The Rain Maiden

by Jill M Philips

  Then at last the final prayers were said and it was over.

  Isabel’s black marble tomb was sealed with lead and lowered amid a swirl of fragrant incense into the crypt beneath the altar. It was embraced on one side by her dead children’s tiny monuments, on the other by Geoffrey’s splendid tomb.

  That night Edythe came to Philippe’s room.

  “Forgive me, my lord,” she said, holding a henap out to him, “but I have brought something to help you sleep.”

  He reached out and took the cup from her. “It was kind of you to think of me.”

  Edythe averted her eyes as Philippe sat up in bed, the coverlet falling from his naked chest. “I hope I did not disturb you.”

  He was actually quite touched by her attentions. Sully, his uncles, Adele—none of them had shown much consideration for his feelings. Yet this plain-faced serving girl had limped up four long sets of stairs to bring him a warming drink.

  Philippe brought the henap to his lips. The beverage was hot and pungent, laced with herbs. It was good. He drank till the cup was empty, then handed it back to her. She tried to smile at him but couldn’t manage it. Instead her brown eyes looked out sadly from her pale face. Philippe reached to take hold of her hand.

  “You’ve been crying, Edythe,” he observed.

  “My mistress was very dear to me.”

  “Of course.” He was still holding her hand. It felt small and delicate in his grasp.

  Edythe looked timidly into his face, her calm eyes level with his. “Count Baldwin will doubtless come to Paris when he hears the news of Isabel’s death. Do you wish that I should return to Hainault with him?”

  Philippe thought about that for a moment, then shook his head.

  “I don’t see why you should leave. You’re very good with the children and now, with their mother gone, they need you more than ever. Also, I shall be away for a long time in the East, and it would ease my mind to know my son and daughter were being cared for by someone I can trust, and whom they are fond of.”

  Now the smile showed itself.

  “You are very generous and kind, my lord. I shall care for the children as if they were my own.”

  Edythe’s pledge was made with such sincerity that Philippe took her in his arms and kissed her from a sense of gratitude. It was a gentle kiss and she responded willingly, yet after a moment she pulled away from him and began to cry.

  “What is wrong?” he asked.

  There was a hesitation, and then her arms went around his shoulders and she laid her cheek against his chest. Her voice was an apology. “My lord, I am not beautiful, nor even pretty. My body is twisted; I am nothing. Yet since the first day I came to live in Paris I have loved you. I love you still.”

  Her innocent confession struck at Philippe’s heart and he took her in his arms once more. His kisses grew more forceful, straying over her throat and shoulders. Then with one swift move he pulled her onto the bed beside him. Edythe did not resist as he drew the woollen shift over her shoulders and tossed it away to the edge of the bed.

  Her nakedness did not inspire passion. She was thin, with barely any breasts at all. Edythe could not miss his look of disappointment. “I do not blame you for not wanting me,” she said. “I am ugly and without grace, not fit for the bed of a king.”

  “I will be judge of that,” Philippe said and reached for her. When she drew back a little he gave her an encouraging smile. “Don’t be afraid. I will not hurt you.”

  “It’s not that,” she confessed with downcast eyes. “I’ve never had a man before.”

  He stripped the coverlet away and let her see him. “Then we both have an adventure before us. I’ve never had a virgin.” He pulled her hands to his belly. “There,” he said, settling himself between her fingers, “you see? It is nothing to fear.”

  Edythe explored his body with the artless enthusiasm of a novice. Her innocence aroused him to subdued passion, and when he took her it was with gentleness, not lust.

  Later Philippe reached for the porringer that sat beside the bed and splashed a little water between her legs to wash away the blood. Then he settled back, with Edythe held closely in his arms. “Next time you won’t feel any pain, I promise you,” he said.

  Pain? She had never felt so happy in all her life.

  He was silent for a long while. Edythe could almost read his thoughts. She stroked his beard lovingly. “It will be very lonely for you without Isabel, won’t it?” she asked.

  It hurt him just to hear her name.

  “You must be the only one on earth who cares what my feelings are,” Philippe said sadly. His voice trembled on the edge of a sob. “Oh Edythe, I loved her so much!”

  “I know,” she whispered.

  “And yet she died thinking I cared nothing for her.”

  Edythe closed her eyes against the memory. “She was mad with pain. She was not herself.”

  He tightened his arms around her waist. “Sibylla blames me for Isabel’s death. My mother too. They look at me with malice in their eyes.”

  Edythe’s hands found his and squeezed them. “You must try to put their accusations from your mind. You know the truth of it, and so did Isabel.”

  Philippe listened to the sound of rain splashing against the stones far beneath his window. It called up memories of passion in firelit rooms with Isabel in his arms. Then he pictured her as she was now: shut away in darkness, and locked in endless, unconditional sleep. He could almost hear her whispering beside him.

  You are mine until the grave makes ghosts of both of us.

  I will never let you go.

  He started at the sound of Edythe’s voice. “Please let me make you happy if I can, Philippe.” She wavered a little as she spoke his name.

  His head drooped to her shoulder. “Then remain here at the palace. Tend to my children and warm my bed.” His voice went low. “You are a sweet, loving girl, Edythe, and I need you. I need you very much.”

  She was so grateful for his words she nearly wept.

  Baldwin came to Paris with a heavy heart.

  Philip d’Alsace was with him.

  The two men were no longer friends, no longer allies, but in Isabel’s death they shared a grievous common loss. Now they stood together at her tomb with offerings of white narcissus flowers and candles brought from Lille, her birthplace.

  Baldwin looked old; his face was grim. “This was his doing,” he said wretchedly.

  Flanders gave his brother-in-law a quick sideways glance. “There is little point in blaming Philippe. Isabel is dead. What more is there to say?”

  “I shall always blame him. And you.” Baldwin’s voice rang with accusation. “It was you who arranged this marriage, Flanders. I never wanted it. If my daughter had married elsewhere she would be alive today.”

  Flanders knelt and said a hurried pater noster, then rose to wipe the dust from his braies. “Let be,” he said and put a hand on Baldwin’s shoulder. “This was no man’s fault. It was God’s will.”

  All of Baldwin’s pain showed in his eyes as he stared back at Flanders. “This is not what God intended. No one can make me believe this is what God intended!” He looked ruefully at the black tomb which held his daughter and muttered, “She was mine for such a little while.”

  Flanders took up a single blossom and brought it close to his face. “I loved her too, Baldwin.”

  He tossed the flower aside and walked away.

  Flanders had chosen to remain in Paris for a while.

  He had important business with the king.

  Like Philippe he was preparing to lead a large contingent of his knights to the East. Acre had been under siege by the crusaders for more than a year, as they struggled to recapture the port city from Saladin and his infidels. Flanders was anxious to play a part in the liberation of Acre. There was no cause on earth which he championed more. Like Richard of England, he was keen to be on his way.

  But the details of planning seemed endless.

  There was much
business to be accomplished in the two months before the kings of Europe set out upon their grand and noble enterprise. Provisions had to be secured and inventoried, arms stored, petitions reviewed, land grants settled, maps drawn, loans allocated, taxes collected. There also remained the overwhelming task of transporting an estimated one hundred thousand crusaders, as well as several thousand retainers (servants, grooms, and prostitutes), to the East. It was a massive, complicated venture.

  King Richard had ordered the construction of a hundred ships at the time of his coronation the previous autumn. Following completion of the fleet shortly after Easter, the vessels had been dispatched from English ports to Marseilles, where Richard’s army would meet them after traveling overland.

  Philippe Capet had not yet solved the problem of transportation for his men. France had no great shipwrights like those of England; the ships would have to be got elsewhere. It was to this purpose he sought Flanders’s advice. The two men met daily at the Cite Palais for a week, discussing all possibilities.

  It was finally decided that the French and Flemish armies would travel overland together as far as the port of Genoa. There they would arrange separate passage on ships rented from the wealthy bishop of the city. The Flemish would pay one third the cost of sea transport, while France paid the remaining two-thirds. After this had been agreed upon, Philippe determined to begin negotiations with the Bishop of Genoa at once.

  Flanders said goodbye to Philippe and left Paris.

  He was anxious to return to his lands and set the final seal upon his own preparations. On his return journey to Ghent, however, he decided to halt briefly at Mons. He had some business to settle with the Count of Hainault regarding the crusade.

  Baldwin had taken the cross a year earlier, but he had since changed his mind. He no longer had the heart for this grand venture. Isabel’s death had embittered him. He had no trust left. He wanted no further dealings with either his brother-in-law or the King of France. Nothing d’Alsace could say would moderate that opinion.

  Flanders went away, dissatisfied.

  The two men never met again.

  “Weep for her, people of Hainault!

  “The Queen of France has died in Paris, but nowhere is she mourned with such sincerity and deep lamentation as here in the land which gave her birth …

  “She died early, and yet she was never young. Her wisdom was of the world, and yet her soul was always innocent. The noble Baldwin sired her from an illustrious line. She had the blood of ancient royalty in her veins.

  “Through the son she bore, the line of Charlemagne was mated to the lesser house of French kings. May the boy keep his mother’s covenant with fame!

  “As he grows, let all who speak of him—Louis VIII, future King of France—remember Isabel of Hainault… .”

  Gilbert of Mons

  Fragment of a requiem

  May, 1190

  COUNCIL ROOM, the Cite Palais, June 1, 1190.

  Philippe affixed his name to the document. Then he passed it along the table so that the others gathered there might do likewise.

  Adele, her brother William, and Bishop Sully put their signatures beneath his. The king’s clerk came forward to attach a lump of red wax to the parchment, then stood by as the king planted his seal squarely in the middle.

  It was done.

  The bishops and Adele would be regents in Philippe’s absence.

  The king embraced each one in their turn. Then his expression sobered and he looked almost stern. “I entrust into your hands the care of my realm, and the safety of my son and heir. May God look with favor upon you, and prserve me in my quest to serve His Holy purpose. …”

  Adele was stirred by sudden emotion. She embraced Philippe and kissed him, then whispered in his ear, “May God protect you, my son, and bring you back to reign over us for many years.”

  He squeezed her hand. “He will, for we do His business.”

  She smiled, but did not trust her voice to answer.

  There were aspects of the crusade which hardly fell under the category of “God’s business,” although the king treated them with the same gravity as all things spiritual.

  Certainly there would be whores enough in Syria, but he was appalled at the thought of his soldiers satisfying themselves on the bodies of pagan women. It was equally unthinkable that they abstain from pleasure. Therefore, with the same tidy practicality he’d handled all other details for the crusade, Philippe directed the selection of nearly four thousand prostitutes from the brothels of Paris and its neighboring counties.

  For his own needs he chose a woman who had served him well on earlier occasions: Fabiana, his pretty southerner from the tawdry Chaussee St. Lazare. Edythe, who had become his nightly companion since the death of his wife, had offered to accompany him, but Philippe preferred she stay in Paris to look after his children. He had grown fond of her; she was too sweet to be subjected to the discomforts of the journey and whatever terrors lay in wait for them at Acre.

  This was going to be a grueling expedition.

  It needed whores.

  Having accomplished all his preparations. Philippe took himself to St. Denis for two days of prayer and fasting. On the third day he made confession and was given Absolution. The abbot of St. Denis put into his hands the ceremonial pilgrim’s scrip and staff. Like his father before him, Philippe was truly a crusader now.

  It was done, save for the going. And the goodbyes.

  With a show of royal dignity which could not mask his true emotions, Philippe said farewell to his family. Jacquie-Marie’s stubborn little chin trembled just a bit as he knelt to embrace her, but she would not allow herself to cry. Louis, who was frightened at the sight of his father dressed in full ceremonial armor, hid his face in the folds of Adele’s skirt and sobbed loudly.

  Philippe stood up and lifted the boy in his arms.

  “Remember what I have told you in the past, my son,” he said gently. “You are a prince who will someday be king, and kings must never let others see their tears.” He kissed the boy’s face and stroked his golden curls, barely able to hold back his own tears. “Goodbye, my little prince, my son,” he whispered, and then handed the boy into Adele’s open arms.

  Philippe exchanged farewell kisses with his mother and with Edythe. who stood at her side. Then he knelt solemnly and bowed his head for Sully’s blessing. The old bishop’s hand hovered above the crown which surmounted Philippe’s helm. “May God strengthen and protect you, for you are His anointed upon the earth. Serve his purpose well, my son, and deliver the homeland of our Savior Christ out of the hands of infidels.”

  The king crossed himself piously and stood up. “God be with all of you till my return,” he said. He gave a last glance around him at the great hall, vacant but for the little cluster of people who stood at his side. A chill settled in his blood. It was very possible he would not return.

  Philippe shook off the feeling.

  Without another word he took his leave.

  There was one last thing he had to do. Before leading his magnificent host of mailed knights out of the city, Philippe went alone to the crypt at Notre Dame. He prayed for a little while before Geoffrey’s tomb, then went to stand in front of Isabel’s. It seemed odd leaving her behind; he sensed that even now she resented his going. The two of them were still bound by a spell he could not explain. And yet, for the first time since Isabel had come into his life, he felt strangely free.

  Leaning close upon her tomb, Philippe unsheathed his sword, and opened up a vein in his hand. He watched as the blood dripped in tiny beads of deep red upon her effigy. It was a fair exchange, his blood for hers.

  Then he lay down upon her sculpted marble image and wept.

  Near the end of June, at Tours, Richard was invested with his pilgrim’s insignia. But when he leaned upon the staff it snapped in two, and some onlookers whispered that this boded evil tidings for the Third Crusade.

  With thirty thousand men following in his wake, Richard made hi
s way across Berry and into Burgundy where his forces would meet with Philippe’s army at Vezelay. There the two kings had planned to hold court for a few days and consult with one another, before starting off together with their combined entourages, toward Lyon.

  Richard had never been so ecstatic. This was the adventure for which he had waited all of his life. He sang Provencal ballads and composed poems from the saddle. He exchanged ribald stories with his marshals, and described all the great deeds that he would accomplish in the East.

  The King of France had proceeded south from Paris to Vezelay, and arrived a few days ahead of Richard. Philippe set himself up in the palace of the Benedictine abbot, and immediately began a tireless dispensation of paperwork and other administrative chores.

  It was here in this scenic hillside village, on an Easter Sunday more than forty years before, that Bernard of Clairvaux, since made a saint, had preached another crusade; here that Louis Capet and his radiant queen had come forth in tears of joy to declare themselves as pilgrims. A sense of that glorious history still seemed to hang in the air. Many a man among this current group of crusaders stood in awe outside the abbey and thought about an ancestor who may have taken the cross in this same spot a generation ago.

  The realization of it inspired every man.

  Except Philippe. He had no time for pious reveries. He was busy with organizing the next stage of the journey, feeling irksome because Richard had not yet arrived. The French king’s mood did not improve when one of the clerks came to his room on the second night at Vezelay with the news that Sibylla of Beaujeu had requested an audience.

  Philippe looked up from his maps, scowling. “What does she want?”

  The young man shook his head. “I do not know, Lord. But she claims to know you. She also says her business is urgent.” What new complaints had she raised against him since the last time they had met? Philippe thought about refusing her, and then just as suddenly changed his mind. “Very well, bring her in,” he said, his mouth twitching with displeasure.