The Rain Maiden

by Jill M Philips

  Henry took a step forward. “We are wasting time Philippe, and in the heat at that. We simply have to come to some kind of settlement.”

  “Do we?” Philippe’s sharp words rang in the air. “My men are at Chateauroux, that’s all I know …”

  “Your troops were swept clean out of Berry, in case you don’t remember,” Henry answered, mopping the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. “And with Bourges in my control, Chateauroux scarcely matters.”

  “If it does not matter you would not wish to have it back,” Philippe argued cunningly. “In any case, my mercenaries can hold it against your men, and Richard’s, at any cost.”

  “Your mercenaries: yes, perhaps,” Henry laughed, “if they have not already disbanded for lack of pay. Regardless, they must go. You have no right to Chateauroux or any part of Berry, and you know it.”

  Philippe was perturbed for many reasons, including the fact that Richard had purposely stayed away from this meeting, just to avoid seeing him. How false his lover had proved to be! Philippe looked dourly at Henry. “You want me out of Chateauroux,” he grumbled, “and yet you offer me nothing in return. Where is the benefit to me? What do I gain?”

  Henry was tired of this. The two of them had been shouting at one another for three days and nothing had been solved. They were bluffing, both of them. Philippe’s mercenaries may or may not be sufficient to hold Chateauroux. but he was almost certainly unable to pay them. Henry had the same difficulty with the Welsh bowmen he had brought to France. He could not remain on alert for a prolonged period of time, watchful over Capet’s every action and the movement of his troops. They needed a binding concordance, a settlement written down on paper.

  Wearily, Henry put the terms once more. If Philippe would return Chateauroux and the fortresses he had taken, he would not be forced to pay reparations for the damages of war. Likewise, Henry promised that Richard would withdraw from Toulouse, and do an act of homage to Philippe for his continental domain.

  Philippe spat upon the ground. This was all too reminiscent of the first time he and Henry had met at Gisors, and the memory of that humiliating day soured in the French king’s mind. “Fuck you, old man,” he sneered, and walked away.

  Scorn and futility. Henry proposed another meeting for October, then gathered up his men and rode away toward the Loire Valley. That very night Philippe ordered the destruction of the Gisors elm. It took half the night for two strong men to cut it down.

  Traveling south toward Chatillon-sur-Indre, Philippe Capet brooded over the ill luck which had overtaken him. For the first time in his association with the Plantagenets, he was facing the combined strength of Henry and Richard. It was a formidable task.

  Something had to be done to separate Richard from his father.

  Last year it had seemed possible. Love had made Richard and Philippe so close. Then had come the evil news from Jerusalem, and Richard had chosen spirit over flesh.

  But he would come to regret the day he had disappointed Philippe. By God, he would.

  No change.

  The week of meetings at Chatillon-sur-Indre was a repeat of what had transpired between the two kings earlier at Gisors. Henry offered the same terms. Philippe gave the same answer.

  Then suddenly he had a change of heart. He would give up the fortresses he had captured in Berry, he declared, but only if Henry would cede to him the castle of Pacy. It was a strategically important fortress on the Norman border between Evreux and Mantes, and Philippe demanded its possession as a “pledge of good faith” by the English king.

  It was unthinkable, and Henry refused to give it up. Once again the conference was suspended and everyone went home. There was no longer any question about keeping the mercenaries employed: both monarchs issued orders to disband them, despite the fact that none of the men had been paid in months.

  Philippe went north toward Paris by way of Bourges, taking his Brabantines with him. He had promised them full payment as soon as they crossed over into the royal demesne. The men had been grumbling for weeks, threatening retaliation for their impoverished state, but the promise of money soon quelled their resentment.

  Once they reached Sancerre, however, Philippe went back on his word. Protected by two thousand of his own French knights, he did not have to fear what the disgruntled mercenaries would do and so he turned them out, unpaid. To assure his own safety he had his soldiers strip them of their weapons and horses and even their outer clothing, leaving them naked but for their braies!

  The Brabantines screamed curses at the French king, but he laughed at them and shouted back, “This will teach you Flemish pigs to threaten me! You did nothing in my service but sit by idly and eat the food which I provided. I owe you nothing more in return.”

  He pushed his horse into the midst of his double rank of bodyguards, then spurted it north, without even looking back.

  At Orleans the king consulted with his advisers.

  Flanders was there, and Philippe’s Champagnois uncles, all looking on with doubting frowns, distressed by the king’s continued stubbomess and his refusal to make a truce with Henry Plantagenet. What had begun as a worthwhile gamble to take control of Aquitaine had deteriorated into a foolish, petty quarrel, which the nobles on either side could no longer conscience. Count Theobold of Chartres and his brother, the Bishop of Rheims, had discussed their feelings with Philip d’Alsace and elected him their spokesman.

  “We have come to a decision,” Flanders told the king. “For myself, at least, I can no longer be a party to this continual antagonism of the English king.”

  The words had barely gotten past his tongue when Philippe flew at him. “Listen, d’Alsace, if you have once more chosen to follow Henry instead of me, I swear to God I will not take you back into my service the next time you wish to return!”

  Flanders raised his arm, chest level, as if to pledge his sincerity. “That is not what I am saying. My loyalty is to you and only you: no other. But this lamentable situation with the English has gone on far too long. I have sworn that I shall not lift my sword against another Christian till I have fulfilled my vow to fight for our Lord in the Holy Land.”

  Philippe’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

  “It is so,” Flanders told him, lowering his voice, trying to sound meek. “Therefore I urge you to seek a peaceful settlement with Henry and his son, and as soon as possible. If you like, I shall arrange another meeting between the two of you.”

  Philippe looked past d’Alsace, his gaze smoldering over the faces of Theobold and William. “And do you feel likewise?” he asked his uncles.

  They nodded with one accord.

  “Shit,” Philippe muttered.

  In Paris the windows of the king’s council chamber had been newly fitted with colored glass, the first in the palace to be so treated. One of the windows faced the river, with a southern view of the city. For a day and a night Philippe sat looking out of it, pondering what he would do next.

  He had disbanded his mercenaries; now the nobles refused to fight! Henry would hear about that, certainly. When he did, Philippe would be in even less of a position to bargain than he had before. It was damned inconvenient. It was humiliating.

  Philippe considered the situation for a long while, then quite suddenly made his decision. That night, as a full moon rose high above the city, and nearly everyone else slept, he sat down to write a cryptic letter to the King of England. Finished, he read it over, and smiled with secret glee.

  Carefully Philippe signed his name, affixed his signet seal and then went across the corridor to the common room. With an unceremonious kick he roused two of his bodyguard from sleep and ordered them to rise at once and dress.

  Muttering quiet oaths beneath their breath, the men pulled on their clothes and boots, and strapped their swords into place. The king instructed them in their duty: the letter was to be put into the hands of Henry Plantagenet, and no other. Then he bid them go.

  Mounted on swift horses, the two men clattered over the
bridge and onto the road beyond, galloping past shadowed vineyards and fields of dying wheat. They rode without stopping, because the king’s business was urgent.

  They were at Gisors before the sun was fully up.

  Mid-October in Paris and still no rain. No rain at all.

  These last two days thick clouds had choked the sky, but they only hung there, sagging like paper decorations at a ball. The air was heavy, alive with a sense of waiting.

  Philippe was waiting, waiting to hear from Henry. Then at last the answer came. The matter raised in Philippe’s letter would he discussed more fully at a meeting near Bonsmoulins the middle of November. When Philippe read that he could barely restrain his joy. Now he had only to wait a little longer—and everything he had worked to achieve would follow.

  On a humid night just hours before the storm came, Philippe pulled Isabel from her bed and carried her to the palace garden. They made love in the druid grove among the oaks and apple trees, just as they had done so often in the past when things had been happier between them.

  “I feel as though we were young lovers once again,” he told her, holding her close upon his chest. “There was a time, when first we were together … before all the trouble started with your family, when everything was so good between us—do you remember?”

  Her arms circled his waist covetously. “Don’t say that, my love. It has always been wonderful between us, even during the bad times.”

  “I know,” he agreed, fondling her bare shoulders. “I can’t even imagine how it would have been if we had never married.”

  She licked his throat, then let her tongue wander to the thick hair of his beard. “I never wanted anyone but you,” Isabel whispered, and at that moment it was not a lie. He was the only one. The only one.

  Her hair lay in golden streamers across his chest. Philippe gathered a handful and pulled it to his lips. Soft. Smelling of flowers. So sweet! A sudden tenderness for her jerked inside of him. Isabel sensed his reaction and couldn’t help trying to take advantage of it. Her heart was beating faster; it frightened her just to say the words. “Philippe,” she pleaded, “please promise me you will not go to the Holy Land. Promise that you will not leave me!”

  Since late last spring when first she had heard that he’d taken the cross, Isabel had used a dozen different arguments to make him change his mind. So far Philippe had shown little evidence that he truly wished to go, but that could change easily enough if he and Richard came to an understanding once again, and Isabel dreaded that more than anything. Richard, bull-strong and beckoning, drawing Philippe into his world of manly adventure: it chilled her just to think of it.

  Philippe knew her objections, the arguments she feigned which could all be expressed in three words: don’t leave me. He didn’t want to leave her, didn’t give a damn for the crusade, and had told her so many times. Yet Isabel persisted in bringing it up: always at moments like this, and always with desperation in her voice. Women are ruled by their emotions. Philippe knew that. But emotions seldom made good politics, and in the future politics might determine whether or not he fulfilled his crusader’s vow.

  She felt delicate in his arms—fragile. But Philippe knew her strength of will. Isabel would fight with every bit of charm and wit she owned to keep him with her, and at this moment it was what he wanted too. “Let’s not speak of such things now,” he said, and rolled her over on her back. “We have far better means to pass the night. …”

  His hands, his lips, the very sound of his voice excited her. Isabel reached for him, her hands encircling his taut flesh, stroking him into readiness for her. “It’s so beautiful,” she murmured. “Oh, my darling Philippe, it is the most beautiful thing in all the world! I want it all to myself; I want it to be mine and no one else’s!”

  He pushed her head between his knees and held it there as Isabel satisfied herself on the flesh she loved so well. No one could make him feel as she did. Oh Christ, he wanted it to last forever. “Drink all you want,” he gasped, and shuddered as she licked up every drop of passion.

  They slept in the hulking shadow of the huge old oak tree, where mistletoe twisted round the craggy trunk like a green primeval wreath. It was still dark when they awoke to the gentle sting of rain upon their skin. Philippe tossed Isabel’s torn and ruined dress aside and covered her with his cloak, then gathered her into his arms and carried her inside. Upstairs in her damask bed they made love till dawn stretched its grey shade across their faces, and the scent of wetness seeped into the room.

  Then they slept again.

  Flanders’s decision to force a peace agreement between Henry and Philippe was a matter of conscience. He was sincere in his espousal to raise no sword against a Christian till he had helped to free Jerusalem. He was a fervent man, strong in his faith, despite his many human faults.

  He was getting old and death was often on his mind. Philip needed to repent the wickedness of his life, to sanctify his sinful flesh by shedding heathen blood. And he was tired of playing stupid, petty politics with the kings of Europe. A settlement of the hostilities couldn’t come soon enough to please him.

  In that spirit he accompanied Philippe to Bonsmoulins. This time the Plantagenets turned out in force. Henry had brought Richard and John with him, also Godfrey. The King of England spoke with Philippe privately before the conference was begun. Together they decided upon the course of action that they would take; all that Philippe had written in his letter. Then they concocted a different story for the others.

  Philippe held the precious piece of paper in his hand and gloated silently. This had been less complicated to arrange than he had guessed. To Henry he said, “You will sign this tomorrow in my tent, before all the assembled witnesses of both our courts. Until then we are bound by our secret oath to one another.”

  “Yes,” Henry agreed with a jerk of his head, “if you will swear to me that all we have said will remain secret till this document is signed.”

  “But of course,” Philippe answered, clasping Henry’s hand.

  It was the most delicious lie he’d ever told.

  It was Richard’s custom to take the Sacrament and make his confession every morning, whether or not he was encamped with his army or engaged in war. A man who lived in the palm of danger as Richard did felt his own mortality with keen awareness. It was wise to remain in a constant state of grace, rather than to risk damnation merely for the sake of sloth.

  On a chilly morning in mid-November as a dawn mist blew off the surface of the river, Richard rose from his devotions and made his way back to the tent for a hurried breakfast with his younger brother.

  “Why do you wake me so early?” John wailed as Richard shook him by the shoulders. “I never rise before the sun.”

  Chuckling, Richard doused his brother’s face with wine.

  “The sun rose a full hour ago. The sky is dark because a storm is near. Get up, Johnny, take a meal with me. This is no time for idling like a recreant. This is a most important day.”

  John sat up glumly and gazed through sleepy eyes at Richard’s vacant bed alongside his own. The cushions were arranged in neat order and the coverlet was folded. John smiled. His brother was a man of fastidious habits who never stayed in bed beyond the dawn unless some illness plagued him. Or unless some handsome favorite tempted him to stay.

  John shook his shaggy hair in place and wiped away the droplets of wine with his hand. He looked across at Richard, who was dipping bread into a pot of honey and eating with the dainty manners of a high-born maiden. What contradiction there was between Richard’s brawny, muscled form and delicate habits. John slumped back against the cushions and yawned into his fist. “What makes this day more important than any other?”

  Often Richard wore a grave expression regardless of his mood, but this morning he was smiling. “This is the day our father makes his peace with Philippe!” he declared. “When that is done and all the terms are settled, nothing shall bar my way to the East.” He lifted his henap in a symbolic to
ast. “That, my brother, is a cause for celebration.”

  John slipped back beneath the covers and turned his face into the softness of the cushions. “Only that?” he muttered, and closed his eyes.

  The spirit of affection chided Richard’s disapproval for his brother’s attitude. Despite his laziness and folly, Johnny was a good boy. “Go back to sleep,” he answered, and sloshed a little water in his wine.

  Two hours later all the principles were assembled in King Philippe’s tent. Even John was there. Henry described the situation in perfunctory terms. Both sides had agreed to give back all their gains since the two kings had taken the cross in January of that same year. Philippe would relinquish Chateauroux and all parts of Berry and in return Henry would not extract payment for the mischief done in Normandy by the French king’s cousin in his raids on Mantes and Aumale. Richard would release the county of Quercy into the custody of Raymond of Toulouse, and take the city of Chateauroux for his own.

  Philippe scarcely dared to breathe as the document was read. He had staked his luck on the certainty that Richard would reject those terms and he was not to be disappointed. Immediately Richard’s face turned red with chol-er. How dare his father agree to such an uneven settlement behind his back! The gains he had made in the South against Toulouse were worth far more in revenue than Chateauroux and its few crumbling fortresses could offer.

  He turned to Henry and before all the witnesses proclaimed, “I will submit my person to the Count of Toulouse and stand trial by his will for the crime of ravaging his lands. But I shall not give up what I have gained by lawful conquest.” His eyes moved from Henry’s face to Philippe’s. “And I will fight any man who says I must.”

  Henry shuffled his feet nervously and cleared his throat. This was not what he had expected. Philippe had assured him that Richard wanted Chateauroux! Unsteadied by his son’s outburst, he kept his eyes level with the floor, saying nothing.