Philippe turned over on his back, arms pillowing his head. Every conversation with Geoffrey seemed to entail a guessing game. “I suppose I have,” he said, sounding bored.
“Then I will say two words to you,” Geoffrey offered and leaned closer. “A navy.”
Philippe stared up, unsure. “What?”
“My friend, only the great lords of the north, men like Flanders and the emperor, have great navies. Even England has little sea power to boast of. With a port and a navy to fill it, the Ile-de-France would be an unrivaled power in the West. Think of it, Philippe—the vast trade possibilities with eastern ports! Italy, England, even the Empire, would be nothing alongside France.”
That possibility had never occurred to Philippe but in a single moment he weighed its worth and could not dispute it. He had only one question. “And why would you be willing to help me gain all this?”
The smile on Geoffrey’s lips was insolent and he let his head droop to Philippe’s shoulder. “Need you ask me that after last night?”
Philippe pulled away. “Passion and politics are ill-fitted companions. It is not wise to interchange them.”
The young duke straightened up. “Perhaps. But do you doubt that in both matters we are very much alike?”
Their pleasurable exchange of conversation at dinner last night and all that had followed it converged in Philippe’s mind. Geoffrey had much more to offer than Harry ever had, but could he be trusted? Philippe brushed his fingers over Geoffrey’s cheek. “I loved your brother greatly, but I knew better than to be cajoled into supporting his wars.” He leaned back on his elbows, looking at Geoffrey with narrowed eyes. “I have vast ambitions, some of which I divulged to you last night. But I am practical enough to appreciate my limitations at this point. I am not yet prepared to take on the power of England.”
“I said nothing of England,” Geoffrey replied, looking unspeakably innocent.
“Be sensible,” Philippe scoffed, “what do you think old Henry will be doing while you declare Brittany annexed to France? In two days time every man-at-arms in Normandy will be breaking down your door at Rennes, and Henry’s troops in the Loire Valley will be flooding the Ile de la Cite.” A doubting frown creased his forehead. “It just isn’t possible, Geoffrey. Your father isn’t a dullard, you know. At any sign that you and I were becoming friendly, he’d be sure to get suspicious and that would mean trouble for us.”
“There won’t be any signs,” Geoffrey argued, stripping off his fur mantle and tossing it aside, “at least none that he will see. Our progress to these ends will be slow and subtle.” He fussed at the laces of his smock, untying them carefully, then stopped to look over at Philippe. “Don’t you see my reasoning? We are young. Time is on our side.”
Philippe stood up and stretched with the litheness of a cat. With deliberate slowness he began pulling off his clothes. “You speak as though Henry has one foot in the grave. But he isn’t dead yet. Look how easily he swept aside your rebellion last summer. He is still a power to be reckoned with.”
The delicate lines alongside Geoffrey’s mouth settled into a pout. “That was the fault of your precious Harry. He was no soldier. I would have been better off to lead the revolt myself, without his help.”
Philippe tossed his boots and braies to the floor atop Geoffrey’s discarded clothes and stood for a moment, his naked body bronzed and beautiful in the firelight. Then kneeling beside Geoffrey he took up the porringer and emptied it swiftly. Wine glistened on his lips as he spoke. “If we are to do as you suggest, we must court caution. I want no possibility of war with England now or at any time in the future. Since this last rebellion your father and Richard have been uncomfortably close. That worries me much.”
A teasing smile played over Geoffrey’s lips. “You need not fear. Henry’s best days are well behind him.”
“Perhaps,” Philippe agreed stoically, “but we cannot simply wish your brother Richard away. When Henry is gone he will be king, no doubt. The thought of facing him at the head of the combined armies of England, Normandy and the Aquitaine is not a pleasing one.”
Geoffrey’s arms coiled about Philippe’s shoulders and their lips met, hot and seeking. Philippe lowered his head to Geoffrey’s chest, his teeth making sharp little bites over the flesh. Holding him close, Geoffrey sighed with pleasure and smiled at his own genius. “Don’t worry about Richard, Philippe my love. He is much less of a threat than you might think.”
“How do you mean?” Philippe asked, letting his fingers toy with the soft dark hair on Geoffrey’s chest.
They kissed. Geoffrey nibbled at Philippe’s ear, then prodded it with his tongue before he whispered, “Just this: my father has already determined to take the Aquitaine away from Richard. He has promised the succession in return, but that is a bluff. He is so afraid of Richard that he wishes to see all power passed to John at his own death. Thus, John is to have the Aquitaine and the crown if my dear father has his way.”
Philippe’s head jerked up and he stared at Geoffrey, not sure for a moment if it was a joke. Then a smile crossed his face. The smile became a grin and then a laugh, and before long Geoffrey was laughing too. They laughed and laughed, locked in each other’s arms, until exhausted at last they tumbled together in a heap upon the fur. Dizzy with pleasure and power, Philippe yielded to Geoffrey’s eager lips and closed his eyes. “John!” he muttered to himself, and laughed once more.
Isabel was still asleep the following evening when Henry brought dinner to her room. Yawning, she pulled the sheet up around her shoulders. “I can’t believe I have slept so long,” she exclaimed. “Why didn’t you send someone to wake me?”
He settled a large tray at the edge of the bed, “You were tired from traveling,” he replied. “You needed to rest.”
She slipped easily from the bed, wrapped in a fur coverlet, and pulled a pale green chainse from her satchel before disappearing into the adjoining annex room. “It was kind of you to bring me a meal,” she called out to him.
Henry poked at the fire, then tossed another log into the midst of the flames. “You left a lot on your plate last night,” he answered, looking up as she came back into the room. “You must be hungry by now.”
They sat facing each other on the bed, eating from the same tray. It was an act of intimacy she had never known with Philippe, who ate only at table, and then with as little talk as possible.
“Your letters were dispatched this morning,” Henry told her after he had mumbled a blessing over the food. “They were sent to your husband in Paris, to Flanders in Ghent, and to Baldwin in Mons. What do you plan to do with yourself until they are delivered?”
“It is Philippe who most concerns me,” Isabel replied, nibbling at a piece of fruit, “but it may be as long as three weeks before he returns to Paris.” She stripped a bit of fat from a slice of pork, then wrapped the meat with bread. Holding it close to her mouth she asked, “Could I remain here until then? I have nowhere else I can go.”
Henry thought about that and then nodded. “I will be here till the middle of February. So long as that, you may remain as well.”
Isabel smiled her thanks, then peered beneath the covered dishes and plates, searching for something sweet. “Philippe should be back in Paris shortly after Candlemas. After Senlis he went on to St. Nazaire in Brittany to see your son.”
Henry choked on his wine. After a fit of coughing he croaked out the words, “He is with Geoffrey?”
“Yes,” she replied, not understanding his alarm. Henry grasped the henap roughly at its base and flung it across the room. Stunned by his outburst, Isabel explained quietly, “They are friends.”
“They are conspirators!” he bellowed, shaking a fist in the air.
“Good Christ, will the time never come when I am safe from the evil intentions of my sons and their cohorts?”
Her hand trembled lightly upon his forearm and her voice was cautious. “Why does that upset you? It seems innocent enough to me.”
&nb
sp; “What do you know of it?” he grumbled, tossing his meat back onto the plate.
She spoke more boldly. “I know of the trouble between you and your sons and the wars that came from it, but since the death of Harry I have heard it said that Geoffrey has done homage to you and begged forgiveness. If that is so, how can you think he would stir up more dissent?”
“An oath of fealty means nothing to Geoffrey,” Henry responded dismally, slapping a fist into his palm, “and with your husband to help him, he could aspire to even greater treasons.”
“It’s not what you think, I’m sure,” she tried to persuade him. “Perhaps I cannot speak for your son, but I know Philippe well enough to make a judgment. He is already facing the threat of war with my family. Why would he wish to invite a confrontation with you? Especially when he hopes, as I know he does, that you will eventually intercede on his behalf?”
He pondered that for a while, staring glumly at the floor. “Then why are they together?”
She had wondered too. Philippe had given no reason for going to Brittany. There was only one answer Isabel could think of. “You must understand,” she began, “Philippe has certain habits. You doubtless know of the relationship he shared with Harry. It is possible Geoffrey appeals to him in much the same way.” She looked placidly into his stern face. Taking up her own cup she poured it full with wine and handed it to him. It was no good if he got side-tracked on other matters when she wanted him fully committed to her own concerns. “Don’t worry. I know the ways of the world, the ways of men, and I tell you this: whatever Geoffrey and Philippe have between them, it has nothing to do with you.” Her sweet smile was designed to convince him further.
Henry took her offering and drank till the cup was empty, then sat back to watch as she ate. The fire lapped light and shadow over her humid beauty. He stroked his beard thoughtfully. What was wrong with Philippe Capet that he preferred the company of men to this honeyed girl? His careful glance measured the fullness of the curves beneath her clothes. She was a smug little bitch in her way, sensing the tug of interest between them and enjoying it, but pretending not to notice the eager flush of passion on his face. Such sensual precocity was wasted on a boy! Before he could choose his words more carefully he had told her so.
Isabel had gone back to her food and answered him without looking up. “Oh I don’t know. He’s much less of a boy than you might imagine.”
Henry laughed. Such conversation came easily from her lips. “I’ve heard the stories.”
“From Eleanor?”
“Yes,” he admitted, “though it seems, despite his size, good Louis had little to offer as a lover.”
Isabel pushed the tray to the foot of the bed and licked the wine from her lips. “Philippe is different.”
He was beginning to understand her and the realization brought a lustful smile to his lips. “It would appear that there are aspects of this marriage which you hold much dearer than your crown.”
Isabel looked at him, not sure if he was merely teasing, or trying to make her angry. He was a hard man to read, though certain sides of his nature were already very clear to her. Henry was vigorous: she’d heard the stories of his many mistresses, as nearly everyone had, and yet Isabel had the feeling he had not been satisfied for many years. Something in his eyes told her that. Or was it only vanity after all: both of them thinking they held a special fascination irresistible to the other?
Her fingers skipped lightly over the coverlet. “It is true I don’t care about the crown,” she said, “but all of this is very private and hard to explain. I’m not sure you would understand.”
How typically female she was, how shamelessly young! Henry grabbed her wrist and held it. “I understand this: I don’t care if your precious husband boots you out or not. What is it to me, after all?”
She bowed her head, golden streamers of hair nearly covering her face as she did so. “Nothing, I suppose.”
He let go of her but leaned closer. “Young or old, you women are all alike! It isn’t enough to have a good man in your bed, you must own him, clutch him to your breast, like gold. Why does every woman put her stock in romance? This need for cherishing and being cherished, it’s nonsense, all of it… .”
She looked at him with a minglement of pity and surprise. “You don’t really believe that. You couldn’t.”
Henry’s voice was hoarse, bitter with remembrance. “What do you know? Child, I’ve been old longer than you’ve been alive. Love is a cheat and you are a fool, my little beauty, if you believe in it too dearly.”
He was even more complicated than she had guessed, and jaded. She felt sorry for him, and vaguely motherly. “What do you believe in then?” she asked.
“This,” he said and took her in his arms. “Only this.”
An instant, only an instant to evaluate her feelings; a moment to decide if she wanted him or not. And then the moment passed, and wanting or not wanting didn’t matter because he was kissing her, and she did not resist nor did she wish to.
Eagerly and with her help Henry stripped off his clothes and flung them to the floor. For just a moment Isabel was disappointed. He was not beautiful like Philippe. His flesh was firm enough, but blotched with many scars and signs of age. Most of the hair upon his chest was grey. But below his chest—ah, that was nice. She closed her eyes and reached for him.
Henry’s grunted promises were all obscenities: he would do this to her and after that, then this again. His peasant vulgarity excited Isabel, but there was more. How sweet the touch of a man who’d known so many women in his life. She sighed with contentment. Legend. He was a legend.
It was dawn before either of them slept.
Henry snored comfortably that afternoon while Isabel took a bath and washed her hair. When she returned to her room he was awake and sitting up in bed, eating a slice of bread from last night’s dinner tray.
“That is no way for a king to feed his appetite,” Isabel teased and took the bread from his hand. “I was just downstairs and ordered a meal to be laid for us.”
“Come here,” he pulled her into his arms, “and let me feed myself on you.”
Two hours later they went downstairs to dinner.
“I’m so happy,” Isabel told him as she cut into her meat. “I haven’t felt this good in months. You’re wonderful to be with, Henry. You truly are.”
Henry stirred the potage in his bowl and tasted it. The broth was hot and spicy, laced with vegetables and herbs. He wiped his lips and looked across the table at her. She made a delicious sight, engrossed in eating. “And you make an old man feel young again.” The words were spoken lightly, but his eyes proved them to be true.
As they ate they talked of many things. Isabel was alive with curiosity and Henry found himself recounting stories that he hadn’t told in years. Childhood memories of his mother’s wars against King Stephen. Himself a king at twenty-one with Eleanor as his bride. The struggle with Becket and its ghastly consequences. The years of turmoil which had followed, as Eleanor incited Harry, Richard and Geoffrey to treason against their own father.
Isabel watched Henry closely as he spoke of Eleanor. His voice was full of enmity as though he’d never loved her, or if having done so, had forgotten it long ago. As for his sons, he had praise for only one of them.
“Johnny is a good boy,” he said, and pushed his plate away. “He’s a little irresponsible now but he’ll grow out of that in time. He loves me, that’s what counts in a son. He’s the only boy Eleanor gave me who does. There’s Godfrey, though. Godfrey loves me.”
Godfrey of Lincoln. Isabel wasn’t likely to forget him and what he’d written about her. She wondered if Henry knew of that but decided not to bring it up. “Yes, Godfrey,” she mused, “is he your son by the famous Rosamunde?”
He hesitated, looking down into the bottom of his empty cup. “No, I met her years after he was born. She gave me several children too, but they all died as infants.”
“And now you never speak of her?�
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“Not often.” He filled the cup and drank till it was empty once again. Rosamunde. That memory was a pressed flower closed between the pages of a book he seldom opened now. And yet the fragrance lingered… .
Isabel realized she had crossed the boundary into a private place. She didn’t want to risk his anger but the subject of his legendary romance interested her. Ask a hard question softly and you’ll get an answer, Baldwin had told her once, so she kept her voice discreet and sympathetic. “Was Rosamunde as lovely as the poets say?”
Was she? The years had dimmed the memory of her face and all the other things about her. The feel of her, sweet and submissive in his arms. Her gentle voice that only spoke to praise him. How good she had been, how kind—and how greatly Henry had betrayed her. A single tear escaped his eye and rushed down into his beard. Forgive me, Rosamunde, forgive me all the lies!
“Forgive me,” Isabel said. “Is the memory so painful for you?”
“All memories are,” he said and wiped a hand across his face.
“Then you must banish them by concentrating on the future.”
He patted her hand affectionately and thought how sweet she was. “At my age, Isabel, the future holds as many terrors as the past. You wouldn’t understand that. You’re too young to know what terror is.”
Her laugh was rich with irony. “If that were true, Henry, I wouldn’t have come here.” Her face held him in thrall as he watched the subtle change that came into her eyes. “Think back upon your life at my age. What you were telling me before. You knew what sadness was, and trouble. So do I. Bad memories haunt us only if we let them, and so far as the future is concerned, is yours any less secure than mine is?”
She was so lovely it was hard to believe she was equally as wise. “You’re right,” he said, “it doesn’t bear repeating.” He took hold of her hand and, without releasing it, rounded the table to stand behind her.
Her face bloomed like a flower as she tilted her chin to look up at him. “Take me upstairs,” she whispered, “and I will teach you to forget the past.”
The Rain Maiden Page 29
