Baldwin supposed that this was true but he had another argument. “Have you then forgotten Henry of England? For many years we Flemings have coexisted with England and France. Now if we pursue the course you suggest, Henry may well look upon us as enemies. Flanders and Hainault together are no match for England.”
“Are you speaking of armies?” Flanders asked, “for I do not fear either Henry or his soldiers. I have served him well in the past as you know. As have you. Our economic ties to England are too strong to allow any discord between us.”
“And the French barons?” Baldwin asked pointedly, “do you really think that they will sit back passively while a boy king rules through the auspices of a Flemish count? Be sensible! It is not only Adele and her brothers we have to fear but all allies of the Houses of Champagne and Blois.” He paced nervously then turned to Philip. “No. You have reached too high this time. Do you wish to plunge both your county and mine into war with England and France?”
Philip rose quietly to his feet and went at once to the table where he poured himself another drink. Facing Baldwin he regarded him steadily for a moment before explaining, “Our natures are dissimilar, my friend, and our souls sing a different song, it is true. But we are kin through marriage and there is some design in that. I beg you to heed me. You know that I would never allow pride or ambition to shackle my good sense. I am a soldier, Baldwin, and I don’t act hastily or without reason. I have considered this matter gravely and I believe my plan to be sound. And you must act with me, in full confidence of our joint success.”
“I am afraid of the consequences,” Baldwin answered simply.
Flanders put an arm about his brother-in-law’s neck and chortled in affection, “Baldwin, trust me.” Then his face sobered and he looked keenly into Baldwin’s eyes. “My dear brother, my dear friend—there is a time in each man’s life when his destiny is laid before him clearly and he must seize that moment of opportunity or lose it forever. Our moment has come. If we act now, immediately, with clear heads and confident spirits, we may raise ourselves up as we have never dreamed. Think on that.”
Baldwin was unswayed. “What fair speech did you make to the boy Philippe to sell him on this madness? He has not so much to gain as we do, save the enmity of England and the Empire, and his own nobles—to say nothing of his family. I would have loved to hear you put that proposition to rights!”
Flanders placed his hands on his lean hips as he surveyed Baldwin craftily. “Then hear me. I have promised Philippe, as Isabel’s dowry, the areas of Arras, Bapaume, St. Omer—the whole of Artois province. And, upon the death of myself or my wife, the entire county of Vermandois and its annexed portion Valois. This, contingent on the birth of their first son. Is that not tempting enough?”
Now Baldwin’s surprise was thoroughly piqued. “You offered all that? Sweet Jesus, but you are hungrier for this than I had believed …”
“Plus,” Flanders cut in, “since I have no child of my own, no heir of my body—upon my death the territories of Flanders and Hainault will be combined and passed on to you, or to your oldest son if you and my sister are not living at the time.”
“You never cease to surprise me,” Baldwin admitted, sinking disconsolately into his chair, “but even if that is the bait for Philippe—and I will admit it is considerable—it will still be some time before it materializes. After all, Isabel is so young and Philippe himself is little more than a boy.”
“It is some time since you have seen him,” Philip reminded, “he will soon be a man. Already he is tall and broad-shouldered and, like his father, hung like a bull as well. And you realize how advanced Isabel is of her years. To look at her one would easily take her for thirteen, even fourteen. She already has more bosom than my wife—though that alone is not too much to boast of. And Isabel is beautiful, Baldwin—truly, in all my years and all my travels I have never seen another female of any age who could compare to her. She has all the finest physical attributes of our two families. Can you imagine what she will look like in a few years? Christ! Once Philippe sees her there is no way he could regret this decision.”
After a momentary pause Philip said, “The lineage of our family also intrigues the French boy. The Capets have been waiting for centuries to fuse their blood with the descendents of Charlemagne. More to the point, it was prophesied in the time of Hugh Capet that a child born to that house seven generations hence would bear the bloodline of Charlemagne. I admit it is an interesting coincidence, and it serves our cause well; you know how superstitious the French are. So you can see, Baldwin, that aside from her dowry and her beauty, our Isabel has much to offer a French king.”
Baldwin sat staring down at his hands, the fingers interlaced, prayer fashion, his fine features set in porcelain coldness. He was as human as his brother-in-law; he itched for the glory that was offered in this proposal. But he had a conscience, and he also had a more personal stake in this matter. He spoke quietly, trying to bridle his emotions. “I wish that you had consulted with me before negotiating away so valuable a piece of my property as my daughter. I can understand your need for haste in this matter, and yet I think …”
Flanders cut in boldly, “The Champagnois hunger for power grows every day, Baldwin. I had to act when I did. I could not have waited.”
Baldwin’s face was very pale against the darkness of his neatly trimmed beard; his grey-green eyes narrowed in seriousness. “She is my daughter, Philip. I love her. She means more to me than anyone on earth. She is my finest, most perfect possession. I knew that someday I must give her up—I did not think it would be so soon.”
“I understand your reluctance to release her,” Philip answered in quiet knowingness. “She is unspeakably lovely. Would that she were mine, and that I had a father’s right to use her in the manner I wished.”
Baldwin turned his face away. His voice was solemn. “I love her as any father would.”
“Aye, as any father would love such a treasure, and treasure such a love.”
Baldwin faced him with resolute calm. “I am concerned for her. She has known the shelter of love and fondness; we are a close family, much together. I loathe the idea of sending her off to live in that wretched heap of stones on the Seine the French kings call a palace.”
“She has been well loved,” Flanders mused.
Baldwin’s face was grave. “Take care what you say.”
Philip d’Alsace’s eyes flamed a deep apricot shade. “There is more at stake here than her feelings, or your own. We are caught within the currents of a destiny and either we swim with it, or we drown… Then, with less affectation, he said, “Take heed, Baldwin. I am a worldly man. I have seen much in my life; I am not easily shocked. I understand how a man may lust for sweet white flesh, even if that flesh is of his own making. But you cannot play husband to her forever. So rejoice in the fact that I have found a use for her which is beyond anything we could have dreamed.”
“I love her too much to use her!” Baldwin insisted. Philip bent close to Baldwin, his voice pitched low. “We will both use her; and use her as benefits us both. I know what I am doing. Philippe Capet has an extraordinary future before him: he has more cunning and ability than seems possible in one so young. With our guidance—the kind of help and tutoring that only men of our quality can offer—he will develop quickly into a formidable power.” He straightened up, drawing in a breath of satisfaction. “Isabel is our link to that power. Put that little beauty in the bed of a future king, and I say we shall all be rewarded.” His smile was saucy. “And Philippe Capet no less than you or I.” A studied pause, then a smile. “Come, let us go in to dinner.”
The scent of burning greenwood was pungent in the room and overlaid by the wafting perfume of lavender strewn among the carpet of rushes. The Count of Hainault and his family sat now with Philip of Flanders at the flower-trimmed trestle table in the great hall. They dined pleasantly on capons in vine sauce, pork with a plum dressing, cabbage and almond soup, honeyed red currants, and ta
nsy cake spiced with peppermint cream.
Margot, excluded from the earlier discussion between her husband and her brother, sulked with dignity throughout the meal, waiting for the time when she would be taken into whatever confidences had been exchanged. Her cat-like slanted eyes glinted gold in the candlelight as she looked from Baldwin to Philip and back to Baldwin, her dangling pendant earrings making little tinkling sounds as she watched… .
His verbal petition to Baldwin delivered, his stomach full, his mind at ease, Philip of Flanders basked enjoyably within this scene: pomegranate wine before him and Baldwin’s family beside him. He was fond of his sister’s family, always doting on the four children. Flanders and Elizabeth of Vermandois, his wife of twenty-one years, were childless.
Isabel was his pet, his specially adored favorite. She was a complex child, moody and mature with a way of half shielding, half revealing her nature—a subtle coloring of personality lost to most adults who looked upon children without distinguishing between them.
Between Isabel and her uncle there was a psychic link—a spark of magic invisible to others but expressed between them in silent glances and the slightest contact of hands. In a strange and very real way they understood each other from an emotional depth which was perplexing even to them.
Philip watched her. She had remained circumspect and uninquisitive during the meal—silent, but catching his eye every so often, teasing him with a half smile, a shaded look. Isabel was an exotic, beautiful girl with long hair light as flax and blond to the roots. Her eyes—predominant in her face—were large, grey-green and infinitely mysterious. Sea eyes. Her mouth, the bottom lip so full and tremulous above her pointed chin, had an incredibly sensual appearance. Flanders knew that she understood her unusual appeal and deliberately communicated it to him. It was an easy thing to see how she had so completely captivated Baldwin.
Flanders reached to take her hand now, saying, “Come here, Isabel, and sit with me. Your father and I have some astounding news for you.” Without compunction she came to sit upon his lap, her arms warm about his neck. Looking steadily into her face he asked, “Darling child, how would you like to be Queen of France?”
Her lips parted but she did not speak as questions looked out of the puzzled depths of her eyes. Interpreting the nature of her wonderment, Philip was quick to explain: “I am of course not speaking of the current King of France as your husband. Louis is old and he’s dying. I doubt very much that he’ll last out the year. When he dies young Philippe will be king and what a king he will make!” That declaration was tinged with something akin to fatherly pride. “Philippe is a boy of great spirit and ability. He is in fact capable of ruling France alone, even now, despite his youth and without the unwelcome intrusiveness of his mother and uncles. Your father and I are his steadfast allies. …” A shade of disapproval passed over Baldwin’s expression at those words, but he said nothing as Flanders continued: “In marrying you, Philippe cements the bond between us and shows his uncles and his mother that he is separating himself from them.”
Young as she was, Isabel understood the value of a powerful political marriage. A young heiress owed her relatives the honor of a good match. One had already been arranged for her: several months ago she had been contractually affianced to one of Philippe Capet’s cousins, young Henri of Champagne. But now her talented uncle had managed to find her a king! She knew that she was the pawn in this game, but if the fabulous Philip d’Alsace was confident such a marriage was in the best interests of her family, who was she to disagree? She hesitated for only an instant; gave her father a fleeting, elusive glance; then kissed her uncle fondly on the lips and asked, “When will the marriage take place?”
Philip’s white teeth flashed in a ready grin and he embraced her. To his brother-in-law he said, “By God’s breath, Baldwin, you and my sister have a magnificent daughter! I swear she will make a fine queen!” Philip rose to his stately height, his strong arms hoisting Isabel high above him. He smiled up at her and she smiled back, as the ends of her long hair tickled against his throat.
Hours later Isabel stood naked in the moonlit silence of her room, winding her hair into plaits and thinking of the news her uncle had brought. Outside a mellow bird cooed in the spring wind and the white willows rustled. Then Isabel lay down upon the bed and waited; after a while she slept. Under her closed lids, her eyes shined.
Baldwin drank heavily that night. He was usually a temperate man but tonight his conscience was on fire with frustration and guilt. Foreboding gnawed at his brain like a maggot.
The fire had gone out hours before and he was alone now with only the darkness in friendless counsel. In a wrath of self-disgust he cursed himself for allowing Flanders to intimidate him. It was nothing new. In the eleven years since his marriage to Margot he had been forced to defer to Flanders in many matters. There had been little friction between them, since Philip’s extraordinary arrogance was reasonably tempered with good sense, charm, and much practical determination. Now his boundless ambition had finally discovered a permanent roost; but he needed Baldwin’s acquiescence, Baldwin’s help, and Baldwin’s daughter.
Margot had held her tongue, but not through shyness. Like her brother she was eager and grasping, never sated, always wanting more. The idea of being mother to the Queen of France would feed her greedy appetite for fame and power. It would not matter to her that an oath had been broken to make way for a risky, ambitious and too-soon-settled act of daring. Neither she nor Philip d’Alsace were cautious enough to see that the risks in the matter equalled the promise of gain. Margot was young—only thirteen at Isabel’s birth—her youth and Fleming spirit explained her lack of discretion. Philip, scion of the d’Alsace family, was old enough to know better. But his restless, determined spirit could never be satisfied or calmed with anything other than ultimate success.
But distress and silent frustration are pitiable substitutes for resolve, and after a while Baldwin urged himself out of the chair, numb and soul-sick and too weary to contest any longer. The sound of indistinct footsteps escorted him across the hall toward the stairway and up the steps and down the corridor to his wife’s room. He paused for a moment outside the door, then turned from it, continuing down the unlit passageway.
Isabel sensed rather than heard his presence just outside her door and when he entered she was sitting up, shimmering in a spill of moonlight. Wordlessly he came to sit beside her on the bed, unwrapping the plaits from her hair while she sat very still, her eyes focusing on his face. “I didn’t know what you wanted me to say,” she confided.
“There was no time to speak to you alone, though I should have been the one to tell you,” Baldwin said soberly. “Philip was so anxious to burble it all at dinner, I didn’t have the chance.” He took a breath. “Are you angry with me?”
Her gaze was a soft focus of light on his face. “Is it what you want?”
He turned his face from her, his head throbbing from confusion and too much wine. His voice was hoarse. “I don’t know.”
Gently, as though she were the parent comforting the child, Isabel took his face between her hands, making him look at her. Her voice was soft but very steady. ”I want whatever you want. Today. Tomorrow. Always.”
Baldwin went readily into her arms, his words tangled in sobs. “I want you.”
“You have me,” she answered, inscrutably calm. “Nothing will ever change that.” She sank gracefully to the bed cushions, easing him down beside her. “Now hush . ..”
For a long time he lay weeping in her arms, his head pillowed on her soft young shoulder as she stroked his hair and muttered quiet words of comfort. Her love was pure and perfect and trusting and he received it covetously, drowning in it, until there was nothing else… .
Later when he rose to go, she took hold of his hand, bringing it to her lips and kissing it tenderly. “Do whatever you must,” she told him, “and don’t worry. I understand. It will be all right. I promise you.”
His hand slipped awa
y and after a moment she heard the sound of the door closing and she was alone. The bed was still warm where he had lain and Isabel nestled close in it, surrendering herself to the lure of sleep and the unfocused fascination of dreams.
HARRY PLATAGENET stirred in his sleep and twisted over to one side. He opened his eyes drowsily, trying to remember where he was. His head ached from a full evening of drinking and a familiar sourness clawed at his innards.
The room was airless and Harry stumbled to his feet and toward the window. He leaned far out, drawing air into his lungs. The exertion caused the vomit to rise in his throat. Retching, he spewed the vile mess at his feet.
Harry felt a little better now but cursed himself for having drunk so much It was his downfall, he knew, and though he was continually promising himself that he would stop, weakness was his greatest weakness—and Harry was too weak to stop.
Drinking was one of the more appealing diversions in young Harry Plantagenet’s life. He was twenty-five, the oldest son of King Henry of England, and the designated heir to the throne. Yet he lived a life devoid of purpose, reveling in pleasures which had begun to pall years earlier. His “kingdom” seemed a long way in coming. His father still ruled in England with power and aplomb. There was Marguerite, of course, Harry’s French wife—a daughter of Louis VII—but she was no diversion, never had been. And there were problems: his three brothers—younger, shrewder than he, and all ambitious—Richard, Geoffrey, and John. Worse, there was his own indolence every day eroding his natural gifts.
Reclining once again on the bed, Harry smiled approvingly at his most recent pastime. Philippe Capet lay on his stomach, his face turned sideways pressed against the rough brunette bedcover, black tangled hair partially covering his face.
Philippe was a strange boy, alternately passionate and cold. Harry knew him better than anyone did, yet really did not know him at all. They had been lovers since Christmas when Harry, seeking a release from boredom, had sought solace in Paris. Harry had known Philippe for many years, of course; they were brothers-in-law, and Harry had participated in the French boy’s coronation the previous November. He was so young, not yet fifteen, relatively inexperienced and not really Harry’s type. Harry had known many lovers of both sexes but there was something especially appealing to him about this black-eyed youth, so attractive in a sullen, gypsy way.
The Rain Maiden Page 3
