Sully shook his head. “You won’t find any pork at this table.”
“Don’t the French like pork?” she asked, sampling the almond cake.
“Oh, I didn’t mean in France. But here at the palace or anywhere the Capet family eats. You see. King Louis had an elder brother—the boy who would have been Philippe II—but he was killed when his horse was tripped by a pig in the roadway, just in front of the palace. The young man broke his neck and died soon afterwards.” He sighed. “That was more than fifty years ago. Since that time the Capet family does not eat and does not serve pork.”
Isabel thought about that for a moment, shaking her head in wonderment. To Sully she said, “You have been close to the king for a long time, haven’t you?”
“For a number of years. Over twenty. And of course I have been Philippe’s tutor since he was four.”
If she was ever to get an honest appraisal from anyone here she knew it would be Sully. “What kind of a child was Philippe?” she asked.
Sully smiled but his blue eyes looked wistful. “He was, and is, very bright, but very lonely. He kept to himself a great deal. I can’t say he enjoyed his lessons much. …”
“He told me you might oversee my lessons,” Isabel responded, remembering when she and Philippe had talked in her room the day of her arrival in Paris. How fretful and nervous he had seemed even then.
“Do you like studying?” Sully asked.
“I like to read. I’d like to see the palace archives. My tutor, Gilbert of Mons, has praised them very highly, as have my uncle and my father.”
After a while Philippe returned, looking flushed but composed. He said nothing to Isabel though she smiled at him several times. Ignoring her, Philippe spent the remainder of the evening in quiet conversation with William of Rheims, and drinking.
By the time an hour had passed Isabel’s head was aching from dizziness, the effects of the music, muted conversation, and the heat of the room. She got shakily to her feet, just about to make her excuses to Sully when she looked up to see Adele standing on the other side of the table, staring at her. “You aren’t going?” Adele asked with mock concern. “Why, we haven’t even been introduced… .”
Isabel inclined her head slightly, aware that the music had halted and that everyone was watching them. “You are Philippe’s mother,” she said simply.
Adele’s eyes were cold though she wore a bemused smile. “So you are my son’s wife.” She shot a quick sideways glance at Flanders, then to Isabel she said, “I see that you share your uncle’s propensity for greed and theft.” Her slender fingers reached out clawlike only an inch from Isabel’s throat. “That necklace belongs to me. Where did you get it?”
Isabel could feel herself blushing down to her toes. “It was a gift to me from your son,” she finally said, trying to keep the strain out of her voice. “He gave it to me the day of my arrival here in Paris.” She turned her head to look at him, expecting some word of support, some statement to validate her claim. Philippe sat in rigid silence, his eyes riveted to the table.
Enjoying the spectacle of her son’s submission Adele gave her daughter-in-law a sly smile and kept her hand outstretched. “My necklace, if you please. …”
Isabel’s hands flew protectively to her throat, caressing the gold-embroidered gems. “This necklace is mine,” she declared in a sudden burst of spirit. “I told you that Philippe gave it to me.”
The silence was deafening. All conversations had stopped. Even Marguerite’s chatter had ceased. Isabel felt degraded, knowing that everyone was taking in this spectacle and probably loving it.
Finally Sully came to her aid. “Lady Adele,” he said quietly “I think you might …”
“Shut your mouth, Lord Bishop!” she shouted, her voice harsh and vulgar. “This does not concern you. That necklace is mine. It was stolen from me and I want it back.” Her black eyes swept over her son’s blanched face. “Philippe, I insist you order that child to give it back to me!”
Philippe’s hands were shaking so badly that he gripped them together atop the table to stop the trembling. “Mother, please!” But he didn’t even dare look at her.
Give her the necklace, give it to her quietly and without an argument. But Isabel’s fighting spirit rebelled. Remember who you are … let Philippe stand up to her. And why didn’t he? Why did he leave the burden of response to her? The silent moments passed as Adele looked on with hateful eyes. Let her take it from me if she wants. … I won’t give it to her willingly… .
Adele’s long fingers reached out and snatched the fine piece from Isabel’s neck. She heard the clasp break; felt the sharp sting of nails across her throat. “That will teach you to steal my things!” and to Philippe she snapped, “and you to give away what is mine.” Her voice stroked the words, underscoring the symbolism, enjoying the irony. She gave a haughty swish of her head toward Flanders. “No one who takes what is mine keeps it for very long. …”
Isabel stood as still as a waxwork, wishing she could dissolve into the floor. She jerked her head sideways, giving a perfunctory glance to her uncle and her husband, but neither of them would meet her accusing look. At this moment she hated them. She was here because of them, bearing this mortification because of them. Yet they sat mute; not one word on her behalf. Not even a trifling attempt at taking her part!
Through tear-filled eyes Isabel saw Adele fussing with the necklace, testing the ruined clasp, finally tucking it into her girdle. Isabel shook her hair out long and loose. Loud enough for everyone to hear she spat out the angry words: “Your actions only confirm all that I have heard of you, lady. You would rather break a thing of beauty than leave it intact for someone else. …” There was more she wanted to say but instead she turned on her slippered feet and raced blindly out of the hall, past the gasps which followed her as she fled down the long corridor and out the open archway toward the back courtyard. When her feet found the pathway leading to the grove she stopped, her hands covering her face, her body shaking with helpless sobs.
Outside the air was still and the moon shone down in full icy whiteness. Isabel walked with slow steps past the apple trees, toward the massive oaks in the center of the grove. Here it was lonely, but peaceful. Aimless steps carried her toward the oak which stood in the center of the ring of trees. Against the sky its far-spreading limbs contorted into fantastic patterns.
The tree offered dumb support and she leaned submissively against the trunk. Oh God, God—what has gone wrong and where will it all end? She had made a small noise against her malediction tonight (too small for the satisfaction of triumph!), but retribution would come. Some force beyond her own small strength was inveighing against her, closing off any hope of truce, blighting hope itself.
Around the base of the tree wound the green leaves of the tangled viscum alburn. Mistletoe. The source of St. John’s healing oil. The sacred plant of the Druids. Against the verdant green of the leaves the tiny berries glimmered yellow-white like miniature moons.
She reached out her hand and plucked off a sprig of the plant and buried it against the green of her dress, holding it for a long while. The Druids had worshipped its magical powers and on this night, Midsummer’s Eve, all magic was doubly potent. Isabel closed her eyes against the dark and wished.
Her Christian prayers had gone unanswered but the pagan magic was strong, for even as the image of her father’s face flooded her mind, she felt his arms taking her tenderly to him, his gentle hands smoothing her hair. He held her so close she could smell his mingled scents of cinnabar and new sweat. But when he spoke her name it was not her father’s voice.
Isabel spun around in his arms and stared up into her uncle’s face. Startled, she pulled back instinctively, then anger prickled her like a bath of icy water. Her arms flailed out, pushing vainly against him, hating him, hating him more than Philippe—more than anyone because she loved him more than anyone and his betrayal was unbearable.
He pushed her back against the tree, trying to hold
her still, pinning her arms down and whispering, “I only want to help you… .”
“You had your chance to help me!” she cried, “and you sat by like an impotent old fool, doing nothing, saying nothing!” She tried to wriggle out of his arms, feeling the roughness of the bark scratching her back.
“Stop fighting me.” he warned, scooping her up in his arms. She could smell the wine on his breath, feel the hotness of his breath against her face as he held her close to him. The familiarity of his arms lulled her into submission and she laid her face upon the hardness of his shoulder and sobbed.
He carried her to the stone bench near the tree, holding her upon his knee, kissing the top of her head, holding her so close that her body seemed to merge with his. “Forgive me,” he whispered, kissing her face, loving her because she was part of him, “my dearest beautiful child. …”
“Why don’t you care about me?” she sobbed, her sharp nails impaling the flesh of his arms as she clung to him.
Her hair was a golden web smothering him, her girlish arms a trap for his reason. Wine and desire were strong in him, terrifying and inevitable. She was kissing his face, his throat, his chest, despoiling his good intentions in wanton innocence. “Can’t you see how much I love you?” she gasped, “how much I want you? I have no one now, no one but you.”
His hands were tight against the back of her head, his thumbs caressing her jaw. “Lovely,” he whispered, “the loveliest face in the world. …” Her features were alight in a wash of moonbeams. She was a silvery thing, a mermaid swept up from the depths of the sea to drown in moonlight. The fragile line of reason was blurred, beyond his reach… .
Flanders was fumbling, pushing aside the folds of his bliaud and she, understanding and eager, dropped to her knees before him, her face pressed against his thigh. He clasped her slender neck with impatient fingers, pulling her closer, nearly swooning as her lips closed around him—first hesitantly, then fixing upon him with fervor, her fingers in artful accompaniment.
It was over too quickly, before he could pull away from her and she was choking, the essence of him strong in her mouth. Philip sat quietly for a few minutes, stroking her hair. After a while he pulled her up and she molded once again in his lap, her cheek pressed to his chest.
The moments passed in silence as Isabel snuggled close to him, her arms tight about his waist; dreaming, her eyes wide open. “All those objectionable people,” she muttered. “Oh, Uncle Philip, nothing has gone as you planned. What are we going to do?”
He sucked in a low, weary breath. “We just have to wait and see what happens. …”
She jerked her head up, her face just inches from his. “But what good will that do? You yourself told me that you had been displaced.”
Flanders sighed protestingly. “It may not be so serious as we—I—had first supposed. I was upset when I told you that. I was also drunk.”
She sensed his reticence and it irritated her. She had the right to know what kind of a future she faced. She gave him a long searching look. “You thought it was, not so many days ago. Has the situation changed since then? Have you spoken to Philippe? Has he told you differently?”
He was silent for so long she wondered if he’d heard her at all. Isabel repeated her last words; then he did listen and he looked at her keenly, his amber eyes narrowed. “Yes, I talked to him yesterday.”
“Well?” she prodded him.
“He didn’t say much—I think he is ashamed of his weakness at Gisors. I suppose it is only natural that Henry would intimidate him; Philippe only restored Adele’s lands for that reason. She has won a temporary victory, it’s true. But if I know anything it is that Philippe hates his mother.”
“Yes,” Isabel snapped sarcastically. “I could see how much tonight.”
Philip tried to convince her. “Each day Louis lives we gain time. Philippe grows more experienced as time passes and when Louis dies Philippe will be ready to take his place.”
She was not convinced. “I fail to see how that fact helps us.”
She was more inquisitive than Flanders had anticipated and he had to grapple with an explanation. “Philippe is unsure of his power now because he is only acting in his father’s place. Once Louis is dead and there is no question of Philippe’s singular authority, things will be different. You’ll see.”
For a moment her blind trust in him wavered. Did he think her gullible, or had he himself been duped? “But I don’t see,” she argued. “Even if we do suppose that Philippe will throw off his mother’s influence after Louis dies, does that give you any assurance that our alliance will be adhered to?”
His fingers were light on her skin, tracing the curve of her throat. “Don’t worry about so many things. Let others guide you.”
“I have been guided,” she replied, “and so far what has come of it? I don’t even know if I am to remain here. Adele and her clan seem very much at home tonight.”
He gazed with genuine mystification at her. She was an extraordinary child; no child at all. Bright, perceptive, astute, and she wanted answers. “This is a subtle business, Isabel,” he told her firmly, “it isn’t a game of dice where everything is conceded or won in a single throw. Let circumstances develop as they may.”
Involuntarily she drew back from him, apprehensive. “But I don’t understand you. You treat this all as one great game you’ve suddenly tired of… .”
He caressed the scratch marks at her throat and kissed her there. “Isabel, Isabel …” he muttered, “don’t be so eager to decipher events for which you are not prepared in understanding.”
She was insistent. “You must speak to Philippe again before you leave. You must make an end of this mystery and find out exactly what his intentions toward us are.”
His passion spent, Flanders was once again the politician. He suddenly resented her questions and answered tersely, “You knew that there would be risks involved.”
“As if it mattered what I knew or if I knew… .”
His fingers curled tightly around her forearms and his voice carried a warning. “Just mind your place, Isabel.”
“But I don’t know my place, can’t you see that!” she cried out in frustration. “I don’t know from one day to the next if I’m even to stay here. This is my life you are toying with, not some hypothetical situation scratched out on a piece of paper!”
She fell against the stone bench, hitting her head on the back rest as Flanders leapt to his feet. He was angry now; Isabel knew that, even though his features were shaded in darkness. And it was in his voice and manner. “I have listened with patience to you, girl, but I will not be spoken to in such a way. You don’t understand the complexities of this situation, Isabel. I know what I am doing. I do not need instructions in diplomacy from you!”
Hastily and without measuring her words she snapped, “No, of course not—so long as your idea of diplomacy is to sit by silently while Philippe’s family insults me!”
“I have already apologized for what was allowed to happen to you in there tonight,” Flanders shot back at her. “I don’t intend to grovel before you, begging further forgiveness.”
Her anger was a bright flame burning in her eyes. “Yes, how much more fitting to have me on my knees before you!”
He bent low, his face close to hers. “What you did was not forced on you!” He clasped her jaw between strong fingers, forcing her to look at him. “And you loved it, didn’t you? You’re the hungriest little bitch I’ve ever known. Don’t pretend to be innocent. You’ve had plenty of experience sucking and fucking your father—don’t play virgin sacrifice with me!”
That cruelty cut deeper than her anger would protect and she began to cry. “That is a sluttish thing to say! I love my father—I love you!”
“Your love is not the usual affection of a daughter or a niece,” he chided her.
“You made no complaint earlier!” she wept. “What I did was out of love for you, because I thought you wanted me to, and because I thought you loved
me. Now, for you to say such things …” She was crying openly, not even trying to wipe the tears away. He straightened up, looking down at her, feeling suddenly sorry, but saying nothing. “Go on then,” she cried, “leave me, leave me alone to wonder whether or not I will be turned out on the streets, banished, my station annulled by my enemies and those who may call themselves my betters! I would rather beg in the streets of Paris than be sent home to Hainault in degradation and disgrace because you have failed to make your own plan materialize!”
His voice was hard-edged by cynicism as he answered her. “I am well reprimanded. But I will give you a parting piece of advice, Isabel. If you wish to gain the respect of those ‘betters’ of whom you speak, you will think seriously before you play another scene like the one at the banquet tonight, or here with me. Your parents and I have always indulged and spoiled you, Isabel. It is true that we have been temporarily disengaged from our goal here, but I assure you, your downfall—and my own—is much more predictable if you continue to criticize Adele and expect Philippe to play your chivalrous protector. He may feel only indifference toward you now, but that well may turn to loathing if you continue to speak your mind on all that displeases you.”
Isabel stared up at him. “Philippe is hateful!” she shouted. “If all that you told me about him was true, he would have said something to his mother on my behalf!”
“You think too much of yourself, Isabel, that is your trouble,” Flanders answered with firmness. “You are in a new environment. Don’t expect to be petted and fussed over as you were at home.”
“Why don’t you go?” she cried. “Why don’t you just go?”
“I am leaving,” he assured her coldly. “I’m leaving for the North at first light. I will say goodbye to you now.”
The Rain Maiden Page 9
