A few moments later the door opened and Sibylla entered with the clerk close at her side. “Leave us alone,” Philippe directed. He waited a moment until the clerk had gone, then fixed his eyes on Sibylla. “Why have you come to see me?”
She was dressed all in yellow, chainse and surcoat, and there were flowers braided into her dark hair. There was a definite sense of haughtiness in her manner—the same as all Flemish, Philippe thought—and yet her attitude seemed a bit more subdued than usual. She looked about for a chair. “Is it permissible to sit?”
There was a stool beside him and Philippe kicked it across the floor to her. “I have much to do, Sibylla. Say whatever it is you came to say, and go.”
His rudeness made her careless of her words, and though she had come to ask a favor of him, Sibylla snapped, “Is it not the business of kings to dispense courtesy as well as justice? They say Richard of England keeps embroidered silken cushions for the comfort of his female petitioners.”
Philippe leaned back, arms folded across his chest, eyeing her with annoyance. “That sounds very much like Richard. No doubt he brings in minstrels to sing to them as well. For myself, I have no time for such pretty manners. I am a busy man. What do you want?”
She came a little closer. “I want your assurance that I shall not be forced to marry against my will.”
He seemed genuinely surprised. “Forced to marry? What do you mean? I have said nothing of this.”
Her fingers toyed nervously with the silver bracelet on her wrist. “When you dismissed me from the court at Paris, I returned immediately to Beaujeu. There I was greeted by a certain Burgundian knight, Gerard of Dijon, who proposed to make me his wife, despite whatever objections I might have.” She had momentarily forgotten her dislike of him and reached out her hands pleadingly, “I do not wish to marry him or anyone! Please—one word from you and he will be forced to leave off his amorous pursuit. Do this, I beg you …”
He was curious. “Why do you have so great a dread of marrying this fellow? I know him; he seems well enough to me. What could a young widow better hope for than a goodly lord to fill her bed and administer her lands?”
Sibylla looked sadly up into his face. Why had she expected him to understand? “William was my husband,” she declared, “and I will have no other. But I live in fear of being carried off by Lord Gerard.”
Philippe’s expression was unreadable; the strong, handsome features of his face set and brooding. He reached down to take hold of her hand. “Gerard is an honorable man, Sibylla. I don’t think you need worry for your safety.”
She jerked her hand away. Smug, condescending bastard! How he delighted in humiliating her. “I see I shall have to manage on my own,” she chided, “which is just as well, for I could never put my trust in any man so utterly devoid of chivalry!!”
Philippe grabbed her about the waist, pulling her into his arms in a rough embrace. “You sassy, impudent little bitch,” he sneered, “if you knew anything of men you wouldn’t give a damn for things as meaningless as chivalry or good manners!”
His beard chafed against her skin as he left a path of kisses on her throat. The feel of his lips both stirred and frightened her, and for a moment Sibylla lost all sense of who she was and who was holding her. She closed her eyes and the excitement grew.
Helpless and groping, her hands strayed over his shoulders and down his back. What a fine body he had, how strong he was!
The sound of his hoarse words in her ear brought Sibylla back fully to herself. “You need a man in your bed, girl. You’ve been too long without one.”
Horrified at her own weakness, Sibylla struggled out of his embrace. Panting, one hand pressed tightly to her breast, she stumbled back away from him. “How dare you treat me in this way? I’m not some strumpet you can use at your pleasure and toss away again!”
Philippe’s black eyes glittered with a look of passion and danger. “You were enjoying it.”
“You tricked me. You only agreed to see me so you could take advantage of my innocence!”
He laughed. “You pretend to hate me, but I know differently. I’ve seen the expression in your eyes when you look at me. You’ve heard the stories and you’d love to see if they are true. Or perhaps Isabel piqued your interest with some stories of her own.”
The passion she had experienced only a few moments ago soured into a feeling of disgust. Sibylla fled toward the door, and with her hand safely upon the latch she looked back over her shoulder at him. “Whatever you may think of me, I’m not my sister.” She could still hear him laughing as she slammed the door.
For a long while Philippe sat looking at his maps, and yet his thoughts were elsewhere. Sibylla had taken his mind away from work. What a little tease she was: half-submitting, then rejecting. He had no use for women of that kind. Still, there was something about her which intrigued him, something reminiscent of Isabel—although she looked almost nothing like her and was nowhere near as lovely. But her voice, the gestures, the expression in her eyes—it reminded him too keenly of his dead wife.
Sibylla. He couldn’t take his mind from her. She’d felt good in his arms. She had the bedworthy figure of so many Flemish women: full breasts, delicate waist, and rounded hips. What pleasing sport to bed that savage little cat.
Philippe picked up a map of Syria and stared at it.
He twirled his pen between slim, nervous fingers.
Amid a fanfare of trumpets and gay colors, King Richard arrived in Vezelay. Philippe had already been there for a week, and he was growing restless. When at last a messenger came to tell him Richard and his army had been sighted only a few miles away, Philippe gladly mounted his horse and rode out to meet them.
What a spectacle it was! So many thousands of knights, all in their shimmering mail and long split surcoat, each crested with a white cross. King Richard, riding at the front and flanked by his bodyguard, was the most magnificent of all.
Philippe raised his arm, signaling a greeting.
“My friend,” Richard’s voice boomed out across the distance, “I bring you Christ’s own army!”
The French king brought his horse closer, till he and Richard were within an arm’s length of one another. “Welcome to Vezelay,” Philippe said, holding out his hand to the resplendent man who faced him. Then with a tinge of irritability in his voice he added, “We have been waiting these many days.”
A broad smile creased Richard’s suntanned face. “I’m glad to see you show such eagerness to be on your way.”
Philippe answered with a tight smile. “Now that we have begun this venture, I see no reason to waste time.”
Laughing, Richard brushed aside Philippe’s conservatism with a wave of his hand. He had waited for so long to start this journey, and now that he was finally on his way Richard was determined to enjoy every step of it. This was an adventure! Why did Philippe have to make a business out of everything?
Richard leaned forward in the saddle, his voice lowered to a tone of intimacy. “These last months have been busy ones, but also lonely. I’ve missed you, Philippe.”
Their hands came together, the fingers lightly touching.
“And I, you.”
Richard frowned. “You’ve lost weight. You look unwell, and very tired.”
The sun was going down in flaming colors over Richard’s shoulder, and Philippe squinted into the glare. “Like you, I have been occupied with constant preparations. I’ve also been in mourning for my wife.”
Richard seemed embarrassed at his negligence to remark on Isabel’s death. “Of course,” he said and added, “you have my sympathy.”
Philippe’s mouth twisted in a cruel smile. “Really? You never liked her much.” He jerked on the reins and turned his horse around to fall into line with Richard’s. “Will you dine with me tonight?”
“I would like that,” he answered, and slid his arm around Philippe’s shoulder.
Philippe laughed. “Good,” he said, “I’m very hungry.”
&nb
sp; That night as Richard’s men set up their pavilions and sang and scuffled in the camp, the two kings lay together in Philippe’s bed, their hands clasped together in a pledge of love.
They listened to the noise out beyond the window. Philippe turned his head on the pillow to look at Richard. “I never saw anyone look so splendid as you did today, riding into camp. It was quite staggering to see you, glinting beneath the sun like a polished jewel. You nearly took my breath away.”
Richard rolled on his side and wrapped his arms about Philippe’s waist. “I’m so glad we’re making this pilgrimage together. You can’t know what it means to me.”
Philippe kissed his lips. “I know.” Then he drew back a little. “You don’t worry what mischief John might cause while you’re away?”
There was a brief hesitation before he answered, “No. Eleanor will see to his behavior. Also, John has signed a treaty with me, vowing his obedience and loyalty to the crown in my absence.”
“A treaty.” Philippe’s voice was touched with cynicism.
He yawned into his fist.
Two days later, on July 4th. the armies left Vezelay.
It took six days to reach Lyon. All along their southern progress, townspeople rushed to greet them. They lined the roads and threw flowers in the path of the crusaders. They cheered and sang praises to Almighty God.
Full of good spirits and bravado, Richard waved to the crowds, holding up his hand as if to give them blessing. They screamed for him, calling out, “Lionheart. Lionheart!” They surged forward in a mob, eager to touch him, and young women fainted if he looked them in the face.
Philippe was beginning to hate Richard’s popularity.
He cared nothing for the cheering crowds or screaming women—such demonstrations were beneath his dignity—but he resented being completely overshadowed by his friend, and it galled him to see how Richard loved every bit of the attention. God knew how conceited he would become by the time they reached Acre!
Philippe seethed with regret. Why hadn’t he done as Isabel had suggested—stayed at home, gained conquests for France in Richard’s absence? Then she would not have died so wretchedly, and Philippe would not be questioning his wisdom in consenting to this journey.
They weren’t even out of France yet and he was already sorry.
The crusaders reached Lyon on July 10th.
Flanked by a small band of their personal bodyguard, the two kings crossed the river ahead of their armies. They had planned to spend the night on the far bank, since it would take the best part of an afternoon for the entire host to cross over the one small bridge which spanned the Rhone.
But when the troops began to cross, the bridge gave way.
Philippe’s nerves, hard-pressed the past few days by heat and mosquitos, gave way as well. He stood with Richard on the opposite bank and screamed foul oaths at the men who floundered in the water.
Richard took the mishap well in hand, and ordered that small boats be lashed together to form a temporary “floating” bridge. He turned to Philippe. “It is going to take at least two days to get them all across. See that our pavilions are made ready for us at once.”
“I’m not your lackey!” Philippe shouted back, indignant, “Go give your orders to someone else.”
The matter was promptly given into other hands.
Frustrated, bedeviled by heat and flies, Philippe went off to seek shade beneath a grove of poplar trees. He pulled off his coat of heavy mail and lay down upon the ground, wearing only his braies and smock.
Soon he dozed.
Richard sought him out later in the day.
“I think it would be best for both of us, if we kept our disagreements private,” he told Philippe. “Commanders should know better than to let their soldiers see them at odds.”
Philippe propped himself on one elbow and glared up at Richard. “And one king should know better than to miscall another in the presence of so many witnesses.”
Richard kicked at the grass and looked off into the sky, heaving a deep breath, knowing what he was going to say would not be well received. “Philippe, it’s important that we understand each other. We knew this journey wouldn’t be an easy one. What occured today was unfortunate, but there will probably be many incidents like it before we reach our destination. You have to learn to sacrifice for this endeavor, to take discomforts like a man …”
Philippe leapt to his feet. He was trembling, paled by rage. “You dare to call my manhood into question? This whole fiasco was your doing, Richard! I agreed to be a part of it for your sake; I let friendship blind me. Now because of that my wife is dead, and my children have been deprived of a father. You can’t begin to understand how I have suffered, so don’t talk to me of sacrifice!”
This was so useless. Richard hated arguments; they called up the memory of confrontations with his father. He brushed Philippe’s shoulder lightly with his fingertips. “My friend,” he said, “let’s just forget it. It’s too hot to fight.” He gave a glance over his shoulder. “I have to get back, there’s much to do. Why don’t you take a swim in the river and cool off? You’ll feel better.”
Philippe began unfastening the laces of bis smock and grumbled, “I’ll take a bath. I don’t know how to swim.”
That evening as Philippe took a meal in his tent alone, he was interrupted by the sound of voices just outside. Presently, a soldier entered, holding a kicking female in his arms. “Forgive me my lord,” he said, “but we caught this woman trying to sneak into your tent dressed in the garments of a priest.” He pulled the cowel from her head and a cascade of long brown hair spilled out.
It was Sibylla.
Surprised, Philippe stood up and came toward her. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Tell him to put me down,’ she cried, struggling to free herself, “he’s hurting me!”
“Release her,” Philippe ordered, “and wait outside.” When they were alone he turned to her. “By what authority do you travel with my army—and in disguise?”
She was out of breath and blushing, unable to meet his eyes.
“Why did you come, Sibylla?”
She could not deceive him any longer. “I had to see you once more before you went to Syria.”
Philippe reseated himself. “More petitions? More demands?”
Her chin trembled. “Only one.”
He wanted her to say the words. “What is it?”
Sibylla dropped to the floor in front of him and put her head against his knee. “I want to love you.”
He urged her up and pulled the priest’s robefrom her shoulders.
She closed her eyes and heard him say her name.
Sibylla lay on the rich carpet with Philippe over her.
She had none of Isabel’s skill as a lover, but she was hot and eager, and she wanted him. Philippe pushed her legs apart. She was sable colored, silky—small and neat as a virgin. It was hard to believe she’d ever had a man or given birth.
But her breasts were so like Isabel’s. Round and full. Firm. So beautiful. When Philippe closed his eyes he could almost make himself believe it was Isabel who lay under him. He tried to keep the image of her in his mind. White skin. Gold hair. Oh God …
But in the end all that mattered was the feeling.
Philippe turned on his side and clasped Sibylla close against his chest. She was panting, soaked with sweat. Philippe pushed the hair back from her forehead. “You are very sweet,” he said.
It was hard for her to talk, to think. She was confused, excited, thoroughly beside herself with joy. She kissed his face and said his name over and over.
His arm was tight about her hips. “I’m glad you followed me. Ever since that evening in Vezelay, I knew I had to have you.”
Sibylla clutched at him, incited by panic. “I cannot bear to be separated from you now. Take me with you to the Holy Land.”
That was a pleasant thought.
But Philippe rejected it a moment later. “It isn’t wise,” he tol
d her. “The journey is arduous and dangerous. And what of your children? Would you be so willing to leave them behind?”
Sibylla could scarcely believe the words that came from her own mouth. “I don’t care about my children, only you …”
He licked the sweat that beaded at her temple. “You will have me again, never fear. Go back to Paris, live there for a while, and wait for my return.”
“Such a long time …” she wailed.
He sat up, pulling her with him. “We have at least two days more here, before my army can move on. Let us just enjoy them and not think of what comes after. I’ve had my fill of sadness in these past few months.”
Sibylla was staring past him, hardly listening. “How could I have loved William? He was nothing beside you! You were right, I know little of men, even less of love. But you …” she reached to stroke the heavy flesh beneath his belly, “you have taught me what it is to be a woman.”
He swept her hair up in the palm of his hand and bent to nibble at her neck. She smelled good, tasted good, made him forget about the crusade and all its problems. It was a shame he couldn’t take her with him… .
His hand sought her sweet opening. It was as soft as mink and still moist from his leavings. “Ah it’s wonderful between us, girl,” he said, his breath hot upon her throat. “But there’s so much more I want to teach you.” He whispered something into her ear. When she blushed furiously he laughed and said, “Don’t be embarrassed. We need hide nothing between us now.”
Philippe bent to tease her nipple with his teeth. Oh God, the feeling! It seemed that all her senses—her entire being—was centered in that nipple. She squeezed him between her fingers and felt his strength grow.
“And did you also teach my sister?”
He laughed. “Isabel knew more ways of love than anyone else on earth. It was she who taught me.” He rolled Sibylla over on her face. “This will hurt,” he warned, “but it is glorious pain …”
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