His objective was to march on a place called Wallingford, where his supporters were under siege in the castle, and relieve them and as he made his jubilant progress toward that place, town after town fell to him. All this Eleanor learned joyfully from the messengers Henry sent to her fairly regularly. They told her he had been jubilant at the news that she was carrying his child and exhorted her to take good care of herself. Eleanor smiled at his thoughtfulness. She was strong and healthy, she had borne her previous children with ease, and she bade the messengers to tell Henry so.

After the tedious and tiring early weeks, she bloomed. Her skin was soft as a blossom, her hair silky and l.u.s.trous, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s full. Thus did an ambitious young troubadour, Bernard de Ventadour, behold her when he presented himself at her court, looking for patronage.

"Madame the d.u.c.h.ess," he declared, bowing elaborately low, "your fame is without parallel. I have made so bold as to come here in the hope that you will not turn away one of your subjects who would entertain you with his humble lays and verses."

Eleanor warmed to his florid praise. She saw that he was a young man to whom a happy combination of wavy chestnut locks, green eyes, and chiseled features lent exquisite manly beauty. Were she not so contented with her lord, she thought to herself, she might well have had seduction on her mind at this moment.

"Messire Bernard, tell us about yourself," she invited, waving a languid hand to encompa.s.s the watching courtiers.

The young man's eyes were mellow. He was looking at her with open admiration. "Madame, my fortune is in my songs, not my birth. I am merely the son of a kitchen maid in the household of the Viscount of Ventadour in the Limousin."

"I know the viscount." Eleanor smiled. "He and his family have long been patrons of troubadours like yourself."

"Indeed, madame," Bernard agreed, looking at her a touch shiftily, she thought. "He was kind enough to say that I had talent, and to tutor me himself in writing poetry and lyrics."

"Then you are much indebted to him," Eleanor observed, to a murmur of a.s.sent from the company. Again, there was that fleeting shifty look on the young troubadour's face. "But tell me, messire, why have you left his castle? Is it just to seek greater fame in the wider world?"

"Yes," Bernard de Ventadour said, not now meeting her gaze. She knew he was lying. No matter, it was no concern of hers, although she was curious as to why he had left such a kind lord's service.

He was looking at her again, his green eyes eager.

"Well, let us hear how talented you are," Eleanor said. "Play for us."

The troubadour produced his stringed vielle and sang an amusing sirvente, a satire on gluttonous monks, which prompted much mirth among Eleanor and her courtiers.

Clapping, Eleanor asked, "Do you know any songs of King Arthur and Queen Guinevere?"

"Alas, my lady, I do not, although I have read the tales of Geoffrey of Monmouth. I do know some lines from the ancient poet Ovid that might please you. They come from his work, Ars Amatoria-The Art of Love." His eyes twinkled mischievously. "Mayhap you would not understand how bold they are ..."

"I know my Latin," Eleanor reproved him gently. "But play, please. We would all like to hear your naughty song!"

The troubadour, blushing, laid down his vielle and took a cithara from his pack. He began strumming an introduction, then with a smile sang in his rich voice: First then believe, all women may be won.

Attempt with confidence, the work is done!

The gra.s.shopper shall first forbear to sing

In summer season, or the birds in spring,

Than woman can resist your flattering skill:

Even she will yield, who swears she never will!

This is the s.e.x: they will not first begin,

But when compelled, are pleased to suffer sin.

Ask, that thou may enjoy; she waits for this,

And on thy first advance depends thy bliss.

Bernard looked directly at Eleanor as he sang those last words, his meaning unmistakable. She returned his gaze reprovingly.

"You are bold, messire!"

"You did not like Ovid's poem, madame?"

"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 l.u.s.t 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. .h.i.ther 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 n.o.ble 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 d.u.c.h.ess. 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 n.o.ble 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 ma.s.sive 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.