The Rain Maiden

by Jill M Philips

  He left Richard’s side and followed the three men to the mouth of the tent. There they stood speaking for several minutes, mumbling in tones which Richard could scarcely hear. At last, with a subtle gesture of his hand, Philippe dismissed the others.

  Now the two of them were alone.

  After his humbling display, Richard felt uneasy. Philippe knew that and tried to dispel his anxiety with a smile. “Sit down,” he said, but even though it was meant to sound friendly, he couldn’t keep the sharp note of authority from his voice. “Have you taken breakfast?”

  “I’m not hungry,” Richard muttered, then at Philippe’s bidding he seated himself.

  “Some wine, then?” Philippe paused, the porringer uplifted in his hand.

  “Indeed.”

  As he waited, Richard scanned the tent, disinterested. Everywhere he looked the emblazoned symbol of the golden fleur-de-lis met his eyes.

  A cup was thrust into his hand. “You will recognize this, I am sure. Cherry wine. From Bordeaux, a region you know very well,” Philippe explained. “It is my wife’s favorite.”

  Richard nodded. “You treat me with exceeding courtesy,” he said.

  Philippe laughed. “I have more reason to rejoice than you can know.” He took a sip and the wine glistened on his lips as he spoke. “Yesterday a message reached me from Isabel in Paris. Once again she has my child in her. She says that all the signs substantiate her belief it is a boy.” He hoisted his cup. “So when I drink this now it is in her honor, not yours.”

  “Of course,” Richard flushed a little, and he raised his cup to meet with Philippe’s. “To your son.”

  Pleased, confident, Philippe settled back in his chair and immediately turned the conversation to political, not personal concerns. “I respect your act of coming to me, Richard,” he said simply. “Be assured I do. I know your father to be a liar and a dissembler; but I trust you. Truly.”

  “I am glad of that.”

  Philippe was enjoying this. His lips curved into a smile. “Do you trust your father?”

  Devious. God he was devious. Clever. And cruel, too; he knew where to twist the knife. Richard finished his wine in silence, then pushed the cup aside and looked across at Philippe. “Why do you want to know? Why do you care?”

  “I care.”

  Richard was a man who spoke his feelings, always. He did not make a sport of juggling words. Because of that honesty he loathed Philippe’s obscure manner of extracting information, as if merely to satisfy his curiosity. “What is it you really want with me?” he asked. “I think you had better say, because your method is too subtle for me.”

  A tolerant smile stretched Philippe’s lips. “Very well, since you prefer the direct approach. I would like to have your help. In return, I would give you mine. That should be worth more than anything your father has to offer you.”

  A moment of consideration, as though Richard wasn’t sure. “Are you asking me to change sides? To leave my father’s cause for yours?”

  “Cause.” Philippe grimaced at the word. “Richard, there is no cause. There is only land, and the men who own it.”

  “And those who try to take it.”

  Philippe laughed. “If it pleases you to say so.”

  There were beads of moisture on Richard’s forehead and he wiped them away. “I cannot believe that even you could be so cynical.”

  “I speak the truth.”

  “You speak treason,” Richard corrected him.

  For a while they said nothing and the only sound was the heavy splashing of rain against the canvas roof. The scent of wetness was everywhere: strong and sweetly rustic as it mingled with the smell of earth and horses’ dung.

  Philippe reached over and touched Richard’s sleeve. “Before you judge me too harshly let me make my reasoning clear to you. To begin with, I know the trouble that exists within your family.”

  “Exaggerated,” Richard scoffed.

  Philippe raised a hand to silence him. “You forget that Harry and Geoffrey were my friends. They told me all there is to know. From childhood I knew what kind of man your father is. Louis told me much as well. Can you deny that Henry has set you aside time and time again?”

  “Is that what Geoffrey told you?” Richard asked, and his voice was bitter. “Because he schemed to make it come true.”

  “Geoffrey did what he had to, but at least he didn’t deceive himself about your father’s motives,” Philippe argued. “Henry has made it clear just how much he values your advice and your abilities.” He snapped his fingers in front of Richard’s face. “Not that much! Why do you stay with him? You owe him nothing.”

  Richard’s eyes, blue as ice in twilight, narrowed as he studied Philippe’s face. “I told you once before that I am not my brother Geoffrey, and I will not make myself a traitor as he did, just for the sake of getting even. What strife has passed between my father and myself is none of your concern, Philippe. Do you know what loyalty is? I owe him that. I serve him so long as he lives and wears the crown. That is my duty as his son.”

  “Well, good for you,” Philippe answered, mocking and sarcastic, and he got to his feet, pushing the chair aside. He leaned his palms flat against the table and looked straight at Richard. “Why are you so hostile to me? I have tried to be understanding of your problems, I have offered you my help.”

  “Your help doesn’t come cheap, I’m sure,” Richard answered grudgingly.

  “Is my meaning so obscure?” Philippe’s heavily lashed eyes were unrelenting.

  “No, it’s very clear.”

  “You think I want to turn you against your father?”

  “Of course,” Richard laughed, “or at least you want to use me as a cudgel to beat Henry with. That is what you intend, is it not?”

  “Perhaps I have other reasons.”

  Richard stood up and folded his arms across his chest. “I am a soldier,” he proclaimed. “You must speak to me as a soldier.”

  “A soldier, yes,” Philippe answered, making the words sound silky, “but a poet too. Such things cannot be misinterpreted by poets, surely.”

  Richard rounded the table. The two men stood looking at each other for several moments. The air between them was alive with curiosity and doubt. “Just what is it that you want?” Richard asked curtly.

  The time for truth had come. Philippe laid his hand on Richard’s shoulder. “I want us to be friends.”

  “Friends,” Richard scowled and shook off Philippe’s touch.

  The king’s expression was unreadable. “Richard, your reputation precedes you by more years than I can count. Why are you making this so difficult for me?”

  Richard looked away. “So this is your way of repaying my father for his treachery?”

  Philippe laughed. “Richard, Richard—don’t be so grim about this. I’m offering something to you, not demanding. And if the truth be told, I’ve been fascinated by your looks and your legend for a long time.” He reached out and placed his fingertips beneath Richard’s chin. “Look at me and tell me, if you can, that you don’t feel the same.”

  Richard stared into the blackest eyes he had ever seen: the most handsome face. Slowly his hand came up, the fingers curling around Philippe’s wrist, but it was a grasp of unity, not a restraint. “Philippe,” he said, “I don’t know you very well, but what I do know makes me hesitant to trust you.”

  Philippe pulled Richard’s hand to his lips and kissed it. “You will learn to trust me, as your brothers did.” He looked deep into Richard’s eyes. “They loved me very much, both Harry and Geoffrey did, and I loved them. They learned to trust me, because I gave them reason to. You can trust me, Richard, I promise that.”

  So many questions, so much doubt. But all of that seemed very small compared to the sudden rush of passion Richard felt as Philippe put his arms about his shoulders and pulled him close. They kissed many times, the gold and black hair of their beards mingling.

  At last Richard pulled away, but his breath was still hot upon
Philippe’s face. “Don’t think that you can use me as a weapon against Henry. I want you, but I won’t be made a pawn so you can satisfy your hatred for my father. Before we go any further I want you to understand that.”

  Philippe brushed Richard’s lips with another kiss; his hands caressed Richard’s shoulders. “This has nothing to do with vengeance. I am not thinking of your father now. Only of us: of the friendship we can build together.”

  There was an inkling of a smile on Richard’s lips. “You did say I was your hostage. …”

  Philippe laughed again: that rich and beautiful laugh that made Richard’s senses tingle when he heard it. “I meant that in the mere technical sense, my friend.” He fingered a lock of Richard’s golden hair. “You see, I already think of you as my friend. In time you will feel the same, I swear it.”

  Whatever else was said that morning neither man remembered. The rain came down. Outside the tent a guard stood by so the king and his guest would not be disturbed. The soldiers were told to take off their battle gear. Everyone was going back to Paris. Inside the tent, on the pale blue cushions of the king’s bed where the fleur-de-lis was emblazoned in gold, amid groping hands and hot kisses and flesh that demanded to be satisfied, a new alliance between Philippe Capet and yet another of Henry’s sons was being forged.

  Later they lay together, almost sleeping, covered by an ermine rug, and lulled by the sound of rain coming down outside.

  “I should be leaving,” Richard mumbled against Philippe’s chest. “It must be afternoon by now.”

  Philippe bit softly into Richard’s shoulder. “Don’t ever go. Come back to Paris with me. Give yourself a chance to know me better.”

  Relaxed and giddy, Richard laughed and rumpled Philippe’s hair. “I think in these last few hours I’ve learned everything there is to know of you.”

  Their tongues met, teasing. “There is so much more,” the king assured him. “We are ideal as lovers, but I want to show you the kind of friend I can be. Show you …” He kissed his lover’s throat, then let his tongue go lower, licking the sweat from Richard’s brawny chest.

  “We are ideal,” Richard agreed. “I’ve never known such joy in love.”

  “Then come to Paris. Be with me, stay with me. Let your father be taught a lesson for neglecting your advice, for ignoring your abilities.”

  “Yes,” Richard breathed, “you are right! What loyalty has he shown me? Why should I care for his feelings?”

  “I care,” Philippe sighed, “and I feel.”

  It was evening before they left his bed.

  Across the river, Henry waited.

  The Count of Chartres had brought the news of Philippe’s acquiescence to Henry’s terms. That had been this morning. All day the English king had waited for Richard to return, but when the sun went down he still did not come back.

  “Where is he?” Henry grumbled. “What is he doing?”

  Godfrey had keen instincts; he was very sure of what had happened. Still, out of care for his father’s state of mind he tried to calm him. “I don’t think you should concern yourself. No doubt he will soon return.”

  Henry slapped a fist into his open palm. “Perhaps I was wrong to send him. Maybe I should have sent someone else.”

  “You did well to send him,” Godfrey answered patiently. “After all, he did secure the truce, just as you asked. Don’t worry after it. Go to bed and rest yourself. No doubt by the morning Richard will have returned.”

  By morning the French camp had dispersed. The tents were gone, the soldiers, the king—and with them, Henry’s son.

  END PART IV

  PART V

  Summer, 1187

  THESE WERE quiet months. There were no wars, no important parlays. No envoys made their way between the powers of England and France.

  But that was only the look of it. The summer of 1187 was alive with change and subtle hostilities.

  In June, Constance of Brittany was forced to marry against her will. It was Henry’s doing, his way of outfoxing Philippe Capet and keeping the duchy as an English possession. Prodded by threats that her son and daughter would be taken from her if she resisted, Constance married the Earl of Chester, although she loathed the look of him. He was ugly, and so small that he scarcely reached her breast.

  June also saw Richard Plantagenet in Paris, living at the Cite Palais as his brothers had done in earlier years. It took very little time for this news to travel back to Chinon, where Henry was told that Richard and the French king were inseparable (“Eating from the same dish at mealtimes, sleeping in the same bed at night …”). Henry worried about what this new closeness presaged, and sent many urgent letters to his son, which were ignored.

  In July Sibylla came to visit Isabel in Paris, bringing along her baby daughter Gabrielle, and intending to remain till the queen’s child was delivered in October. Isabel was pleased to have her sister’s company, partly from affection, partly because she saw so little of her husband these days. He was too busy spending his time with Richard. Isabel’s disposition grew sour as she thought of it. Nearly every day the two men hunted together in the forest of Vincennes close outside Paris; at night there were other sports. Always so much time for Richard. Never enough time for her.

  Isabel didn’t like Richard, although he treated her with utmost courtesy. His chivalric manner could not hide the fact that he knew nothing of women. Gossip said that he shunned them except for dancing! Isabel could believe that. Sometimes, as she sat with him and Philippe at dinner, she would study Richard’s face and attitude. You are a fraud, she would think. For all your strength and brave deeds, you are a fraud.

  He was humorless, too, compared to Geoffrey, which did nothing to improve the doumess of Philippe’s personality, the way Geoffrey’s perverse wit had. Boring. That is how Philippe and Richard seemed to her and each night as Isabel passed dinner in their company she would stare at them and think, You are boring.

  Sibylla was equally tiresome, because she only wished to talk of having babies and how wonderful her husband William was. The two young women would sit together in the garden, sewing, and Sibylla would talk of such things, while Isabel smiled and nodded, pretending to listen. But her mind was really very far away, as it nearly always was these days, because no matter what she seemed to be doing, Isabel was thinking of the dreams.

  They had begun the end of May, shortly before Philippe returned from Chateauroux. Now they came nightly: dim dreams in which she floundered through thick fog toward a voice that called out her name. More disturbing than that: it had become difficult for Isabel to separate the dreams from wakefulness because now, awake, she had a sense of always being watched, of being listened to. It was unsettling and frayed her nerves to the point where she wondered at her own ability to reason.

  She was withdrawing more and more from the world and she could not help it. She had an image in her mind of a circle that was growing tighter, and in some way it was all related to Geoffrey, though she didn’t understand how that could be. It was as if some essence of his personality still lived on in the halls of the Cite Palais where he had died, and what remained of it called out to her.

  Isabel brooded on this subject endlessly, unable to speak of it to anyone because no one would understand. She had always been so imaginative; from childhood she had suffered dreams so true she could barely tell them from reality. But this was more frightening than anything she had ever experienced in the past. Isabel had a sense of being pulled against her will into a situation she could not escape.

  August came with its pall of dust and heat, kindling small fires on the outskirts of the city. It was too hot to spend the time hunting now, so Philippe turned his attention back to more tedious matters in the council chamber.

  Richard gave no indication that he planned to leave Paris, but he was vague about his commitment to Philippe. The French king had tried very hard to be patient, sure that his closeness with Richard would eventually produce an unswerving alliance between the two o
f them.

  So far it had not happened—not out of bed, that is. It was exciting to make love with Richard; exciting in a way that Philippe had never known before with any other man, even his beloved Geoffrey. That seemed to be sufficient for Richard, who had little taste for politics, but it was not enough for Philippe. This relationship meant little to him if something more significant than sex could not be managed.

  Every week the letters came from Henry, and every week Richard threw them away. Philippe pondered the actions of his friend. Was Richard considering a permanent break with Henry? He would touch lightly on the subject, trying to extract some type of promise, but Richard would only laugh and say he did not wish to speak of it. He had come to Paris for love, he said, and not political dealings. Philippe would answer with a sour smile that pretended appreciation, but all the while he was itching to move against King Henry’s lands, and for that he needed Richard.

  There was another vexation, a smaller one.

  Isabel was in a strange mood these days. At first when he had come back to Paris at the end of May, she had been in such fine spirits, and they had celebrated the conception of the child she knew would be his heir. But recently she seemed so moody and withdrawn. It was odd to see the listlessness in her manner, the vacant look in her eyes as though she were living in a world he could not reach.

  What could it be? Well, women were strange creatures, and Isabel had always been a particular mystery to him. No doubt her pregnancy was a further cause of her behavior. Wasn’t it always said that women weren’t quite themselves when they were carrying a child? Didn’t they have strange moods, cravings for unusual things to eat? He’d heard that somewhere. Yes, that was probably it.