To Be Queen (22 page)

After Marie was born, Louis returned to prayer, and shunned my bed once more, for in his own mind, he feared himself too sinful to produce an heir for France. He thought that God had turned His Face from the throne. I sighed, and said nothing, for I knew that when God came to the foreground, the only way to win with Louis was to retreat.

Once more it was Bernard of Clairvaux who set things right, though he had not meant to. He hated me more since the birth of my daughter. Our short-lived alliance had ended almost as soon as it had begun. He felt it a personal affront that his work with my husband, as well as all his prayers, had produced only a princess.

But Bernard's thoughts were not on me, nor on my supposed failure to produce a son. Like everyone else, he was caught up in the fever for the Holy Land. He called to dukes and princes everywhere, as the pope did, to rain fiery wrath down on the Turkish infidels who had taken Edessa, a city close to the Christian kingdom of Jerusalem. Bernard called on the princes of Christendom to ride to the Levant, and to set all of the Holy Land free.

Louis refused to listen to this talk of a Crusade at first, but I heard it. My uncle Raymond was king in Antioch. I had never seen him, and the hope of meeting my father's brother made me long to begin the journey.

I also thought of Louis' obsession with guilt, and of the absolution that could be received in the city of Jerusalem. Murderers and evildoers of all kinds made their way to the Holy Land, fought against the infidel, and were shriven, forgiven of all their sins. Louis thought himself steeped in sin. There was no more decisive way to free him from this belief than to travel to Jerusalem, as the pope and Bernard of Clairvaux called for us to do. If Louis could be freed from his ideas of sin, he might return to my bed, and give me a son.

I sat with Louis alone after dinner in the great hall. Though he would not come to my bed, often he would sit with me of an evening once my ladies had gone, when he was not at prayer. That night he had left off praying to be with me. It was yet another beginning.

“Louis,” I said. “What think you of this talk of war?”

“War, Eleanor?” he asked me. “What war do you speak of?”

“The war for God,” I answered. “The war to free the Holy Land.”

Louis said nothing for a long time. He turned his eyes from the fire to gaze on me. “I think to fight for God is a blessed thing. I think the great warriors who free the Holy Land from the infidel will be blessed, their names called on for generations to come.”

Bernard of Clairvaux had been at him in private, then.

“And their souls, Louis? Do you think they will be forgiven of all sin? Will they be allowed through the gates of paradise?”

The light of God came into my husband's face. I had rarely seen that light turned on me. Instead of warming me, the sight of that zeal chilled the marrow of my bones. But I had gone too far to turn back. I must free him of his obsession with sin, even if I had to walk barefoot to Jerusalem to do it.

“You speak of God as if you have seen His Face,” Louis said.

“I would never presume to look upon the Face of God, Louis. I seek His Grace, as all men do.”

He did not doubt my lies. Louis rose from his chair, and came to kneel beside mine.

“Eleanor,” Louis said. “I would follow God to the Levant, and beyond. I would follow the Cross to Jerusalem.”

I pressed on, keeping my voice even. “Perhaps we might seek absolution from God in Jerusalem, that He might grant us a son.”

Louis raised my hands to his lips and kissed them, not as a lover would, but as if they were holy relics, as if my fingertips held his salvation.

“Let us go on Crusade, Eleanor. Let us seek the grace of God.”

He kissed me then, full on the lips. He lingered over my mouth, as if to taste my very soul. My heart leaped, and I ignored the fact that my blood was frozen, like a river in winter. This man was my husband. I had bound my life to his. I would raise our son to rule France as a great kingdom, stretching from Paris to Poitiers and beyond, as it had once been united under Charlemagne.

If I had believed in a god, that is what I would have prayed for.

 

 

THOUGH BERNARD OF CLAIRVAUX HAD BEEN KIND ENOUGH to plant the idea of a Crusade in my husband's head, he could not let us leave for the Levant without speaking out against me. He did not go so far as to make a sermon proclaiming my evil, as he had called on all of Europe to fight against the infidel from his pulpit. Instead, he used his fiery eloquence to speak ill of me among certain churchmen and clerics, all of whom hated me already. He spoke long enough, and well enough, that his words were carried to Louis.

My people also carried them to me.

For the first time, Bernard of Clairvaux asked aloud whether God had turned His Face from us. Were we too closely related to please God, being distant cousins? Should we not seek an annulment from the pope in Rome, that Louis might be free to begin again?

In all the years of our marriage, not one man, no priest, bishop, or pope, had ever thought to question the validity of my marriage to Louis of France. Now that Bernard of Clairvaux did, I saw all his old hatred for me rising once more, and all his old hatred of my father. He would bring me down if he could, for since he had joined the pope in calling for a Crusade, Bernard had the ear not only of my husband but of all Europe.

But with Louis, Bernard had miscalculated. At court, in the months before we left on Crusade, Louis began the practice of leading me into dinner on his arm, and seating me himself at the high table. He did not fawn on me like a green boy, for we were both in our mid-twenties. The time for youthful foolishness had passed, even for Louis. But he poured wine for me himself, displaying to all who might be watching that I was his lady, his queen, and that no other woman would ever be.

The rest of Europe ignored Bernard of Clairvaux's words about my marriage, as the throne of France and the Emperor Conrad of Germany prepared for the march on the Holy Land.

As we assembled our knights and barons, gathering them for war, Bernard of Clairvaux's words stayed in the forefront of my mind. I had questions of my own. What if even a Crusade in the Holy Land would not turn Louis from his ideas of sin and death? What if Louis never gave me a son?

Charlemagne come alive once more in my own flesh and blood was a dream I had cherished since childhood. But as I sat among my husband's courtiers, and drew furs around me to ward off the chill of that hall, I wondered if the men and women of Louis' court would follow even a Charlemagne. Parisians were shortsighted, hating all things new. Perhaps my son would not be able to bring them to heel, even after a lifetime of training from me. Perhaps they were simply an intractable people for whom the south and all its glories would always remain just one more country province to be sneered at.

For the first time in my life, I considered: if Louis annulled our marriage with the blessing of the pope, I would be free.

At first, this thought burned as a firebrand in my side. I lost my breath, sitting among my husband's people, so that Louis noticed and took my hand in his. I wondered as I looked at him: if he never gave me a son, could I leave him?

I remembered the warmth of my own homeland, and the joy life would hold for me if I never left there again. I might marry one of my own barons, and raise our son to follow as duke after me. To be a Duke of Aquitaine in the unbroken line of Charlemagne was no small thing.

But I could not relinquish my father's dream. My ambition was bred into my bone; I could not give it up. I would lead Louis to Jerusalem; I would call on him to release his fear of sin, and come once more to my bed.

The day before we left on Crusade, I went to the nursery and cradled Marie in my arms. She was less than two years old, but very solemn. Her dark blue eyes looked up into mine. The light of my father's eyes was gone; I saw nothing but Louis reflected in her face.

I kissed her. “Marie, my love, I must go away.”

She blinked but did not answer. This news was not surprising. I was often gone from her. Her nurses cared for her, and were true mothers to her, as I could never be.

“Your papa and I are going to a holy place, the city of Jerusalem, very far away. We will be gone a long time. Longer than a year, and maybe longer. Do you understand what I am saying?”

I saw from the shadows in her eyes that she did not. She knew only that I had always left her alone, though I saw her whenever I could, and came to her rooms daily whenever we slept in the same keep. I drew Marie close, and pressed her against the softness of my breasts. This child would never know me. But I would love her, every day for the rest of my life, whether we were together or apart.

“I hear you love music,” I said. “Will you sing for me?”

Marie raised her head from its resting place above my heart, and she gave me a smile, nodded, and then began to sing.

It was a simple song about a spring flower that sat on her windowsill. She stood alone in the center of the room to sing it for me, as if she had a great hall filled with knights to be her audience, instead of only me. I listened as carefully as I had ever listened to any of my troubadours, and when she finished, I applauded her as if she were Bertrand himself.

“I will see you when your papa and I come home again.”

Marie did not answer me, but came to me without her nurse's prompting. This time, I did not have to draw her close. She climbed onto my lap, and laid her head against my breast herself. I remembered a truth then, as I held my daughter. One must cut out one's heart to be queen.

The next day Louis and I rode out from St.-Denis. It was a sunlit day in June, and Melusina pranced beneath me, her harness ringing like the sound of a bell. The bells of Paris and of Abbot Suger's grand new cathedral sounded us on our way as we rode out, Louis' men leading the vanguard.

Louis and I rode together in the center of our troops, with my barons from the Aquitaine and Poitou following behind us. Geoffrey of Rancon, my old suitor, rode before us as Louis' standard-bearer. The rains of spring ceased as we took to the road, white clouds drifting above our heads, the flowers of spring rising along the roadside at our horses' feet. We rode to the city of Metz in one long celebration. The Emperor Conrad of Germany was to meet us there, and continue with us on through his vast territories to Byzantium itself.

I brought all my ladies with me, both Parisians and Poitevins, and as we left the confines of France behind us, I felt them all begin to relax, even Priscilla, who was Parisian born and bred.

We had been on the road four days when Priscilla came to me, a sly smile on her face.

“Your Majesty, may I have a word?”

I smiled at her formality. Like all my ladies she had more than a word with me each day as we traveled safe between my husband's men-at-arms and my barons.

“You may, Lady Priscilla.”

Instead of speaking, she waved to a servingwoman, beckoning her to step closer. The woman unrolled a silken sack, from which a pair of fine-combed woolen leggings emerged. The leggings had been dyed an emerald green, and were too small for any man to wear; my smile began to widen.

Priscilla waved to another servingwoman, who brought forth a gown in elegant emerald silk. Priscilla drew the skirt out for my inspection, and I saw that it was slit up both sides. Once I put it on, the skirt of the gown would reveal the leggings beneath.

I laughed out loud in sheer delight.

“We are women, riding to war,” she said.

I laughed harder. “Amazons indeed, Priscilla.”

“Yes, my lady queen.”

I discovered that this scheme of dressing as modern-day Amazons, though concocted by Priscilla, was shared by all but the most staid of my ladies. They had their seamstresses sewing for months before we left, and now, the night before we entered the German city of Metz, they presented the gowns and leggings to me.

They had also fashioned leather vests for us to wear over the bodices of these gowns. Each bit of leather was soft and supple to the touch, beautifully embroidered in colors to match the gown it would be worn with. From a distance, the leather vests would give the semblance of breastplates.

Amaria had known of Priscilla's preparations but had said nothing to me, thinking that my women would never have the courage to reveal such a thing to the Queen of France. But when Priscilla presented Amaria with her own blue silk gown with its split skirt, woolen leggings, and fine embroidered vest, Amaria accepted them.

The next day, we rode into the city of Metz, and peasants lined the roadside to be blessed by the crusading priests in our entourage and to see a King and Queen of France riding through German lands to meet their emperor. As we rode close to the city gates, my ladies and I cast off the traveling cloaks we had been wearing to keep the dust of the road off our clothes, revealing our Amazon garb for the first time. The people saw our leather vests, and the divided skirts and leggings that we wore. At first, I thought they might revile us, but after a long moment of near silence, the people began to laugh and cheer.

I waved to them, and they began to cast flowers in our path. The Emperor Conrad rode out to meet us as we approached his city, and he drew his horse close to mine, giving me a rakish smile.

“Your beauty is as dazzling as the sun at midday,” he said, after first offering his compliments to Louis as his brother king and crusader. Conrad's dark blond hair was cut short, for war was his constant pastime. His smooth tanned features and the strength of his hand as he grasped mine reminded me what a real man was like. I had been so long among courtiers that I had almost forgotten.