The Rain Maiden

by Jill M Philips

  But now Adele was coming home to the Cite Palais with her new lover, and some changes would be made. Invoking the authority that Isabel had been unable to assert, Adele had arranged for the despised Marguerite to be removed from the palace and housed outside the city at the convent of St. Genevieve. This she had secured through the influence of de Puiseaux, who had managed to convince Philippe of the idea shortly before his departure to Amiens. Isabel was enough of a rival. Adele wanted no others.

  There was no festivity of celebration to greet Adele upon her arrival in Paris, however. No bodyguard of the king met her party at the Grande Pont to escort her through the muddy streets of the city. No gay banners hung in welcome at the palace entryway. Rain ran miserably down the grey stones of the fortress walls, while off to the side beneath a wooden awning near the esplanade a small group of serving stewards hunched closely about their charcoal burners, warming themselves against the chill.

  The interior of the palace was equally cheerless. Adele dismissed her retinue and followed the dim corridor to the great hall. A lean hound snatched at her skirt as she passed and she kicked him away with her boot. He snarled but retreated to the comer and Adele continued on her way toward the hall, silently cursing her son. Each time she returned from the richness of her palace in Champagne she was shocked anew by the shabbiness of this place. How different it had looked when she and Louis had reigned here, filling it with laughter and music and the constant gaiety of parties.

  The great hall was empty and silent. Adele stood for a while in the center of the vacant room. It was cold. No fire had been laid so early in the afternoon, and the air was stale from last night’s meat. Upon the far wall, imprisoned in their iron racks, a few torches smoldered in mute offering to her presence.

  Adele knew nothing of what had so recently transpired between her son and his wife, yet a sense of melancholy and disorder sulked in the shadows as though waiting to make itself known to her. Adele shivered and turned away.

  The feast of St. Andrew marked the beginning of Advent, the four-week period preceding Christmas. Isabel joined Philippe and his two Capet uncles in the seven-mile pilgrimage to St. Denis. It was their first public occasion together since the “breach,” but it was strictly ceremonial. She spent the night in the adjacent chapter house while Philippe maintained vigil inside the church with Sully and several monks of his order.

  Philippe had said nothing about a divorce, yet the hope of reconciliation seemed an indulgent fantasy to Isabel. Why he had not immediately arranged for her dismissal from the court was a question which baffled even her quick mind. He had not forgiven her, that was certain. Each time their eyes met she saw the evidence of injury and betrayal which she had put there. Even Sully looked at her with ill-concealed scorn as if Philippe had told him. That thought brought a satiric smile to her lips. More likely the wise bishop had known all along… .

  Isabel’s sense of guilt had receded into a bitterness that was nurtured by Philippe’s cold silence. She had accepted his indiscretions with Harry and other young men as a part of her husband’s nature that she could not change. Why couldn’t he do likewise for her sake?

  There was nothing for her to do but wait for Philippe’s decision, yet Isabel determined to make one final effort on her own behalf. As they made the silent journey back to Paris, she stared pensively at the faded landscape and formed the words in her mind.

  … as my father you owe me more than you have given me of late. The silence to which you cling has done me insufferable injury. When I write to you, you do not answer. If you have ever loved me, if you love me still, you will prove it now by using your power to bring to an end this long contest between our family and the crown of France.

  It was for the good of us all that my marriage was contracted; it will be to the detriment of us all if it is ended. You alone have the power to convince my uncle that it is to all our interests if he mends the breach between Flemish and Frankish participants in our joint coalition.

  There is little time. My marriage has been imperiled because of threats and calumnies to my character by Philip d’Alsace, and by his determination to deprive my husband of the legal inheritance to Vermandois and Valois. Philippe and Flanders remain impervious in their opinions. I can do nothing. It is up to you.

  I shall not petition your help again. I shall instead make options of my own.

  Isabel de Hainault

  December 2, 1183

  It seemed as though all the options had run out on the night of December 21st when Philippe came to her room for the first time in over two months.

  “I have made a decision,” he announced, standing at the foot of her bed.

  Isabel lay swaddled beneath layers of miniver, her back supported by cushions of pale blue velvet powdered with fleur-de-lis stitched in golden thread. She had been dozing when he came in and now she rubbed her eyes to wakefulness and smoothed the hair back from her face. “What do you want?” she asked him tonelessly.

  He had begun to grow a beard and it made his face look older, even less pleasant than usual. “I want you to listen to me,” he answered immediately. “I am leaving for Senlis tomorrow. There I shall convene a council to seek the means of dissolving our marriage.” He paused, waiting for her cry of sorrow or outrage, but there was nothing. Her face reflected none of the despair he had envisioned. It was as though she had not heard him. His voice became strident. “Divorce is the only answer, Isabel. Obviously you cannot continue as my wife now that I have learned what I have learned.” He shifted on his feet, uncomfortable in her presence, eager for the meeting to be at an end. He took a deep breath. “I have no choice!”

  Her expression hardened and the faint specks of green came to life in her eyes. “What a liar you are!” she gasped. “If Vermandois was served up to you tomorrow my past would be miraculously forgiven!”

  Color flooded into his face and all the composure was gone from his voice. “You dare to call me a liar when you deceived me since I first knew you?”

  “My father and my uncle deceived you,” she shouted back at him, “not I!”

  “You did,” he answered, “you lied with every breath, with every kiss.” His voice faltered a little and he turned his face to the side, trying to compose himself. “I loved you so much! Yet even from the beginning I felt guilty for wanting you. I felt guilty! And all the while …” It was very hard for him to keep from crying as he said the words, for they were his true feelings. Then in an instant he had squared his shoulders and his voice was firm again. “There is nothing more to say, Isabel. I am leaving for Senlis tomorrow, as I told you. From there I go to Brittany to meet with Geoffrey Plantagenet. I won’t be back in Paris till early February.” He paused, still not letting himself look at her. “Of course, it will take many weeks to settle the matter of our divorce, perhaps longer. Until such time as that, and a proper escort can be secured to take you back to your family in Hainault, you are welcome to stay here.” Philippe looked down at the floor, not willing to face her with his final comment. “You may keep all I have given you in the past as a token of my esteem.”

  “Wait!” she cried out as he turned to leave, her arm outstretched, the fingers pointing at him. When he spun around to face her she relaxed a little and her arm fell limply to the bed once more. “All you have given me …” she repeated. “Is that your farewell speech to me? How could you have lain so close upon my heart so often, and then walk away from me forever with such words as those on your lips? You remember nothing!” She twisted the Byzantine opal from her finger and threw it in his direction. It bounced off his chest and skidded away somewhere into a comer of the room, lost in darkness.

  He stood perfectly still for a moment. “Goodbye, Isabel,” he finally muttered, and then he left her.

  The blue velvet drape fluttered a little at his exit and then fell still. She continued to stare at it, at the vacant doorway, at the table beside it where the candles burned. Then her tears obscured it all.

  To Henri, Cou
nt of Champagne, from Henry Plantagenet, King of the English, greetings.

  Please advise the Queen of France that I shall be keeping court at Gisors until the third week in February and that I will be pleased to grant her an audience at any time before that time, as requested in your recent communication.

  I enclose a ring bearing my signet seal. You will tell the queen to bear it on her person so that she might identify herself and her purpose here when she passes through my guards in crossing the frontier to Normandy.

  Henry, Rex Anglorum

  January 10, 1184

  The mixture of gems sparkled up like a jeweled salad as they caught the wavering glow from the fire. Pearls, emeralds, rubies, pink topaz, sapphires, opal and jade—set into a profusion of gold and silver chains, ring bands and delicately wrought earrings. Isabel looked down at the heap of jewels with impassivity, then slapped the crocheted-gold cover of the box over them and latched the coffer before handing it over to Edythe with these words: “This will be the last thing you have to do. Tomorrow morning take this to the herbarium and conceal it among the discarded leaves. Lock the door when you leave and keep the key on your person at all times.” Isabel produced a small silver key hanging on a chain from within the deep folds of her black velvet pellison. She pressed the object firmly into Edythe’s open hand. “Under no circumstances let anyone know where they are, or even that they have been hidden. Let it be thought I have taken them with me.”

  Edythe curled her fingers around the key, then looked at Isabel quizzically. “Why are you taking all these precautions?” she asked. “And where are you going? You must tell me. You act as though you will be gone for a long time. Surely if you were returning to Mons you would not leave me behind!”

  Isabel took back the coffer of jewels while Edythe slipped the chain over her own head and slid the key down beneath the brown neckline of her wool chainse. Then once again the casket of jewels was thrust back into her perplexed care.

  The queen looked hastily around, her gaze darting to each comer of the room, then with a satisfied grimace she nodded. Everything was prepared. Bringing her attention back to Edythe she assured her, “I am not going back to Mons. I have already told you that. But where I am going you cannot come. It is enough to have to account for my own safety. I cannot be burdened with looking after yours.” Then in a gentler tone Isabel added, “Do not worry over me, my dear. I shall be sufficient to myself, and in any case I am not traveling alone. Perhaps I shall be back in a fortnight. At most no more than three weeks. But whatever happens, I shall return here. Then, if needs be, we shall return together to Hainault.”

  Edythe knew little of the circumstances at work behind this event, only that a divorce was in the air. But she had noticed a change in Isabel’s behavior, a change that went very deep. It had been evident for some weeks, but more obvious since Henri of Champagne had brought her a sealed letter three days ago. Since then Isabel had been active with her packing and the storing of precious items. Now as the hour grew close on midnight she was dressed in black velvet from boots to hooded cape, preparing to travel—where?

  She indicated the chapel annex with a sweep of her hand. “For tonight hide the casket in there. Put it in the reliquary. But tomorrow morning take it to the herbarium as I instructed.”

  Edythe shuffled into the chapel room to accomplish the chore. When she returned Isabel was pulling on her velvet gloves, as black as the rest of what she wore. Then she bent toward the remaining bottles on her dressing table and dabbed herself quickly with perfume. She gave a last glance into the mirror, speaking as she looked. “Do not be troubled for your own safety, Edythe. While I am away Henri of Champagne will be in residency here at the palace; he has promised to look after you.”

  Her boots made soft footfalls across the floor. At the archway Isabel took up the two heavy satchels she had packed. They were made of chamois leather and had woven handles which met and tied in the center. Edythe, dragging her lame leg, hustled to Isabel’s side. “If anyone remarks upon my absence,” the queen was saying, “say only that I have gone to pray at St. Denis for a few days.” She halted, and her lips turned up in a sarcastic smile. “It is possible no one will notice I am gone. But if they do, say as I have instructed you.” Isabel dotted Edythe’s face with several kisses. “Goodbye. May all be well with you.” She turned toward the doorway.

  “But if the king should return?” Edythe called out suddenly.

  Isabel wrestled the strap of one satchel up over her shoulder, the other one she took in her hand. “He will not return before I do,” she explained. “He is in Brittany and will no doubt halt at Chartres for Candlemas. Do not fear. I shall be back before then.” She gave one further kiss to Edythe’s face, then swept past the drape into the musty corridor. “Pray for me,” she called back over her shoulder.

  A circular moon rode high above the clouds and Isabel was blacker than the night she passed through on her way down the path to the herbarium.

  The satchels were heavy but she carried them easily, making urgent progress past the shadowed outlines of trees and flowering bushes, all bare now but for the Christmas roses which bloomed at the edge of the path.

  Amid the indecipherable tangle of dead vines the herbarium was crypt-like, and Isabel shivered with excitement and cold as she approached it. Just then she saw a tall figure step out from the darkness. Isabel halted, then regained her breath with a gasp of recognition. It was Henri. He was there, waiting for her, as he had promised.

  She had gone to him two weeks ago with a semblance of her plan: a meeting with Henry of England, to seek his aid on her behalf in the matter of the impending divorce. That much of it had been Isabel’s idea, but the Count of Champagne had made it possible by securing an invitation from the king, and arranging an escort to take her to Gisors.

  “Thank God,” Henri said breathlessly, taking the burdensome satchels from her and placing them on the ground. “I was ready to come upstairs after you. The monks will be ready to leave after their midnight prayers.”

  The monks he spoke of were a group of Cistercians, on pilgrimage to the abbey at Rouen. Their presence would assure the queen’s safe conduct to Gisors fortress. For her return to Paris she would have to seek the protection of a bodyguard provided by the English king.

  “So you are still determined to do this thing.” It was not a question; Henri knew well enough how stubborn her purpose was. He glanced down at her clothes with a frown. “Are you dressed warmly enough?”

  She spread her arms, indicating the thick folds of black velvet: chainse, pellison and cloak. He nodded his approval. “Your horse is saddled and I will ride with you to the monastery. The horse is at the side of the palace, just over there,” he pointed a short distance away, “out of view of the palace bodyguard, as you requested. We had better start.”

  Isabel had been too preoccupied these past few days to appreciate his help in bringing her plan into being, but quite suddenly the realization took hold of her with incredible force. She wrapped her arms about his waist, snuggling her cheek at his chest. “You’ve helped me so much,” she breathed the words softly, then offered a kiss with her upturned face.

  He held her rather timidly and answered, “It is next to nothing.”

  “To you perhaps. To me it is salvation.”

  He cringed a little at her exorbitant optimism. “Don’t hope too grandly in all this, Isabel,” he warned. “The King of England may not wish to interfere in your husband’s business. And even if he does, Philippe may take no notice of it.”

  In the past she might have wilted at such words, but nothing could undercut her confidence now. She was fueled with some strange sense of power, invulnerable to doubt. Smiling up at him she said, “You have already done your part. Don’t worry after the rest. It is my concern.”

  Henri hesitated for a moment, then bent to kiss her, pressing her lips gently with his own. Isabel sighed and held him tighter. Her embrace was freely given and hinted at more, but he fought a
gainst the sense of rising excitement. “We must leave,” he whispered into her ear. “The monks are waiting.”

  Isabel pulled at his sleeve, urging him toward the herbarium. “They know I am coming. They will wait.” She tugged at the latch, freeing it. The door swayed open, creaking softly.

  Henri followed her inside. The room had a domed glass roof that sliced the sky into pieces like a pie. It was cold in here and the air smelled of damp earth, old oils, dead flowers. She led him to a bench in the center of the room and sat him down. Standing, she was only a little taller than he was sitting. She pressed close, her hands busy at his neck and shoulders, her teeth nibbling at his beard. Her voice was the loveliest sound he had ever heard. “Do you want me?” she asked. But before he could answer she silenced his lips with kisses.

  Even through the camouflage of her heavy velvets he could feel the rich curves and elegant lines of her body, and the heat of her—a fire in the blood that seemed to come right through her skin. Then in the midst of their embrace she pulled away and stepped back, quickly stripping off her cape and pellison, pulling off her boots and the braies she had worn for riding. One by one she tossed each piece of clothing to the ground beside her.

  Gracefully Isabel sank to her knees in front of him, her fingers untangling the laces of his braies. Smiling, she drew his penis out, unmistakably small and slender but sweetly scented with oil of summer roses in the way that fashionable gentlemen perfumed themselves. She kissed it over and over, wetting her lips each time, teasing the tip with her tongue as she carefully pulled back the skin with her fingers. The sensation was so intense it took away his breath, and all he could do was speak her name over and over again.

  The promise of her naked breasts wavered before his closed eyes and he pulled her onto his lap, parting her chainse in one swift movement, wetting her skin with his tongue. The taste of her was sweeter even than her scent, and nothing in all of reality could have been so miraculous to him at that moment as the act of loving her. He could not hold her closely enough, could not fill her deeply enough. He was above himself, riding a wind of insufferable beauty as Isabel clung to his neck with coiled arms, murmuring wanton incentives into his ear.