A Proud Taste for Scarlet and Miniver (3 page)

“Except to God,” I interrupted. “Louis, please, take off that crown. You are in His house; He is the King of Kings.”

Louis whipped the crown off his head, held it over his chest and bowed. Then he said his morning prayers.

While we were waiting for the barons and lords to come to Poitou and pay their respects (and their wedding gifts) to Louis and Eleanor, messengers arrived from Paris. We were at dinner at the time, Eleanor and Louis at the center of the head table; I was at Louis’s right. The meals were long, each course followed by acts of jugglers and troubadours. Eleanor needed troubadours as much as she needed food; there was much merriment and confusion, so the appearance of the messengers created no special stir. Their message did. King Louis the Fat had died.

I rose from my place at the table and walked around it until I stood in front of Eleanor and Louis. With only the table between us, I bowed. “My king,” I said, kneeling to Louis. “My queen,” I said, bowing my head in the direction of Eleanor. They understood. Louis’s reaction was quiet, private; Eleanor’s, quick, public.

“Announce the death of my good father-in-law to our subjects who are gathered here,” she said. “Tell them that they came to dine with a duchess and find they have supped with a queen.”

And thus ended our stay in Poitiers.

When Eleanor arrived in Paris, she arrived as bride, Duchess of Aquitaine, and as Queen of France.

FROM HEAVEN
I can look down on Paris and know why it is called the City of Light. It sparkles with lights and flowers. In the twelfth century Paris was not called that, and yet it was even then a city of light—the light of knowledge. As towns went, Paris was actually very small and rather dingy and cold compared to the cities we had just visited in the South. But it was still an exciting place to be. It was a city of ideas, the place where everyone came to study; it was the city of the University. Students took lodgings in places along the Left Bank, and it is amusing to hear that part of Paris still being called the Latin Quarter because eight hundred years ago, students from all over Europe met there and communicated with each other in a common tongue—Latin.

Eleanor and Louis were crowned together at Christmas. King Louis and Queen Eleanor of France. Louis had been crowned once before when his brother Philip had died; he was only ten then and had been brought blinking from the monastery where he had been studying. King Louis the Fat had his son crowned during his lifetime so that no one could fight over the succession when he died. With disease and fire and war as constant enemies, kings as well as dukes lived close to sudden death.

They chose to hold the ceremony in Bourges, a city that was close to the borders of both their lands. The coronation was as colorful and lively as Eleanor could arrange. I offered a few suggestions, too, and, thanks be to God, those parts I recommended turned out beautifully.

It was a day several years later as I was working on some designs for some stained glass for my new church at St. Denis, that I received a visit from Adelaide, Louis’s mother and (alas!) Eleanor’s mother-in-law.

“I am leaving Paris,” she said.

“Really?”

“Yes,” she answered, “Eleanor has crowded me out.” “Surely, my lady, there is room in a castle for two queens.”

“If one of them is Eleanor of Aquitaine, there is not room enough in all of Paris for two queens,” Adelaide replied. I did not answer. Adelaide went on, “There is no place for me in my son’s life. There was hardly room for me at the coronation ceremony. And now she has crowded me out of my castle.”

“How so, madam?” I asked.

“She has imported from her lands troubadours and flutists. Men who play the tambourines and some who play the viol. They follow her around and make noise. When I ask Eleanor how she can live with such confusion, she answers that from their flutes blow the warm winds of the South. Otherwise, she finds Paris gray and chilly. Besides, Abbot, she spends money too easily, too lavishly. It is not Christian to desire such riches—she buys costly silks and imported spices and burns incense because she says the palace stinks. Isn’t that an ugly word, Abbot?
Stinks!”

I smiled. “An ugly word best suits an ugly quality.”

“And she wears cosmetics! Is it not wrong to paint one’s face and dress up. Abbot Bernard cautions against such display, such finery.”

“My dear Adelaide,” I answered, “there are those who believe that only by seeing beautiful things, only by surrounding ourselves with beautiful things can we understand the absolute beauty, which is God.”

“You may believe that, Abbot Suger, but I don’t.” Adelaide paused, squinted her eyes and continued, “Can you tell me why my daughter-in-law should choose to crowd me out of my own bedchamber?”

“How did she do that, my lady?”

“With tapestries. She covered all the walls of my bedchamber with tapestries that she had ordered to be woven for the purpose. They are hunting scenes from her homeland. How can a person rest in a room that is hung with men’s eyes that look down on one wherever one turns. And those parts that have no eyes are full of gore. Blood and guts of animals. Eleanor says that the red brightens the room and that the tapestries themselves keep out the damp.”

“She is right, my lady. A castle can be a drab place. I am rather fond of tapestries and color myself.”

“I tell you, Abbot, I am leaving.”

“Why do you not simply remove the tapestries, madam?”

“I have. I have twice ordered them taken down. And both times they have been put back up. If I leave the castle to attend church, she uses that time to have the tapestries rehung. If I take a short ride, the tapestries are rehung. I ask you, Abbot, am I to stay in my chamber to guard its walls?”

“And what does your son, the king, say?”

“Nothing. He says nothing. He smiles. He admires her determination. I tell you, Abbot, she has him bewitched. He is no longer the sweet boy we reared. When I asked him if he would like to wake in the morning and look upon the blood and gore of tapestries, he said, ‘No, Mother, I much prefer to wake in the morning and look upon Eleanor.’”

I could not help but smile. “I would offer to help, but the king will not listen to me either. He listens only to Eleanor. It is a stage he must go through. Eleanor is too much woman. Right now, she is young and ambitious. She needs some years, some maturity.”

“She needs a child,” Adelaide said. “She needs to give us an heir. Poor Louis could be killed at any moment, what with all the wars he has to wage to keep peace in her lands.”

“They are also now Louis’s lands. He cannot have those lands without Eleanor, and further, he cannot hold them without war.”

“True, my dear Suger, but you admit that she has made him less than kind in his treatment of conquered people. Remember last year when he ordered his knights to cut the hands off every man in Poitiers, and he took all the women and children as hostages. It would have been a shame on all the Capets if you had not gone to Poitiers and talked him out of that.”

“Yes, it would,” I admitted. “Louis has been unnecessarily harsh with some people, but, thanks be to God, I understand the situation. Only a man who is certain of himself can afford to be generous to his enemies. Louis is still trying to prove to Eleanor that he is a man. He goes about it the wrong way. He tries to be her kind of man, and neither of them is sure what that is. He listens to her instead of to his conscience. Eleanor is not a woman who can respect a man she is able to order around. I do not offer my counsel anymore. If I were to give in to her whims, I would lose both her respect and a pure conscience. In time Louis will learn the same.”

“She knows nothing of kindness, that daughter-in-law of mine.”

“Eleanor is kind, basically kind, but she knows nothing of fair play; she needs to learn about justice. And in time she will. When she does, your daughter-in-law will be a great queen.”

Adelaide was not convinced. “The only thing great about her is her nerve. She has got my poor Louis involved in a terrible war with the Duke of Champagne, after my dear husband, may God rest his fat soul, worked so hard to establish peace with him. Trouble seems to be the only kind of excitement Eleanor understands. I tell you, Abbot, I am leaving Paris. My counsel is no longer needed, and neither is yours. We are both out of jobs.”

“Not I,” I answered. “I always have work. I am rebuilding my church. Thanks be to God, I have a brilliant new idea. My structure will be very high, and it will allow tall windows, colored windows like jewels. Its style will be very modern. You must come to the dedication of my rebuilt church.”

“It is well, dear Abbot Suger, that you have so many interests. I know of nothing I want to be besides wife of one king and mother to another. God has taken my first job from me, and the Devil has taken the second.”

“Are you choosing to leave your son to the Devil?”

“Yes. The She-Devil, Eleanor. But Louis will need you again, Abbot. Promise me that when he does ask for your help, that you will answer his call.”

“Oh, most happily, dear Adelaide. Thanks be to God, I enjoy affairs of state as much as anything.”

Queen Adelaide left Paris and married again. She was too old to become a mother again, but she rescued the other half of her talents, that of being a nagging wife.

THE WARS
with Champagne continued, and Louis grew bolder and bolder. The prince whom I had taught to love the Church and to rule his lands with that love had decided to challenge the Pope. Louis decided that he, not the Pope, should be the person to appoint bishops to the churches that stood on his soil. The Pope was puzzled by Louis’s behavior, but I was not. I did not have to look beyond his bedchamber to see where he had gotten the notion to set himself above the Pope. Eleanor’s father had once tried appointing bishops to the churches in the Aquitaine. He had not succeeded; the Pope had removed the bishops and excommunicated Duke William. But William had been excommunicated several times for offenses against the Pope, and he never took it seriously. Eleanor, too, seemed to regard excommunication as an inconvenience, like wearing shoes that are too tight—uncomfortable but easily shucked off.

The Pope asked Abbot Bernard of Clairvaux to deal with the young king. Abbot Bernard was considered by some to be the holiest man of his day. (He got into Heaven immediately after he died and became a Saint only nineteen years later, which is something of a record.)

Abbot Bernard wrote to Louis. Louis did not answer. Abbot Bernard came to see Louis to warn him that he was working for the Devil. Louis paid no attention. Abbot Bernard demanded that Louis remove his bishops. Louis refused. Abbot Bernard excommunicated Louis. Louis was not permitted to take holy communion; he was not allowed to pray. Louis was locked out of God’s house.

Shortly after his excommunication, Louis’s misdeeds reached a climax. That happened in a little town called Vitry.

Louis had acquired the cunning of a demon in planning his battles against the people of Champagne. He carefully surrounded the town of Vitry and set fire to the poor wooden houses with their thatched roofs. There was no quicker way to send the people outside their city walls and into surrender. But instead of fleeing outside, the people sought shelter inside their church.

Alas! The roof of the church, too, was wooden, and it caught some unhappy sparks from their homes. The roof collapsed, and everyone in the village died. Thirteen hundred people died like burnt offerings—on the altar of what? The altar of Louis’s vanity? What was this sacrifice for? Louis took a new look at himself in the light of that fire. Was he meant to burn innocent people while his own soul stood close to the fires of Hell? Louis turned back from Vitry to home. To Paris. To me.

We met in my room. Louis trembled as he told me of his conflict with the Pope and what had happened at Vitry. The king was in a spiritual crisis. Now was not the time to punish him further. Now was the time to show him the kindness, the forgivingness of God. He should not be shoved back into the ways of the Church; he should want back in.

“Come, Louis,” I said, “come see what I have built. Come see my beautiful new building.”

“I am not allowed inside a church, Abbot. You forget that I have been excommunicated.”

“You can come inside here, Louis; this church has not yet been consecrated. The space inside these walls does not yet belong to God.”

As we walked around, I pointed out to him the many wonderful things I had invented, thanks be to God. I had discovered a way to raise the roof of a building so that the space inside shot Heavenward. I had found a way to place the supports for the ceiling outside the walls of my church; by freeing the walls from their duty of supporting a roof, I was able to make the walls of glass instead of heavy, dark stone. I used panels of colored glass that told stories from the Bible. When the sun came through the windows, I felt that I was standing inside of God’s kaleidoscope.

“Abbot Bernard will not approve,” Louis said.

“He might not, but he is curious enough to come to the consecration. Imagine! Why don’t you come, too?”

“What makes you think, dear Suger, that Abbot Bernard would like to see two things he does not approve of, rather than just one.”

I laughed. “It’s true, neither you nor such an Earthly display of gold and jewels are favorites of the holy abbot. But come, my boy. Come. We may convince him otherwise.”

“Shall I bring Eleanor?”

“By all means,” I answered.

“Do you think Abbot Bernard will approve of her?”

“I cannot speak for Abbot Bernard, but I approve of her. Bring her. She is more decorative than any statue I have had carved, and I believe, dear Louis, that she is livelier than the play of light on any piece of stained glass. Besides, I can think of no one, man or woman, in all of Europe who so shares my love for fine things. I think such love brings us near to God.”

“Abbott Bernard would say that such love comes between you and God.”