Richard was marvelous to behold. He was taller than any man Isabel had ever seen, including her uncle, and he looked more like a king than any man in the room. Blond, with glowering blue eyes (one could get lost in them!), he was an elegant, more polished version of his rugged father. Richard’s manner of dress was exquisite; no woman could have outshone him. His rich turquoise robe was of cendal, embroidered with gold and overlayed with jewelry that was magnificent and gleaming.
He was superbly built—a flesh-and-blood god—and Isabel found herself blushing as she stared at his huge and muscled arms. She was too preoccupied gazing up into his face, admiring his beauty, to notice black eyes that smoldered with interest at the same sight.
Richard’s touch was light, almost delicate, as he took hold of Isabel’s hand and bent to kiss it gently. Straightening up he winked across at Philippe, then smiled down at Isabel. “What a beautiful child you are,” he mused, and the sound of his voice was tinged with a southern softness. “Philippe, you must have plucked this jewel from the mines of Solomon.”
Philippe stood by, awkward and unspeaking as Isabel returned Richard’s approving smile. “From the forests of the north, my lord,” she answered, “which is not so exotic a place.” Then soberly she added, “I am honored to meet so famous a man. I have heard great tales of your military exploits from my uncle.”
Beside her Philippe pursed his lips in vexation. Flanders. Always Flanders.
Isabel had never before seen the great reception hall at Rennes castle so she did not know that it was usually a dim and dismal place, for today it had been hung withal in glittering, gay festivity. During the feasting which followed the marriage ceremony, Isabel sat at the trestle table beside Henry Plantagenet’s youngest son. John was clever and talkative; she found him companionable, despite the fact that his hands kept straying beneath the table to her thigh. Several times she attempted with good humor to discourage him but his pleasant teasing nature kept her from being angry, for he was more playful than rude.
John was only a little younger than Phillipe but he seemed far younger than that. John was so high-spirited, so boyish—and Phillippe was dour and serious. “I think you are the most beautiful girl I have ever seen,” John whispered close to her ear during the meal. “I wish your uncle had found you for me.”
She gave him a deferential, smiling nod but her gaze was drifting farther down the table toward Philippe, who had been drinking heavily all evening, sitting in gloomy and unspeaking isolation from the gaiety around him. His moods were a constant puzzle to Isabel and now she wondered silently what had depressed him this time. Idly she wished she could take him aside, probe his ponderous behavior, but he had been drinking so much she doubted he would pay her any attention. So Isabel turned back to John and they chatted with the amiable distraction of fond strangers. Later when she looked again, Philippe’s place at the table was empty.
She found herself looking at King Henry and his wife Eleanor who, though long estranged, sat side by side in seeming cordiality. Even as she watched, Isabel saw them exchange a few whispered words. They were a magnificent pair. At sixty, the Queen of England was still slim and graceful. Her dark hair was only partially streaked with strands of silver; it was braided and swept back, fastened with a small diamond clip in the shape of a flower. Eleanor’s face, a classic oval, sat prettily upon her slender neck. Beauty at such an age seemed less of an achievement to Isabel than a miracle. She tried to fix her mind forward, envisioning herself at that age, but the distance between this night and those dim, unlived years was too great… .
“Your parents are marvelous,” Isabel whispered.
Beside her John gave a little laugh, then went back to his eating.
Philippe stood just outside the castle entranceway, leaning against the frozen stones and listening half-heartedly to the music from inside. It was cold here. A sobering wind had come up from the west, smelling of rain.
He was morose, gloom-ridden. Festive gatherings always depressed him. Tonight he was feeling more alone and outside of events than he could ever remember. Suddenly he was thinking of his father, missing him unbearably, burdened by a terrible loneliness and choked by confusion. His feelings were the ultimate paradox: longing for closeness yet disdaining any show of affection; weeping alone in the dark for love, yet terrified by the gift or the giving of it; glorying in his high station, while every day it bore down more heavily upon him. Philippe’s life could not have been more rent with fears and threatening shadows had Heaven itself deliberately arranged it so. There was no one to whom he could unburden himself, no one to help. Flanders would never be his friend again. Harry was no longer interested. Isabel was more threatening than the reality her teasing charms dispelled.
All evening Philippe had watched her with envious eyes, observing her shimmering beauty, the way she had of commanding the notice and attention of everyone in the room. The entire Plantagenet family had made a great show over her and it infuriated Philippe to see how she welcomed their indulgent approval. In this she was very like her uncle and the rest of her kin. The Hainault family vanity and pride was strong in her.
Disturbed, aimless, Philippe turned toward the hall. Just inside the entranceway he saw Geoffrey, who stood leaning against an ornamental stanchion as though waiting. He was drinking from a richly decorated knight-jug and as Philippe passed Geoffrey’s hand reached out to catch him by the sleeve. Philippe’s sharp profile disppeared as he turned his face slowly to look at Geoffrey and asked, “What is it?”
Geoffrey was turned from the light, his features steeped in shadow but Philippe could see the glint of cat’s-eye green. The young duke held the henap toward Philippe. “Taste this,” he smiled “it is a cure for everything.” At Philippe’s quizzical look he explained: “It is essence distilled from seeds of coriander. It is very powerful.”
Philippe took the henap and drank, instantly recoiling from the bitter taste. “What on earth could this cure?” he asked. “It has a very bad taste.”
“Boredom, for one thing,” Geoffrey smiled.
“Boredom?” Philippe put the henap back in Geoffrey’s hand. “That is an odd condition for a new bridegroom on his wedding night.”
Geoffrey’s smile was sly, sarcastic. “I have known Constance all my life. She loathes my family, dislikes me, and is generally unappreciative about our marriage. It is not exactly the sort of thing that sends one racing to the marriage bed panting with expectation.” He took another drink. “The company of women is rather depressing to me,” he admitted, “too many of them tend to remind me of my mother.”
Philippe laughed sourly. “How odd you should say that. Most of the women I meet remind me of my mother, which is justification enough for not liking them.”
“And what of little girls?” Geoffrey asked with a grin.
“If you mean my little girl,” Philippe answered sharply, “she is like the rest of her family—proud, defiant, infuriating.”
Geoffrey gave him a perceptive appraisal. “Ah, but she is so beautiful Philippe, so beautiful. There isn’t a man here tonight, or boy …” he thought of his brother John, “who wouldn’t like to suck the honey from that little flower. She is a blossom from an unknown garden.”
“She’s but a child,” Philippe snapped.
A shrewd laugh purred in Geoffrey’s throat. “You don’t believe that unless you are blind. I have never seen anyone so fair.”
“Yes,” Philippe agreed snappishly, “everyone is constantly taking great pains to point that out to me. I do have eyes of my own.”
For a moment Geoffrey said nothing. Then cat-like he moved closer, fingers circling Philippe’s elbow, closing gently around the softness of a velvet sleeve. His voice was quelled, discreet, nearly a whisper. “Philippe I’ve got to talk to you, alone. …”
Something in his voice, in the touch, in the green flicker of Geoffrey’s eyes stirred Philippe’s blood to shivering. His gaze searched Geoffrey’s face questioningly, then stopped, centering
over his right shoulder. “Your mother is coming,” Philippe said quietly.
“Geoffrey, my darling …” her words were sweetly spoken yet underlaced with poison. Philippe found himself staring suddenly down into the face of the only woman his father had ever loved. Despite her age she was lovely. Eleanor slipped an arm around Geoffrey’s waist and gave his cheek a light brush with her lips. She gave Philippe a cruel smile but her words were directed to her son. “Constance has been looking for you. Go along now, pet. I want to talk to your friend.” Geoffrey gave Philippe a quick look, then turned toward his mother. For a moment it seemed that he would say something to her but he merely bent to kiss her lightly on the lips. Then he made his way back to the gathering of people in the hall.
Philippe was immediately uncomfortable. He had never met Eleanor before. She surveyed him in silence for a few moments. “So you are Louis Capet’s son?”
“Say whatever it is you want to say,” Philippe answered, “though for the life of me I can’t imagine what you could possibly have to say to me.” When she didn’t answer he gave her a black-eyed look of disdain in answer to her unremitting stare. “Why do you look at me so?”
He could see the gleam of her teeth as her lips parted. “This is the first time I have truly looked on you. It surprises me that you look so little like your dear father.”
Philippe’s eyes were coals of contempt. “You mock my father even in the tomb! How can you bring yourself to speak his name after the way you treated him?”
She was amused by his anger. “You had little love for him yourself from what I have heard,” she chided. Eleanor gave him a close, sneering inspection and shook her head in pretended dismay. “No, you are nothing like him, at least not from what I can see.”
He grabbed her forearm and her bracelets clinked in protest. “Jezebel!” he snarled under his breath. “How I loathe you! Louis was a man until you took his self-respect away, humiliating him before the world with your caprices! My only condolence is that you got back from Henry Plantagenet some of the hell you gave Louis!” Philippe’s grip tightened around her arm and he smiled at the look of pain that darted between her eyebrows. He pulled her closer, feeling suddenly all-powerful and aroused to nameless fury. “Tell me, lady, what does an old whore like you do when she’s locked away from all the hot temptations of the flesh, from the touch of a man?” He was bending so close to Eleanor that she could smell the wine on his breath; he the sandalwood scent of her hair. She felt her slumbering blood stir at the hardness of his grasp, but her nobility rendered her disdainful and she pulled her arm away.
She faced him with dignity. “You may not have your father’s face, but I see that you have his prejudices, boy. Young or old I was never a whore, and if he told you differently it was to mask his own deficiencies as a man.” Her laugh was a silky thing. “Dear old Louis—all cock and no bull.” She tilted her chin prettily. “Tell me Philippe, do you have deficiencies as a man, or merely peculiarities?”
Philippe glowered at her. “What are you saying?”
Another laugh. “Your father spilled his passions into his prayers, you spill yours into my son. Did you think I didn’t know?”
“I’d think you wouldn’t care,” Philippe answered bluntly. “What is it to you anyway? Harry has told me a great deal about you, including the fact that Richard is the only one of your sons you care about.”
Her eyes were emeralds on fire. “How little you know. I love all of my sons.”
Only the realization of her rank and his kept Philippe from spitting into her face. “Bitch!” he growled, “there are still many people in the Ile-de-France who well remember you and not with praises, lady. You’ve never loved anyone but yourself, and never worked toward the good of anyone but yourself. Even your sons, whom you now claim so solemnly to love, you only nurtured so that you could make them despise your husband. Yes, dear lady, I too have heard things. So keep your sanctimonious self-praises, I don’t want them.” He turned from her but this time her grasp held him back as her fingers clung to his robe.
“I would have thought you would prefer that delicious little girl to my son,” she chided him, “though what either of them could find to celebrate in you I can’t imagine. Two such pretty people. And you! Your appearance is slovenly, your manners are gauche, and your disposition is colder than marble buried in snow.” She lowered her gaze with deliberate indiscretion. “What is it that attracts my son to you? What hidden charms do you possess?”
A murderous, passionate instinct writhed in him at her words and he lunged forward, grabbing her just below the shoulders, pushing her against the wall. “No charms that would be of any use to an aging goddess like you, if your memory reaches back that far. Or would you have me refresh your recollection?” He leaned closer, bending as though to kiss her.
Eleanor wiggled free of his grasp. “Pig! You have only your father’s profound sense of frustration, but none of his graces.” In the dimness Philippe could see how her slender neck angled into the elegant line of her jaw. Her smile was odd, frightening. “Our fates are strangely linked, Philippe. I dashed all your father’s hopes, you built them up again. Yet neither of us could find it in our hearts to love him because he was weak, and we hate weakness.” She teased him with a knowing look. “You see, I do know you, and better than you think.” He said nothing, and after a moment Eleanor walked away into the light, leaving behind a soft rustle of silk, and the faintly disturbing scent of sandalwood.
It was snowing the following morning when Philippe and Isabel left Rennes. Philippe’s disposition was chillier than the weather, and although Isabel rode close beside him, she felt the emotional and spiritual distance between them. She still had not been able to steal a private moment with him and the news brought to her in September by Gilbert of Mons had weighed heavily upon her for six weeks. Philippe’s purposeful separation from her had built a wall of silence between them.
She had enjoyed the festivities at Rennes despite fretting over Philippe; she had pleasured in the company of the English royal family. But she was wishing now that she and Philippe had stayed in Paris. Nothing was worth this emotional current of antagonism between herself and her husband. Once again he had locked his feelings away. She knew that his mood was dark, it had been obvious to her during their time in Brittany. But she couldn’t understand why. He had been so adamant in his insistence to attend—Isabel knew that his uncles had been opposed to it and that William had counseled him against it—but now he seemed to regret his own decision.
Two days from Paris they halted at Chartres, stopping at the Benedictine abbey there. In the chapter house the small Capetian party was housed in comfort. In the chapel of the abbey Philippe and Isabel took the Sacrament, and heard mass. As they knelt together in prayer before the altar, she surveyed him with a sideways glance beneath lowered lashes. Crowned head bowed, eyes closed, his lips moving in soundless piety, Philippe gave the appearance of peaceful and devout submission. ButIsabel, who knew his face in light or shadow, could see how tightlythe skin was drawn over his cheekbones and jaw, how the nervous muscles twitched in his throat.
From under the gilt close-fitting crown his black locks tumbled uncombed about his face. Her prayers forgotten, Isabel studied his profile closely. The patrician.nose and chin, the long black eyelashes sweeping his cheeks, the tense and beautiful mouth. How she loved his face; how she loved every part of his physical being! He was beautiful, so beautiful to her eyes, and at that momentshe wanted nothing so much as to hold him in her arms and cover his face with kisses.
Her feeling for him surmounted her sense of time and place: a passion born of a thousand intimate caresses in the firelit secrecy of his room or the blue-damask paradise of her own. Without thought of where she was, Isabel leaned toward him, coiling an arm about his neck, fixing her lips upon his.
She was sorry as soon as she had done it, for though he responded instinctively, after a second he pushed her roughly away. Color had risen in his face but h
is lips were blanched, and he gave her the most hostile look she had ever seen. Then he turned his face once more toward the altar, bowed his head and continued his prayers.
Isabel felt hot tears of humiliation in her eyes, and the sobs that rose in her throat threatened to strangle her. She put her trembling hands together, clasping them, her mind seeking pious words that were not there. She could feel the tears squeezing out between her pinched lids, wetting her eyelashes and trembling down her cheeks.
After a few minutes Philippe rose to his feet, pulling her up roughly beside him. Without a word he half dragged her down the aisle to the door of the chapel, then yanked her outside into the chilly twilight of evening. Even in the dimness she could see the fury written on his face and she cringed before his towering figure.
“I’m sorry,” she whimpered, “please don’t be angry with me.”
His silence was more vivid than words as he glared with a look that said he hated her. When he did speak his voice was ominously quiet. “Get yourself back to the cloister for dinner, and don’t you ever do anything again like you just did in there,” he jerked his thumb toward the chapel.
Isabel looked pleadingly up at him. “Philippe I’m sorry,” she repeated weakly. “I didn’t mean to make you angry. I only wanted to …”
His right hand flung out and slapped Isabel’s face so hard that she fell backwards and collapsed to the ground. “Get away from me!” he rasped. “Stay away from me!”
She was too stunned to answer, too stunned even to cry. Philippe was staring at her as she huddled against the cold ground looking so fragile and vulnerable, and for a moment his features softened just a trace. But before he couid give in to his gentler impulses he turned abruptly and started off on the road that led away from the cloister. Isabel watched him walking away from her, watched until the surrounding shadows cloaked him. Only then did she begin to cry.
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