith with his father to the end. It may have been an act of warning to all traitors, or perhaps he was really feeling guilty after all, knowing he’d aided Philippe in hounding Henry to his death.

  But there was one conspirator who was lovingly received into Richard’s circle. John—whose motives for abandoning his father had been unclear even to the cunning Philippe—was treated with a show of graciousness and ceremony when he met with Richard at Rouen in early August.

  The reconciliation between the two brothers was a puzzle only to those who did not know them well. Richard loved John with much the same measure of indulgence Henry had, for despite his flawed nature John was a lovable fellow. It was equally typical of Richard that he suddenly wished to reunite his family, after he’d spent so much time and effort supplanting it the past two years.

  There were other relationships that needed mending.

  Immediately after Henry’s death, Richard had begged William Marshal to remain in royal service. He needed Marshal, trusted him. The famous knight was a soldier and administrator and more than anything he was a friend to the Plantagenets. In the years since young Harry had first brought him into the royal circle, he had become almost a member of the family.

  “Will you stay, Marshal?” Richard asked. “I beg you to.”

  In the end the faithful William agreed, for he had come to care too deeply for the fate of England and its king to give any other answer.

  Richard was well pleased.

  Immediately Marshal was directed to return to England, where he would carry out a special mandate for the king, his first. It was written out in a proclamation by the king’s own hand. William read the document and smiled, for he was glad.

  From this day, Queen Eleanor was free.

  It had been so many years since she had truly been a wife, it was difficult for her to feel a widow. Eleanor took the news of Henry’s death with calm ambivalence and a trace of incredulity. She had never quite believed it was possible for him to die.

  Henry Plantagenet. The greatest power on earth since Charlemagne. Eleanor had never known a king so kingly, a man who was so very much a man. She had hated her love for him, then later she had grown to love the hate. There had been everything between them but indifference.

  She wept a little, but her tears were for herself and not for Henry. All the happiness she’d ever known had been because of him, and all the misery. The two emotions grew together in her mind, inseparable. She had learned to live with both of them, because even that was better than forgetting.

  Oh Henry, if you’d kept faith with me you’d be alive today!

  But it was over. Eleanor shed her tears in private, then closed the last of her regrets away. For the first time in many years she had a future. It didn’t matter that she had lived for nearly seven decades. She felt young again, excited. With Richard’s inheritance assured, Eleanor had come into her own.

  She dismissed her jailers on the day the news of Henry’s death was brought to her, but remained at Salisbury for Richard’s messenger to come. When Marshal put the document of freedom in her hand she nearly wept again, this time from joy.

  Instead, she smiled—a sweet, completely female smile which brought out the dimples in her cheeks. William kissed her hand and marveled at the loveliness in her face which age had not yet stolen. After all that had happened to her and all she had been forced to suffer, Eleanor was still beautiful.

  He toasted her with wine and told her that.

  Richard had named his mother Regent until he could return to England. Thrilled with her new responsibilities and the prospect of a reunion with her cherished son, Eleanor set out for London with a splendid retinue. Everywhere she halted people rushed to greet her, throwing bouquets of flowers at her feet. They remembered her as the legendary beauty of thirty years ago, the queen presiding at her courts of love where knights and troubadours sang songs of praise to her. She seemed so little changed now, riding by on her chestnut palfrey, whose straps were decorated by a hundred jingling bells.

  To the people, Eleanor looked as lovely as she ever had.

  But her progress toward London was not merely an opportunity to show herself so that others might render homage. Now she was at liberty once more, Eleanor was intent on restoring that right to every prisoner in the land.

  Capriciously, perhaps unwisely, she ordered each jail or place of forced detention opened, its inhabitants set free. While the wary Marshal doubted the good sense of this, he did all according to her will, for she was Regent now.

  In late August John was wedded to Hadwisa of Gloucester, who, though unattractive, provided him with considerable estates upon their marriage. Richard had also increased his younger brother’s wealth by endowing him with several counties, plus the Duchy of Cornwall.

  At last John was a rich and happy man.

  There was no more exciting place on earth than London that late summer of 1189, as all was made ready for Richard’s coronation in September. He was anxious to begin his reign officially, more anxious still to have all ceremonious occasions at his back, so he could prepare for the crusade. It was all he thought about, even as his day of days approached.

  Before leaving Normandy he had sent a letter to Philippe in Paris, urging him to be present at the coronation. Richard had spent enough time at the French court and now he wished to return the courtesy with a show of English hospitality to his friend.

  By the time he had reached Southampton there was a reply waiting for him, decorated with the familiar hanging seal. The letter, beautifully scripted in the hand of Henri of Champagne, conveyed a lusty greeting to the English king.

  But at the end was a rude message.

  Philippe was busy, and he would not attend.

  The creative talents of Richard and his mother had never been put to better use. Together they supervised each glittering detail of the coronation, so when the day arrived all was perfection. It was the most splendid show the good people of London had ever seen and they pressed forward in multitudes, dumb with awe, to witness their new king—a handsome man of regal elegance—take himself to West Minster Abbey at the head of a parade of nobles, all dressed in rich and sparkling array.

  That was the good news. Later, there was trouble.

  During the feasting that followed the solemn ceremony, groups of Jews presented themselves in front of West Minster palace, eager to salute their king with gifts. Turned away by ill-mannered courtiers, they began a riot in the streets. This brief scuffle quickly grew into general lawlessness as Christian bystanders attacked some of the Jews and killed them. These same citizens then went forth to wreck every synagogue within the city, and set fire to houses in the Jewish sector.

  Many families were burned to death inside their homes before a group of nobles, dispatched by the king himself, could set upon the troublemakers. But by this time the rioting was so far
advanced that no amount of armed soldiers could restrain it.

  As though a signal had been given, disorder spread throughout the country. Nearly every other city followed London’s example in the days to come. There was one particularly violent uprising in York, which had a large Jewish population. But everywhere there was burning and bloodshed.

  Some men said the king himself had decreed the riots, for he was known to hate Jews and was resentful they had lived so contentedly under his father’s reign. It was true that Henry had been a friend to them. So long as they obeyed the laws of England, they were protected under those same laws. But that was Henry’s way.

  Richard was a different man entirely.

  To be fair, he had not incited the riots nor did he conscience them, and quickly saw to it that the evil-doers were fined and put to punishment. His motive was not justice, but anger. He deplored these riots which had spoiled the feast of his coronation, and so he vowed they would not occur again. But something of his magic had been damaged.

  It was not a favorable beginning, to be sure.

  Richard was selling everything.

  Buildings, bishoprics, royal appointments—all were for sale.

  In one burst of fury Richard even declared that he would sell London itself if a buyer could be found. It was not just an idle comment. His mind was firmly fixed upon a single purpose. He had to raise the money to finance his expedition to the East.

  Like his brothers, Richard had no money sense. That was one of the many traits which the sharp-minded Henry had been unable to pass on to any of his sons. Furthermore, Richard was cursed with an unending need for personal luxury. Because of this, and all the fighting he’d been party to in the past two years, his own private wealth was greatly diminished at this time.

  The royal treasury, kept at Winchester, was a vast sum, but it was not enough to equip Richard’s new enterprise, and a cache of other expenses were piling up as well. The monies spent on the coronation had been considerable, and Richard had been forced to borrow against his estates in Poitou to pay most of them. He was swamped by a rising tide of indebtedness on all sides, the threat of which only strengthened his resolve, even if it did infringe on his enthusiasm.