She had made him feel young again. Not wanting to diminish that, she let him carry her upstairs.
Outside the town of Chartres, a mile beyond the cathedral, Philippe stood in a little grove of yew trees and looked out toward the white-washed sky where the snow was falling.
It was cold and the world seemed empty but for him. When the wind rattled a branch behind him he jumped at the sound. After a moment he relaxed but turned his head a little, anticipating a presence that was not there.
Philippe pushed at the snow with booted feet as the pale sky deepened to vague shades of grey. Then when the light was gone he straddled his horse and rode away.
The King of England was keeping to his bed late on these long winter mornings.
The entourage who had come to Gisors with him lounged in idleness. They could not attend to business, nor even satisfy themselves with hunting, because the king shunned their company and kept them posted to the common hall. There they amused themselves with drink and dicing, while upstairs Henry concentrated his attentions upon the girl who had been his bedmate for two weeks.
Isabel was happy here. She loved doing things for him, little tasks like those she had done for her father. Mending the lining of his clothes. Polishing his boots and stitching them where they were ragged. She served him food and stirred the honey in his wine.
And he could talk to her; that surprised him. Isabel had as much capacity for making conversation as she had for making love. “How beautiful you are,” he told her one evening as she sat at his feet before the fire. “I think if you were my wife I would lock you up away from all the world and visit you each night in secret.” He patted the top of her head with a burly hand.
She looked up over the border of her sewing and gave him a wan smile. “I may as well have been locked up for the past four years. Philippe never lets me see anyone. I’m like a prisoner in that awful place.”
“He’s jealous,” Henry winked at her, “and I don’t blame him.”
Her hands went limp over the material. “It isn’t only that, Henry. He simply doesn’t want to see me happy. When first I came to Paris, Sully and the Chancellor de Puiseaux helped me with my lessons. They were about the only people that I saw. Philippe even resented that! Then later de Puiseaux was too busy to spend time with me, at my husband’s instigation I am sure. And Sully stopped liking me a long time ago. He thinks I am a bad influence on Philippe.”
Henry found that amusing. “No doubt any priest on earth would agree with him. They are a suspicious lot.” Then as an afterthought he asked, “What about your husband’s family? Have they been unpleasant to you?”
“Unpleasant?” she sniffed contemptuously. “They’ve been despicable. All of them, except Philippe’s cousin, Henri. He’s been very kind to me. As you know he was the one who made it possible for me to come here.” When Henry made no reply Isabel returned to the business of her mending, assiduously engrossed in making little stitches in the cloak he wore for riding.
Henry watched her as she sat, her head thrust forward in concentration, her hair tousled about her shoulders like a sunburst in the firelight. “You’re so sweet,” he mused. “I don’t think you have any idea of how sweet you are. Your husband must be hard-hearted not to love you.”
Her fingers stopped abruptly, the needle glinting between folds of woollen cloth. “He loves me. It’s only that he hates my family so much, for what my uncle has done to him, and now, my father.”
“And that is what you hope to remedy by coming here?”
She put the cloth aside and went to him, wrapping her arms about his neck. “Don’t make fun of me. I didn’t know what else to do.”
He pulled her onto his knee and held her close against his chest, rocking her gently. She was so warm and yielding, resting in his arms like a sleeping child. The firelight dappled glowing shades of orange and gold across her flawless face. The sight of her was so lovely it made his heart ache. “Don’t expect too much from me, Isabel,” he said, trying not to sound unkind. “I have done all I intend to do. If Philippe is persuaded by your ultimatum not to divorce you, so much the better for you. But if it does not work, there is nothing more that I can do.”
She raised her head and looked at him with sea-colored eyes that saw deeper than he knew. “You could, Henry. You could if you wanted to. You’ve settled difficulties between my family and the French before. You could do it again. You could do it for me.”
Isabel slipped gently from his lap as he stood up, looking down at her, his eyes the color of an approaching storm. “I told you my feelings about this the first night you were here, and a half dozen times since then I have repeated it. There is not enough charm in all the world or even you to change my mind once I have made it up. Remember that, and this last week will be as pleasant for us as all that has gone before.”
By the examples she had seen, Isabel should have realized that all men were the same, and kings more so than the rest. Philippe was always unmoved by her pleas, why should this man be any different? Henry was older, seasoned, with more reasons in his past to make him cynical.
“Would you say, then, that without your interference, he is likely to divorce me?” she asked, with little hope.
It was not a conversation that Henry wanted to pursue. He gathered up the papers he’d been reading earlier and tucked them away inside the folds of a heavy leather satchel, which he tossed to the floor. Then he sighed and straightened up. “Isabel, you know the answer better than I do. Can’t we just leave it there?”
There was no point in belaboring the subject any further, but she had one question left to ask. “If you were my husband what would you do?”
He walked to the bed and sat down heavily on it. “You ask too many questions, questions which I cannot answer.” He held out his arms to her. “Let’s be done with all the words and go to bed.”
She went into his embrace and put a kiss upon his cheek but she would not be so easily put off by his indifference. “This divorce may be a little thing to you, Henry,” she reminded him, “but to me it is worse than anything else.”
He saw the threat of tears in her eyes and felt uneasy. Poor child. Her vulnerability stabbed a little at his conscience. “Divorce is not so terrible,” he told her, “and no matter how you feel you must learn to live with whatever happens.”
“But I love him! I will die without him!” The words seemed incongruous in the circle of his arms.
Henry’s voice was spiked with irritation. “You won’t die. Believe me girl, to die is not so easy.”
Isabel knew she had no right to expect sympathy from him but she wanted it all the same. It was her own fault, needing him to understand her when there was no reason why he should. At least he hadn’t lied to her. From the first night Henry had been indifferent to the divorce and had said so. Leave it be she told herself and blinked away the tears. “Henry,” she asked as he stripped the cloth from her shoulders, “why did you never divorce Eleanor?”
“Bad politics,” he muttered, distracted.
“Bad marriage.”
“Only at the close,” he answered, his rough hands fondling her silken skin. “There was a time when Eleanor and I were happy. She always said that Becket came between us, and Rosamunde, and other women; I’ll hold she thinks it to this day. But there were a thousand better reasons.”
She kissed him, holding his face between her hands. “When I saw the two of you together at Geoffrey’s wedding, I thought I had never seen a couple so fitted for one another.”
His bawdy laugh boomed in her face. “Oh we fitted alright, it was the rest that didn’t work.” When Isabel tried to respond he grabbed her in a rough embrace and blotted out her breath with kisses. “Now to bed with you, my little golden wench and let us be well fitted.” Henry hoisted her to the bed and pushed her back on it, his hands tight on her naked hips. “What a body you have,” he exclaimed. “You are magnificent!”
The firm pressure of his hands had driven away her doubts and
Isabel smiled up at him. “I thought that men preferred girls with slim hips and long elegant legs.”
Henry slapped her rump with an open palm. “They have their place, but there’s nothing nearly as important as what is between them.” Lowering his face to her belly Henry buried his beard in a triangle of plush blond curls. “So sweet the taste of a golden cunt,” he murmured.
“Henry, you’re so vulgar,” Isabel giggled and settled herself more comfortably. “I don’t doubt Eleanor minded such nasty talk.”
Henry got to his feet, hands fumbling at his clothes. His teeth flashed in a grin. “After fifteen years with Louis?” he laughed. “By God, girl, she loved it!” Freeing himself he pushed forward, settling himself between her slim white thighs, his hands busy at her breasts. “And so do you.”
A sigh escaped her lips as he filled her, and the last of her guilt dissolved. He was right. She did.
There were four of them. Tall, broad-shouldered knights of the king, the Lions of England grinning on their shields. They approached in unison, footfalls oddly muffled. There was a sudden sound of unsheathed steel. Screams. Shouts. Then the blood ran everywhere.
Henry nearly tumbled from the bed as he tried to stop them. “No more!” he cried, but everything was black and silent. Sweet Jesus, it was only memory. He’d had the dream again.
Alarmed, Isabel sat up and reached for him. “What, Henry, what?” She leaned to the candle and lit it.
Henry was slumped forward, arms extended, leaning on his knees. His breath came in deep heaving sounds. “Thomas,” he sobbed. “Oh, Thomas …”
The fire was nearly out and it took Isabel several minutes to coax it into flames again. That done, she poured a cup of wine and brought it to the bed. “Here,” she offered, and when he took it in his own hands she pulled the woollen coverlet up around his shoulders.
The trembling had stopped now, and the tears. He was himself once more and ashamed for having let her see him this way. She looked so concerned, so lovely, her hair in pale swirls like an aureole about her face. “What is it, Henry?” she asked, when he had drunk the wine and set the cup aside. “What did you dream that troubled you so much?”
The memory was fading, receding into the darkness where all nightmares live when dreamers are awake. Henry leaned back against the pillow and drew a deep breath. “Don’t fuss over me,” he grumbled, but his tone was self-reproving. “I’m too old to be frightened of a dream.”
She climbed into bed beside him, curling up within the folds of the blanket, her head resting on his chest. “It was about Thomas Becket, wasn’t it?” she asked.
Across the room a log splintered in the grate as flames consumed it greedily. “Yes, Becket,” he answered, staring at the fire.
She slid her arms about his naked waist and held him to her tightly. “Tell me about it.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Henry answered, stroking her hair, “go to sleep.”
For a long time Henry sat holding Isabel as she dozed in his arms. He yearned to sleep but a fragment of the dream kept him wakeful. Something about it had been different this time. Over and over again he replayed the images in his mind until the realization came in a livid flash. Tonight the murdered man had not been Becket. Tonight the face beneath the mitre had been his own.
I KNEW NOTHING of this,” Hughes de Puiseaux insisted, his glance darting above the page. “I didn’t even realize Isabel had left Paris.”
Philippe’s face was strained by weariness. He had only just returned to the palace—tired, ready to sleep—now he was faced with this. He pulled the paper from de Puiseaux’s hands and tossed it to the floor. “Clermont tells me it was delivered ten days ago, put into his hands by a messenger from Henry of England.”
De Puiseaux looked puzzled. “I don’t understand. Henry is at Gisors. Is that where Isabel has gone?”
The king’s answer was a wordless glare. Hughes sank his hands into the velvet folds of his pellison and started to pace the length of the council chamber. Neither of them spoke for several minutes. Finally de Puiseaux stopped abruptly, looking over his shoulder at Philippe. “She couldn’t have gotten to Gisors alone,” he declared. “Someone must have helped her, but I can’t imagine who.”
The toe of Philippe’s boot scuffed the floor as he kicked it. “I can,” he answered.
Within the hour Henri of Champagne had been summoned to the council chamber and confronted with Isabel’s written ultimatum. He submitted quietly and patiently to Philippe’s questions. At the end he said, “My lord, I didn’t think much of the queen’s plan but she insisted that I was the only person she could trust to help her.” Henri raised his head and stole a glance at Philippe, who was looking off toward the far wall, his handsome profile sharp against the background of cold grey stones. Henri cleared his throat. “She was distraught, terrified that you truly meant to divorce her. Taking pity on her situation, I did all I could. Surely that is not so wrong, given the circumstances.”
“The circumstances are none of your concern!” Philippe shouted, pointing a finger close to Henri’s nose.
De Puiseaux’s hand was a firm restraint upon Philippe’s shoulder. “This is getting us nowhere,” he told both of them. Then addressing Philippe, “Shall I go to Gisors myself and fetch back the queen?”
“Yes,” Philippe replied immediately, “and you can leave at once.” De Puiseaux bowed and quietly left the room. Philippe picked up the queen’s letter and read it over once again in silence, glaring at the arrogant, slanted script. There was no end to her defiance. Did she really believe that he would bow to her dictates, tremble at her elusive threats? He flung the letter from him in disgust.
To Henri he said, “In the interests of kinship I will be lenient with you. I could take your lands away as punishment for what you’ve done but in my heart I know that friendship for the queen blinded you. You have served me well in the past. On the strength of that, cousin, you may keep all honors and titles which are yours. But you may not remain in Paris. I cannot take the chance that you might decide at some other time to meddle in my business. Go back to Troyes and see to your own affairs. If at some later date I wish to bring you back to court I shall do so. Until that time I prefer that you stay away.” He waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal.
Just then Robert de Clermont came in, several members of the king’s household bodyguard following in his tread. “Your mother is only recently returned from Chantilly,” he announced, “and says that she knows nothing of the queen’s departure.” He gave a glance as Henri left the room without a word, then turned his attention back to Philippe. “Do you want me to question the queen’s attendant, that crippled girl?”
Philippe got to his feet. “Don’t bother, Clermont. I’ve learned everything I need to know. But be prepared to leave for Rheims with me tomorrow morning. Before I make a final decision concerning this divorce, I want to confer with my uncle.” He started toward the door. “I won’t need you any more today. I’m going to my room. Tell the guards to make certain no one disturbs me.”
Clermont followed him out into the corridor and through the great hall. “Would you like some food brought to you?”
Philippe was already on the stairs. “No,” he called back, “I want to sleep.”
Upstairs Philippe paid a hasty visit to his private chapel. Then without undressing he fell into his bed. Beside him on the other pillow lay the Druid ring, where Isabel had put it on the night she left. Philippe seized it in his hand and the silver chain spilled out between his fingers. How cold it felt without her flesh to warm it.
He tossed the ring away. Then he lay down and went to sleep.
Isabel left Gisors on February 10th. Henry had arranged for her to travel with a group of forty Cluniac monks who were on their way from Rouen south to Paris.
It was a grey morning, and chilly. The sky was piled high with clouds that promised snow later in the day. Their progress would be slow. Isabel gripped the reins and turned her horse to fall in step wi
th the others. Her black hood ruffled in the wind and obscured her face for an instant before she pushed it into place.
She twisted in the saddle and looked back. From high above her Henry leaned from a window, watching. Even from that distance she could see his smile. Touching a black-gloved hand to her lips, Isabel blew him a discreet kiss and mouthed the word goodbye.
Ahead the landscape swam in a blur of early morning fog and tears. What troubles waited for her at the end of this road? Dismally Isabel raised her hand and waved without looking back.
Edythe greeted her mistress with a fond embrace. “I was so worried,” she explained as the two young women huddled together by the fire in the queen’s bedroom. “Everyone has been asking questions and the king has discovered where you were. He left two days ago. I don’t know where he went.”
“I know,” Isabel replied, drawing closer to the warmth. “I have already spoken to de Clermont. He told me Philippe went to Rheims to see his uncle. He wouldn’t say if it had anything to do with me.” She looked up suddenly. “Are my jewels safe?”
Edythe fussed with a dinner tray, slicing bread, cutting cheese. “I checked them only yesterday,” she answered. “No one has disturbed them. And I have kept the key with me always.” She drew out the chain with the key dangling at the end of it.
“Good,” Isabel mumbled, rubbing her hands together to get them warm. “You have done your job. Now I must do mine, or at least complete what I have started.”
Edythe looked up from her chore with uneasy eyes. “What are you going to do?”
The queen chewed nervously at a broken thumbnail. “I’m not sure. But I’m still determined to make Philippe change his mind about divorcing me.” She pulled off her boots and set them by ‘he fire to dry, then began removing her soiled traveling clothes. Edythe handed her a thick slice of bread topped by cheese and Isabel ate it greedily, brushing aside the crumbs that spilled on her lap.
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