The Courts of Love: The Story of Eleanor of Aquitaine Page 6

  I enjoyed riding through the streets of Paris, for the people cheered us. When they considered what I had brought to France, they must have thought Louis had made a good choice.

  But I had my trials—chief of which in the beginning was my mother-in-law, Adelaide of Savoy, and of course the Abbot Suger was always there in the background casting a shadow over any form of pleasure.

  They were forever criticizing me. They objected to the way in which I was bringing the Provenal way of life into the Court. The songs my minstrels sang were about love, just as they had been in the Courts of my father and grandfather. My grandfather was referred to as a man who had lived immorally and died excommunicated, who had abducted another man’s wife, living openly with her and actually allowing his son to marry her daughter.

  And I was the child of this union! “Bad blood,” said my mother-in-law, Adelaide.

  Her disapproval was more obvious than that of Suger. His criticism was spoken in prayers directing God to be lenient with me, to remember my youth. I supposed old Suger thought he was important enough to give God instructions. I was always amused by the prayers of the saintly. “God do this, God don’t do that.” I thought God probably laughed at them too, unless He was a little annoyed by their temerity.

  My mother-in-law began gently in the beginning. “My dear Eleanor, you are so young ... and so is Louis. Two children, in fact. Do you think that dress is just a little too revealing?”

  No, I did not. I had always worn such dresses.

  “What a color you have, my dear. You haven’t a fever, have you?”

  “I find color becoming, Madame.”

  She was such an old hypocrite. She pretended not to know that I had put it on.

  Petronilla and I used to laugh at her. I thanked God for my sister. She was enjoying life at the French Court, although my mother-in-law’s disapproval extended to her.

  I heard her murmur once to one of her ladies: “Dear God, how were they brought up in that licentious Court? One must not blame them. They are only children.”

  I think that to be referred to as a child annoyed me more than references to the family’s licentious Court. It was not true in my father’s case, but I suppose it might be an apt description of my grandfather’s.

  It was inevitable with one of my temperament that the little niggling annoyances which I suffered from Adelaide should eventually become more than I could endure.

  One day she came unannounced to my apartments. Petronilla was there, and we were trying on new gowns. Petronilla was in her petticoat when Adelaide appeared.

  She said: “I heard you laughing ... quite immoderately ...”

  I had had enough. I was bolder in Petronilla’s company than I should have been alone. My sister was too. We gave ourselves courage. I said: “Is there a law in France against laughing?”

  “What a thing to say!”

  “You seemed to object.”

  “I was just passing. ...”

  “And listening to our discourse, I doubt not.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, if you had not been listening, you would not have heard.”

  Petronilla was looking at me with shining eyes, admiring, encouraging, urging me on.

  “I prefer not to be spied on,” I said, “and I ask you to desist from the practice.”

  “You forget to whom you speak.”

  “Do not forget that you speak to the Queen of France.”

  “You ... you ...” she spluttered.

  I drew myself up to my full height. “You may go now,” I said haughtily.

  She stared at me in amazement; her face turned white and then red. She turned abruptly and went from the room.

  Petronilla collapsed onto my bed and covered her face with her hands, her body shaking with mirth.

  I was not amused. I wondered what I had done. She was after all the Dowager Queen and I was a newcomer.

  “‘You may go,’” said Petronilla imitating me, between gusts of laughter.

  “There will be trouble now,” I said.

  “Oh, you only have to talk to Louis. He’ll be on your side. He’s madly in love with you.”

  I wished I had been more dignified. What had taken place had bordered on a brawl.

  Louis was upset. He said: “My mother is unhappy. She says you don’t want her at Court.”

  “I have never said that,” I told him.

  “She says she thinks she should go away.”

  “Did she really say that?”

  He nodded wretchedly. “I have tried to persuade her to stay but she is adamant.”

  It seemed too good to be true. But it was not. A few days later Adelaide of Savoy left the Court. She said she thought there was no place for her there.

  What a triumph! If only I could always rid myself of all my enemies so easily.

  Louis was sad for a while. He hated conflict of any sort. But in time he seemed to forget it; and he bore no malice to me because of her departure.

  I was amazed by my power over him. It was wonderful to be so cherished.

  About this time there were murmurings of discontent in France. It was hardly to be expected that there would not be some malcontents. A king who had been much respected, and who, I know now, had been one of the best rulers France had ever had, had died leaving a young one in his place. Naturally there were some who believed they could take advantage of the situation.

  Louis was panic-stricken. I felt annoyed with him. There were times when he seemed to forget that he was king. Much as I liked having a docile husband I did not want a poltroon.

  “You will have to quell this revolt at once,” I told him.

  “I thought of sending one of my generals with a few men.”

  “One of your generals with a few men! Oh no! You must go yourself. You are the King. It is you who has to defend your realm. You must go at the head of your army.”

  He looked dismayed. Poor Louis, he would be much happier on his knees before an altar or praying in a monk’s cell than leading an army. His early beginnings when Suger had molded him into a churchman had formed his nature—just as my upbringing in the Courts of Love had molded my character. He hated the thought of war, but he had to go. I insisted. France was my destiny now as much as it was his. If he did not put down this uprising, there would be more.

  Because he could not bear that I should despise him he put on armor and went to Orlans.

  I proved to have been right. The sight of him with the might of the army behind him settled the question. The people of Orlans meekly surrendered, gave up their leaders to the executioners and shouted: “Vive le Roi!” as Louis rode through the streets.

  He returned to me triumphant. It had not been so difficult after all. He was sorry he had had to order that the leaders be executed, but that was what his generals had suggested should be done.

  “They were right,” I said. “If you had allowed them to escape, any little town which thought it had a grievance would rise up against you. Oh, Louis, I am so proud of you. This is your first real test since you became king, and see, you have come right through with shining honor.”

  I kissed him and told him how great he was and that it was nonsense to think he was not a soldier at heart. It was the duty of every king to defend his realm.

  “I have no real feeling for it, Eleanor,” he said. “The thought of inflicting pain and death nauseates me.”

  “You’ll grow out of that,” I assured him. “A king must be strong. The death of a few troublemakers is nothing compared with that of thousands which a war would bring about. You should rejoice in your action, for I do.”

  So I soothed him.

  One rebellion will often breed another. This one was particularly depressing because it took place in my own dominions ... and in Poitiers of all places, which I had always considered my home.

  I suppose it should not have been so unexpected. Their Duchess had become Queen of France and they—a proud people, who had always known independenc
e—were now under the sway of a foreign land, for that was what they considered France to be. They decided they would have none of it. They would throw off the yoke of the foreigner to whom they had been casually handed just because of their Duchess’s marriage to the King of France. They announced that they would rule themselves and set about forming a Poitevin government.

  This seemed to me the height of disloyalty. I was very angry. I did not stop to consider how these people might be feeling. They had lived in a free and easy manner under their dukes. There had been the occasional riots but my grandfather and father had known how to settle them with the minimum of fuss. This was different. I was more than their Duchess now; I was the Queen of France, and when they rose in rebellion, it was against France as well as against me.

  “They must be punished severely,” I said to Louis. “You must not be so lenient with them as you were in Orlans. You see, because you were not harsh enough, these people believe they can behave with impunity.”

  “I did have the leaders executed,” he reminded me.

  “It is not enough. You have to show these people that you are their master. Your father always did and people say he was a good king. The people appreciated him even though they did laugh at his fatness. You have to show them, Louis. It is no use being soft.”

  That disastrous affair of the Poitiers rebellion, I can see now, looking back, was the beginning of the rift between us. Had I been older and wiser, I should have known that I could not hold him in thrall forever, because there were too many forces working against me. I thought I could because of my victory over Adelaide of Savoy, but she was of small account compared with Suger, that shriveled-up little man of humble origins, who had somehow risen to be the power behind the throne.

  Louis rode off with his army. It was as easy a conquest as Orlans had been. The Poitevins had not been expecting him to come in such force. No doubt they had thought there would have been negotiations and some plan worked out. When they saw Louis and his army arriving, they immediately capitulated.

  Louis then remembered my words. I knew he was anxious for me to think well of him. He would remember that he could not just meekly accept their submission and ride off again. I had impressed on him that he had to show them that this sort of rebellion was no light matter. Someone had to suffer for it.

  He hated bloodshed but he knew he dare not return to me and say that he had forgiven them, merely disbanded their so-called government and declared all was over. He had an idea that he would take as hostages all the young men and women of Poitiers. They should be taken to France as exiles from their native land; and if ever any others felt they might rebel against him, they could remember what happened to those who did.

  He named a day when all the young men and women were to assemble in the square prior to their departure for France.

  It was not a wise thing to do. He should have executed the leaders of the revolt, but doubtless he remembered how contemptuous I had been of his previous mild action and that was why he had devised this plan.

  The Poitevins were loud in their lamentations. To be robbed of their young was more than they could endure. They sent messengers all over the country appealing for help against this cruel sentence.

  Suger was at this time at St. Denis, and it was not long before he heard what was happening. He saw at once the folly of this action and realized that it could bring the whole of Aquitaine to revolt against the King of France.

  He immediately set out for Poitiers, where he was welcomed by the citizens, who knew he had come on their behalf.

  I could imagine how easily he swayed Louis. He had been doing it all his life, and Louis was made for swaying, I thought contemptuously. I could hear that voice ... with the hint of the peasant in it, but perhaps all the more forceful for that. “This must be stopped, my son. This is folly. These people have suffered enough. Give them back their children.”

  I understood Louis. The thought of separating parents from their children did not horrify him so much as bloodshed. Emotional ties did not touch him so much as the contemplation of violence. Taking life was breaking a commandment. Nothing had been said in the Scriptures about the sin of separating parents from their children.

  He gave way. The revolt was settled and the only punishment which had been inflicted on the rebels was a few days of fear that they would lose their children.

  He came back and said to me: “It is over. The revolt is quelled.”

  “I know what happened,” I told him. “Suger came and countermanded your order.”

  “He came and showed me the way.”

  I snapped my fingers at him. “You gave way just like that.”

  “It was the right thing to do.”

  “It is the wrong thing to give an order and then withdraw it just because a priest comes along and tells you to.”

  “I had to do it. Suger explained to me.”

  “Suger! Suger! It is all Suger. He runs this country ... not you.”

  “He was my father’s trusted minister and he is mine.”

  “He was your master when you were at St. Denis. He still is now that you are on the throne.”

  “He was right, Eleanor.”

  “I don’t care. You should not have done what you did in the first place if you had no intention of carrying it through.”

  “But I had to do what I did. Suger made me see that I could not separate those young people from their families.”

  “It was a foolish thing to contemplate in the first place. You should have made them deliver up the leaders and then had them executed in the square so that all could see.”

  “I couldn’t bear that. I hate bloodshed.”

  “Oh, Louis. How can you be a king if you can’t even be a man? And you will never be a man while you have Nurse Suger to feed you his pap religion.”

  “He is a good man. He is a priest.”

  “He means more to you than anyone ... I know that. I am as nothing to you compared with him. My wishes are of no account. You were dealing with my country. It came to you through me. I know these Poitevins. They will be laughing at you. They will be singing songs about this, mark my words. And they will make you live in their songs—the lily-livered King of France.”

  I turned and left him.

  He was very subdued for days after that. He was deeply wounded. I did not try to win him back, which was foolish of me. I think he avoided me by day. At night he would pray for a long time and I would doze off while he was still on his knees. He slept at one extreme end of the marital bed, I at the other. I was getting very restive. I wanted a lover and I could see that my husband was failing me miserably in that respect. How could a full-blooded woman, reared in the Courts of Love, granddaughter of the roaring lover-troubadour, find satisfaction with a husband who looked upon physical contact as sinful? With him there was only one reason for cohabitation, and that was the procreation of children.

  And we had had no luck in that direction so far. Louis was only just capable of performing the sexual act with a good deal of coaxing and encouragement, so perhaps he was unable to beget a child.

  This marriage which I had thought I might turn to great advantage was already proving a disappointment.

  I lay in bed thinking of all the handsome men at Court. And here was I with this one!

  I wondered whether he slept. I had a feeling that he was not altogether displeased by the rift between us. It gave him an excuse to escape the arduous and faintly distasteful business of making love.

  Gradually my relationship with Louis returned to what it had been before the disastrous affair at Poitiers. There was talk of my coronation.

  I was delighted at the prospect of this and temporarily forgot my disappointments. There was little I liked better than such a show, particularly when I was at the center of it.

  Petronilla and I spent a great deal of time discussing what I should wear, what she should wear and what my attendants should wear. It was fascinating.

  I was surrounded b
y young men ... my attendants and those who came to Court to learn the social graces. I could easily have imagined I was back in Poitiers or Bordeaux, but for the fact that Louis was there with Suger in the background. I tried to draw Louis into our entertainments but he did not fit in. He danced awkwardly; he could not sing; and it was quite clear that he did not enjoy the theme of the songs we sang. He was an outsider on all these occasions.

  Some of the men took to them with enthusiasm; one of these was Raoul of Vermandois. What an attractive man he was—knowledgeable and worldly, by no means young, but widely experienced, I was sure. He could convey so much by a look. I often thought how easy it would be to fall into temptation with such a man.

  He was not the only one, of course, but for special reasons he stands out in my memory.

  I had my coronation at Bourges, and it was a great success. I know I looked very beautiful and Louis was proud of me; he had forgotten his disappointment in me. He knew how lucky he was. Several of the men spoke of this, and of course they sang of it constantly.

  I had begun to fret over Suger’s influence over him, but I could see how futile that was. It would not be a simple matter to remove him, and in any case I was not sure that that would be wise. Suger, for all his distrust of the good things in life, was a great minister and I knew he was necessary to the government of France. Moreover, I knew in my heart that Louis would not agree to let him go, and if it came to a conflict between Suger and me, I could not be entirely sure who would be the winner.

  I wished that I could become pregnant. I was beginning to be a little worried about my barrenness. I could not believe that I was incapable of bearing children. The fault must lie with Louis. It was not that I had a great many opportunities of conceiving. Oh, how ironical it was that fate should have married a woman like me to a man who was more like a monk.

  I was also disturbed by Raoul of Vermandois. He was a farseeing man in matters like this. He had a reputation of being a rake. To me, having been brought up in my grandfather’s Court, where I had known many such men, that was a mild enough failing. But Raoul did seem like a kindred spirit.