IF THE VOYAGE FROM Greece to Antioch had been fraught with hardship and terror, this one from Acre was even worse, thought Eleanor, clinging to the wooden rail as the vessel rolled in the pale green shallows.
Only two vessels had set sail from Acre. No more had been needed to accommodate those who were left of the mighty pilgrimage that had left France two years ago. Eleanor, unable to bear the sight of her husband’s morose face another moment, had suggested they sail in separate ships, and Louis, brooding over the issue of consanguinity, aware that his marriage was hanging by a thread, agreed.
During a severe storm, the two ships—both flying Sicilian flags—lost sight of each other. Off the Peloponnesian coast, Eleanor’s vessel had run straight into the midst of a raging sea battle being waged between the opposing fleets of the king of Sicily and the emperor of Byzantium. Fortunately, the Sicilians eventually routed the Greeks, and now, feeling more dead than alive, she was finally in sight of a friendly shore. Sicily. She and Louis had left Acre at the end of April. It was now July. She had not touched land for two months.
King Roger of Sicily was a Norman, and generally well-disposed toward the Franks. Eleanor knew he would welcome her.
Physically and emotionally exhausted, still grieving for Raymond of Antioch, Eleanor suddenly collapsed onto the deck. Only half-conscious, she was dimly aware that two sailors carried her to the beach. Then she knew no more until she opened her eyes to find a dark-skinned man in a white burnoose and turban bending over her.
“Open your mouth,” he said in heavily accented French.
When she had done so, he lifted her head, then poured a cool drink down her throat. She gave a little choking cry. Was she still in Antioch? Jerusalem? Was this all a dream?
“Please, Madam,” said a voice in Norman French. “Do not be alarmed. I am King Roger and you are safe in my palace at Palermo.”
She weakly turned her head to see a tall man with a beard and a concerned look on his face.
“By God’s grace, you have survived a very rough voyage and a major sea battle. Indeed, both you and the king were given up for dead. Now you are under the care of my Arab physician. He tells me that in time you will make a full recovery.”
“Louis—” she whispered. The chamber began to grow hazy.
“No word has been heard of King Louis’s vessel,” Roger said. “Daily masses will he held for his safety.”
Before she fell into a deep sleep induced by the healing draught, Eleanor wondered if God had taken the matter of her annulment out of her hands.
A fortnight later, King Roger received word that Louis’s ship had landed on the shores at Calabria near Brindisi. After a slow recovery, Eleanor, accompanied by an escort provided by Roger, joined Louis in late August. Their meeting was cool but not acrimonious.
“We should travel at once to Naples, then take ship for Marseilles—” Eleanor began.
“We do not return to France,” said Louis, pale and thin after his calamitous voyage. “I have decided we should go first to Rome. The issue of consanguinity must be settled once and for all lest I go from my wits. I cannot go on with this—this sin hanging over my head. If an annulment is in order …” He could not finish. “The Holy Father must advise us.”
Eleanor kept her face impassive. It was the very first time he had mentioned an annulment! Before she was forced to bring it up. She could barely conceal her relief. But Rome? She was so used to Louis’s procrastinations that she was unprepared for his sudden decision. Weak and still tired, was she ready to battle this out with the pope? Eleanor wavered. Perhaps the question should be brought to the test so she could see where matters stood. On the other hand, she had wanted to carefully read the marriage contract once again and seek legal advice before proceeding further. Perhaps even consult the archbishop of Bordeaux, who had a formidable knowledge of legal matters. Her mind flew back and forth then settled on the answer: as far as she was concerned, the outcome was already determined—however long it took. Better to know exactly what obstacles stood in the way so that she could circumvent them.
Forced to travel slowly, it was mid-October before Louis and Eleanor reached Tusculum, south of Rome, where the papal court was in residence. She had had a relapse of the exhaustion that befell her on the voyage to Sicily, and they had been forced to stop at a Benedictine monastery in Monte Cassino until she recovered enough to continue.
The papal court was housed in a gloomy fortress, as the pope had been forced to flee Rome which was threatened by imperial troops in one of the never-ending battles between the Holy See and the Holy Roman Emperor. There was none of the splendor Eleanor had expected, and a decided lack of ceremony.
“I welcome you, my children, with open arms,” said Pope Eugenius the Third. “I have been kept informed of your mishaps—indeed the mishaps that have befallen this whole pilgrimage to save the Holy Land.” A look of distress crossed his face. “And, indeed, your personal difficulties, as well.”
How could the pope know of their personal troubles? Eleanor glanced at Louis and from the guilty expression on his face suddenly realized that he must have written Abbé Suger, who had undoubtedly informed the pope. She was furious. It was very important that her side of the tale be heard first; now the pontiff would have heard Abbé Suger’s distorted version of events, which would not be to her advantage. On the other hand, she had heard that Eugenius was a kindly man, not a fanatical zealot. Perhaps she would be able to move him.
“I will speak to each of you separately,” said the pope. “The king, first.”
Louis followed him into a private antechamber while Eleanor was offered refreshment of spiced wine and honied sweetmeats. Within a short time, Louis emerged, his eyes red. She could tell nothing from his face.
Inside the antechamber, crudely furnished with a table and two stools, Eleanor took a seat. A papal secretary stood in one corner, a red-robed cardinal in another. The pope, in flowing white robes, sat on a makeshift throne. Eleanor knew that what she said now—in front of witnesses—would have far-reaching consequences. It was impossible to tell the pope of her contempt for her husband, her lack of physical satisfaction, her hatred of life among the Franks. She had to make him believe that her only reason for wanting their union annulled was the fact that she and Louis had displeased God. Why else had He punished them by failing to grant them an heir after twelve years of marriage?
“My marriage at fifteen, Holy Father, was rushed through without the proper dispensations,” she began with a surge of confidence. “I am now twenty-seven—”
Choosing her words with care she told the pontiff exactly what she felt he needed to hear.
When she had finished he nodded. Had her plea moved him? Impossible to tell.
“So then it is only the issue of consanguinity that troubles your conscience?” Was there a particular emphasis on the word only? Was that a shadow of disbelief in his eyes?
“Yes, Your Holiness. Indeed, it weighs on me night and day.”
“I see. A moment, please.” He beckoned the secretary. “Tell King Louis to come in.”
When Louis stood beside her, the pope’s round face suddenly creased into a beneficent smile. “Well, my children, I have heard all you have to say. Benedicamus Dominum! You may both put your consciences to rest. Let me hasten to assure you that your marriage is valid! Under pain of anathema no word may be spoken against it, and it cannot be dissolved under any pretext whatsoever. If the lack of a papal dispensation is troubling you then you shall have one this very day! From my own lips—and shortly on parchment—I confirm that there is no impediment to your union.”
Horrified, Eleanor burst into tears. She could not endure the thought of spending even one more day with Louis, and now the pontiff had just given her a life sentence behind the golden bars of the French court.
“You see, Louis, the queen is overwrought, what with the long journey, her illness, and all. This matter has obviously weighed heavily upon her heart. An heir, my son, an heir is the answer.”
He rose. “I have prepared a little surprise for you. One that should gladden both your hearts.”
He took Eleanor, still weeping, by one hand, Louis by the other, and led them down a hall and into a small chamber. The room was dwarfed by a huge bed, decorated with ornate gold-and-crimson hangings.
“No expense has been spared to make you comfortable, my children. These priceless hangings came from my own chamber. Sleep well. God is with you.” Beaming with goodwill, he held out his ring for them to kiss. “I have stationed a guard outside the door to be sure that you are not disturbed.”
Still smiling, he withdrew. Short of getting into bed with them himself, Eugenius had ensured they would spend the night together. Eleanor wiped her eyes. Nothing had gone the way she intended. If she dared to protest, both Louis and the pope would surmise her real reason for wanting to end the marriage. Her own words had been used against her and she was helpless. Defeated, for the moment anyway, she rigidly submitted to Louis’s fumbling embrace. Tears flowed afresh when she remembered Raymond’s sure touch.
When they departed Tusculum several days later, the pope wept copiously, heaped gifts upon them, and exhorted them to love one another. If the pope knew her better, Eleanor thought, a fixed smile on her face, he would have known that once her mind was made up nothing and no one could change it.
“An heir will result from this blessed union,” Eugenius declared.
His words froze Eleanor’s blood. Sweet St. Radegonde, if she bore a son she was doomed. If, however, there was another daughter …Then again, perhaps she was not with child at all.
When Eleanor and Louis reached the Ile-de-France on a damp, gray morning in early November, a large crowd came out to greet them. The crusade had been an ignominious fiasco, yet here were Louis’s subjects rejoicing as if he had won a great victory! Eleanor wondered if Abbé Suger lay behind this demonstration.
The walls of the French palace closed around Eleanor like an oubliette. According to Petronilla, dark rumors of her depravity in Antioch were flying all over Paris. Far from rejoicing, said her sister, the air in France was filled with recriminations and a demand for explanations: Why had matters gone so awry on the crusade? What, if anything, had actually been accomplished? Why had so many lives been lost? As usual, saintly Louis was exonerated. The blame for everything was somehow due to the Poitivin seductress.
Then, to make matters even worse, shortly after her return from Tusculum, Eleanor found she was indeed with child. While news of her pregnancy silenced the rumors and forced people to regard her with a new, if grudging, respect, Eleanor’s own despair knew no bounds.
“You will bear a son,” said an enraptured Louis. “The pope has promised me that you will bear a son.”
Eleanor clung to her only hope: that she would give birth to another daughter. This would be her salvation, her pathway to freedom. Her entire future hung on the gender of this child.
Henry of Anjou was finally made duke of Normandy in January of the year 1150.
“And not before time,” he told his squire, Jocelin, who, like himself, had a huge grin on his face. “After all, I am seventeen, a seasoned warrior, a man of judgment. This appointment was long overdue.”
“Indeed, my lord. Very long.”
“I was ready a year ago.”
“Before that, my lord.”
With a sense of satisfaction, Henry recalled what had happened after leaving York at his great-uncle of Scotland’s insistence. He had made several successful forays into the south of England, picked up a host of followers, and won much acclaim. When he returned to Normandy, he had eventually been able to persuade his parents that he was now someone to be taken seriously—someone worthy of the ducal title. All that was lacking to make the title official was for him to swear homage to his overlord, King Louis of France. But there was no immediate hurry about this.
“My father says we can travel to Paris at our leisure, but I am anxious to go as soon as may be. Think on it, Jocelin, as soon as the title is official I can make plans to conquer England.”
In late spring Henry and his father were ready to leave for Paris when, without warning, rumors reached Count Geoffrey of Anjou that the French king was mustering a large army.
“It is obvious he intends to invade Normandy,” said the count.
“But why?” Henry, alternating between rage and bewilderment, could hardly believe his ears.
Count Geoffrey shrugged. “Whether this is due to the longstanding enmity between Normandy and France which periodically erupts or because Louis needs to assert himself after his catastrophic failures in the Holy Land is anybody’s guess. Perhaps he just resents the fact that someone so young and arrogant will command the duchy. In any case we must ready our forces on the border between the Vexin and France.”
Joined by Prince Eustace of England, they heard that Louis was advancing up the Seine. Henry, spoiling for battle now, was eager to engage the French king in combat. Then, at the eleventh hour, word reached them that Louis had fallen ill. All preparation for hostilities ceased; the prince returned to England. Henry, who still felt cheated by the lack of a major battle with King Stephen, was beside himself with disappointment.
When peace terms were arranged with the help of Bernard of Clairvaux, who claimed God himself had intervened to avoid bloodshed between Normandy and France, Henry gave vent to his frustration.
“Interfering old monk, why don’t you go back to your cloister where you belong!” Henry shouted at the Cistercian abbé, who had appeared in his pavilion on the Vexin border.
“The violent rages of the Angevins are well known,” said Bernard, his composure unruffled. “It is said of your family, ‘From the devil they came, to the devil they will go.’ Take heed of your demon blood, bring it under control lest it destroy you.”
Henry turned purple at this and was forcefully hustled from the cleric’s presence by Geoffrey and his squire.
In early summer Henry returned to Rouen with his father to consider the terms of the truce: he was to give up his claim to the Vexin, that much-disputed piece of land lying between Normandy and France; in return, Louis would officially recognize Henry as duke of Normandy.
“If Louis thinks to threaten me, he can think again,” Henry said, seated with his parents in the great hall of the ducal palace in Rouen over a late supper of cold roast meats and wheaten bread. “I won’t give up the Vexin.”
Geoffrey and his mother began one of their heated arguments about which course he should take. Henry escaped as soon as he decently could, distressed, as usual, by the hate-filled atmosphere created by the count and countess of Anjou whenever they were together. He counted among his earliest memories his parents’ bitter quarrels in Angers Castle. Henry cared for and respected each parent individually; when they were together he tried to avoid them.
“I intend to marry a woman who will be subordinate to me,” he said to Jocelin. “Where the affairs of a kingdom, or matters of policy are concerned, there can only be one master. Not even the Church has the right to intervene. It is a woman’s place to yield.”
Although Henry loved his mother above anyone else in the world, nevertheless he highly disapproved of the forthright, independent, and sometimes overbearing manner with which she treated his father and other men. A wife, whether she be queen or empress in her own right, had the privilege of speaking her mind, the courtesy to be listened to, and her advice, if worthy of merit, heeded. After that she should behave with submission and respect, especially where her husband was concerned.
“Of course they should yield, my lord,” said Jocelin. “But in my experience they rarely do.”
“I will have it no other way.”
The next day a party of nobles arrived from Paris and were invited to dine at the ducal palace in Rouen. They were dressed in black and wore somber expressions.
“I see you are in mourning,” Henry said. “Has someone died?”
“The French monarchy, in a manner of speaking,” one of the guests said.
“I don’t follow.”
“Have you not heard? Just two days ago the queen gave birth to another girl. There were no public demonstrations, no fires lit in celebration. The French king lies prostrate in the chapel.”
“Grace à Dieu, this is ill news for France,” said Geoffrey thoughtfully.
“It is more like a death knell, my lord,” replied another guest. “For the first time in one hundred and fifty years France is without an heir.”
“This is not the propitious moment to do homage to Louis, my son,” Geoffrey said under his breath. “It would be more politic to wait.”
Henry shrugged. There was much to do in Normandy. He was no longer eager to pay homage to so hostile an overlord. Paris could wait.
Eleanor, trying to conceal her joy and relief, made a speedy recovery—indecently so, said the midwives who attended her—from the birth of her second child, whom she called Alix. Louis, reeling from the shock, had spent a solid week on his knees. The pope sent condolences, exhorting them to keep trying. But there was no question in Eleanor’s mind that with this birth all the doubts in Louis’s mind, laid to rest by the visit to Tusculum, returned with a vengeance. All she had to do was bide her time.
“Our marriage is cursed, Louis,” Eleanor said, assuming a mournful expression whenever she saw her husband. “Can you not see the hand of God in this affair?” She paused, eyeing him dispassionately. Pale, gaunt, dressed in black, he had aged ten years since the news of another daughter; she felt she had shed as many.
“I mentioned an annulment to Abbé Suger. He says France cannot lose Aquitaine. He is vehemently opposed to any dissolution of the marriage.”
“What good is my duchy to you when you have no son?”
Eleanor knew that many of Louis’s barons also urged an annulment. Petronilla told her that they feared Louis might die before he had an heir. The only solution was to annul this marriage and try again. Louis was always indecisive; now he was maddeningly so. Eleanor realized she must be patient. A false step now would be fatal to any hope of freedom.
In January of the new year 1151, Abbé Suger, now getting on in years, fell ill and died. Louis, who had rarely taken a major decision without the abbé peering over his shoulder, was inconsolable.
“Send for Abbé Bernard,” Eleanor told Louis. Instinct told her that the Cistercian monk could, unwittingly, aid her cause. He would care nothing about France’s loss of Aquitaine. The spiritual realm was all that concerned him.
Before Louis could act, Bernard of Clairvaux arrived at the Cité Palace, obviously eager to step into the breach.
“This marriage is an offense in God’s eyes,” he told both Louis and Eleanor as they sat on their thrones in the great hall. “Abbé Suger—requiescat in pace—would not listen to me, being more concerned with affairs of state. Neither would the pope.” He made no effort to conceal the note of triumph in his voice. “From the very beginning this marriage was cursed. I said so then; I say so now. Can you doubt this any longer?” He bent his burning gaze on Louis.
Louis turned his head to look at her. Their eyes met in a long stare. Eleanor held her breath. Holy Mother, please let him—
“No,” he said, in an anguished voice. “I doubt no longer.”
She had won. Now, nothing stood between her and complete freedom.