The Rain Maiden

by Jill M Philips

  He nibbled at the opal stones that graced her ears, then flicked at them with his thumb. “You don’t need any gems to make you beautiful,” he said, sounding almost angry. “You don’t need anything to do that. The less you wear the more perfect you are.”

  Henri was sweet, gentle, and he worshipped her; it would have been so easy for Isabel to love him were it not for Philippe. She felt guilty taking Henri’s love and giving him only pleasure in return, but it was all she could ever give him, and at this moment it was enough for both of them. Her hands roamed lower, teasing, stroking. “I like gems,” she cooed in his ear, “and some more than others. Have you a gem for me, my love?”

  He laughed and drew closer, all his senses stung.

  “And is it harder than a diamond?” she prodded him further. “Redder than a ruby?”

  The sound of her voice was enough to make him drunk.

  Later Isabel lay beside him while he slept, though she was troubled by wakefulness. Without his arms around her or his weight upon her body she felt lonely and miserable with shame. Complications had made her life unbearable, and she was sorry, intensely sorry for so many things.

  Isabel lay on her back looking up into emptiness for a long while. She thought about Paris and wondered if Philippe was wakeful too, staring into the night, hating her.

  ICE CAME to Paris in November and diminished the number of small boats upon the river. Fewer torches burned along the river banks and in the streets. Fewer bonfires gleamed at distant points outside the city. Fuel was scarce at this time of the year. People drank their wine unmixed, for sake of warmth, and went to bed at sunset. The rich and poor alike bundled themselves as best they could, snuffed out their candles early, and took their pleasures in the dark.

  There was one part of the city where the lights burned through till morning. It was ugly here, on the Chaussee St. Lazare. Stone huts of Merovingian design dotted the road; low-ceilinged, pocked with age. The Cemetery of the Innocents lay just beyond; it had been a burial ground since Roman times and on rainy nights the dusty smell of death hung on the air. But the stone huts? They were full of life and laughter.

  Soldiers and students and a few priests came here and spent their money on wine, hashish, and whores. The brothels always did their best business in the wintertime. Keep cunts and cups against the cold, and you’ll stay young until you’re old, a bawdy rhyme proclaimed. The men who came here agreed.

  Most every night these past few weeks the king had come to the old stone hut at the very end of the road where Fabiana lived, with twenty other women of her kind. These women had come to Paris from other places, mostly Toulouse and Languedoc, where religious fanaticism among the people had driven sinners out. Here they were welcomed eagerly into the population. A city the size of Paris could never have too many prostitutes.

  Fabiana was only twenty, and prettier than most of the other women. Her face was smooth and free of pock scars (rare among the poor), her teeth were good, and her breasts were firm and big. The king satisfied himself with many women of this house, but every night he chose Fabiana, and every night he took her first.

  Perhaps it was vanity, but she liked to think that the king found her more pleasing than the others. She found him pleasing. He was the most handsome man that she had ever seen; so much more handsome than any of the other men who came here. Sometimes after he left, Fabiana would kiss the bruises on her skin that he had put there, and wonder if she dared to love him.

  The king was generous.

  The thought ran through Fabiana’s mind like a chant and she braced herself against the pain. He always left behind a goodly sum of silver deniers, always more than the fee called for. Sometimes he brought her woollen cloaks, and once even a sheepskin pellison. To Fabiana that had been the best gift of all. She slept in it, when, by early morning, her work was done and she was allowed to go to sleep. It was the only warm piece of clothing that she owned.

  Yes, he was generous, this young king Philippe-Auguste; handsome and generous. Too bad Fabiana so seldom saw his face. The light was dim in here—her room was furnished with only a straw pallet, basin, and a few flickering candles—and anyway he usually took her from behind. She clenched her teeth, barely able to keep her balance as he shoved against her. The pain was hot, exciting. There was always so much pain with him, even in the usual way. When he wanted it like this it was so intense she sometimes thought she would faint before he finished with her. But, please God, not before …

  Fabiana arched her back and thrust a hand frantically between her legs. It didn’t matter what she felt with the others; usually she felt nothing, not even pain. But with him she always wanted it to be different, to feel everything she could. This was an honor most women would never know. She must not forget that. Her breath came in gasps, grunts. Fabiana crammed a comer of the blanket deep within her mouth, crammed it tight inside as he was crammed inside of her; she tried to keep her cries from coming so they would not offend his ears. Honor. She must make herself remember that when the pain was bad. Honor. Remember. Remember.

  His hands were rough, tight against her body, and he seized her hips with a brutal cry. He rammed against her once, twice; he cried out louder. After a moment he pulled himself from her, then got shakily to his feet. He went immediately to the basin where he washed himself thoroughly, then dried his hands and penis upon his bliaud before he put it on.

  Fabiana felt the sticky liquid ooze between her legs and down her thigh as she slumped gratefully to the floor. Her face was hot and prickled with sweat, although the room was cold. Fabiana felt an awful weariness mixed with relaxation as she closed her eyes and listened to the sounds of washing; to the soft sounds of the king pulling on his clothes.

  She was nearly dozing and his voice startled her: “Here,” he said and sprinkled several coins on the floor at her elbow. He pulled a coarse-woven brown cloak from beneath his arm and tossed it at her; Fabiana lunged forward to kiss his boots in appreciation. Philippe looked down at her, saying nothing, then moved to the door.

  “Cover yourself,” he said before he left.

  Adele stood in front of Geoffrey’s black basalt tomb in Notre Dame and whispered a tiny prayer that only God could hear. Poor splendid Geoffrey. The news of his death had not reached her ears in Sens, where she had been staying since July. It was late November now, and Adele had returned to Paris to find many things gone wrong.

  Sully had told her the stories of Philippe’s violent grief and self-imposed isolation, then the sudden change to an attitude of sloth and promiscuity. He drank too much and rode away each night, returning at dawn, sleeping till noon. When he attended meetings of the curia regis he was either rude or inattentive. Grief was one thing; Sully felt for the king in that. But this behavior … something had to be done. Philippe had lost touch with all the instincts which had once marked him so specially.

  “Where has Isabel gone?” Adele asked Sully on the following afternoon as she paced the empty council chamber. “I believe she could restore Philippe to himself if she were here. She has a power over him the rest of us don’t have.” Adele stopped and jerked around to face the bishop, her eyes fierce and determined. “For God’s sake Sully, bring her back!”

  He raised a slender hand to quiet her; the shrill sound of her voice was hard to bear. “My lady, you must understand it was Philippe who sent her away. At least he condoned her going. Since the death of his friend he has changed toward his wife. He refused to be alone with her, nor would he even sit beside her at his meals.” His fine voice went lower. “With my own ears I have heard him say he hates her now.”

  Adele planted her hands firmly on her hips and regarded Sully with a doubtful look. “That is very strange. From what I could see the two of them have been happy together since the birth of Jacquie-Marie.” She began pacing again. “What could Geoffrey’s death have done to change that?”

  Sully’s blue eyes crinkled at the comers; he didn’t have the answer. “It is a complicated matter. There are
many things involved which I do not understand. But I know this; Philippe himself has changed—how much you can guess from what I have told you. He has turned his back on all of us who care for him. He has even lost interest in his little daughter.” He caught Adele’s sharp, dark frown and nodded. “Yes, it is most unusual and I am powerless to do anything. All of us are powerless. I have prayed …”

  Adele half turned, her lips parted to make an answer, when they heard a halting step in the corridor. All at once the door flew open and Philippe stood there. He looked at the two of them, then hobbled in, rubbing his knee with a gloved hand.

  “My horse threw me,” he explained, and dropped himself to the bench beside the fire. He motioned to the porringer which stood on the table several feet away. “Bring me some wine,” he told his mother, and when she brought it he snatched the henap from her hand. He drank, then smirked at them, lifting a saucy eyebrow. “You two make a fine pair of tale-bearers. Tell me, what brings two such dissimilar souls together? I seem to have caught you in the midst of gossiping.”

  Adele’s nervous fingers tapped out a rhythm on the table top. “You look terrible. What has happened to you, Philippe?”

  His laugh was dry as dust. “Do you really have to ask? I’m sure our friend the bishop has told you all there is to know.”

  “Yes,” she answered, trying to keep the strain out of her voice, “but you could tell me more. This isn’t like you, Philippe. I know you, or at least I thought I did. I can’t believe that you would allow the death of one man …” she floundered for a moment, unsure of what to say, “… to ruin you, your life, your reputation.”

  Flippancy turned to spite in an instant and Philippe half rose before the pain in his leg forced him down again. Furious, he shouted, “The death of one man? Hold your tongue, Mother! You know nothing of what Geoffrey meant to me!”

  Adele struck the table with a closed fist and shouted back, “I know what your family should mean to you! Your wife, your daughter, me! Yet you shame us all. Why did you send Isabel away? Where is she? Why has she been gone so long?”

  Philippe shook his head in mock dismay. “Can I be hearing this from you? Why do you suddenly care so much about Isabel? You never liked her.” He shot a quick, cruel glance at Sully. “Nor did you, bishop. Both of you did your best to make things difficult for her. Why all this sudden concern? I would think you’d both be pleased if she never came back to Paris.”

  “You were the one she ran away from!” Adele accused, her index finger pointing menacingly in his direction. “Why did you send her away? So that you could squander your manhood in the brothels?”

  Philippe gulped the rest of his wine, then wiped a hand across his chin and set the cup aside. To Sully he said, “Shall I make a pact with my mother, bishop? Shall I promise to give up whoring if she does the same?”

  Sully’s lips twitched and his voice was stern. “She is your mother, Philippe, whatever she has done. Because of that she deserves your respect.”

  Adele spun around, blustering. “Whatever I have done? Now you accuse me? I am not the one in question here! I’m not the one who has turned my back on our family!”

  Before Sully could respond Philippe snapped at her, “You turned your back on me the day that I was born! All you could ever think about was yourself, and how many pretty boys your wiles could attract!”

  “A fair assessment of yourself, I’d say!”

  “Enough of this!” It was Sully, finally provoked to anger by their exchange. “Please,” he said, his voice pitched at its normal level once more, “there is no need for recriminations.”

  “There is a need,” Adele kicked at the table leg with a slippered foot. “I have the right to know why my son is throwing his life away.”

  “My life?” Philippe sneered, “What about yours? You’ve always done exactly as you wished, lived as you pleased—you’ve no right to point a finger at me.”

  Adele came closer, nearly tripping over the hem of her skirt. “Listen to me,” she said, and her voice trembled with emotion. “I’ve made my share of mistakes, but I’ve also had my share of troubles. I buried my husband, my best-beloved brother, and my lover. I have lost my daughter to a place as far away as death. I have withstood your abuses, the wars against my family, the threats to take away my lands. But through it all I never let myself fall into the state you are in. At least I can say that for myself!”

  Philippe raised his arm as if to strike her, but he heard Sully’s gasp, and let his hand fall limply into his lap. “Leave me alone, Mother,” he growled, “leave me alone, both of you. I’ve had enough of your smug disapproval for one day. Get out.”

  “I’ll get out,” Adele answered, “but first let me say this: the bishop may be concerned for the state of your soul, but my interest is more practical. There are at least a hundred sealed dispatches upstairs in the library, awaiting your attention. I’ve seen them myself! Your counselors are turned away every day; the whole business of government is falling apart, while you waste yourself with drink and prostitutes. For God’s sake, Philippe, if you care nothing for your own responsibilities, at least give them over to the care of someone who does!”

  “Get out of here!” Philippe snarled and threw his henap in her direction. It struck the heavy pennon of her sleeve and rolled spinning at her feet. Adele kicked it to the comer of the room and then strode to the door. To Sully she said, “I knew he wouldn’t listen. He’s never in all his life listened to anything I’ve had to say. Let him do as he pleases.” She gave a last glance toward her son. “Do as you like. Drink! Whore! Crawl home each morning! I’m finished with you.” She flung the door open, then slammed it at her back.

  Sully covered his eyes with a wrinkled hand and Philippe felt ashamed. They meant well, his mother and the bishop, and he did owe something to them; at least he owed them an explanation. But it was useless, because they would never understand. Philippe closed his eyes and saw a pool of blood upon the sand, and he saw Geoffrey: all his brilliance, wit and promise trampled into ruin.

  Philippe stretched his injured leg and tested it with a little weight. It flared in pain and he quickly relaxed it. To Sully he said, “Have you finished with me, too, or is there more that you would say to me?”

  The bishop raised his head. “And would you listen? I think, Philippe, though you may not credit it, that you need my counsel now as you never have before.”

  Anger and argument had become a reflex with him. “Counsel is not necessarily criticism.”

  “Have it your own way,” the bishop answered, sounding weary. He rose with some difficulty and shuffled toward the door. Philippe watched him go. This seemingly ageless man would be seventy in a few years. Today he looked old, his shoulders stooped beneath the loose linen dalmatic. Pausing at the door he looked back at Philippe and there was sadness in his voice when he spoke. “In the past you have argued with me, but you have listened, too. I fear it is no longer so.”

  Philippe’s voice trembled on the edge of an apology. “A little kindness would go a long way.”

  “Yes, for all of us,” Sully answered with a pale smile. Then he closed the door quietly behind him.

  Having driven away all company with his rudeness, Philippe was left alone, to bear the pain of his wounded leg in silence. He sat without moving for a long time, wondering how he could ever find his way back to the life he’d known before. Geoffrey’s death had changed so many things. It seemed impossible now to trust, feel tenderness, or love. If there was an answer, some way to dissolve the bitterness, Philippe did not know what it was or where it could be found.

  He scarcely heard the timid knock on the door, the opening of it, the sound of uneven footsteps coming closer, so he was surprised when he looked up and saw Edythe standing a few feet away. She carried a wooden bowl beneath her arm, and her hands were full of linen cloths.

  “What do you want?” he asked, mildly annoyed.

  She was not bold enough to look him full in the face; instead she stare
d down at the tips of her shoes. “I heard the lord constable say you had injured your leg and not attended to it. I have brought something to soothe the pain.”

  Kindness instead of criticism. He beckoned her to come closer. “Very well. Let’s see what you can do. Have you any talent with the healing arts?”

  Edythe was blushing furiously though she struggled to remain calm. “Some, sire,” she told him and knelt down beside the bench where he sat. The bowl and the cloths were placed on the floor, then she looked up at him with a shy smile. “Have you something I can use to cut?”

  He drew his sword and handed it to her. Edythe laid it across her lap, then began methodically to unwind his leather wrappings. When she had finished that she slit the left leg of his woollen braies from his thigh to below the knee. Even the slightest pressure of her hand caused him to wince and mutter a quiet oath. Edythe’s eyes widened in alarm and she removed her hand.

  Philippe relaxed a bit and managed a grin. “It hurts,” he admitted.

  “It is badly swollen,” she responded, bending closer to examine the bruises, “but there is no tear in the skin. It requires a dressing of camphor and burdock root. Then I will bind it, but not too tightly.” She extracted a handful of ointment from the bowl and carefully applied it to his knee. Her touch was gentle but practiced. Philippe thought her hand trembled a little.

  “Is there something wrong?” he asked.

  “Sire?” Her brown eyes looked out from a thin, pale face.

  “Are you afraid of me?”

  “No, sire.”

  “Then why do you tremble?”

  With her free hand Edythe tucked a long strand of brown hair behind her ear. “I only fear to cause you greater pain than you already suffer.” She took up one of the cloths and laid it across the application, then with a longer piece of the linen made a bandage about the knee. “Is this too tight?” He shook his head. Skillfully she wound the wrappings about his leg, then secured it firmly with a knot. “There,” she said and took her hands away, “that will reduce the swelling and help to ease the pain. Still, you should take care. Try not to walk on it for several hours.”