In the honeyed glow of southern France’s medieval courts, something stirred beneath the surface of ritual and rank. Not a battle cry, nor a sermon—but a song. It came from the troubadours—or trovadors, as they were known in their own tongue—poets who let desire slip into verse and set longing to music. They sang of bodies and glances, of nights too full to hold. Their words brushed skin like fingertips, soft and dangerous. And in a world ruled by duty, they dared to speak of want.
