The Courts of Love: The Story of Eleanor of Aquitaine by Jean Plaidy Read Free Book Online

young. But our grandfather used to take me on his knee and sing to me.”
    “Tell me about it,” said Petronilla, for she could remember little.
    So I told her of the songs they sang glorifying love and telling of the exploits of our grandfather and his knights.
    “I remember some of it,” I said, “but I did not understand it all at the time. They were a little risqu. Men were very daring in those days and they have changed little. They will sing songs of love and devotion and how they adore you and set you on a pedestal so that they can worship you, and all the time it is merely to lull your feelings into a sense of security, and when you are sufficiently lulled they will take advantage of you. And once that has happened they will tire of you.”
    “Is that really true? Our grandfather did not tire of Dangerosa.”
    “That was because she was clever. We have to be clever         .         .         .         more clever than they are, Petronilla. That is what I learned in the Courts of Love.”
    And during those months while we awaited my father’s return I set up my own Court. In the evenings I would have the minstrels play for us; there were the story-tellers and the itinerant troubadours who were constantly arriving. It was becoming more and more like the Court of my grandfather’s day.
    I was the Queen of it all. It was in praise of me that they wrote their songs. They would sit at my feet, those handsome knights, and in their songs and in their looks they would proclaim their love for me.
    I believe there were some who thought I would succumb. It was not that I should not have liked, on occasion, to do so. I was susceptible to their handsome looks and charming manners. I would pretend to waver. It was exciting to see the hope in their eyes. But I never gave way. I had learned my lessons. Whatever happened, I must be aloof. I must be the one they dreamed about, the one about whom they wove their fancies.
    The Archbishop was dismayed. This was not seemly in his eyes. There was too much levity. There should be more time spent in devotions. I pretended to be contrite, but I did not change my ways. This was my Court and because my power might be transient, I was determined to enjoy it while I could.
    I feared that, if my father came back a rejuvenated man with his sins washed away, he would marry, and if he had a son, that would be the end of my hopes. I threw myself into the enjoyment of those days when I was in truth Queen of my Court, the ruler of Aquitaine, and the days passed all too quickly.
             
    There was no news.
    Sometimes I went to the topmost tower and looked around. One day I must see the returning party. Surely he must come home soon, and this pleasant existence at Court must end.
    Petronilla would stand beside me. “He must soon come back,” she said. “He has been gone so long.”
    “It is a long way to go.”
    “Then when he comes back he will take a wife, our stepmother, Eleanor. I think we shall hate her. She will have children, and if they are boys they will be more important than we are.”
    “She may be barren.”
    “I hope she is. No one but you should be ruler of Aquitaine.”
    “If I marry the son of the King of France I shall have to go away.”
    “I shall come with you.” I was silent and she went on: “Please say I may. I should hate to be parted from you. I wouldn’t. I should run away to where you were.”
    I smiled, pleased by her devotion. “You are always impulsive, Petronilla,” I said. “You are a little like our father. You act without thinking what effect your actions will have.”
    “Some say that of you.”
    “Then we are a pair.”
    “Promise I shall come with you when you marry and go away.”
    “I promise.”
    As we stood there one day, we saw a lonely figure riding along the road.
    “He brings news,” I said. “Let us go down and see what he has to tell us. It may be that he comes from our