The Courts of Love: The Story of Eleanor of Aquitaine Page 14

  “That is a matter about which I want to speak to you.” He looked puzzled.

  “Louis,” I said, “let us be frank. You and I are not suited, are we? I believe there are times when you regret our marriage. As for myself, I regret it all the time. We cannot go on. I want a divorce.”

  “Divorce! How can you suggest that? You are the Queen of France.”

  “Queens have been divorced before. I shall not be the first.”

  “But . . . why? It is impossible.”

  “Why?” I asked. “Because you are not meant to be a husband. You know it is the Church to which you give your devotion. I might want to marry again. I want a divorce.”

  “You would renounce the crown of France!”

  “Yes, I would. I should no longer be Queen of France and you Duke of Aquitaine. But it would be better for us, Louis. We should be so much happier without each other.”

  His face puckered as he looked at me. He was bewildered and unhappy. I was amazed. In spite of everything, he loved me in his way. It was not a passionate desire such as I had for Raymond, but it was a steady affection, an admiration for my beauty, I supposed, though it was difficult to believe that Louis was susceptible to that. He had really been very patient with me. He found a wife embarrassing. He was continually trying to avoid physical contact; and yet, all the time, in his way, he loved me.

  I felt a little touched, but it did not prevent my determination to get away.

  “I believe you have not given this matter enough thought,” said Louis. “My poor Eleanor, you have suffered a great deal on this journey, and here you live in luxury provided by your uncle. You have always been too fond of pleasure and you should pray for help to conquer that. I think perhaps you are a little overwrought.”

  “No,” I cried. “I do really believe we should be happier apart.”

  “We have taken solemn vows. On what grounds could we break them? It would be a terrible sin in God’s eyes.”

  “Consanguinity is a sin.”

  “Consanguinity? What consanguinity?”

  “Families like ours always have links with each other. There must be close blood ties between us.”

  “Eleanor, what are you saying? I think you are tired. You have suffered a great deal.”

  “I am tired of a marriage which is no marriage.”

  “What do you mean? What of our daughter?”

  “One child in all these years! Why? Why? Because you are more of a monk than a normal man. How can a woman get children in such circumstances? You are not meant to be a king, Louis. And you would not have been . . . but for a pig.”

  Louis said: “It is God’s Will that I am as I am. It was God who put the crown on my head. It is His Will that you are my wife. This is something I accept and you must needs do the same.”

  “Louis, will you consider this matter of a divorce?”

  “No,” he said vehemently.

  I thought I saw the beginning of one of his violent rages which could spring up like a storm at sea.

  “Think of it,” I said, and left him.

  It was not long after that when he came to me. He dismissed my women. I thought: He has seen Galeran. He knows the truth now.

  I was right.

  He was staring at me in horror. I imagined he was picturing me writhing in Hell fire for which he was now sure I was destined.

  “A most disturbing suspicion has come to my mind,” he said.

  “I know what it is,” I retorted. “Your spy did his work well.”

  “Spy . . .”

  “Galeran. He has been very watchful of me.”

  “I cannot believe him.” He was almost pleading. “If you tell me it is a lie, I will believe you.”

  “If it is that Raymond and I are lovers, it is no lie.”

  He looked completely taken aback. He stammered: “The man is your uncle.”

  “And so?”

  “You and he. This is more than adultery. It is incest as well.”

  “Have done,” I said. “Raymond and I love each other. That is something you cannot understand, Louis. I know that full well. But we love each other and I am going to stay in Antioch. For the first time in my life I know contentment. You may be a monk, Louis, but I am no nun. I have done with the old life. I have endured it too long. I want to be free.”

  “I am astounded. I could not have believed this of you.”

  “Which shows how little you know me.”

  “To break your marriage vows . . . and with your uncle!”

  “He is a man, Louis, and you and your spy could not understand that. I have endured this life too long. I will no more. You can go, as you plan to, with those poor men who must follow you to their misery and possibly death. But I shall stay here.”

  “You cannot do this, Eleanor.”

  “I can and I will. It is finished between us, Louis. No more of that reluctant intercourse. You should be rejoicing for I am sure you hated it as much as I did. Just think of it! You can pray all night if you wish and none to reproach you. See the good sense of this. We are not for each other. You want to spend your life in prayer and meditation. I want to live mine. Two such people cannot live together in harmony.”

  “It is indeed time we left this Court of sin.”

  I laughed. “You were glad enough to come when you were starving and sick. You are ungrateful, Louis. If I were my uncle, I would turn you out at once.”

  He was tight-lipped and controlling his rage.

  “We shall leave at the earliest possible moment and you will be with us,” he said.

  “No,” I cried. “Never.”

  And I left him.

  I told Raymond of that interview. He said he had guessed Louis would not agree to a divorce.

  “I have told him that when he leaves he will go alone.”

  “Perhaps in time then . . . Who knows?”

  “He could not believe it when I told him, although that snake Galeran has been spying on me for a long time. But now Louis knows.”

  “The marriage could be annulled on grounds of adultery.”

  “I do not care on what grounds as long as I am free.”

  Raymond was thoughtful. I supposed he was worried about the effect this would have on Constance if it became generally known that he was my lover. I imagined that there had been love affairs in his life before. Perhaps Constance—married to one who must surely be the most attractive man in the world—was ready to accept his infidelities and look on them as a necessary evil.

  “Louis has said nothing to me of his departure,” said Raymond.

  “He is determined to go.”

  “We shall have to see what happens.”

  “But I shall stay here with you, Raymond.”

  “I could endure nothing else,” he said fervently.

  A mood of wild recklessness came over me. Raymond had made me realize what I was missing in life and I had no intention of going back to the old ways. I wondered at myself for allowing my youth to have been frittered away with a man like Louis. Time was passing. I must begin to live my life as it must have been intended that I should.

  I was longing for Louis to be gone.

  There seemed to be tension throughout the palace. It was only natural, said Raymond, that a man like Louis should be completely bewildered to discover that his wife was in love with another man—and that man her uncle. He was as one who did not know which way to turn.

  “He will accept the inevitable,” said Raymond. “I think perhaps he wants to get away from a place which has been the scene of his rejection.”

  So it seemed.

  I had retired for the night and dismissed my women. I was in no mood for sleep. I sat at the window looking out onto the beautiful gardens and wondering what would be the outcome of my dilemma when I heard a gentle scratching on the door.

  I went to it and opened it. A page stood there.

  “My lady,” he said, “the Prince wishes to see you at once. Without delay, he said. It is of the utmost imp
ortance.”

  “Where is he?” I asked.

  “He awaits you in the arbor of which you know. I am to escort you there.”

  Excitement gripped me. It seemed natural that he should choose the arbor for our meeting-place. I wrapped a cloak about me, put on stout shoes and went out with the page into the night.

  The scented air, the soft darkness made my spirits rise. What a lover he was! What I had missed all those years!

  I was close to the arbor when a tall figure emerged from the bushes.

  “Raymond!” I cried.

  But it was not Raymond. To my dismay I recognized the craggy features of Thierry Galeran.

  “What . . .” I began. I could see that he relished the situation and that added to my fury. “What do you want?” I cried.

  “You will see, my lady.”

  “Raymond,” I called.

  “Alas, for you, my lady, I do not think the Prince will hear. It may well be that he sleeps in his apartments with his wife.”

  A terrible fear came to me. I had been trapped and to my dismay I saw that Galeran was not alone. Several men loomed up from behind the bushes, and a cloak was thrown about me.

  “What are you doing?” I cried.

  “You will soon discover. Come . . . we are going now.”

  I struggled. “I shall not . . .”

  But Galeran had picked me up in his arms. The strength of the man was amazing.

  “Quick,” he ordered. “This way.”

  And so I was taken. I struggled, trying to kick, but my arms and legs were bound and I was placed on a horse. We went on through the town, which was deserted for it was well past midnight. I wanted to cry out, but it was no use for no one would hear me.

  Outside the town Louis and his army had gathered.

  My hands and feet still bound, I was placed in a litter.

  And so, in the quiet early hours of the morning, I left Antioch—Louis’s prisoner.

  How I hated Louis during that journey! I was incensed by the indignity of my abduction and I blamed myself for so easily falling into the trap. I was hoping all the time that Raymond would come and rescue me. What a forlorn hope! As if he could muster an army from those pleasure-loving subjects of his! As if they would agree to come and snatch the Queen of France from her husband!

  I felt trapped and embittered.

  It was not until we were several days from Antioch that I was allowed my freedom.

  My hatred for Galeran was even greater than that I had for Louis. He was the one who had actually carried me off. There was an inborn animosity between us.

  But when the first shock began to wear off, I could not hate Louis. He was so ineffectual. Everything he did seemed to end in failure. And he did love me . . . at least enough to plan my abduction.

  But what a sorrowful journey it was! I could not stop thinking of those beautiful gardens, the hanging flowers, the richness of the palace. Every comfort known to man was in that palace. It was a paradise and I had lost it. I asked myself when I should see Raymond again.

  I soon realized how futile it was to waste recriminations on Louis. He apparently did too, for he did not refer to my affair with Raymond. I suppose we both tried to appear as normal as possible in the circumstances because we were aware of the gossip which must be circulating.

  The journey, too, was arduous, although we did not suffer the hardships we had before. I thought a great deal about my future; and there was one point which I did feel determined on—that I was not going on living the life Louis expected me to. I must, in due course, when we had both had a chance of getting used to the idea, discuss with him the matter of divorce.

  And finally we reached Jerusalem. A shout went up from the men when the stone walls of the Holy City came into sight. Waiting to greet us at the Jaffa Gate was Queen Melisende, who was Regent for her son Baldwin, who came with his mother.

  The people of Jerusalem welcomed us waving palms and olive branches.

  “Blessed be he who cometh in the name of the Lord,” they sang as we walked with them to the Holy Sepulcher. I thought how uneasily they lived in this city, constantly expecting attack. No wonder they were delighted to see the crusaders—even though it was such a depleted and forlorn-looking army.

  So we arrived at the Rock of Calvary and the Tomb of Jesus.

  Louis flung himself onto his knees. This was the moment for which he had been waiting. I knew that to him everything he had suffered had been worthwhile. He had reached his goal; the crime of Vitry was forgiven; his sins were washed away. Louis’s faith was complete. He was in a mood of exultation as he laid the oriflamme on the altar.

  He prayed there for a long time, and after that he was led by Melisende and Baldwin through the city to walk along the Via Dolorosa and to visit all the shrines. There was a look of ecstasy in his face. He showed no sign of exhaustion and was almost reluctant to be taken at last to his lodgings in the Tower of David.

  I missed Raymond’s lavish hospitality; and how I missed him. There were times at night when I wanted to cry weakly in my bed. What would become of me? I wondered. Of one thing I was certain. Something must happen. I could not go on in this way.

  I think Melisende and even young Baldwin were aware that I was under some cloud. They did not treat me in the way I was accustomed to be treated. I knew my own attendants—so many of whom I had brought with me from Aquitaine—were shocked at the way I was treated. To have been roughly handled by the eunuch Galeran was most demeaning. They were quite outraged on my behalf.

  I thought: As soon as we leave this place I shall take some action. I must be free of Louis.

  Could I go back to Antioch? Would that be possible? And what of Constance? What would her action be? She had accepted the manner in which Raymond had treated me, the attention and the gifts he had showered on me, but she had thought that was as an uncle to a beloved niece. Now she would probably know that I had been her husband’s mistress. Would she be shocked as others had been?

  The future looked bleak.

  It was not easy to talk with Louis. Now that he was in the Holy Land, he was like a man bemused.

  A few days after we came to Jerusalem, Conrad arrived. He had sailed from Constantinople, to which he had returned after losing his army. But he did not go to Manuel Comnenus, of course. He was fully aware who had betrayed him. He no longer had an army. He came as a humble pilgrim.

  He was embittered. To have been led into a trap by one in whom he had placed his trust was one of the greatest blows he had ever suffered. All he had left of a great army was a band of ragged pilgrims. But at least he had reached Jerusalem.

  I thought how foolish these men were. They risked their lives—which was all very well if that was what they wanted; but they risked the lives of others too. They were inspired by preachers like Bernard—who had the good sense not to accompany them; they set out with hope and glory in their hearts and suffered privation, degradation and often death. For what? To pray at a shrine? Could they not live the lives of Christians more fully by carrying out the teaching of Christ in their homes?

  I was impatient with them, with the world and most of all with the cruel fate which had married me to Louis and deprived me of my lover.

  Having reached Jerusalem, Louis was in no hurry to leave it. He was in his element visiting the shrines, spending hours at them on his knees. But he must render some service to the Kingdom of Jerusalem. Even Louis realized this. There were conferences with Melisende, Baldwin and Conrad, and it was decided that they must make an attack on one of the cities of the Mussulman princes who were harassing Christians on their way to the Holy City.

  They decided to lay siege to Damascus.

  The largest and one of the most beautiful cities in Western Asia, Damascus was prosperous and set in a plain bounded by the Black Mountains in the south and the Anti-Libanus range in the northwest. They chose it because to capture that town for the Christians would redound to their credit throughout Christendom.

  Louis
needed such a victory. The crusade had shown little but disaster so far—but then I had a feeling that anything he undertook would end in disaster.

  I scarcely listened to their plans for conquest. My heart was in Antioch. Every morning when I awoke I would wonder what Raymond was doing and whether he was thinking of me as I was of him. What had his feelings been when he arose on that morning and discovered that I had been taken away from him?

  How could I be interested in this foolish dream of conquest which these little men were concocting?

  They had an initial success and were soon encamped about the walls of Damascus, calculating how long the inhabitants would be able to hold out without food and water.

  How trusting Louis was! He believed that those about him who professed to be Christians were as guileless as he. He was no warrior. He was fully aware of this, as he hated war. But this venture, he would assure himself, was in the name of Christianity. The truth was that he could not bear the thought of returning home with his depleted army and nothing achieved except prayers at the shrine of Jerusalem and the expiation of his own sins. His people would say he was saving his soul at the cost of all those lives which had been lost on the way. Wives and mothers would revile him for taking their men away from him. All those fine words, all that waving of crosses . . . what was that now? He had to have a victory to make the project worthwhile and to make those at home proud of their country.

  Alas, poor Louis. He was surrounded by dishonest men. None of them appeared to have any heart for the battle. We learned afterward that young Baldwin himself accepted bribes from the governor of Damascus for messengers to be smuggled out of the besieged city who could reach Nureddin, the Emir of Aleppo and Mosul. Nureddin was a fierce fighter; his name was dreaded throughout the area; he was a legend, as fanatical a Mohammedan as Louis was a Christian, as determined to maintain his religion throughout the land as the Christians were to uphold theirs. He was even more dedicated than his father, Zengi, and his had been a name to strike terror into his enemies.

  Word came to the men who lay outside Damascus: “Nureddin is coming.”