“But I have no quarrel with my nephew,” Stephen insisted. “What need have I to marshal troops?”
Flanders’s laugh was a mixture of amusement and ridicule as he flung the samite mantle from his shoulders and tossed it to the floor. “My dear Stephen, you saw how easily he abandoned me. Why should your family expect more considerate treatment from him? It is quite obvious to me now what his intentions are. He wants to disassociate himself from all of us. He feels that he has no need of guardians and soon he will make that clear to your brothers and your sister, even as he did to me. Believe me, Stephen, I know him better than you do, even though he be your own kin. Personally I don’t care what happens to Adele or your three brothers. They are self-seekers, interested only in their own well-being, not that of the realm. I am a Fleming, but my niece is now Queen of France; the child she eventually bears Capet will rule after him. The future of France is important to me. I need a friend, an ally who feels as I do. I believe in your abilities, in your wisdom. You are capable; you belong in the center of things, not buried here in the Loire Valley. …”
Stephen’s eyes were hard to read but his fine lips parted, the corners twitching in the slightest show of anticipation. When he didn’t speak, Flanders sharpened the edge of his proposal. “I will win back Philippe’s trust and admiration. I realize now that he needs a far greater rein on his intentions than I had at first believed. You and I shall be the girders which hem him in and keep control of the Ile-de-France. Otherwise he will only end in giving it all up to Henry of England or one of his ambitious sons. What do you say, Stephen? Have we an agreement?”
Stephen stood staring wordlessly out toward the Loire. His right hand found Philip’s left hand, clasping it firmly, entwining the fingers. Flanders knew what he was thinking; he knew he had won.
Sprawled lazily in abandon Isabel lay nibbling on grapes and Philippe. It was late morning. The air was heavy, hot in the closeness of her room, while outside all the noises of Paris filled the air.
Philippe lay staring up at a blue taffeta ceiling, drowsy, lost in aromatic fantasies. Little more than a year, and her perfume was everywhere in this room. He had always been acutely aware of scent and the few feminine associations he’d had in his life he grouped aromatically; his mother wafted dark musk and sandalwood; nursemaids smelled of milk and medicinals; whores stank of sweat.
Sweet scents aroused him even more than physical sensation, and Isabel was always suffused with dizzying, heady scent. Even the slightest contact with her transferred her fragrance to him. After lying with her he was left with a strong residue of perfume, making it obvious to all that the young King of France went about smelling of sweet narcissus.
Philippe tried to fight off the drowsy shroud of approaching sleep but it clung to him as seductively as her scent. He reached down for her hand but caught up a clutchful of diaphanous golden silk. His voice was tempered with a sigh. “Isabel, I must leave.”
She had been lying with her face pressed to his groin but at his words she rose up. She was wearing a black silk dishabille, open at the throat. Her hair was caught back from her face with a matching silk crespenette, but it reappeared at her shoulders in spectacular disorder. She was feeding grapes into her mouth with one hand, tracing his skin with the other. “Oh, don’t leave yet,” she persuaded, “not yet …”
“The banquet is only a few hours away,” Philippe reminded her, “and I have things to do before.”
It was his sixteenth birthday; the event was being celebrated at a banquet that afternoon at which all his relatives would be present, including the sons and daughters of his uncles Henri, Theobold and Robert. Isabel had met them all before at the Christmas and Easter celebrations—and had not liked them. The Champagnois were particularly obnoxious to her personal tastes. Refusing to acknowledge young Isabel as the French queen, they looked instead to their kinswoman Adele.
“I wish I didn’t have to be there,” Isabel pouted, resting against him, her face pressed to his belly. Then under her breath she added, “I hate your family.”
He heard but didn’t answer. It was a familiar argument, a useless one. “I’ve got to get back,” he said finally, sitting up, untangling himself from her, reaching toward the floor for his clothes.
Her expression was petulant. “I never see you.”
“You’ll see me at the banquet.”
She laughed. “I won’t see you. You’ll be surrounded by relatives and I’ll be off in the comer somewhere hiding my face.”
He was standing beside the bed now, holding his clothes and looking down at her. “You’re so beautiful—if you would hide that face you must be mad.”
She reached for him. “Don’t go yet, stay a little longer.” She was without inhibition; at times her boldness astounded him. Delicate arms encircling his waist, she pulled him closer. “Please, just a while longer?”
He sank to the bed beside her, thrusting his clothes aside, burying his face in her hair. “What is it you really want from me, Isabel?”
“More than I get,” she answered, her fingers tickling his midriff, then reaching lower. “How I love to touch you—you are magnificent!” she breathed, sheathing him between gentle hands. “No one else in the world could possibly own anything so auguste, so beautiful!”
Philippe sighed with pleasure at the touch of her fingers. She was so sweet, her caresses so exciting. “You are very amorous for one so young,” he muttered absently, his fingers clasping soft strands of her hair.
“And you are very abundant for one so young,” she whispered. “Lie back. …”
Later, after her touch and kisses had taken away his breath once more, Philippe held her close and stroked her hair for a while. Then reluctantly he sat up, pulling her up with him, and she leaned to his bare shoulder. “I wish I could have you all to myself,” she mused, “and never, never have to share you with anyone, especially your family.”
Philippe’s expression was somber as he looked down at her. “You are very spoiled, you know? You’ve always been your family’s favorite, and I think they must have given you your way in everything. You don’t like it here. Isabel, because you aren’t the center of attention.”
She looked sadly at him, the comers of her mouth drooping. “That is a mean thing to say to me, Philippe. I don’t like it here because no one likes me. No one is nice to me. Why can’t you understand that? You know what it is to be lonely, you told me how unhappy you were as a little boy.” Her eyes were filled with so much pleading that it hurt him to look at her and he turned his face away. “Don’t you care if I am unhappy?” she asked. “Don’t my feelings matter to you at all?”
Philippe stifled a weary sigh. Whenever he lingered too long beside her she would lapse into melancholy and the familiar routine of pleading for consideration would begin. He eased himself out of her arms. “You ask too much of me,” he muttered.
She stiffened in anger. “What I ask pleased you well enough only a moment ago,” she declared. Then, bitterly, “Well—I don’t know why I should expect better. You don’t love me at all. Not even a little bit.”
He gave her a condemning look. “So what? You don’t love me either. All you ever talk about is your damn family. I am sick to death of being silently compared to your precious father and uncle, only to be found wanting!”
“That isn’t fair!” she shot back at him. “How dare you say that to me! When was the last time I said anything to you about my family? I know how sensitive you are on that subject—and I don’t compare you to them!” Then she saw how blanched his face had suddenly gone, and feeling sorry for her anger she made her voice an apology. “Is that what you think?” she asked gently. “Is that how it seems to you?”
“That’s how it is!” he snapped. “You are always complaining to me about my family—my mother, my uncles, my cousins. How they snub you, ignore you, insult you. Maybe they do, but if it is any consolation they don’t treat me any better. At least you know how much I hate them. I don’t wave them
like a flag in your face!”
“I don’t!” she gasped. “I never do that! I miss them, is that a crime? I love them!”
“How well I know. …”
“Why are you so angry?” she asked. “Do you really think I care nothing for you?”
“I don’t give a damn how you feel about me,” he answered haughtily, making a move to rise. But before he could get to his feet Isabel had flung herself into his lap, her arms tight about his hips, her cheek pressed to his belly. “How can you say that?” she wept. “You do care, you must care! And I could love you, if only you would be nice to me. You are the only person I have in my life now. I think of you constantly, I dream of you, wait for you to come to me… . I want only to make you happy … don’t turn away from me, don’t abandon me now as all others have … I couldn’t bear it, I couldn’t …!!”
He clung to her, feeling her tears anointing his flesh and weakening his control. His arms were so tight about her back that he heard her gasp for breath; but she didn’t struggle, didn’t try to pull away. Philippe closed his eyes, feeling tears of frustration squeeze past his closed lids. He felt her lips sweet and so moist and eager on his flesh; felt himself convulsed with feelings miserable and wonderful, with such want for her that he bit his tongue till it bled.
When she lay limply against him, kissing his chest and his abdomen, Philippe buried his fingers in the golden tangle of her hair and whispered hoarsely, “Can’t you understand? They’re all jealous of you—my mother, all my cousins. Let them be jealous—why should it trouble us?”
Isabel twisted around on her back and stared up into his face. “I don’t care,” she said breathlessly. “I only want to make you happy. …” One hand rose gracefully to play at the angle of his jaw.
A shade of softness came over his tense features. “Hold me Isabel,” he whispered, “hold me, and never let me go …” She didn’t let him finish. Her arms captured him, clinging around his neck, pulling him down to kiss her again and again.
When their lips parted Isabel lay looking up into Philippe’s face and she reached up to touch her fingertips lightly to his cheek. “Such black eyes,” she murmured softly, “such black, black eyes …” She nestled closer, as if to sleep, and with her eyes closed she said, “I think you are beautiful, my Phillipe-Auguste. …”
“Don’t go to sleep love,” he whispered back. “I’ve got to get up.”
“No,” she answered sleepily, but she was smiling. After a few moments she rose resignedly from his lap. “Philippe, will you make me a promise?”
He breathed in the sweet smell of her and felt faint. “Anything,” he answered, “anything.”
“When you go to Rennes for Geoffrey Plantagenet’s wedding will you take me with you?”
“That isn’t until November.”
“I know.”
“It is a long trip,” he warned, “you don’t like to ride, and it is a difficult journey.”
“You don’t like to ride either,” she reminded him with a teasing smile, “and you are going. Do you realize that I haven’t been farther away from Paris than St. Denis since I came to live here?”
Her charm was an elixir. “If it means so much to you, yes. But I’m wondering why you want to go.”
She lowered her gaze. “Firstly, I don’t want to be away from you. Secondly, I do want to be away from your family. And finally, because I want to meet all those fabulous Plantagenets I have heard so much about. Please take me.”
He tousled her hair playfully, feeling strangely giddy now. “Will you be a good little girl if I say yes?”
She giggled, clutching him around the waist. “I am a good little girl. …” She nibbled little bites at his chest and midriff, then lower until she had made him vulnerable once more. Knowing he could not ignore her gentle assault, Philippe lay b?ck upon the softness of her bed and closed his eyes, perceiving nothing but the incredible comfort of her mouth.
ON A RAINY September evening Isabel sat in her room at dinner. She was not alone. She might have been, for Philippe was away in Burgundy. But Gilbert of Mons had come from Valenciennes that afternoon and now she sat very close to him, talking enjoyably as they shared a meal from a common plate.
“There is a Norman woman here who cooks special things for me when the Capet family is away,” Isabel was explaining, indicating the pork. “I can never have it when Philippe or his mother are at the palace.”
“I have heard the stories,” Gilbert smiled.
In the glimmer of lapping golden light from the fire, Isabel watched him. He was handsome in the best Fleming fashion: blond, with mysterious dark blue eyes and well-molded, noble features. As far back as her memory extended she could remember him—her father’s close friend and advisor. Warming herself in his presence she yet allowed herself a momentary interlude of worry and suspicion. Her instinct (uncanny heritage of a canny family) warned that this call, timed when Philippe was gone, was more than a social reunion. Still she chatted merrily on, glad for the use of her Flemish language once more. “What I wouldn’t give for Flemish bread and butter again. The food here is shocking bad.” She smiled coyly at Gilbert. “Do you know that the French mock our Flemish butter? They laugh and call it beurriere.”
The food spread before them was typical of Isabel’s tastes: sweet and diverse. They dined on ham with plum and currant sauce; clotted cheese; herbal sallat (a mixture of sweet peas, curly mint, catnip and pennyroyal); baked eggs flavored with dill and oregano; parsley bread with butter; white pastry with quince and pear stuffing; the cheeses of Champagne, Brie and Blois; cherry wine; and almond milk. Isabel found herself eating with great passion and urgency till she was quite sated. At least eating made her feel stronger, somewhat braver. Her thoughts tightened. Gilbert had so deliberately avoided any talk of her most formidable relative. What could be the reason?
He refilled his henap with cherry wine and looked across at her. He drank, felt the dark sweetness of the wine over his tongue, the warmth in his stomach as the liquid settled there. He reached across the table for Isabel’s hand. “You seem to have made a place for yourself here. I am proud of you.”
“I have,” she answered slowly. “Sully has been good to me, and I have come to trust him. He and Lord Chancellor de Puiseaux have guided my studies.” She brightened visibly, “I have read Virgil, Horace—the Chroniques de France; Phrygius’s History of the Trojan War; Bishop Isidore’s Origines,” Isabel gave a slight giggle. “In the midst of all that I read Marcus Aurelius’s Meditations, of my own accord.
He was watching her more closely than she could realize. He patted her hand gently, feeling the life beneath the fine, smooth skin. She had haunted him for a long time. She was not impossibly younger than himself—and he had always wanted her for himself, knowing that in itself was impossible. If Baldwin was eternally grateful to his chancellor, his gratitude did not extend to marriage within Baldwin’s aristocratic family. Still, Gilbert entertained his vain fantasies… .
“How fares your young husband?” he asked, his eyes narrowing at the blush which painted her cheeks.
Isabel looked away. “I don’t see him very often. He is unusual, moody, hard to know. We have a certain compatibility …” Her voice trailed off toward the black comers of the room.
Gilbert caught the inference her voice had betrayed and took his cue from that. “In such case perhaps he would not be averse to taking a little advice from you.”
Her apprehension quickened into fear. “Shall I look beyond your words?” she asked him, her gaze playing lightly over his face.
Gilbert gave her a look both emphatic and imploring. “Isabel, I know that above all things on this earth you value your allegiance to your family, and I know despite whatever influences you have experienced here you will never forget that you are a Fleming.”
She knew what he was about now and pulled her hands away from him. “What has gone wrong now?” she asked, her voice high-pitched and angry, “and in what way am I needed to alleviate
it?”
Gilbert shook his head at the bitter undertone of her words. “We all serve as best we can, Isabel.”
She shook her head in wonderment. “And to think I believed that you had come here to visit me, to renew a friendship, to bring me news of home.” She was very near tears but the itch of her anger prevailed. “What has my uncle planned this time? He and my husband have had no consortium since their original disagreement.”
Gilbert of Mons had not risen to prominence for nothing. His subtlety was as seductive as his voice. “Flanders has never forgiven Philippe for the insults he believes he received at your husband’s hand. When Philippe allied himself with his uncles and mother, Flanders was humiliated in the sight of all the world,” he explained.
Isabel looked down at her hands, clasped together in her lap, the yellow silk of her sleeves flowing over the whiteness of her skin. “If my uncle thinks that and if you and my father also believe it to be true, then you are misinformed,” she insisted. “Philippe loathes his family; they have no power here. If my uncle feels that he has been abandoned by the King of France he should know that the Champagnois have been equally unfortunate. Philippe is the ruler here in deed as well as title.” She poured herself a little more of the wine and drank it hastily before she looked across at Gilbert. “Tell my uncle this; if he wants to reconcile with my husband, he should come to Paris and do so. Philippe and he may not be in agreement but I know that my husband both admires and loves him. The very fact that Philippe and I are still married is a sign of that.”
Gilbert leaned closer, his eyes bright and adamant. “I don’t think you have grasped the meaning of what I have said, Isabel. And I do not think you are correct when you say Philippe has thrown off the influence of his family. William and Theobold particularly are powerful men in France. William is no dissembler; I don’t think he would rise against Philippe. But listen, your uncle has already forged an understanding with Theobold and Stephen of Sancerre. I do not know if they plan a full-scale rising or only a series of political hostilities, but your father believes, and I believe, that if your husband intervenes now he can separate Flanders from both Theobold and Stephen.”
The Rain Maiden Page 13
