Beloved Enemy (34 page)

“I take it you think Henry a wise choice?”

He tapped a considering finger against his withered chin. “Wise? There are problems, of course. A dispensation will be required. You and the duke are as closely related as were you and Louis, all three of you having a common ancestor in Robert the Pious, King of France, in the early days of the eleventh century.”

Eleanor giggled. “I know. Louis will be beside himself.”

“Do I detect a note of satisfaction? For shame. Haven’t you caused that unhappy monarch enough trouble, my child?”

Eleanor tossed her head. “Less than he caused me—and Aquitaine.”

“This marriage to young Henry may well engender a feud between the Angevins and France that could take generations to mend. Have you thought of that?”

Eleanor rose and peered out the tiny window, bathing her face in a narrow ray of sunlight. “Normandy and France have been enemies since time out of mind, and Anjou is now ruled by a half-Norman. What is one more coal to an already raging fire? Right now Aquitaine desperately needs a strong consort.” She turned back to him. “If I hadn’t escaped, the count of Blois would have forced me into marriage, and Henry’s younger brother attempted to lay a trap for the same purpose. And this occurred between Poitou and France within only a week’s time! The future must look to itself, Father André; my concern is this duchy. I asked if you thought Henry a wise choice.”

“Wiser than who? Louis of France? Most certainly so. And I would be the last person to deny that there is great need of a strong consort to protect Aquitaine. But a Norman? Will he adapt to our ways or must we adapt to his? Your people will not stand for another tyrant.”

Eleanor did not answer, could not answer. She returned to her seat and looked at the chaplain with troubled eyes. When she had impulsively offered Henry her hand and duchy, she felt certain they would suit one another, above and beyond her feelings as a woman for him. She could appreciate Henry’s strength, approve his vaulting ambition, and identify with his dream of ruling England.

“He has showed no signs of being a tyrant—” she began then stopped, realizing that this was no guarantee that he would not turn out to be one.

Master André was watching her carefully. “Louis of France behaved like the mildest of men—but not in Poitou when he cut off the hands of the rebel leaders, or in Vitry where he was responsible for the death of thirteen thousand innocent people.”

Eleanor found she could not meet his eyes. Now that she was in the sanctity of her own domain, she felt less certain about Henry. In truth, except for his titles and lineage, she barely knew this personable youth to whom she had already committed herself.

“I suspect there will be a need to adapt on both sides,” she said at last, thrusting aside a niggle of doubt.

The chaplain nodded approvingly. “Compromise is always the wise course to follow. Those that bend do not break. And it is well to remember that your father thought very highly of Count Geoffrey of Anjou; your grandfather, albeit briefly, was once married to a sister of Geoffrey’s father. Thus Poitou and Anjou are not exactly strangers. How far can the apple fall from the tree?”

After a moment’s pause he shot her a keen glance. “I hope you have properly thanked God and His Holy Mother for your good fortune?”

“I hardly need reminding.”

“Oh, but you do. After all these years, you think I’m unaware of your attitude toward the Church? Just bear in mind that the main reason you did not lose Aquitaine to France was due to the skillful negotiations of the archbishop of Bordeaux. He saw to it that the marriage contract to Louis should stipulate that Aquitaine could only be incorporated into the kingdom of France when you had borne a son and that son succeeded on the throne.”

“Yes, all right. I truly
am
grateful. Don’t be tiresome.”

“There is much you can teach your new husband,” mused the chaplain. “The duke is mettlesome but young, not yet hardened in his ways; he can still be molded to your hand, subtly introduced to our customs and how we go about things here.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Eleanor said. She was about to say more but saw there was no need.

Her eyes met the old chaplain’s. For an instant their disparate identities—churchman and duchess—blurred, as two Aquitainians exchanged a look of perfect understanding.

For the next few weeks Eleanor was so busy seeing to the administration of her duchy that there was little time to yearn for Henry. By prior agreement, all Louis’s men were to be withdrawn from key positions in Aquitaine and replaced with her own loyal vassals. Three clerks as well as the chaplain were kept busy writing letters to her chief barons informing them that once again she was now duchess of Aquitaine and countess of Poitou in her own right and acting as such; they must once again renew their oaths of homage and fealty to her. In addition, Eleanor issued an edict declaring every act she and Louis had made together, or that Louis had made alone, now null and void.

“I intend to obliterate the last fifteen years as if they never existed,” she told Master André, “and start anew.”

“Is this for the benefit of your subjects, or are you punishing Louis for your unhappy life in France?”

Eleanor made a face at him but did not answer.

While letters were being written and messages sent, there was the tower to be cleaned and refurbished, her own possessions restored and polished. Everything must be made ready for the arrival of her future husband—although she had received no word from Henry and had no idea when he would make an appearance.

As the days passed, Eleanor’s concern for the Norman duke was mitigated by the enormous sense of satisfaction she was achieving from finally being able to do things her way in her own duchy without male interference. Instinctively, miraculously, effortlessly, she knew exactly how to proceed without once placing a foot wrong.

One of the first things she did was to design her own seal. On one side was the figure of a bare-headed woman with outstretched arms, a falcon in one hand, a fleur-de-lis in the other. The inscription stated simply, “Eleanor, Duchess of Aquitaine.” On the reverse side were the titles she would acquire when she married: Countess of Anjou, Duchess of Normandy. The figure on this side would be clad in a tight gown and a veil falling to the ground.

When Master André told her that various abbeys and convents were concerned about their rights and privileges, she acted immediately.

“Tell the abbot of Montierneuf Abbey to attend me as soon as possible.”

“Lady,” said the old abbot in a quavering voice, as he approached her in the great hall of the Tower the following day. “I hope you have not forgotten us.”

Eleanor, seated on a raised dais, rose to her feet to welcome him. “On the contrary, I intend to renew all the abbey’s privileges granted by my great-grandfather, grandfather, and father.” She turned to the two clerks who attended her. “Please draw up the charter at once.”

She was rewarded by a toothless smile of relief.

When the abbot of St.-Maixent complained that in her sweeping removal of all Louis’s grants the abbey’s woods, donated by the French king, had reverted back to her, Eleanor acknowledged her error. She instructed the clerk:

“Write the abbot that I gladly renew all his abbey’s rights to those lands.”

The abbot was overcome with gratitude at her prompt handling of the situation.

It was so easy, really, to keep these people happy, Eleanor realized. You listened, showed interest, and acted for the greatest good of all concerned.

One morning in mid-May, a sudden impulse took her to visit the abbey of Fontevrault near the Angevin border. She now knew a great deal more about its origins than she had as a pupil there, and what she knew appealed to her.

Founded fifty-three years ago by a Breton reformer who, astoundingly, believed in the superiority of women, Fontevrault had been dedicated to the Virgin. The abbey was unique in that it housed both nuns and monks under the rule of an abbess. Over the years it had become a refuge for battered noblewomen escaping from abusive husbands. Eleanor’s own grandmother on her father’s side, the Troubadour’s second wife, Phillipa of Toulouse, enraged at her philandering husband and his mistress, Dangereuse, had ended her days at Fontevrault.

“You have not visited us since you were a pupil here,” the abbess said, as they sat in her private quarters, over wine and honey cakes baked in the abbey’s own kitchens. “Of course I was much younger then, but I remember you very well.”

Eleanor laughed. “In and out of scrapes, as I recall.” She paused. “You know my marriage to King Louis is annulled?”

The abbess’s face, framed by a snowy wimple, creased into a wide smile. “Surely all Europe knows this by now.”

“Of course. I had forgotten that in these parts gossip travels faster than the wind. What you may not know, however, is that soon I’m to marry Duke Henry of Normandy, now count of Anjou as well, and one day king of England—or so we fervently hope.”

She could not keep the note of pride from her voice.

“Indeed, I had not heard that. I wish the Holy Mother’s blessing upon you, my child.” The abbess paused. “I was Alys of Anjou when I entered Fontevrault, thus you may not know that Henry of Normandy is my nephew. His father, Geoffrey—may he rest in peace—was my younger brother, and for a very brief time—I was only thirteen—I was wed to Henry’s uncle, his mother’s twin brother, William, who drowned in the White Ship only days after our wedding.”

Eleanor stared. “How extraordinary. I had no idea.”

The abbess smiled. “Soon I will be your aunt-in-law. I cannot help but feel that there are so many coincidences here, the Holy Mother must have intended our lives to intertwine.”

With the exception of Petronilla, now married to Ralph and living in France, Eleanor had never sought either the counsel or company of women, despite her affection for her mother, the influence of her grandmother, and her great admiration for the abbess—long since dead—she had known here as a child. Winning the approval of men had been so much more important to her survival. Now, to her surprise, she found she wanted the approbation of this woman whose serene presence permeated the chamber like a ray of sunlight.

“Then I take it you approve of this marriage, Reverend Mother?”

The abbess cocked her head to one side. “It is not for me to approve or disapprove, though naturally I am partial to my nephew. The duchy’s welfare aside, your own heart is your best guide.”

Eleanor took a sip of wine. “Not God? Or the Holy Mother?”

“Do I detect a note of skepticism?” The abbess wagged a gently reproving finger. “The Holy Mother
is
guiding us when we follow the true dictates of our heart.”

It was the last thing Eleanor had expected to hear, and it disposed her to intimacy. “I will remember that.” She leaned forward. “You know, I’ve never really had the opportunity to be my own mistress before. I must say I truly enjoy it.”

The abbess’s eyes twinkled. “Naturally, for now you are both duke and duchess with no one to gainsay you. The power is all yours.” She paused. “Though from all I hear—and I hear a great deal that goes on in Poitou—you’re using that power most wisely. It appears to me that you have the makings of a great administrator, my child. Far better than your well-meaning father, who, I often heard, frequently behaved with reckless abandon where the duchy was concerned.”

At this unexpected praise, Eleanor was overcome with a surge of pleasure. In France she had been acknowledged only as a troublemaker.

“In truth, Reverend Mother, sometimes I am at a loss to understand the male way of things. Louis and his advisors complicated everything. My people can be difficult, but if one is willing to be impartial, give them generally what they want—if no harm results—and respect their differences, this business of ruling can be greatly simplified.”

“I tend to agree—but do not be surprised if my nephew views the matter in a different light.”

Eleanor searched the calm face before her, almost afraid to ask the abbess what she meant. “I’m not sure I understand. Is this a warning?”

There was a long pause. Then the abbess leaned forward and took Eleanor’s hand in her cool dry fingers. “This is a heady time for you, my child. A golden future beckons. Just remember that a house cannot have two masters.” She smiled. “Be guided by the example of St. Radegonde, the patron saint of Poitou. At a time when Church councils were debating whether woman has a soul, she proved that a gentle female of intelligence and courage could create her own world. Through Radegonde the world of learning and transcribing manuscripts became open to us. In an age of true barbarity, she was a glowing illustration of what a woman can do.”

The abbess released Eleanor’s hand, rising to her feet. “And now, I fear, my duties call me.”

“It is with great gladness that I, as duchess, renew all Fontevrault’s privileges,” Eleanor said, also rising. “In addition I would like to add five hundred silver pennies as a personal donation—let it go to the support of the abused wives and noblewomen that take refuge here.”

“It is a regal gift. We are very grateful. One day, perhaps, Fontevrault can show its gratitude.”

“I hardly expect to seek refuge here as the victim of a cruel and abusive husband,” Eleanor said, laughing.

“No indeed.” The abbess joined in the laughter.

Elated that she had discovered a friend, Eleanor left the abbey in high spirits.

A week later her formidable Aunt Agnes, who was now abbess of the Convent of Saintes, descended on the Maubergeonne Tower in high dudgeon.

“The news is all over Poitou that you have given that upstart Fontevrault a huge donation,” her aunt announced.

This abbess’s presence was far from serene. Her thin lips reminded Eleanor of a steel trap, and the gray hairs sprouting from her chin quivered in accusation.

“Dearest Aunt, what a pleasant surprise! Would you believe I was just about to send for you to discuss new lands and privileges for Saintes?”

Aunt Agnes snorted but allowed herself to be placated.

Shortly thereafter her mother’s shrewd, mischief-making brothers appeared from Châttellerault. She promptly appointed one of them, Ralph de Faye, as seneschal of the duchy, knowing that if she gave him power he could be trusted to keep the others in line. When she heard that her troublesome neighbors, the de Lusignans, were threatening not to renew their oaths of homage to her, Eleanor invited them to a feast where she succeeded in charming them into grudging compliance.