The Rain Maiden

by Jill M Philips

  Slow, measured steps brought her to his side and her voice trembled a question. “But you would never do that, would you?”

  His eyes, sea-green like her own and troubled, gave her a wordless answer. Isabel dropped to her knees before him, her clutching hands imploring his reassurance. “But he has just been put down, surely that is evidence of something!”

  He grasped her hands roughly, leaning forward, looking directly into her face. “He fought a combined force of Henry’s men and those of his three sons! That is something very different than he would face in fighting me. Flanders has five times the knights in his service than I have; he has a richer treasury, more powerful allies—and he is hard upon my own borders. This is a fear I have lived with ever since he and your husband first quarreled.”

  She smothered her face against his thigh while his hands stroked her hair gently and she wept. “Oh, Father, what are we going to do? I’m so afraid for all of us.”

  The hair that he loved shimmered beneath his touch and he skimmed his fingers lightly over it. “It is the fault of the world in which we live. I have always wished to be a man of peace and yet all of my adult years I have been forced into continual fighting. Barely a season has passed that I have not been at the head of an army, fighting to preserve my lands.” The tone of his voice was thin and barely audible, as though he were speaking to himself. “Oh. my dearest child, the world is topsy-turvy. How I wish I could bequeath a better one to my children.”

  She raised a tear-moist face to look at him. “I trust you. I trust you even if I trust no one else.”

  Baldwin raised her up and pulled her closer till she nestled on his lap, facing him, her head upon his shoulder. “And you are everything to me, Isabel. I would give you the soul out of my body.”

  There was a time when those words, spoken by him, would have been enough. They no longer were. Isolation, sacrifice, and the oppression of anxiety had shaded her character with cynicism. “Why didn’t you come to me before this?” she asked suddenly, her fingers playing at his jawline. “Since first I came here to Paris I hoped and prayed that you might visit me, relieve me of some of my loneliness, if only for a few days. But you never did. Why?”

  Baldwin grasped her shoulders roughly, shaking her, and his voice was angrier than Isabel had ever heard it. “Don’t you understand? You don’t belong to me anymore.” His expression had gone disturbed and curious, his lips were set tight. “Has he had you yet? Has he?”

  She turned her face away. “Oh, Father . ..”

  His hands slid from her shoulders, down the length of her back, exploring her contours, lingering over her. “You were mine first, Isabel,” he breathed. “You were mine.”

  It was so cruel of him to remind her of that now, when twelve times twenty miseries had rendered her helpless and despairing. She closed her eyes against the tears, trying to forget that he was the one who had sold her into this unhappy life. The truth fought for expression, and the tears traced her cheeks, falling upon his hands.

  Tears of pain.

  More like bleeding than crying.

  Adele of Champagne had reacted to the in-family conspiracy against her son with characteristic vitriol. She had not been a party to it; and since neither Stephen nor Theobold had confided their intentions to her, she was furious. Now, with the familial ranks of the Champagne/Blois clan split into yet another faction, the dowager queen took decisive control of the situation, and she brought the public discord to an end even more surely than Henry of England had done. She was angriest at Stephen. She had always known that he was a vain fool, but he was her family favorite so her judgment was tempered by leniency and love. To this point she’d always managed to keep him adherent to her will. Now he’d both disappointed and infuriated her. Upon her return to Paris in mid-February she sent word to him in Sancerre, summoning him to the capital.

  He sat before her now, swallowed by the dense shadows of Adele’s purple-draped apartments. Intermittent firelight shimmered and faded across his features as he sat, his head slightly inclined, seemingly submissive to his sister’s will. She was pacing nervously up and down, up and down the space of floor directly in front of him, tugging at the several long plaits of her hair with distracted and fluttering fingers as she muttered angry, half-audible phrases.

  First she had berated him with harsh invective, now she was intimidating him with furious silence. Stephen was accustomed to her moods and generally successful at mitigating them. He tried now, raising his head to meet her angry eyes. “Darling sister, I have told you I am sorry. It was more Flanders’s fault than mine, as I explained. He is a convincing, misleading man. And after the way Philippe has behaved toward you and all of us in the past, is it any wonder some of us should seek revenge?”

  Adele stood still, standing very straight, her hands resting on her hips as her full bosom heaved in unexpelled anger. “He is my son, he is the king of this land. Nothing shall imperil that!”

  Stephen came to stand beside her, taking hold of her hand, their shoulders touching. They were nearly the same height. He peered closely into her face. “There was a time when you were willing enough to take up arms against him, Adele. His attitude toward us has not changed, why then has your own?”

  Adele’s eyes flashed in answer. “How can I make you understand? You owe your power to me, Stephen. To me and my ability to produce a male heir. If I had failed as his other wives did, you would be only a petty noble with a handsome face and an aristocratic pedigree.” She jerked her hand from his. “How is it that you cannot see that, Stephen? Do I have a count for a brother, or a pigeonbrained imbecile?”

  Stephen shrugged off her rebuke with a flippant smile. “I have apologized. You have control of things once again. But I will say this, sweet sister—if I were you I would keep a tighter rein on Philippe, though I think you have already lost him. Flanders or no, without Philippe’s compliance we have lost all power in any case.”

  Adele’s hands were busy unbraiding the thick black plaits of hair that fell over her shoulders. “We have not lost power!” she shouted, then spoke more quietly. “With Flanders safely removed to the north, we can only grow stronger. My son respects my abilities and my intelligence—and he is clever enough to use them to his own advantage. That gives me power. Your power, and Theobold’s, and William’s—and young Henri’s now that our brother is dead—will be indivisible from my own.” She clenched a handful of ebony hair in her fist. “But you must trust me, Stephen, and listen only to me.” Her expression softened. “If you love me you will promise to be guided by me.”

  Stephen stood looking at her, as enthralled by the mastery of her mind as the beauty of her form. She had been neatly unlacing the tight bodice of her pellison and as she finished she let the heavy velvet wrap slip to the floor, exposing the thin silk of her chemise. Stephen drew nearer, reaching for her. Adele allowed him to strip the sheer garment from her body. Her eyes downcast, she shivered a little at the feel of his hands, cold on her exposed flesh, but the sensation was pleasant. Gently she brought his hand to her lips, kissing the knuckles. “Will you do as I say? Will you be guided by me and me alone?”

  His hand fondled hers. “I have always been guided by you, sweet Adele, from the time we were children. …”

  Her black eyes were languorous. Stephen—how she loved him! Drawing him into her arms, her breasts pressed to the rich embroidery of his bliaud, Adele cooed softly into his ear, “Then come to my bed and make me believe I am still a queen.”

  He kissed the folds of hair that lapped over her fragrant shoulder; his voice was hushed. “So long as you live there will be only one queen of this land.” With his left hand he reached out to quench the candles. The smoky residue rose like vapor, and Adele smiled into the darkness.

  Philippe returned to Paris the following morning. A few days later Adele arranged a meeting between them which included also Hughes de Puiseaux, Sully, and her three brothers. Her intuition, as ever, was inviolate, and it told her that her onl
y hope of retaining the power which Louis had so unthinkingly bestowed upon her was to come to some sort of concordance with her son. Within five months he would be seventeen. He was a man now, no longer the fourteen-year-old she had despaired of controlling. She held little love for him and no affection, but he was the son of her body and she did feel a kind of pride that he so closely resembled her in his appearance and personality.

  Therefore, to the assembled group she confided her feelings and made several specifications. There would be no more public or private conspiring against her son by members of her family, and there would be no more attempts to bridge differences within the family by allying with outsiders such as Philip d’Alsace and his Flemish lords.

  Even Philippe seemed to take renewed vigor from his mother’s forceful actions. A treaty of conciliation was drawn up by the assembled group. Then on February 22nd it was read publicly to the people of Paris by Hughes de Puiseaux.

  Adele made it a social occasion. A canopy had been set up on the front grounds of the palace. Under it, at a long table, sat Theobold of Chartres, William of Rheims, Stephen of Sancerre, Lord Constable Robert of Clermont, Adele, Maurice de Sully, Philippe, and Hughes de Puiseaux. After the chancellor had read the declaration of peace between Philippe and his family, Adele stepped briskly forward, a tall vivid figure in yellow velvet and ermine mantle. She spoke engagingly to the crowd.

  “Parisians … you have heard the pledge of conciliation read by the lord chancellor concerning the members of my family. Since my marriage to your great king Louis Capet, the families of Blois and Champagne have worked for the strength and welfare of this realm. Since the death of my husband, my son Philippe has benefited from our guidance and advise. Unfortunately, as has been evidenced by recent events, outsiders have tried to intervene, sowing discord among us. But that is at an end this day. Together here before you all, my son is reconciled with my brothers. …”

  Philippe came forward at those words and stood beside his mother. She, in dignified humility, took Philippe’s right hand in hers, kissing his ring as she knelt meekly before him. In mutual accord her three brothers also came forth and followed her example, if reluctantly, while the assembled crowd cheered. Later, Adele further endeared herself to the people by passing among them and distributing liberal amounts of coins from her almoner.

  It was Isabel’s twelfth birthday. She lay restlessly upon her bed. listening to the thrashing of the storm outside. For the past three days the rain had been swelling the Seine, and black mud ran in rivulets before the palace.

  Her disposition matched the bleakness of the weather. Isabel had not been included in the celebration which had followed the reconciliation of Philippe and his family. Though she was glad that at least one faction had ceased to make trouble for Philippe, Isabel understood that his new allegiance to his family made her own position untenable. Except for her presence at court (and that, in a limited sense), the Flemish coalition had completely collapsed. Each day her expectations of remaining Philippe’s wife dwindled.

  All this hurt her pride, her sense of security, her peace of mind. Yet it cut deeper than that, because now she felt a need to stay with him that surpassed her sense of feudal or family responsibilities. She loved him. She did not want to lose him now… .

  She was nearly dozing, but the muted sound of footsteps in the corridor roused her and she leapt from the bed, racing lightly across the floor toward the archway entrance. Drawing the portiere aside a little she peered out. Philippe was on his way to his own room. Isabel called his name.

  He turned toward her, giving her a brief disinterested look. “I’m busy, Isabel,” he said curtly, as though anticipating an interruption.

  “I want to talk to you,” she pleaded, sensing his restraint.

  Philippe heaved a sigh of exasperation but started toward her as she ducked back inside the room. He pushed the curtain aside and stood before her. Hands on hips, his shoulders slightly sagging as though in weariness, he surveyed her hastily. His voice was tired. “What do you want?”

  She moved quickly to his side and put her arms around his mid-section, her face rubbing his chest. “Only to see you. It has been such a long time. I was frightened that I might never see you again. And since you have returned, you have kept away from me, as though …” she looked up into his face, “as though you hated me.”

  He didn’t try to shake himself loose from her embrace but he did not encourage her either. When her petting and stroking began to make him uneasy, he stepped back and pushed her arms away. “I have allowed you to remain here as my wife, isn’t that enough?”

  She kissed his hands over and over in gratitude. “Then you do realize that I had nothing to do with what happened? That I did not plot with my uncle against you?”

  His silence was affirmation and she took small satisfaction in that. He still wanted her. He had doubted her, had plagued her with his suspicions, caused her so much pain. But he did still want her. She could feel that, even as he pushed her away from him. “Isabel, I have things to do. Tell me what you want and then I’ll see you at dinner.”

  She retreated to the bed and sat down on it, looking at him intently. Philippe could see how restless she was. There was a half-radiant, half-shaded look in her eyes, a flush on her lips and cheeks. He had nearly forgotten how beautiful she was. Her white muslin dishabille was so sheer as to be nearly transparent. Her hair hung in a tangle of golden floss to below her hips. Philippe felt uneasy, his nerves strained, but he could not take his eyes from her.

  “Why have you stayed so long away from me?” she asked.

  “I have been busy,” he snapped defensively, taking a few steps toward her.

  “Today is my birthday.”

  “I know,” he answered. “I have something for you, I intended to give it to you at dinner.”

  “No I didn’t mean that,” she gave him a hopeful little smile. “I don’t want gifts, Philippe, I want you.” That remark did nothing to soften his antagonism. She tried again. “I’ve been longing to see you, to talk to you, to be alone with you. I was afraid that you had decided to …” She had lived with that fear for well over three months, but she couldn’t bear to put it into words. The smile faded with her voice.

  “I’ve been busy,” he repeated. “You must understand how much I’ve had to cope with since coming back to Paris.”

  “I know,” and her eyes implored him to be kind to her, “but it’s a cold and rainy afternoon—take a few hours for yourself.”

  Before he could stop himself he came to where she sat, looking down at her wordlessly, his eyes playing over every inch of her face. “Uncle William is waiting to see me,” he offered weakly, the sentence fading out with each word as she reached out her hands toward him, her fingers playing lightly along his hips. All the blood seemed to drain from his face and surge at his midsection. Her fingers were suffused with heat and he felt himself giving way beneath her touch. “Isabel, I …” he began.

  Her face was uplifted and she was looking into his eyes as she unfastened the front of his bliaud in one motion, letting her hands glide over his skin. Gently she took one of his hands in hers and pulled it toward her, easing it down inside the front of her dress. Philippe tensed at the fullness under the silk of her skin and nearly pulled away in sudden confusion but her fingers held him. With a quick motion she undid the ribbon of her dishabille and eased the sheer wrap down over her shoulders where it came to fall in limp folds about her waist.

  Still looking into his eyes she shook her hair out like a glistening veil about her shoulders. She saw the look that came into his eyes, felt the tenseness as he stared down at her. Isabel had explored every inch of his body, but she was still a mystery to him.

  Isabel moved closer to him, pressing herself against his groin. She felt him tense suddenly, aroused to her touch, gasping. But at the contact with her breasts he promptly shuddered, gripped her shoulders fiercely, and spent abruptly against her arm.

  His hold on her slac
kened after a few moments. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, and began pulling his bliaud closed.

  But Isabel refused to release him. “No,” she whispered, “don’t leave now, stay with me. …” She fixed her mouth upon the fingers of his right hand, drawing them in, her tongue a warm ally. After a while she stood up, so small beside him, and let the pale, diaphanous garment slip to the floor. Her eyes and voice pleaded with him, her arms sliding upwards, wandering under the material of his bliaud. “Take off your clothes and lie down next to me,” she whispered as he bent to kiss her.

  Without a reply he allowed her to guide him to a recumbent position on the bed beside her. He was silent, unmoving as she covered his face and throat with kisses. “Hold me,” she said softly, drawing him into her arms. The heat of her blood radiated through her skin to his, and a surge of desire for her clenched like a fist inside him. He was terrified.

  Isabel sensed the tension that emanated from him and her gentle hands and voice sought to tranquilize him. “Don’t be so afraid, Philippe,” she told him, “enjoy me, the way I’ve enjoyed you.” When he remained sedately unmoving she pulled his hand to her waist, fingering the silver chain that circled there. “The Druid ring,” she told him. “I’ve worn it ever since that very first night when you gave it to me.”

  His resistance to her had been pure deception and it dissipated totally at the touch of her nipples against his chest. Philippe pulled her closer. Ah, white and rich and creamy, and so lovely!

  He let his lips taste her, lingering over her throat and her shoulders, his hands cradling her head, his fingers lost in the billowing sheen of her hair. His tongue found hers, prodding, and pushing deeper into her mouth. Her hair was everywhere, tangled with his caresses, strands of it matted by his sweat and her own, but it was the only gold he wanted, the softness of her skin the only glory he could comprehend. His consciousness flickered, ebbed, and died completely. His hands flew to her waist, grasping her roughly, then flinging her over on her back his body over her, pinning her down. “Christ,” he murmured breathlessly, “I want you, I want you.”