The Rain Maiden

by Jill M Philips

  When that had been settled Henry was free to turn his attention to other business. Every day some new problem rose to confront him. He had been asked to mediate the tiresome and long-running quarrel between his son-in-law the Duke of Saxony and the emperor. Philippe Capet was writing to Henry weekly, demanding payment of Marguerite’s dowry and expenses. There were tax riots in the north. Empty bishoprics in the south. All this demanded Henry’s time and his talent as a statesman. Then in March of 1185 another crisis materialized.

  The Patriarch of Jerusalem came to England with a message from his king. Baldwin IV was dying and he had no heirs. He was Henry’s cousin, descended from the same Angevin bloodline, and he was offering the crown of Jerusalem to the English king upon his death, in return for a new crusade. Matters were very unsettled in the Holy Land. Saladin the Infidel held both Syria and Egypt in his control and the Norman settlements there were fearful of being overrun completely. The patriarch repeated the words of his king with gravity: Take the crown, oh my brother, and protect my lands from the armies of the devil… .

  Henry was not interested in fulfilling that request. He had too many problems of his own to solve and had no intention of giving up his crown to accept another. What happened in the Holy Land was of no concern to him, and the prospect of leaving his rich lands at the mercy of his sons while he went off to administer a paltry desert kingdom at the age of fifty-two was too absurd to contemplate. He told the patriarch that the matter required much consideration and sent him away disappointed.

  Immediately Henry began making preparations for his son’s expedition into Ireland. At Windsor, during the final week of March, John was knighted by his father’s hand. The evening before the ceremony John had left his vigil in the chapel and had sneaked downstairs into the kitchen for a taste of beef and red wine. All candidates for knighthood were expected to fast and pray for a period of twenty-four hours preceding their investiture. But Johnny laughed at all such rules and thought they were beneath him.

  Henry accompanied his son to Milford Haven, where a fleet of sixty ships was launched. Three hundred soldiers and twice as many knights were making the voyage with him, along with several luminaries of the English court. One such individual was Gerald of Wales, a sharp-tongued, pompous churchman who had become famous for his many writings. Gerald was making the trip in order to compile a history of Ireland, but he was much more interested in chronicling what he was sure would be young John’s blunders. It was one of Gerald’s most enjoyable endeavors: he loved to document the failings of Henry’s sons, as if to say, “These who could have been the best have given themselves up to folly.”

  He was right. This venture was damned to defeat from the start, as Henry should have realized it would be. John had nothing to commend him to his troops and he cared nothing for diplomacy. He and his circle of knights (who were little more than his youthful drinking and whoring companions) dishonored themselves daily. They laughed at the Irish nobility and pulled their beards in jest. They raped the Irish women, and stole from the Irish churches.

  Corruption was a red stripe on the back of their disgrace. Money given into John’s care to pay the English foot soldiers went into the coffers of his friends instead. Titles were purchased and sold. Church property was expropriated and sold for huge profits, which John divided among his favorites. Precious stones were gouged from chalices and icons, the gold melted into coins.

  War came, inevitably. What was left of John’s army (for many of the soldiers had deserted for lack of pay) was defeated in battle by the king of Limerick and had to take refuge at a fortress near the coast. Dismayed by the barbarity of his own countrymen, Hugh de Lacy fled to the countryside and refused to answer John’s written pleas for help.

  A scant nine months after setting out upon his great adventure, John was recalled to England by his father. Gerald of Wales had sent detailed letters of events in Ireland, and reading them Henry nearly tore out his hair with fury for what John had done.

  John returned to London in disgrace. Before very long, however, he was able to cajole himself back into his father’s favor by blaming all his calamities upon the procurator. Hugh de Lacy was a traitor, John insisted, and had sought to undermine the English expedition from the first day. John had meant only to make himself agreeable to the people, and de Lacy had spoiled it all!

  Henry knew better, or at least he should have, but the great love he bore John wrestled his good sense into submission. Of course de Lacy was at fault. The more he thought on it the more convinced he became. Henry considered replacing his procurator but the Council fought it so he dropped the idea for a while. In the meantime Henry made up his mind that as soon as peace could be restored in Ireland he would send John back, and this time in a role where his authority could not be questioned. Immediately the king sat down and wrote a letter to Pope Urban II requesting permission to name John Plantagenet as king of Ireland.

  Several months later a response arrived, granting Henry’s request. Pope Urban, in a show of courtesy that bordered on the ironical, sent Prince John a symbolic gift. It was a crown made out of peacock feathers.

  Days of evil are upon us as God visits His wrath on the unworthy. On April fifteenth of this year a violent earthquake shook the center of England, scattering much which was good, including the cathedral of Lincoln. What can we say when God seeks to demolish His own house? Surely it is a sign to us that our ways are sinful and God seeks retribution for our evil.

  We frolic in wickedness, yet ignore the duty which we owe to God. In the East the Infidels grow stronger, yet no army from Europe rides forth to oppose them. Where are Christ’s own warriors, and the kings who would lead them? Where are the priests to preach a new crusade to the people of our land? God calls, yet Christendom is silent. God listens, and yet Christendom is still. Let the broken stones of Lincoln be a symbol of our crumbled moral state. Hear us oh Lord! Give us fire in our bellies and strength in our loins. Teach us. Transfigure us. Pity us .. .

  Peter of Blois

  De Accelerando

  June, 1185

  All along the border between Hainault and Flanders the villages were burning. People screamed in the streets and animals ran wild as the soldiers of Philip d’Alsace scattered everything before them. What had once been a solid bond of friendship and trust between the two counties had collapsed like a sand castle when Baldwin of Hainault had declared himself aligned with the King of France against the Count of Flanders.

  War had begun in April and now it was July. Just south of Amiens the armies of Philippe Capet and Baldwin were approaching: six thousand knights on horseback and fifteen thousand men-at-arms. Soon they would confront the Count of Flanders in the field.

  Baldwin was heartsick at the attack upon his lands and yet he had expected it. Flanders was fanatical when it came to loyalty and now he believed both Baldwin and Philippe had connived to betray him. He had retaliated by burning Lille and Valenciennes and damn near everything that stretched between. Only Mons had escaped the pillage of his men. But after Philip d’Alsace had done everything to Hainault that he intended, he was forced to turn south and face the armies of the King of France.

  Flanders was no fool. He was outnumbered five to one. There were a few brief skirmishes but no great battle, for when Flanders saw how large an army he was faced with, he gave an order that his troops stand down. Considering all the complications which had gone before it, the settlement was accomplished with surprising ease.

  No formal agreement of surrender was concluded at this time, although Philippe Capet was quick to make his demands known. Henry of England had been watching the situation from London, where messengers had kept him up to date on all matters regarding France. One day in early August a communique arrived from Amiens, stating that the Count of Flanders had surrendered to Philippe and Baldwin, and requesting Henry’s help in mediating terms.

  The King of England sent back this proviso. Vermandois would be divided. France would gain control of Amiens, Montd
idier and various small fiefs in the western region of the county. Philip d’Alsace would retain Peronne, St. Quentin and Ham; all territories (including Arras and Artois) to pass unconditionally to the King of France upon the Count of Flanders’s death. Baldwin would be paid in coin by Flanders for all the damages his lands had suffered, and by Philippe Capet for the military expenses it cost him for supporting France. The other terms, including lists of castles taken from the Count of Flanders and now given into the care of France, would be drawn up more specifically at a later date, again with Henry Plantagenet acting as the mediator.

  Capet had never been more jubilant. This was the first great victory of his life. Flanders took defeat with uncommon grace, and pledged that he would cause no further problems for the King of France. He made a similar promise to Baldwin, but with less enthusiasm. Philippe’s betrayal could be understood. He was a Frenchman. Baldwin was Flemish; and for one Fleming to betray another, especially when kinship was involved, meant inflicting wounds which could not be healed. Because of this there was bad blood between them for the remainder of their lives.

  Despite elixirs, potions, and the fact that she had continued to breast feed her baby, Isabel was once more brought to childbed at the end of August.

  It was too soon. She was not scheduled to deliver until late October, but the news of her uncle’s surrender to Philippe and Baldwin had overwhelmed her with emotion, and brought about a siege of early labor.

  The pain was so severe she nearly died. Between waves of unconsciousness on the evening of the second day, she finally gave birth to twins. Edythe was beside her, wiping away the sweat with a linen cloth, and somewhere in the background stood the tall, slender figure of Adele. Sully was in the room, but Isabel couldn’t see him though she heard his voice, rich and unmistakable, murmuring psalms above the jingle of his prayer beads.

  Light dimmed before her eyes although Isabel strained to keep them open. Her lips moved soundlessly. Bring me my babies. But she could not say it. She was too weary and her throat was dry. The canopy above her head seemed like a blue tranquil sky and Isabel yearned to float up to it, all her fatigue dissolving in its serenity.

  Murky dawn awoke her with vague shafts of light across her face and it was then they told her what had happened. Dull-eyed and unbelieving, Isabel listened as Adele explained in a consoling voice. There had been two of them, a boy and girl, blond like their mother, and both of them born dead.

  A week later, when she was feeling strong enough to walk unsupported, Isabel visited their tiny tombs. The dead infants had been shut up within the vault of Notre Dame, the first inhabitants of that cold, dark place. Amid Latin inscriptions of religiosity on their tombs she read the words Baldwin & Margot, for Isabel had not wished for them to go into their graves unnamed.

  Their effigies had been cut from stone by some of Sully’s craftsmen. Isabel stood before the tombs, two yellow roses clutched in her hands. It was not so much grief as bitterness that squeezed her heart. God had done this to her. He had done it out of spite because she was a sinner. Even now He was probably watching and rejoicing in her misery.

  God knew the things that she had done. He knew the appetites of her body and the obstinance of her mind. It was for this that she was being punished, and it was unfair, because God Himself had given her a nature that was hungry and perverse. Why then did He torment her and refuse to hear her prayers?

  Prayers. The very thought filled her with contempt, and she was done with them. They had never helped her in the past and were likely to be just as worthless in the future. Scornfully Isabel scattered the petals of her roses on the floor, then turned and walked away into the shadows.

  September’s end brought long afternoons of hazy sunshine as Paris shed her summer colors and dressed her trees in shades of autumn gold.

  In the garden of the palace Isabel fingered the heavy damask fabric which lay across her knees and smiled in secret embarrassment. It wasn’t very good. Needlework had never been one of her accomplishments, even when she tried slavishly to reproduce the delicate stitches Margot had taught her as a little girl. This piece was a battle standard, meant to be a late birthday gift for Philippe, though it would probably take another week of work till it was finished.

  The pattern was pretty, though, even if her technique was wanting. White re-embroidered damask, powdered by a hundred fleur-de-lis stitched in pale blue thread and bordered with a fringe of gold twine. She had been working on it since the early days of April and throughout the summer, when her confinement had given her little else to do.

  The pregnancy and its woeful outcome made a painful memory, so Isabel chased it away and thought of more promising things. A month had passed and she was feeling better. Philippe would be back in Paris any day. That was a cause for joy, and how she welcomed it! These past four weeks had seen too many sorrows.

  Edythe had taken a bad fall on the stairs several days ago. She was limping worse than ever and it was unlikely she would ever walk without a crutch. Two weeks ago, after many days of wretchedness, Hughes de Puiseaux had died of a summer fever. All through his illness Adele had nursed her lover at the palace. His death had been hard for her; she hadn’t left her room since then.

  Philippe would be hard-hit by the news. De Puiseaux had been more than the king’s chancellor, he had been his friend. Isabel tugged at her sewing and thought of the unhappy surprises that awaited her husband upon his victorious return.

  She was just finishing her dinner that evening when one of the serving girls appeared beside her with a message. Geoffrey Plantagenet had come ahead of Philippe’s entourage, and he was waiting just outside the room.

  “Show him in,” Isabel told the girl, “and have one of the others bring him food and wine.” When the servant hesitated the queen clapped her hands in irritation. These damned pucelles moved with all the grace and quickness of wounded cows. “Go now,” she snapped, “and hurry.”

  Geoffrey was charming, just as she remembered. No wonder Philippe was so beguiled by him. He was unique among men, even the cultivated ranks of the nobility. Never awkward—never at a loss for the right word, the perfect gesture. He was all the more pleasing because he seemed so sincere, and perhaps he was, or at least more often than he was believed to be. When Isabel told him of her recent misfortune, his jovial attitude vanished at once and tears came to his eyes.

  “How sad that Philippe wasn’t here to comfort you at such a time,” he exclaimed, stroking her hand. Then, after a dutiful pause, he asked, “But how is your little Jacquie? She was so lovely when I saw her last. …”

  It was easy to talk to him and so she could relax and tell stories of her little girl, who was well, growing swiftly (as Adele never tired of pointing out, Jacquie was likely to be tall, in the manner of her father’s family). But the child was also a chattering magpie. “Which proves,” she told Geoffrey laughingly, “that in some ways at least she resembles her mother.”

  “Good for her,” he smiled.

  “But you have not come here to listen to tales of my daughter’s nursery,” Isabel said, slicing off a piece of white pastry and putting it before him. “So tell me,” she looked up from behind the thick flourish of her lashes, “what is your purpose?”

  He nibbled at the pastry, gingerly dusting the crumbs from his sleeve. “Philippe is still in Amiens,” he said after a while, “but he will be leaving soon. I was there, with his army, when your uncle surrendered. It was my job to act in my father’s absence, helping to set down terms of peace. After the interim documents were drawn I left, to come here and arrange for Philippe’s return. I want a great show of public celebration to greet him when he rides into the city.” Geoffrey took up her hand and kissed it tenderly. “If you are feeling strong enough, I would be pleased to have your help.”

  Isabel wasn’t sure what that might entail but she told him that she was willing. They spent the remainder of the evening planning what they would do. It was happy being in his company. It was nice to have a frie
nd.

  Under the banner of the French king, a mixed army of soldiers made their way toward Paris.

  Baldwin had allowed his men to follow after the triumphant French contingent if they wished, but he returned to Mons. He had been forced into this; now it was over and he spurred his horse toward home.

  But Flanders was different. He rode brazenly beside Philippe Capet, heroic in defeat. He held himself erect, and his gold hair glistened in the sun. No one who saw him would have guessed that he had just surrendered almost half his landmass to the man who rode at his side.

  All along their progress Flanders’s jaunty good humor never wavered. Outside the gates of each city he threw silver coins to the poor. He did everything with style. The graciousness with which he took defeat made him seem even more splendid. As they rode toward Paris, Philippe almost envied him.

  “I can see them!”

  Geoffrey was standing at the very edge of the palace roof, leaning a little over the stone barrier, his eyes fixed on the farthest point of the Orleans road.

  Isabel joined him, looking out toward the north where the fields and vineyards lay. Just beyond that, hidden by the gentle slopes, was St. Denis. Geoffrey and Isabel watched together as the multitude of men on horseback drew nearer, flooding down into the valley, choking the road with their numbers.