The Courts of Love: The Story of Eleanor of Aquitaine (8 page)

He immediately set out for Poitiers, where he was welcomed by the citizens, who knew he had come on their behalf.

I could imagine how easily he swayed Louis. He had been doing it all his life, and Louis was made for swaying, I thought contemptuously. I could hear that voice         .         .         .         with the hint of the peasant in it, but perhaps all the more forceful for that. “This must be stopped, my son. This is folly. These people have suffered enough. Give them back their children.”

I understood Louis. The thought of separating parents from their children did not horrify him so much as bloodshed. Emotional ties did not touch him so much as the contemplation of violence. Taking life was breaking a commandment. Nothing had been said in the Scriptures about the sin of separating parents from their children.

He gave way. The revolt was settled and the only punishment which had been inflicted on the rebels was a few days of fear that they would lose their children.

He came back and said to me: “It is over. The revolt is quelled.”

“I know what happened,” I told him. “Suger came and countermanded your order.”

“He came and showed me the way.”

I snapped my fingers at him. “You gave way just like that.”

“It was the right thing to do.”

“It is the wrong thing to give an order and then withdraw it just because a priest comes along and tells you to.”

“I had to do it. Suger explained to me.”

“Suger! Suger! It is all Suger. He runs this country         .         .         .         not you.”

“He was my father’s trusted minister and he is mine.”

“He was your master when you were at St. Denis. He still is now that you are on the throne.”

“He was right, Eleanor.”

“I don’t care. You should not have done what you did in the first place if you had no intention of carrying it through.”

“But I had to do what I did. Suger made me see that I could not separate those young people from their families.”

“It was a foolish thing to contemplate in the first place. You should have made them deliver up the leaders and then had them executed in the square so that all could see.”

“I couldn’t bear that. I hate bloodshed.”

“Oh, Louis. How can you be a king if you can’t even be a man? And you will never be a man while you have Nurse Suger to feed you his pap religion.”

“He is a good man. He is a priest.”

“He means more to you than anyone         .         .         .         I know that. I am as nothing to you compared with him. My wishes are of no account. You were dealing with my country. It came to you through me. I know these Poitevins. They will be laughing at you. They will be singing songs about this, mark my words. And they will make you live in their songs—the lily-livered King of France.”

I turned and left him.

He was very subdued for days after that. He was deeply wounded. I did not try to win him back, which was foolish of me. I think he avoided me by day. At night he would pray for a long time and I would doze off while he was still on his knees. He slept at one extreme end of the marital bed, I at the other. I was getting very restive. I wanted a lover and I could see that my husband was failing me miserably in that respect. How could a full-blooded woman, reared in the Courts of Love, granddaughter of the roaring lover-troubadour, find satisfaction with a husband who looked upon physical contact as sinful? With him there was only one reason for cohabitation, and that was the procreation of children.

And we had had no luck in that direction so far. Louis was only just capable of performing the sexual act with a good deal of coaxing and encouragement, so perhaps he was unable to beget a child.

This marriage which I had thought I might turn to great advantage was already proving a disappointment.

I lay in bed thinking of all the handsome men at Court. And here was I with this one!

I wondered whether he slept. I had a feeling that he was not altogether displeased by the rift between us. It gave him an excuse to escape the arduous and faintly distasteful business of making love.

Gradually my relationship with Louis returned to what it had been before the disastrous affair at Poitiers. There was talk of my coronation.

I was delighted at the prospect of this and temporarily forgot my disappointments. There was little I liked better than such a show, particularly when I was at the center of it.

Petronilla and I spent a great deal of time discussing what I should wear, what she should wear and what my attendants should wear. It was fascinating.

I was surrounded by young men         .         .         .         my attendants and those who came to Court to learn the social graces. I could easily have imagined I was back in Poitiers or Bordeaux, but for the fact that Louis was there with Suger in the background. I tried to draw Louis into our entertainments but he did not fit in. He danced awkwardly; he could not sing; and it was quite clear that he did not enjoy the theme of the songs we sang. He was an outsider on all these occasions.

Some of the men took to them with enthusiasm; one of these was Raoul of Vermandois. What an attractive man he was—knowledgeable and worldly, by no means young, but widely experienced, I was sure. He could convey so much by a look. I often thought how easy it would be to fall into temptation with such a man.

He was not the only one, of course, but for special reasons he stands out in my memory.

I had my coronation at Bourges, and it was a great success. I know I looked very beautiful and Louis was proud of me; he had forgotten his disappointment in me. He knew how lucky he was. Several of the men spoke of this, and of course they sang of it constantly.

I had begun to fret over Suger’s influence over him, but I could see how futile that was. It would not be a simple matter to remove him, and in any case I was not sure that that would be wise. Suger, for all his distrust of the good things in life, was a great minister and I knew he was necessary to the government of France. Moreover, I knew in my heart that Louis would not agree to let him go, and if it came to a conflict between Suger and me, I could not be entirely sure who would be the winner.

I wished that I could become pregnant. I was beginning to be a little worried about my barrenness. I could not believe that I was incapable of bearing children. The fault must lie with Louis. It was not that I had a great many opportunities of conceiving. Oh, how ironical it was that fate should have married a woman like me to a man who was more like a monk.

I was also disturbed by Raoul of Vermandois. He was a farseeing man in matters like this. He had a reputation of being a rake. To me, having been brought up in my grandfather’s Court, where I had known many such men, that was a mild enough failing. But Raoul did seem like a kindred spirit.

There was suggestion in his eyes as he lay at my feet with the others. He had the trick of almost creating a sexual encounter by willing it to take place, a kind of mental seduction. I found it amusing and stimulating; and with a husband like Louis I needed a little stimulation at times.

The months were passing. I took various trips into Aquitaine visiting my subjects. I was always greeted with enthusiasm and they were a success. I very much enjoyed these journeys. They made me feel that I was their ruler in very truth. This was what they wanted. They did not want the French yoke, as they called it. They were Provenal and would remain so.

I used to sit in the castle halls and there would be singing and dancing such as I had known in the Courts of Love. I could see how important these journeys were. They said to the people: “All is as it was. The fact that I am Queen of France makes no difference. I am your ruler. I belong to you as I never can to France.”

There was, of course, a great deal to interest me in Paris. I loved to ride through the cobbled streets where there was so much going on. It was a city of great contrast which struck me forcibly after my sojourns in Aquitaine where people lived a healthier, cleaner life. There they were not huddled together in little dwellings in dark streets where the crowded buildings with their overhanging gables shut out the light. Paris is a muddy city. The Romans called it Lutetia for this reason, the city of mud. But there was such vitality there         .         .         .         noise everywhere, stalls, little shops, salesmen and -women shouting their wares.

What struck me most was the number of students who had come there to discuss and listen to the new opinions which were flourishing. One saw them wandering through the streets or along the riverbanks, deep in thought. Theories were thrashed out, opinions circulated.

I could not fail to find it interesting.

There was one who aroused my curiosity more than any other, and that was Peter Abelard, who, some said, was the most shrewd thinking and the boldest theologian of the day. I was first drawn to him because of his romantic history. His story was like one of those renowned in the songs I heard in my childhood. He could have been a gentleman of leisure for he was the eldest son of a noble Breton family, but he chose to be a scholar. His talent was soon discovered; he was a brilliant speaker and as he had new and startling ideas to express, he began to be talked of. He became one of the Realist teachers at the school of Notre Dame. He was all set for a brilliant career.

But how easily one can fall! And since he fell through love, he seemed to me a romantic figure. He became tutor to Hlose, the niece of the Canon Fulbert. She was seventeen and very beautiful; they became lovers. When this was discovered, the Canon used every means at his disposal to separate them but he could not do so. They fled to Brittany, where Hlose bore a son. They were married. Hlose, having been assured that she had ruined Abelard’s career, agreed to give him up. How stupid lovers can be! But if they were not, there would be no story. Abelard was brought to the judgment of the monks, who, in order that he might not be tempted again, castrated him.

That seemed to me a very tragic story—and to others too, for Abelard’s misfortune was talked of throughout France. For a while he lived in a hut but so many disciples came to him that the hut became a school known as the Paraclete. Then he was invited to become abbot of St. Gildas-de-Rhuys in Brittany. As for Paraclete, nuns came there and Hlose was put in charge of them. Abelard remained in the abbey for some time but he was persecuted, and the chief of his enemies was that Bernard of Clairvaux who had, indirectly, been the cause of my father’s death, for I was convinced that if he had never set out on the pilgrimage—which he would not but for his encounter with Bernard—he would be alive still.

Abelard now and then was in Paris, and when he was there people flocked to his rooms to hear what he had to say.

I often thought about him. He could have been another Bernard, another Suger, but love had stood in his way; and now, of course, for all his brilliance, he was something less than a man. I wondered whether he ever regretted it or, if he could have gone back, would have done it all again.

How much wiser were those who took love lightheartedly, as surely it was meant to be taken.

So the months slipped into years; and I was growing more and more restive, asking myself how a woman such as I was could go on living with a monk.

Four years passed in this unsatisfactory manner. There were times when I felt rebellious, but I had remained faithful to Louis. Not with a very good grace, I admit. I often railed against my fate. Yet I had to be careful. I was in a precarious position. I had always to remember that I was Queen of France. There were times when I was tempted to take a lover. There were so many attractive men at the Court and all eager. If it had not been for the fact that I must bear the heir of France, I think I should have overcome my scruples. But the French crown was a matter of the utmost importance. I dared not risk having a child who was not Louis’s. It was something which, if it were discovered, could result in the most dire consequences.

So I kept my emotions in check and tried to reconcile myself to Louis. He still admired me, though at times he remembered one or two little things against me: my conflict with Suger, for instance, and the fact that his mother, a woman of considerable ability, who had worked well with his father, had left the Court because of me. These were matters which could not be entirely forgotten, and of course, when grievances appeared, they were remembered.

Like most people, Louis could at times act unexpectedly. I was amazed when I first discovered that he had a violent temper. Fortunately it was very rarely aroused, but when it was it seemed to change his character completely.

I shall never forget my surprise after the case of Lezay, the vassal who had caused trouble in the early days of our marriage. Lezay was a troublemaker who would never bow to any form of discipline, and it was not to be expected that he would forget his grievances and settle down, particularly while there was an absent overlord. He refused the usual homage to his suzerain and, with a small party of men, to show his contempt for authority, stole some falcons from one of the royal hunting lodges.

One of Louis’s rages overcame him then. He had the culprits brought to him and with his own sword cut off their hands.

This was so unlike Louis, who was thought to hate violence in any form, that all were amazed. But that was how he was when one of his violent rages overtook him. He suffered terrible remorse afterward. “It was as though some devil possessed me,” he said, and that was exactly how it seemed.

Then there was the case of Marcabru, the poet-singer, who was so highly thought of in Aquitaine. I invited him to Paris. He had an exquisite voice, but unlike most troubadours he was no lover of women. His verses were cynical, which gave them an unusual and amusing quality. When he came to the French Court, however, he wrote songs dedicated to me. I have to admit that I was gratified to have the admiration of such a misogynist so openly expressed.

Louis took exception to it. I supposed it was because he believed this man meant what he said, and he was jealous of Marcabru’s ability to express his feelings. One day when Marcabru was singing Louis stood up and shouted: “You will leave this Court at once.”