JEAN GERARD

Eleanor of Aquitaine, noble doyenne of trouveres,

hostess to Courts of Love, doubter of law and faith,

went with her monkish husband Louis on Crusade.

She graced the grief and gore of the holy travels

to walk, ride a horse and sail.  Constantinople.

Edessa, Antioch she visited, and pushed on

to Jerusalem, caught upon return by a disaster

that left her in distress, lost for a time in strange

mountains, with three hundred royal ladies.

In Christian Antioch she found her uncle

Raymond encircled by luxury and intrigues

enough to match the courts of feudal Europe.

Perhaps she fell in love, or maybe not.

She encouraged Louis to remain there, safe.

But he felt a stronger impulse to leave.

He was eager to be about the business

of saving his soul, and was a bit jealous

as well, so he forced the queen to go along

with his mob of knights, foot soldiers

and hangers-on, continuing to Jerusalem.

What was left of this silk and steel parade

made its way through wind and sand, winding

southward among the arid stony hills

until they were met outside the city gates

by King Fulks, the patriarch, and a group

of Templars in full regalia bearing music,

letters and gifts.  The Queen was captive

during all these demonstrations. Thirty months

passed by before she got back home,

only to learn that Raymond had been killed,

his head delivered to the caliph on a tray.

She returned to her beleaguered throne

to deal with a vengeful angry spouse,

and enemies beyond number.  She had lost

much treasure and security to the Church

and would hold the Church responsible

as best she could in later tangled matters

of her court, governing her own land

of wine and olives. Louis disavowed her.

She was not sorry.  She had wanted a divorce.

Caliphs, popes and knights — despoilers all!

Soon she married another king, young Henry,

uniting her land in France with most of England.

All told, she had five sons and four daughters,

and gained through cunning, canniness and care

a knowledge of the human soul that was

unmatched by any woman of her day.

Coping by turns with success and failure,

sometimes both at once, her skill and charm

never faltered.  Her experiences conflated

love with agony.  Her ability to predict

the future kept her alert and undismayed.

Her will slipped free through prison bars,

and eighty years of bravery overcame

trials that could have killed strong men.

She died in a nunnery, and we are not told

that she ever confessed to a single sin.

The living spirit of Eleanor cast in stone

lies atop her bier, a stone book clasped

forever in her open hands.  A poem, perhaps?

A song with harp or tabor?  DeVentadour

sings out his heart?  “You were the first

among my joys, and you shall be the last,

so long as life remains.”