But Philippe took one last diplomatic precaution. He sent a message to Henry in England. Is it not possible for you to keep your son from ravaging the lands of Raymond of Toulouse? The dispute between them has worked hardship upon me… .
Henry sent back a terse reply.
I knew not of it.
Manage it yourself.
ISABEL’S MILK tasted like sweet cream.
Henri of Champagne lay on her breast. He drank from her and held her in his arms and loved her with all the passion he had repressed since their last meeting.
It was late June in Chantilly.
Isabel clung to him in desperation, as if all the ordinary acts of love could not satisfy her, and when it was over she lay silently in his arms. Sweat kept their skin close, yet even as Henri held her tight upon his heart, Isabel seemed distant from him. He could almost feel her thoughts vibrating, troubled and silent, in the darkness.
She was meditating upon the confusion of her life and all the actions that seemed to lead her back to the same shadowed place, twisting round and round again like stone stairs in a tower. The logic of her experience was hopelessly beyond her, all the mistakes of the past scattered at her feet like unstrung pearls.
Why had she brought Henri here?
Isabel knew the reason.
This friendship had become as addictive as love. It was unsettling. Just one more complication in a state of circumstances she could not control. Henri had become necessary to her now, almost as necessary as Philippe, because he pulled in the outer edges of her life that her husband had never thought to touch.
It was because of the dreams too—dreams that plagued her, making her afraid, making her need Henri—that Isabel had brought him here. She could not share the nightmares with Philippe, because they dealt with Geoffrey. But Henri heard them with patience; made her feel less threatened. Because of that she loved him in a way that had meaning only to herself… .
She knew he was not asleep, that his thoughts were wandering with hers. After a while his voice came out of the darkness, floating close upon her ear. “Isabel,” he asked quietly, “what do you feel for me?”
She groped for his hand and found it. “You’ve asked me that before and I have told you. I love you for your kindness. Your friendship.” Isabel snuggled closer. “And I enjoy having you in my bed.”
Friendship. She made the word sound beautiful. Full of meaning. Full of passion. But for all that it was just a word, after all. Henri slipped his hand beneath the sheet and fondled her swollen abdomen. “There is no place on earth I would rather be than in your bed. Still, I don’t like to see you this way.”
“Do I seem ugly to you now?”
He traced her throat with a necklace of kisses. “Of course not. If anything you are more beautiful than before.” His hand crept upwards, balancing the weight of her left breast upon his palm. “Though I would not have thought these could be richer, fuller …” Then suddenly his voice turned slightly petulant. “Seeing you like this reminds me too keenly that you belong to Philippe.”
She pressed her face to the silky black hair of his chest. “Right now I belong to you.”
He wanted it to be true. God knew she felt as if she belonged in his arms! He kissed away the sweat from her forehead while Isabel nibbled at his beard. “But do you want me?” Henri whispered, “do you truly want me?”
Her one hand disappeared beneath the sheet, then at last she stripped away the covering altogether. She bent her face to his belly, her tongue darting out in gentle licking kisses. His skin was so white there, and delicate as a girl’s. It made her want to cry. There was such vulnerability and sweetness in the flesh. Such sadness and joy!
She raised her head to look at him. “You see? I do want you. …”
Later that night they sat together by the uncovered window, trying to draw in breath from out of the humid night. The air smelled sweet and heavy.
“I came here to escape the heat,” she said, fanning herself with a fluttering hand, “yet we’ve been sweltering since we got here, same as in Paris.” She entwined the fingers of her left hand with his. “Still it is better for the children here. The city air and its ill-humors are bad for them.”
He squeezed her hand. “I heard of the birth of your son. You must be very proud.”
“Louis is a fine child,” Isabel answered. Though her face was turned from him, Henri knew that she was smiling.
He touched her belly lightly with the tips of his fingers. “When is this one due?”
“In the fall.” She looked down at her burden and patted Henri’s hand that covered it. “October. I’m so big already, I think it might be twins again.”
Henri studied her face, retracing the features he had memorized years ago. The moonlight had turned her skin to silver and accentuated the deep shadows beneath her eyes. She looked ghost-like, beautiful and strange. He felt suddenly afraid for her.
“What’s wrong?” Isabel asked, seeing the change in his expression.
“I worry about you. Childbirth is hard. My own wife nearly died bearing our daughter last spring, and she is far stronger than you.”
Isabel kissed his knuckles, praising him for his concern. “The women in my family are small, but fertile. My own mother has borne ten children and will doubtless have more, yet she was well enough when I saw her last.” The words faded into silence then as she tightened her grip on his hand. “But Henri, my love, I do worry. Each time I have given birth I’ve felt myself come close to death.” Her voice faltered and she looked up into his face. “I’m very afraid of dying, Henri.”
Love for her overwhelmed him, and Henri gathered her into his arms. “Don’t speak of dying! I would give my own life to keep you safe from harm.”
They kissed, and as they did Isabel felt his tears wetting her face. How sweet he was. Already she had grown too dependent upon him and that must end. for both their sakes. Into his ear she whispered, “Stay with me all the night my dearest, but promise to be gone in the morning. We cannot risk that anyone should discover we are here together.”
He answered between gasps and kisses. “I shall do whatever you say.”
Isabel felt as though she were deceiving both Henri and Philippe; wishing she loved one and not the other. But wishing was useless and nothing would ever change, because it was Philippe she loved, and it would always be Philippe. Henri’s passion provoked her to tears and she wept, “It would be better for us both if you did not love me.”
His kisses fell lightly on her upturned face. “Forbid me, then! Forbid me to love you.”
She knew what it was to love and be denied. “I cannot,” she answered. “I cannot.”
John was urging Henry to return to Normandy.
Since May he had been sending frantic letters to his father in England, describing events that were taking place on the continent. When Chateauroux fell to the French on June 16th, matters took a more serious turn. By invading Berry, Philippe Capet had broken the truce in which Henry had put so much faith. It seemed that if the French king was willing to risk all that such a breach implied, he was likely to have more definite plans in mind for the future. Dangerous plans.
John suggested his father send an army to Chateauroux to challenge Philippe’s hold on the city, but Henry was not prepared to do that. He was a conservative man at heart. He never fought unless forced to do so—unless he could not find another way.
At this point he still preferred to negotiate.
So. near the end of June he sent Baldwin, Archbishop of Canterbury and Bishop Hugh of Lincoln to meet with the French king. They came not just as envoys of England but of the Church as well. Henry hoped their pious presence and learned conversation in the art of debate would influence Philippe against further encroachment upon English domains.
Henry should have known better, he should have learned his lesson by this time. Philippe was not one to be swayed. He received Baldwin and Hugh with a show of graciousness and courtesy, then promptly disagreed with
everything they said.
It was simple, he explained. He had not broken the truce. It was Henry’s fault for allowing Richard to ravage the territory of a French vassal, Raymond of Toulouse. That was an act of war, and by lending tacit support to such destruction, Henry was the offending party. France was merely retaliating as her king saw fit and right. After four tedious days of talks, Baldwin and Hugh went away, dissatisfied.
Philippe smiled as he watched them go.
In England Henry did not smile as he listened to what his two emissaries told him, and he made a swift decision to cross over to the continent at once. Perhaps if he and Richard were to combine their armies along the borders of Touraine and Berry they could force Philippe to withdraw his troops from Chateauroux. That would keep Aquitaine safe for the time being, and forestall any hopes Philippe might have of going north to capture Normandy.
After riding all night from London, Henry arrived at Dover as the sun was rising on yet another humid summer day. At the fortress high above the sea he conferred briefly with the Earl of Essex and other of his advisers. Then he went down the hill to the harbor where a ship was waiting for him, flying the banner of England. There as yet another standard shivering in the dull morning breeze: the grinning leopard of Plantagenet significance, imprisoned on a square of violet silk.
Henry’s blood was racing as he bounded up the wooden gangplank, his retinue trailing far behind. In a small way he was glad Philippe had broken the truce, for even if it did not relieve Henry of his lately-made crusader’s vow, it did leave him free to strike back at the Capet with everything he had.
He stood at the bow looking over the side of the ship where tiny waves lapped up to meet it. The water was calm, almost flat, and it stretched out before him like an azure carpet. Beyond it was Normandy, land of Henry’s ancestors, crux of the Anglo-Norman nation he had built. He was determined to protect it at all cost, and against any foul devices of the King of France.
Behind him was England, its familiar chalky coast receding into dimness as Henry sailed away from it. He looked back for just a moment, experiencing a twinge of melancholy he could not explain. It was much like the feeling he’d known two weeks ago at Woodstock when he kissed Alais goodbye. He pondered it, then just as quickly shrugged off the feeling and stared defiantly into the distance.
He had seen England for the last time.
All over France the cattle and the crops were dying. It had been a barren summer, and the rivers that criss-crossed the land ebbed low at their banks. For too many weeks there had been no rain. Drought had turned the lush green hills to faded tufts of grey. Children cried from hunger in their sleep. The wells were emptying.
It was late July: hotter than almost any man remembered.
Sign of a bitter winter yet to come, the poorfolk said, for it was well known among those who worked the land that a hot and arid summer presaged early frost and lingering cold weather a few months hence. Food was scarce now and would be scarcer once the chill set in. The people worried, and grumbled as they went about their work.
For they could see the hand of God in this misfortune—a wrath visited upon them because the Holy cities of the East had fallen to the Infidel, with yet no prince of Europe set to go against the enemies of Christendom. Rumors of wars among French vassals in the south caused fresh resentments. Was not God punishing the poor for the sins of noblemen who raided villages and plundered sacred shrines?
The common people didn’t understand these grudges and blood battles of the rich. They only knew that when one lord fought another it was the poor who suffered most. They prayed to God that very soon their young king would redeem them all by going far across the sea and winning back Jerusalem. Then God would smile, and once again the rain would come.
Isabel had not intended to stay the entire summer at Chateau Jolie, but as it happened, she did. One hot July night her pains began, and by the morning Edythe had helped deliver her of two boy babies, born more than two months prior to their time and thus, born dead.
Isabel went nearly mad with grieving.
Within the week an escort of the household bodyguard conveyed the tiny hand-made coffins back to Paris for burial at Notre Dame. But it was impossible for Isabel to leave Chantilly at that time, though she would have liked to go; it was weeks before she could even leave her bed. When she did it was only to take a little air in the garden. There she would sit among late-blooming flowers, staring at a fading landscape, seeing summer at its ebb.
It was God’s design. There could be no end of dying.
… our good king Henry is still a soldier.
August has been a time of tribulation but our good lord leads us, and we, his soldiers, follow. We have joined with the armies of Prince Richard, and together forced the King of France out of Berry, where he has no right to be, though he claims it as his own by means of conquest and descent. It is the ignoble Phillipe-Auguste who prevents my lords Henry and Richard from fulfilling their pledge to fight in the East… .
Now he has sent the Bishop of Beauvais, his cousin, to spread tumult in Normandy. Aumale has been invaded, its fortress burned to the ground. But King Henry says we shall retake Mantes by September. The king of France has retreated back to Paris …
William the Marshal
Letter fragment
August 25, 1188
Summer was ended.
Isabel returned to Paris early in September. She had lost weight, and looked very pale—but physically she was recovered enough to ride a horse all the way from Chantilly to the lie de la Cite.
Emotionally she was in turmoil.
Guilt for her liaison with Henri, and the sense of being persecuted because of it, assailed her in equal measure. She felt that God was punishing her for sins that were her nature to commit. She brooded over this. She felt afraid.
In the crypt at Notre Dame there were two new stone boxes; nearby were the others, little Baldwin and Margot, and just beyond them a splendid basalt tomb, black with emerald edging.
Geoffrey, you were my friend!
A candle seemed too small an offering. Instead she gripped the roses in her hand till the thorns pierced her, then smeared a finger kiss in blood beside his name.
Sibylla was back in Paris.
William de Beaujolais had been appointed to the curia regis, and brought his wife and little daughter to live at the Cite Palais at the king’s request. It was Philippe’s way of being kind. He was worried about Isabel’s state of mind. She had taken her recent misfortune badly, even though he had assured her that as soon as she was strong again there would be another pregnancy. In any case, the company of her young sister was sure to cheer her.
Sibylla? She was carefree as a song. At just past fifteen she saw herself the luckiest young woman in the world. She had the husband she had always dreamed of, and a beautiful daughter. In January there would be another child, hopefully a son. She could not have been more happy with her life had she herself been queen.
Paris seemed less of a dismal place to her now. Hot autumn sun shined on the slate roofs and dull grey stones of the city. The rushing Seine seemed undiminshed by the summer drought. It was as blue as the sky which covered it. Birds filled the trees.
I will be happy here, Sibylla thought. On September 18th there was a banquet in the great hall to celebrate the eight years that Philippe had worn the crown. William and Sibylla led the dancing while the king and queen looked on, Philippe in rare high spirits. Sibylla looked past the whirling colored shapes of silk and jeweled damask, and saw him laughing, his profile raised against a wall of flames.
Isabel, subdued and pale, sat close beside him. There were stains on her sheer pink chainse, the greasy print of Philippe’s fingers near her left breast. He pulled his wife into his arms and fed her a little wine from his own cup. When a drop of it rolled down her chin he kissed it away with his tongue.
The room was hot and filled with people. Sibylla poured a little water on her neck to make her cool; she gripped William�
�s hand beneath the table. Just at that moment she needed more than anything for her husband to know she loved him above all men on earth. Yet her gaze carried beyond his face, toward the center of the table where the king sat. Isabel is bewitched by him, she thought. She would give up her soul rather than lose him.
Before the meal was halfway done, Philippe had pulled Isabel to her feet and led her from the room.
It was late September in Gisors, and hot.
After three days of talks nothing had been decided. Henry and Philippe had come to this familiar meeting place to discuss an end to the latest series of hostilities, but before very long the two men were locked in stubborn confrontation once again, this time at the conference table. The petty tone of their bickering was not to be believed.
They were fighting over a tree.
Henry and his men had arrived first, claiming shade under the famous old elm tree, while the late-coming French sweltered in the hot sun, unprotected. Philippe interpreted this action as a deliberate breach of courtesy, and refused to recognize the authority of the English king to dictate any terms of settlement so long as he and his men were denied an equal place of shade beneath the tree.
When Philippe came out of his tent on the morning of the fourth day, Henry crossed over to meet him. He extended his hand to Philippe, but the French king spumed it, and turned away.
Henry squinted against the sun. “We must come to some agreement, lad. Neither of us can afford to pay mercenaries who sit idle while we parlay. Not in these hard times.”
There was a sprinkling of laughter from the English contingent but Philippe ignored it. “So you say. What you do with your mercenaries is your affair. What I do with mine is my own. I wouldn’t waste my breath if I were you.”
The Rain Maiden Page 48
