When winter fell into spring in the year 1137, I was in Bordeaux—an unwilling ward of the Archbishop while my father went on pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela. Bordeaux was a thoroughly unimpressive metropolis. My sister Petronilla—two years younger than me at sixteen—and I spent our days in languorous confinement in the Archbishop's chambers, reading, singing, and dreaming of being rescued from the boredom, and our nights at the Ombriere Palace. My thoughts were occupied by Jaufre's electrifying touches that I missed so very much. I didn't miss him—I yearned only for the magic that came from his skilled fingers and tongue. The troubadour played me like a lute and then made me sing. Sometimes we would meet in the stables, or in the forest, or if I was feeling risky, a shadowy corner somewhere in the castle. This delicious pleasure lasted every day until I was whisked away all because of my father's odd and selfish desire to prostrate himself at the shrine of Saint James. It baffled me—I found religion thoroughly uninteresting, which brings me back to why I so hated spending my days with the clergyman.
In the vein of the all-consuming love service that was so popular, Jaufre had laid his head before my feet, pleading me not to go. I felt embarrassed, and I think he did too, but there was no way—no matter how much I wished—to avoid Bordeaux. He then offered to come with me, but there was no place for him at the cathedral lest he was willing shave his beautiful dark hair into a tonsure and tuck his cock away forever.
One afternoon Petronilla and I were taking a walk through the cloisters and around the courtyard, and I overheard two monks talking. One was the cellarer, and the other the sacrist, and they were deep in conversation about a large delivery from one of the monastery's holdings—a vineyard. Petronilla and I exchanged a glance. Back at court in Poitou, we were allowed as much wine as we desired, yet in Bordeaux, under the supervision of the Archbishop, everything was rationed and we were only allowed wine in limited amounts with meals.
Later that evening, when the monks were at Vespers, I let myself into the cellar and noted with glee that there was, indeed, a large shipment of wine. The cellarer had left his records out on a nearby desk, indicating that he had not yet taken full account of all the bottles. So, I reasoned, no one would notice if I took a bottle or four.
I gathered my contraband in my arms and made for the doorway, only to find it blocked by the cellarer himself—Brother Hugues. "Lady Eleanor," he spoke with a glimmer in his eye. "Thought you would help yourself to some wine?"
Impertinence was one of my foremost talents. "Aren't you supposed to be at Vespers?" I replied rudely.
"I hardly go to Vespers. Eight sacred offices a day is just not for me," he said. He ran his hand through a cap of golden curls, making me note that he had avoided the tonsure. "I prefer to be spiritual in other ways." His eyes surveyed my body, from the golden circlet at my forehead to the bottom of my skirts.
