Edythe took a breath. “It is the king’s child,” she admitted.
The words washed over her, absurd and meaningless. Sibylla could barely find her voice. “The king’s child?” she repeated, incredulous. “The king’s child?” The breath was fluttering in her chest. “How can this be?”
“I am his mistress,” Edythe answered simply.
All the reason fled Sibylla’s mind.
“His mistress? You?” she bawled. “You might just as well expect me to believe the king would take a sow into his bed!” Her hand flung out and hit Edythe hard across the face. “How dare you presume to call yourself the mistress of a king, you stupid little cripple!”
Edythe was sniveling, touching her reddened cheek. “Why do you say these things to me?” she asked. “What has it to do with you if the king chooses to love me?”
Sibylla grabbed a handful of Edythe’s hair and tugged it. “He doesn’t love you!” she screamed into her face. “He is mine, he belongs to me!”
Adele appeared suddenly at the end of the corridor. Hurried footsteps brought her quickly to where they stood. “What is going on here?” she asked. She looked at Sibylla. “Why are you shouting at Edythe? What has she done to you?”
Sibylla laughed as tears splashed down her face. She pointed viciously at Edythe. “Ask her!” she gasped, out of breath, “ask her!”
Without another word Sibylla turned and fled down the stairs.
Adele stared after her, then looked back at Edythe. “What was that all about?” she asked sharply, and when there was no answer she went on, “Why have all the things been taken from your room? I went to look for you and saw that everything had been put into a satchel.”
Edythe wiped away her tears. “I am leaving, Lady Adele.”
“Leaving? But why?”
She had meant to go quietly with no one knowing. Now there was no way to hide the truth from Adele, and Edythe feared what her reaction might be.
“Why are you leaving?” Adele persisted. “My son’s children adore you.”
Edythe’s throat was dry as she tried to swallow. “I am going to have a child.”
Adele stepped back, momentarily surprised. “And is my son the father?” she asked.
“Of course. I have never been with any other man.”
Adele relaxed, then nearly laughed. “Then there is no reason for you to leave.” She patted Edythe’s cheek. “Dear girl, if my son is to have another child it will be born here, at the palace, as befits the baby of a king.”
Now Edythe began to cry, this time from relief. “Oh, madam, I was so afraid you would be angry.”
“My son’s blood is mine,” Adele declared, “and any child of his body is my blood too.” She put an arm about Edythe’s waist. “Philippe will be delighted to return and find himself to be a father once again. Come now,” she urged Edythe toward the corridor. “We shall put away your things, and let me hear no further talk of leaving.”
“God bless you,” Edythe wept.
Adele patted the girl’s abdomen. “God bless this child,” she said.
At Gonesse, Sibylla shut herself up in her room.
She lay naked in her bed, staring up at the ceiling. For days she refused to eat, to see anyone. She would not sleep. She told herself she had to think, to puzzle out what was happening to her, but she already knew the answer.
Love for Philippe was eating her alive.
Sibylla did not want to love him, but she could not help it. How easily she could understand Isabel’s fascination for him now, the total submission of her will to his—for a woman would suffer anything to keep him in her bed.
But Edythe … how could she expect to satisfy Philippe?
She must be a fool!
But no. I am the fool. Had she really been so naive as to believe Philippe had taken no woman to his bed, save her, since Isabel’s death?
Sibylla wanted him; that was all she knew.
She turned her face to the wall and wept for her illusions.
Adele was looking after Edythe.
She had arranged for her to take another room, a larger one, opposite her own, which had been vacant many years. Edythe was also provided with new clothes, and her duties were restricted to caring for Jacquie-Marie and Louis.
The children had been restless and moody since their mother’s death: worse since Philippe’s absence. They woke from bad dreams nearly every night. Usually Edythe could comfort them with gentle words. But sometimes, particularly in the case of Louis, the firm hand of a grandmother was needed.
One chilly evening in late October, Louis woke from a dream and could not be comforted. Adele came to sit with him and she remained by his side an hour or longer. But all the while the frightened child kept calling for his mother.
Adele told him stories, sang to him, then scolded him to go to sleep. She smoothed his long blond curls and kissed his forehead, then put him back into his bed. “Mommy,” he whimpered, and closed his eyes.
Adele lit another candle for him and left the room.
Louis pulled the coverlet up close beneath his chin and bit his bottom lip to keep back the tears. Then a familiar smell of sweet flowers filled the room and he smiled.
“Mommy,” he said again.
THE HEAT had gone, but so had the fair wind for Acre.
Philippe took his ships out a little way and then, only hours later, was forced to bring them back into port. Storms menaced the coast, sweeping into the straits, threatening to destroy the entire fleet.
Days passed as Philippe waited for the savage winds to calm, but as November neared it seemed apparent that he and his men would be denied safe passage till spring. He cursed the trivialities that had kept them in Sicily for so many weeks and now conspired to keep them here still longer. Worse yet, Philippe could think of nothing more dismal than spending Christmas in this half-pagan land.
Spring could not come soon enough for him.
Surprisingly, Richard was in no hurry to be on his way.
He was busy organizing a splendid holiday celebration at his villa, engaged in almost daily sight-seeing, and occupied with the business of governing “his” city. He also spent many hours in the company of Joanna, for he had not seen his much-loved sister for many years.
The English fleet, all one hundred of Richard’s original ships, had amazingly reappeared after suffering many perilous adventures. Once leaving ports in England, they had been blown far out to sea and into the midst of a terrible storm. Every man had feared for his life, but then a miracle saved them all.
Richard listened with rapt attention as an account was given by Baldwin, Archbishop of Canterbury. “We called on the Lord in our distress, and presently the figure of Thomas Becket appeared to us, promising to quell the fury of the sea if every man aboard knelt down to beg forgiveness for the ugliness of his life. When all men did this the sea went flat, and our ships were hastened on their way.”
From there the ships had sought safe harbor off the coast of Portugal, and after a stay of many weeks they sailed through the straits and onto the brilliant concourse of the Mediterranean.
Richard was greatly relieved that his fleet had been spared, and the story of Becket’s miracle touched the deepest core of his fervent soul. Perhaps he’d allowed himself to drift too far from an awareness of spirituality these last months. So now, for many days, he took himself away from worldly concerns and brooded alone over matters of religion.
He wanted to accomplish great things in the Holy Land; he wanted to do God’s purpose. But he’d become shamefully negligent, reveling in bodily sin, thinking only of loot and treasure and how to get the best of Philippe Capet.
It was time for Richard to cleanse himself.
On an excursion to the rugged plains outside Calabria, Richard visited the monastery of Corazzo and it was here he met Joachim of Floris, the abbot. Joachim was an ascetic visionary who held some unorthodox opinions. He and Richard engaged one another in profound conversations regarding the coming of the Antichrist,
whom both men believed would appear in the guise of a holy man.
Joachim was dogmatic as he instructed Richard in his duty.
“God means for you to play a part in the establishment of His earthly kingdom, and it is coming soon. The time is near when the dove of peace shall descend from God’s own bosom, and dwell in the hearts of all men. But before that comes to pass there will be a bath of bloodshed such as the world has never seen before. …”
Richard thought upon these things, trying to interpret them. Like so many men of zeal he saw the crusades as Christianity’s only method of divesting power from the followers of Islam. The men who pledged themselves to Mohammed were his sworn enemies—the enemies of every Christian on earth: king, noble or commoner.
And Richard would conquer them; bring Islam to its knees.
He knew it now. He knew it.
In a public display of humility, Richard walked barefoot from Messina to his villa outside the city. There in the chapel he threw’ off his clothes and knelt naked before the priests, confessing the wickedness of his life. He begged for God’s pardon and the strength to reform his ways. The people cheered.
Richard was a hero.
By comparison the King of France seemed mean-spirited and shabby. He stayed in the palace with his whore, rarely showing himself among the men; never giving charity or largess to his nobles or any of his counselors.
When Philippe heard the news of Richard’s public penance a cynical expression crossed his face. The hypocrite! Only two nights ago they had lain together in Richard’s bed; no longer friends but still lovers. Hot words. Hot flesh.
And now, intimidated by the approach of Christmas, Richard had suddenly decided to repent! But Philippe was not fooled. This was no mere routine of religious breast-beating. It was a politically motivated act, aimed at gaining public favor and showing up the King of France. How typical of Richard to grab all the attention for himself! The more Philippe thought on it, the greater his frustration and anger grew.
He paced the floor and brooded on misfortune.
At Acre the siege dragged on and the men lost hope.
Where were the great kings who had promised to deliver them? Where were the armies to relieve their dwindling numbers? The supplies of food and water to sustain them?
Where was God’s pity for their dreadful circumstances?
Baldwin of Canterbury came with a host of priests, but they only criticized the sin and squalor of the camp and brought no word of comfort with them. Let the priests complain: they knew nothing of sacrifice! What other consolation could these poor, bedeviled soldiers find but the willing favors of prostitutes who shared their bodies for the meager reward of a piece of bread or half cup of wine?
There were some men whose example gave the others courage: men like Guy de Lusignan and his brother Geoffrey. But the soldiers had been waiting years for the mighty kings of Europe to give strength to the failing efforts at Acre, and still no help had come. If the men had known what petty bickerings kept the kings so long in Sicily, they would have been even more discouraged.
So they waited, losing heart each day. How could Acre ever be taken if the soldiers of Christ were not fed, and the kings would not come to help them? The crusaders slaked their hungers with whores, their own or Moslem—it made no difference anymore. Likewise, some of the Christian women deserted to the tents of Islam, because their own men had grown too poor to pay or feed them.
In the end war makes enemies of all, all.
At Richard’s villa there was splendid Christmas feasting.
With Joanna’s help he had arranged every detail of this magnificent banquet and the entertainment which was to follow. The former queen of Sicily, who shared her brother’s taste for luxury, saw to it that nothing but gold ware was put before the guests; no napkins save those made of re-embroidered damask.
To this feasting Richard had invited the King of France and a goodly selection of nobles, both English and French. One of these was a new arrival to Messina, Count Henri of Champagne, who had not originally planned to join the crusade. He’d left Paris for Troyes shortly after Isabel’s funeral, sick to his soul with grief, and determined to involve himself in nothing more than the administration of his estates. When plague had carried off his wife and son that summer, Henri had changed his mind and decided to pursue the king’s army to the Holy Land after all. It was not the spirit of religion which burned in him, but a hunger for adventure in strange lands. He cared little if he never saw Champagne, or France, again. Now it was his manly portion he wanted: glory in battle, and the sweet sanctity of an enemy’s blood on his hands.
But tonight there was glittering company and no talk of war.
Richard was in a joyous mood. He led the dancing and recited poetry; even sang when he was asked. Philippe sipped on wine that he did not like, and thought: Richard would love to hold court forever here or anywhere, so long as he could flaunt his clothes, his wit, his conversation… .
Joanna sat close by Philippe’s side all the evening.
She was pleasant and attentive but he did not like her. He sensed that she was much like Richard in temperament. And although Philippe supposed that she was beautiful, he did not find her so (except for her breasts; they were twin charms of loveliness!).
As for the rest of her, she was a tall, strongly-built woman with Richard’s same square jaw and blazing red-gold hair. She even carried the same fierce aspect in her blue eyes. But there was nothing of the soft and subtle femaleness, or mystery, that Philippe always craved in women.
Tonight, like Richard, Joanna was dressed in cloth of gold.
Philippe watched as they danced together; so well matched, so elegant. He’d never seen Richard so at ease with a woman before. Of course, he was looking at a mirror image of himself in female form. What other woman could possibly attract the Lionheart so much?
Philippe drank more and his thoughts ran on like the swift currents of a river. Richard was complicated. A poet with a lust for blood. Philippe was only now beginning to understand what a formidable enemy he could be. It was not going to be easy for the French king to win any glory for himself in the Holy Land, with Richard so ready to take each shred of honor for himself. But there was more to it than that.
Philippe feared him.
Not the man, but the image of the man. As a soldier, Richard had no peer, yet his leadership was made of something more illusive and more dangerous than military genius. Magic, glamor: things that Philippe could never hope to match with his own cool-headed intelligence.
A man can fight anything except a legend.
Isabel had understood that. She had known, just as she had always known so much else. Why hadn’t he listened to her? Why hadn’t he stayed in France? Dismally he remembered her words:
Think of what you could accomplish in Richard’s absence!
You could have Normandy, Anjou, the Aquitaine for yourself!
Jesus, why hadn’t he listened? Philippe doused his flushed face with cool water. It was no good remembering things that could not be fixed. He had made his choice and, even though it had been the wrong one, there was nothing to be done about it now, save follow Richard to the Holy Land and try to snare some prestige and money for himself.
Suddenly Philippe felt a hand thrust into his. He looked up to see Joanna standing over him. She had a pretty smile. “Would you like to dance with me?” she asked.
Philippe had never learned to talk to women, especially women of exalted rank. And dance! In all his years with Isabel he had never learned to dance, though she had often wished to teach him. He smiled self-consciously at Joanna. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t be of much use to you. I don’t know how to dance.”
She gave him an indulgent smile. “No matter. Then would you care to talk with me a while? You have seemed so quiet all this evening.” Without waiting for his answer, Joanna sat down beside him once again.
“I’m not much in the mood for celebration,” Philippe grumbled.
She
braided her fingers with his and looked earnestly into his face. “I understand. I’m moody too, sometimes.”
“You looked happy enough dancing with Richard.”
Joanna’s eyes sparkled at the mention of her brother’s name. “He is such good company. He brings out my smile no matter what I am truly feeling.”
Philippe frowned a little at her words. He felt uncomfortable, unsure of what to say to her. At last he gestured toward the necklace and earrings she was wearing. “Your jewelry is most becoming to you,” he said.
She seemed to glow, as if he had given her the highest compliment possible. “I didn’t think you had noticed anything about me,” she said, holding to his hand a little tighter. “Although I have spent the entire evening looking at you.” Her voice went huskier. “You are even more handsome than my brother said.”
Philippe smiled weakly, nodded, but did not respond.
Joanna refused to relinquish his hand. She bent closer to him and when she did the rich spice scent of her perfume flared in his face. “My brother has big plans for me,” she confided. “He hopes to find a great and powerful lord for me to marry. For my sake, I hope he chooses someone dazzlingly handsome, and a marvelous lover as well… .” Her gaze swept over him, interested.
Philippe eased his hand out of hers. “Richard has similar tastes in men, Joanna. I’m sure you can trust him to choose one who will please you in every way.”
Instead of pretending to be shocked or offended, as so many women would have, Joanna laughed enjoyably, her gold loop earrings tinkling like a gypsy’s as she did. “You know my brother very well it seems,” she said, “and you must learn to know me better too.”
Before Philippe could make an answer, she had leaned close to press a kiss to his lips. Then without another word she stood up and moved to the far end of the table. A moment later she was engaged in conversation with some of her other guests.
Several times that night he caught Joanna watching him.
The Rain Maiden Page 61