The Rain Maiden

by Jill M Philips

  She kissed the creases of worry from his forehead. “You must continue to need me, my darling, and trust me too, for I would never give you bad advice.”

  “I know that,” he answered. She had cheered him slightly and he could smile. “Then advise me on this, my love. How am I to pay Sibylla’s dowry, when already I am faced with more debts than I can manage?”

  She had an answer, as she nearly always did. There were not enough problems in all the world to outwit Margot when she was thinking clearly. She tucked her fingers into the bend of his elbow. “I have a plan,” she confided. “Isabel writes that Henri of Champagne will pay a sizable dowry, ten thousand livres and gold plate, for his sister to marry our Baldwyn. It will be dispensed within the week. We can use that money to pay Sibylla’s dot.” Her lips brushed his forehead lightly. “So you see, it will cost us nothing. Actually, the Champagnois will be paying their own dowry!”

  Baldwin’s arms encircled her waist and he pulled her close. “Ah, Margot,” he sighed, “I thank God every day for giving you to me.”

  What happiness!

  Whitsunday, the 18th of May, had been chosen as the date when young Baldwyn and Sibylla would be married to Philippe’s cousins. And at Chateau Thierry, in the great hall of the royal residence, Isabel was reunited with her family once again.

  Her parents had changed very little. Margot, newly burdened by yet another pregnancy, looked youthful and still as lovely as Isabel remembered her from six years ago. Baldwin was thinner and his beard had gone a little grey but otherwise he was much the same.

  But young Baldwyn and little Sibylla—how different they were! Her brother was nearly fifteen. He had grown up tall and husky and blond as a sun god. Flanders must have looked quite like him at the same age. Sibylla was only twelve, though she looked older. She was taller than Isabel and very slender, but a few months of marriage would be likely to enhance her subtle curves. She was wearing a modest yellow dishabille, and there were daisies braided into her long dark hair.

  Later that afternoon William of Rheims feasted the royal party at an outdoor celebration. The mild spring air was filled with music and the fragrant scent of food and flowers. Amid the babble of festivity, Baldwyn and Sibylla were introduced to the two young people they would marry on the following day. Pretty, dark-haired Marie of Champagne was on the arm of her brother Count Henri. She was a charming girl with lively eyes and a sweet smile. Baldwyn seemed to take an interest in her at once.

  And Sibylla? She looked happy dancing with her future husband. William de Beaujolais was good-looking, slender and fair-haired, and he had exquisite manners. Isabel watched the two of them and smiled at the delicate way in which William held her sister by the hand. He was twenty, she only twelve, and yet they seemed perfectly matched; there was an obvious attraction between them already.

  Isabel picked daintily at her food and sighed with mild contentment. She was well pleased with her accomplishments, with the choices she had made. Her brother and sister had engaging, attractive marriage partners, and the ties between Hainault and France would be all the stronger now for her efforts. She had done well. She mused on that and watched the door, waiting for Philippe.

  He arrived at dawn, dusty and out of breath after riding all night. Isabel found him later in the morning, in the room next to hers. He was bathing in a big copper tub, rubbing his hair with a towel when she came in. Philippe looked up as she entered, but he didn’t speak.

  She stood some distance away from him. Her voice was small and obstinate. “I waited for you all evening and half the night. The guests were asking after you; I didn’t know what to tell them.”

  Philippe pressed a thick sponge to his chest and watched as the tiny rivulets ran down his belly and back into the water. “You might have told them that a king has work to do,” he grumbled. “Also, you should know it pleases me not at all to sit drinking with members of your family. It is your duty to entertain them.”

  Isabel bowed her head and said nothing.

  He knew her mood. She was disappointed, angry that after so many weeks of separation he could find no time for her. She wanted his love and acceptance. It would have been very easy to pull her into his arms now and suspend all their antagonism with passion. But that was not what Philippe wanted. Her beauty and the promise of her sweet body were less tantalizing than the plan that was whirling in his mind.

  Geoffrey was waiting for him at Gonesse.

  Philippe had arranged to meet him there; he was leaving as soon as the wedding ceremonies were over. (He would have preferred to miss them altogether, but dreaded Isabel’s fault-finding if he did.) At Gonesse he and Geoffrey would stroke their cherished plan into perfection. The conquest of Normandy. Until this point it had been too much to hope for, but now it was in their grasp.

  “Philippe …” The sound of her voice cut into his concentration, the words hard-edged by complaint. “I had hoped to have some time alone with you.”

  “I’m afraid that isn’t possible.” Philippe drew himself up and wrapped a linen towel around his body. Isabel came closer then, her arms outstretched as she reached to dry him, but he turned away. His mouth was set in a cynical expression. Her every move was so deliberately female and suggestive, bent on seducing him to her will. Today, more than usual, he resented that. In his most distant and unemotional voice he explained, “I simply don’t have time for you today. I came only to see my cousins married to your kin. Then I must leave.” Unmoved by her disappointed silence, he turned to face her and finished, “Geoffrey and I have important business to accomplish.”

  She looked at him with heartbreak in her eyes. “I’ve missed you so much, I’ve waited so long. How can you just dismiss me like a servant—without even a kiss?”

  He fidgeted, vaguely guilt-ridden. It would have taken so little effort on his part to be kind to her, but at this moment he cared nothing for her state of mind. Let her feel hurt, neglected. With all that Philippe had on his mind today, there was no time for him to sympathize with Isabel’s imagined sufferings.

  His voice was curt, discharging her. “I shall be back in Paris by the end of next week. We can be together then.”

  Isabel stood for a long while without answering, staring at him as if he had done something cruel which she could not forgive. Finally she left; Philippe let her go in silence. Then he began pulling on his clothes.

  The king stayed only long enough to enjoy a cup of spiced wine with the bridal party and make a toast, then he took himself away to Gonesse. Isabel made an attempt at merriment during the wedding feast which followed, but before long she retired to her room upstairs.

  Late that night, very late—perhaps even the newlyweds had gone to sleep—Henri of Champagne awoke, startled, as a delicate shadow passed across his face. It was a moment before he recognized her.

  “Isabel?” His arms went out to her.

  She leaned over him and covered his face with kisses.

  It was a hateful dream.

  She was lying in a fabulous bed made of stone and precious jewels and Geoffrey Plantagenet was at her side. Above them was a ceiling all of glass. There was a sense of shame—of fear that she and Geoffrey might be discovered. From far off came the sounds of singing. A choir. Mass was being chanted. Then Sully appeared above them, pouring out red wine into a funery urn, and splashing it over the glass slab, making little drops of red, like blood.

  All at once terror took her in its teeth and she screamed, beating against the glass to get out. There was panic and madness. She cried out for Geoffrey to help her break the glass. But when she looked at him he had turned to stone… .

  The sound of her own voice screaming Geoffrey’s name over and over again catapulted Isabel into wakefulness. Immediately Henri’s arms went around her and she sobbed on his chest, repulsed by the phantasm of her dream.

  The words tumbled from her lips as she told the dream to him. He listened patiently and when she had finished, kissed her throat and shoulders, whispering an assur
ance in her ear that dreams had no meaning.

  Her eyes haunted him from out of the dark. “But it was so horrible, like a vision of my own death.” She began to shudder. “I’m afraid …”

  He kissed the fine hair at her temples where it was damp with sweat. “You are with me, you are safe.”

  Finally she relaxed enough to lie back on the bed as he lay over her, his body hard and reassuring. She clenched her legs about his back to draw him deeper. But even as he bloomed inside of her a primal desperation, thick as passion, struck at her—and suddenly all the efforts of her future promised only ugly retribution and death. Isabel gripped him tighter and cried out, “Henri, I’m so afraid of dying and going to hell for my sins.”

  Hunger had pushed the power of reason from his mind. Hell and dying had no meaning as he rode her harder, his face lost in the warm valley of her breasts. “No sins,” he gasped, his words halting and meaningless, “no sins …”

  Isabel left Chateau Thierry on the following day.

  “I had hoped you would stay longer,” Sibylla complained as the two of them took breakfast together early in the morning. “It has been so many years since I have seen you. I expected we would be together for longer than two days.”

  The dream, and lack of sleep, had left Isabel feeling cross and nervous. Her hand shook as she splashed a little rain water into her wine and spread her bread with butter. “I’m sorry, Sibylla, but it can’t be helped. I have things to do in Paris, and yet I must be slow in getting back. Jacquie-Marie shouldn’t be made to travel too many miles at a time. Philippe is always worrying that something will happen to her.”

  “She is such a beautiful child,” Sibylla mused.

  Isabel bit into the bread and chewed it, then looked up, a question in her eyes. “Did you learn anything of married life last night?”

  Sibylla’s hazel eyes glowed with secret happiness. “I learned that I still have much to learn.”

  “And where is your husband this morning? I’d have thought the two of you would still be lingering in bed.”

  Sibylla shrugged. “William went hunting with the other men. He told me to be up and dressed when he returned. He says he doesn’t want his wife to be a slug-a-bed.”

  Isabel dabbed at her lips with a linen cloth. “When are you and William leaving for Beaujeu?”

  “Next week. We’ll be here till then.”

  “And Baldwyn and Marie,” Isabel asked, “what about them?”

  “They’re going back to Hainault with mother and father the day after tomorrow.” Sibylla took hold of Isabel’s hand and with a hopeful smile she persisted, “Can’t you please stay a little longer? It would be so wonderful if you did.”

  “I’m sorry, no.” Isabel swallowed the last of her wine. “I have to leave today.” Then she flashed a sudden smile. “Don’t fret. Your new husband will keep you far too occupied to think of me or anyone else. Tell me, is he a good teacher?”

  Sibylla giggled, tints of pink rushing to her cheeks. “I believe so,” she admitted. Then she leaned closer, her voice pitched low and confidential. “The duties of a wife are more pleasant than I had suspected.”

  Isabel smiled indulgently into her sister’s innocent eyes.

  At Gonesse the candles burned low that evening as Philippe and Geoffrey planned their assault on Normandy.

  “I have already secured the promise of ten thousand mercenaries from Brabant and Germany,” Geoffrey was saying, “and they will be ready to move by the end of summer.”

  Philippe rubbed a hand across his brow. “But can you be sure that Henry will remain in England for that long?”

  A triumphant laugh lolled in Geoffrey’s throat. “Yes. He’s planned to spend the rest of the year there. If you and I descend upon Normandy by mid-September we will find it open to us, save for my father’s troops. Still, what good are soldiers with no one to lead them, aye? Richard will be far away in Aquitaine, no remedy to my father’s troubles. Then, with all of Normandy, Brittany, and France united as one, we will deal with my brother Richard at some other time and place.”

  “It all looks very good,” Philippe agreed conditionally, “but we must take care. Not one word, one inkling of our intentions must reach Henry’s ears.”

  “Of course.”

  The king gathered up several sheets of parchment where their aims had been drawn and tossed them into the fire. He stood there, looking down at his boots for several moments, before he turned back to Geoffrey. “There is something you should know,” he began. “I have agreed to give the Vexin back to your father.”

  Leaning his elbows on the table Geoffrey stared at his friend in an expression of genuine surprise. “You gave it back to Henry? But why?”

  Philippe raised his hand like a bishop giving benediction. “Be patient and hear my method. Last week I stopped at Gisors to see him and we talked of many things; the Vexin was only one of them.”

  Geoffrey puckered his lips in a petulant expression. “It is news to me.”

  “Trust me,” Philippe urged. “I know what I am doing.” He crossed the floor and sat down beside Geoffrey. “First of all, the matter of Marguerite has at long last been settled. Henry has now sworn to pay all the monies owed to me for her support since Harry’s death. He has also secured a proposal of marriage for her from the King of Hungary.”

  Geoffrey rolled his eyes in perturbation. “Who cares about such things? We have more important matters to consider than whether or not my sister-in-law marries again.”

  “It is all important, love,” Philippe argued. “Hear me out. The ambassadors from King Bela’s court will visit Marguerite next month. It is likely a match will be made. If it is, I cannot stall any longer in holding the Vexin, especially since Henry now wants it settled on Alais as her dowry, in exchange for Berry.”

  Without a word Geoffrey got to his feet and began to pace back and forth between the table and the window. It was a hot night, the portiere was drawn back to expose a black square of sky, filled with little lights that winked like shining pinpoints from the village on the other side of the river.

  Finally Geoffrey spun around, his expression animated by disapproval. “But I don’t understand! Only a month ago you took an army into Berry and scattered the English. It was nearly yours and with another expedition it could be yours, without any negotiation!” His voice was high-pitched in exasperation. “And how can you give up the corridor into Normandy as though it were just another piece of land?”

  Calmly Philippe folded his hands on the table and looked up at Geoffrey. “In a few months our combined armies will have captured Normandy. With that accomplished the Vexin scarcely matters.” He smiled then, an action which meant much because he so rarely did it. “Geoffrey, it is better this way. We must be careful. All the world knows us to be friends, and many may have guessed at our intentions. If your father hears any gossip about our foray into Normandy it could ruin us now.” He extended his hand to Geoffrey, who took it, and their fingers braided in a tight grip of brotherhood. “Don’t you see? What could more clearly prove my good faith to your father than the act of giving back the Vexin? Now he believes that I’m afraid of him, that I’m backing down. He could barely restrain his joy when we signed the agreement. It was like feeding fresh meat to a starving hound.”

  Geoffrey threw his head back to laugh heartily and he hugged Philippe to him in a loving embrace. It was marvelous the way Philippe’s mind worked, even more precise and devious than Geoffrey’s own. All the doubts had been assuaged now and they kissed, their tongues hot and wet, their blood stirring with excitement for each other’s mind and body.

  “I love you,” Philippe said suddenly. “I love you for more reasons than I can count.”

  Arms around one another they stood at the window for a long time, looking out at the night, a perfect peace between them. A breeze came off the river, touching their faces as softly as a silken banner. Beyond their vision, far to the west, the clouds were gathering.

  Sad news
in the form of a folded communique was brought to London in July. Hugh de Lacy had been murdered by a band of Irish rebels. Henry’s hands trembled as his eyes scanned the terrible sentences. He knew why this had happened, and yet even in the privacy of his room would not admit the truth of it to himself.

  All the same, Truth shouted back at him from between the scribbled lines. There had been no peace in Ireland for a year, none since the English troops had driven it away. Now Hugh de Lacy was dead, sacrificed to John’s iniquities and Henry’s foolishness in putting love before honor.

  When the matter was put before them, Henry’s counselors were firm: John must never again be allowed the chance to botch so important a project. Let the king send a seasoned diplomat to settle affairs between the Irish and their Norman colonists! But despite the uniformity of their decision, Henry was resolute. It was John whom he had chosen to rule Ireland in the future, and John it would be. As soon as passage could be arranged and a hand-picked army of knights assembled, he would sail for Ireland again.

  This newest enterprise was scheduled for the middle of September. But by the end of August another communique bearing unhappy news, this time from Paris, changed Henry’s plans—and more than that—forever.

  RENNES was a pale, prosaic substitute for Paris, but Geoffrey knew he had already stayed away too long. So much had to be accomplished in Brittany before he returned to France in August.

  There was the matter of taxes. Geoffrey needed money badly, both for personal and military purposes. To achieve his aims he would have to reassert his power in the duchy and force revenues from the coffers of the greedy barons who hated him.

  The political climate was relatively peaceful; there had been minor uprisings in the past six months but nothing serious. Constance had ruled well in her husband’s absence. Unfortunately for him she had ruled fairly, and that meant the treasury was empty.