Beloved Enemy (17 page)

The last time they met the monk had publicly called her a wayward daughter of Eve who had bewitched the gentle Louis and led him from the path of righteousness. She seethed at the memory.

“Abbé Bernard insists on seeing you alone, Madam,” said the steward, reentering the solar. “Short of forcefully ejecting him—I do not see what I can do.” He gave her a helpless look.

“I understand.”

With a sigh of resignation Eleanor nodded her head, then dismissed the troubadour and her ladies. She decided to remain seated in her chair with its high carved wooden back and arms. She was queen. Let the abbé come to her. She smoothed the skirts of her crimson tunic and adjusted the cream-colored coif around her head. While she waited she watched the afternoon sunlight stream in through the enlarged window slits, bathing the chamber in a golden glow.

Abbé Bernard stalked into the solar, pale and stern as an Old Testament prophet, his cowled white habit hanging loosely from his gaunt frame. He looked more emaciated each time she saw him. The abbé took a few steps toward the armchair then stopped. Bending his tonsured head, he fixed his dark gaze upon her. Eleanor felt skewered by those great burning eyes; for what seemed an endless moment they stared at each other across the space of the solar. Neither tried to hide their enmity.

Despite her intention to make the monk come to her, Eleanor was mortified to find she had risen from her seat and was walking across the chamber. Bristling with resentment, she felt suborned by a will as strong as her own. No, stronger than her own.

When she stood before him, defiantly refusing to bow her head or modestly cast down her eyes, he addressed her in the low melodious voice that had transfixed hundreds of admirers.

“You must cease your constant meddling, Madam, your pernicious interference in affairs of state. What says Holy Writ? ‘Turn away from your own will.’ Your blatant encouragement of your sister’s adultery, as well as inciting the king to invade Champagne, has set a disastrous example. It is France who suffers.”

“France? How does France suffer?”

“If you do not see how then you are less intelligent than I give you credit for. What says Proverb Ten? ‘Death and life are in the power of the tongue.’ Do you deny that your influence over Louis resulted in his excommunication?”

Eleanor prudently held her tongue. Secretly she was proud of her influence over Louis. She could not directly control the affairs of France, but through her husband it was possible to create almost any effect she desired.

“Do you deny that your gross interference resulted in the death of thirteen thousand innocent people?” Bernard’s voice heightened in intensity.

Trust him to rub salt on the still-raw wound of Vitry. How many times must she be reminded of the ignominious part she had played in that disastrous incident?

“Who could have foreseen such terrible results?” Eleanor said, signing herself. “But you cannot hold me responsible. It is typical of Louis to turn what should have been a minor invasion into a fullblown holocaust. A swift march into the count’s lands, a show of strength, a brief skirmish would have been sufficient.”

Bernard compressed his lips into a tight line. “You would do better to examine your own conscience, Madam, rather than criticize your husband. Remember Proverb Sixteen. ‘There are ways that seem to men right, but the end thereof plunges down to the bottom of hell.’ ”

“You think I haven’t searched my conscience? But in my opinion Louis stabbed himself in the foot with his own sword. Just as he did in Aquitaine.” If he quoted one more proverb, Eleanor thought, she would scream.

“Aha!
Benedicamus Dominum!
Now we come to it,” said Bernard with a look of triumph on his face. “You have never forgiven Louis for what he did in Poitiers, have you? You would sacrifice the welfare of France for the sake of that heretical, pleasure-loving sewer you prize so dearly!”

Eleanor stiffened. Everything he accused her of was true. Even now, remembering the sequence of events, she was filled with an impotent rage at what had happened two years ago when rebel leaders in Poitou renounced the king of France’s authority and declared themselves a free city. She had been ready to leave at once for the duchy but Louis forbade her. Despite her entreaties and those of the vassal who had brought the news, he had remained adamant. It was the only time she had failed to persuade Louis to do her bidding. In the end, armed with letters from her and explicit instructions on how to handle the rebels, he had marched into Poitiers.

The result was total disaster. Louis had ignored everything she said. Instead of even attempting diplomacy, he had caught the rebel leaders unaware and punished them by hacking off their hands. Outraged and despairing, Eleanor had done what she could to salvage the situation and restore order, but the political wounds inflicted on Poitou had gone deep. She knew that if she wanted to keep what remained of the Poitevins’ goodwill, she must never again allow Louis to visit the duchy unless she herself was present.

“I see you make no attempt to deny this, Madam!”

“Why should I deny it?” She gave Bernard a challenging look. “No, I have never forgiven Louis for his savage, senseless cruelty, his total lack of judgment, and I never will.”

The monk turned his back on her and stalked over to the window slit, his arms crossed over his chest. “Do you know what the people say about you?”

“No, but I’m sure you will tell me.”

He suddenly swung round and pointed an accusing finger at her. “It was an evil day for France, they say, when the Aquitainian sorceress married their beloved Louis. They despise you, Madam. Can you blame them?”

Eleanor, who had had no idea she was so hated, felt as if he had struck her, but would have died rather than let him see it. “I have done nothing to earn their displeasure. I think you go too far.”

“On the contrary, Madam, I’ve not gone far enough. Done nothing, you say?” Bernard counted on his fingers: “One, and most important, you’ve failed to give the kingdom an heir. Two, your frivolous behavior, your constant meddling, is the scandal of all Europe. Three, it is no secret that your loyalty to Aquitaine is far greater than your loyalty to France. Have I not just heard evidence of that? Four, there are persistent rumors that you have put horns on your husband! What says Holy Writ? ‘Go not after thy lusts.’ ”

Eleanor felt her cheeks burn, for even though the rumors of infidelity were untrue, the desire had been there.

“Do you have nothing to say? Am I to take your silence for an admission that these charges are true?”

She faced the monk with head held high. “The charge of adultery is an outrageous, vicious lie. Who dares to accuse me? Let the coward do so to my face. As for lack of a child, I thought
you
were going to change Louis’s ways. If anything he has grown worse.”

For a moment Bernard said nothing, his expression unreadable. “I’m relieved to hear these rumors are unfounded. There was much gossip when Louis dismissed that love-smitten minstrel from your court, and I have heard that Count Geoffrey of Anjou was overly attentive on more than one occasion … Remember Holy Writ: ‘Pleasure brings punishment, and necessity wins a crown.’ ”

Eleanor steeled herself to remain courteous. “The bounds of propriety were never exceeded—in either case.” This, thank the Holy Mother, was absolutely true. The minstrel had composed and sung to her a song that exceeded Louis’s idea of good taste and, consequently, he had been sent back to Aquitaine. Geoffrey of Anjou had been attentive. If the opportunity had offered itself … Fortunately it had not.

“As you are well aware I did have a word with the pope, and he granted Louis a few dispensations,” Bernard continued. “But now it is obvious to me that the fault lies elsewhere.”

He wagged his finger at her. “Daughter of Belial, you must repent of your ways: Cease agitating against the Church and France; obey your husband as St. Paul commands, and set your foot on the path of righteousness, lest your shameful actions wreck this realm!”

His eyes bored into hers and she took a backward step.

“You disgust me, you and your women, laden with gold and silver, walking with mincing steps, bosoms thrust forward in a most unseemly manner, garnished and decorated in a fashion more fitting for a temple than a God-fearing court. Are you not ashamed?”

So the austere Bernard was aware of bosoms. Far from being ashamed Eleanor was intrigued.

“If you will agree to do what I say, and, in addition, abandon your sister’s sinful, wanton cause, I promise, in exchange, to intercede with Our Lord to make you fruitful.” Bernard paused. “It is well to remember that a barren queen can always be put aside—a word in the right ear—”

Stifling her anger, Eleanor was tempted to tell him it was ridiculous to threaten her—but was it entirely an empty threat? It might be wise not to put such a threat to the test where Bernard was concerned. Nor did it seem possible that this arrogant monk could in any way change her barren state. On the other hand there were many who could attest to his miraculous cures.

Eleanor thought quickly; in an instant her decision was made. Ralph and Petronilla must pursue their own course and fend for themselves—without further help from her. She would persuade Louis to make peace with the count of Champagne and return all the lands he had taken. As to what Bernard called her meddling—well, she could be less obvious about that. Not even Louis would realize where his ideas originated.

Effecting a modest demeanor, Eleanor lowered her eyes and clasped her hands to her breast. “Father, if by using your holy influence you can help me to have a child, I will do all that you wish.”

A sudden treacherous thought entered her mind that made her blush. She totally despised this holy cleric. But if ever she found a man whose will and strength of purpose were equal to that of Bernard of Clairvaux, whose capacity for passion and zeal were not directed only toward God and saving souls—she did not let herself finish the thought.

“Very well, my child, I will do what I can. Sons are what France needs but, in addition, caring for your children will also keep you occupied and put an end to the rumors that you intend to accompany Louis on a crusade to the Holy Land. By God’s wounds, what an outlandish idea!” He paused. “Be an obedient wife and the Holy Virgin is sure to answer our prayers. What says—”

“What Holy Writ says, Father, is that ‘A wise man is known by the fewness of his words.’ ”

The austere lips twitched. Eleanor decided to ignore the thrust about the Holy Land. One thing at a time. She bestowed on Bernard her most charming, her most irresistible smile. The abbé gave her one last burning glance that told her he was not fooled for an instant; he knew very well what was in her sinful mind, and this only confirmed his belief that she was an evil corrupter of men. But she sensed that behind the iron wall of his judgment, hidden deep beneath the mask of the zealous monk, what little remained of the old Adam was not altogether displeased.

Louis made peace with the count of Champagne. By year’s end, Eleanor at twenty-three gave birth to her first child, a daughter, called Marie after the Queen of Heaven. It was not the son she and Louis so desperately needed but it was a start. Eleanor, who had longed for a babe, was puzzled and not a little guilty to find that she had so little maternal interest in this weak and puling infant. She would never have believed herself to be such an unnatural mother, and this unexpected reaction greatly disturbed her.

Louis decided that in order to deserve a son he must do more to cleanse himself of sin. The incident at Vitry was never far from his mind, and he still wore a hairshirt and prayed day and night in the chapel.

“If I go on pilgrimage to the Holy Land, do penance at Christ’s tomb, and remain celibate until then,” he told Eleanor, “surely God will grant us a son.”

Eleanor gave him a withering look. “I see. Being celibate for several years is the best way to beget a son?”

Louis frowned, not comprehending. Such reasoning was wasted on him.

Then, as if in response to Louis’s intention, word arrived in Paris from Eleanor’s uncle Raymond, the prince of Antioch, that the infidel Turks had captured the Christian state of Edessa. Raymond wrote that not only was Antioch in danger, Jerusalem itself was in dire jeopardy. He begged his niece to urge her husband to help the threatened Christian states. Suddenly the pope’s entreaties to take action took on a new and personal significance for both herself and Louis.

“In addition to aiding your uncle, here is my chance to purify my soul and lead a crusade against the enemies of Our Lord,” Louis said to Eleanor, tears of joy in his eyes. “I will ask the pope to let me lead this magnificent venture.”

Now that her own family was involved, Eleanor also found herself stirred as she had not been before. She remembered her grandfather entertaining his court with tales of his exploits, amorous and otherwise, on the first crusade to the Holy Land. It was this experience, which had brought Duke William into close contact with the exotic Moslem world, that helped influence him to compose the songs and music that earned him the title of the First Troubadour.

Eleanor became more determined than ever to accompany Louis on this pilgrimage. Uncle Raymond, her father’s younger brother whom she had not seen since she was a child of seven, was in trouble and pleading for aid. Raymond had been one of her staunchest allies; she remembered her disappointment upon returning home from Fontevrault to find him gone from Aquitaine. Of course she had heard about Raymond’s adventures at the court of King Henry of England, then his travels to the East and his eventual marriage to a princess of Antioch. How she longed to see him again.

Little Marie was cared for by an army of nurses and did not need her. Most importantly, here, at last, was a chance to satisfy that craving for excitement and intrigue that continued to plague her. For the first time since she had become Queen, Eleanor felt she had something to look forward to.

“I’ve told you before that you cannot go with us, my dear,” Louis said.

“Out of the question,” echoed Abbé Suger.