The Rain Maiden

by Jill M Philips

  The look of interest had not gone from her eyes.

  Philippe stood at the window in Richard’s bedroom, looking out at vague outlines in a dark landscape. At the edge of the courtyard lay a low stone wall, encasing the ghost of a garden. Beyond it the land fell away quickly toward sloping dunes that ended at the sea.

  Across the room Richard was taking off his clothes. He looked up to see Philippe by the window. “What are you staring at?” he asked.

  Philippe shook his head. “Nothing.” But he continued to stare.

  Richard came up behind him, encircling Philippe’s waist with strong arms. The French king let his head droop back to rest upon his lover’s shoulder. Oh it was nice! Despite all the mistrust and jealousy of the past months, with surely more to come, there was a fascination between the two men that they could not ignore.

  “You didn’t enjoy yourself tonight, did you?” Richard asked.

  “I was thinking of home,” Philippe admitted. “It barely seems like Christmas here.”

  Richard fingered a lock of Philippe’s hair. “I saw you talking to Joanna. She’s lovely, isn’t she?”

  Philippe pulled out of Richard’s arms and turned to face him, his handsome features set in scowling. “Please don’t pretend you just happened to notice. I know it was your idea to have her seated next to me.”

  “Is it so wrong to bring my sister and my friend together?”

  The black eyes flashed a warning. “I don’t want another wife, Richard, at least not yet. If I ever do, I will choose her. Don’t push Joanna at me. If you want to find a husband for her you had better look elsewhere.”

  Richard seemed a trifle insulted. “Very well,” he agreed, “I only thought you would be happy for the company of a beautiful woman like Joanna. She’s extremely accomplished, educated, well-versed in music and the arts.”

  “No doubt,” Philippe answered, indifferent.

  “If you do decide to marry again, you couldn’t find a more illustrious bride,” Richard reminded his friend. “She is a Plantagenet after all… .”

  It was difficult for Philippe to keep from laughing. Sometimes Richard acted like a naive fool! Capet folded his arms across his chest. “For what I want from a woman, a whore will do just as well as a Plantagenet,” he declared.

  Richard sat down heavily on the bed. He pulled a thick golden chain from his neck and flung it to the floor. “That’s a very cynical thing to say,” he grumbled. He leaned forward, his long arms dangling between his knees. “You could do worse than marry into my family, Philippe. Joanna is a jewel among women. For God’s sake, man, she is the daughter and the sister of a king! Even your precious Isabel couldn’t claim that.”

  Philippe pointed viciously at Richard. “I don’t want to hear her name on your lips!” He began to pace back and forth nervously in front of the window, muttering. “You don’t know what it is to love a woman like Isabel. You don’t know what it is to love any woman!”

  Richard’s lips settled into a pout. “I didn’t bring you here tonight so we could argue. We do enough of that during the day.”

  Angry, Philippe stripped the red cloak from his shoulders and tossed it at Richard’s feet. “Bring me here? I am a king, not one of those pretty little Greek boys you keep around to draw your bath water and scent your penis with perfume! Christ Almighty, you better choose your words more carefully when you speak to me!”

  “I didn’t mean for it to sound that way, and you know it …” Richard blustered. “Goddammit Philippe, why do you have to be so disagreeable?”

  Philippe snatched up his cloak and settled it over his shoulders. He gave Richard a hateful look, then started toward the door. “Goodnight,” he snapped.

  Richard jumped up and followed him, jerking him around by the arm. “Don’t leave,” he pleaded.

  There were tears of anger in Philippe’s eyes and his voice was bitter. “Ever since we started out on this grand adventure of yours I have suffered dishonor and humiliation at your hands! I’m sick of it!”

  “That is not true,” Richard said, his eyes blazing with sincerity, “you read deception into every move I make.”

  “With good reason!”

  Richard shook his head sadly. “I don’t understand how you can feel so bitterly toward me. God knows we’ve been as close as any two men can be.”

  “That’s no reason for trusting you,” the French king snapped.

  Richard captured Philippe in a tight embrace, falling upon his friend’s neck with kisses. “All right, don’t trust me then,” he said, “but love me in any case.”

  Philippe’s expression softened. He sighed and took Richard’s face between his hands. “If only it could be that simple! I wish things could be the same as they once were, when Henry was alive. We loved and trusted one another in those days. But it is different now.”

  They were silent for a moment, then their lips met.

  Their kisses were desperate, searching for solutions. At last, breathless, Richard pulled away. “To hell with all the differences,” he muttered, “I’ve never wanted anyone as much as I want you.”

  Philippe left a path of kisses over Richard’s brawny chest. “My love,” he whispered.

  Later, while Philippe slept, Richard lay beside him listening as the wind ruffled the tapestries on the wall, and rain sounded on the stones outside. It was a lonely sound. He brooded, waiting for sleep.

  It was wonderful to feel so close to Philippe once again, fed and satisfied by the glut of passion, but it was only temporary.

  They both knew that. Their relationship outside this bed was strained by doubt, by differences between them as men and as kings. Time would only intensify those differences and in the end it would make them enemies as well.

  And so Richard brooded, on this matter and on other things.

  He thought of the letter he’d received last week from Eleanor. Ever since the coronation his mother had been advising Richard to take a bride. He’d shown little interest and so Eleanor had begun a search herself. Now she’d found a girl whom she deemed suitable to his tastes, and hers.

  Berengaria of Navarre was no stranger to him. Richard knew her well, for he had spent much time at the royal court in Pamplona visiting her brother Sancho, who was his close friend. Berengaria was more plain than pretty, but she had gracious manners and a fine talent for music and dancing. If he must marry, Richard supposed he could do worse than marry her.

  But it was not so easy as that. Eleanor was planning to fetch the girl to Messina in the spring, at which time an explanation of the impending marriage would have to be made to the King of France. Philippe still expected Richard to marry the ill-used Alais Capet, and he was likely to greet any change in those plans with grim antagonism.

  For himself, Richard could hardly wait to be quit of that old agreement, and it had nothing to do with preferring Berengaria. What shame for a man to be affianced to his father’s concubine! Richard had felt the disgrace of that for many years. Let Philippe argue as he may: let him demand whatever excessive payment in gold or silver he would almost certainly expect. Richard was determined to be rid of Alais no matter what the cost.

  Sleep was coming. He could feel it settle in his blood like a warming drink of wine. Beside him, captive to a dream, Philippe grunted and turned over on his stomach, his cheek pressed tightly against Richard’s arm. How comfortable the feel of male flesh, so close to his own.

  Richard closed his eyes and surrendered to the lure of sleep.

  In the weeks that followed Christmas, Tancred waited.

  Aware of the curious love-hate relationship between the two visiting kings, he was eager to exploit it to his own advantage. So far, he had been careful to play the part of accommodating host to both Philippe and Richard, but all the while he’d been observing them, determining who would make the more obliging ally.

  Both had complained to him in secret of the other’s faults.

  Tancred even had a letter under Philippe’s seal which bore the e
vil tidings of Richard as “a traitor who sought, under the guise of keeping peace in Messina, to take all Sicily for himself.” Tancred had preserved the letter, keen to use it at some later date. Richard had been equally free with unflattering comments regarding the King of France, confiding to Tancred that Capet was a thoroughly selfish and untrustworthy man who wished to gamer all the spoils of conquest, without ever dirtying his hands.

  To both men Tancred lent a sympathetic ear, and waited.

  At last, in February 1191, he saw his chance.

  Richard had come to pass a few days with him in Catania. The weather was fair and warm. Desiring some sport, Richard arranged a mock tournament between some of his own men and a group of French knights who had accompanied them to Catania. It had been intended as a practice match, a friendly joust with wooden staves instead of lances, but the spirit of fun turned to one of fierce rivalry when Richard drew the celebrated William de Bar-res as an opponent.

  They were old adversaries. William had beaten Richard in the lists on earlier occasions—and he had done something even worse. Once, as a prisoner in Richard’s charge, de Barres had broken an oath not to attempt escape, and Richard had never forgiven him for that unchivalrous act.

  Now under a bright Sicilian sun they were joined again.

  Richard charged at de Barres three times, and each time the king’s stave was broken by his rival’s. To the shock of all who had assembled there, Richard flew into a violent rage and ordered his opponent out of his presence, even out of the country! Then, in a state of uncontrolled fury, the King of England stomped off the field, muttering vulgar oaths beneath his breath.

  Tancred cannily choose that evening to show him the letter.

  Richard held the proof of Philippe’s treachery between unteady fingers. So it had come to this! Pretending to be a friend, then calling him a traitor behind his back. The truth of it stabbed at Richard like a wound. All they had shared, all that had gone between them—yet Philippe could slander him as easily as he could a hated enemy. Richard wept. He had lost his friend, his lover.

  As for Tancred, he had gained an ally, so he smiled.

  “This letter is a forgery,” Philippe said and tossed it to the floor.

  Richard did not believe him, and because of this one episode, the remainder of their stay in Sicily was troubled. Humiliated at having had his written denunciation of the English king uncovered, Philippe seized upon the news of Richard’s engagement to Berengaria to trot out the old grudge of his sister’s long-delayed marriage to Richard.

  How did he dare to put another woman in her place?

  The matter was argued with vehemence on both sides and it was finally decided that, as before, a mediator was needed. Once again the Count of Flanders employed his talents as a diplomat in order to bring about a settlement between the two quarreling kings.

  After days of wrangling and refusals, the following agreement was made, set down and signed. Philippe would relieve Richard of his betrothal pledge to Alais; in return the French king would be recompensed with the territories of Auvergne, Issoudun and Gracay; and an additional ten thousand silver Troyes marks.

  As simply as that, it was done.

  Both kings were well satisfied with the Treaty of Messina and chose to feel they had gotten an advantage on the other. Actually it was Philippe who had cut the best deal for himself, Richard who had blundered. By ceding those lands back to Philippe (whose soldiers had captured them during the wars with Henry) he had provided the French king with a convenient, even tempting, corridor into the Aquitaine. Either Richard did not see the dangers inherent in such a settlement, or he had decided to ignore them.

  In any case, he did not care. The final, mocking reminder of Henry Plantagenet had been swept away and Richard was free to marry Berengaria. He was almost happy.

  Philippe had even greater cause for celebration.

  Now, having resolved the troublesome matter of Alais, and extended the boundaries of his domain at the same time, he was anxious to leave Sicily. At once the king set about gathering his army and making preparations for a sea voyage.

  He was hoping to leave for Acre by the end of March.

  Fabiana was gamboling in her bath.

  “I still cannot believe my fortune at being able to use water whenever I wish,” she giggled, looking across at Philippe who was sitting on a stool before the fire.

  He gave a glance over his shoulder. “Enjoy it now, for I fear there will be little of it once we leave here, until we are able to capture Acre.” He looked back toward the fire. “God only knows when that will be.”

  She skimmed the tiny flecks of jasmine oil off the surface of the water and rubbed her breasts and shoulders with the fragrant residue. This was all such luxury to her: the bath, the clothes of silk and linen, wholesome food when she wished to eat. Had Fabiana not already loved the king for himself, she would have loved him for the things he gave her.

  She stepped from the water and wrapped herself in a lambswool coverlet, then filled a cup with wine and took it to him, holding it out like an offering.

  Philippe took the cup. “Sit with me,” he said. Fabiana huddled against his knee, her face tilted to look up at him. She had asked the question many times, but now she felt impelled to ask it once again. “Shall I be with you there? Will you keep me beside you always?”

  His fingers played in her dark hair. “As close as close is,” he answered, looking somber, till all at once he smiled. “Surely you don’t mean to mount the very walls of Acre with my army …”

  She did not return the smile. “I am afraid of being separated from you and claimed by other men. How would I ever find you? No one would believe me if I told them I belonged to the king.”

  Philippe bent to kiss her forehead. She was like a child, so dependent on him in every way; never quite sure why she merited his attention, and yet afraid it might dissolve at any time. He tried to reassure her. “Don’t worry about such things,” he said, “for you have my protection. No man is going to take the mistress of a king.”

  That seemed to ease her fears. “You are so good to me,” she said, kissing his knee. “No one was ever good to me before.” Then she looked past him at the tray of food on the floor; eager for it, but awaiting his permission.

  Philippe pushed the tray toward her. “Eat,” he said.

  She fed happily on almond cakes, on pastries made with beef and cheese, and while she ate Philippe stroked her breasts and the black waves of her hair which fell over them. She smelled so sweet, so fresh from her bath water, and her skin was soft to his touch. He gave her wine from his own cup and licked away the tiny drops that spilled on her chin.

  Fabiana looked up at him, her dark eyes glowing. “Do I please you, my lord?” she asked. “I want so very much to please you …”

  He stood up, his hand in hers, and pulled her toward the bed.

  “You please me well, Fabiana,” he said, the breath catching in his chest as he reached out to fondle her heavy breasts, “but surely you must know that by now.”

  Contented, she settled back and spread her legs for him.

  Philippe liked the look of her wide, welcoming cunt fringed with thick black curls, and he filled her in an instant. She was a hot-blooded southerner who could not hide her pleasure, and in a moment she was gasping, cooing vulgar praises in his ear. her arms coiled about his neck as he pumped against her.

  Christ. she felt so good to him.

  Fabiana closed her eyes. He was wonderful. No other man had ever filled her so completely. He was her king, her lover; he was everything. Whenever he took her. she felt as though God Himself had put a blessing on her.

  Philippe was working furiously, sweat dripping from his face.

  She may have had a thousand other men in her before, but now she was his and there would be no others. “You belong to me.” he cried out, “do you understand? To me.”

  Later he held her in his arms. She was lightly dozing.

  “I will be so glad to
leave here.” he told her. “Your presence is the only thing that has made it bearable for me.”

  She smiled, pleased. Then her eyes went wide with imagining. “What will it be like at the holy place?”

  Philippe bent to lick her breasts. “I don’t know, but the news from there is bad. So many killed …” He rubbed his cheek against her nipples. “I’m afraid, Fabiana. Not for myself, but for my son and the safety of my realm should I not return.”

  He had never spoken to her of fears before and hearing him do so now made Fabiana want to cry. She kissed his lips over and over again, while her hands played lightly upon his beard. “You are a great king, my lord, the greatest king who ever lived! God will protect you.”

  He tightened his arms around her. “I need your prayers.”

  She smoothed the tangle of curls back from his forehead. “I pray for you each day and every night.” Her cheeks colored just a little. “Do you suppose God listens to the prayers of a whore?”

  Philippe rolled Fabiana on her back and rested on her. “Yes,” he said, “I shouldn’t be surprised if He does.” He nuzzled at her breasts with his chin, and his beard scratched her flesh. “What of this—?” he asked, his hands tight against her hips. “Does a whore answer the prayers of a king?”

  She had never known a man who was so lusty. On most nights he took her several times; more. The knowledge that she satisfied him added pride to her desire. She could please him. She could please the king. They kissed with wet, open mouths and Fabiana felt him grow big against her belly.

  She wrapped her legs around his back and held him.

  Adele held the child in her arms and smiled down at Edythe.

  “You’ve done well, my dear,” the admiring grandmother declared,“he is handsome like his father, and healthy too.” Then she handed the baby over to William le Breton for baptism and took up Edythe’s hand, squeezing it. “Philippe will be so proud of him, and of you too.”

  Edythe felt a weary peace settle over her. She looked past Adele at the priest who held her son and said, “I give him over to your care until his father’s return, good chaplain.”