The Courts of Love: The Story of Eleanor of Aquitaine (3 page)

Alas, his visit was brief, but I was with him a great deal during the ten days he stayed in the palace for he was as attracted by me as I was by him. Each morning I awoke with the joyous thought: Raymond is here. We would ride together. I would sing for him. Petronilla was often with us and so was my father but I liked best the times when we were alone.

He told me that I was the most enchanting little girl he had ever met. There was a certain regret in his eyes and in his voice, and being precocious I knew what he meant by that. This was love, of which the troubadours sang, but he was a man, and for all my sophistication I was but a child, and he was my uncle, so there was too strong a blood tie between us for us to be lovers. But all our looks and gestures spoke of love; and I shall always remember Raymond as my first love.

He talked to me of serious things. I had an idea that he believed that by pretending I was not a child I should miraculously become a woman and then we could both give expression to what we felt.

He reminded me of my grandfather although I had only known him as an old man and this was a radiant young one. He was after all my grandfather’s youngest son but he had never known him because he had been born after Philippa had left.

He told me that he was without fortune which was why he was setting out to make it. He was starting first in England, for he had met Henry, the King, who had promised him a welcome. I was sure he would make a name for himself, for he was meant for greatness         .         .         .         even though at this stage it was difficult to see how he would do this.

He was a great talker and I loved to listen.

He told me much of what was happening around me and of which I had been ignorant before. I had thought that my father was all-powerful; it was a revelation to learn that this was not the case and that he had dangerous enemies.

The greatest of these was the Church.

I began to see my father through new eyes. Not that Raymond ever spoke against him. But when he told me of affairs in Europe I realized that my father had only a very small part in them.

Raymond was interested in Bernard of Clairvaux, who was at this time in conflict with my father.

“He is a very powerful man,” Raymond told me, “and it is unwise to cross swords with him.”

“And that is what my father is doing         .         .         .         crossing swords?”

“I should not be talking to you thus, dear child. Let us sing a beautiful song together. That is more suitable to the occasion, I am sure.”

“Let us sing certainly         .         .         .         but first I would hear of this Bernard of Clairvaux.”

“If you have not heard of him, assuredly you soon will. He is a monk and he is renowned for his power with words. He draws the most hardened sinners to the monastic life. It is said that mothers hide their sons, wives their husbands and friends their companions for fear that he will lure them away from them. As a young man he went to the monastery of Cteaux because it was noted for its austerity, and that was the life he chose.”

I grimaced. “How tiring such people are!” I cried. “They want to be miserable themselves and to make everyone else so at the same time. If they want to starve and mourn, I say, let them, if they will allow those who want to enjoy life to do so.”

He laughed at my vehemence. “I see you are a little hedonist. I am of your opinion. But we cannot ignore this Bernard. He is becoming too powerful a figure in the world.”

“It seems to me that one must either be very wicked or very good to win the approval of the people.”

He laughed again. “And an observer of human nature too, I perceive. What a wise niece I have.”

“Tell me more of this Bernard.”

“He and his followers became so well known that many wanted to join their Order and there was not room at Cteaux to hold them so they decided to build a new monastery. They went in search of a place where they could build it and they came upon the wooded valley of Langres which was very dark and gloomy and would have to be cleared.”

“They make me impatient,” I said. “Why choose a place which demanded a lot of hard work before they began to build? They might have chosen a sunny plain somewhere.”

“But that would not suit Bernard. He believes that only by suffering can a man come to God. So they worked hard; they cut down trees; they settled there and built the famous abbey of Clairvaux. They endured great hardship and as a matter of fact, Bernard became so ill because of the austere life he led that they feared he would die.”

“He had none but himself to blame.”

“You are a realist, my dear little niece. Of course you are right. But there was great consternation. He was regarded as a saint. You have heard of the great doctor William of Champeaux. He went to Bernard. He cured him, taught him that it was possible to live frugally and be healthy. So now we have Bernard traveling the country, urging people to forsake their evil ways and whipping them up to a frenzy of piety. But the point of his discourse now is the acceptance of Innocent II as the true Pope.”

“I know of the rivalry between the two Popes.”

“It is splitting not only France but the whole of Europe. There are the supporters of Anacletus and those of Innocent.”

“But why are there these two Popes?”

“Because there was a split among the Cardinals and each candidate for the Papacy declares himself the winner. It is dividing the whole of Christendom. Italy stands for Anacletus and France for Innocent. At least that was how it was until Bernard took a hand in the dispute. You see, Louis sent for Bernard. Louis, indulgent as he is to his own appetites—and his immense body bears witness to that—is a very religious man. How the ascetic Bernard and gross Louis became so reconciled to each other it is hard to say, but the fact is that Louis has persuaded Bernard to stand for Innocent; and that means that he will win the whole of Europe to his side with his honeyed words.”

“So this matter will be settled then?”

“What I am telling you is that there are some who still stand for Anacletus and your father is one of them.”

“Is that why he is so troubled lately?”

“It may well be.”

“Why should we in Aquitaine be bothered by what is happening in Rome?”

“What happens in the world affects us all. Does your father talk to you of these matters?”

“Of some. He did not talk of this.”

“I would guess that it is because it weighs heavily on his mind.”

“What is Anacletus to him?”

“It is hard sometimes for people to change a course when they have set out on it.”

I knew what he meant. My father was a stubborn man and he would often cling to a decision because he had made it even when he discovered it could do him harm. He had an innate pride which would not let him do otherwise.

Raymond was smiling at me. “Why do I talk to you so?” he said. “Eleanor, there are times when I forget you are so young.”

“Then go on forgetting,” I begged him.

He took my face in his hands and kissed me gently. I flung my arms about his neck and cried: “Do not go away. Stay here at our Court.”

He sighed. “I would that I could!” he said.

“Why not?” I demanded. “You are seeking your fortune. Why not do it here?”

He laughed. “What a glorious prospect! Every day to be with Eleanor. Ah, the temptation is great. Tell me this, little wise one, why are the best things in life so often out of reach?”

“The clever ones stretch out far enough to reach them,” I replied.

Then he took me in his arms and held me tightly against him. I was deeply stirred, and if I could have shut out of my mind the knowledge that he would soon be going away, that could have been the happiest moment I had ever known.

But he released me and said he must leave me. He had much to do and he must prepare for his departure and not delay too long or King Henry would have forgotten his invitation, and that would be another lost chance.

When he went away, I was sad for a long time.

The conflict between the Popes dominated the country. From what I could gather, we stood apart, for now that the King of France had persuaded Bernard to give his approval to Innocent, it seemed the whole world followed him. Bernard only had to appear with his spare, emaciated figure and his loud condemnation of sin, for people to know that they were in the presence of a saint. They immediately followed him—all except my father.

“I will not be told what to do by this man just because he tortures his body and talks like a fanatic,” declared my father. “I will go my own way.”

I was a little alarmed for him. To my way of thinking it was of little importance to us which Pope ruled. They were all the same, all in search of the same thing: self-aggrandizement, power.

But my father was stubborn. When an invitation came for him to meet Bernard at the Abbey Montierneuf, he refused to go at first. It was only when he was advised that this was a dangerous attitude to take, for the King of France was firmly behind Bernard as was most of Europe, that he finally decided to go.

I wanted to accompany him. I should have loved to see the celebrated Bernard.

Of course I was not allowed to, and when he did come back I was amazed to see how chastened he was.

“There is something about the man,” he admitted. “Something spiritual.”

“Have you promised to withdraw your support from Anacletus?” I asked him.

“I was bemused by him,” he admitted. “One really did feel that one was in the presence of a saint.”

Now, I thought, all will be well. This silly business will be settled. We shall be at peace with our neighbors. Raymond would have said this was the wise thing to do.

My father was a strange man. He had certainly been impressed by Bernard. He had come back subdued, and remained so for a whole week.

One evening, when we were in the great hall, my father sat listening to the singing with a brooding look in his eyes. I was beside him as I often was at this time. The lute-player was singing a love song about a lady who bore a strong resemblance to myself. Petronilla was at my side listening intently.

Then my father spoke. He said quite softly so that only I heard him: “A plague on these reformers. I’ll have my own way. I’ll not be led by them.”

I said: “Do you speak of Bernard?”

He said in a loud voice: “I speak of all who would seek to rule me. This is my land and I am the master of it.”

The next day he rode with a party to Montierneuf and smashed the altar on which Bernard had said Mass, and he declared that all those who supported Innocent should be driven from his kingdom.

I was beginning to learn that my father was not the great ruler I had thought him to be; nor, I supposed, had my grandfather been. Neither of them had had any great success in battle; both were men who followed their own desires to such an extent that they could not see any other point of view. My grandfather had died excommunicated from the Church—and the Church was a force to reckon with. Because of his colorful personality, he had won the affection of his people; my father did not have that.

It is all very well for a ruler to be strong; that he must be. But when the forces against him are so great that they are superior in every way, he should reconsider his position and avoid unnecessary danger. My father was a stubborn man. If he found himself on the wrong path, his pride would not allow him to retrace his steps. He must go on. Only a miracle could change him. Who would have thought that a miracle was possible?

Bernard must have had some spiritual power. I would not have believed it could happen any more than my father did; but both of us were forced in the end to believe what was an actual fact.

It was hardly likely that my father’s intransigence would be allowed to pass.

Bernard of Clairvaux was not accustomed to being flouted. He had preached to my father; he had persuaded him; he had, he believed, led him out of his evil ways—and as soon as Bernard had gone my father reverted to them!

Bernard came once more to Poitou to see him.

Although my father refused to see him, that did not deter Bernard. He remained in Poitou, visiting the town, preaching to the people. Wherever he went there were crowds. He was a later Jesus Christ—and I believe that was how he saw himself. People fell down and worshipped him; they declared themselves enemies of sin and the Devil forever more.

And my father still refused to admit him to the palace.

When Bernard arrived in Poitiers and preached in the square, people came from miles around to beg for his blessing.

My father could not allow him to use his city, his church. He rode into the town to see what was happening. I do not know what he intended to do. I was afraid that in his stubborn recklessness he would seek open conflict with Bernard; and I could guess what the outcome of that might be.

When he arrived in the center of the town, Bernard was already in the church celebrating Mass. The crowd outside was great, for the church was not big enough to hold all the people. My father pushed his way through the press of people and stood at the door of the church. I can imagine the silence. Bernard was holding the Host and when he saw my father, still carrying the Host, he walked slowly down the aisle toward him. I could imagine my father, choking with anger, because this man who had come into his territory was acting as though he owned it. So great would his anger have been that he drew his sword. Nearer and nearer to each other came the two men. My father, sword in hand, and Bernard holding the Host. It must have been the most dramatic confrontation the watchers had ever seen.

Then Bernard began to castigate my father; he said he had spurned God, that he had desecrated the Church and had rejected God’s servant.

Closer and closer they came to each other and the people waited breathlessly for what would happen next. Would my father slay the saint?

Bernard had no fear. Such men never have. They embrace martyrdom as the worldly do their lovers. It would not surprise me if, at the moment, Bernard
hoped
my father would kill him, for if he did that would no doubt be the end of my father—and such men as Bernard are vengeful—and for Bernard the crown of glory.