“I CAN’T DO IT,” said Eleanor. “I won’t do it.”
Clad in shimmering white, a snowy veil upon her head, Eleanor stood in the center of the turret chamber surrounded by Petronilla, her women, and all the visiting female relatives. They stared at her as if she had gone mad—which in a way she had.
“All brides are fearful the day of the wedding,” said Aunt Agnes in a brisk voice. “It’s natural. In truth, if you were not fearful, I for one, would be gravely suspicious.”
Eleanor sighed. “I’m not fearful. I simply know that I’ll be miserable if I marry him.”
“How many times must I tell you that no one marries for happiness!” Aunt Agnes turned to the other relatives. “This is the result of being brought up by men, especially my father—whose head was always in the clouds—and not exposed to a woman’s influence, where the realities of life would have been taught her.”
“Nell,” said Petronilla in an anxious voice. “Everyone is waiting for you. It’s too late to change your mind now. You must go through with the wedding.”
“Happiness comes from serving your husband, bearing him children, and doing your duty as a wife and mother,” another female relative said.
The chorus of agreement that followed reminded Eleanor of a group of clucking peahens.
She walked over to the bed, almost tripping on the long white train, and sat down. “No.”
Aunt Agnes threw up her hands. “If I told her father once I told him a hundred times: the child has no mother to guide her; you impose no restraints. She will grow up to be willful and assertive, altogether unwomanly. But would he listen?”
Her mother. The familiar lonely ache spread through Eleanor’s chest. Her mother would have understood, not forced her into a marriage every instinct she possessed warned her would be a disaster.
Aunt Agnes sat down beside her. “Listen to me, Niece.” She lowered her voice. “Once you’ve provided an heir or two for France, no one will give you much thought. Then, between ourselves as married women, mind, you may please yourself and who’s to know?”
Eleanor couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry. Why did women make such a public show of virtue but follow their own inclinations in secret, hiding behind a curtain of respectability? Men at least behaved with less deceit.
“People will always take notice of me, Aunt. I am Duchess in my own right, and one day I will be queen. I have no intention of, one, becoming a mere brood sow for the French dynasty, and two, letting Louis run affairs in my duchy while I sit idly by doing nothing.”
“Doing nothing?” Aunt Agnes, along with all the female relatives in the chamber, looked at her with their mouths agape.
Finally, her aunt shook her head in disbelief. “Worse and worse. Of course you will be doing something. In truth you will be doing everything! Who do you think runs matters? Men? Of course not. Women! Why, without us every castle, fief, and manor in Aquitaine would fall apart tomorrow. Who do you think organizes the households, the servants, sees to the food, clothes, wounds, illness, the raising of children—”
“If the men are at war or on pilgrimage and we’re besieged, who do you think prepares the boiling pitch, the hot oil—” interjected another relative.
“I even ensure that my lord’s armor is kept oiled and polished, his arrows sharpened, and his bow strings taut—” said an elderly cousin.
There was another chorus of agreement.
Aunt Agnes sniffed. “Why should it be any different in France? You will do everything but, of course, your husband will hardly be aware of it. My dear departed lord—may God assoil him—never made a decision in his life—and never knew that he didn’t. That is women’s lot: you do the work but never receive the acknowledgment. Such is the way of the world.”
Eleanor could not keep from laughing. “But that isn’t sufficient for me. If I run my duchy I want everyone to know it. To take notice of me. I will not hide my light behind a husband’s vanity.”
“Humph. What say the old saws? ‘Gentleness is better than haughtiness,’ and ‘No galling trial until one gets married.’ Meanwhile, what will happen to Aquitaine? If you are not in Paris to keep an eye on the duchy, do you think Louis of France will? Or anyone else? What do you think it means to be a duchess? A life of singing, frivolity, and dalliance? Your subjects are depending on you to look after them, never forget that.” She shook a warning finger in Eleanor’s face. “ ‘If the head cannot bear the glory of the crown, better be without it.’ ”
Eleanor got up and walked to the turret window. Below, the courtyard was thronged with people, their upturned faces reminding her of daisies straining toward the sun. Someone caught a glimpse of her and pointed, shouting. Instantly she drew back. Forget? How could she ever forget? In the end everything always came back to Aquitaine. Even the glory of the French crown.
She turned and straightened her veil with resigned fingers.
A short time later when she and Louis led the wedding procession through the cobbled streets of Bordeaux to the sound of bells pealing and horns blaring, it was all Eleanor could do to keep a smile on her face. Only her cheering subjects lining the streets prevented her from giving way to the misery and frustration welling up inside her. She barely noticed the housefronts proudly displaying gaily colored banners and wreaths of pink, white, and yellow flowers, hardly felt the warmth of the July morning, was indifferent to the blaze of blue sky and fragrant air.
She paid no attention to Louis, a silent shadow marching beside her, except to note that his clothes were appropriate for the occasion. He wore a white linen shirt, a purple pelison of cloth and silk trimmed with fur and embroidered in gold thread around the neck and sleeves, a deep purple tunic and mantle of the same color also edged in fur. A golden chaplet crowned his pale hair. The gems flashed brightly in the morning sunlight.
Inside the Cathedral of St. André, hundreds of white tapers had been lit; incense lay like a stifling fog; the sound of chanting monks was overpowering. Enclosed in a suffocating web of doubt and loneliness, Eleanor knelt before the archbishop of Bordeaux. Was her aunt right? Would she feel less miserable now, more accepting of her fate, even well-disposed toward Louis if her mother had lived to guide her? For the first time in years, her heart yearned for what might have been, for the reassurance and comfort she had once known—and might never know again.
The archbishop was frowning at her, she could delay no longer. In a faltering voice edged with misgivings Eleanor exchanged her vows with Louis who, taut with anxiety, fumbled his marriage lines and dropped the ring.
After the main part of the ceremony ended, the archbishop intoned the Te Deum and, when the choir had finished the prayer of thanksgiving, pronounced a special blessing over them.
“Let this woman be amiable as Rachel, wise as Rebecca, faithful as Sarah. Let her be sober through truth, venerable through modesty, and wise through the teaching of Heaven.”
The ceremony dragged on. Finally the Agnus Dei was sung. Louis advanced to the altar and received the kiss of peace from the archbishop. Now he was supposed to turn and at the foot of the great crucifix embrace her, then transmit the kiss of peace. He gingerly put his arms around Eleanor’s waist but forgot the kiss. There was a moment of stunned silence, but he had already released her before she could remind him.
After the ceremony they bent their heads to receive the golden diadems that gave them official status as duke and duchess of Aquitaine. When Eleanor looked at the timid Louis—his resemblance to a rabbit was even more pronounced today—and compared him to the handsome, impetuous giants that had been her father and grandfather, she knew she could never think of him as the real duke. In her mind she was both duke and duchess, the heroic savior of her duchy. After all, by marrying Louis, hadn’t she saved her beloved Aquitaine from falling into the hands of her own unscrupulous vassals or greedy foreign nobles? The thought cheered her. It was done; she was now a princess of France and must make the best of it.
The wedding festivities were held at the Ombrière Palace. At Eleanor’s order, the walls had been hung with red and green silks, and the floor strewn with roses and lilies picked fresh that morning. In the center of the high table a roast swan, dressed as if it were still alive, with gilt beak and silvered body, rested on a bed of green pastry marked with little banners.
According to custom Louis was handed a great silver goblet. His hands trembled as he drank, and in passing the goblet to Eleanor he spilled some. She looked down. The ruby-colored drops of wine looked like blood against the dazzling white of her gown. Like the omitted kiss of peace, it was a sinister omen.
They were only two hours into the feast when Abbé Suger, who had been absent, hurriedly approached the high table.
“I’ve just received word that there is unrest and fighting in the Limousin which could easily spread to Bordeaux,” he said. “As I told you when we arrived, Madam, the barons there are displeased by this alliance with France, and the moment our troops left, trouble began. Although it means ending the festivities and postponing the wedding night celebrations, it would be best if we headed north to Poitou at once. I’ve already ordered our camp to be struck and the packhorses loaded.”
“But there is no need to leave,” Eleanor said, surprised at his sense of urgency. “The barons of the Limousin are always causing unrest.”
In truth, there were uprisings, troublesome vassals, and skirmishes in the duchy almost all the time. It was a way of life in Aquitaine and no one took it very seriously. Besides, she looked forward to the wedding night. Despite all the indications to the contrary, should Louis somehow miraculously prove himself a satisfying lover there was some hope for their happiness. She clung to that remote possibility like a talisman.
“That’s as may be,” Abbé Suger said, “but I cannot take the chance of running into difficulties with your vassals. Suppose a major battle were to ensue in the middle of the wedding night ceremony?”
“Perhaps you’re right,” Eleanor said slowly. “If we can avoid bloodshed we should do so.”
“Benedicamus Dominum! I’m glad to see you’re not like your hot-tempered father—may God forgive him his sins—he rarely avoided bloodshed.”
Eleanor bit back a hot rejoinder. “Unfortunately, my father’s temper too often ruled his judgment. But I’ve learned from his mistakes. If diplomacy will serve, use it. Violence is only a last resort in my opinion.”
Abbé Suger raised skeptical brows but let the matter drop. What Eleanor had not said was that it was quite in order for her father to put down a rebellion in his own lands, but she could not bear the thought of French knights spilling one drop of hot Aquitainian blood. Far better to postpone the consummation of the marriage.
On the journey north to Poitou, Eleanor slept as she always had with Petronilla, who confided to her that she had fallen passionately in love with the seneschal of France, Ralph of Vermondois.
“But he’s three times your age, with grandchildren!”
“What does that matter? This is true love.”
“Oh, you’re always imagining yourself in love with someone, usually unsuitable,” Eleanor said. She would have to keep an eye on her flighty sister.
On the second day of the journey they were overtaken by the count of Anjou and a small group of his knights near Angoulême. His son was perched on the saddle in front of him, and when Geoffrey reined his horse to a stop, young Henry clamored to get down. Eleanor pulled her roan mare to a halt and Louis was forced to do the same.
“How pleasant to see you again, my lord,” said Eleanor, her heart quickening at sight of the handsome count. “Do you ride with us awhile.”
Geoffrey smiled down at her. “There is nothing I would enjoy more, but I must return to Angers at once to prepare for another attack on Normandy.”
“I understand. We will miss your company, won’t we, Louis?”
To Eleanor’s embarrassment Louis mumbled something inaudible and looked away. He seemed ill at ease, uncertain of how to conduct himself when others were present. She gave Geoffrey an apologetic smile which he returned with a sympathetic look.
“Come along, Henry,” he called to his son, who had disappeared into the bushes along the side of the road.
Henry reappeared with a bunch of ivory lilies, wilting from the heat, clutched in his grubby fist. He trotted up to Eleanor and solemnly presented them to her, looking up into her face with wide gray eyes and a tentative smile.
“Why, how thoughtful!” Eleanor took the flowers, touched by the child’s gesture. “Thank you, my lord.” She smiled back, reconfirming the bond they had formed at the feast in Bordeaux.
Suddenly overcome by shyness the boy ran to his father, who hoisted him up onto the saddle.
“You’ve made another conquest, Lady,” said Geoffrey with a laugh and a meaningful look.
He rode on ahead with his party. Little Henry, peering around his father, waved until he was lost in a cloud of dust.
“What a charmer is young Henry of Anjou,” said Eleanor. “He will break many a heart when he grows to manhood.”
Louis said nothing.
Five days later when the royal procession crossed into Poitou, Eleanor rode ahead with Louis, eager to show him the wondrous sights so familiar to her. If she could instill in him a love of her native land it would go a long way toward establishing cordial relations between them. Although Louis dutifully followed her lead, she had no idea what was going through his mind because he continued to remain virtually tongue-tied. Eleanor began to find his silent, retiring demeanor irritating.
He had no reaction to stately castles surmounting cropped hilltops, fortresses rising over stone-faced cliffs, green marshes or cool streams. The only time he showed any interest was when they visited the Abbey of St. Maixent.
On a balmy morning in early August, six days after they had left Bordeaux, they came in sight of the Clain River that encircled the ancient walled city of Poitiers, capital of Poitou. Streaks of white cloud stretched across a deep blue sky; a dazzle of sunlight illuminated the red roofs and spires of the town. From the Church of Notre Dame la Grande the bells rang for Sext. Eleanor’s heart quickened with anticipation at the familiar sound.
“This is my favorite city in all Aquitaine,” she told Louis.
She was tempted to stop at the bottom of the hill and visit the monastic church of Montierneuf where her grandfather lay buried, but thought better of it. The roistering, wenching Troubadour would have thoroughly disapproved of Louis.
She spurred her horse forward and rode to the top of the hill. The gates of the city were thrown open, and they made their way along narrow streets, squawking chickens, and squealing piglets scurrying out of the way. Men doffed their caps; women bobbed a curtsy and smiled their welcome. One plump woman ran out into the street with something in her arms. She bent her knee to Eleanor and handed her a square of lace neatly folded.
“Dame Marie, did you make this for me?” She took the lace in one hand. “How beautiful! I cannot thank you enough. How fare your children? Did little Jean recover from his ague?” She prodded Louis riding beside her. “Dame Marie is the finest lace-maker in Poitiers, Louis. Have you ever seen anything like this?”
“In Poitiers?” Dame Marie gave Eleanor a slightly affronted look. “In all of Poitou, Madam, at the very least.”
Eleanor laughed. “Of course. Probably in all of Aquitaine, if truth be known.”
Dame Marie beamed. Louis looked blank; what was the matter with him? Perhaps—was it possible he was dull-witted and people had kept it from her?
“Master Grimbold, how thoughtful of you. Has the pain eased in your leg since your fall last year?” she asked a tall man leaning on a cane who proudly presented her with two wheels of round white cheese. “Master Grimbold makes the tastiest cheeses in Poitiers—in all of Poitou. Don’t they smell wonderful, Louis?”
An elderly white-haired man was the next to approach her. He slipped a newly made leather bridle into her arms, which were now so full of gifts that Eleanor called for a groom to help carry them.
“Old Raoul, how kind. Louis, have you ever seen more exquisite workmanship? Tell me, did your mare give birth to a filly or a colt?”
After she had received more gifts and exchanged a stream of pleasantries with the townsfolk, Eleanor waited until they were out of earshot before turning to Louis.
“Cat got your tongue? Why didn’t you respond?”
“I—can’t think what to say. Do you really know these simple people?” Louis’s look of astonishment was almost comical. “To think you can actually remember their names.” It was the very first question he had originated.
“Of course I know them. I traveled with my father all over the duchy year after year since I was ten, and never forget a face or a name. These are my subjects, after all, and Poitiers the city I know best. Did you never travel through France with your father?”
“I? Oh no, I rarely left Paris—or the cloister.”
The cloister. She kept forgetting about the cloister. What kind of a king would he make, she wondered, if he knew neither his country nor his people?
“As you will officially become count of Poitou, it might behoove you to get to know these people,” she said, not reassured by his look of dismay. “I will help you in every way I can,” she added, impulsively reaching over to touch his hand.
They reached the town square, thronged with Poitevins who tossed flowers on the bridal couple and greeted their new countess with roars of welcome. To her delight Eleanor was lifted from her mare and carried upon the shoulders of her cheering subjects to the Maubergeonne Tower, part of the ancestral palace of the counts of Poitou.
She immediately dragged a bewildered Louis through the grounds to see her favorite haunts: the garden of fruit trees heavy with rosy pears and amber peaches; the stable of Arab stallions and the falcon mews. She even introduced him to Master André, her old tutor. Ignoring Louis’s diffident reaction to everything, Eleanor arranged a feast, summoning the city’s most renowned troubadours and jongleurs for the evening’s entertainment. She was determined to bring this dull and retiring prince to life, whether he liked it or not.
After all, this was a rather special night: at long last the marriage was to be consummated.