Louis, of course, was eager for peace but I urged him to be cautious. It never occurred to him that Bernard and the Holy Father could be capable of duplicity; but this was proved to be possible, for when he eagerly called a halt to the war in Champagne it was only to find that the sentence of excommunication was still in force.
A certain antagonism was building up between Louis and me. I think he partly blamed me for Vitry, remembering that I was the one who had urged him to go to war; I had tried to persuade him against giving way to the demands of Bernard and Rome. Bernard then had the temerity to suggest that when Raoul of Vermandois returned to his true wife the ban would be lifted.
“This was not what was promised,” I cried in fury.
“They say that all will be forgiven if Raoul will take his wife back.”
“But we shall have gained nothing. All that expense . . . all these victories and . . . nothing!”
I do not know what would have been the outcome if Innocent had not died suddenly in the midst of all this. It was a happy release . . . for us.
Celestine II was elected Pope and no doubt because of the pleas of Suger was persuaded to lift the ban of excommunication from Louis. Louis’s relief was great. But I was furious because nothing was done about that on Raoul and Petronilla. They must remain outcasts. Not that they seemed to care. They appeared to be satisfied with each other. They now had a son named after his father. I could feel almost envious of Petronilla. She had a man and a child. I had neither.
I was now twenty-one years of age and barren. Yet in my heart I knew that the fault for this did not lie with me. But the matter concerned me deeply and I gave a good deal of thought to it.
Life was becoming intolerably dull. Louis was turning more and more to religion. There was hardly any intimacy between us. I might have been living in a nunnery. I had little desire for him, Heaven knew, but desperately I wanted a child.
In a way he was still in love with me. Sometimes I would find him watching me furtively, but in his mind was the thought that I was the temptress urging him to acts which although he might indulge in them with mild relish, were repulsive to him in retrospect. I understood him well. It was ironic that such a man should have come to the throne. I often thought of that pig as one of Heaven’s jokes.
He was growing rather haggard. The nightly prayers were longer than ever. There we lay at our respective ends of that cold, cold bed from which he would often start up in nightmares, shouting: “The town is burning. Save them. Leave everything. Save them. Save the church.”
Vitry lived on in his tortured mind.
And I lay there thinking: I must get a child. What a temptation to give up to my impulses. There were so many handsome, virile men at Court, so many in love with me . . . if one could trust their words. But could one? All the time Raoul of Vermandois had been singing his love for me, he had been meeting Petronilla. The thought maddened me, but it cautioned me, too.
There must be a way.
It was said that Bernard was a saint and as such might have the power of miracle working. I believed that he wished France well. France was his country and he had always kept a paternal eye on Louis. I was sure he believed that Louis was meant for the Church, and no doubt he regretted that sudden appearance of the pig as much as Louis had. I felt an irresistible desire to laugh at the thought of Bernard’s admonishing God for letting that fateful animal run out at the crucial moment.
An idea occurred to me. What if I went to Bernard? What if I talked to him of my predicament? What if I begged him to intercede for me with the Almighty, as he seemed to be on such good terms with Him? Could he influence God to make me pregnant?
An opportunity occurred which made me feel that God was watching over me. For some time Suger had been building a cathedral at St. Denis. This was now completed and was to be opened with a brilliant ceremony which Louis and I were to attend with the leading churchmen. Bernard would most certainly be there.
If I could speak to him at the time, it would be more diplomatic than visiting him or asking him to visit me. So this was what I proposed to do. He would understand the need to give France an heir, I was sure. He might possibly be able to help me.
It was a beautiful day when we set out for St. Denis. There were crowds everywhere to cheer us. The people were happy on this occasion. They loved a ceremony. There were so many people making their way to St. Denis for the opening and dedication that there was no room to accommodate them all. Tents had been set up in fields, and there were crowds of all sorts and conditions of men and women. The inevitable pedlars called their wares, and there were apprentices, religious sects, the infirm looking for a miracle, and a smattering of pickpockets, I had no doubt.
Suger came out to greet us and to take us to those apartments which had been prepared for us. I asked if Bernard of Clairvaux was present and was relieved to hear that he was.
“I wish to speak with him,” I said. “Would you arrange a meeting between us?”
Suger looked surprised but rather pleased, I thought. No doubt he believed that, if I wanted to see the saint, it might be a sign that I was reforming. I had never shown any desire to speak to him before.
I was left alone in the apartments. Louis had gone to the chapel to pray. I could imagine his pleas for forgiveness. Vitry, Vitry, Vitry. I was heartily sick of the name.
But I would not waste my thoughts on that. I had to prepare myself. What should I say when I found myself face to face with Bernard? How should I best approach him? He would be aloof, I knew. He cared not that I was the Queen of France. He was one of those who saw themselves above all others on account of their saintliness and their special relationship in heavenly circles. I had always found the saintly arrogant.
There were many stories about him, and I began to build up a rather terrifying picture.
I remember conversations I had with my women about him.
“He thinks it is sinful to eat. They say he was very handsome when he was young, and he hated his body because it was strong and virile, so he starved himself and nearly killed himself until some doctor made him see that if he did not change his ways he would die. Then he realized that God had sent him to Earth for a purpose and it was necessary for him to keep himself alive.”
“He never washed himself,” said another. “He thinks that would be vanity. He wears a hair shirt . . . and the more full of lice it is the better he likes it, for he feels it is saintly to be tormented.”
“He never speaks to his sister. He has cut her right out of his life because she married and has a large family. He thought she should have gone into a convent.”
“He hates all women because he thinks the Devil has put them on Earth to tempt men to perdition.”
I had grown angry at that. “Why do you regard this man as great?” I cried. “If everyone were like him, there would be no people on Earth in a very short time. Of course people must marry. It says in the Bible ‘Be fruitful and replenish the Earth.’ I do not believe all these stories of this man.”
“He does hate women, my lady,” insisted one of them. “I heard that when he was a young man he broke the ice on a river stream and plunged into the water because he had felt desire for a woman. He was only discovered just in time and nearly lost his life. But they revived him.”
“What silly tales,” I said. “I do not believe any man would behave so.”
“My lady, this is a saint.”
“Surely a man could do God’s work without going to such extremes. God put women on Earth surely for the purpose of procreating the race. It was He who arranged the relationship between men and women, and He presumably made it enticing so that there would be no lack of children. So all this seems nonsense to me.”
They smiled. They were accustomed to my forthright views.
I was rather disturbed though to contemplate the man I had to face.
The ceremony, led by Louis, was most impressive. He was in his element there among the clergy and the monks. He looked ecstati
c. I felt almost sorry for him. What a tragedy that he had come to the throne when he would have been so much at peace in the Church.
I was impatiently awaiting the meeting with Bernard, which was to take place immediately after the ceremony. He would be waiting for me in a small room.
We stood for some seconds regarding each other. There could not have been a greater contrast in two people. Perhaps he had expected me to come in somber robes, but I did not. I was not going to make myself out to be what I was not. I knew I looked splendid in my velvet and my jewels, with my gown close fitting at the waist to show off my perfect figure, with the skirt flowing extravagantly to the floor. I wore a jeweled band about my hair. I wished to look my most seductive in defiance perhaps of this man who, when he was young, may have been ready to stifle his desire by plunging into ice water.
He was so frail that he looked as though he were not long for this world. They had exaggerated a little. He was not exactly dirty but I kept wondering about that lousy hair shirt. He had an unhealthy pallor; his hair was white and thin but there was a hint of blond in his beard and I wondered what he had looked like as a young man before the self-inflicted torture of his body had begun.
He was all that I disliked in men and I could see that I was all that he feared in women. Surely this could not augur well for our meeting.
I was remembering words I had heard attributed to him in which he stated his opinion of women. He had deplored their use of ornaments. “Fine clothes and paint might seem to adorn the body,” he had said, “but they are used to the detriment of the soul.”
I sat down and lifting my head high said: “Pray be seated.”
He regarded me in silence for a few seconds and then took one of the chairs. I did not wish to be too close to him, for although the women had exaggerated it was obvious that he had no great regard for cleanliness.
“I wish to speak to you on several matters,” I said.
He bowed his head. I noticed that he did not look at me directly. Did I perhaps turn his thoughts in sinful directions? I hoped so.
I wanted him to work a miracle for me and I had to discover whether this man could help me to have a child. He had prophesied the death of Louis’s brother, Philip; he had held the Host before my father who had crumpled before him. I had to face the truth. There was some spiritual quality in this man. If I did not think so, I should not be here at this moment.
I felt a certain awe which I tried to suppress. I was not sure whether it was due to the man himself or what I knew of him. I thought I would not speak immediately of my problem but of other matters on which I wanted to consult him.
I said: “My sister and her husband are still under the ban of excommunication. It was promised that if we withdrew from Champagne that ban would be lifted.”
“Your sister has no husband. He who calls himself so is the husband of another.”
“The marriage was annulled.”
“By sinners.”
“Men of the Church.”
“Alas,” he said.
“I would ask you to use your influence. You of all men could do so if you wished. You have the power to subdue those about you. You have been chosen by God.” I could see that he was unimpressed by flattery. A different approach was necessary. I went on: “Our troops have been withdrawn from Champagne.”
“The land must be given back to the Count.”
“It will be when the ban on my sister and the Count of Vermandois is lifted.”
“That cannot be until the Count of Vermandois returns to his lawful wife.”
I looked at his thin, austere face and saw the stubborn purpose there, and I knew in that moment that it was no use pleading for my sister. She must continue to pay for her pleasure; and indeed she was less disturbed about the consequences than I. I was in the presence of an extraordinary man and I was aware of the power which came from him. I had come here to plead my own cause not that of Petronilla. I decided to change my mood. I would try to be a little humble.
“I know that you are favored by the Lord God,” I said. “I would have you know that I have a great respect for you and for all you have done and are doing.”
“I am surprised to hear that.”
“Perhaps I have not appeared as appreciative as you might have thought necessary. The King, my husband, holds you in great regard.”
“The King is a good man but often misguided. He is led by evil influences.” The steely eyes bored through me. I was that evil influence, he implied. He went on: “He has been led into wars. He has offended God. He has taken up arms in evil causes. That must stop. I am sure the King is penitent. It is necessary for others to follow his example.”
I said: “I wish to ask your help. In all the time of my marriage there has been no child.”
“Then it is God’s will that there should be none.”
“I believe you could intercede for me.” I raised my eyes to his face pleadingly.
Bernard was having an effect on me. I could believe there was something holy about this man. There came into my mind a vivid picture of my father, standing before him in the church and then falling to the ground. Yes, there was a certain power about him. I believed he could work miracles.
So great was my faith in him that I was sure he was aware of it. His attitude changed subtly.
“So,” he said, “you wish for a child.”
“It is necessary,” I answered. “France must have an heir.”
“It is in the hands of God,” he said.
“You could help me.”
“It will be God’s will.”
“But if you could intercede for me. Please . . . I beg of you.”
He was silent. He stared above my head as though he were in communication with some spirit above me.
“If you were to change your ways,” he said, “if you were to dispense with sinful thoughts, if you listened to the voice of God, there might be a child. It is for you to change your ways.”
“I will do anything,” I said.
He bowed his head and folding his hands began to pray, and I was praying with him.
I said: “If you would speak to my husband . . .”
“He also wishes for a child.”
“But,” I replied, “he does little to help us get one.”
“Then let us pray.”
I had never thought to find myself on my knees with this strange man, who was so different from everything I had hitherto admired. Yet I believed in him.
“There would have to be peace with Champagne,” he said.
“Yes,” I said, for I knew it must be so and that our object in attacking Champagne would come to nothing. Petronilla and Raoul would remain under the edict. They must fight their own battles. I had one object in mind. I must have a child.
So there was peace between us and nothing gained from that futile war.
This was unimportant, for Louis, no doubt primed by Bernard, returned to my bed and at last I became pregnant.
Great was my joy. I was ready to accept Bernard as a miracle worker. I had kept my part of the bargain. I had refrained from meddling in state matters. I had spent my days with my women, embroidering, reading good works. This was not as irksome as it might have been, for during the months of pregnancy I was naturally less energetic. I was determined to do nothing that would harm the baby, and I was in a state of exultation because that which I had so much desired was soon to be mine.
And in due course the baby appeared. A girl.
There was disappointment throughout the Court. A boy would have been so much more suitable. Not for me. My child was perfect; and I had never accepted the idea that a boy was more important than a girl.
Motherhood changes women . . . for a while. I had my nurses and attendants, but I was eager to be with my child during those first months. I marveled at the miracle which that unsavory old man had been able to perform.
Life was wonderful when such things could happen. I had my baby whom I called Marie.
; It was not to be expected that I could become the sort of woman who was content with motherhood alone. I loved my child; I was proud of her; but I was not of the stuff of which doting mothers are made; and although I delighted in her, I needed stimulation, exciting adventure. I felt I was becoming stultified in my husband’s Court.
Now that we had a child, he appeared to assume that he had done his duty and could dispense with the mating process which always left him with a sense of guilt. The prayers grew longer. I was very restive in my cold, unwelcoming bed. He still had nightmares about Vitry. I thought: He will never forget it.
I told myself that a woman of my nature could not be expected to spend her life in a Court which was more like a cloister. Petronilla and her husband were not often at Court. Oddly enough they seemed content with each other, and the fact that they were excommunicated did not seem to bother them very much. They shrugged it aside with such nonchalance that people were beginning to forget about it. Never devout, they did not care that they were banned from the Church. I was a little envious of Petronilla.
Then news from the East set France in a turmoil. The town of Edessa had been captured by the Turks and all the inhabitants, many of them French, had been brutally massacred. All Christians should spring to arms. It was time to take another crusade to the Holy War.
At first I was not very interested. Nor was Louis. War had no charm for him and he was still humiliated by the affair of Toulouse and worse still by Vitry.
But it soon became clear that this was a matter to which we must give some attention. There was a grand assembly at Bourges, where the possibility of getting together men who would be ready to fight for the Holy Cause was discussed. There was another at Vezelai and yet another at Etampes. Louis was beset by doubts. He hated war, so might this not be God talking to him! It was not likely that he could expiate his sin by doing something he wanted to. He became morose; in his prayers he asked for guidance.
One day he said: “A king who led an expedition to the Holy Land would surely wipe away his sins.”
Jean Plaidy - [Queens of England 05] Page 9
