Eleanor of Aquitaine (15 page)
Read Eleanor of Aquitaine Online
Authors: Marion Meade
While Eleanor carried the call to arms to the southland, the indefatigable Bernard was preaching in Burgundy, Lorraine. Flanders, and finally he embarked on an extensive tour of the Rhineland. That year crops had failed in Germany, and since there was widespread famine, hunger undoubtedly moved many to take the cross in hope of winning food and riches in the East. Their emperor, Conrad of Hohenstaufen, admired Bernard, but his position in Germany remained shaky, and he had little enthusiasm for a foreign war with so many enemies in his own yard. Frail and tremulous, Bernard circled Conrad like an aging bloodhound. Time after time he petitioned the sober emperor, only to meet with polite rebuffs. Finally, at Christmas, he cornered Conrad at Speyer, and speaking as though he were Christ himself, reminded the Holy Roman emperor of all the favors heaven had showered upon him: “O man, what have I not done for thee that I ought to have done?” The next day Conrad took the cross.
Bernard had left Clairvaux in the autumn of 1146, and he would not return until spring of the following year. So spectacular were the results of his labors that he was able to write to Pope Eugenius: “You have ordered and I have obeyed, and your authority has made my obedience fruitful. I have declared and I have spoken, and they [the Crusaders] are multiplied above number. Towns and castles are emptied, one may scarcely find one man among seven women, so many women are there widowed while their husbands are still alive.”
Enthusiasm for the Crusade could not have been called universal, however, if only because such a vast operation required unusually large sums of money. “For this purpose there was a general exaction levied throughout Gaul: neither sex, rank nor dignity was spared or excused from contributing aid to the king. For which reason his pilgrimage was followed by the imprecations of his subjects.” Despite whisperings and anger, the expedition slowly began to mobilize. There were innumerable decisions to be made: how to arrange transportation for 100,000 persons; how to assure a supply of food for a journey of nearly unimaginable distance; how to find responsible guides to convey them through strange lands. In all these matters the king displayed an uncharacteristic amount of initiative and efficiency.
The winter came, all the more bleak and devastating because so many were dreaming about a land where the sun always shone. Thirty miles south of Paris, snow drifts blanketed the fields of Étampes on February 16, 1147, as Louis’s barons and bishops arrived for a three-day conference to discuss preparations. Icy winds pierced their cloaks, and even inside near the castle’s great hearth the men shivered and the smoke-blackened tapestries billowed along the walls. Notwithstanding the weather, spirits ran exceptionally high. Louis had promised that each would have an equal voice in the planning session, a decision for which Abbot Suger and Eleanor could only feel a measure of relief. On Sunday the sixteenth, the king opened the assembly with a report on his accomplishments to date: He had received favorable responses to his requests to the Germans and Hungarians asking permission to pass through their lands and to trade at their markets. Deputies whom he had sent to the Byzantine emperor, Manuel Comnenus, and to Roger, the Norman king of Sicily, had evoked a flurry of invitations and promises, which he intended to lay before the council for discussion. This last matter occupied their attention for much of the conference because the question of route—by sea or overland through Constantinople—was of critical importance. Obsequious letters were read from Manuel Comnenus, who, despite Byzantium’s unsettling experiences with Crusaders in the past, nevertheless effusively extended hospitality and support. King Roger sent special envoys offering to transport—for a price—the army by sea.
In the lively discussion that followed, there were those who strongly favored Roger’s plan: A sea voyage would eliminate the difficulties of guiding an army down the Danube and across unknown territory into Asia Minor and, furthermore, would bypass the Greeks, of whose perfidy many Franks were convinced. Other barons preferred the land route, the same one transversed by the First Crusade, and they pointed out that Roger, presently at war with Byzantium, had only made the offer to strengthen his own position. Moreover, everyone knew the Normans were notorious for their wiliness, and many said frankly that Roger meant them no good. By process of open debate,the arguments were presented, the advantages and disadvantages thrashed out, until a majority agreed that the Crusade would travel by land. In the long run, it was safer and cheaper.
Once they had reached agreement on these arrangements, the council took up the question of who would govern the kingdom in Louis’s absence. The choice fell on Abbot Suger and on William, count of Nevers, but the latter declined by suddenly announcing his intention to enter the monastery of Chartreuse. Suger was only slightly more enthusiastic about accepting the regency, “because he considered it a burden rather than an honor.” As the meeting ended, it was decided that the Crusade would depart three months hence. The place of rendevous: Metz.
On June 11, 1147, the bells tolled until the sky above the rooftops of Saint-Denis vibrated with an endless clangor. The cathedral had been draped with flags and gonfalons, and in the blaze of thousands of candles the red crosses on pennants and tunics seemed as if they had caught fire. Pope Eugenius had crossed the Alps to officiate, and it was he who opened the small door before the high altar and, removing the silver chest containing the bones of Saint Denis, offered the precious relic for the king’s kiss. When Eugenius took down the sacred banner of France, the red and gold silk oriflamme, which left the abbey only on extraordinary occasions, and placed its gilded pike in Louis’s hands, the voices of the faithful sounded a triumphant roar. The sight of the crosses shimmering in the candlelight and of the sacred banner against Louis’s black pilgrim’s tunic made victory seem a certainty.
Throughout the long consecration ceremony Eleanor wept, but whether from emotion or fatigue it was hard to say. Standing next to her mother-in-law, who was making a rare public apperance, Eleanor felt faint from the suffocating air and longed for Eugenius to end the proceedings by bestowing on Louis the traditional pilgrim’s wallet and pronouncing the blessing. “The crowds and the king’s wife and his mother, who nearly perished because of their tears and the heat, could not endure the delay; but to wish to depict the grief and wailing which occurred is as foolish as it is impossible.” Earlier that morning, Louis had visited a leper colony outside the gates of Paris and kissed some of its astonished inhabitants after asking their blessing, a stunt that Eleanor without doubt must have regarded as insane if not totally unnecessary. That day she had seen little of her husband, and now she watched his exhausted figure slip from the cathedral in the direction of the monk’s dormitory. That evening, while Louis and his retinue dined in the refectory with the brothers, Eleanor remained in the guest quarters of the abbey and concentrated on the morrow, which she had been awaiting so eagerly. The past year had been a time of hectic activity and almost incessant work of the type she most enjoyed, and even when there had been no more men to enlist or money to solicit, she had not been idle but spent the remaining weeks attending to personal preparations. Appreciative of the hardships that the journey might entail, she wanted to be prepared for every contingency and thus took the precaution of packing all items she might conceivably require. Into chests were folded layer upon layer of clothes so that she might change frequently on the road and present a smart appearance in Constantinople and Antioch. Let no one say that the queen of the Franks had entered the sophisticated cities of the East looking like a rustic. Into the chests also went a suitable collection of jewelry, wimples, slippers, cosmetics, belts, furs to ward off the cold, and veils to prevent sunburn. As insurance against bad weather she brought several tents; for sleeping comfort she carted along pallet beds with good mattresses for herself and her maids; to prevent illness—although she had exceptionally good health—there were carpets to cover the sodden earth. Other boxes held cooking utensils, bowls, goblets, washbasins, soap, napkins, and towels. Altogether, Eleanor’s personal belongings, along with those of the other noblewomen traveling on the expedition, filled a stupefying line of wagons, and some of the more experienced Crusaders found cause for complaint. They grumbled about excess baggage, about the presence of so many women with their chambermaids, and later, when mishaps occurred, they would remember those heavy wagon trains laden with feminine accoutrements.
Crossing Champagne from Saint-Denis to Metz, swaying in the chair-saddle strapped sideways on her palfrey, invisible shackles dropped from Eleanor’s arms. Thanks be to God, there would be countless months before she need return to the humdrum beat of ordinary life. Each day would bring fresh sights, unimaginable wonders to delight the eye and dazzle the senses. Already she could see the glassy green waters of the Danube, the saffron-colored sunsets over the Golden Horn, the rich bazaars and domed churches of Constantinople. In Antioch she would be reunited with her Uncle Raymond, and there would be laughter and singing in the langue d’oc just as in the old days. By spring they would reach the Holy Land in time to celebrate Easter in the very spot where Lord Jesus had walked and the Blessed Virgin had wept. Thanks be to God, she had everything to look forward to.
Secretly Eleanor must have felt grateful that she would not be traveling with Louis, for he had surrounded himself with the most sanctimonious of sycophants: Odo de Deuil, his former secretary, would be acting as chaplain and scribbling notes for a proposed chronicle of the expedition, and Thierry Galeran, a grim-visaged eunuch who had always disliked her, had been chosen as Louis’s personal bodyguard and business adviser. Both men, she knew, would be sharing her husband’s tent. Under the circumstances, she preferred her own entourage, handpicked to suit her taste: knights from Aquitaine, favorite ladies cast along the same lines as herself, troubadours and jongleurs who had flocked to her side despite the Vézelay bull expressly forbidding their presence—all congenial traveling companions who knew how to laugh and sing freely and who made prayers of appropriate length.
Long before they reached Metz, the road became jammed with troops hastening for the mobilization point, and the air was filled with the thump of hoofs, with creaking wagon wheels, and with the excited voices of the crossbearers. There were nearly 100,000 of them, so many that when they had all finally pitched their tents on the banks of the Moselle, it seemed as though some great metropolis had magically erupted from the bowels of the earth overnight. At the sight of the army that she had been instrumental in bringing to life, Eleanor could not have helped but feel proud. Never could she have dreamed that seething ocean of people, horses, tents, and wagons, herds of sheep and cattle. The weather was fair, and an atmosphere of joyful liberation from all restraints of ordinary living pervaded the camp. The meadows, which had rippled with grass a few days earlier, were soon crisscrossed by ruts and whipped into a bed of mud and dung from so many men and animals. The pavilions resounded with laughter and the sound of minstrels playing lays on their viols, and everywhere people sang hymns and marching songs. The arrival of each new company—Poitevins, Normans, Bretons, Toulousains—would be greeted with boisterous cheers as kinsman, old friends, and comrades from past campaigns were reunited. People strolled from tent to tent, feverishly talking and drinking good wine, until the pandemonium drowned out the cries of the birds and the neighs of the chargers and packhorses. In the tents of the victuallers, there were wine, bread and pastries, fruit and fish, roasted birds, cakes and venison; everywhere there was plenty to buy—for those who had the means to pay.
In the dew-soaked dawn of a morning in mid-June, the army began to move at last. As the procession made its way past the walls of Metz, church bells were pealing and crowds of women, children, old men, and beggars came to witness the greatest show they would ever see: They leaned from windows and turrets decked with red banners, they sat on the tops of walls, they lined the road and clustered at crossroads to watch the column pass. At the sight of the queen, they cried out in amazement, exclaiming over her gorgeous robes embroidered with the royal fleur-de-lis and her magnificent riding horse with its silver-trimmed saddle and plaited mane. “Pray for us in Jerusalem, lady!” they called out, and “Holy Cross” and “For Christ Jesus!” They gazed with shining eyes at King Louis, off to Jerusalem on God’s business, and they cheered his distinguished lords, who bore their handsome bodies stiff and upright. Down the road marched the iron men, the enamelhelmeted knights, who bore banners emblazoned with the cross and swords studded with gems and pieces of the True Cross set in the hilts, swords that had been blessed and twice-blessed by priests and bishops. Alongside the knights rode young squires leading destriers and carrying their masters’ shields. And then came the foot soldiers, so many companies of them that they could not even be counted.
As the hours passed, the townsfolk grew weary of staring and cheering. There was so much to see, more than the senses could bear: horses, donkeys, and mules, leaving heaps of warm yellow dung in the road; archers with long bows and quivers slung over their shoulders; technicians who possessed the critical skills for building siege engines and battering walls; carts and wagons piled high with arms, baggage, tents, tools, and field kitchens. Brilliant as peacocks, the noble ladies moved by on horseback and litters, surrounded by their maids and minstrels; some carried falcons on their wrists and could be seen loosing them at birds circling overhead. The earth seemed to tremble with the clatter of hoofs, and still the waves of humanity rushed steadily forward down the road leading to God’s Holy City: tatterdemalion pilgrims plodding on penitent feet, washerwomen, volunteer martyrs, seamstresses, bishops, criminals seeking salvation, beggars and those temporarily unemployed, vagabonds of all descriptions, concubines and free-lance whores, packs of hunting dogs and pet monkeys and hooded birds. Somewhere in that unruly torrent rode Jaufre Rudel, the prince of Blaye, that high-born Provençal troubadour who wrote passionate verse about a mysterious lady he had never seen, his “faraway love.” The carts creaked and the rein chains jangled; gusts of laughter were muffled by the clanking of shields, and from time to time a flute trilled lazily in the early-summer heat.
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