The Rain Maiden

by Jill M Philips

  “For one thing it will save a great many lives,” William explained.

  Philippe choked a little on his food as he gave a small laugh. “Is that reason enough?”

  William nodded gravely. “I think so.”

  “Philippe,” Theobold said as he wiped his fingers on a linen cloth, “there are other reasons, more practical reasons. Your purpose, as I understand it, is to humiliate Henry. This is the best way to do it! Make him sign an agreement to fight the Infidel. If he fulfills his promise, you have won. If he does not, then you have proved him to be a liar, and you have also won.”

  For a moment the king appraised them both with a look of misgiving, then slowly a broad smile stretched itself across his face. “Perhaps you are right,” he decided, and stripped a bit of fat from his meat, tossing it aside. “Yes: the King of England shall have his truce. Write it all down William, and make it binding. See that Henry puts both his seal and signature to it, and have it witnessed by one of his priests.” He grinned at the prospect, holding his greasy knife aloft, his fingers tracing the edge. “And if in three months’ time Henry shows no indication of making good his promise, then I myself shall bring him to account with this!” He savored the expression of alarm on their faces, then laughed to show that he was joking. “Don’t worry,” he said and went back to eating, “I’ll be sure to clean it first.”

  Flanders was waiting for Richard outside his tent, kicking the mud from his boots. He seized Richard’s sleeve. “A word with you,” he muttered.

  They went inside together. “Have you eaten?” Richard asked, and Flanders nodded. “Then take some wine with me.” Richard motioned to a pair of chairs close to the brese where the fire was, then crossed to the table where a flagon sat beside two pewter henaps.

  Flanders doffed his fawn-colored pellison and sat down, admiring the surroundings. Even in the field Richard kept himself in luxury. Fine Saracen carpets covered the ground, and heavily embroidered damask hangings decorated the canvas walls of the tent. Fine things always lifted Flanders’s spirits. He took the cup that Richard held out to him and sniffed at the wine: a deep, sweet vintage from the South.

  They toasted one another, then Richard sat down with a grunt. “Say what you came to say and I will listen, though I confess I’ve had a belly full of talk today.”

  There was a brief pause. “My words will put you at your ease.”

  Richard stretched his legs out, warming his feet by the fire. “What do you want, d’Alsace?”

  Flanders chuckled. “What do you want, that’s more to the point, isn’t it?”

  The wine felt rich and dark on his tongue and Richard savored it before swallowing. “Are you asking me?”

  “I know you are at odds with Henry.”

  Now Richard laughed. “Is that supposed to be a secret?”

  “It’s no secret to Philippe Capet. You should talk to him, Richard; just the two of you, without Henry. In the future you will be forced to deal with him more and more. You need to know what kind of man he is.”

  “I know what kind of man he is,” Richard said, biting off the words, “and so must you, to have left his side for ours.”

  Flanders heaved a sigh. “You aren’t listening to me. I think that you should meet with him. At least give him the chance to find out what kind of man you are.”

  Richard emptied his cup and set it at his feet. “I have no authority to make a separate peace with him against my father’s will, if that is what you mean. Henry would call that treason, and he would be right.”

  “Henry needn’t know.” Flanders leaned close to Richard, and there was a serious set to his face as he spoke. “Don’t make the same mistakes with Philippe that your father has; use your experience and be guided by it.” He wiped the droplets of wine from his mouth. “Henry’s a beaten man, Richard. He’s lost his touch. I’ve seen it just in these few days I’ve been here, and I’m getting out.” He raised his cup as though to toast the idea.

  “Back to the French king?” Richard seemed amused. “You are like a faithless woman, d’Alsace. I think Capet must be tired of you treading back and forth between the lines by now. Will he have you back?”

  Flanders drank, then wiped his lips again. “He will understand. Ever since our reconciliation he has felt kindly toward me.”

  “Then why did you desert him for my father’s cause?”

  Flanders smiled, unoffended. “I have been remiss in my relations with your father for some time. I depend upon the good will of the French king it’s true, but I depend upon your father’s favor as well. I was testing his benevolence, that’s all. Philippe will understand that.”

  A frown creased the noble rise of Richard’s forehead. “You still care very much about Philippe, don’t you?”

  The Count of Flanders finished his wine and stood up. “I have no son of my own, Richard; no child at all, and I never shall. Philippe is the closest thing I’ve known to a son.” He reached for his pellison. “I’m going now. I think you should come with me.” He smiled at Richard’s grave expression. “Just to talk …”

  Undecided, Richard hesitated. “I don’t know what purpose it will serve.”

  There was an unsettling gleam in Flanders’s eye. “I do,” he said.

  Philippe was busy at his maps when the Count of Flanders brought Richard to him. The king’s black eyes flashed a wordless greeting, but he did not rise. “Join me,” he said, and swept aside the dinner leavings with his free hand. Then he smiled slyly at Flanders. “I see you have returned. Can I depend upon you to remain this time, or shall the sunrise find you under yet another banner?” It was said without much guile, just as d’Alsace had predicted.

  Flanders’s tanned face crinkled in a self-deprecating grin as he and Richard seated themselves. “As always I am your servant.”

  “Indeed,” Philippe answered, playing for a while at being serious. Then he laughed at Richard’s sober expression. “Relax, my lord of Poitou, you are among friends.” Then suddenly his expression darkened. “Why did you come, Richard?”

  Richard stared down at the sapphire on his middle finger, distracting himself with the light that danced atop it. “I felt the need to talk to you, to explain that whatever happens between you and my father, I bear no personal grudge toward you.”

  “That’s kind,” Philippe said, lightly mocking.

  Richard’s tone grew harder. “It’s true.” He raised his head and looked directly into Philippe’s face. “Both sides have been imprudent, my father excessively so. But you have no right to the Aquitaine and you know it. Take your troops away and there will be no recriminations in the future from my armies there. I promise you that.”

  “Do you?” Philippe brushed a tangle of black curls back from his forehead as he laughed. “How can you promise such a thing? To begin with, the Aquitaine is no longer yours; it was, I believe, given over to your mother’s care sometime ago. Which is another way of saying that it now belongs to Henry once again, just as it did when he first stole it from Louis, together with his wife.”

  It was hard to meet those cold black eyes and speak one’s mind while doing it. Richard shifted uneasily in his chair, clearing his throat. “What has been done in the past by my father or yours cannot be undone. It is the future we should concern ourselves with.”

  “It is only the future that interests me,” Philippe replied instantly. “You might convey that to your father.”

  Richard looked down at his folded hands and wished that he had not come here. Capet was too intimidating and Richard felt unequal to him in this setting. “Look,” he said, “I just think you should understand my feelings about all this. I support my father’s cause, though not his methods. I don’t strike bargains in his name, and certainly not behind his back. Politics is his game; yours too I suspect. But it has nothing to do with me.”

  The blunt honesty of those words seemed to soften Philippe’s haughty expression and he smiled. Richard thought that he looked very handsome when he smiled. “I
appreciate your honesty,” the French king said, “Perhaps I can give you something in return to put your mind at ease. I have agreed to give your father the two years of truce he requested so that he might seek his repentance in the Holy Land.” He raised an eyebrow at Richard’s show of interest. “That pleases you? I hope this settlement shall please us all in time. You see, I am not personally vindictive. I only seek to maintain what is mine.”

  Fine words, but Richard wondered if they were true.

  He stood up and thrust his hand out toward Philippe. “I am glad this business is at an end. I confess to little love for politics.”

  Philippe grasped Richard’s hand and held it with curious tenderness. “We’ll talk again,” he said.

  Richard rode slowly back to camp, puzzling over his meeting with Philippe. He felt unsettled; something was tugging at his mind. Talk to him, Flanders had said. Know him better. Yet after their brief exchange, Richard felt he knew even less than before.

  There was something though, something he could not deny. An element of fascination was closely entwined with Richard’s dislike of Philippe. Richard had known many men but never one who so combined the essence of both coldness and passion in his nature. Something in his attitude was vaguely reminiscent of Geoffrey. No wonder those two had appealed to one another.

  But Richard did not want to think of that, did not want to think of Geoffrey and Philippe together. At the mouth of the camp he dismounted, then walked the distance to his tent. God it would be good when all this bothersome business was ended and he could return to Poitiers once more! Far away from his father.

  Far away from Philippe Capet.

  He’d slept only a little while when he was jostled awake by the rough hand of a soldier. Richard squinted up at the intruder, his senses swimming to the surface. He pushed himself to a sitting position. “What is it?” he grumbled.

  “Your father is calling for you,” the soldier explained. “He asks that you come to his tent at once.”

  There was more grumbling as Richard pulled on his boots and braies and threw a sable mantle about his shoulders. Then grabbing a torch he pushed his way past the soldier and went out into the dark.

  Henry sat at a wooden table, his shoulders hunched and shapeless under the cover of a heavy woollen cloak. He bent close to a stack of papers, studying them intently.

  Richard strode up to him, looking grim and tired. “I wish your summons could have waited,” he said. “You took me from my bed.”

  “A pity,” Henry snapped, “but this is more important than sleep.” He nearly upset the table as he lunged forward, his finger pointing to a single paper which bore Philippe Capet’s signature. “See this? The King of France has agreed to my demands at last!”

  “Agreed?” Richard asked, incredulous. “Your demands? What do you mean?”

  “He has agreed to the truce.”

  “I know,” Richard answered, and to his father’s questioning look he added, “it was whispered about the camp. But I don’t see it as a cause for celebration. I know you well enough to know you don’t invite a trip to the Holy Land at this point in your life.”

  “Richard, Richard … of course I don’t intend to go. But this is something else; I have a plan.”

  “No more plans,” Richard objected, “this thing is over.”

  Henry snatched up the paper and waved it in Richard’s face. “That’s what you think. I have him now. By Christ, I have him!”

  Exasperation and interrupted sleep had made Richard cross. “What are you talking about?”

  Henry leapt to his feet in triumph, a hectic flush of joy coloring his face. “Now that Philippe believes all has been settled, I shall give him a surprise he never expected. I want you to give orders that our men attack the French camp at dawn.”

  It took a few moments for the impact of his words to penetrate Richard’s understanding. “You want what? An attack? And after signing the truce with Philippe?”

  “Don’t be such a fool,” Henry shouted. “Who cares about the truce? It doesn’t mean a thing.”

  “You humiliated yourself to get it, it meant that much to you,” Richard shouted back.

  “I did not humiliate myself,” the king answered in a low, hard voice. “I only salvaged what I could from this fiasco, without your help. That is survival, boy, not surrender.”

  “I will not do it!” Richard screamed in frustration. “I want no part of it!”

  The son and the father regarded one another for a moment. The air between them was charged with enmity and perturbation. “Why do you oppose this?” Henry asked at last, for he was truly puzzled. “You are the soldier, the one who favored battle in the first place. You should be pleased.”

  Richard grabbed up the torch. “If you think that, then you don’t know me very well.”

  Henry watched his son move toward the entrance to the tent. “You will do as I say,” he promised, “or you will regret your obstinacy at a later time.”

  “Don’t threaten me,” Richard warned and pushed his way outside. He walked swiftly toward his tent, looking up at the sky as he went. The stars had gone, and the air was piquant with the scent of smoke. It was just beginning to rain.

  News of the “surprise” attack filtered through the lines and across the river before the night was over. It may have been that Philippe Capet had spies within the English camp; or perhaps he merely had long ears. Whatever the case, he alerted his men as soon as he knew Henry’s plan. The French were up before the sun: dressed, ready to attack.

  Godfrey brought news of this to Henry, who was at once overtaken by terror at the consequences of his own rash plan. A surprise attack upon the French camp would have worked in his favor; a defense of their own lines would not. Henry had made things ten times worse than they had been before! He cursed himself and called loudly upon God to help him.

  God was not enough. Richard was sent for.

  “Tell me what to do!” Henry implored.

  There were no words to describe what Richard was feeling as he stood before his father. The older man was white-faced, sobbing; he looked pitiful, and Richard felt ashamed to be his son. All the delays, the lies, the blunders—all the times Henry had closed his ears to any advice—it had come back to trap him now—him and all the rest of them.

  Richard looked away, fighting a rising sickness in his stomach. “This is a disgrace,” he muttered, “and you are to blame.”

  “I know that!” Henry wailed, “don’t waste my time in repeating it.” He brushed a hand across his face, erasing the tears. “Help me.”

  There was a note of despair in Richard’s voice. “What do you want me to do?”

  Henry drew a breath of relief and clasped Richard by the hand. “Go back to Philippe. Arrange another truce. Tell him anything you like. But get him to call off his attack!”

  “I can’t do that!” Richard insisted. “How can you ask me such a thing?”

  Henry seized Richard by the shoulders, holding him fast. “Because it is the only way.”

  “No! If you want another truce, YOU go to Philippe and beg for it! I’ve had enough of this theater of deceit.”

  The king was beyond caring that his dignity was shattered. He would beg, threaten, do anything he had to in order to secure Richard’s help. “If you desert me now,” Henry promised, “I will see to it that you never get the Aquitaine back again! I’ll have your mother sign it over to John at the point of a sword if I must, unless you swear to help me!”

  Richard threw off his father’s hands and turned away with a grunt of disgust. He wanted to feel anger: instead he felt only humiliation and pity for his father. Henry had finally grown too old to outrun his own lies. He had failed: and not grandly as he had so many times in the past, but foolishly, a victim of crude miscalculation. There wasn’t even enough manhood left in him for Richard to hate. “I’ll go,” he agreed in a disheartened whisper. “It is my duty as your son. But this time I will make peace with him on my own terms.”

&nb
sp; “Thank you,” Henry croaked, as tears ran down his wrinkled cheeks. Then he followed Richard outside and watched him mount his horse.

  It was a dull morning. The sun was a pale gold orb on a pillow of clouds. There was a hint of rain in the air, and the scent of moisture still lingered from last night. The camp was buzzing with activity as men girded themselves for war. Henry had given the order when he learned what Philippe planned to do, hoping even then that a battle would not be necessary.

  Philippe was dressed for battle, strapping on his sword when Richard entered, out of breath and anxious.

  The French king looked up. “I wish I could say once again that I welcome you, but unfortunately that sentiment has been made invalid by your father’s treachery.” His eyes scanned Richard’s face for an answer. “Why have you come?”

  Three witnesses—the king’s two Champagnois uncles, and the Count of Flanders—watched as Richard threw himself at Philippe’s feet in a symbolic show of homage. His voice was tight, the words spurred on by urgency. “I have come to ask you for yet another truce, my father’s action notwithstanding. I shall submit myself to any punishment you deem appropriate; should you wish to keep me as a hostage to my father’s word I shall accept it humbly.” He unloosed his sword and flung it to the ground. “I ask you to take this as proof of our intentions. One word from you that the truce is secure and my father’s army will withdraw.”

  Philippe glanced up at Theobold and William, then d’Alsace. They all knew Richard better than he did, and their expressions told him that this was no trick. Gently he put his right hand on Richard’s head. A show of pardon. “Stand up,” he said.

  Richard’s fine clothes were rumpled, as though he’d slept in them. That amused Philippe. It made Richard seem less lordly and more human. “Don’t look so solemn,” the king admonished him. “As I told you yesterday, you are among friends.” He motioned for the others to withdraw and as they went he instructed them, “Go to the English king and tell him I accept the terms as he offered them before, but warn him also that I shall hold him to them. There shall be no battle if his troops are moved and out of here before the sun goes down. Tell him also that Richard, by his own will, remains behind with us until these measures are accomplished.”