Eleanor of Aquitaine, kinkster

One of my favorite parts of writing Her True Lord's Claim was putting my own spin on Eleanor of Aquitaine's famous courts of love, one of the most important imaginary expressions of what would forever after be known as "courtly love."

In the solar waiting for the queen were Eleanor’s lady-in-waiting, Claire de Lussac, Sophie, the lady of Chauvigny, and Sophie’s own lady-in-waiting, Berenice de Charente. 

“Quite a little court, as you see,” said Eleanor with a gentle smile. “Ladies, I have brought Sir Nele hither because his face betrayed him when my dear boy Richard rallied him about a lady. It appears that Sir Nele has refused the duke a tale of love. We all know Richard, so we all know what sort of story he really seeks of you, Sir Nele, and so I have no doubt that you do right not to tell it. But I also divine that you have some purpose in view—perhaps, if I may judge from your demeanor, a very noble purpose—and you fret yourself that perhaps if you told the duke your story you might achieve it. Do I miss the mark?” 

Nele’s eyes went wide. “No, your majesty. You have found out my worry exactly.” 

Eleanor looked back at the rest of her little court, who were all smiling at Nele. Lady Sophie was a beautiful raven-haired woman of about forty, and the two ladies-in-waiting were in their thirties, and equally lovely. Nele felt a little light-headed. 

The queen turned back to him. “Come then, Sir Nele. In your most elegant terms, if necessary—the terms that would make my son Richard grow wrathful that you did not tell him those wicked things he really wished to know—tell these ladies and me the tale.” 

Nele hesitated for a long moment. Should he reveal to the queen the secrets that he had intended only to disclose to her son? Eleanor had fame for her wisdom, but also for her wrath when crossed. Was the queen then not precisely the woman to help him? For surely she would grow wrathful at Guy de Freche? 

“Your majesty,” he began. “I am not the son of Hugues de Chail.” 

“Of course you’re not,” said Eleanor impatiently. “You’re the heir of Lourcy and Mercester. I thought that was understood.” As Nele gaped, the queen turned to the other ladies. “He was sent to Chail to protect him from the Freches.” They nodded sagely. Eleanor continued, “And he had to deliver his cousin Anne of Mowton to her abominable, though devilishly handsome, husband, Guy de Freche.” 

“Is he the one…?” asked Sophie, her eyes wide and a strange look upon her face, as if something had both fascinated and horrified her at once. 

“The brothel in Messina, yes.” 

“With the whipping post?” 

“Indeed,” Eleanor said dryly, “that’s the one I mean. Many’s the time I wished Louis had simply taken me there and left me.”

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