The Courts of Love: The Story of Eleanor of Aquitaine (4 page)

Then the miracle happened. My father lifted his sword, for having come so far a man such as he was could not retreat. Bernard came nearer, waiting for the blow, but as my father raised his arm, he fell suddenly at Bernard’s feet.

This was seen as the power of God against the forces of evil. The sword had no power to strike the Host.

My father lay on the floor, and Bernard made him rise and make his peace with God.

The strange thing was that my father was able to get to his feet, and Bernard embraced and kissed him.

“Go in peace, my son,” he said.

The miracle had brought about the effect which Bernard had desired. My father had been vanquished. There would be no more objections to Innocent, no more support for the man whom his enemies called the anti-Pope.

My father came back to us, a changed man.

He was never the same again. He was given to moods of melancholy. Immediately after his return he shut himself in the palace. It was a shattering experience to have been shown so clearly that God was displeased with him.

Bernard was a saint. He was sure of that. The man had proved it. And he himself was a miserable sinner.

Everyone was afraid to go near him—with the exception of myself, and even I went tentatively at first. But I soon found that he wanted me with him. He wanted to talk to someone, and he could do that with me more easily than with anyone else.

He explained to me how he had lifted his sword. “I was going to strike a holy man. What if I had? I should have been damned forever.”

“But you did not,” I soothed. “You were saved in time.”

“Bernard saved me. He looked into my eyes         .         .         .         such glittering eyes
he
has. I seemed to lose myself in them; and there he was         .         .         .         holding the Host, and my knees buckled under me. I found myself swaying like an aspen in the wind. It was as though something flowed over me         .         .         .         like a gigantic wave         .         .         .         and there was I, helpless at his feet.”

“Try to forget it,” I said. “It is over.”

“It will live with me forever. I see that I have failed and not done what I should for my country         .         .         .         and for God. What shall I do, Eleanor my child? What shall I do?”

“Forget what has happened. Have no more trouble with these Popes. Let them fight their own battles. Rule Aquitaine. This is your country. What else matters?”

“I fear I have not done well. There is unrest in the country more than there was during my father’s time.”

“Your father did not worry with such matters as you do.”

“No, he was content in his Courts of Love.”

“As you must be.”

“I am different from my father. I see how neglectful I have been of my duties. My dear wife died         .         .         .         and our son with her. I am left with two daughters.”

“We are as good as any sons, Father.”

He smiled at me. “There is none like you, my dear child, nor ever could be, but you are a woman. There will be trouble when I am gone if there is not a strong hand on the reins.”

I held out my hands to him. “They are strong, Father.”

“They are beautiful         .         .         .         soft as a woman’s should be. You do not understand, dear child. There should be a male heir.”

“You have me now.”

I was shaken with horror at his next words. “It is not too late.”

“What do you mean?”

“I must do my duty. It is expected of me. I am going to change my ways. I have been brought face to face with the truth. Because I did not wish to marry again I thrust the matter out of my mind. But I see that I must.”

“No!” I cried.

“My dear daughter,” he said, “you want to be the ruler of Aquitaine. That is because you do not know what it entails. It would bring you little joy. It is a task for a man.”

“But you have said
you
have not done well, and you are a man.”

“This is not the time to twist words, dear daughter. I have been thinking over the past days that I must marry. I must give Aquitaine a son. If only your brother had lived         .         .         .”

I stood up and, without asking permission, left him.

How weak he was, how clinging. He could not bear that I should withhold myself from him. When I look back, I am amazed at the power I had in that Court. I was thirteen years old but more like eighteen. I was both physically and mentally developed beyond most girls of my age. I had been in the forcing-ground of maturity ever since I was born. I had seen romantic love and lust in my grandfather’s Court; I had gradually become aware of my father’s weakness; I had seen him disintegrate before my eyes. Oddly enough, this made me feel strong. It made me more certain than ever that when the time came I should be capable of ruling Aquitaine. I should not have made the mistakes I had seen my father make. I should not have considered the Popes’ quarrel mine. I should never have given way to the influence of Bernard.

And now my father, in his weakened state, was reaching out to me. I felt strong, important. Aquitaine was going to be mine.

My father sent for me. He told me with some humility that he had not meant to hurt me. He thought I was wonderful. Many of the young men at Court admired me, looked up to me as an ideal. That pleased him. He, too, venerated me. He knew that I was no ordinary girl. He was proud of me.

“And yet you would replace me by some sickly boy!”

“I merely feel that a son would be more acceptable to the people. I have not thought enough of my people, Eleanor. There is no reason why the boy should be sickly.”

“You are becoming old now. I believe the age of its parents has an effect on a child. Here am I strong and healthy, the daughter of your youth. I can read and write with ease; I can reason. Rest assured I shall be fit to govern when the time comes.”

“I doubt it not. But the people want to look to a man.”

“Where will you find this bride?”

“I must look for her.”

“Then I suppose you will go on a pilgrimage to some shrine or other to pray for a fertile wife.”

“A pilgrimage,” he said slowly. “Perhaps I should go on a pilgrimage.”

I thought: If it is going to stop these thoughts of marriage, yes, certainly you should go.

I said: “You have been deeply disturbed by what has happened to you in the church. You need to make your peace with God before you think of marriage.”

He stared at me incredulously. “By all the saints, I believe you are right.”

He had made up his mind. He would go on a pilgrimage; he would earn complete forgiveness for his past sins; he would find favor in the eyes of God. He would go not as a great ruler but as the humblest pilgrim without splendor of any sort; his garment should be a sackcloth robe; he would endure all the hardships of a long journey; and the more discomfort he endured the more quickly his sins would be wiped away. He would return to Aquitaine in triumph, and God would give him a fruitful bride.

Being headstrong, as he always had been, when he came to a hasty decision he found it hard to wait to put it into action; and when what he thought of as a great opportunity came, he was ready to seize it.

Emma, daughter of the Viscount of Limoges, had been married to Barden of Cognac who had recently died. The heiress of Limoges seemed to my father an excellent bride. He became convinced that God had removed Barden of Cognac to show him, William, the way.

He did not stop to assess the situation. He talked of the honor he was about to bestow on Limoges, for the Limousin was a vassal state to Aquitaine. He forgot that there had been a great deal of friction between the two states in the past; he believed that now he was a changed man, everyone’s attitudes must change toward him.

The last thing the people of the Limousin wanted was to come under the direct rule of Aquitaine; and there were others who did not wish to see Aquitaine become more powerful and who would do a great deal to prevent William’s marrying Emma.

They managed very skillfully and prevailed on the Count of Angoulme to abduct Emma. He came in strength and took her from her home as Philip of France had taken Bertrade and my grandfather Dangerosa; and that settled the matter. My father’s attempt to marry Emma of Limoges had failed.

He seemed to regard this as another expression of God’s displeasure and was sunk in melancholy. He continued feverishly to make plans for his pilgrimage. He was anxious for me to know that he still loved me dearly. I was sure that he did so more than he could any sons even though they possessed the magic quality of masculinity.

I was angry with him, and I should have been more so if I had believed he was going to achieve his purpose. First he had to make the pilgrimage, and that was going to take some time. He was not in especially good health, and the hardships he would have to endure would surely not act as a restorative. Then he had to find a bride and she must be fruitful. I was not one to anticipate disaster, and I think at that age I had an unshakable belief in myself and my destiny.

Preparations took some time. He explained to me that for a man in his position there was a great deal to arrange; and I was his main concern.

“I?” I cried, “It would seem to me that I am your least concern since you plan to replace me with a more desirable heir.”

He was distressed. “Eleanor,” he said severely, “you will have to learn to curb your temper.”

“My temper, my lord! Have I not been extremely accommodating? I have helped you with your plans when, if they are successful, they will culminate in my loss!”

“Do not see it that way. You are my great concern. Much as I wish to go to the shrine of St. James, I am constantly plagued by my fears of what will happen to you.”

“The answer is simple. Give up the idea of the pilgrimage and sons. If I am worthy of your concern, surely a better fate should be found for me than to be packed off in marriage.”

“Packed off in marriage! My dear girl, your marriage shall be the most brilliant in Europe. That is what I wish to talk about. Louis         .         .         .”

“The fat one or his son?”

“Both, my dear. Louis is a fine fellow. When his brother died, he stepped into his shoes with the greatest of ease.”

“Can that be true of one who was trained to be a priest?”

“Sons of kings have their duty to perform and they must take whatever comes to them.”

I wondered about Louis. I had for some time, for it was no news to me that, if all went well and we did not displease the King of France, there might be a match between me and his eldest son. I did not know how far my father had offended him over this matter of Innocent and Anacletus, but presumably Aquitaine would be a big enough prize for such matters not to be an irrevocable handicap.

I had discovered all I could about the Court of France since I had heard that I might well one day marry into it. I was fascinated by the reputed size of the King. He had grown so large through excessive eating and drinking that it was difficult for him to move about. In his youth he had been tireless and excelled in all physical exercise. I suppose this had developed his appetite, which continued to be large when he was less active. In spite of this foolhardy indulgence, he was a wise man and a shrewd ruler. He had always been on friendly terms with Aquitaine until this unfortunate matter of the Popes had arisen. I think he probably wanted a match with us as much as we with him.

Now that my father had repented, friendship between the two was resumed. But I was not sure whether the union between myself and the heir to the crown of France would be so attractive if he discovered that my father was contemplating marriage. As the sister of the ruler of Aquitaine, I would be a much less desirable match than its Duchess would have been.

I had always imagined that my husband would be Philip but a strange thing had happened. He had been killed when out riding. It was so sudden that it was almost like an act of God. Philip had been riding through Paris when a pig had run under his horse’s legs. He had been thrown clear, hitting his head on a stone wall; he had died instantly.

This was so unusual, so unexpected, that people said it was “meant.”

Louis the Fat had several children besides Philip and Louis. There was Robert who became Count of Dreux, Peter de Courtenay, Henry and Philip and a daughter, Constance. She was later Countess of Toulouse, and the two younger boys became bishops. The second son, Louis, was intended for the Church and was being brought up to this until the pig changed the course of history. Louis was taken from his cloisters to become heir to the throne of France; and that meant that if I were to marry into France, Louis would be my husband.

My father went on: “There is one great concern for me. I hesitate to leave you and Petronilla.”

I stared at him in amazement. “What harm could come to us?”

“What harm indeed! There are those who might well take advantage of my absence. I shall talk to you very seriously. You are not ignorant of the ways of men. You are a very attractive girl. I have seen some of the men’s eyes on you and I have heard their songs. They sing of romantic love, my dear, while they are planning seduction, perhaps even rape.”

“I understand well the nature of men, Father.”

“Then you will understand my concern. If I left you here alone         .         .         .         you and Petronilla         .         .         .         some brigand might come along, take possession of the castle and of you. He might even force his attentions on you.”

“Do you think I should submit         .         .         .         to that?”

“If his physical strength was greater than yours, you would be obliged to. Only recently there was the case of poor Emma of Limoges. You are especially attractive; you have exceptional beauty; but to some, Aquitaine would be even more desirable.”

“I would fight to the death.”

“But I do not want you dead, dear child. No, no, you have had freedom here at Court. You have been surrounded by young men and girls. You have made your verses, sung your songs, indulged in flirtatious conversations with young gallants. You have happily basked in their admiration. You revel in it. Some of these young men have been very handsome, very plausible. Sometimes I have feared         .         .         .         There must be no dalliance, Eleanor, neither for you nor for Petronilla. You must go to your husband completely pure         .         .         .         virgins         .         .         .         nothing else will do.”