The Courts of Love: The Story of Eleanor of Aquitaine (62 page)

I said: “You are a bold man, Hugh le Brun. Has it occurred to you that, though you have the advantage now, it will not always be so?”

“I wish your ladyship no harm.”

“Then why behave in this uncouth manner?”

“Because I wish myself much good.”

“You mean you will demand a ransom. Since King Richard was held by his jealous enemies there have been those who have developed a taste for this sort of thing. Do you intend to ask a ransom from my son the King?”

“No, my lady, from you.”

“Then you had better tell me.”

“What I want is the county of La Marche.”

I was astounded by his impudence. Henry had seized La Marche from the Lusignans some years earlier. Richard had fortified it. It was an important stretch of land.

“You are talking nonsense.”

Hugh le Brun lifted his shoulders and smiled. “It seems that Your Ladyship likes my castle.”

“I find little to admire in its owner.”

“Perhaps time will change my lady’s views.”

“I believe that would only strengthen my dislike.”

“Then it is a pity, for if you do not give me La Marche you will be here a very long time.”

I was dismayed. I lay awake at night thinking of the implication of this. How should I reach Castile? What would happen to the match I so desired? One must settle this matter quickly for when matrimonial arrangements are allowed to hang fire they have a way of evaporating.

I was frustrated and angry. For two days I fumed against Hugh while he remained charming and unmoved.

At length I saw that I could be here for a very long time unless I gave way to his demands. So, cursing the fate which had brought me into Lusignan country, deploring the wily tactics of my kidnappers, while admiring them, I began to see that the difficulties of freeing me in the long run would be more costly than giving up La Marche.

So at length I agreed.

Hugh le Brun took, as he said, a reluctant farewell of me when the transaction was made; and thinking regretfully of what the incident had cost me, I continued my journey.

Everything seemed worthwhile when I arrived in Castile. I was enchanted with my daughter Eleanor. She was beautiful still, even though she had borne eleven children. Hers had been a successful marriage. She was one of those women almost certain to enjoy a happy marriage providing her husband is not a monster. Her nature was gentle, kindly, while she herself was highly intelligent and accomplished. She was the perfect wife and mother.

When I had spent a few moments with her, I thought what a tragedy it was that we had lived so much of our lives apart.

The Court of Castile reminded me of that long-ago one over which my grandfather and father had reigned. Everything was comfortable and elegant. It was wonderful to hear the troubadours again; to be with my daughter was such a pleasure that I felt happy as I had not thought to be ever again after Richard’s death.

We talked of the old days when she with the others had been in the nursery. She told me how the children had looked forward to my visits. They had all sought to win my favor, she told me, for they had loved me dearly even though they were a little afraid of me. They had not loved their father and as soon as they sensed—as children do—that there was trouble between us they were all prepared to defend me, and hated him the more         .         .         .         all except Geoffrey the Bastard, who thought his father was the most wonderful being on Earth.

It brought it all back         .         .         .         incidents which I had forgotten. I was back there in the nurseries when they were all about me         .         .         .         my dear children         .         .         .         and towering above them all, my golden boy, my Richard, whom I should never see again.

Then there were my granddaughters—the purpose of my visit. The eldest, Berengaria, was already spoken for. She was affianced to the King of Leon. The next was Urraca and then came Blanca.

I studied them intently—two beautiful and enchanting girls.

I said to my daughter: “This is a great opportunity. There could scarcely be a better match than the future King of France.”

My daughter replied: “I have spoken to Urraca and told her what a wonderful match this is and that she is the luckiest girl in the world for one day she will be Queen of France.”

“You have a family to be proud of,” I told my daughter. “What great good children can bring us         .         .         .         and what sorrow.”

“Dearest Mother, life has been cruel to you.”

“When Richard went, I thought I had nothing to live for.”

“I know he was always your favorite. In the nursery we thought it was natural that this should be so. There was something magnificent about Richard.”

I could scarcely bear to speak his name, and she knew it and reproached herself for reminding me, but I told her she was not the one who had reminded me, for he was always in my thoughts.

“I am so happy to be with you, my dear,” I said. “I think of all my children you have been the most fortunate.”

“I have a good husband. We live happily here in Castile. And then there are the children, of course.”

“I want to get to know them well while I am here. It might be that I shall never see them again.”

“Dear Mother, you must visit us and next time stay         .         .         .         stay a long time.”

“The years are creeping up on me. Sometimes it is hard to remember how old I am.”

“Then forget it, for, dear Mother, you can never be old.”

“Ah, if only that were true.”

So the days passed and I spent hours with my granddaughters.

Urraca was a charming girl, but it was Blanca in whom I was more interested.

Blanca was beautiful—not more so than her sister, but she glowed with an inner light. Was it intelligence or character? I was not sure. All I knew was that Blanca had some special quality. There was a determination in her nature, an alertness; she loved music, and she was quick to reply in discussion and very often right on the point. Perhaps I am a vain old woman but I thought I saw something of myself in Blanca; and as the days passed I began to realize that she was the one I must take with me as the future Queen of France.

It was difficult explaining to her parents. They had planned that it should be Urraca. They had prepared her for the part she must play. They had impressed on her what a great honor it was to be chosen. There could be few such grand titles as Queen of France in the whole world.

But in my heart I knew it had to be Blanca.

I broached the matter with my daughter.

“It will have to be Blanca, you know,” I said. Eleanor looked at me in astonishment.

“She has all the qualities,” I went on.

“For what, dear Mother?”

“For marriage with Louis of France.” My daughter was silent with shock.

“I know,” I went on, “that we have thought of Urraca, but I am convinced it will have to be Blanca.”

“But we cannot change now.”

“Why not? I am to take back one of my granddaughters, and I say that one must be Blanca.”

“What of Urraca? She is the elder.”

“You will find a good husband for her, particularly if her sister is to be the future Queen of France.”

“Dear Mother, for what reason?”

It was difficult to explain. I supposed she loved both her daughters dearly and perhaps could not see the bright jewel she had in Blanca.

I sought to explain. It was not that there was anything wrong with Urraca. It was just that Blanca was endowed with very special qualities         .         .         .         a strength which I recognized clearly, as I had it myself, courage, resourcefulness. I said: “The French would never like a woman called Urraca.” My daughter looked at me disbelievingly.

I elaborated the theme. “No. They would never get used to it. She would be a foreigner to them all her life.”

“You mean because of her name         .         .         .”

“Whereas Blanca,” I said, “.         .         .         that will become Blanche. That is a very beautiful name. The French will love it. My dear, don’t look so taken aback. One of your daughters will be Queen of France. What does it matter which one?”

“Blanca,” she murmured. “I hadn’t thought of Blanca. She is younger than Urraca.”

“That is no obstacle. She is twelve, is she not? Old enough to go to her future husband. I shall take Blanca.”

My daughter was silent. She remembered from the old days that people did not argue with me. When I said something should be so, it was.

The girls were amazed, of course. Urraca, who had been very apprehensive about going to France, was now dismayed because she was not going. Blanca was surprised, but she took the announcement as I knew she would. She hated to displace her sister but could not fail to be excited by the brilliant prospect which was opening before her.

We spent a good deal of time together. I talked a great deal about the Court of France as it had been when I had been its Queen.

“You will mold it to your ways,” I told her. “I am going to call you Blanche from now on. That is the name by which you will be known in France. It is merely a version of your own name and this one is prettier, don’t you think, Blanche? It suits you.”

So we were often together and played the lute and sang. I was delighted by her elegant manners, her quiet wit and her budding beauty. I was glad I had made the journey. Otherwise they would have sent Urraca instead; and my instinct told me that Blanca—Blanche as she now was—was the one destined to be Queen of France.

After the initial surprise at the substitution, there was no resistance to my suggestion, and the time came to say goodbye to the pleasant Court of Castile. I traveled in a litter for quite long stages of the journey, for I grew very tired if I stayed too long in the saddle.

My granddaughter rode beside the litter. I always liked to have her in sight. She was a great joy to me. I gloried in her beauty and her intelligence and love grew quickly between us. We stayed at castles and inns on our journey and I would always have her sleeping in my room or even in my bed. I talked to her a great deal. I wanted her to be prepared. The fact that I, too, had traveled from my home to become a Queen of France had made a great bond between us. I drew myself back into those long-ago days and as I talked of them memories came flooding back.

I told her of my grandfather’s Court and the manner in which he had abducted Dangerosa and carried her off to his castle. I remembered the legends sung in ballads by the
jongleurs.
I would often sing them to her. It was amazing how the memories of them came flooding back and I could remember the words of romanticized adventure as well as the music.

“How strange,” I said, “that my husband was Louis VII of France and yours will be Louis VIII. My Louis was a good, religious man, but good men at times can be tiresome         .         .         .         and so can the other kind. I had a taste of both, so I am well qualified to judge.” And I would tell her about Henry, the great Plantagenet, her own grandfather who had been so different from Louis. “We should have been good together,” I said wistfully. “But he could never be faithful. Women were his weakness.” I did not add that I thought it odd that his son Richard should have been so different.

I realized how much my granddaughter had done for me. There had been hours when I had forgotten to grieve for Richard.

We came to Bordeaux. It was comforting to be in my own castle. Here our ways divided: there was one road to Paris, the other to Fontevrault. I was feeling exhausted. Even the exhilaration I drew from my granddaughter could not disguise it. Fontevrault offered complete peace; there I could rest my weary limbs for a short time and shut myself away from all the burdens which I knew were waiting to fall upon my shoulders.

I sent for the Archbishop of Bordeaux. I told him that I had brought my granddaughter from the kingdom of Castile, and I wished him to take her to Paris and present her to the King, who was expecting her. I had just undertaken a long journey and I thought I could not go much farther. I would entrust him with the task of taking the future Queen of France to her prospective husband.

I was touched to see Blanche’s dismay when she knew I was not going with her to Paris.

“All will be well,” I assured her. “They will welcome you in Paris. The Archbishop will take good care of you.”

“Oh dearest Grandmother, I shall miss you so much.”

“We have been so happy together, have we not?” She nodded, her eyes brimmed with tears.

“Dear child, one of the saddest things in my life has been that I have not been able to stay long with those I loved.”

“I don’t know how I could have done all this without you,” she said. “I should have been terrified of going to the Court of France         .         .         .         but I am not now. You have explained so much. You have
done
so much for me.”

“And you will never know what you have done for me, my child. You have helped me over the first stile, and I have put a little of my grief behind me.”

I took a sad farewell of Blanche and she left Bordeaux in the retinue of the Archbishop. Soon she would be in Paris and my mission accomplished.

I intended to rest a few days in Bordeaux to strengthen myself for the last lap of my journey.

Mercadier had joined me. I was rather moved. He had in fact had his own mercenary army, but when the news of my abduction by Hugh de Lusignan had come to him, he asked to be attached to my entourage because he wanted to make sure I was protected from any more such villainous attempts. I was delighted to receive him into my service.

It was Easter time. There were processions in the streets. I would sit at a window looking down. It was so comforting to wake in the morning and to know that I had not to hurry down and start another day’s long journey.

But soon I was ready to go on.

This time I should have the doughty Mercadier to look after me, which was as well, for we had to pass through the valley of the Charente where I might meet with dissatisfied vassals like the Lusignans.