‘You would trust him?’
‘Yes, if his son were mine also and my daughter his.’
‘You mean a marriage!’
‘Yes. A marriage between you and the son of the King of France.’
She smiled quietly. Well, it was not a bad prospect. If she were going to give up Aquitaine she would be Queen of France.
Louis VI was so large that he was known as Louis the Fat. He could not possibly live much longer. Rumours filtered into Aquitaine that he was confined to his bed and because of his immense size no one could lift him from it. He had been over-fond of food and this was the result. His son was a boy a year or so older than Eleonore. She liked what she had heard of young Louis. He should be easily governed by a dominating wife. And she must marry soon. Only she knew how close she had come to submitting to the ardours of some of her admirers. There were members of her sex who were women at the age of fourteen. Eleonore of Aquftaine was one of them. It was a mercy that she was ambitious and proud; this saved her from being carried away by her intense physical desires.
She, more than any, knew that for her marriage should not be long delayed.
‘When I return,’ said her father, ‘I must marry; and then there must be a double wedding. When my bride comes to Aquitaine you must go to the court of France.’
‘But would the King of France wish his son to marry me if I were not your heiress?’
‘The King of France will rejoice in an alliance with rich Aquitaine. He is astute enough to know its worth. And there are no alliances to compare with those forged by marriage bonds.’
She nodded gravely.
It was a bright prospect, but she was unsure. If she could bring Aquitaine to her husband she would be warmly welcomed. But otherwise?
It was a cold January day when the Duke set out for Compostella.
His daughters were in the courtyard wrapped in their sable-lined cloaks, to wish him Godspeed.
‘Farewell,’ said the Duke embracing first Eleonore and then Petronelle. ‘God guard you.’
‘Rather let us ask Him to guard you, Father,’ said Eleonore.
‘He will smile on my mission, rest assured of that,’ replied the Duke, ‘and when I return I shall be free of my burden of siri.’
Eleonore was silent; she had suggested he postpone his journey for it was foolish to set off in winter. She had believed that it was always good to postpone that which one hoped would never take place. But the Duke was assured of the urgency of the undertaking and would not consider delay.
‘He will suffer for his foolishness,’ Eleonore confided to Petronelle, who agreed with her sister. For Petronelle, like many others, adored her dazzling elder sister.
When the cavalcade had clattered out of the courtyard Eleonore and her sister went up to the topmost turret there to watch its progress.
One would never have guessed that it was the Duke of Aquitaine who rode at its head. He was humbly dressed as a pilgrim should be, and he had taken so few of his followers with him.
The castle was well fortified and Eleonore was its mistress. If any dared come against her there would be stalwart knights to protect her. And none would dare for was she not half promised to the son of the King of France?
This was a waiting time, a time when the great fire in the centre of the hall sent its smoke up to the vaulted ceiling and the smell of roasting venison filled the castle. It was too cold to frolic in the beautiful gardens; they must perforce make do with the castle hall; and there they feasted and danced; they sang their ballads; they strummed their harps and the sweet notes of the lute were heard throughout the castle.
Over the entertainments reigned the bold and beautiful Eleonore. Many of the gallants sighed for her favours and she often thought of granting them; but they must for the time content themselves with singing of love.
So while Duke William traversed the icy roads on his way to Compostella, Eleonore reigned supreme surrounded by her troubadours. She might be destined to become the Queen of France but she was the first Queen of the Troubadours.
Duke William quickly realised how unwise he had been to set out in the winter. The rough roads were icy; the wind biting. Valiantly the horses endeavoured to make their way but the going was slow. Yet, said the Duke to his little band of pilgrims, the very fact that we suffer these hardships means that our sins will be the more readily forgiven. What object would there be in travelling in comfort? How could we hope for our sins to be forgiven if we did not suffer for our redemption?
When darkness fell they rested wherever they found themselves. Sometimes it would be in a castle, sometimes in a peasant’s humble home.
The Duke thought much of the castle of Ombriere and pictured Eleonore in the great hall, the firelight flickering on her proud handsome face; the young men at her feet watching her with yearning in their eyes. That power in her would attract men to her until she died. It was yet another inheritance of this richly endowed young woman. She could take care of herself. That was his great comfort. Eleonore would lead others; no one would force her to do what she did not wish. He thought of her - those large eyes which could be speculative when she considered her future and soulful when she listened to the songs of her troubadours, that thick hair which fell to her waist, the oval face and the strong line of the jaw. His great comfort was: Eleonore will take care of herself no matter what happens.
When he came back with the blessing of Saint James, when he married and his son was born, Eleonore would still be a desirable parti. Would the King of France consider her worthy of his son without the rich lands of Aquitaine?
That was a matter to be thought of when the time came. First he must get his son. Nay, he thought, first he must get to Compostella.
He had coughed a great deal through the night and the icy winds had affected his limbs; they felt stiff and unwieldy. It would pass when he returned to the comfort of his home. One did not expect a pilgrimage to be a comfortable holiday. The saint would be gratified that he had endured such hardship to pay homage at his shrine. And when the weather changed and he could live comfortably again, his cough would go and the stiffness leave his limbs.
The party had crossed into Spain, but here the going was rougher than ever. The countryside was sparsely populated and because it was so difficult to get along they often found no shelter when night fell. The Duke was now so weak that his followers decided that they must at the earliest opportunity construct a litter that he might be carried.
Wishing to endure the utmost hardship, the Duke protested at first. Only if he suffered would the saint intercede with such fervour for him that his sins be forgiven and he gain his goal. But it was useless; he had become too ill to sit his horse; he must submit.
There was no comfort in being carried over those rough roads. He was soon in great pain and it suddenly occurred to him that he might never reach the shrine, that there would never be the marriage which would give him the male heir for Aquitaine.
Morosely he contemplated the future as he was jolted along.
Eleonore the richest heiress in Europe and a girl of fourteen. He should have been content with what he had been given. Not a son but a girl who was as good as any boy, a girl who failed only in her sex. And because he had not been content with what God had given him, he had ventured on this pilgrimage from which he was beginning to wonder whether he would ever emerge.
Each day his dismal thoughts went back to Ombriere. What would happen if he died? As soon as that fact became known the fortune hunters would be unleashed. A young, desirable and, above all, rich girl was unprotected, and she was ripe for marriage. Adventurers would come from all directions; he could see some bold ambitious man storming the castle, capturing proud Eleonore and forcing her to submit. Could anyone force Eleonore? Yes, if he had henchmen to help him in his evil designs. The thought maddened him.