My grandfather was caught up in the excitement, no doubt seeing that by such a venture he could wipe out his sins with one stroke and save himself years of wearying virtue. As an important ruler, he must set out in great style, and for that he needed money. He then did what in Philippa’s eyes must have been unforgivable. He sold Toulouse to Raymond—son of that other Raymond—without asking Philippa’s permission; and she, who was in Toulouse at the time, knew nothing about the transaction until Raymond came to take possession.
William found the Turk a formidable enemy and had the mortification of seeing his army cut to pieces in battle. He himself managed to escape, but all he came back with was some poems glorifying the crusade and telling of the cruelty of the wicked Infidel.
Philippa must have forgiven him, for she bore him two more children—there were five girls and another boy—but their relationship had been seriously impaired. She turned to religion and came under the influence of Robert d’Abrissel. I later took notice of this man for he founded Fontevrault, which consisted of four convents—two for women and two for men. He was the first of his kind to show a respect for women, and for that I applauded him. I came to love Fontevrault and could well imagine what a haven it would be to a woman who could embrace the cloistered life. I could not imagine myself doing so, but that did not stop my loving Fontevrault.
William had no interest in the place and did his best to discourage Philippa from the religious life she was leading. He deplored d’Abrissel’s view of women for he wanted to keep them in that niche which men of his kind arranged for them. Had I been older, I would have made known my disagreement with him. I should have enjoyed doing battle with him on the subject.
He ridiculed d’Abrissel and talked of building a convent for courtesans. He was the sort of man who enjoyed shocking all those about him. Philippa was determined to pursue her own way of life; and the final break between them came with the appearance of Dangerosa, which was more than any woman could be expected to endure.
So Philippa left him forever and retired to Fontevrault.
I was called Eleanor, named after my mother, for Eleanor meant “That other Anor.”
They made much of me. Like many sinners my grandfather and grandmother were indulgent. I doubt the virtuous Philippa or the Viscount of Chtellerault would have given me so much loving attention. My mother was there in the background, gentle, rather timid, an alien in this flamboyant Court. She was devoted to me and I know did her best to counteract the effect of the spoiling. I am afraid she was not very successful in this; but I did love her dearly and she represented a steadying influence in my young life which was certainly necessary.
When my sister Petronilla arrived, I was not quite sure of the effect she would have on my position; but very soon I was in charge of her. The elders watched me with amusement as I exerted my influence over her and by the time she could walk she was my abject slave. She was pretty and charming, but just as my father lacked the charisma of my grandfather, so Petronilla, for all her prettiness and charm, could only take second place to me.
So all was well. I was the little Queen of the Court. I would sit on my grandfather’s knee and make my quaint remarks which set his beard wagging, implying that he was amused. I was the one who received most of the sugarplums fed to us by Dangerosa.
At this time I heard someone say that the Lady Eleanor could well be the heiress of Aquitaine. That was a great revelation. Aquitaine, that beautiful country with its rivers, mountains, flowers and vineyards, its many castles ... all would one day be mine! I was a very contented little girl.
And then it happened. My mother had been sick for a long time. Her shape changed; she rested a good deal. There was a great fuss about what they called “her condition.” I was told: “There is going to be another little one in the nursery.”
I naturally thought of another Petronilla—someone for me to mold and direct and who would become my ardent admirer.
The great day arrived. One of the nurses came to me in great excitement.
“What do you think, my lady!” she said. “You have a little brother.”
What rejoicing there was throughout the castle. “Now we have a male heir,” they said.
My grandfather was full of glee; so were Dangerosa and my father.
It was treachery. I was the heir of Aquitaine. But it seemed that, in spite of all the songs dedicated to the glory of women, they were forgotten when a boy was born.
This was the first setback.
I sat on my grandfather’s knee and voiced my protests.
“But you see, little one, men want a leader.”
“I could lead them.”
“Sometimes we go into battle.”
“You don’t.”
“I did ... when I was a younger man.”
Dangerosa said: “Never mind. Women have their way of ruling.”
My father tried to console me. “You will make a great marriage when the time comes.”
My mother said: “Happiness does not come with great titles, my child, but with the good life. If you marry and are a good wife, that will bring you more happiness than great estates.”
I did not believe her. I wanted to be the heiress of Aquitaine.
But no one could help loving little William Aigret. He was such a docile child; and I still ruled the nursery.
Soon after that my grandfather died and my father became the Duke of Aquitaine.
My grandfather was genuinely mourned. I spent a great deal of time with Dangerosa; she used to tell me stories about him; and it was from her I pieced together the events of his turbulent life. She loved to tell the story of her abduction and how he had come to the castle to talk business with his vassal the Viscount of Chtellerault and as soon as he set eyes on her all thought of business was driven from his mind. I felt I was there during those periods in the castle when they had planned their flight. I seemed to have ridden with them through the forest, she riding pillion, clinging to him as they sped away to happiness. It was very romantic. I did not spare a thought for the poor deserted Viscount and my wronged grandmother Philippa. My sympathies were with the lovers.
Philippa was dead now but in the Courts of Love, which my grandfather had created, their story would be sung for years to come.
The Court changed of course. My father was a very different man. He was not the great lover; he was more of a fighter. At least he was constantly embroiled in some dispute with his vassals. He was quick-tempered and ready to go to war on the slightest pretext; and he was absent a good deal during the years which followed my grandfather’s death.
There were plenty of young people at the castle, for girls were sent to my mother to be brought up as the Court ladies they would eventually become. There were boys too, who must be taught the art of chivalry and horsemanship. We girls had to learn how to embroider and do delicate needlework, which was so much a part of a lady’s education; we had to sing and dance and make gracious conversation; but I was taught other things besides, such as reading and writing. I had shown such an aptitude for learning when it was thought I might be Duchess of Aquitaine that they decided I should continue. I was, therefore, apart from the other children, and I intended that none should forget it.