by Jean Plaidy
Louis sat down.
‘My friend and ally, the Duke of Aquitaine, is in the same sad state as that in which I find myself. It would seem neither of us is long for this world.’
The King saw the lights of fear spring up in his son’s eyes. They did not mean so much that he could not endure to lose his father as that he feared the heavy responsibility which that death would place on his shoulders. A king should never be afraid of his crown, thought Louis the Fat. A pity indeed that he had brought him up in religion. But how could he have known that Heaven had already signed Philippe’s death-warrant and sent a paltry pig to be his executioner?
Louis would forget that he had loved the ceremonies of the Church when those of State were forced upon him. It was merely the contemplation of great power that frightened him.
‘Therefore,’ went on the King, ‘I think it well that you should marry and that without delay.’
Now the boy was really frightened. This would never do. A pity he had never dallied with a girl in some secluded part of the hunting forests. It was all very well to be as he was if he remained the second son. But he would change when he was married to a young and beautiful girl and by all accounts Eleonore was this.
‘You cannot get an heir too soon, my son. I have a bride for you. I could not have chosen one who pleased me more. The Duke of Aquitaine is dying, so his messengers tell me. He has suffered much hardship on the road to Compostella. His heiress is his eldest daughter. She is fourteen years of age and very desirable. There is to be a match between you two.’
‘Marriage,’ stammered young Louis, ‘so soon …’
‘Without delay. It is what the Duke wishes. He has placed his daughter under my protection. This is the finest thing that could happen to France. Eleonore is heiress to all the Duke’s dominions, Poitou, Saintonge, Gascony and the Basque country. I could not have chosen a more suitable bride for you.’
‘Father, I am as yet unprepared …’
‘Nonsense, my son. Little preparation is needed to get an heir. We shall put you to bed with this desirable and very rich girl and you will know what to do. Think of the good she can bring to France. The more lands under our protection the less likelihood of wars. The more powerful we are the more we can work for the good of France.’
‘The possession of lands often leads to strife. They must be protected.’
‘They must indeed be protected and good wise laws be made for them. It will be your duty to give a happy life to your people.’
Young Louis closed his eyes. Why had this had to happen to him? Why had that miserable pig ruined his life? Philippe would have been a good king; he had been trained for it. And he, Louis, would have spent his life in the rarefied atmosphere of the Church. He would have been the Prince of the Church; how he loved the sonorous chanting, the beautiful music, the hallowed atmosphere. And he had lost this because God had called on him to do his duty in a different sphere from that for which he had been trained.
‘I am sending word to the Duke of Aquitaine that I shall cherish his daughter and that I am losing no time in arranging a marriage between her and my son.’
‘Father, is there no help for it?’
‘No help, my son. This marriage must take place without delay.’
‘How far to the shrine?’ whispered the dying Duke.
‘But a mile or so now, my good lord.’
‘Thank God then, I shall reach Compostella.’
Just a little more pain to endure and salvation would be his. Who would have thought that he should come so far and endure so much to ask for a male heir and to find instead death?
‘There are messengers, my lord Duke,’ said one of his bearers. ‘They come from the King of France.’
‘Thank God then. Thank God again. What news?’
‘The King, my lord, sends his greetings. He will care for your daughter as he would his own for indeed he says ere you receive this message she will be almost that. For he is betrothing his son to her and the marriage of France and Aquitaine will take place without delay.’
‘I shall die happy,’ said the Duke.
So this was the answer. Eleonore would be safe. She would be Queen of France and what more could he ask for her than that? She was born to rule - not only because of her inheritance but because of her nature. She had the innate power to inspire respect and love.
It was said that the King’s son was a serious boy, destined for the Church as he had been. He had proved himself to be a great churchman in the making, and would have been such had not a wayward pig made him a future King of France and husband of Eleonore of Aquitaine.
‘Lift me,’ he said, ‘that I may see the shrine of St James.’
They did so and he was content.
Since her father’s absence Eleonore had been the undisputed mistress of the chateau. During the cold winter’s evenings she and her court would range themselves about the great fire in the centre of the hall; there would be singing and music and she would judge the merits of the literary compositions and perhaps sing one of her own.
This she enjoyed; to sit among them, more elegantly attired than any of the other ladies, more brilliantly witty, while at her feet sat the knights gazing at her with adoration. The first lesson in chivalry was the adoration of women. Romance was the greatest adventure of the day. It was not so much the culmination as the dalliance on the way, although Eleonore herself knew that that climax must inevitably be reached. She thrilled to the ardent glances; she allowed herself to dream of fulfilment, but in her heart she knew there must be some delay.
Sometimes she played a game of chess with an admirer, for it was part of the court education that any who aspired to gracious living must first master the game; she always found an element of excitement in the conflict over the board; because she was fighting a battle and from this she invariably emerged the victor.
In the privacy of her bedchamber she talked with her sister. Petronelle believed that everything Eleonore did was right. She imitated her elder sister in all things. Now their conversation centred round their father. They wondered constantly what was happening to him on the dangerous roads.
Petronelle turned to Eleonore and said: ‘Do you think he will come back?’
There was a faraway look in Eleonore’s eyes; she was gazing into the future. ‘It was foolish of him,’ she said, ‘to attempt such a journey at such a time of the year.’
‘Why did he not wait until the summer?’
‘It would have been too easy a journey. It had to be hazardous that he might earn forgiveness for his sins.’
‘Had he so many?’
Eleonore laughed. ‘He thought he had. He was obsessed by his sins, as our grandfather was.’
‘What about you, Eleonore? Have you committed any sins?’
She shrugged her elegant shoulders. ‘I am too young to be concerned with sins. It is only when you are of an age to fear death that repentance is necessary.’
‘So we need not concern ourselves with repentance yet, sister. We may sin to our heart’s content.’
‘What a pleasant prospect,’ cried Eleonore.
‘Everyone in the castle respects you,’ said Petronelle adoringly. ‘I think they love you more than they did our father. But if he marries again and we have a brother …’
Petronelle looked fearfully up at Eleonore who was scowling.
‘It won’t happen, sister,’ went on Petronelle quickly. ‘If he married he wouldn’t get a boy.’
‘It maddens me,’ cried Eleonore. ‘Why this reverence for the male sex? Are not women more beautiful, more subtle, often more clever than men?’
‘You are, Eleonore, cleverer than any man.’
‘Yet because they go into battle, because they have greater physical strength, they regard themselves so superior that a puny son would come before a fine daughter.’
‘No son our father got would ever equal you, Eleonore.’
‘Yet he must undertake this pilgrimage in the hope that Saint
James will plead for him and he come safely back, marry and get a son.’
‘The saints will never listen to him. They will call him ungrateful. God has given him you, Eleonore, and he is not satisfied!’
Eleonore laughed and blew a kiss to her sister.
‘At least you appreciate me,’ she said with a smile.
She went to the narrow window and looked out on the bleak road.
‘One day,’ she said, ‘we shall see a party of horsemen on that road. It will either be my father coming back triumphant or …’
‘Or, what, Eleonore?’ asked Petronelle who had come to stand beside her.
But Eleonore shook her head. She would say no more.
It was but a few days later when a messenger did come to the castle.
Eleonore, who had been warned that he was sighted, was in the courtyard to greet him; she herself held the cup of hot wine for him.
‘I bring ill tidings, my lady,’ he said before he would take the cup. ‘The Duke is dead. The journey was too much for him. I have a sorry tale to tell.’
‘Drink,’ said Eleonore. ‘Then come into the castle.’
She took him into the hall and sat with him beside the fire. She ordered that food be brought to him, for he had ridden far and was exhausted. But first she must hear the news.
‘He suffered towards the end, my lady, but never wavered from his purpose. We carried him right to the shrine and that made him happy. He died there in his litter but not before he had received the blessing. It was his wish that he be buried before the main altar in the Church of Saint James.’
‘And this was done?’
‘It was done, my lady.’
‘Praise be to God that he died in peace.’
‘His one concern was for your welfare.’
‘Then he will be happy in Heaven for when he looks down on me he will know I can take care of myself.’
‘Before he died he received an assurance from the King of France, my lady.’
Eleonore lowered her eyes.
There would be a wedding. Her own. And to the son of the King of France. Louis the Fat would not have been so eager to ally his son with her had she not been the heiress of Aquitaine.
How could she grieve? How could she mourn? Her father, who had planned to get an heir who would displace her, was no more. His plans were as nothing.
There was one heir to Aquitaine. It was Duchess Eleonore.
Young Louis was very apprehensive. He was to travel to Aquitaine, there to present himself to his bride and ask her hand in marriage. That was a formality. His father and hers had already decided that there should be a match between them.
What would she be like - this girl they had chosen for him? At least she was a year younger than he was. Many royal princes were married to women older than themselves. That would have terrified him.
How he wished that he had remained in Notre-Dame. He longed for the ceremonies in which he had taken part, the sonorous chanting of priests, the smell of incense, the hypnotic murmur of voices in prayer. And instead there must be feasting and celebration and he must be initiated into the mysteries of marriage.
He wished that he were like so many youths; they lived for their dalliance with women; he had heard them boasting of their adventures, laughing together, comparing their brave deeds. He could never be like that. He was too serious; he longed for a life of meditation and prayer. He wanted to be good. It was not easy for rulers to shut themselves away from life; they had to be at the heart of it. They were said to govern, but often they were governed by ministers. They had to go to war. The thought of war terrified him even more than that of love.
The King lay at Bethizy and thither had come the most influential of his ministers, among them the Abbe Suger. The marriage between young Louis and Eleonore of Aquitaine had won their immediate approval. It could only be to the good of the country that the rich lands of the south should come to the crown of France. The King could be assured that his ministers would do all in their power to expedite the marriage.
The Abbe Suger would himself arrange the journey and remain beside the Prince as his chief adviser.
The King, who knew that death could not be far off, was anxious that the progress from Bethizy to Aquitaine should be absolutely peaceful. There must be no pillaging of towns and villages as the cavalcade passed through. The people of the kingdom of France and the dukedom of Aquitaine must know that this was a peaceful mission which could bring nothing but good to all concerned.
He could rest assured that his wishes would be carried out, the Abbe told him.
He sent for his son. Poor Louis! So obviously destined for the Church. And he had heard accounts of Eleonore. A voluptuous girl ripe for marriage, young as she was. She would know how to win Louis, he was sure of that. Perhaps, when he saw this girl who by all accounts was one of the most desirable in the country - and not only for her possessions - he would realise his good fortune.
He told him this when he came to his bedside. ‘Good fortune,’ he said, ‘not only for you, my son, but for your country, and a king’s first duty is to his country.’
‘I am not a king yet,’ said Louis in a trembling voice.
‘Nay, but the signs are, my son, that you will be ere long. Govern well. Make wise laws. Remember that you came to the crown through God’s will and serve him well. Oh, my dear son, may all-powerful God protect you. If I had the misfortune to lose you and those I send with you, I should care nothing whatever either for my person or my kingdom.’
Young Louis knelt by his father’s bed and received his blessing.
Then he left with his party and took the road to Bordeaux.
The town of Bordeaux glittered in the sunshine; the river Garonne was like a silver snake and the towers of the Chateau de l’Ombriere stretched up to a cloudless sky.
The Prince stood on the banks of the river gazing across. The moment when he was brought face to face with his bride could not long be delayed.
He was afraid. What should he say to her? She would despise him. If only he could turn and go back to Paris. Oh, the peace of Notre-Dame! The Abbe Suger had little sympathy for him. As a churchman, he might have been expected to, but all he could think of - all anyone could think of - was how good this marriage was for France.
‘My lord, we should take to the boats and cross to Bordeaux. The Lady Eleonore will have heard that we are here. She will not expect delay.’
He braced himself. It was no use hanging back. What was not done today must be done tomorrow.
‘Let us go now,’ he said.
He was riding to the castle at the head of the small party he had taken with him. His standard bearer held proudly the banner of the golden lilies. He looked up at the turret and wondered whether she watched him.
She was there, exultantly gazing at the golden lilies, the emblem of power. Aquitaine might be rich but a king was necessarily of higher rank than a duke or duchess and even if the acknowledgement of suzerainty was merely a form yet it was there, and Aquitaine was in truth a vassal of France.
And I shall be Queen of France, Eleonore told herself.
She came to the courtyard. She had taken even greater care than usual with her appearance. Her natural elegance was enhanced by the light blue gown she was wearing; this was caught in at her tiny waist with a belt glittering with jewels. She was not wearing the fashionable wimple as she wanted to show off her luxuriant hair which she wore hanging over her shoulders with a jewelled band on her forehead.
She looked up at the boy on his horse as she held the cup of welcome to him.
Young, she thought, malleable. And her heart leaped in triumph.
He was looking at her as though bemused. He had never imagined such a beautiful creature; her serene eyes smiled into his calmly; the diadem on her broad high brow gave her dignity. He thought she was exquisite.
He leaped from his horse and, bowing, kissed her hand.
‘Welcome to Aquitaine,’ she said. ‘Pray come into th
e castle.’
Side by side they entered.
She told Petronelle when her sister came to her chamber that night: ‘My French Prince is not without charm. They have grace, these Franks. They make some of our knights seem gauche. His manners are perfect. At first though I sensed a reluctance.’
‘That passed when he saw you,’ said the ever-adoring Petronelle.
‘I think it did,’ replied Eleonore judiciously. ‘There is something gentle about him. They brought him up as a priest.’
‘I can’t imagine you with a priest for a husband.’
‘Nay, we shall soon leave the priest behind. I wish we need not wait for the ceremony. I would like to take him for my lover right away.’
‘You always wanted a lover, Eleonore. Father knew it and feared it.’
‘It is natural enough. You too, Petronelle.’
Petronelle sighed and raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Alas, I have longer to wait.’
Then they talked intimately about the men of the court, their virtues and their potentialities as lovers.
Eleonore remembered some of the exploits of their grandfather.
‘He was the greatest lover of his age.’
‘You will excel even him,’ Petronelle suggested.
‘That would be most shocking in a woman,’ laughed Eleonore.
‘But you will be equal to men in all things.’
‘I look forward to starting,’ said Eleonore with a laugh.
The Prince loved to listen to her singing and watch her long white fingers plucking the lute and the harp; she said, ‘I will sing you one of my own songs.’
And she sang of longing for love and that the only true happiness in love was through the satisfaction this could bring.
‘How can you know?’ he asked.
‘Some instinct tells me.’ Her brilliant eyes were full of promise; even he found a certain desire stirring in him. He no longer thought so constantly of the solemn atmosphere of the Church; he began to wonder what mysteries he and his bride would discover together.
She played chess with him and beat him. Perhaps she had had more practice. When he was learning to be a priest she had been brought up in court accomplishments. It was a lighthearted battle between them. When she had check-mated him she laughed and was delighted; it was like a symbol to her.
