Petronelle and Raoul were smugly content with each other; and she was determined that they should remain together. She was not going to give way.

Meanwhile she badgered Louis. Was he a coward? Was he going to allow little rulers of small provinces to outwit him? Would he stand by and see the sister of his wife dishonoured? It was tantamount to dishonouring his wife.

Louis implored her to be patient, and then another matter arose which demanded his attention.

The Archbishopric of Bourges had fallen vacant and Eleonore and Louis had chosen the man who was to fill the post. He was ideal, being a friend of theirs. Then to their consternation a message came from the Pope that he had chosen Pierre de la Chatre for the office.

‘How dare he interfere in matters which concern us and us only!‘demanded the Queen.

Louis supported her. He was the King. It was for him to say who should be his Archbishop.

‘Not so,’ retorted the Pope. ‘I have appointed Pierre de la Chatre and none other shall have it.’

Louis, prompted by Eleonore, replied that as long as he lived de la Chatre should not enter Bourges.

Then the Pope made a remark which when reported to Louis raised his anger.

‘The King of France is a child,’ said the Pope. ‘He must get schooling and be kept from bad habits.’

‘You see,’ cried Eleonore when this was reported, ‘they have no respect for you. It is because you allow people to insult you. You have been over-lenient. Look at Theobald of Champagne. If you had marched into his country and laid it waste the Pope would not have spoken to you as though you were a schoolboy.’

Louis was silent for a few moments then he burst out: ‘It would have meant war. Killing brings such suffering to innocent people.’

‘A fine way for a king to talk,’ commented Eleonore scornfully.

Theobald played right into her hands by supporting the Pope’s choice and letting it be known.

Eleonore was furious. ‘What now?’ she cried. ‘Will you stand by and allow this?’

Louis knew that he could not, and when the Pope excommunicated him he knew that he had to take action.

He prepared to march on Champagne in order to subdue the Count who had dared take sides against his King.


Eleonore rode out of Paris beside her reluctant husband. There was to be war with Champagne and Louis knew that such conflicts enriched no one but the soldiers who plundered and pillaged while innocent people suffered.

The Queen however was adamant and he had after much persuasion agreed that Theobald must be taught a lesson.

It was not a very impressive army that marched into Champagne. Many wandering adventurers joined it, and because it was not very large the King was glad to welcome any who followed him, even though he knew they were out for the spoils which would come their way.

As they marched deeper into the terrain of the man the Queen detested, the rougher elements of the army plundered the villages against the King’s order. Louis heard the cries of protesting villagers who sought to protect their crops, their houses and their family. He saw his rough soldiery ordering the villagers from their houses, illtreating the women, raping, feasting, drinking and acting in a manner of which he had heard much and which had made him hate the thought of war.

He endeavoured to stop their cruelties; they did not heed him.

Eleonore regarded him with contempt. What sort of a king was he whom men would not obey and who shuddered at the prospect of war? She could only remember that this was the enemy’s country. She exulted over the burning land. This would teach Theobald what it meant to flout his King because if that King was weak his Queen was not.

They had reached the walled city of Vitry.

There was little defence offered and in a short time the King’s men were in the streets killing, pillaging, shedding the blood of its inhabitants. The old and the maimed and the women and the children ran screaming before the soldiers and barricaded themselves into the wooden church.

‘Enough, enough,’ cried Louis. But his command was not heeded.

His followers had come to pillage and murder and they could not be restrained. There then occurred a terrible incident which was to haunt the King for the rest of his days.

Inside the church the children clung to their mothers, and mothers begged for the safety of their little ones. The King’s men knew no pity. They did not attempt to break into the church. They merely set it on fire.

As the flames enveloped it and the thick black smoke filled the air the cries of the innocent could be heard calling curses on their murderers and screaming for mercy.

‘Have done. Have done,’ pleaded Louis but they would not listen to him. In any case it was too late. In that burning church were thirteen hundred innocent people and they were all burned to death.


In his tent Louis lay staring blankly before him. Eleonore lay beside him.

‘I can hear their screaming,’ he said.

She answered: ‘There is no sound now. They are all dead.’

‘All dead!’ he cried. ‘Those innocent people. Holy Mother of God help me! I shall never be able to escape from the sound of their cries.’

‘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?’