THE FOLLOWING MORNING WHEN Eleanor joined Constance and her ladies to break the night’s fast, she learned that during the night Raymond had received an urgent dispatch informing him of trouble on his northern borders. He had left before sunrise for a three-day inspection of the area, taking half his army with him. She was disappointed, half-hoping that there might be a repeat of the joyous events of yesterday afternoon—although she knew that such a possibility was unlikely to occur. Unfortunately, Louis was very much in evidence, and acting strangely—his manner agitated, almost hostile. Did he suspect what had transpired between Raymond and her? It seemed impossible; on the other hand …
“Is anything amiss?” she asked him, after they had attended the noon mass at St. Peter’s and were walking back to her quarters.
“Should anything be amiss?” His face was set in grim lines and he did not address her directly.
“If I knew, I would not have asked.” Eleanor paused. “You’re behaving oddly.”
“Perhaps I have good cause.” The words were bitten off, as if he regretted having said them. Not once did his eyes meet hers.
Eleanor’s throat grew dry and her heart thumped. She decided to brazen it out. “If you have something to say to me, Louis, then out with it. Stop talking in riddles.”
“I think it time we left Antioch and visited Jerusalem. That is why we came.”
“We came to give aid to those Christian states in danger of attack from the infidel, yet you will not lift a finger to help Raymond.” She tossed her head. “I am not ready to leave Antioch. I have barely arrived.”
Louis glared at her. “But I am ready. I order you as your sovereign and husband to obey my wishes. We will leave this—this unholy place at once.”
“I absolutely refuse to go. However, you are free to leave without me.”
He lapsed into one of his sullen silences. For Eleanor the remainder of the day turned oppressive, as if a heavy black cloud enveloped the palace, even the city itself. Whenever she saw Louis and his entourage, their heads were always together, and they talked in whispers. The moment they saw Eleanor they immediately broke off their conversation.
“Whatever is the matter with your husband and his party? They are behaving most strangely,” Constance remarked, as they sat in the courtyard beside the white marble fountain.
So the feeling of conspiracy was not just her imagination. Something was afoot.
“I wish my uncle were here,” Eleanor said, then immediately regretted her impulsiveness.
After a moment’s silence, Constance glanced at her sideways. Was that a look of resentment in her eyes? Eleanor felt decidedly uncomfortable.
“Yes, life is always more amusing when Raymond is about. He should return within two days.” Constance smiled placidly.
Repressing a stab of guilt, Eleanor wondered if she was letting her conscience play tricks on her.
The rest of the day, that night, and the following day passed without incident. Still Eleanor grew increasingly anxious. Although she could not put a finger on what was wrong exactly, Louis’s hostile manner and her own intuitive sense gave her the impression she was surrounded by enemies. Only one more day, then Raymond would return.
That night Eleanor barely slept. Every few hours she awakened, filled with disquiet, only to fall back into an uneasy slumber. She woke again as the church bells tolled the midnight hour, then drifted off once more. Suddenly she heard a footfall. Opening her eyes she saw five figures looming out of the darkness surrounding her bed. She started to scream but a hand covered her mouth. Two of the figures, obviously female from the outline of their long skirts, pulled chemise, gown, and tunic over her head before she could entirely grasp what was happening. When she started to struggle, her eyes and lips were bound with cloths, her ankles and wrists tied tightly with rope. Her body was rolled up in a fur coverlet, slung over someone’s shoulder like a sack of grain, and carried out of the chamber.
No one spoke. Eleanor sensed she was being removed from the palace and placed in a litter. Rage and fear warred within her. Had the Turks gained entry into Antioch? Stolen into the palace like thieves in the night, and abducted her for ransom?
The litter swayed like a ship in a rolling sea. Behind her came the muffled sound of carts and many horses, then the creak of hinges slowly opening. They must be going through the St. Paul Gate. Sweet St. Radegonde, it sounded as if the entire French army were leaving Antioch. Could it be Louis himself who had abducted her? The last sound she heard, one she was never to forget, was the call of the muezzin summoning his flock to morning prayer.
After what seemed an endless time, the cloth was removed from Eleanor’s mouth, the blindfold from her eyes, and the ropes from her wrists and ankles. She found herself sitting next to Louis in the litter. When she pushed aside the curtain, the noon sun was blazing high overhead, causing her eyes to water.
“How are you, Wife?” Louis asked in a solicitous voice as he handed her a silver flask of wine. “I should tell you that we are well away from Antioch, on the road to Jerusalem.”
Eleanor was so choked with rage and pain and humiliation that only hoarse incoherent sounds issued from her throat. Louis, his face pale but triumphant, gazed at her in concern. With the last ounce of strength left in her, Eleanor hit him full force across the face with the flask. Blood spurted from his nostrils.
The look of triumph in his eyes changed to one of horror.
“Why, why have you done this? Take me back to Antioch,” she cried, beating at his face with her fists, tears draining from her eyes. “I will never, never, never forgive you.”
Despite her screams and protests, Louis would not budge.
“Raymond is an evil, corrupt influence. You would not come of your own accord, thus, for your own protection, I was forced to take these ignominious measures before he returned. He has more men than I do and would have prevented us from leaving, I doubt not.” He wiped the blood from his face with his sleeve. “Your spirits will be restored when we reach Jerusalem.”
Whatever Louis had discovered about that rapturous afternoon, and how he had discovered it, would remain a mystery. But he had acted too late, thank the Holy Mother. He could take her as far away as the moon and it would not matter.
Eleanor knew that the encounter with Raymond of Antioch had changed the course of her life forever.
Jerusalem turned out to be a fascinating city, but one which Eleanor felt certain she would always remember with bitterness.
The Persian carpets, pale blue damask hangings, inlaid marble walls, and carved ivory and wood furniture, which had been so exquisite in Antioch, were oppressive in their quarters in the Tower of David. Even the Chinese porcelain dishes, brought by caravan from the East, were no match for Raymond’s gold plate.
Louis, however, could hardly contain his joy. He insisted Eleanor join him on a tour of the city’s shrines, scattering alms everywhere. When he laid the oriflamme he had brought with him from France on the tomb of the Savior, he was in a state of sublime ecstasy.
Although he showered her with gifts—a delicate Persian vase, a gold cross set with rubies—as the weeks went by it became increasingly evident to Eleanor that Louis was having her watched. He either accompanied her everywhere himself or had her escorted by his own equerries. What did he think she would do? Try to flee back to Raymond? She longed to do just that but knew it was impossible. There had been no word from Antioch since she left and as time passed the lack of news became increasingly ominous.
Meanwhile she wandered restlessly about the city, momentarily distracted by the shaded courts, the narrow streets with their countless steps, the stalls of the bazaars, the camel caravans loaded with spices and perfumes. But all the while her thoughts turned to Raymond as she relived again and again their enchanting afternoon together.
In order to put her attention on something other than what might be happening in Antioch, she joined Louis in his pilgrimage along the Via Dolorosa, listened to mass in the Holy Sepulcher, observed the spot where the Last Supper had taken place, and toiled up the slopes of the Mount of Olives. One pearly dawn they visited the Sea of Galilee.
“Look,” Louis said to Eleanor as they stood on the shore watching the fishermen in their little boats. “They’re dropping their nets just as they did in the days of the apostles.” He fell to the ground and began to kiss with rapture the sandy bank.
Eleanor observed him coldly. In all their eleven years together he had never approached her with anything like the passion he displayed now.
“Really, Louis, how can all these ruins excite you? Everything we see is ancient and falling to pieces. A treasured monument to the holy past, I grant you, but only valuable as it reaches into the present and has something to teach us. I have seen and learned everything I’m interested in. Let us return to France.”
“I’m not ready to return,” he said, rising to his knees. “I was hoping the city might have a holy influence on you. Whatever you may have learned it does not strike me that you have become a more repentant and dutiful wife.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“I think you know.”
Eleanor forced herself to keep silent. Louis was continually dropping veiled hints about her behavior with one breath then refusing to clarify what he meant with the next. The situation was intolerable.
Without a word Eleanor stormed back to the waiting litter. “Take me back to the city at once,” she told the grooms. “You can return for the king later.” She experienced a perverse pleasure in leaving the astonished Louis stranded by the sunlit shores of the lake.
When she returned to their lodging in the Tower of David, seething with frustration and resentment, a knight from Antioch awaited her.
“Lady, I bring ill news.”
Eleanor dismissed her women, called for some of the local Syrian wine, then seated herself on a cushioned divan in a chamber. Her heart was heavy with foreboding; she did not want to ask the dreaded question lest she be proved right.
“It is Count Raymond,” said the knight.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Tell me.”
“The tale does not make easy telling.”
“Be that as it may, I would hear it all.” She gripped her hands tightly in her lap. Thank the Holy Mother Louis was not with her.
“I am one of only a handful of knights who managed to escape from Antioch and make his way to Jerusalem,” he began.
“When Prince Raymond returned to the palace, and found you and the king gone, he became violently angry, determined to prove to the French that he did not need them. I’ve never seen my lord so distraught, so unwilling to listen to reason. Exhibiting a rash impulsiveness—”
Eleanor held up her hands. “I can hardly bear to hear the rest. Sweet St. Radegonde, this sounds so typical, so characteristic of my family.” Her breath caught in her throat. “Forgive me. Go on.”
“Your uncle, who is a peace-loving man at heart, ignored the advice of cooler heads as if he were seized by some kind of madness, provoked beyond all reason. He senselessly attacked the Turks with a meager force of men. A massacre followed. Count Raymond was slain almost immediately. His head—” He paused while Eleanor exclaimed in horror. “Forgive me, Lady, I knew this would distress you but you wanted to hear. His head was cut off, the skull set in silver, and sent to the Caliph of Baghdad. Antioch is lost to the Turks.”
Tears filled her eyes and an intolerable weight bore down upon her chest. Beyond speech, Eleanor reached out and pressed the knight’s hand. Unable to stop herself, she sobbed uncontrollably. Dimly she heard the knight leave and her women enter. She felt wine being virtually forced down her throat, then, still weeping, she let herself be led into her chamber and put to bed.
It seemed like she had just closed her eyes when she opened them again. It was dusk. The candles had been lit and the chamber was filled with a soft light. Eleanor, clad only in the chemise she had worn earlier that day, slid out of bed, her body numb, her head cloudy, unable to get her bearings. Where were her women? As she stumbled toward the closed door, she almost fell against a small olive-wood table. In the center were two vases and the ruby cross Louis had given her. Without warning she was seized by such an overpowering rage that it took her breath away.
Eleanor snatched the cross from the table and raising her arm above her head brought it crashing down on one of the vases. The fragile porcelain cracked like an eggshell; violet shards flew over her, slid across the table and onto the thick carpet.
“I’m going to kill you, Louis!” a stranger’s voice screamed. “I want to make you suffer as you have made me suffer.” She smashed the other vase, then began to beat the table. Huge dents, smeared with a scarlet stain, appeared in the satiny wood. “Do you hear me? I’m going to kill you, kill you, kill you!”
The scarlet stains spread. Eleanor stared at them in confusion then looked down. Her chemise was spattered with scarlet; one hand was dripping blood. A piece of sharp porcelain had lodged in her palm and she had not even felt it. Quickly she pulled it out, leaving a narrow wound in the center of her hand. Dropping the cross she covered her mouth with her hands, sobbing as her body rocked back and forth, back and forth.
Somewhere, deep, deep within her, Eleanor had suspected the existence of this wild, crazed maenad who had overcome her reason. The creature was terrifying, capable of anything, and she must suppress it at all costs. She must. This same frenzied impulse to destroy when thwarted, to vent rage, had led Raymond to his untimely death. It was the curse of her impetuous family, and she could not give in to it and hope to survive.
She heard the sound of running feet. By the time her women burst into the chamber, stunned at the blood, ruined table, and smashed vases, Eleanor, trembling, had forced upon herself a semblance of control.
“Bandage my wound. Tidy the chamber and find out the cost of the table. Remove that cross. I never want to set eyes on it again.”
After a few days the first onslaught of grief and rage had abated. By the time she regained control of her anguish and recovered a measure of composure, Eleanor was able to review the entire sequence of events with a clearer head. One outstanding fact emerged: Raymond had behaved rashly but Louis was to blame for his death.
Whenever she looked at Louis, she saw a horrifying image of Raymond’s skull nailed to the gates of Baghdad. She had long been disgusted by her husband; now she began to hate him, with an icy calmness that was almost frightening.
Day after day she went over and over in her mind what Raymond had told her about dissolving the marriage, examining all the legal and political aspects involved. What had begun in Antioch as mere speculation now hardened into a deadly resolve. Eleanor promised herself that she would be rid of this monkish Frank she had married, however long it took, no matter the cost. Only by freeing herself would Raymond’s death be avenged—and her own life restored.
Although she clearly remembered that the marriage contract specified that she would retain Aquitaine should the marriage ever be dissolved or Louis die, Eleanor did not dare put this openly to the test. Not yet. Any steps she initiated would be suspect. Not only that, there was no guarantee the contract would be honored. After all, neither Louis nor his council would willingly accept the loss of the largest fief in France. Regaining her freedom but losing Aquitaine was unthinkable. An idea began to take shape in her mind, far too soon to put into full execution, but, if she chose her moment with care, a first step could be initiated.
Early in the new year of 1149, on a bright morning in January, she accompanied Louis on an expedition to the Dead Sea, two thousand feet lower than Jerusalem. They had taken few attendants; this seemed like a propitious moment. Louis was marveling at the change in temperature—it was much hotter—and the tropical foliage, when they came upon several pillars of salt.
“Look!” Louis crossed himself, then indicated one of the pillars that wind and weather had formed into some semblance of a human shape. “This must be Lot’s wife. I was told to look for it.”
“What? That pillar?” Eleanor burst out laughing.
“Why not?”
“Louis, you’re too credulous. It’s just a pillar of salt.”
Suddenly his face contorted with rage. “Ever since we arrived all you’ve done is mock everything sacred in this glorious city. That uncle of yours has cast an unholy spell upon you. I am glad he is dead, do you hear? Glad!”
“Murderer! Murderer! The blame for his death lies at your door.”
Louis pointed a shaking finger at the pillar. “This will happen to you, make no mistake, for you have disobeyed the Lord and looked back at the Sodom that was Antioch.”
Eleanor could hardly believe her ears. He was getting madder all the time. Obviously it was not the right moment to put into action the initial part of her plan. They did not speak all the way back to Jerusalem.
The next opportunity came in Acre.
Louis, having fulfilled his vow to pray at the Holy Sepulcher, traveled to Acre, the second city and chief port of the small kingdom that comprised the Holy Land. To Eleanor’s disgust he allowed himself to be talked into joining an expedition against the Saracen city of Damascus. Since his arrival in the Holy Land, Louis appeared to have become even more obsessed in his desire to destroy the infidel—with or without provocation.
“It is one thing to mount an attack when Christian lives are at stake, but from what I understand Damascus has always been friendly to Christians. Why do you listen to unwise counsel?” Eleanor asked.
“Unwise counsel? The emperor of Germany? The king of Jerusalem?”
“The Germans are barbarians. You saw their vicious behavior on the crusade. King Baldwin is little better than a stripling, under the influence of his Palestinian barons. It is beyond my comprehension that you denied Raymond help against a very real enemy while you are positively eager to attack a friendly state for no reason whatsoever.”
Louis ignored her. He and the others mounted an expedition against Damascus which ended in disaster. The Christian armies suffered many casualties and were forced into a humiliating retreat. Eleanor had the grim satisfaction of knowing that she had been right and Louis wrong—as usual. Not that Louis ever admitted an error. If a thought came into his mind, God put it there. If matters went awry, someone else was at fault, aided by the devil.
Shortly after Easter, Eleanor finally persuaded Louis to make preparations to return to France by threatening to leave without him. Several days before they were to leave Acre she confronted Louis right after Prime as they walked down the church steps and into a waiting litter that would take them back to their quarters in King Baldwin’s palace. Louis was always the most susceptible right after mass.
“Have you never wondered, Louis, why misfortune continues to dog us?” Eleanor spoke softly, letting her tone convey doubt and anxiety.
Louis, greatly affected by his harrowing experiences since leaving France, had recently cropped his head and shaved his beard like a monk; he spent even longer hours at prayer.
“What do you mean?”
She hesitated for a moment, fearful of the risk she was about to take. “For instance, this pilgrimage has been a total disaster from beginning to end. Can you deny it?”
He stiffened and gave her an aggrieved look, unwilling, as usual, to take the slightest responsibility for his part in the whole wasted venture.
“I deny that it is my fault. Why are you always blaming me? If everyone else had done their job properly—”
“Did I say it was your fault?”
“You imply it all the time.” He paused. “Why bring it up?”
“To point out what has now become obvious to me, why our lives have taken such a dismal course. Think on it: no sons. The terrible business at Vitry. No victories since leaving France. Countless dead as a result of our pilgrimage.”
Although Louis still would not admit it, by now it was obvious to everyone that the crusade had been a complete failure, with only hundreds left of the thousands that had started almost two years earlier. After careful thought, Eleanor had come to the conclusion that this very failure might well prove her salvation.
“As usual, you exaggerate,” Louis said.
She let the silence lengthen between them, rapidly going over in her mind yet again the arguments she had prepared in her favor.
The only grounds upon which an annulment could be granted was consanguinity or adultery. If adultery were used she could be immured in a convent and Aquitaine would be taken from her. She doubted that Louis would favor adultery. His pride would forbid it, he had no proof, and Aquitaine would erupt into total rebellion if anything were to happen to her, or France tried to keep the duchy for itself. Louis’s resources were exhausted. She doubted there would be enough men returning to France to permit a widespread invasion of Aquitaine, should it come to that. Those that did return would hardly be disposed to fight so soon again.
On the other hand, Louis was often unpredictable. Her ploy was a gamble, but one she had decided to take, regardless.
“We are to blame.”
Louis looked mystified. “For what?”
“Offending God.”
“I have offended God?”
She heard her voice falter. Once spoken the words could not be withdrawn. “Have—have you forgotten that you and I are related within the third, forbidden degree? That we married without papal dispensation?” She paused, allowing the import of her words to sink in. “We are guilty of consanguinity. Is it any wonder that God has not smiled upon our endeavors?”
The palace appeared in the distance, the sun shimmering on its white marble walls. A look of horror crossed Louis’s face.
“Consanguinity!” He signed himself. “I’m not sure I ever knew we were related in the forbidden degree. Or if I did I had long forgotten. Are you sure? After all, no one has ever mentioned it to me. But that would mean—may God forgive us—surely that would mean—our marriage may not be valid?”
“That is exactly what it does mean.”
“I cannot believe—” Louis’s eyes bulged in agitation. “Perhaps there was a papal dispensation. There must have been.”
“When we return to France we can ask Abbé Suger, but there would hardly have been time between my father’s death and our marriage to receive a dispensation from the pope.”
“But why did the abbé not say something at the time? Or my father? He sent me immediately to Bordeaux when he received news of your father’s death. I was too inexperienced in these matters to question … naturally I assumed … Why did no one take this into consideration?”
At his look of mingled bewilderment and dread, Eleanor almost felt sorry for him. “Greed.”
“Greed?” His face was pale, his eyes haunted.
“What else? In their haste to acquire my lands, greed for Aquitaine took precedence over the dictates of Holy Church.” Eleanor sighed deeply. “When I remembered this—while I prayed at the Holy Sepulcher—suddenly everything became clear—especially why we lack an heir.” She heard his sharp intake of breath and patted his hand. “We cannot go on as we are.”
“No. No. Certainly not.” Louis signed himself again, then passed a trembling hand across his face. “We have been living in mortal sin. Certainly that is an explanation for our misfortunes.”
Eleanor settled back comfortably in the litter while Louis moved as far away from her as possible. The weakness of his position was no longer lost on him, she had just made certain of that.
But she would be more certain of victory if the suggestion of an annulment came from him. Despite everything, she knew he still loved her, but Louis was martyr to a formidable conscience that gave him no peace at the best of times. Eleanor had staked a great deal, her entire future in fact, on her knowledge of Louis’s character. Now it was only a question of time as to whether she had guessed rightly—or wrongly.