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.