A Proud Taste for Scarlet and Miniver (2 page)

Matilda-Empress smiled. “I must say that I, too, had an eye on Eleanor’s lands before I set eyes on her.”

“And I,” said William the Marshal, “first encountered Queen Eleanor in defense of her person and her wealth.” No one said anything. “As well befitted a man of my calling,” William added. Everyone looked at William, but still they said nothing. “I was a knight, you know.”

“Yes, we know,” said Matilda-Empress.

“Yes,” Eleanor added, “a true and noble knight.”

Matilda-Empress turned from William and addressed the abbot. “I am curious about the young Eleanor.”

“My mother-in-law cannot believe that what I am now is an improvement over what I was then. Tell her what she wants to know, Abbot Suger. Tell her about the young Eleanor. It will help all of us to pass the time.”

“Certainly,” Abbot Suger said. “It is good to review.”

“Ah, Abbot, you, too, miss living. Heaven is often a pale substitute.”

Suger spun his head around toward Eleanor; he attempted a frown, but he couldn’t manage one. His face broke into a broad grin. “Bite your tongue, lady.”

Eleanor laughed. “Certainly, Abbot. Only I speak it, even though we both think it. Now, let us remember. Come, Abbot, Mother Matilda, William, come. Let us remember together.”

KING LOUIS VI
and I were staying in a hunting lodge outside Paris when word came that William, Duke of Aquitaine, had died. Just before his death, Duke William had sent messengers to his king; the messengers carried a request. They knew the king would listen, for although the Duke of Aquitaine was a vassal to the king, he was far richer, just as an oilman may be far richer than a prime minister.

William of Aquitaine had a daughter; her name was Eleanor. William’s death made Eleanor the richest orphan in Europe. But in those days when all the lords of Aquitaine were fighting among themselves as well as fighting their duke, it took a lot of brawling to hold onto the lands. No woman could do it alone. William knew that his daughter would need a husband, and that is why he had sent messengers to his king. William of Aquitaine wanted his daughter Eleanor wed to the king’s son, Prince Louis. With Eleanor would come her lands. With Louis would come a title. A good marriage. A marriage of pomp and pocketbook. William of Aquitaine knew that King Louis could not pass up a bargain.

And, sick though he was, King Louis VI did not.

The king was ill, very ill. We had left Paris to escape the summer’s heat. Louis suffered more than most people from the heat, for he was overweight. History books call him
Louis le Gros
, which means Louis the Fat. He was fat; he could neither put on his own shoes nor mount his horse, but his mind was as lean and as quick as his body was fat and slow. He lost no time in calling the prince to his side and telling him that he was about to be married. Louis was seventeen at the time.

“Yes, father,” Young Louis said, “whom do you wish me to marry?”

“The Duchess of Aquitaine,” Louis the Fat answered.

“Yes, father,” Young Louis replied. He turned and started to leave his father’s room. (The smell in the room helped to keep all of the king’s interviews short.) Prince Louis had a second thought; he turned back and asked, “Is she old, father?”

“Old enough,” Louis the Fat answered.

“Yes, father.”

I followed Young Louis out of the castle and began walking with him. We were good friends. He was a head taller than I. Most men were. But Louis was fair, and I was proud of his good looks. I loved everything beautiful, thanks be to God, but I especially loved Louis. I felt like a father to him. In a sense I was his father—his spiritual one. I had been his teacher.

“Her name is Eleanor,” I began.

“Oh?” Louis answered, trying to act unconcerned.

“Yes. Her name is Eleanor, and she is well educated.”

“Does that mean, dear Abbot, that she embroiders beautifully and knows the proper order in which to hand armor to a knight?”

“Yes, it does.” I smiled, “but in this case, fortunately, it also means something more. She can read Latin, and I am told that she knows a great deal of music and poetry. She comes by those talents naturally; her grandfather was a poet as well as a knight.”

“Do all these talents occupy a fair head or a plain one?” Louis asked.

“A fair one, I am told.”

“An old one?” the prince asked.

“In many ways
old.
She has traveled much and seen much.”

Young Louis’s hands dropped to his sides. He could act casual no longer. “I may marry the dowry for my father, but I must marry the dame for me. I must know, Abbot. Is she an old lady?”

I laughed. “She is fifteen, Louis. Only fifteen, but that is the least of her measures. In many ways she is much more than fifteen.”

Louis laughed. “Oh, Abbot, I am relieved. I am so inexperienced with women that I do not want someone who is very old.” Then he had second thoughts. He turned suddenly and asked, “What do you mean when you say that fifteen is the least of her measures? Is she fat?”

“No,” I reassured him. “She is the daughter of a William, not a Louis.”

The prince smiled.

King Louis put me in charge of gathering men and materials for our journey to Aquitaine. The king was too sick to do it, but even if he had been well, he would have given the job to me. I had excellent taste, thanks be to God, and a great gift for organizing.

I called together all the important dukes and counts who were vassals of the king, and I fitted them with elegant armor and trappings. I selected a jeweled ring and a gold buckle, worked with enamel, for the prince to give his bride as a wedding gift.

As we rode through the lands that lay between Eleanor and Louis, we paid every toll at every bridge and every tax at every crossing. We carried as many supplies as we could, buying only what we had to. When high prices were asked, we paid them with a smile. We never haggled. I would not allow it. It would not have been dignified.

Even so, the trip was not easy. The armor was elegant, but it was also uncomfortable. It grew hotter because we were moving further into summer and further into the south. At times the glare of the sun striking the armor blinded the men behind. And hot! The men complained that they were being served to Eleanor as a human stew—cooked in their own salt water. I thanked God that I was a simple man of the cloth. But for the sake of the others it became necessary to travel at night.

Finally, we arrived at Bordeaux, the town where the wedding was to take place. We camped across the river from the city and rested; we wanted no trace of weariness to show when we appeared at the palace the next morning.

But Prince Louis was restless, unable to sleep. He came into my tent. “Abbot,” he began, “if Eleanor is such a great prize, why was she not engaged long before now? Rich girls are usually betrothed as infants.”

“Ah, Louis,” I said, “I could ask you the same question. Rich princes also are betrothed as infants.”

“But in my case the answer is simple, Abbot. I was not meant to be rich. I am a second son. I was meant to be a priest, and I would have been one if my brother Philip’s horse had not tripped over that old sow and broken Philip’s neck in the process. He, not I, was born to be the king of France. I am second son and second choice, and that is why I have not been promised in marriage. What is Eleanor’s reason?”

“I think,” I said, “that the fair Eleanor was saved because her father and her grandfather thought that they would never die.”

“Were they pious men, Abbot?”

“Eleanor’s grandfather, William the Troubadour, went on Crusade to the Holy Land.”

“That does not answer my question. Bored men, fortune hunters, and second sons also go on Crusades. Their reasons are not always religious.”

“Let me explain it with an example. I once heard Eleanor’s father, Duke William, at prayer.”

“Did he appear serious?”

“Serious? Oh, yes, quite serious.”

“And sincere?”

“Sincere? If you mean by that that he believed what he was saying, I have to call him sincere.”

“Serious and sincere. What more can you ask of a man in prayer, Abbot?”

“Humility.”

“Was the duke not humble?”

“You judge,” I answered. “The duke got down on one knee. He clenched his fist and poked it into the sky. ‘Dear Lord,’ he began, ‘this is William, Duke of Aquitaine, speaking. You may have heard from Count Raymond already, but I am telling you to let his prayers go unanswered, for he is a liar, O God. I give You my word and my hand, God. Put Your strength into my fist, O God, and together we shall teach Count Raymond a lesson. And then after, dear God, I’m going to make a nice donation to one of Your churches.’ Duke William then lowered his arm and marched into battle convinced that the power of God was on his side, his right side; he was right-handed. He defeated Raymond, by the way.”

Young Louis looked astonished. “I have never before heard anyone regard a prayer as a challenge match between himself and God. Let us hope that there is something more of her mother than of her father in Eleanor.”

“Whatever there is of her mother would have been planted but not cultivated. Her mother, may she rest in peace, died when Eleanor was still very young.”

The prince mumbled good night and went to his tent. His tent was beautiful—blue, decorated with the lilies of France. I had designed it. Thanks be to God, the design had turned out well.

Eleanor wore a dress of scarlet, of a cloth so fine that it looked as if it had been woven by the wind. The hem had a delicate pattern of silver threads. The color set off her gray eyes and fine features. Yes, Eleanor was beautiful. A beauty that is bred as much as it is born. She was lively and witty and completely without pretenses or patience. It was she who greeted us at the castle door. She had not yet learned to wait.

As our party of knights and nobles entered the castle door, she asked, “Which of you is Louis?”

The prince stepped forward and bowed. Thank goodness, good manners did not require him to say anything at that point, for Louis appeared to be struck dumb.

Eleanor curtsied.
Her
tongue was not tied. “Louis Capet,” she said as she looked at her husband-to-be from the tip of his head to his spurs, “I hope that you are as convinced as I that we both could have done worse. Much worse.”

And that was the first thing that Eleanor said that Louis would not have an answer for.

THE WEDDING
took place two weeks later, a short engagement. It would have been shorter if it had not taken that long to gather Eleanor’s vassals from the far corners of her lands. During those two weeks I spent my time studying the churches of Bordeaux. I had in mind rebuilding my church at St. Denis, and with God’s help I was searching for a new way to make buildings higher and let in more light. The old churches of Bordeaux were built in a heavy style. I didn’t want my church dumped onto a foundation. I wanted it to soar above it.

Young Louis was overwhelmed by his good fortune. Each night he would come to me and tell me something new he had discovered in this amazing Eleanor.

“Do you know, dear Abbot, that she has the liveliest mind!”

“Yes, my prince.”

“And style. She has that, she has style. A style all her own.”

“Yes, my prince.”

“And wit. I have never known anyone who could turn a phrase so.”

“Yes, my prince.”

“She is an excellent horsewoman. I can barely keep up with her.”

“Louis, my prince, you are putting yourself on the light side of the balance in everything but piety.”

“And good fortune, dear Abbot. I am betrothed to the fairest lady in all of Europe, and she is betrothed to a poor second son, one that fortune has raised to be heir to the king of France and husband to a great lady.”

Eleanor and Louis were married first in Bordeaux. They then traveled to Poitiers and were married again. Eleanor arranged both weddings. She arranged everything. She was not shy about making decisions, about giving orders, about receiving homage or receiving gifts. Eleanor was as much at ease arranging a ceremony as she was arranging her dress. She knew what she wanted, and she had the energy to do it all. Indecisiveness wears a person out. Eleanor was never weary.

After the second ceremony, Eleanor and Louis chose to vacation in Poitiers before traveling north to meet Louis’s father, the king.

Louis appeared at chapel one morning wearing the crown of the Duke of Aquitaine. “Ah, Abbot,” he said, “three of our barons have yet to come to pay me homage. Foolish men! They will soon learn that I am now their overlord. I am to be listened to. I will be listened to. I will not only be listened to, I will be heard. I am the Duke of Aquitaine, the prince and heir of the Kingdom of France. I am vassal to no one …”