by Jean Plaidy
‘They should have denounced their lord. They should have sworn allegiance to you.’
‘They were innocent people. What did they know of our quarrel?’
‘You must try to sleep.’
‘To sleep. If I do, I dream. I can smell the smoke. I shall never be free of it. How the wood crackled!’
‘It was old and dry,’ she said.
‘And little children … They called curses on us. Imagine a mother … with her little ones.’
‘It is war,’ said Eleonore. ‘It is not wise to brood on these things.’
But Louis could not stop brooding.
He could not go on, he declared.
‘To give in now would be victory for Theobald,’ Eleonore reminded him.
‘I can’t help it,’ cried Louis. ‘I am sick of war and killing.’
‘You should never have been a king.’
‘You speak truth. My heart is in the Church.’
‘Which is no place for a king’s heart to be.’
‘Sometimes I think I should have refused to take the crown.’
‘How could you, the King’s son, have done that?’
‘Sometimes I think God is not pleased with me. We have been six years married and have no child.’
‘It is a long time to wait,’ agreed Eleonore.
‘Is there something we have done … or not done? Have I displeased God in some way?’ The King shivered. ‘I feel in my heart that whatever we did before the burning of Vitry was nothing compared with that great sin.’
‘Stop thinking of it.’
‘I can’t, I can’t,’ moaned the King.
She knew that he would be useless to command an army in his present state.
‘We should return to Paris,’ she said.
He was eager to agree. ‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘Disband the army. Go back. Call off the war.’
‘That would be folly. The army will stay here. We shall return. State duties call you to Paris. There you will rest and forget Vitry. You will learn that it is what must be expected in war.’
The war continued. Louis was heartily sick of it but Eleonore would not allow Theobald to have the chance to say the King had been forced to retire from the field.
The King’s ministers begged him to consider what good there was in continuing. Louis would have agreed but he dared not face Eleonore’s wrath.
He could not understand his feeling for her. It was as though he were under a spell. Whatever he might promise to do, when she showed her contempt for his weakness he always gave way to her.
The Abbot of Clairvaux, who had prophesied the death of Louis’s brother Philippe, had become known as a worker of miracles. He had ranged himself against Louis and Eleonore, and came to the court to ask the King to agree to a peace.
Eleonore would not hear of this.
She faced the Abbot and explained to him that to agree to a peace would be to dishonour her own sister, and although this was but one of the causes which had made it necessary for Louis to make war, it was a very important one.
‘Such a war,’ the Abbot told her, ‘is displeasing to God. Has that not been made clear? God has turned his face from your endeavours. The King suffers deep remorse. He has done so since the burning of Vitry.’
‘And before that,’ said Eleonore bitterly. ‘He has rendered me childless. You, who are said to have the power to make miracles, could perhaps work this one for me if you would.’
The Abbot was thoughtful.
‘Whether you should have the blessing of a child is in the hands of God.’
‘So is all that happens. Yet you have worked miracles, they say. Why do you not work one now?’
‘I could do nothing in this matter.’
‘You mean you will not help me?’
‘If you had a child you would doubtless change your life. Perhaps you need a child.’
‘I need a child,’ said Eleonore. ‘Not only because my son will be the heir to France, but because I long for a child of my own.’
The Abbot nodded.
She caught his arm. ‘You will do this for me?’
‘My lady, I cannot. It is in the hands of God.’
‘If I persuaded the King to stop the war, to call a truce …’
‘If you did that it might be that God would be more ready to listen to your prayers.’
‘I would do anything to get a child.’
‘Then pray with me, but first humble yourself before God. You cannot do that with the sin of war upon you.’
‘If there was peace you would work the miracle?’
‘If there were peace I should be able to ask God to grant your request.’
‘I will speak to the King,’ she said.
She did and the result was that there was peace between Theobald and Louis.
To Eleonore’s great joy she was pregnant. She was sure that Bernard had worked the miracle. All these years and no sign of a child, and now the union would be fruitful.
She had softened a little. She was planning for the child as a humble mother might have done. The songs she sang were of a different nature.
The members of the court marvelled.
In due course the child was born. A girl.
She was not disappointed. Like all rulers Louis had hoped for a son; yet, she demanded of her ladies, why should there be this overwhelming adoration of the male? ‘I was my father’s heiress although I was a woman,’ she reminded them. ‘Why should the King and I be sad because we have a daughter?’
The Salic law prevailed in France. This meant that no woman could rule. The crown would go to the next male heir. This law was all against Eleonore’s principles and she promised herself that she would not allow it to persist. Her daughter was but a baby yet and there was time enough to think of her future.
She was christened Marie and for more than a year after her birth Eleonore was content to play the devoted mother.
Life had become monotonous. Little Marie was past two years old. Eleonore was devoted to her but naturally the child was often in the company of her nurses. Eleonore continued to hold court. The songs had become more voluptuous again; they stressed the sorrows of unrequited passion and the joys of shared love.
Petronelle was her constant companion; Eleonore watched with smouldering eyes her sister and her husband together. What a passionate affair that had been! Something, sighed Eleonore, which was denied me.
She had at first been fond of Louis. He had been so overcome at the sight of her and was so devoted to her that she had developed quite an affection for him. It was not in her passionate nature to be contented with that. Louis might be her slave and it pleased her that he should be, but his piety bored her, and what was hardest of all to endure was his remorse.
He took a great interest in the Church and was constantly taking part in some ritual. He would return from such occasions glowing with satisfaction but it would not be long before he was sunk in melancholy.
He could not forget the sound of crackling flames and the screams of the aged and innocent as they had burned to death. The town itself had now become known as Vitry-the-Burned.
He would pace up and down their bedchamber while Eleonore watched him from their bed.
She knew that he would not be seeing her, seductively inviting with her long hair loose about her naked shoulders as she might be. He would be seeing the pitiless faces of men intent on murder; and when she spoke to him he would hear instead those cries for mercy.
How many times had she told him: ‘It was an act of war and best forgotten.’
And he declared: ‘To my dying day I shall never forget. Remember, Eleonore, all that was done was done in my name.’
‘You did your best to stop it. They heeded you not.’ Her lips curled. What a weakling he was! His men intent on murder did not obey him! And he permitted this.
He should have been a monk.
She was weary of him. She wished they had married her to a man.
Yet he was the King o
f France and marriage to him made her a queen. But she was also Eleonore of Aquitaine. She was never going to forget that.
So she listened to him wandering on in his maudlin way and she knew that she would not go on for ever living as she was at this time. Her adventurous spirits were in revolt.
She had made a brilliant marriage; she was a mother. But for her that was not enough. She was reaching for adventure.
The opportunity came from an unexpected quarter.
For many years men had sought to expiate their sins by making pilgrimages to Jerusalem. They had believed that by undertaking an arduous journey, which often resulted in death, they showed their complete acceptance of the Christian faith and their desire for repentance. They believed that in this way they could be forgiven a life of wickedness. There had been many examples of men who had undertaken this pilgrimage. Robert the Magnificent, father of William the Conqueror, had been one. He had died during the journey leaving his son but a child, unprotected from his enemies, but it was believed that he had expiated a lifetime’s sins by this gesture.
But while it was considered a Christian act to make a pilgrimage, how much greater grace could be won by taking part in a Holy War to drive the infidel from Jerusalem.
Ever since the seventh century Jerusalem had been in the possession of the Mussulmans, khalifs of Egypt or Persia. There was conflict between Christianity and Islamism, and at the beginning of the eleventh century the persecution of Christians in the Holy Land was at its most intense. All Christians living in Jerusalem were commanded to wear a wooden cross about their necks. As these weighed five pounds they were a considerable encumbrance. Christians were not allowed to ride on horses; they might only travel on mules and asses. For the smallest disobedience they were put to death often in the cruellest manner. Their leader had suffered crucifixion; therefore that seemed a suitable punishment for those who followed him.
Pilgrims who made the journey to and from Jerusalem came back with stories of the terrible degradation that Christians were being made to suffer. Indignation came to a head when a certain French monk returned from a visit to Jerusalem. He became known as Peter the Hermit. Of small stature and almost fragile frame, his glowing spirit of determination was apparent to all who beheld him. It was his mission, he believed, to bring the Holy City into Christian hands. He travelled all over Europe, barefooted, clad in an old woollen tunic and serge cloak; living on what he could find by the wayside and what was given him; and he roused the indignation of the whole of Europe over the need to free Jerusalem from the infidel.
It happened that in the year 1095 Pope Urban II was at Clermont in Auvergne presiding over a gathering of archbishops, bishops, abbots and other members of the clergy. People from all over Europe had come to hear him speak; Urban had been very impressed by the mission which Peter the Hermit had been carrying out and asked him to come to him. On the steps of the church, in the presence of the Pope, Peter told the assembly of the fate meted out to Christians in the Holy Land by the ruthless infidels who were eager to eliminate Christianity.
Peter, his dedication burning fiercely for now he saw the fulfilment of his dream, talked of the insults heaped on Christians, of the hideous deaths they were made to suffer and that he believed God had inspired him with a mission which was to bring back Jerusalem to Christianity.
The crowd was silent for a few seconds after he had finished speaking and then broke into loud cries of ‘Save Jerusalem. Save the Holy Land.’
Then Pope Urban raised his hand to ask for silence.
‘That royal city,’ he said, ‘which the Redeemer of the human race honoured and made illustrious by his coming and hallowed by his passion, demands deliverance. It looks to you, men of France, men from beyond the mountains, nations chosen and beloved by God, you the heirs of Charlemagne, from you, above all, Jerusalem asks for help. God will give glory to your arms. Take then the road to Jerusalem for the remission of your sins, and depart assured of the imperishable glory which awaits you in the Kingdom of Heaven.’
Again that hushed silence; then from a thousand throats there had risen the cry: ‘God wills it.’
‘Aye,’ the Pope had cried, ‘God wills it. If God was not in your souls you would not have answered as one man thus. Let this be your battle cry as you go forth against the Infidel. “God wills it.”’
The air had been filled with people’s shouting as with one voice: ‘God wills it.’
The Pope had held up his hands for silence.
‘Whosoever has a wish to enter in this pilgrimage, must wear upon his crown or on his chest the cross of the Lord.’
Peter the Hermit watched with glowing eyes. His mission was accomplished. The crusades had begun.
Since that memorable occasion there had been many a battle between Christians and Mussulmans; and it was at this time, when Louis was so troubled by his conscience and could not get the cries from Vitry-the-Burned out of his mind, and the Queen had realised that her vitality was being frustrated, that there was a great revival of anger against the Mussulmans and a desire to win back Jerusalem to Christianity.
Bernard of Clairvaux was deeply concerned by what was happening in Jerusalem. He came to the King and talked with him.
‘Here is a sorry state of affairs,’ he said. ‘God will be both sorrowful and angry. It is many years since the first crusade and we are no nearer to our purpose. Atrocities are being committed on our pilgrims. It is time the Christian world revolted against its enemies.’
Louis was immediately interested. He was burdened with sin; he longed to expiate those sins and to have an opportunity to show his repentance.
Bernard nodded. ‘Vitry-the-Burned hangs heavy on your conscience, my lord. It should never have happened. There should never have been a campaign against Theobald of Champagne.’
‘I know it now.’
‘In the first place,’ said Bernard, who was determined not to let the King escape lightly, ‘you should not have opposed Pierre de la Chatre. You should have recognised the authority of the Pope.’
It was Eleonore who had been the prime mover in this affair as in all other matters. Bernard knew it but he did not mention it. The King was in a penitent mood. Let him take the blame.
‘It was wrong to insist on the Comte de Vermandois’s putting away his wife and marrying the Queen’s sister. It was wrong to take the war into Champagne. For these you have been punished, for you will never be able to forget the burning of the church of Vitry.’
‘It’s true,’ groaned the King.
‘You need to sue for mercy. You need to make one great gesture. Why should you not lead a campaign to the Holy City?’
‘I! What of my kingdom ?’
‘There are those who could care for it while you are away.’
‘Leave my kingdom! Lead a crusade!’
‘Others have done this before you. So they have appeased God and won forgiveness.’
The King stared before him. More war! He hated war. And yet his sins lay heavy on him.
Bernard raised his fanatical eyes to heaven. ‘I, my lord, will not turn my back on my duty. I would I were a young man and I would lead the crusade. God has declined to give me that honour. It is my duty to set before others where their duties lie. I want there to be three great assemblies, one at Bourges, another at Vezelai and another at Estampes. You will be there to give them your support. Think on this matter seriously. Only by pleasing God in this way will he forgive you for what happened at Vitry-the-Burned.’
He did not tell Eleonore immediately. He feared her derision.
He went to his good friend and adviser the Abbe Suger.
The Abbe was appalled. ‘To leave France, leave your kingdom. But your duty lies here!’
‘Not as I see it. I have sinned.’
‘You think of Vitry. You will not be blamed entirely for that. Your soldiers were undisciplined. You tried to make them desist.’
‘And failed in my duty. I was not strong enough to prevent them.’
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‘Give your support to the crusade. Help those who wish to go to go. But your duty lies here in governing your kingdom.’
‘Bernard wishes me to go.’
‘Bernard is a fanatic. My lord, a king cannot be that. God would not wish you to fail in your duty.’
As usual Louis was torn between two courses. He knew that his duty lay in France; yet the thought of expiating his sins in this dramatic way appealed to him.
It was not long before Eleonore was aware of the conflict in his mind.
‘You are closeted for long periods with Bernard,’ she said, ‘and with Suger. What are they putting before you?’
He hesitated. Then he blurted out: ‘Bernard wants me to lead a crusade. Suger is against it.’
‘To lead a crusade. You! And what of France?’
‘That is what I tell Bernard. My duty lies here.’
‘Lead a crusade!’ murmured Eleonore. And she was thinking that she would be Regent of France. Or would she? They would set up Bernard or Suger or someone to govern with her. She would be expected to lead a cloistered life during the King’s absence.
But to go on a crusade! To ride to the Holy Land. What adventures she would have! Life would hardly be dull and monotonous then.
Then she knew that this was the answer. This was exactly what she had wanted.
‘You must go,’ she said firmly. ‘You will throw away your burden of guilt. It is the only way if we are ever to have any peace from Vitry. And, Louis, I shall come with you.’
He looked at her in amazement; but she did not see him; she saw herself riding at the head of the women she would select to accompany her.
She could not wait to start.
In the market square of Vezelai Bernard was rallying men to his banner. Beside him were the King and Queen.
‘If you were told,’ he thundered, ‘that an enemy had attacked your castles, your towns and your lands, had ravished your wives and your daughters, profaned your temples, would you not fly to arms? All these evils and evils still greater have come upon your brethren in the family of Christ. Why do you wait to avenge these wrongs, Christian warriors? He who gave His life for you now demands yours.’