The Rain Maiden

by Jill M Philips

  As Henry and a few remaining members of his bodyguard picked their way south through small and untraveled roads, Henry’s turbulent thoughts fixed upon Richard. With all the energy left to him he cursed his son. What a weak and treacherous fool Richard was, eagerly selling himself to Philippe Capet from a sense of bitterness; trying to steal from Henry what he had never tried to earn!

  But there would be a reckoning. Henry knew he could not die in serenity until he looked Richard in the face again. There was too much left unsaid between them, too much hate unsettled. He longed to pray that God would keep him whole until he reached the Loire Valley. But now he hated God as much as Richard.

  Johnny, my beloved son. There was love in that thought and it pulsed in his mind with promise. The miles between them diminished with each hour that passed. Johnny, in all his foolishness and sloth, knew more of love than Richard would ever understand. Johnny was faithful, and there was comfort for Henry in that.

  The king and his men swung wide to the west as they made further progress south. At this point the roads were planted thick with French patrols. Many times in those futile, waning days the king was forced to hide himself in the underbrush or behind the covering of trees in order to avoid capture by Philippe’s troops.

  Henry was beyond any sense of humiliation now. Hungry and ragged, his clothes stained with sweat and smeared with dirt, he pushed himself beyond the limits of his strength. There was only one respite left to him.

  To die in peace at Chinon, and in Johnny’s arms.

  IT HAD BEEN many years since Europe had seen such an army. French troops under the scarlet banner of the oriflamme and the pale blue blazon powdered by golden fleur-de-lis. Knights of the Champagnois, clothed in vivid blue and gold. Richard’s bold Poitevans dressed all in red. Breton soldiers from the ghost of Geoffrey’s army. Proud Flemish troops decorated with the insignia of the golden leopard. And an ever-swelling band of deserters from the English camp.

  Philippe and Richard had overrun nearly all of Maine. Now as the days of June decreased they led their multitudes south, toward the city of Tours. All along their progress, towns and fortresses fell to them with little or no fighting. It was a march of triumph.

  The victory would be but half realized until Tours was taken. Philippe did not doubt that the city would be his, though he wished Henry would surrender it without a fight. It was too fine a place to ruin with fire or the other untidy leavings of a siege.

  Word had filtered through the lines that Henry had come south again. That rumor, be it true, pleased both Philippe and Richard. Soon Henry would relinquish all he owned in France to them. When he did, their power—in partnership and separately—would be a wondrous thing.

  Richard had never been so happy in his life.

  The crown was all but his, and now he had a lover who was both friend and ally. They would accomplish fine and noble things together. They would make peace between France and England. They would go to the Holy Land and rescue the sacred places. Nothing could spoil the love and admiration they held for one another.

  That was the kind of dreamer Richard was.

  At Amboise on the Loire, little more than a day’s slow march from Tours, the army halted to make camp. Philippe and Richard ate a meal together in their tent, then the king left for a while to confer with Flanders and his Champagnois uncles.

  In his absence Richard bathed, then perfumed his beard and trimmed it. He set out a fresh wardrobe for the next day: ice blue samite garments set with precious stones, and an array of finger rings. He wanted to look his best when they drew up beside the defenses at the gates of Tours. It was unlikely there would be much fighting. Perhaps already Henry had given word that the city surrender without opposition.

  Philippe returned shortly after dark. Richard was sitting up in bed covered only by a sheet, and drinking heated wine. He was naked to the waist, his magnificent chest gleaming with scented oils.

  Philippe sat down beside him on the bed. “I have a surprise for you. A visitor.”

  Richard shrugged his shoulders, unaffected. “A messenger from my father? Someone newly converted to our cause? Whatever his purpose, bring him in quickly so that we may dismiss him all the sooner. There is only one man I wish to see tonight and that is you.”

  Philippe held up his hand as if to give an oath, and smiled enigmatically. “Wait and see, my love …”

  Just then the tent flap parted and a man came in. He was shrouded in a heavy cloak, his face in shadow. But the voice was recognizable in an instant. “Hello, Richard,” he said, and tossed the cloak aside.

  For a moment Richard didn’t understand; and then he did.

  It was Johnny.

  For two days Henry lay at Chinon suffering the effects of his illness. The wild flight south had awakened half a dozen old injuries to his body, and so now it was pain, not only failing health, that enfeebled him.

  Godfrey came, as he had promised, but there was still no word of John. Against Godfrey’s protestations Henry insisted on making the short journey to Saumur, for the king was certain John must still be there. When Henry’s pleas became too pitiful to ignore, Godfrey tempered his objections and went with him.

  They didn’t find John there, which was no surprise to Godfrey. He didn’t doubt the silly little coward had already taken safety behind the stone fortresses of Normandy; it was just as likely he had sailed away to England. But although that was Godfrey’s bitter appraisal, he said nothing of this to his father.

  Henry was still at Saumur the following day when two agents of the French king came to him. They had not come at Philippe’s will, but at the urging of their own conscience.

  “What do they want?” Henry groaned, tossing restlessly upon his bed.

  “Just to see you, Father,” Godfrey told him.

  Henry’s voice took on the strength of defiance. “If Capet wishes to make terms with me, let him come himself. Unless he is too occupied fucking my son.”

  Godfrey came closer. “It is his grace of Rheims, and the Count of Flanders. Old friends, my lord.”

  Henry nodded. “Yes. Help me to sit up, Godfrey. Then bring them in.”

  It was an awkward meeting, since neither of the visitors could keep the look of pity from their eyes as they faced the king. The Count of Flanders did most of the talking. He explained that the French king and Richard had planned to take Tours on the following day.

  “Make your peace with Philippe,” he urged. “End this war.” When Henry shook his head in disapproval, d’Alsace nearly shouted, “You are dying from it!”

  Henry waved away the objection with a trembling hand. “I am dying anyway. No matter what I choose to do, no matter what cities of mine Capet takes for his own. It makes no difference now.”

  “Philippe will want to see you,” the Bishop of Rheims said, squinting past pitying tears. “Will you agree to whatever place and time he names?”

  The old fierce look came back into Henry’s keen grey eyes. “Let him take Tours before he dictates anything to me!” The sweat ran down his cheeks like tears. He looked at Flanders, tiny lines of irony creasing at the edges of his mouth. “You chose the right side after all, my friend,” he said.

  Then he lay back upon the bed and closed his eyes.

  Godfrey hustled over to plump the cushions beneath Henry’s head. “He’ll sleep now,” he muttered, turning back to the others. “He tires easily when the pain is very bad. Tomorrow, if he is feeling strong enough, we shall return to Chinon. Tell the French king that.”

  They nodded and went quietly from the room.

  Outside in the courtyard Flanders leaned upon his hand and wept. “For thirty years he was the greatest power on earth! Why has God left him to die in misery and disgrace?”

  The bishop gazed up into a cloudless summer sky. “All flesh is grass,” he answered.

  Tours fell to the French on July 3, 1189.

  Immediately Philippe sent word to Chinon that Henry meet him on the following day at Colombieres.
Godfrey showed the letter to William Marshal. “Good Marshal, please go with him,” he wept. “I cannot bear to see my father humbled by those villains.”

  With Marshal and a few other loyal knights beside him, Henry managed to ride several miles before he was overtaken with the pain of his injuries. Because of this he was forced to seek rest at a lodging of the Knights Templars, where he was given an herbal posset to drink and put to bed. Henry pleaded with Marshal to go forward to the meeting place, and tell Capet of his illness, explaining the delay.

  Meanwhile Philippe and Richard waited anxiously at Colombieres.

  “He is lying!” Richard fumed when Marshal told them what the king had bid him say. “This is merely a ruse he has concocted in order to escape his rightful judgment.”

  Marshal looked deep into the cold eyes of the man who once had been his friend. “By God, you are a devil,” he growled, “for no one else could speak so harshly of the flesh who made him!” He turned to Philippe with his hands outstretched, petitioning. “Is it beneath your dignity to come in person to the bedside of a dying man? Is your heart as black as that?”

  Philippe sneered back, his strong jaw set and unrelenting. “The victor does not pay calls upon the vanquished. Bring your king here, as I have instructed you to do.”

  They were both devils. Marshal spat contemptuously on the ground, then leapt upon his horse and rode away.

  Slowly Henry’s tiny caravan made its way to Colombieres.

  The day was sultry, hot. Veins of lightning illumined low clouds on the horizon. Thunder grunted beyond the western slopes and the still air smelled of rain.

  Philippe squinted into the hazy sunlight and stretched from the waist as Henry’s pitiful little band approached. He gave a sideways glance to Richard, then spurred his horse ahead.

  The two kings halted a few feet apart.

  Philippe muttered a terse, unfriendly greeting. Henry stared back at his youthful enemy. He was so handsome and arrogant, without a trace of kindness in his eyes. Henry’s clouded senses called up the memory of lovely, golden Isabel. How could anyone so sweet and tender find anything to love in this cold, uncaring man?

  Philippe frowned at the wretched man before him. God, the old bastard really did look sick. As a concession he jerked the scarlet cloak from his own shoulders and tossed it to the ground. “You may sit on this if it will ease your discomfort,” he said.

  A flickering of scorn lighted Henry’s eyes. “Do you think I came here to sit for hours in the hot sun and pass the time with you? Just tell me what you want and let me go.”

  Philippe shrugged his shoulders. “As you prefer. I don’t expect this will take very long.” He pulled a roll of parchment from within the folds of his pellison. “These terms are fixed,” he snapped, “and NOT subject to negotiation.”

  He was just about to read when a spear of lightning struck the ground between them, flashing sparks and smoke. Their horses reared in fright and both men nearly fell. Marshal rushed to the side of his king and righted him, propping him upright in the saddle with his own strong hands.

  By now Henry was shaking violently, weak with illness and alarm. He listened without response as Philippe read the cruel terms of surrender, a long list of demands which the dying man could barely comprehend. Henry would do public homage to Philippe. He would relinquish Alais into the care of guardians appointed by the French king. He would give up all his Angevin domains, and recognize Richard as the suzerain, and heir to the crown of England. He would agree to join Philippe and Richard on a sojourn to the Holy Land. He would surrender claims to Auvergne. And lastly, he would administer the kiss of peace to Richard as a symbol of contrition.

  Philippe explained each point in pitiless detail.

  When he had finished Richard brought his horse alongside of Henry’s and the two men looked at one another. Neither felt any sense of recognition in the other, only a hatred that reached forward into the grave. Richard’s voice was shrill and brazen. “So you have finally been brought to account for all your vices.”

  “Vices?” Henry’s voice cracked in a hoarse laugh. “There is no greater vice than a betrayal of a father by his son!”

  “I didn’t betray you,” Richard countered fiercely. “I merely gave you back what you deserve!”

  The old king’s reddened eyes clouded with tears. “I loved you, Richard! Why have you done this to me?”

  Richard’s anger caught in his throat. “Don’t think you can make me feel sorry for you now, you damned self-pitying bastard! Your love has been a lie for as long as I remember. You don’t know how to love! You begged me to trust you, then stirred up discord behind my back. Thank God Philippe has finally shown me how false you really are!”

  The old man’s hands shook helplessly as he clasped them at his breast. “God pity you if you put your trust in him,” his eyes strayed over Philippe’s face. “In time he will do the same to you, Richard, as he has done to me.”

  “Words,” Richard scoffed. “I’ve heard too many words from you and all of them are lies. Do the deed, and let’s have it over.” He leaned forward in the saddle, positioning for Henry’s kiss.

  Henry reached out, taking Richard’s head between his hands, kissing his brow. This was his own flesh! His and Eleanor’s. They had made him in some hot moment of passion long before their love became a lie. How could a seed of rapture turn to poison?

  The gesture done, Richard tried to pull away, but Henry held him still. Their faces were nearly touching as he whispered close to Richard’s ear, “I pray God grant I will not die till I have had my revenge on you!” Then his hands slipped away and he sagged forward, nearly falling from the horse.

  Marshal scrambled up behind him, steadying the ruined king in his arms. He took up the slackened reins and jerked the horse to a full turn. “May God send you both to burning hell for this!” he screamed over his shoulder. Then he spurred the horse into a trot.

  Richard watched until they disappeared beneath the dip in the road. There was a pain in his heart he had never known before, a seizure of regret for the misery of the situation. It was not of his making; he had never wished it so! But something deep within him was suffering all the same. Silently he cursed his father. They would never meet again, not in this world. Perhaps only in the hell which Marshal had predicted. …

  Philippe motioned to de Clermont. “See that the list of deserters from King Henry’s ranks is sent to him when it is ready.” Then with a sly expression he added, “but bring it to me before it is dispatched. I want to be certain all has been done according to my plan.” He winked at Richard, and reached out to take hold of his hand. “It’s over now,” he said.

  Long before he reached Chinon, Henry had to be transferred to a litter. It was a long and arduous journey. He lay helpless upon a makeshift pallet, the sky passing above his head in deepening shades of blue as evening stalked the golden heels of daylight. If they did not reach Chinon soon he would die out here on the dusty, vacant road.

  Henry seemed to sleep. Yet he was conscious, his thoughts locked into stupefied awareness. All his life he had fed his appetites—hungry for power, for wealth, for the hot flesh of a woman’s body. Now at the end he longed only for a soft bed and a cool drink of water.

  They carried him to the end of the winding road and through the cobbled courtyard. As he passed under the massive arch of the entryway he turned his head to glimpse the final rays of the disappearing sun and knew he was seeing it for the last time. He had come home to die in the land that gave him birth.

  Godfrey tended him all that evening, washing his fevered body with clean cloths, replacing the soiled clothes with fresh braies and an embroidered bliaud of his own. Sleep was coming now, sweet and beckoning. But first a cup of cherished water was put to his lips. Henry drank it with gratitude, and felt a deep peace settle over him.

  Perhaps it was not so bad to die. He was comfortable now, and he was not alone. Godfrey was sitting close beside him and soon John would come. Two faithf
ul and loving sons. What more did a man require?

  Henry’s dreams were vivid particles of the past shot through with sensations of remembered heroism. A boy, fighting at his father’s side. A young man leading an army under his mother’s keen, approving eye. There was a beautiful queen beside him then, taunting him from behind the cover of an innocent smile while her husband watched, unknowing; pulling him into the recesses of the doorway to wet his mouth with hungry kisses. And then once more the brutal picture of a bloodied altar, the image of a love cut down by antagonism and jealousy in a grim cathedral on a winter’s night.

  Becket. But the face beneath the mitre was his own.

  He felt a little stronger in the morning, enough to eat the food which Godfrey brought. “You look as if you didn’t sleep at all,” Henry said, and squeezed his son’s hand in affection, “but I suppose you passed the entire night here with me.”

  “It seemed to make you rest easier to know that I was with you,” Godfrey answered, with a hint of pride in his voice.

  Marshal came into the room just then. He looked rumpled and ill-slept. Godfrey looked closer and could see that there was more. Marshal’s face was set very tight, and there were grim lines beside his mouth. In his hand he held a rolled paper with a hanging seal suspended at the end of it. Philippe’s seal.

  Even Henry’s dulled eyes read the signs of distress on his friend’s face and he pushed himself upright on the bed. “What is wrong?” he asked.

  Marshal came to the edge of the bed and thrust the paper into Henry’s hands. “It is worse than you can imagine. This is the list of traitors who left you to follow after the French king and your son.” His hand shook as he ran a finger along the column of names from the bottom to the topmost portion of the page. It was a moment before he could bring himself to speak the words. “Here, at the beginning—at the very head of the list—is the name of your youngest son, Prince John.”