“I did.” She knew he was flirting with her in the accepted courtly manner: such games had become customary in this land of troubadours. It was all quite harmless, of course—or was supposed to be. A lowly squire or poet might pay his ardent addresses to the highborn lady of his choice, and she could accept—and even encourage—his adoration without tarnishing her reputation, but it rarely went further than that.

In Paris, when Eleanor had tried to introduce these conceits, Louis and his clerics were shocked: they had condemned this game of courtly love as merely an excuse for committing adultery. But in Aquitaine, as Eleanor knew well, for she had grown up in the relaxed culture of the South, it was regarded as merely a sophisticated and enjoyable pastime. She thought nothing of accepting the homage and flattery of the troubadours and young men who frequented her court, for everyone understood it was all part of an elaborate and exciting game.

Eleanor’s ladies were asking for more.

“I like this Master Ovid!” declared frivolous Faydide de Toulouse.

“I have heard he is much disapproved of by some,” said beautiful Torqueri de Bouillon.

Mamille de Roucy, plump as a partridge, giggled. “That makes him all the more interesting!”

“Well, Messire Bernard, can you sing some more of Ovid’s verse?” Eleanor asked.

“With pleasure, madame,” he replied warmly, and took up his cithara again. There was a wicked glint in his eyes as he sang: In Love’s rite

Should man and woman equally delight.

I hate a union that exhausts not both!

I like to hear a voice of rapture shrill

That bids me linger and prolongs the thrill;

Love’s climax never should be rushed, I say,

But worked up softly, lingering all the way!

He was looking at Eleanor again as his voice died and his strumming ceased. She felt the heat rise in her cheeks at his lewd song, which conjured up so vividly the wild, erotic nights when she had lain with Henry. Striving to control the rising ache in her loins, she joined in the applause with her ladies, all of whom were pink with excitement.

“That is a very lewd song, messire,” she reproved, but her eyes were kind. “I think, however, that we have all enjoyed it. You shall play for us again soon.”

And he did. Suddenly, he was always there, in the dining hall, or the great chamber, or the gardens, watching her, begging permission to play for her, singing his songs of lust and dalliance. She sensed there was more to his devotion than courtly convention.

“I have written a song for you, madame,” he announced one day, coming upon her seated under a magnolia tree, abandoned by her ladies, who were a little way off, gathering early April flowers. “Shall you hear it?”

“I am listening,” Eleanor told him. She was gentle with him, knowing that he could hope for nothing more from her. His voice was strong and ardent: When the sweet breeze

Blows hither from your dwelling,

Methinks I feel

A breath of Paradise!

When he finished, he was visibly shaking. Eleanor took pity on him.

“No one has ever written a song like that for me,” she told him.

“Your beauty has inspired me, madame,” Bernard said fervently. “You are gracious, lovely—the embodiment of all charm! With your lovely eyes and noble countenance, you are fit to crown the state of any king! Yet alas, it is I, a humble troubadour, who loves you.”

“You know you may not aspire to me,” Eleanor chided him sweetly. It was the correct, the only, response.

“Say I may hope, madame, I beg of you,” Bernard pleaded. “Or if you will not extend to me such kindness, then give me leave to sing your praises in my verse. I swear I will not reveal the object of my adoration.” As if, she thought, suppressing a smile, it was not obvious to anyone with eyes in their head.

“Why, of course, messire,” she said aloud, giving him her hand to kiss to show that he was dismissed. He pressed his lips to it joyfully.

After that the court was regaled with song after song dedicated—without her name being mentioned—to the duchess. Only a fool would have failed to realize for whom they were meant. Eleanor found such flattery irresistible. It was balm to her lonely heart to hear herself described as noble and sweet, faithful and loyal, gracious and lovely. She only wished that Henry were with her to hear it. No, she just wished Henry were with her. All she craved was his presence. But since she could not have that, there was no harm in enjoying this pleasurable little diversion and the homage of her adoring troubadour.

“When you look at me with your eyes full of fire and eloquence, I feel the kind of joy one only experiences at Christmas or other great festivals,” Bernard effused to her, after she had graciously permitted him to walk with her on the massive castle ramparts that overlooked the River Maine, keeping her damsels at a discreet distance, yet within earshot. The wind was chilly and whipping her veil in every direction, but she had gathered her heavy mantle about her and stepped out briskly, enjoying the invigorating air. Walking, she had been told, was good for her condition.

“What have I done to deserve such devotion?” she teased.

Bernard looked at her with reproach. “You exist, divine lady! You have been the first among my joys, and you shall be the last, so long as there is life in me.”

“Then what of Alaiz, the wife of the Viscount of Ventadour?” Eleanor teased him. At his stricken look, she smiled. “I am well informed, as you see!” In fact, she’d had inquiries made at Ventadour.

The young man continued to look crestfallen. “It was a passing fancy, no more, madame, I swear it …”

“You seduced her!” she accused him, still smiling. “Do not deny it! It was serious enough for the viscount to throw you out of his house and lock up his wife, whom he has now repudiated.” She frowned.

“Do not condemn me, I beg of you, my dear lady,” Bernard pleaded. “I was young and foolish—and she was not worth the trouble. I see that clearly now that I have beheld your face. I swear by all that is holy that I never loved her as I love you, and that from now on I will be true to you, fair queen of my heart.”

Eleanor shot him a look of disdain and strode on. He hastened to keep up with her.

“I swear it!” he cried.

She relented. “Very well, we will speak no more of it.”

Bernard was on his knees, kissing the hem of her mantle. “Of all women, you are the most kind and beautiful, madame, and I would not trade your charms for even the wealthy city of Paris!”

“I should hope not,” she chided, “for beauty, although it lies only in the eyes of the beholder, is surely priceless! Now please get up. You are making a spectacle of us both!”

They were almost at the tower door that led to the royal lodgings.

“Accept this, madame, with my devotion,” Bernard said breathlessly, thrusting a scroll into Eleanor’s hands.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Poems I have written for you,” he breathed. “Read them, please, for they contain secret messages that only you will understand.”

Later, when she read them, she found them to be no more than further outpourings of his devotion. He declared that Tristan had never suffered such woe for the fair Yseult as he, Bernard, now suffered for his chosen lady. Eleanor smiled when she read that in her presence he was so overcome by love, his wits fled and he had no more sense than a child. “All I write and sing,” he vowed, “is meant for your delight.” Poor man, she thought: he can never have what he craves. Yet it is fortunate that the rules of the game permit no mention of husbands, for I cannot be cruel and tell him that all I see is my Henry.