but in truth they were far from certain what had made their master sicken. Soon it was apparent, even to William, that nothing could be done; he would not recover. On the near edge of death, the maladroit duke showed more political judgment than he ever had during life. Lips swollen and dry, he whispered in halting words his last will and testament:
To his beloved daughter Eleanor, his sole heir, he bequeathed his fief, a rich and now violent legacy.
To his overlord, the king of France, he bestowed both his domains and his daughter, in the hope that the worthy Louis would guard both treasures until he had found the new duchess a suitable husband to rule over the land of love. In the meantime, the king had the right to enjoy the use of Eleanor’s lands.
He insisted that his death be kept a closely guarded secret until these matters reached the ears of Louis VI, extracting promises that his men would cover the mountain leagues across the Pyrenees with all possible haste and stop at Bordeaux only long enough to notify the archbishop. The stray ends tidied at last, the plums in his keeping safely distributed to the best of his ability, William fell silent.
His men, weeping aloud, carried their dying master to the vaulted cavern of Compostela’s great cathedral, where he expired “most piously” after receiving Holy Communion. There, beneath the botafumeiro, the awesome silver censer swinging in smoky arcs from its ceiling pulley, the last Duke William of Aquitaine was laid to rest at the foot of the high altar, by the side of the Galilean fisherman whom Christ turned into a fisher of men.
The Devil and the Monk
The summer promised to be torrid. In Paris the stones of the Cité Palace were white and burning in the great heat of the day, and the air hung heavy and dead. As there had been no rain recently, the odeur de merde in the streets was never absent from anyone’s nostrils, and black masses of flies clung indiscriminately to refuse and human alike. To escape these discomforts, Louis VI had moved a few leagues north of the city, to the suburbs where he owned a hunting lodge. More accurately, he had been transported on a litter, because his corpulence made it virtually impossible for Louis to move himself. There at Béthizy in the waning days of May he lay immobile on a royal couch, a mound of sweating, panting flesh. If not for the sin of gluttony, which he wore like a badge, he might have been known as Louis the Great or even Louis the Practical. As it was, his people had dubbed him, with appropriate candor, Louis le Gros. Louis the Fat had not always been obese, but in recent years he could no longer mount a horse or a woman, nor could he lift his enormous bulk out of bed. He could only eat and worry.
Louis was not, however, the only apprehensive person at Béthizy. Gathered anxiously around his couch were Abbot Suger, his lifelong confidant and chief minister, and a number of barons, bishops, and priests, the latter having been summoned by Suger should an emergency suddenly arise. The king was suffering from a “flux of the bowels,” an attack of the same dysentery that had struck him down two years earlier. He had recovered from the first siege, but this time his condition appeared grave. During those sultry days the smell in his room was foul and suffocating and, although medicines had been prescribed for the diarrhea and the basin near his cot was frequently emptied, his ministers choked when they approached their sovereign. For all his great fat and disease-devoured body, Louis’s head remained clear, and he fretted incessantly over matters he could no longer control.
God had blessed him with six sons but, in his infinite wisdom, had seen fit to remove the eldest just as he was approaching maturity. As a child, Philip had been Louis’s favorite, but with the passage of time Louis had to confess that the boy brought him little joy. When the heir to the throne was barely pubescent, Louis had him
To his beloved daughter Eleanor, his sole heir, he bequeathed his fief, a rich and now violent legacy.
To his overlord, the king of France, he bestowed both his domains and his daughter, in the hope that the worthy Louis would guard both treasures until he had found the new duchess a suitable husband to rule over the land of love. In the meantime, the king had the right to enjoy the use of Eleanor’s lands.
He insisted that his death be kept a closely guarded secret until these matters reached the ears of Louis VI, extracting promises that his men would cover the mountain leagues across the Pyrenees with all possible haste and stop at Bordeaux only long enough to notify the archbishop. The stray ends tidied at last, the plums in his keeping safely distributed to the best of his ability, William fell silent.
His men, weeping aloud, carried their dying master to the vaulted cavern of Compostela’s great cathedral, where he expired “most piously” after receiving Holy Communion. There, beneath the botafumeiro, the awesome silver censer swinging in smoky arcs from its ceiling pulley, the last Duke William of Aquitaine was laid to rest at the foot of the high altar, by the side of the Galilean fisherman whom Christ turned into a fisher of men.
The Devil and the Monk
The summer promised to be torrid. In Paris the stones of the Cité Palace were white and burning in the great heat of the day, and the air hung heavy and dead. As there had been no rain recently, the odeur de merde in the streets was never absent from anyone’s nostrils, and black masses of flies clung indiscriminately to refuse and human alike. To escape these discomforts, Louis VI had moved a few leagues north of the city, to the suburbs where he owned a hunting lodge. More accurately, he had been transported on a litter, because his corpulence made it virtually impossible for Louis to move himself. There at Béthizy in the waning days of May he lay immobile on a royal couch, a mound of sweating, panting flesh. If not for the sin of gluttony, which he wore like a badge, he might have been known as Louis the Great or even Louis the Practical. As it was, his people had dubbed him, with appropriate candor, Louis le Gros. Louis the Fat had not always been obese, but in recent years he could no longer mount a horse or a woman, nor could he lift his enormous bulk out of bed. He could only eat and worry.
Louis was not, however, the only apprehensive person at Béthizy. Gathered anxiously around his couch were Abbot Suger, his lifelong confidant and chief minister, and a number of barons, bishops, and priests, the latter having been summoned by Suger should an emergency suddenly arise. The king was suffering from a “flux of the bowels,” an attack of the same dysentery that had struck him down two years earlier. He had recovered from the first siege, but this time his condition appeared grave. During those sultry days the smell in his room was foul and suffocating and, although medicines had been prescribed for the diarrhea and the basin near his cot was frequently emptied, his ministers choked when they approached their sovereign. For all his great fat and disease-devoured body, Louis’s head remained clear, and he fretted incessantly over matters he could no longer control.
God had blessed him with six sons but, in his infinite wisdom, had seen fit to remove the eldest just as he was approaching maturity. As a child, Philip had been Louis’s favorite, but with the passage of time Louis had to confess that the boy brought him little joy. When the heir to the throne was barely pubescent, Louis had him
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