Authors: Anne O'Brien
Louis had to concede me victory, if ungraciously. ‘You behaved like a madwoman!’
‘I behaved like a warrior—which is more than you did! And what was the result? Did we not rouse the reluctant, shame the cowards, spur on the brave? You should be thanking me, Louis, for swelling your numbers. Not all are as enthusiastic about departing for Outremer for some unspecified length of time as you are!’
He stalked away in a thoroughly unholy temper, for was I not right? Emotion had flooded across the vast hillside like a storm wave. The demand for crosses had been so great that the saintly Bernard had been reduced to shredding his own mantle into strips to satisfy the numbers.
I sighed again as that bright memory faded under the cloud of incense and the endless drone of the prayers for our success. Now, finally, Louis was given the symbolic pilgrim’s staff and wallet by the Pope, and there was nothing to keep us, except that Louis decided to delay again, to celebrate the feast day of Saint Denis to invoke the saint’s protection. Well, I could tolerate it. What would one more week matter?
‘So it begins.’ After sharing a final frugal repast with the monks, Louis had made his way from the refectory to the abbey guest house where I was staying. White-faced with strain, already exhausted, but still with fire in his eye, he refused the cup of wine I offered him, refused the stool I pushed forward towards the fire, but stood in the centre of the room, blinking at the light from the candles. I thought he looked uneasy but it might have been a trick of the light.
‘So it begins,’ I repeated. ‘Are you satisfied, Louis?’
‘More than you could imagine.’ He smiled at me. He had obviously forgotten my Amazon moment. ‘Next year we will be in Jerusalem.’
Surprising me, I felt a surge of unexpected tenderness for him. This was what he had worked towards for so
long, and now it would come to fulfilment. Perhaps it would give Louis the ease his soul desired, perhaps I would see a return of the handsome youth I had wed ten years before—not this troubled, careworn, anxious man who had to pray before he could make any decision. Perhaps this Crusade would be the healing draught he craved. A mere twenty-seven years old, the religious life had added a score to bow his shoulders and imprint his face. Perhaps those years would fall from him if he could feel truly sanctified.
As if reading my thoughts, Louis fell to his knees before me, to cup his hands around my face. His smile was gentle, tender, reminding me of the days when he might have chosen to stay in my company, to ride at my side. To sleep in my bed. He kissed me lightly on the lips. The pressure of his mouth was warm and firm, in no manner unpleasant, and I leaned into it. Louis instantly pulled back with a shy smile. Did he need encouragement? I would humour him and let him set the pace for our farewells.
‘So I leave tomorrow,’ I said. I knew the plan.
‘You’ll go on ahead. With your women and the baggage wagons and your own vassals from Aquitaine and Poitou. I’ll follow on behind.’ Still kneeling, he enclosed my hands within his as if making a vow of fealty. ‘We’ll meet up at Metz, where we’ll gather on the banks of the Mosel.’
And there, as I knew, we would join our forces with the German troops of Conrad, the Holy Roman
Emperor, who had, somewhat reluctantly, also heeded the Pope’s call to arms.
‘God keep you safe, Louis.’ The tenderness was lingering.
‘And you, my impetuous wife. I am not sorry you’re coming with me. France will be safe in Suger’s capable hands.’
It felt good to part on such amicable terms. I kissed him again, and was urged on by the willing softness of his lips against mine. And because Louis seemed preoccupied—he ran his finger along the edge of my jaw, searching my face as if he had not seen me for a long time—I took the initiative myself.
‘Will you stay here with me, Louis? Tonight? Our last night together for many weeks. There’ll be no time for any private moments—perhaps until we reach Constantinople.’ I twisted my hands to link my fingers firmly with his. Surely he would see a need to stay. It might not be good sense to have me carrying a child when on Crusade but surely our last night should be one of celebration together rather than spent alone. ‘Stay with me, Louis.’ I gestured with a sweep of my hand around the comfortable room. The bright fire, the tapestried walls with their vivid colours even in the soft candlelight. The shadowed bed. ‘Stay with me tonight.’ I turned my face against his palm and pressed my lips there. He was my husband and my duty should not be an unpleasant matter. He would not find me unwilling.
As if stung by a wasp, Louis shook me off, leapt to his feet and took a step back.
‘What is it?’ I looked aghast as Louis retreated yet another step.
‘I have taken an oath.’
‘An oath …?’
‘I’ve sworn to preserve my chastity when on Crusade. Until I have stood in Jerusalem, in the place of the Holy Sepulchre, and been assured of God’s forgiveness for my sins.’
‘Chastity!’ I think I laughed. It was not a pleasant sound in the room. ‘A vow of chastity?’
‘I’ll not indulge in bodily pleasures,’ he explained seriously, as if I might not have understood him.
‘Oh, I understand you right enough! So you’ve vowed to refuse my bed. I should have known!’ I fought to quell the little knot of hysteria that threatened to expand and bubble over into some extreme emotion that I feared I might not be able to contain. Would I howl with laughter—or hit him? ‘And will I know the difference?’ I sneered.
Louis stiffened in holy outrage. ‘You demean my sacrifice, lady.’
I was beyond caring. The emotion transmuted into blind fury. ‘Sacrifice? And what about my sacrifice? You choose to live as a monk, yet you also chose to wed me. Or, no—of course—you didn’t. Your father chose that you should wed me. So if you take the vow
of a monk, do you expect me to reciprocate and take the veil? Before God, Louis …’
His features were frozen. ‘I expect you to live as my wife, Eleanor. I expect you to honour my decisions.’
‘But I am not your wife, am I, except in name!’
‘You are the mother of my child.’
‘And unlikely to get another!’
Louis face flushed. ‘You should not say such things. I’ll not talk to you about it.’
‘You will.’ I stood, advanced towards him. ‘We have no male heir, Louis! How many times do you need to be reminded? Does that not concern you?’
‘You know it does.’
‘But you’d do nothing to remedy it. In God’s name, Louis …’
‘I shall spend this night in prayer. It doesn’t become you to blaspheme, Eleanor!’
‘It doesn’t become you to dishonour me!’
I clenched my fists, then, when I felt the urge to strike out after all, I thrust them behind my back. As Louis took a step and then another towards the door, clearly intent on flight, I fought to rein in my anger and disappointment. Could he not even stay in the same room with me? He claimed he loved me, but such purity of love was anathema. I needed a man who would hold me close. Who would talk to me of the trivia of the day and what we might do tomorrow. Who did not put God before me over and over again. Who would look at me not as if I were a holy statue on a plinth but
a warm-fleshed woman who could stir him to physical need.
‘By God, Louis! You’re so pure the light shines through you and you have no shadow.’
‘I’m sorry.’ He rubbed his hands over his face then looked at me with what might have been grief. ‘I love you. I thought you would understand.’
I had no pity. ‘No! I don’t!’
‘I need to feel cleansed. I’ve done some terrible things in my life. I have been excommunicated!’ He still could not come to terms with it. ‘I was responsible for all those innocent deaths at Vitry. Those shrieks of agony lie on my conscience and trouble my sleep—’
‘In God’s name, be silent! I’ve heard all this before.’
‘But listen! I feel that this chance to go to Jerusalem, to stop the Turkish onslaught, is God’s path for me to bring me redemption. Christ was chaste throughout his life. How can I not subject my body to the same penance for a few short months? I thought you would understand, Eleanor.’
‘No, I don’t! You’re a fool!’
‘When I have earned my salvation, I believe it will be God’s will that we have a son.’
I gave up. There was no arguing with him. ‘Of course you do.’ Weariness descended on me like an enveloping blanket. There was no moving him.
‘I must go.’ He retreated to the door. ‘I’m expected in the abbey church.’
‘Then go. Go and talk to God. But how he will
answer your prayers for an heir without some direct intervention from you I have no idea!’
‘You should respect my motives, Eleanor.’
I turned my back on him. I could not look at him any longer. The monkish habit, the gaunt cheeks, the shaven head, they repelled me. ‘Do as you will, Louis. Spend the night with your precious Oriflamme and the oath to your long-dead brother. They mean far more to you than I.’ I could not stop the bitterness from flooding out.
I heard the door close softly and I was alone, and celibate for as long as it took Louis to get us all to Jerusalem. I wondered if Odo de Deuil or Galeran had had any part in Louis’s decision to separate himself entirely from me. Perhaps not. He was quite capable of making it himself.
How angry I was. As much with myself as with my contemptible husband. How could I have ever thought that the Crusade could mend the rift that Louis had created between us? How could anything mend it? He would remain a celibate at heart, and for the most part in body, until the day he died. And so, physically, through necessity, would I. I was too angry to weep.
I despised him. I washed my hands of him.
Nothing would be allowed to dampen my spirits. Cheering crowds lined the route next morning when finally I threw off the dark restrictions of life on the Ile de la Cité. At twenty-five years of age, the beauty
of my face and figure was unimpaired, my authority over my Aquitaine vassals unquestionable. For the next month there would be no restrictions on my time and how I chose to spend it. I was free of court life, of protocol, and not least of Louis. Constantinople beckoned with glittering gilded promise. Then Antioch, where Raymond held tight to his control and prayed for help. We would bring it to him. It would be a glorious victory. And finally Jerusalem! By the new year, in Louis’s reckoning, we would be in Jerusalem. The adventure unfolded before me in my mind.
What an impression we made, what a magnificent sight, this vast army inspired by its Papal promise of driving the infidel Turks from the Holy Land so that we might worship feely in Jerusalem. The sun shone on helmet and armour, glinting off the hilts of swords that carried fragments of the true cross. Destriers fretted and stamped, Banners unfurled and lifted in the summer air, proclaiming the might of my vassals from Poitou and Aquitaine. I rode in their midst, their liege lord, my horse proud-stepping with its plaited mane, my saddle picked out in silver. My robes, as richly flamboyant as any I owned, embroidered with the royal
fleurs de lys.
I smiled at my subjects as we passed. Still simmering with anger at Louis’s intransigence, I was not sorry to be travelling without him.
‘Pray for us in Jerusalem, lady.’
I raised my hand in acknowledgement.
And Marie, my daughter? I had already said my
farewells. She had gazed with wonder at my jewels and touched her fingers to the fur of my cuffs. She would be well cared for.
My spirits were high, but doubts nipped at my mind as a terrier nipped at the heels of recalcitrant cattle. Louis was certain of his calculations, his route, but could we trust him to lead such an army to its victory? His past failures scratched at my confidence. How could I have confidence in a dynamic leader of men when he insisted on keeping his pilgrim’s gown? So vast an army of soldiers and pilgrims depended on us, and all those who hung on our sleeves. Servants and minstrels. Vagabonds and criminals and whores. Hunting dogs and hawks. The vast baggage train. Would Louis be able to get us all safely to our goal?
The thought made me shiver in the warm sunlight.
I made a silent prayer that he would surprise us all. Before God, he would need to.
March 1147: nine months later.
The port of Saint Simeon outside Antioch in the Holy Land.
P
HYSICALLY
shattered, nauseously ill, I stepped from the squalid horror of the little round ship that had housed me for the past three weeks onto the solid quay of Saint Simeon, the port of Antioch. With me there was no baggage, no horses and no hope. Louis, of course, was there, and Odo de Deuil and Thierry Galeran—there had been more times than I could count when I had wished myself rid of all three of them. But there was no crusading army, victorious or otherwise.
What a sight I must have presented. Three weeks of storms and adverse winds and appalling sickness had left me almost as gaunt as Louis. My legs were shockingly weak. Unwashed and filthy, my gown and linen ragged
and soiled after weeks of constant wear in the most loathsome of conditions with none to replace them, I imagined my face pale, lined with fear and exhaustion. My hair was matted with salt and itched, probably—by the Virgin!—with lice. I had, at my lowest ebb, even considered taking a knife to the length of it. I had no looking glass to tell me the truth, neither could have borne to use it if I had. I would not have wished to see the wretchedness in my soul. I was desperately unhappy, my reputation in as many rags as my gown. It was an effort to hold my head high.
Nine months ago I had set out with such hope. The events I had lived through had been the stuff of tragedy. Never in all my life had I felt so utterly wretched as I did as I stepped from that ship.
Louis offered me his hand as I staggered on the unmoving dry land. I took it, because appearances must be preserved in public, and there were plenty to mark our arrival, but I neither looked at him nor exchanged words of relief. I was beyond speaking to him. On that final day in France when he had rejected me by his sacred oath to keep his body pure, I had condemned him for a fool. Now I was beyond tolerating him to any degree. As soon as I was sure of my balance, I snatched my hand away. His treatment of me I considered deplorable, despicably unjust, far worse than mere physical rejection.