The Rain Maiden

by Jill M Philips

  William made the sign of a cross in the air. “Then he shall be in God’s care,” he answered, “and God shall keep him well.”

  Aloud, he began to pray in Latin.

  PHILIPPE sailed to Acre on a blue, untroubled sea.

  The French put into port on April 20th. They were met by a rejoicing crowd of knights and soldiers who had gathered at the shore to meet them. For so long they had awaited these reinforcements from the West! Now at last here were twenty thousand strong and well-fed men come to relieve their dwindling numbers, and soon they would be joined by even more, when the fabled king Richard of England brought his troops to Acre.

  Richard of England! How grand it would be when he came!

  But for now Philippe of France was the hero of the day.

  The soldiers flocked to him, falling to their knees to pay him tribute. He was a fine sight, tall and strong, and this day dressed in brave shades of green and gold.

  A king to lead them! At last a king!

  After Philippe had eaten and rested he asked to be taken on a tour of the camp. His escort was Conrad of Montferrat who, with King Guy of Jerusalem, was one of the acknowledged leaders of the crusade. By virtue of his success in rescuing Tyre from Saladin’s forces, Conrad had won much fame and honor among the crusaders, as well as the title Lord of Tyre. Philippe liked him at once, and marked him down as a man to trust. He was surely a wiser and more politic leader than the foolish Guy de Lusignan, of whom Philippe had heard few complimentary remarks.

  The two men rode to the edge of camp and looked back.

  “You cannot imagine what your presence here will mean to the men,” Conrad said, his voice pitched low as if in awe. “For such a long time they’ve been without decent food, without leadership, worst of all without hope. Now, with you and all you have brought with you, I have no doubt we shall take Acre before summer comes.”

  “If God wills,” Philippe nodded solemnly. His gaze carried to the farthest reaches of the Christian settlement. It was a squalid sight. Most of the pavilions were patched and ragged, their bright colors dulled by exposure to the sun. The soldiers, although there were many of them, were thin and ill-equipped, almost to a man.

  But there was worse.

  Far to the west, at the fringe of the camp, a thousand bodies lay congealing beneath the sun. Philippe regarded the scene with disgust and covered his mouth to keep from choking. The stench of death hung in the air like an evil perfume.

  “Why have those bodies been left unburied?” he asked.

  Conrad shrugged. “It’s not a pretty sight, I agree, but there is reason for it. Those men mutinied against their commanders and led a surprise raid on the Moslem camp. They were slain to the last man. Their actions were foolish, and they were deemed unfit for a Christian burial.”

  “That is ridiculous,” Philippe sniffed contemptuously. “Put some men to work digging a trench, and see to it at once.” Then he jerked on his horses’ rein. “My tent should be ready by now,” he said to Conrad. “After I have taken my dinner with the Duke of Burgundy and the Count of Flanders, I want you to bring the commanders to my tent for a meeting. You will be present also, of course. In a short time King Richard will join us here at Acre and we will begin the siege at once. We have much to do.”

  Conrad was an old campaigner and not easily impressed by other men. But he looked admiringly at Philippe. “I will do whatever you ask,” he said. Then as they made their way back down the sandy rise into the midst of the camp, he added, “You are a young man to be so wise. I shall consider it an honor to serve you.”

  Philippe smiled his appreciation. Then he asked, “Tell me, my friend, are there many women in the camp?”

  “Not any more,” Conrad replied dismally. “Many have died of plague, and others went off to serve the Moslems when our food ran scarce.”

  “I have brought over three thousand women with me,” Philippe declared, “but I will not unload them from the ships until provisions have been made ready for their arrival. Will you see to this for me?”

  Conrad squinted handsomely into the setting sun. Was he to be taken for a whoremaster? For a moment he wavered, but then thought better of it and agreed. “What would you have me do?” he asked.

  Again the smile. “I want them billeted in groups of no more than one hundred at equal distances throughout the camp. The women are to be paid a sum of two deniers at a time, no more, for their services. See to it that the men draw lots. I want no riots on my hands.” He reached out and clapped his new companion heartily on the shoulder. “You will be glad at some later date I have chosen to entrust you with this matter.”

  Conrad was beginning to understand, and a broad smile creased his face. “The men will doubtless think kindly of me,” he mused.

  Philippe laughed.

  “Of us both, my dear Conrad. And you shall have yet another reward. For your help in this matter I will give you first choice of all the common women, except, of course, those which I and the men in my retinue have taken for ourselves.” He paused, grinning at Conrad’s look of skepticism. “Don’t worry. There are plenty of pretties left for you to choose from. You won’t be disappointed.”

  Laughing, they made their way toward the king’s tent.

  The moon was a piece of gold trapped in a sapphire.

  It was evening now, and cool at last.

  Philippe stood just outside his tent, waiting for Flanders and listening to the sounds around him. It was almost peaceful; he felt good.

  The mood of the camp was good too, and much improved since his arrival two weeks ago. Philippe had given the soldiers a sense of worthiness by putting them to work: digging trenches, erecting new tents, and filling in the great ditch that lay before the walls of Acre. Once that was accomplished (and it would be soon) huge siege machines would be deployed against the city. By that time Richard should have arrived.

  Philippe didn’t understand the delay.

  Originally, Richard’s plan had been to remain in Sicily only long enough to greet his visiting mother, and collect his fiancee. But that had been over one month ago, and still he had not reached Acre. Philippe was beginning to lose patience. He wanted to start the siege in earnest. But he had promised to wait for Richard and his army. It was important to use the full force of both armies in the attack if Acre was to be taken speedily.

  The stubborn little garrison inside the city walls had held out bravely ever since Guy de Lusignan had begun the siege over two years ago. They were impoverished, helpless. Saladin’s army, encamped on the other side of the crusader settlement, was unable to aid them in any way.

  Philippe had no doubt the garrison could be overthrown. It was the walls that troubled him, walls built by earlier soldiers of the cross! Philippe’s tent was pitched directly opposite the primary defense stronghold of the fortification, the “Accursed Tower,” which he was determined to take once the fighting began. Meanwhile he saw to the building of his siege engines, and waited for Richard.

  Despite the new sense of purpose among the soldiers, there were problems in the camp. Saladin’s men made periodic raids on the outer reaches of the settlement, and it was not unusual for a man to be murdered in his sleep, his throat slashed to near decapitation by a Moslem scimitar. Philippe had strengthened his patrols, and because of this the killings diminished, but did not stop entirely.

  But disease was an invader that could not be stopped.

  Men died every day of everything from plague to heat stroke, and the corpses (however quickly they were buried) only spread more sickness among the soldiers. Once June came, and July, the brutal heat of middle summer would make the situation even worse. Conditions had improved, however, since the previous autumn, when hundreds died every day, including Queen Sibylla of Jerusalem, the wife of King Guy.

  Philippe squinted into the twilight. There was an intensity to this barren desert landscape, a fierceness both beautiful and strange. It was a place of zealots, of poets and prophets; a land that gave rise to legen
ds and heroes with rich-sounding names. Richard belonged here, but Philippe did not. His nature rebelled against the all-too-pervasive spirit of Oriental decadence; he was frightened of a lure of mystery he could not understand. It was an enigma. Like Geoffrey. Like Isabel.

  At last Flanders came and took Philippe out of his contemplative mood, and he was glad. How much more at ease the French king was with talk of practical matters! He greeted Flanders with a nod, and then waved him inside the tent.

  Philippe had put him in charge of seeing to it that the siege machines were built according to the proper specifications, but it was not this business which had brought him to the king’s pavilion tonight. He flung himself into a camp chair and waited silently as Fabiana served wine to him and Philippe. When she ’had withdrawn, Flanders gulped a little of the drink, then looked straight at his host.

  “I bring you bad news, I fear,” he said, wiping drops of wine from his mouth with a trailing sleeve. “Word has just arrived in the camp from the captain of a Genoese galley that some of King Richard’s fleet has been lost in a storm off the Greek islands.” He paused, anticipating Philippe’s question and before the king could ask it he continued, “Richard is known to be safe, though the ship bearing his fiancee and sister may have been lost.”

  Philippe looked down at his folded hands. “Where is Richard now?”

  “At Rhodes. But there is talk he has been sending letters to the emperor on Cyprus.”

  Philippe frowned. Emperor Isaac Comnenus was no friend to the crusaders. In the past he had been accused of favoring Saladin’s cause against the Latins from the West. He was also known to have seized both ships and supplies bound for the Christian camp at Acre. He was a typically corrupt Byzantine despot and it puzzled Philippe that Richard would wish to have any dealings with him.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  Flanders’s amber eyes were full of doubt. “I don’t know. It’s possible Richard is trying to make some sort of deal with Isaac, in order to facilitate safe passage here to Acre. You must have heard how many ships the emperor has despoiled for his own purposes.”

  Philippe gave a small, ironic laugh. “Richard fears no man on earth. If he is in communication with the emperor, I say they are both up to no good.”

  Flanders finished his wine and stood up. “Well, we won’t know what it’s all about till Richard gets here, and I hope it will be soon. You have brought new blood to this endeavor, and the men are anxious to begin the siege.”

  Philippe looked up, interested. “How soon will my three hundred mangonels be completed?”

  Flanders stroked his beard thoughtfully. “By the end of this week, I should think.”

  “Good,” Philippe said at once, “as soon as they are ready we shall begin the siege. We cannot wait indefinitely for Richard to arrive.”

  The Count of Flanders caught the implication in the king’s words and sympathized with his opinion. “Indeed, you are taken by the soldiers to be their leader, as you should be. But when Richard comes …” His voice trailed off, but Philippe understood what he was saying.

  He looked up as Flanders moved toward the edge of the tent.

  “Are you going so soon?”

  The count tossed a cloak about his shoulders. “I’ve been up since before dawn. The prospect of a night’s sleep is very pleasing to me.”

  “Of course.”

  Philippe followed him outside. The two men stood together for a time—silent, looking off into a sky filled with stars. “What a queer place this is,” the king mused, “and how strangely out of place I feel here.”

  Flanders’s fine profile was blurred against the background of night, but the gleam of his eye showed for a moment. “You prefer politics to soldiering, I know.”

  There was a melancholy note in Philippe’s voice. “I shall be very happy to return to France again. Paris seems so distant to me now, as if it were a memory.”

  “You shall see it soon enough my friend, never fear.” He made the prospect sound easy, possible.

  Philippe stared ahead into the darkness. “I only wish I knew that to be true.”

  Flanders put an arm about the king’s shoulder. “We’ve had our many differences, Capet, but whatever matters have divided us I have always felt a father’s love for you, and my respect runs just as deep—so I must speak my heart. You will do great things in the East, for God has brought you here to that purpose. But you must trust in Him.” Flanders’ voice softened almost to a whisper. “Be vigilant, Philippe. Take care Richard does not get the best of you. In any case, you are the better man by far.”

  Philippe groped for Flanders’s hand and found it.

  Richard had been sea-sick, shipwrecked, and stricken with fever.

  It had been a hard few weeks.

  Part of his fleet had been driven by storms onto the coast of Cyprus, including the ship of Joanna and Berengaria. The two women had prudently refused to go ashore, though Isaac Comnenus had invited them to do so, for they were afraid of being taken hostage and held for ransom. It was just the sort of barbarous act for which the emperor was famous.

  But what to do?

  After two weeks, the stranded passengers had nearly exhausted their supply of fresh water. The women were dismayed; and just when they were about to give themselves up to the questionable hospitality of the emperor, Richard’s flagship appeared like a tiny painted toy at the edge of the horizon.

  At once Isaac gave up all thoughts of hostages and ransom.

  The Cypriots had pillaged several shipwrecked English galleys, killing the soldiers or taking them as prisoners. Richard had heard of this and he was furious. Isaac had promised to allow the English safe passage to Syria. Now he was abetting all manner of offenses against them.

  Richard brought his troops ashore and chased the emperor and his men into the mountains. In a few hours the crusaders had taken the city of Limassol for themselves and Richard had inherited a vast amount of booty. But he was still outraged at Isaac for his lies and treachery, and determined to conquer all of Cyprus before setting sail for Acre.

  Actually, Richard had already claimed it by way of a public proclamation, swearing clemency to all who accepted him as their new lord, and destruction to those who did not.

  There was no resistance. The Greeks were terrified of him.

  On May 12th at Limassol, Richard married Berengaria.

  It was a spectacular if hastily arranged affair, made somewhat incongruous by the fact that the splendidly adorned Richard outshone the bride.

  The royal couple spent their wedding night at Isaac’s palace.

  Berengaria pulled the coverlet around her shoulders and looked across the room at Richard. He had been standing at the window for an hour: silent, moody. What was he thinking? His attitude was so withdrawn he might have been alone in all the world.

  Was he angry with her? If so, what had she done to displease him? Berengaria was puzzled and embarrassed. She had done what she believed a bride should do: undressed submissively and lain herself down upon the bed. From what little she knew of the marriage night ritual, the rest was his responsibility.

  This silence was no good; finally she spoke. “Richard, have I done something to offend you? If so, tell me. My only wish is to please you.”

  He turned toward her. Even in the dimness she could see the lines of strain etched in his face.

  “I’m sorry,” he mumbled and his chin drooped toward his chest. “I don’t know what to say.”

  Berengaria didn’t want to cry but the tears were coming closer. His words had made her feel helpless and ashamed. It was her own fault that Richard was not attracted to her; she wasn’t pretty or exciting enough to hold his interest. If only she had been born beautiful!

  She began to sob into her hands.

  Richard hurried to her side at once, making a move to embrace her. Then he drew back, intimidated by the delicacy of her throat and shoulders. Surely his powerful arms could crush such a fragile girl.

 
; Berengaria saw his reluctance and took it for displeasure.

  “You cannot even bring yourself to touch me!” she wept.

  He reached to take her hand and held it gently, like a flower. “You are a lovely girl Berengaria, be assured. I am proud to have you as my wife.”

  She stopped crying long enough to look at him. How she loved to look at him. A few deep breaths steadied her a little. “If that is true, why can’t you treat me as your wife?”

  “I shall, in time.” He kissed her hand.

  Berengaria tried to find a speck of love in his eyes but there was only blue and coldness. At last she looked away. “I shall feel a dreadful fraud tomorrow, when the bishop puts the crown upon my head and calls me queen,” she said.

  Richard considered that for a moment. She was right. It was unfitting for him to leave her just as he had found her. If they were to be king and queen together they must first be man and wife. He hastened to pull off his smock, then stooped to undo his laces.

  “Here,” he said.

  Berengaria stared as he thrust his penis into her hands. What did he want her to do? Hesitantly her fingers closed around the smooth and hairless stern. She squeezed gently a few times, then began to stroke it awkwardly.

  It was obvious she had never touched a man before and although that hardly surprised him, Richard was frustrated by her inexperience. At last, still limp, he pulled away from her.

  “Never mind,” he said, lacing up his braies, “just go to sleep. You have an early day tomorrow, Berengaria.”

  She stared back at him, unbelieving, and suddenly the tears rushed from her eyes. “I don’t know what you expect of me or what you would have me do!” she wailed.

  Richard silenced her with a chaste kiss. “We are both tired,” he said. “We’ll deal with this matter at some later date; there is no need to rush.” He kissed her once again. “I’m going to my own room now. Goodnight, dear wife.”