Alayne watched the shallow stream as it burbled and
chuckled over boulders worn smooth by the passage of time,
its waters so clear that she could see the tiny creatures
that lived on the sandy bed. Behind her she could hear the
laughter and chatter of the courtiers. One of the ladies
was playing a lyre; others ran hither and thither
screaming with mirth as they indulged in foolish games.
The sun was too warm for playing games, Alayne thought.
She sighed as she trailed her fingers in the cool water of
the stream. Was she growing weary of the endless pleasures
offered at the Court of Love? Poitiers was often so named
because of the troubadours, who sang of that fine courtly
love of which many dreamed and few truly found. Sometimes
Alayne believed that 'fine' love was merely a myth; she
wearied of all the intrigues and found the life shallow.
And yet where else could she go? There was nowhere else
where she could be safe and protected as she was here.
A tiny shudder ran through her as she thought of the fate
that awaited her if she were to leave the court, and she
knew that she would rather waste her days in idle pleasure
than be at the mercy of those who wished to control and
manipulate her life. Her lovely face was sad as the
memories came back to haunt her — the reasons why she had
fled her home.
"Alayne! Alayne, come and join us," one of the ladies
screamed as she ran by, hotly pursued by a young knight
intent on snatching the kisses he had won from her, which
she now refused to pay. "Save me from this wicked seducer,
I beg you."
Alayne smiled at their foolishness, but shook her head.
She was in no mood for joining in their play; besides, she
suspected that the lady fully intended to be caught once
she had reached a secluded spot within the gardens. It
might be nice to be kissed by a handsome lover, Alayne
thought, and sighed — if only she could be as carefree and
as happy as that girl!
Little though she knew it, her sadness was reflected in
her lovely face and noticed by more than one knight
present that day, for she was the kind of woman who
attracted attention without seeking or wanting it. There
was about her something that drew men to her, like moths
to the flame.
Her thoughts were far away from the court at that moment,
trapped in the recent unhappy past. It was almost a year
since she had in desperation sought the protection of
Eleanor of Aquitaine, who was a distant kinswoman of her
mother's. Alayne had always admired the Queen. At the age
of twenty Eleanor had taken the Cross and gone to the
crusades with her husband King Louis VII of France, but
that marriage had been annulled and Eleanor wed to Henry
of Anjou, now Henry II of England. And there had been no
one else Alayne could turn to in her distress.
"Why so thoughtful, my lady?"
Alayne glanced up as she heard the voice of the Baron
Pierre de Froissart, a little smile of welcome on her
lips. He was held by most ladies of the court to be both
handsome and charming, for he had a pleasant singing voice
and an attractive manner.
"I do not give my thoughts so lightly, sir." She pouted
her lips at him, an unconscious teasing in her eyes that
sent a fierce thrill of desire through the knight who
looked down at her.
"Will you let me sit with you, lady?" 'Assuredly, sir. I
am weary of my own company." Pierre de Froissart laughed
and sat on the dry grass beside her, a look of amusement
on his face. He sought her out most days, though he had
never tried to court her. Alayne knew that several ladies
sighed over him and gave him encouraging smiles. She
suspected that he might have paid court to more than one
lady, though such affaires were always kept secret.
It was an unspoken rule that courtly love should remain
private. A troubadour approached his love in secret,
offering his tributes of poems, songs, flowers or pretty
trinkets. The lady would acknowledge the offering or not
as she pleased. Indeed, it was the secret nature of the
courtship that lent it excitement.
"Yet I think it is by your own choosing that you sit
alone, lady. There are many who would court you had they
the chance. You keep your admirers at a distance, I think."
His eyes saw too much! Alayne's dark lashes veiled her
eyes as she glanced down at the water, though her heart
beat faster and brought a becoming colour to her creamy
complexion. A blush touched her cheeks, but she did not
answer him at once, for it was true that she had chosen
solitude that afternoon.
She was a particularly beautiful girl, her dark hair only
partially hidden by the sheer veil she wore attached to
her headdress of green and silver, her eyes a wonderful
blue that made people look at her twice. Her dark lashes
were long and silky; brushing her cheek as they did when
she closed her eyes for a moment, their effect on men was
startling and they had been mentioned in more than one
poem to her beauty. She was the kind of woman that men
dreamed of having in their bed, a tantalising tempt-ress,
with red lips that begged for kisses, her seeming
innocence merely fanning the flames of their desire.
For the past several weeks someone had been sending her
poems and small gifts of flowers. As yet her admirer had
not spoken directly to her of his feelings, merely leaving
his tributes where he knew she would find them on her
walks or delivering them by means of a page who was sworn
to silence.
"I wished to be quiet for a little…to think…" she said at
last, bringing her eyes up to meet the man's suddenly.
"I would pay a forfeit for your thoughts," de Froissart
offered, as she was silent once more. "For I do not like
to see you so sad."
"You need pay no forfeit," Alayne replied. It was a game
often played by the courtiers, and the young men tried to
win kisses and more from the ladies. "I was thinking of
nothing in particular. Only that it is pleasant to sit
here in the sun and yet…" A sigh escaped her and she did
not go on.
"Can it be that you seek something more, Lady Alayne?
Something fine and perfect, an intimacy not often met
with, and seldom found in marriage…" He plucked a long
stem of grass and chewed the end, his eyes watching her.
The tip of her tongue moved nervously over her bottom lip,
the act unconsciously sensuous and arousing fires of which
she was completely unaware.
"I have no wish to marry again," Alayne said, getting to
her feet with a fluid, graceful movement. She found any
talk of marriage unsettling. It was, of course, because
her father, the Baron François de Robspierre, had tried to
force her into a second marriage that she had sought
protection from Queen Eleanor. "Marriage is for making
alliances and securing territory. Love is another matter."
"You speak truly," de Froissart agreed at once. She was
lovely, and like many others at the court he dreamed of
her, of having her as his lover. "The intimacy of which I
dream is beyond compare. To admire from afar the lady I
worship is more than I could ever ask, but to know her, to
share that exquisite intimacy, would indeed be heaven."
Alayne's cheeks were heated. Was the Baron de Froissart
her secret admirer? His words to her that afternoon seemed
to indicate intense feeling on his part. Yet she was not
sure of her own feelings. She had heard much of this
perfect love from other ladies of the court, but was she
ready to begin such an affaire? There was a part of her
that longed to know the true love of which the troubadours
sang so sweetly, but another that shrank from any physical
contact.
"Alayne! Will you not sing for us? Her Majesty begs you
come to her."
Her thoughts took a new direction as a pretty young woman
came towards them. Marguerite de Valois was a popular
member of the court. She received endless tributes from
her admirers, but she withheld her favours from all. Some
of them had been set foolish tasks by the Courts of Love
to try and win her, but she remained aloof, giving no man
more than a nod in passing no matter what they did to
please her.
"Willingly," Alayne cried and went to meet her. She was
glad of the interruption, for the Baron had made her
uncertain, a little nervous. She liked him well enough as
a friend, but any attempt at intimacy frightened her.
Marguerite glanced at her flushed face as she joined
her. "It is not for me to advise, Alayne, but I would be
wary of de Froissart if I were you."
"You do not like him? He is generally liked at court, I
think."
"As to that…" Marguerite shrugged. Her long fair hair was
covered by a silver veil caught from a little cap, her
green eyes thoughtful as she looked at Alayne. "You are
very beautiful, Alayne, and wealthy. There are men who
would do anything to secure such a prize. I do not deny de
Froissart's charm. I say only that I would not trust him."
"You know that I do not wish to marry again?" 'I have
heard that your marriage was not happy…" 'I prefer not to
remember," Alayne said, a closed look coming to her face
as she forced the cruel memories back to that tiny corner
of her mind where they habitually dwelt. "My father wished
me to marry again so that he could gain advantage from my
widowhood for himself, but the Queen forbade it. She has
given her word that I shall not be forced to marry against
my will."
"You are fortunate," Marguerite said with a sigh. "I shall
be married when I am seventeen whether I wish it or no."
"It is the lot of most women," Alayne said. "My father was
furious when I sought the Queen's protection. He considers
I am his property to dispose of as he wishes, but I shall
not be sold again!" Tears sparkled in her lovely eyes, but
she refused to let them fall. Her wedding night had been
unspeakable and it was only the sudden demise of her
husband, who was so many years her senior, that had saved
her from further humiliation at his hands.
Marguerite pressed her hand and smiled. It was because so
many women were forced into unhappy marriages that the
code of courtly love had gained so much popularity in the
languorous climes of Aquitaine and southern regions of
France. How much sweeter the stolen kiss of a young lover
than the clumsy embrace of an uncaring husband!
But the court was waiting for Alayne to sing for them. She
was led to the place of honour beside the Queen's gilded
throne. She smiled and curtsied respectfully to her friend
and champion.
"Sing for us, Lady Alayne," the Queen requested. "Sing
something sweet that will bring tears to our eyes and
gladden our hearts."
"Yes, your Grace," Alayne said and, taking a lyre from one
of the other ladies, began to play a haunting melody, the
pure notes of her song catching the attention of all those
gathered in the glade that warm afternoon in the year of
Our Lord 1167.
It was a song of love unrequited, of a lover left to weep
alone and die of a broken heart, and of a love so pure and
tender that it touched the hearts of all those who heard
it.
Her song was of a perfect knight, a man who chose death
rather than bring harm to the lady he adored. But where,
Alayne wondered, would she ever find such an honourable
knight? She did not believe that he existed outside the
songs of the troubadours.