The Rain Maiden

by Jill M Philips

  The words did nothing to soften Richard’s conviction that he was lying. “Geoffrey was greedier than any man alive, including you. If he could have had the crown without a fight from me, he would have slit Henry’s throat to get it.”

  The black eyes that looked back at him were cold. “You didn’t know him the way I did.” A sigh. “Geoffrey had the most brilliant and original mind of any man I ever met. It was power he wanted, not the crown, though he could have had both eventually if he had set his mind to it. If he’d lived long enough. He could have had anything. He was so clever.”

  “Devious,” Richard corrected, and then his voice went lower: “It’s only that I have to know that I mean more to you than just a way of getting what you want from Henry.”

  Insulted, Philippe jerked his head in a gesture of disapproval. “What an unkind thing for you to say! I can’t believe you could really mean it.”

  Richard folded his hands across his belly. “It had crossed my mind.”

  Their eyes met in a wordless exchange and kindled something secret. “I might say the same of you, you know,” Philippe argued. “You could be using me to help you fight your father.”

  Richard leaned on his elbow and looked up at Philippe. There was meaning in his eyes. “Yes, I could be. But I’m not.”

  “And I believe you.”

  Richard reached out to fondle Philippe’s hand. “I don’t want to doubt you, but I’m sure you can understand how it might be possible.”

  Without answering Philippe got up and threw a cloak around his shoulders. Richard watched. “Where are you going?” he asked.

  Philippe pulled the door open. “I’ve got to piss.”

  When he came back inside, Richard was sitting up in the bed, looking sullen. Philippe crossed to the table to pour some wine for them and Richard’s voice followed him. “We should be getting back to Paris. Let’s be prepared to leave at dawn tomorrow.”

  Philippe looked back over his shoulder. “Not in this rain.”

  “Then on the following day.”

  Philippe brought the wine to Richard and sat down beside him. They both drank in silence. Then Philippe said, “You seem suddenly quite anxious to leave. I thought you liked it here. I thought you were enjoying my company.”

  Richard’s head was thrust forward. He was looking disconsolately down into his wine. “I need to believe in you, Philippe,” he mumbled.

  The feel of Philippe’s arms around his shoulders caused the gloomy Richard to relax a little. “Believe in this then: I love you.” Philippe’s voice was firm but hushed. “Do you understand me Richard? I love you!” He wrestled Richard around to face him and they kissed, each tasting wine in the other’s mouth.

  Richard tossed his henap aside, then pulled Philippe down on the bed with him, their arms tangled, their bellies pressed tight together. “I love you too,” he declared, “and to hell with all the rest.”

  Later they ate a meal of cheese and bread.

  “You may have been right about us leaving after all,” Philippe said, stretching his long legs out, warming his feet closer to the fire. “We are very nearly out of food.”

  “There are still a few things in my saddle bag,” Richard replied, pointing to the comer where the leather satchel lay.

  Philippe unwrapped a cloth pouch and tossed a bit of beef to Richard. “I’m suddenly very hungry,” Philippe said and winked at his friend.

  Richard’s gaze carried far off to the comer, where the low-hung ceiling slanted into shadow. He could hear rain dripping through the ill-patched roof onto the floor somewhere in the room. It was a lonely, melancholy sound.

  His shoulders sagged in depression. “I’ll be glad when this whole thing is over,” he declared suddenly. “I’m not looking forward to going up against my father, not with the stakes so high as they are. He’s going to fight back with everything he has.” The corners of his mouth drooped. “It could drag on indefinitely.”

  “Does that matter?” Philippe asked, raising a dark eyebrow.

  Richard leaned his elbows on his knees. “Yes, it does. I’m tired of these constant delays, I just want things to be settled. I want the crown, the Aquitaine, and the assurance that Henry will not go back on his word once he promises them to me. Then I can go to the East with an easy mind and a peaceful heart.”

  In a rare spirit of sympathy, Philippe drew close to Richard and gave him a tender kiss on the forehead. “My sweet friend, I want the same thing. But first we must bring Henry to his knees.” He saw the quick frown. “We must. There is no other way. And then, when all has been secured, we shall go together to the East.” He kissed the knuckles of Richard’s hand. “And together we shall drive the pagans from the Holy places.”

  Richard gnawed at his thumbnail and was silent for a while. Then he said, “I find it difficult to believe you are as eager for this adventure as I am.”

  “Do you doubt my religiosity?”

  “No,” Richard answered immediately, “but I doubt your ability to leave your wife behind.”

  It was not the first time he had made a veiled slur against Isabel. He was jealous of her; Philippe knew that and accepted it. Women were all mothers and sisters to Richard, or dainty ornaments leaning on his arm for dancing. He knew nothing of them.

  “Of course I won’t enjoy a separation from Isabel,” Philippe answered tartly, “but there’s nothing I can do to remedy that.”

  “She can,” Richard said, pronouncing the words like a prophet, “and I wouldn’t be surprised if she succeeds.”

  The muscles of Philippe’s face tensed, anticipating anger. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I mean that she’ll do anything to keep you with her.”

  Philippe gulped down most of his wine, and then belched under his breath. “There’s nothing she can do. If I decide to go, I’ll go.” He smiled teasingly. “Isabel is just a tiny little thing. She can’t keep me here against my will.”

  Richard was not smiling; he was in earnest. “She is your will.”

  Philippe kicked at the stone hearth with the toe of his boot. “Nonsense.” he grumbled.

  “Isabel is like a fever to you,” Richard protested. “I’ve seen it many times. She walks into the room and suddenly you forget you are a king.”

  Philippe was more amused than he was angry. “Christ Jesus, Richard, open your eyes! Is it odd for a man to want to fuck his wife! Especially if she looks like Isabel? Don’t tell me that you haven’t had a few thoughts in the same direction. Yes, even you. Every man who has ever seen her looks at me and wishes he were in my place, and not just to wear the crown.” He sighed. “Of course I don’t blame any man for wanting her. There is no other woman on earth like Isabel. One look at her is enough to raise a dead man’s penis.”

  “I wonder you aren’t jealous,” Richard said.

  “Sometimes I am, though no other man would dare to touch her. Still, the gentlemen of my household amuse themselves with staring at her, wondering what it would be like to bury themselves in her.”

  Richard stroked his beard thoughtfully. “I’ve had women, but I have never lusted for them. Actually I feel pity that they must submit to men. Women are so delicate. Each time I’ve lain with a woman. I’ve been afraid of hurting her.” He said the words earnestly, truly meaning them. “With men, it’s so much more equal.” He paused a moment. “Love between two men is better, because both of them want it. With a woman you can’t help feeling like an intruder.”

  Philippe spit his wine into the fire and it flared up, red and hissing. “Christ Almighty, where have you been looking, in a convent? I’ve never known a woman yet who didn’t prefer a good fuck to a love song.”

  There was a tiny flush on Richard’s cheek. “Whores perhaps. Women of high birth are different.”

  “The hell they are!” Philippe proclaimed, stretching himself out next to Richard on the floor. “I’ve been screwing whores since I was thirteen, but I have never found one who could compare to Isabel. She has an
appetite that makes any man look feeble.”

  Richard’s strong mouth sulked. “I think that is very unusual for a woman.”

  Philippe shrugged. “Perhaps it is. But I wouldn’t have her any other way. Her blood is so hot, her breasts so sweet. Her body is like a part of my own.” He looked at Richard and fumbled for the right words. “If you could know how it feels to be inside of her! When I take her I know her pleasure, just as surely as she knows mine. I’ve never felt that with any other woman, and I know I never will.”

  “Or any man?” Richard asked.

  Philippe smiled nicely and his face looked almost kind. “As you said, it is different between men. You and I are many things to one another: lovers, friends, brothers …” He moved closer and slid an arm around Richard’s stalwart back. “We have a fine and promising future together.”

  Richard searched for truth in Philippe’s eyes. “Does that include our journey to the East?”

  “Yes,” Philippe answered, his whisper floating close upon Richard’s ear. “after all has been secured for us in France.” He rolled over on his back and spread his arms to his lover. “There is nothing that we cannot do … together.”

  Richard kissed him with a wet and open mouth. “God help us.”

  Philippe gave a throaty laugh. “God help Henry.”

  There were no festivities, not even snow. John had never known such a dismal Christmas. Henry had been in bed for several days and this time it was not a woman who kept him there. He was suffering with hemorrhoids, and his pain was extreme.

  The physicians treated him with applications of salves and ointments and a special potion made of crushed seed pearls mixed with oils of balm and belladonna. They prescribed boiled fish to eat and liberal doses of water in his wine. The faithful Godfrey saw that all these measures were accomplished, and he kept a vigil at the king’s side each night.

  John strayed in and out, standing by the bed to exchange a few words with his father. He never lingered very long; he was too depressed for that. What was happening to Henry? John had never known him to be vanquished by an illness. It was even more frightening to consider what his brother and Philippe were planning back in Paris. How would Henry ever be able to put down the threat of their rebellion when he was too weak to stand, or even rise from his bed?

  What would John do when spring came if Henry was still too sick to lead a defense against them? There was Godfrey of course. He was a fine soldier. And de Mande-ville, and William Marshal. But if the King of England was too ill to sit his horse, he was too ill for battle. In which case the logical successor was his son and heir. And that was John.

  He loved Henry, that was the worst part. John loved him more than he loved anyone else in the whole world, and it was a terrible feeling because he was so afraid that Henry was going to die. Please God, don’t let it happen! John hadn’t said a sincere prayer in a long time, but he was praying now.

  At night, across the corridor in his own room, he would hide his face among the cushions and sob without restraint. Sometimes Eleanor, the king’s young mistress, would come and slide into bed beside him. They would hold one another and make love from a sense of need, and weep together over the king’s condition before they slept.

  In his mind John had the image of a circle growing smaller.

  He had never felt so alone.

  Richard was not alone. He had Philippe. For the time being that was all he wanted. When the two men returned to Paris they were full of plans. They were in each other’s company every day, and when Christmas came they celebrated with a morning mass and a full night of drinking.

  Isabel spent all of Christmas day sitting at her sister’s bedside. Sibylla’s delivery was difficult and lasted many hours, but it was worth almost any price because, finally, a little before midnight, she gave birth to a husky, squalling son.

  The tight-lipped midwife clothed him in a woollen wrapping and set him at his mother’s breast. “He’s so beautiful,” Isabel muttered, leaning close to inspect her tiny nephew. “Oh, Sibylla, I’m so very happy for you!”

  The young mother smiled weakly and reached to take hold of Isabel’s hand. “Thank you for staying with me. I think I would have been quite afraid without you. There was so much more pain this time.” Her voice faded to a whisper and Isabel had to bend close to hear the words. “The pain doesn’t matter now. I have my son. I’m going to call him William Tristan.” Sibylla looked so weary, but there was a radiance in her eyes. “Oh Isabel, God has been so good to me. …”

  She was still smiling as she fell asleep.

  In January 1189 the feeble truce of Bonsmoulins expired.

  In February Henry agreed to meet with Philippe and Richard, so that a binding treaty might be struck between them. But before the scheduled date arrived, Henry sent another message saying he would not be able to attend. He was still in too much pain to ride a horse.

  Philippe laughed and crumbled the paper in his hands.

  The month of March was full of turbulence and sadness.

  Henry turned fifty-six on the fourth day of the month. It was a grey day of little celebration. Rain fell steadily, and as afternoon deepened into evening it turned to silvery sleet. A cold wind blew off the troubled surface of the Loire and scurried round the thick stone walls of Saumur fortress.

  Henry lay alone in his bed, with Godfrey sitting at his feet.

  There was very little talking. The sounds of wind and rain and a fire in the grate held sway within the dreary room. Henry rolled over on his side and grumbled, restless in a dull half-sleep, then flung the covers off. Gently, Godfrey smoothed them back over his shoulders once again, and stroked his cheek till the older man slept more peacefully.

  John looked in, standing at the doorway for a moment, unobserved. He wanted to go to Henry, put his arms around him, beg him to be well again. Instead he turned away and tip-toed down the corridor, where pretty Eleanor waited outside his room.

  On the same night, far away in Paris, William de Beaujolais was thrown from his horse when it stumbled on the rain-slippery stones near the palace esplanade. Two soldiers of the guard who were standing watch beside the bridge found him and carried him inside. The king was told; he summoned his physician.

  But William was already dead.

  Sibylla’s grief was a heavy, silent thing.

  She would not talk and she could not cry. She sat for hours staring out of the window, hardly noticing if it was night or day. She nursed her infant son, held Gabrielle on her knee; but these were empty actions born of habit.

  William’s body was taken back to Beaujolais, where it would be entombed beneath the high altar of Avenas, among the monuments of his family. Sibylla had wanted to accompany the funeral caravan, but Isabel discouraged her from doing so. The physical and emotional consequences of such a journey were too exhausting, she explained.

  Isabel did what she could to comfort her sister, but there were no words or actions, however kind, to assuage the grief of a fifteen-year-old widow. If only she could cry, perhaps some of the grief would go. But Sibylla floundered, comfortless and unspeaking in an isolation she had built against reality. It was almost as if she did not believe William was dead. Each night she sat at her window, as though waiting for him to return from an afternoon of hunting.

  It was not an easy situation for Isabel. By the time a week had passed her nerves were fragmented. She had lost so much sleep and weight caring for Sibylla, and pregnancy added the physical discomforts of nausea and swollen ankles.

  Because of all this anxiety, the sleepless nights and troubled days, Isabel was brought to childbed early, on the eve of her nineteenth birthday. It was far too soon; she was not due to deliver until middle June. The hours of painful labor produced yet another still-born baby, this one a girl.

  The dead little princess was hastily named Genevieve-Therese. Sully performed a token baptism, and then the child was taken out of Isabel’s arms, to be put away forever in the darkness of the crypt at Notre Dame. Isa
bel sobbed forlornly in her husband’s arms. So much suffering, and only death as a reward.

  Philippe did his best to soothe her. “There will be other children,” he said, trying to make the words sound meaningful.

  She could not tell him what she already knew.

  It was too late.

  THE LOIRE VALLEY was beautiful in the spring.

  Henry Plantagenet was filled with a sense of renewal. He felt it in his blood, in his soul. Recovering from his illness had made him feel vigorous again, giving him an illusion of being young. He gathered up his entire entourage and moved them a few miles south to Chinon, then sent a message to the King of France.

  They met for a series of conferences near the Anjou-Maine border at the end of April. The meetings dragged on through the middle of the following month, but nothing was decided. It was an impasse from the beginning. Philippe was obdurate in his terms for a settlement; Henry was inflexible in his refusals.

  There was no pretense of friendliness or courtesy on either side. Henry hated Philippe now, and feared him too, above any other man on earth. And as for Philippe, he scented Henry’s ruin and was hungry for it, like a jackal lusting for a fresh kill.

  Richard stood beside him all the while, cloaking his betrayal in an attitude of righteousness, nodding in fervent agreement to everything Philippe said. He seemed to have few opinions of his own, Henry thought contemptuously. Licking the French king’s balls had made him subservient and stupid.

  The conference adjourned at the end of May, though the two monarchs arranged to meet again in a week. Henry was glad for the delay. He needed to buy time. It was his only weapon against Philippe Capet now.

  There was one hope left to him, and Henry seized upon it with cunning determination. Pope Clement was angry. He had grown disgusted with the failure of Christendom’s kings to make good their promise of leading a new crusade to the Holy Land. He had written strong letters to both Henry and Philippe, threatening reprisals by the Church if they did not soon settle their domestic quarrel and set forth as they had promised to do more than a year ago.