The Rain Maiden

by Jill M Philips

  It was a bright autumn day and Isabel had to shield her eyes against the spectacle. In the distance the soldiers gleamed like little silver toys, their shields transformed into tiny mirrors by the sun. Above them fluttered a hundred banners in colorful array. Side by side flew the standards of France and Flanders: the golden fleur-de-lis, backed by vivid blue; a crouching yellow leopard sitting upright with his paw outstretched on a square of scarlet. Behind these were raised a host of other pennons in heraldic design and brilliant colors.

  “There’s Philippe!” Geoffrey exclaimed, enthusiastic as a boy, “and there’s your uncle right beside him.” Isabel saw them too, and nodded.

  “It’s exciting, isn’t it?” he asked, then turned back to the view before she could make an answer.

  She moved closer to him, shielding herself against the wind. “I wonder what he’s thinking,” she said beneath her breath.

  “No doubt he’s thinking it is wonderful to be back home again,” Geoffrey said, taking one of her cold hands in his.

  Isabel looked up at him, then out at the horizon. “I didn’t mean Philippe,” she told him, “I meant my uncle.”

  It was evening when the caravan marched into Paris.

  There were fewer of them now, only Philippe and Flanders and a hundred or so of their men. The majority of them remained outside the city, in the fields beside the Orleans road. Isabel and Geoffrey had ordered pavilions of blue and scarlet to be erected for the men, and had sent stewards from the palace to distribute sweetmeats, cakes, and wine. Each French knight received a token seven deniers for his service to the king, while each man-at-arms was given two. From her own monies Isabel had provided each Flemish soldier with five deniers.

  Also in consideration of the soldiers’ comfort, eight hundred prostitutes from the city had been transported to the camp. This action had a logical ancillary: it would keep thousands of roistering, drunken men out of the Paris streets, where they would otherwise have come in search of female company.

  The king’s contingent celebrated in more modest fashion. An evening mass was said at Notre Dame, then there was a parade of minstrels through the torchlit streets. Afterwards the royal party moved indoors to the great hall of the palace, where a lavish banquet had been laid in honor of the king’s return.

  Philippe pretended to enjoy himself, but he was scarcely in a mood for celebration after the unhappy news Isabel had told him, and he left the table early. By contrast, Flanders was having a fine time. He leaned back in his chair and listened to music, soft as incense, that drifted from the gallery above. It was good to be among his friends again, good to taste the fruits of peace.

  He tossed bones to the barking hounds and sneered at the watchful barons. These were the same men who had resented his closeness to Louis Capet a dozen years ago. They preferred Flanders as an adversary to the French crown rather than as a friend; he was less a danger to them that way. They had mistrusted him in the beginning, and they still did. Hah!—he and Philippe were friends again, and these fat, odious barons could eat shit cinders for all he cared. Flanders was once more a powerful ally to the King of France, and there wasn’t one damn thing that they could do about it.

  Look at them. Wondering how he could take his defeat so elegantly. Let them wonder. They were stupid. They didn’t know that in a way he had won after all. It was better to renew his friendship with the king than dispute over a little strip of land. He had learned that, though it had been a hard lesson. Whatever he had lost in giving up half of Vermandois, he had more than recompensed himself by building promises on the ashes of old hates. It was worth the temporary sacrifice of his pride, and he had no regrets.

  Flanders lifted his cup and toasted the future.

  Geoffrey leaned close, smelling of almond oils and cinnamon. “Having a good time, my lord of Ghent?” he asked with a saucy smile.

  “Enraptured,” Flanders mocked, and popped a candied cherry into his mouth. He looked to the center of the table, and seeing that Philippe’s place was empty asked, “And what about the king?”

  Geoffrey’s slim hand hovered over a pink crystal serving dish that was formed like a sea shell. He recognized it as just one of the pretty things brought back from Amiens. He gathered up a handful of candied cherries and rolled them in his palm, smirking at Flanders as he did so. “The king is upstairs with his wife,” he said at last, “and having a better time than we, I’m sure… .”

  Flanders realized that Geoffrey’s closeness to Philippe and his presence here at court signaled him as a new power to be reckoned with, but he had no trouble with that. He’d known Geoffrey for many years, and always seen him as the most promising of all Henry’s engaging sons. What a future this young man had before him now with Philippe as an ally! He smiled at the thought.

  “You seem very pleased with yourself,” Geoffrey said, and there was a trace of peevishness in his voice.

  Flanders clapped him on the back. “I am,” he replied, “as indeed you must be also. We are all friends again.”

  Geoffrey’s gaze carried to the edge of the great hall, but he was seeing more. “Yes,” he said, “it’s a good time to be alive.”

  At the end of October Phillipe went south with an army. Hugh of Burgundy was taking too much power for himself. Since summer he had been turning out his nobles from their castles, and claiming both their lands and possessions for himself. The impoverished barons had petitioned help from the French king. Philippe, ever mindful of encroachment on his own power, was glad to stand with the Burgundian nobles in their struggle. So at the end of October Philippe went south with an army.

  Flanders went with him.

  Geoffrey remained behind, and for good reason. Philippe had publicly named him Seneschal of France the week before, so he stayed in Paris to assume his duties. Those duties were a matter of much controversy. The office of seneschal had an implied significance but little power; would this be an exception? There were already mutterings of discontent among members of the curia regis who felt this was the king’s way of giving inordinate power to his “favorite.”

  Philippe had refused to name a successor to de Puiseaux. France would have no more chancellors, he said. It was meant to shed a glow of honor on the fallen statesman, but that was not how it was received. Had the decorative role of seneschal and the policy-making duties of chancellor been combined to suit the fancy of the king’s brash young friend? There was not a man among the French nobility who did not know of Geoffrey’s reputation as a schemer and betrayer of his friends. What did he want from Philippe Capet?

  And what did Philippe want from him?

  Isabel no longer trusted her uncle, and she meditated on the subject more than she let be known. It was such a puzzle. Why, after two years of refusing to give up his claim to Vermandois, had he suddenly agreed to surrender it to Philippe, even allowing an outsider—Henry—to dictate terms? Why was Philippe so eager to believe in the loyalty of a man he had denounced time and time again? It was very odd, all of it.

  The breach between the two great lords of Hainault and Flanders seemed irreparable and the fact that Baldwin hadn’t come to Paris presaged bad political relations for the future. Philippe and Flanders on one side, Baldwin on the other. It was a dangerous situation, and all the danger weighed against her father.

  The fears turned over in her mind, like the tumblers of a lock. Was there some pact, some secret coalition in the works between Flanders and Philippe? Had that been Flanders’s price for the surrender of Vermandois—France’s promise to uphold his hostilities against the Count of Hainault in the future? Were Philippe and her uncle plotting actions to these ends even now?

  The more she considered it the more convinced Isabel became that her father had two very powerful enemies in Flanders and Philippe. If he had only come with them to Paris, she could have warned him. She wanted to stamp her feet in fury. Why didn’t he realize it was in his own best interests to restore a sense of trust among the three of them? How could he have misread th
e situation so completely? The danger of it was becoming clearer to her with every passing minute.

  There was something Isabel could do; just what she wasn’t sure. A plan, imperfect and unfinished, leapt into her mind. She needed power of her own in order to achieve it. That would take time and effort and a great deal of money. The money she could get from Philippe. The rest she would have to manage for herself.

  For the time being she could feel secure. Philippe and her uncle would be away in Burgundy for many weeks, and much too busy to stir up any trouble for her father. By the time they returned to Paris in December, she would have already put her own plan into motion.

  Every day the people of Paris lined the edges of the street, waiting for Geoffrey Plantagenet to pass by them, magnificently dressed and riding on a white horse.

  He seemed like a figure come to life from some splendid tapestry. In his cap he wore a sprig of planta gesta, a saucy reminder of his grandfather, Count Geoffrey of Anjou. It was he who had taken that emblem as his own device and made it his surname; and with his wife Matilda, daughter of the English king, he had made a race of princely warriors from his loins.

  Young Geoffrey of Brittany wore his heritage well.

  It was whispered among the French that he had become a close friend and adviser to their king. That may have troubled the nobility, but the common people harbored no such suspicions. He was generous to the poor, and that was all they could see. In the past weeks Geoffrey had made many gifts of money to the local houses of charity, and every day he threw handfuls of silver coins to the tradesmen in the streets. He had further shown evidence of his largess by giving a gift of seven oil lamps to Notre Dame. They would burn perpetually, in memory of his late brother.

  Harry had been well loved by the French, who saw him as the epitome of chivalry and grace. Now Geoffrey had become the people’s newest idol. They applauded him in the street, bowing low as he rode by. Young girls cast their eyes down shyly and threw flowers at him as he passed.

  They cheered the queen too, for she was much in evidence these days. She appeared in public often, riding through the streets with the Bishop of Rheims at her side and her adorable little daughter on her knee. The people still remembered Isabel’s spirited display when she had pleaded with them to prevail upon the king to keep her, but the birth of Jacquie-Marie had done even more to make her popular. Everyone, including Sully and the rest of the clergy in Paris, had seemed to warm to Isabel now that she was a mother.

  In appreciation for the new affection shown to her, Isabel had commemorated the fifth anniversary of her husband’s coronation by feasting the people of the city, rich and poor, on All Saints’ Day. She had arranged for canopies to be set up along the river bank, and all who came were given wine and fish and little cakes of marzipan in exchange for a single denier. Then, in a public ceremony, Isabel donated that money to the building fund at Notre Dame.

  This new-found popularity worked to Isabel’s advantage. As queen she had no power of her own, but the goodwill of the people had given her a subtle means of influence. The nobles cast a wary eye: she was no longer someone they could ridicule or ignore. The Bishop of Rheims was her friend: that made her acceptable. Because of that all the other Champagnois were forced to accept her too.

  Isabel savored her popularity, but not from spite. It was useful. She could hold it up to Philippe’s peevish scrutiny and prove she had some political stature of her own. In his absence she had feasted the poor in the Paris streets and entertained the rich at her table. With Geoffrey’s help she had recently welcomed an ambassador from the court of Sicily to the palace and staged an opulent banquet in his honor. She had been very busy in these past six weeks—all her acts directed toward a single purpose.

  It was possible that Philippe would be outraged when he learned of all the money she had spent in her campaign to win favor, but she didn’t think so. Her extravagance, meted out carefully and where it could be most beneficial to the reputation of the crown, had done a lot to polish Philippe’s social image—an aspect of his kingship he had never understood. If only he could be made to realize that! Sexually she had been able to manage him from the beginning. Now she had found one more method of persuasion.

  He had become so powerful. If she didn’t take something for herself, and soon, she would fade into insignificance beside him. Up till now, Isabel’s only means of influence had been achieved by pleasing Philippe in his bed. But she would need all her talents if she was to put her plan into effect, and at the same time convince Philippe that she was right.

  By the last week in November Philippe and his army had brought the Duke of Burgundy to account and returned his landless nobles to their castles. Flushed with this victory he went north again, but not to Paris. There were still several incidentals regarding the partition of Vermandois which needed to be settled, and so Philippe went directly to the fortress of Belvoir in Normandy where he met with the English king.

  Henry received him from a sickbed where a violent attack of stomach flu had kept him for the past ten days. The illness had left him feeling lonely and bad-tempered, and it cheered him to have a visitor. Philippe was friendly—victory had improved his disposition—and he seemed genuinely concerned for Henry’s health.

  Philippe lingered at Belvoir for several days, and when Henry was feeling better they transacted business. The final documents were drawn and signed and both men said how glad they were that the hostilities between France and Flanders had been ended. Yet even as they made good-humored conversation and took their meals together, Henry was uneasy in his mind. The news from Ireland had been devastating. He said nothing of this to Philippe, but regarding Geoffrey there were questions which needed answering if Henry was to rest peaceably in his bed at night. Why was his son still in Paris when he should have been at Rennes, seeing to the business of his duchy? What role did Geoffrey envision for himself in the politics of France, and why had Philippe named him seneschal?

  Henry asked subtle questions to these ends, but Philippe’s answers were ambiguous. “Geoffrey is my friend,” he replied each time Henry’s prodding grew too obvious. And that was all that he would say.

  Cruel news comes from the East.

  Good Baldwin IV, the “Leper” king of Jerusalem has died of his wretched illness without an heir and his crown passes to his sister’s son, who is but a child of five. Raymond III, the Count of Tripoli, will act as regent for the boy and this is good—for the child’s step-father Guy de Lusignan hungers for a crown as well.

  Some men have told that Henry of England should accept the offer to rule Jerusalem, for it was suggested last year he should do it. Why has he refused? For what good is it that there be strong princes in the West when the Holy City is well besieged by threats from Saladin and the Infidels? Mayhap Henry cares more to hold Normandy against his treacherous sons than to protect the citadel of Our Lord from the very knights of Satan.

  But where on God’s earth is righteousness served, when everywhere He is mocked and the hands of His children stink with blood? In Constantinople the mob have overthrown their emperor Andronicus Comnenus and put him to cruel death by torture in the arena of the Hippodrome. Andronicus himself was not blameless: it was he who took the child Agnes Capet as his wife and ordered the murder of her intended husband who was his nephew. Yet even the death of such a man as he should not be made a sport for the howling mob.

  Let the soldiers of Christ be strong in will and thus go forth to protect the Holy places. But in God’s name, let us now scour out the bastions of Christianity too, for well they need it… .

  Robert de Auxerre

  Chronicon

  December, 1185

  There was an empty field behind the Cite Palais where the cooks dumped garbage from the royal kitchens. Once this place had been the king’s own tournament field. Eleanor of Aquitaine had reigned as Queen of Love and Beauty there on many summer afternoons. Tall knights in shining coats of mail had ridden to victory in the lists with her silken
favor tucked into their helms. It had been the scene of so much pageantry and color, so filled with cheering voices and brave deeds.

  Now it was ugly and deserted. Weeds grew among the kitchen slop and the wooden viewing stands were sagged and rotting. Philippe Capet hated tournaments and he had banned them early in his reign. Ironically, the last public jousting event in Paris had taken place at the time of his coronation, when Philip d’Alsace had organised a costly tournament in Philippe’s honor. The nervous boy had watched the spectacle for only half an hour, then at the first sight of bloodshed he had pitched forward in a faint. Once revived, he had spent the remainder of the afternoon vomiting behind the stands.

  The mature Philippe Capet was made of stronger stuff and it was unlikely he would react so violently to the sport as he had five years before. Yet his edict against tournaments was still in force. None were allowed in Paris or for fifty miles in any direction of his city. He had spoken of restoring the field, but only for the sake of cleanliness because it stank in summer and attracted flies. Philippe had enforced strict laws against dumping garbage in the Seine: by royal edict a man could lose his hand for such an act. But what good was it to keep the river clean when his own palace was steeped in smells of filth from the dumping grounds behind it? Before leaving Paris in October, Philippe had asked Geoffrey to arrange to have the field plowed under, and all future garbage taken to another spot five miles south of the city.

  Geoffrey did this, and more. One day early in December, when Philippe was still away in Normandy, he brought Isabel to inspect the work that had been done. He led her along the path through the garden and beyond, keeping his hand over her eyes to preserve his surprise as long as possible.