‘The possession of lands often leads to strife. They must be protected.’
‘They must indeed be protected and good wise laws be made for them. It will be your duty to give a happy life to your people.’
Young Louis closed his eyes. Why had this had to happen to him? Why had that miserable pig ruined his life? Philippe would have been a good king; he had been trained for it. And he, Louis, would have spent his life in the rarefied atmosphere of the Church. He would have been the Prince of the Church; how he loved the sonorous chanting, the beautiful music, the hallowed atmosphere. And he had lost this because God had called on him to do his duty in a different sphere from that for which he had been trained.
‘I am sending word to the Duke of Aquitaine that I shall cherish his daughter and that I am losing no time in arranging a marriage between her and my son.’
‘Father, is there no help for it?’
‘No help, my son. This marriage must take place without delay.’
‘How far to the shrine?’ whispered the dying Duke.
‘But a mile or so now, my good lord.’
‘Thank God then, I shall reach Compostella.’
Just a little more pain to endure and salvation would be his. Who would have thought that he should come so far and endure so much to ask for a male heir and to find instead death?
‘There are messengers, my lord Duke,’ said one of his bearers. ‘They come from the King of France.’
‘Thank God then. Thank God again. What news?’
‘The King, my lord, sends his greetings. He will care for your daughter as he would his own for indeed he says ere you receive this message she will be almost that. For he is betrothing his son to her and the marriage of France and Aquitaine will take place without delay.’
‘I shall die happy,’ said the Duke.
So this was the answer. Eleonore would be safe. She would be Queen of France and what more could he ask for her than that? She was born to rule - not only because of her inheritance but because of her nature. She had the innate power to inspire respect and love.
It was said that the King’s son was a serious boy, destined for the Church as he had been. He had proved himself to be a great churchman in the making, and would have been such had not a wayward pig made him a future King of France and husband of Eleonore of Aquitaine.
‘Lift me,’ he said, ‘that I may see the shrine of St James.’
They did so and he was content.
Since her father’s absence Eleonore had been the undisputed mistress of the chateau. During the cold winter’s evenings she and her court would range themselves about the great fire in the centre of the hall; there would be singing and music and she would judge the merits of the literary compositions and perhaps sing one of her own.
This she enjoyed; to sit among them, more elegantly attired than any of the other ladies, more brilliantly witty, while at her feet sat the knights gazing at her with adoration. The first lesson in chivalry was the adoration of women. Romance was the greatest adventure of the day. It was not so much the culmination as the dalliance on the way, although Eleonore herself knew that that climax must inevitably be reached. She thrilled to the ardent glances; she allowed herself to dream of fulfilment, but in her heart she knew there must be some delay.
Sometimes she played a game of chess with an admirer, for it was part of the court education that any who aspired to gracious living must first master the game; she always found an element of excitement in the conflict over the board; because she was fighting a battle and from this she invariably emerged the victor.
In the privacy of her bedchamber she talked with her sister. Petronelle believed that everything Eleonore did was right. She imitated her elder sister in all things. Now their conversation centred round their father. They wondered constantly what was happening to him on the dangerous roads.
Petronelle turned to Eleonore and said: ‘Do you think he will come back?’
There was a faraway look in Eleonore’s eyes; she was gazing into the future. ‘It was foolish of him,’ she said, ‘to attempt such a journey at such a time of the year.’
‘Why did he not wait until the summer?’
‘It would have been too easy a journey. It had to be hazardous that he might earn forgiveness for his sins.’
‘Had he so many?’
Eleonore laughed. ‘He thought he had. He was obsessed by his sins, as our grandfather was.’
‘What about you, Eleonore? Have you committed any sins?’
She shrugged her elegant shoulders. ‘I am too young to be concerned with sins. It is only when you are of an age to fear death that repentance is necessary.’
‘So we need not concern ourselves with repentance yet, sister. We may sin to our heart’s content.’
‘What a pleasant prospect,’ cried Eleonore.
‘Everyone in the castle respects you,’ said Petronelle adoringly. ‘I think they love you more than they did our father. But if he marries again and we have a brother …’
Petronelle looked fearfully up at Eleonore who was scowling.
‘It won’t happen, sister,’ went on Petronelle quickly. ‘If he married he wouldn’t get a boy.’
‘It maddens me,’ cried Eleonore. ‘Why this reverence for the male sex? Are not women more beautiful, more subtle, often more clever than men?’
‘You are, Eleonore, cleverer than any man.’
‘Yet because they go into battle, because they have greater physical strength, they regard themselves so superior that a puny son would come before a fine daughter.’
‘No son our father got would ever equal you, Eleonore.’
‘Yet he must undertake this pilgrimage in the hope that Saint James will plead for him and he come safely back, marry and get a son.’
‘The saints will never listen to him. They will call him ungrateful. God has given him you, Eleonore, and he is not satisfied!’
Eleonore laughed and blew a kiss to her sister.
‘At least you appreciate me,’ she said with a smile.
She went to the narrow window and looked out on the bleak road.
‘One day,’ she said, ‘we shall see a party of horsemen on that road. It will either be my father coming back triumphant or …’
‘Or, what, Eleonore?’ asked Petronelle who had come to stand beside her.
But Eleonore shook her head. She would say no more.
It was but a few days later when a messenger did come to the castle.
Eleonore, who had been warned that he was sighted, was in the courtyard to greet him; she herself held the cup of hot wine for him.
‘I bring ill tidings, my lady,’ he said before he would take the cup. ‘The Duke is dead. The journey was too much for him. I have a sorry tale to tell.’
‘Drink,’ said Eleonore. ‘Then come into the castle.’
She took him into the hall and sat with him beside the fire. She ordered that food be brought to him, for he had ridden far and was exhausted. But first she must hear the news.
‘He suffered towards the end, my lady, but never wavered from his purpose. We carried him right to the shrine and that made him happy. He died there in his litter but not before he had received the blessing. It was his wish that he be buried before the main altar in the Church of Saint James.’
‘And this was done?’
‘It was done, my lady.’
‘Praise be to God that he died in peace.’
‘His one concern was for your welfare.’
‘Then he will be happy in Heaven for when he looks down on me he will know I can take care of myself.’