Harry reached out to stroke Philippe’s face and the French boy stirred in his sleep, then cried out. His glazed eyes found Harry and he instantly relaxed. He took hold of Harry’s hand and kissed it again and again. “Oh,” he breathed, “I was dreaming. …”
“You sounded frightened, was it so bad?”
“I don’t know,” Philippe answered, “I can’t exactly remember. Everything was black. I couldn’t breathe. Why did you put out the candles? You know I can’t stand the dark.” He shivered, and then nestled close against Harry’s chest. “How fortunate to wake and find you at my side.” They held each other silently for a while, Harry stroking the curly black hair. “I wonder if my father ever had another man,” Philippe mused quietly. “Did your father?”
In the darkness Harry smiled to himself. “Not your father, surely. And mine? I can’t say. Oh, there was a time when old Henry screwed anything that moved. I suppose he’s a bit past it now. Of course, he’s still got Alais. He’s been fucking her since she was a child. It’s no wonder Richard doesn’t want to marry her. And she loves father, or claims to.”
“That’s a pretty shoddy way to treat my half-sister,” Philippe declared with an undertone of hostility. “Your father is a tyrant! God knows he humiliated my father more times than I care to remember.”
Harry loosened his hold on Philippe. “Don’t be so dramatic,” he teased, “you can’t possibly remember that much. All that happened years before you were born.”
Philippe struggled to a sitting position. “I have heard stories from Louis. I don’t think he was ever the same after Henry took Eleanor from him. He loved her, the bitch!”
“Ah yes, my fabled mother,” Harry smiled. “Well, I don’t think that she and your father were exactly suited to each other from the start. Louis was glad to be rid of her I should think—she hadn’t given him a son after all. And we can’t exactly complain, can we? Neither of us would be here if Eleanor had stayed faithful to Louis.”
“From what I’ve heard,” Philippe protested, “she never was, even before Henry. She scandalized my father in the Holy Land. Sweet Jesus, she slept with her own uncle!”
“I doubt that,” Harry laughd. “Mother had always been controversial, so naturally people gossip. I’m sure a lot of the stories were exaggerations.”
Surly, Philippe slid down under the covers. “At least the old bitch can’t do any damage now that she’s locked up. I wish to God Louis had stuck my mother away somewhere long ago.”
“You never used to hate your mother,” Harry commented. “What makes her suddenly so unbearable?”
Philippe didn’t hesitate. “Her whole family is unbearable. God, what a menagerie! You could populate the Ile-de-France with her relatives. They’re all just settling back waiting for father to die so they can take over. When I was little, mother never had time for me. She was always off somewhere, Champagne or Burgundy, visiting members of her family. But these last months, with Louis so ill, the old stone cunt has been sticking so close to home she wouldn’t leave under threat of fire or famine. She’s counting the days till father dies and she can take everything for herself and her brothers.”
“Don’t let it happen,” Harry counseled, realizing as he spoke that he would be no match for his own mother in the same situation.
“That’s easy to say,” Philippe scoffed, “but the whole government is thick with Champagnois. They’re in all the positions of power. It’s damn depressing too. That’s why I’ve got to look for help elsewhere.”
Arrogant and weak-minded, Harry misinterpreted the words. “I don’t know what you expect me to be able to do,” he said simply.
Philippe rolled over on his back, black eyes staring up at a blackness he could not decipher. “Not you, Harry. I need an ally. How could England and France ever be allies?”
Harry thought about that for a moment in silence, supposing that it was true. He had never considered what his own attitude toward France would be once he was king. He never thought much about anything that he would do when he was king. He just thought about being king. Still, he imagined that Philippe was right and he told him so.
“That’s why I’m leaving for Mons tomorrow,” Philippe explained. “I am going there to marry the Count of Hainault’s daughter.”
Harry was slow, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew Baldwin of Hainault and he knew immediately what the plan was. He also knew that Philip of Flanders was the power in that part of Europe and that Flanders had no daughters. He pushed himself up on the bed, staring down at Philippe, barely able to distinguish his outline in the darkness. “So,” he finally said, “Flanders has put his spell over you. Beware of him, Philippe. He has played many men false. He would do no less with a boy.”
Immediately Philippe was contemptuous. “I don’t need your permission, and I don’t need your advice! Sweet Jesus, I’m not a baby! I’m old enough to make my own decisions. And don’t forget, Flanders was my father’s choice as a guardian for me.”
“But not your mother’s, I think,” Harry cut in. “Can’t you see Flanders’ ambition in this? Once Louis is dead and you are tied to a Flemish alliance, he won’t be content with being only your guardian or adviser. He’ll be the real ruler and you’ll be only a puppet king.”
Philippe laughed easily but without pleasure. “Will it be different if I disengage myself from Flanders and, upon my father’s death, allow my mother and her brothers to put a paper crown upon my head while they rule instead?” In the dark he reached out for Harry’s hand and brought it to his lips. “Please understand that I’m doing what I have to do. I don’t have a choice.”
Harry drew him into his arms, kissing Philippe’s face, and fondling him. “I’m thinking of you,” he whispered into the boy’s ear. “I love you; I don’t want to see you hurt.”
“I won’t be—just trust me, help me, support me if you are truly my friend. …”
“I am, sweet boy,” Harry whispered back.
His face buried against Harry’s shoulder, Philippe muttered, “I’m all alone, Harry, except for you. I’m so afraid, and I can’t let anyone know it. You’re the only one. I need you so much.”
Harry, vulnerable to fears of every kind, clutched him closer. “I need you too,” he said.
In the pale sunshine of a Paris morning, Maurice de Sully tended to his garden and waited for his august visitor. She had sent a message the previous night demanding to see him this morning. It was not the first time that Queen Adele had sued for an audience with him, and each time the experience had been unpleasant.
Sully was Bishop of Paris, and one of the most accomplished men of his time. The education afforded him in the cloister had raised him above the mediocrity of his humble birth, and his keen wisdom catapulted him into the circle of blossoming intellectual elite within the Paris university coterie. From that point advancement had been easy, and he’d eventually joined the inner orbit of the king’s closest advisers. Louis VII, who held good churchmen close to his heart, appreciated Sully’s mental gifts and unflinching honesty. Together they had taken upon themselves the arduous and expensive project of razing the old St. Etienne church on the lie de la Cite, erecting the foundation of a new Notre Dame de Paris. Since 1163 Sully had been guiding the project personally, much as the fabled abbot Suger had shaped construction of the St. Denis basilica, where interior French Gothic had its beginnings. It was a personal milestone of achievement for the king’s administration, and a fulfillment as well. Louis had a weakness for piety etched in stone.
He also had a weakness for prelates. In his service, Sully had advanced admirably, but he was an honest man who never used his influence to effect gain or personal glory. His strongest tie on earth was his love and respect for the king and the magnitude of the king’s high office. Now with Louis dying and young Capet already crowned, Maurice had pledged his loyalty to the heir apparent. Representing no faction, supporting no political cause, Sully’s aim was to uphold the right of the young French boy to rule, and t
o rule without the intrusion of the Champagnois.
For all his wisdom and liberality of mind Sully did have one preconception: he believed it was unnatural for a woman to hold sway over men. For years he had watched, and not without complaint, as Adele of Champagne had coerced and manipulated her husband into a position of subservience to the Houses of Champagne and Blois. Like many prominent men within Louis’s circle, Maurice had resented her, and silently awaited her downfall. No advocate of the vain Philip d’Alsace, Sully nonetheless preferred the Flemish warlord to the French queen. Once Philippe Capet was king, Sully was determined to see to it that he had no allegiance to either the Count of Flanders or to Adele and her greedy, power-grasping relatives.
In a little while the queen came, strolling along the avenue of junipers lining the garden, quite alone, but for two members of her personal bodyguard. She was restless and anxious as ever, vain and haughty but with none of the dignity possessed by Louis’s first wife, Eleanor of Aquitaine, who was now queen of the English. Sully had not been part of Louis’s sanctum sanctorum then; he had never known Eleanor. But he had seen her once, and once was enough to remember her forever. She had been riding through the streets at the head of a caravan with her husband, traveling up to St. Denis on a pilgrimage. Lissom figure erect, her head held high, black hair blazing under the sun—Sully would remember that picture forever. She had passed so close to him that the fur-lined edge of her cape trailed across his hand. Then she had turned her head and smiled at him. Sully often thought of her. Of course, she would be old now, no longer beautiful, though in the South men who were young enough to call her mother still sang of her beauty. But young or old, he decided, there was an aura about her that shouted royalty, compelled attention. Only that one glance—that single smile—but it was as close as Sully had ever come to loving a woman.
Adele of Champagne was a different breed of nobility. Her dark Gallic beauty was secondary to her shrill perversity. She was without subtlety, her boundless personal ambition obvious in all she did. Sully had entertained her in many difficult interviews, and they had never disguised their dislike for one another.
Waving aside her bodyguard, Adele strolled over to where Sully bent stripping leaves from his herbs. He waited for her to speak first. With Adele there was never long to wait.
“My Lord Bishop,” her shrill voice sliced the air between them, “what is the meaning of this?” She thrust a folded communique at his feet. Quietly Sully bent to retrieve it while Adele looked on, nervously pacing in front of him, biting her bottom lip in her characteristic mannerism of ill-suppressed rage.
If the contents of the letter did not amaze him, its authoritarian tone did. It was an order signed by Philippe Capet and the Lord Chancellor Hughes de Puiseaux, invalidating Adele’s claim to her dower lands and revoking her privileges at court. She didn’t wait for him to finish reading before she snatched the paper away and began pacing before him again, her nervous hands flicking her trailing braids back and forth. Finally she pivoted around and faced him squarely, shaking the letter with menace. “This is treason!” she breathed, her voice quavering with emotion. “And you are behind it! So help me, Sully, if it were within my power I would have your head struck from your body here on this very spot!”
“Madam, I assure you …”
She jumped into his sentence. “Don’t toy with me! You hate me, you have always hated me … you would like nothing better than to see me stripped of all power!” When he did not attempt to silence her she shouted, “Can you deny it then? Can you deny that you have hated me from the beginning?” Her face was set tightly in distress, her voice was on the edge of tears.
Mildly affected, Sully spoke with gentleness. “Despite our many differences, my lady, I do not hate you, nor have I ever hated you. But I will not deny that I would welcome the remove of your influence and that of your brothers from the young king.”
“Why?”’ she shrieked, her dignity cast aside heedlessly in anger. “Why should you wish to see me undone when I am queen of this land, and have a right to rule—and when behind my back you uphold Flanders and his intrusion into this matter?”
Meticulously Sully arranged camomile leaves in his sifting basket. To Adele his concentration upon such mundane tasks seemed callous in the face of her distress. Finally he looked at her somewhat pityingly, and tried to explain. “It is not anything to do with Flanders. I am thinking of your son, as you should be.”
“My son is a child,” she shrieked again. “It is ridiculous to assume that he could rule alone. He needs my help. You have no right to interfere!”
Hysteria in women, particularly one of her rank, was offensive to Sully. Eyeing her shrewdly he protested, “Lady Adele, it was your own husband who sought my help in aiding your son. I am afraid that he too is anxious to remove the influence of your family from the court.”
“You lie!” she screamed at him. “My husband would never be a party to such treachery against me and my kin!” She threw the paper at his feet and stalked away. Over her shoulder she called, “You will regret your actions, Sully, when I have told my husband of your duplicity.”
Deftly he bent to retrieve the fallen document, then carried it over to where Adele stood and put it squarely into her hand. His gaze was unflinching as he eyed her. “You would do well to realize the seriousness of this, madam. You have been evicted—denied access to the palace and stripped of your dower. If you intend to fight this I suggest that you find a more substantial means of doing so than arguing with me. Talk to your son. He leaves today with Flanders for the north. I will meet them at Bapaume. Perhaps you have not heard as yet of his plans to marry?”
Adele’s black eyes were riveted to Sully’s face, her jaw set indomitably. “Yes, I have heard.” she brayed, “and that’s one bridal bower that will be put to the torch if I have my way! No one is going to shut me out from my rightful place and take away that which is mine by law—not my son. not Philip d’Alsace. not even you, my lord!” She was shaking, breathless with rage and she prophesied in cold fury, “You have not had done with me. Bishop! When next you see me I shall have an army at my back and you will have tasted the last of your power here!”
“God directs my way, madam, not you,” he called out sharply as she walked away from him.
“Bastard!” she hissed over her shoulder.
They met in the middle of the Petite Pont spanning the Seine. Philippe’s horse pranced easelessly beneath him and he gripped the reins tightly between his fingers as he glared across the distance at his mother.
“Philippe.” Adele called out, “you have denied me access to your person for too long now. … I demand an audience.”
It was Flanders who answered instead. “Madam,” he called out, “you have already been dismissed from the court. Be on your way.”
Adele raised herself up in the saddle and flung aside the braids which trailed over her shoulder. With flashing eyes she addressed the count. “And are you now king in this land, my lord? Do you rule in the place of my husband and son; are you the mouthpiece of the crown? My husband’s illness has taken away his power of speech, but does my son rule without a tongue as well?”
Young Philippe trotted his horse up to stand beside Adele’s mount. Mother and son eyed one another for a silent moment. “Lady,” he snapped, “no one speaks for me. You have already had my decision. So take your brothers and leave my realm before I take up arms against you and have you driven from it!”
Her rage made articulation nearly impossible, but she lashed out at him, “Do not forget, my boy, that I have an army as well! My brothers and I will not brook this insult from you. We will use force, and we will appeal to the king on our behalf!”
Philippe’s laugh was tinged with ridicule. “The king?” he mocked. “The king is on his deathbed, madam!”
“I do not speak of my husband,” she shouted back, “for he is powerless against you and this Flemish traitor. I speak of Henry of England, to whom my brothers and I will plead
our case.” She looked past her son at Flanders and called out, “You especially have much to answer for, my lord. You have turned my son against me and my kin! I will have my revenge against you! I am still queen of this land and I will not be tossed aside!”
“By the time your son returns there will be a new queen of this realm,” Flanders scoffed, “so enjoy the last days of your reign, lady, and be off with you.”
She ignored him, turning her attention to Philippe. He looked very much like her, this tall youth who glowered at her with narrowed, hateful eyes. Adele searched her mind for some words of endearment. She had never been a real mother to him, and at this moment she regretted it. His cold, insolent manner was an affront to her, and painful—but the stab against her rank cut deeper. Speaking to him as a mother would do nothing; the icy midnight of his eyes told her that. She stoked her courage and said, “My brothers and I will do everything in our power to see that this marriage you speak of never takes place.” She pointed a sharp-nailed finger at Flanders. “But even if it does, do not anticipate too greatly your power, Philip d’Alsace, for by the time you and my son return with his bride, this city may well rise against you! I still have the power of my office and I will not hesitate to use it!”
“Your office, such as it is, has no power, madam,” Philippe reminded her curtly. “Do not threaten me with illusions. I shall marry after my own choice and not allow myself to fall into your hands and be dictated to by you.” He drew his horse nearer, as if to pass, with Flanders following closely behind him. “Now get out of my way, lady!”
The Rain Maiden Page 4
