A Proud Taste for Scarlet and Miniver

by E. L. Konigsburg

  “I will hear no more, Eleanor. We leave in the morning.”

  “Do you think Manuel will mind if I take a few of his carpets as souvenirs? We can roll them up and tuck them here and there in my sumpter trains.”

  “Eleanor! Thou shalt not steal.”

  “But whatever harm I do my soul by stealing, I shall make up for by the help and comfort I shall do my feet. Feet have soles, too.”

  “You will hardly enter Heaven on feet that have walked on stolen carpets.”

  “And you will hardly learn to take a joke.”

  With that, Eleanor turned her back to Louis and left the room.

  8

  GREAT WAS THE DISTANCE that separated the beginning of the caravan from its end, but greater still was the distance that separated the attitude of the forward queen from the attitude of the backward king. Both distances were to cause trouble outside of Constantinople.

  The Crusaders had not traveled far before they met some remnants of Emperor Conrad’s army. Manuel had indeed lied. There had been no victory at all for the German army; they had been led into an ambush by the guides that Manuel had recommended. Their supplies of food and water had been too short for a desert trip; the Turks knew it, and they swept down on the thirsty army. The Turks were swift and vicious. When Louis met the scattered, tattered remnants of the German army, they were returning to Constantinople, ready to go home. Only by bribery and promises did Louis convince Conrad not to give up the Crusade altogether.

  Louis wrote to me asking for more money. He had done so several times before. Each loaf of bread that the Crusaders had to buy was purchased at an inflated price, and now in addition, Louis had to pay off the Germans to keep them from abandoning the Crusade.

  It was an ordeal to travel through the mountains that covered their route. Their caravan was long, longer than most, because of the amount of luggage required by Eleanor and her Amazons. It was difficult for the rear of the caravan to know what the front was doing. The mountain peaks made it difficult to travel in a straight line. The women often had to be carried because they could not handle their horses on the steep slopes.

  Eleanor rode up front as usual. There was little about this part of the trip that appealed to her, especially after the magic of Constantinople. It was not her way to sulk, however. A bad mood was nothing but a curtain between her and life, and she did not want to waste even an uncomfortable trip through the mountains. She would enjoy the trip as best she could, she decided. And the scenery. She would enjoy that, too.

  In the morning Louis gave orders to the lead wagons telling them the stopping place for the night. He urged all the troops to stay in close file; after all, they were strangers in a strange land. On the day of Epiphany, January 6, Louis told the forward vans to stop at a high flatland, which scouts had spotted over the next peak.

  Eleanor emerged from her van to stretch her legs. As she walked around the table of land that she was to call home for the night, she looked over its far edge and saw below her a valley that looked like a sudden springtime.

  “Oh, Geoffrey,” she called to the leader of the forward van, “come look!”

  Geoffrey of Rancon, who was one of Eleanor’s loyal lords from Aquitaine, interrupted what he was doing and came to his queen’s side. “Look below,” Eleanor commanded. “Doesn’t that pert little valley seem more like home than this pale, dry plain?”

  “Yes, my queen, it does,” Geoffrey of Rancon answered.

  “I think it would be far nicer to spend the night there.”

  “But, your majesty, the king gave orders for us to make camp here.”

  “Did the king see this valley?”

  “No, your majesty. He had only the word of his scouts; they recommended the plateau.”

  “Yes, the king’s scouts seemed convinced that there is no place for comfort in Christianity. Come, we will descend into the valley to make camp.”

  “But, Queen Eleanor, the king gave orders . . .”

  Eleanor looked around her. “Come, Geoffrey of Rancon, we will camp on God’s green earth tonight. I swear that Heaven sucked all the juice of life from this plain because he didn’t want man on it,” she muttered.

  “Your majesty,” Geoffrey of Rancon began again.

  “Yes? What now?”

  “The king has given orders for us to stay in close ranks. It is difficult to reckon direction among these mountain peaks. It is absolutely necessary that we stay close together.”

  “Who said that we shall not?” Eleanor asked. “The king will come up to the plain and not find us, then he will look below as I just have and see us, and then he will follow. And we shall all sleep close and cozy tonight. Give the order to move on.”

  Eleanor’s decision took no longer than it takes me to tell of it, and for that reason, no one in that advance train had time to spot the Turks who were lurking in the mountains that surrounded the plain.

  Awkward would be the softest possible description of the path the men in the rearward party had had to follow to reach the flat plateau. Knights had shed their armor to ease their ascent. King Louis brought up the rear of the vans, working, sweating, heaving, and at last, looking for Eleanor; she was nowhere to be found on the whole of the plateau. Louis feared the worst. As he and his men swarmed around looking for the lost forward van, the Turks found their chance. They galloped down from the mountains where they had been watching and waiting.

  It was a slaughter. Louis’s men were caught unarmed, unarmored and exhausted from their climb.

  Louis fought bravely. Without the glamour and the trappings of a king, he fought like one. Eleanor did not know it. Neither did the Turks know that they were fighting the King of the Franks. That the Turks did not know was fortunate; had they known that the plainly clad brave leader was King of the Franks, they would have taken him prisoner, and they would then have held him for ransom. A king’s ransom.

  Meanwhile, night fell at Eleanor’s camp, and Louis and his men did not appear. One man, then two, then a few more straggled in, and the tales they told prepared Eleanor for the worst. She realized that she might at that very moment be a widow.

  At daybreak Odo the Chaplain led the king into the queen’s camp. Louis was riding a pack animal. The weary king walked into his wife’s tent. Eleanor smiled, relieved. Her husband had survived.

  Louis saw the smile but not its reason. He was exhausted and heartbroken. “Well, Eleanor,” he said, “can you tell me why I find you on this side of the mountain instead of up above?”

  “My dear husband, you know that the grass always looks greener on the other side of the mountain, and you see, it is indeed greener here in this valley.”

  Louis had had enough of his wife’s wit. He lost patience. As he lost patience, he seemed to lose weariness, too. He swung around and ordered Odo to find the leader of the forward van, Geoffrey of Rancon.

  When Geoffrey appeared, the king shouted, “You, sir, are guilty of treason. You have disobeyed orders, and you shall hang in the morning.”

  Eleanor, above all things, was honest. “Louis, I am afraid that if you hang my vassal, Geoffrey of Rancon, you must also hang his duchess. For I am more to blame than is he.”

  “Hang you?”

  “Yes, Geoffrey acted under orders, my orders; it was I, not he, who disobeyed. Geoffrey of Rancon was merely following the commands of his duchess, his queen . . .” Eleanor paused a minute and added, “and yours.”

  Louis paused. His arms fell to his side. “All right, Eleanor. Geoffrey of Rancon shall not hang. He shall leave the Crusade and return home in disgrace.”

  “And am I to return home, too, my king?”

  “No, Eleanor,” Louis said, “I have a worse punishment in store for you. You will continue on the Crusade.”

  “But that is hardly punishment. I love travel.”

  “But you shall also show some restraint. And I know you do not like that. You and your lady friends, your Amazons, will control your whims and become obedient pilgrims.
Plain pilgrims, I may add.”

  “Aye, my lord,” Eleanor said.

  “Tomorrow we will climb down from these treacherous mountains and go to Antioch by sea.”

  “Why not?” Eleanor said. “We’ve traveled over mountains, along the seashore, and across a plateau. Now it’s down to the sea. I am grateful, my lord, that you cannot stretch your wings and fly; the air is the only route to the Holy Land we have not tried.”

  Louis said, “Your bad behavior will end with that remark. Tomorrow we close ranks and head for port, and you, Eleanor, will close your mouth and do likewise.”

  Eleanor was struck dumb. Louis had never spoken to her like that. But she smiled. Perhaps, she had married a king after all.

  9

  ELEANOR’S NEW HUMILITY did not last. The Crusaders had to stay in a dirty port town on the coast while they rented enough boats to make the journey to Antioch. Eleanor’s impatience warmed, percolated and boiled over during the three weeks’ wait. She did not like stink or squalor, and the port town had too much of both.

  At last they sailed for Antioch. When they reached port, Raymond was there to greet them. Eleanor had not seen her uncle in a decade. He was handsome and daring and gay, and he shared Eleanor’s exquisite taste in dress and furnishings and art. It took only the ten-mile trip from the harbor to the castle for Eleanor and her uncle to make up for the ten years they had not seen each other. Eleanor emerged from that ride as saucy as the Amazon who had started out on Crusade.

  Antioch appealed to Eleanor. Why would it not? It had as much history as Constantinople, almost as much commerce, and it was even more beautiful. It was more like home. Like the Aquitaine. The stiffness of court life, which Eleanor had seen and had practiced in Constantinople, was softened by her relaxed, high-spirited uncle. What a man was Raymond.

  What a man! He showered his guests with gifts. Wines cooled with mountain snow, perfumes, cloths and jewels. He had the openhandedness that comes in men who love to share their great good taste with others.

  Raymond also had other reasons for being generous. His other reasons were political. He wanted Louis’s forces to join his to recover Edessa. After all, he argued, no road to Jerusalem was safe for Christians as long as Edessa was held by Moslems. Louis realized that although Jerusalem was in danger of falling as long as the Turks held Edessa, Antioch, which was even closer, was threatened far more. Louis could see that even though he would be helping Jerusalem a great deal by helping Edessa, he would be helping Raymond more. He was not anxious to do that. He resented Raymond; he resented the cozy, shared laughter of his wife and her uncle. Louis was jealous.

  The noblemen who were Louis’s vassals resented Eleanor, too. They held her and her willful ways and her Amazons responsible for the tragedy that had overcome them that dreadful day on the plateau. They held her even more responsible than that. Had it not been for her, Louis would never have gone to war years before; and had he never gone to war, he never would have done what he did at Vitry; and had he never done what he did at Vitry, he would never have felt the need to go on Crusade; and if he had never needed to go on Crusade, neither would they; and if they had not gone on Crusade, they would not be halfway across the world now trying to help her fancy Uncle Raymond. Even though Raymond’s plan made military sense, they urged Louis to take Damascus instead. Was it not Louis’s soul, not Raymond’s precious Antioch, that was to be saved?

  Louis turned Raymond down, and Raymond flew into a rage—a rage for which only Eleanor had any sympathy. She told Odo that she and her uncle wanted a private audience with Louis; he was to stand guard at the door and keep all others out.

  Raymond began the conference by reviewing the wisdom of his plan to recapture Edessa. Louis listened. Raymond’s plan was well laid out. It was sound. It made sense, but Louis turned it down again. “My advisers and I have decided to take Damascus.”

  “I urge you to reconsider,” Raymond said.

  “We will go to Damascus,” Louis repeated.

  “But, Louis . . .” Raymond began.

  Eleanor interrupted, “My husband suffers from a complaint common to weak men: he will not change his mind once his advisers have made it up for him.”

  Louis got up from his chair. “We will leave for Damascus in the morning.”

  “I shall not,” Eleanor said.

  “I said we will leave in the morning,” Louis repeated.

  “I am staying in Antioch,” Eleanor said.

  Raymond smiled.

  Louis saw the smile and his pride, as a husband and as a king, could not allow him to be smiled at in the manner of Raymond or be spoken to in the manner of Eleanor.

  “You will leave with me in the morning, Eleanor. You are my vassal and my wife, and that makes two sets of laws that grant me sovereignty over you.”

  Eleanor replied, “I am your vassal, sir, only because you hold my lands. And you hold my lands only because I am your wife. But watch that, Louis, watch that! Because there are those who say that in the eyes of Heaven I am not your wife.”

  “Who says that?” Raymond asked.

  “Abbot Bernard for one. Abbot Bernard says that my husband and I are cousins within the fourth degree, and therefore we are living in sin. Abbot Bernard says that in the eyes of God, Louis and I are not husband and wife.”

  “But the Pope . . .” Louis stammered.

  “The Pope looked the other way when we married, Louis. And so did you. Your passions and my possessions overcame your conscience. Take another look at our family trees, I say, and then tell me whether I am your wife.”

  Louis was badly shaken. Raymond’s smile broadened. Louis looked from him to Eleanor and then said, in a low, steady voice, “Pack your things, Duchess of Aquitaine. We leave Antioch in the morning, and we leave together.”

  Louis then called to Odo. “Please see that the queen has an escort to her room this evening, kind Odo. She will need a good rest for her journey tomorrow. Please see to it that there is a guard at her door so that no one may enter or leave her room. If she complains of being too tired to emerge in the morning, see to it that she is carried to Damascus.”

  10

  THE PLAN to take Damascus was a failure. The pilgrims had to make their way to Jerusalem without victory. Louis refused to wear his crown in the city where our Lord had worn the Crown of Thorns. (An elegant gesture, I thought.) Odo’s letters were full of Louis’s worries: about Eleanor, about his marriage, about the fate of Jerusalem.

  I could do nothing about saving Jerusalem, but I did what I could to save the marriage. I wrote to the Pope and told him of the serious quarrel that had occurred between Eleanor and Louis. Then I wrote to Louis and urged him to return home by way of Rome. I suggested that a visit to the Pope would give Eleanor and him a chance to renew their marriage vows. A chance to begin again.

  My plan worked. The Pope had long talks with them both and reassured Louis that the Church was always willing to grant special permission when a marriage served so much good. He told them that he wanted to hear no more talk of cousins, that the word was not to be mentioned in their conversations again. Louis was relieved. He and Eleanor made up. They then asked the Pope to urge God to grant them an heir.

  Eleanor and Louis returned to Paris in November, and they had another child, but not a future king. Another girl, whom they named Alix.

  While they had been gone, I had, thanks be to God, beautifully redecorated the royal palace, but the winter of their return was a cold one. Cold for Paris, but colder still compared to Constantinople and Antioch. Eleanor came to see me; she lacked her usual smile, her usual high color.

  “What is the matter?” I asked. “You look pale, my lady.”

  “Why should I not, Abbott? My husband has drained the color from everything else. His world is all black and white, right and wrong.”

  “He has grown, Eleanor. He is much more a king than the man you married fifteen years ago.”

  “Ha! Abbot. I thought I married a king, and I find I
married a monk.”

  “What else is bothering you, Eleanor?”

  “The gray color of life at our court. The tastelessness of everything. Louis now eats the plain fare of the monks; he dines with them instead of with me. Abbot, I, too, have grown. I am much more a queen now than I was in those days when I was sending Louis into the Aquitaine and into Champagne to do battle for my every whim. I have learned a great deal. I want to use what I have learned. I want to be a queen, one who sets a pattern for life in the land. One who gives tone and tune to her country. And now that I have learned so much, Louis will not listen to me.” She looked down at her lap and said, “Besides, I don’t love Louis.”

  “But what has marriage to do with love, Eleanor? Marriage is a land contract not a love match.”

  “I keep thinking it can be something more. I have much more than land to give.”

  “For my sake, Eleanor, stay with Louis. Come here, come to me, to my church, when you need to see beautiful things, when you need to talk about the glories of Constantinople. I can be your confessor for all things.”

  “Yes, for all things. Dear Suger, dear, dear Suger. Abbot Bernard says that to love beautiful carvings is to worship idols, but you tell me that love of such beauty leads to love of God. To Abbot Bernard, I am living in sin with my cousin-husband. To you, I am holding the realm together.”

  “Visit me often, Eleanor.”

  “Yes, Abbot. You shall be my specialist.”

  “In all things, Eleanor. Thanks be to God, I am a specialist in everything.”

  “Abbot Suger, you shall spend time in Hell for your lack of modesty.” Eleanor laughed. Her laughter had some of its former naughtiness, and I couldn’t help but join in.

  ELEANOR was sitting on a cloud, hugging her knees. Abbot Suger smiled down at her. “You know I loved those long visits of yours. They were the joy of my last months on Earth. What happened after I died, Eleanor? Why did you not stay with Louis?”