— Are you certain you would not rather ride with your handmaiden?
Aloïs at last contriveth to mount her palfrey and suppresseth a grimace as she swayeth perilously. Baudouin waiteth, already astride Mars. Marie seemeth to encourage her mistress with gestures, seeking to steady her from afar upon her seat upon the baggage cart.
— Nay, I can remain ahorse.
The young woman offereth him a brief, tight smile. Baudouin shaketh his head and restraineth an amused smirk.
— Very well, then let us be gone.
The company setteth forth, the servants in the cart, Baudouin and Enguerrand before, and Aloïs betwixt the two. The lady fixeth her mind upon the steps of her mount, at times clutching the reins far more than need requireth. The day scarce breaketh and cometh to caress the slumbering fields. A thin veil of frost maketh the wild grasses glisten and the bare branches of the trees to sparkle.
Aloïs slackeneth her pace, dazzled by the blazing hues that light the horizon.
— Have you never beheld a sunrise?
Baudouin hath drawn level with her, leaving Enguerrand ahead. The young lady striveth to master her ill humour.
— You weary swiftly of fair things. As for me, I could never turn mine eyes from such a sight so long as God granteth me to behold it.
Baudouin turneth his gaze once more toward the pale rays that slowly rise above the trees.
— You are right…
Aloïs looketh upon her husband, awaiting a barb.
— I must have forgotten to take heed of what life offereth us.
Baudouin turneth toward her and regardeth her with a strange air. She cougheth lightly to clear her voice and banish her unease.
— No doubt. Yet one must first have been taught so.
— That must be it…
The man’s melancholy expression striketh her.
— You have never truly told me why you dwelt near my lands, saith Aloïs suddenly.
Baudouin keepeth his eyes fixed upon the road.
— My father gave me unto a nurse upon my mother’s death. I was destined for the Church. My elder brother, Anselme, had been taken as squire unto the Count of Anjou, Henry’s father. Yet such was not my lot.
— What befell?
— Anselme suffered a grievous mishap as he made ready to depart with his lord for Normandy. The bed of a cart laden with stones gave way. The whole struck him and rolled upon his arm. His hand was crushed.
Aloïs shuddereth.
— Thereafter, he could no longer fight. My brother therefore entered as a canon and was later made archdeacon at Angers. Ere he died, my father chose to exchange our fates. He left us not long after entrusting me unto Geoffrey the Fair.
— I am sorry for your brother…
The young woman holdeth Baudouin’s gaze, who addeth with a sigh:
— At the least, he died not upon a battlefield.
Aloïs remaineth silent. The memory of the little boy she once saw in the meadows returneth to her.
— If I recall aright, you had more taste for strife than for prayer.
— I admired Anselme. I envied him. Yet it is one thing to imagine fighting unseen foes, and another to go truly upon the field of war. When you behold for the first time in your life bodies pierced through with arrows, the dead with eyes wide open, wherein you may read the terror that marked their final moments… you soon question your ambitions and come to understand…
Aloïs inclineth her head gently.
— What do you understand?
— That your life may be cut short in an instant…
He turneth toward his wife.
— I beg pardon for such words, which might offend you.
— Nay… there is no cause.
The young woman doth not flinch, resolved to hear him. For the first time, she feeleth that they speak at last in calm, without anger or petty ill intent. Her husband sigheth.
— And then, you grow accustomed to the thought. You accept that your role is to fight in defence of a lord stronger, mightier, hoping you have not chosen the wrong side and that your victory may bring peace.
— A worthy aim.
He smileth at her.
— And you? You told me that your own fate had likewise been altered.
— Indeed… I do not think my parents ever meant to wed me. I should doubtless have followed my sister, Berthe, had she taken a husband. Or else I might have entered a convent…
The lady cannot forbear a grimace.
— The prospect seemeth not to please you, noteth her husband, amused.
— Oh no! I love my freedom too well to consent to live enclosed. My parents left me far more liberty than my elders, perchance because they had no expectation of me. Until Berthe vanished…
— Your sister died of illness, if I have understood aright.
Aloïs darkeneth suddenly.
— Aye… aye, she took a chill and did not survive the fever…
Baudouin’s brow furroweth, yet he holdeth his peace.
— Were ye close?
A wistful smile formeth upon Aloïs’s face.
— Berthe was as… a second mother unto me. She was older than I. Lady Hersende had borne a child who died at birth ere I came into the world. My sister took me under her wing and taught me to read. She loved also to wander long upon our father’s lands.
— I better understand whence cometh your taste for wide spaces and your love of freedom.
The young woman gazeth toward the horizon.
— She taught me much… and I grieve that I have so few memories of her. She died when I was but six years of age. The images that return unto me are mingled with those I imagine. Fragments of moments told to me by my parents and my nurse, though it was no easy matter for them to speak of their departed child.
— How many years had Berthe?
— Thirteen… She was already so fair… far more than I shall ever be.
— I do not agree.
Aloïs looketh upon her husband in astonishment. Baudouin doth not waver as he addeth:
— I am certain you are as fair as your sister.
The lord giveth a touch of the heel and setteth his horse to a gentle trot. She followeth him with her eyes, moved by his words. A lighter feeling stirreth within her and lifteth her bearing. Mayhap this journey shall prove of some good after all.
8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVztqMUm4Wp
The company at last draweth near the end of their journey after more than a day upon the road. Nestled within a valley encircled by the forest of Born, at the meeting of Anjou, Poitou, and Touraine, the abbey of Fontevraud appeareth in the greyness of this late March day.
Near the Loire, the monastic site hath been built at the heart of the triangle formed by the strongholds of Saumur, Chinon, and Loudun.
The young woman feeleth the muscles of her legs grown numb. Despite the weariness brought by the journey, she repenteth not of having chosen to ride. Baudouin hath remained at her side for much of the way, and though they have not always spoken, at the least he hath neither ignored nor provoked her.
The riders dismount, and Baudouin cometh to aid her. She feeleth his hands slide about her waist and hold her firmly. Yet as soon as her feet touch the ground, the young man withdraweth and turneth toward the gates of the abbey. The place deserveth that one linger upon it.
— Have you ever come hither? she asketh him.
— Never, yet have I heard much of it. The place gathereth divers houses: one for monks, one for women, for lepers, for repentant sinners… There are also several priories and an infirmary. Robert of Arbrissel, a wandering preacher, did wish to found an abbey here upon lands granted him by the lords of Montsoreau and Montreuil-Bellay near a hundred years past. Its singularity lieth in that it is not an abbot, but an abbess who ruleth over all.
Aloïs beholdeth the vast site spread before them. It cannot be an easy charge to hold the reins of such a place. Before them riseth the abbey church, with its great walls of tuffeau, the stone of the land.
Baudouin knocketh upon the great studded door of the building. He maketh himself known and requesteth audience with the abbess Matilda. Aloïs and he are admitted within the monastic precinct and bidden to wait in the refectory. Large wooden tables fill the wide space, whose bare walls lend it a true austerity. Yet Aloïs feeleth a certain warmth pass through her. A solemn silence reigneth, broken suddenly by the echo of footsteps.
A woman clad in the habit of an abbess appeareth. The nearer she cometh, the more Aloïs admiringly beholdeth her face, at once gentle and marked by the trials of a life doubtless hard. She cannot be more than five and forty years of age, yet lines furrow her high brow and cheeks.
Matilda of Anjou halteth before the pair, who bow in reverence.
— My Lady Mother, we come to present unto you the respects of your nephew, Count of Anjou and Duke of Normandy.
The religious woman biddeth them rise. A weary and sorrowful look setteth upon her features.
— So Henry hath not found the time to come hither himself…
— He… goes to visit many lords to ensure their loyalty.
— And he knows mine is already his…
Aloïs casts a meaningful glance at Baudouin, who maintains a neutral demeanor. The abbess sighs and inclines her head.
— Very well. If God so wills it, perhaps one day I shall have the joy of embracing my nephew.
— He also wished to send his greetings to his half-sister.
— She is presently indisposed, yet I shall convey it to her and receive Henry’s messengers with all due care. You will understand, however, that we live modestly, all the more so in this season of Lent. I shall place cells at your disposal above the dormitories for this night. I imagine you must be weary.
The abbess turns toward Aloïs.
— Whence do you come?
— From Terlaze, a few leagues from Angers.
— That is a long journey.
— Travel allows one to discover new and wondrous places… The hardest part for me is to remain upon my horse.
Mathilde regards Aloïs with surprise, then laughs.
— I understand. We are not all seasoned riders like these gentlemen. Come, I shall show you the place whilst we await supper. Your servants may see to your belongings; I shall have them informed.
The abbess turns back, crossing the refectory where sisters are beginning to enter to prepare the meal. She murmurs a word to one of them, then leaves the hall with the two young people and leads them into the cloister. This enclosed space gives access, on each side, to the key parts of the abbey.
— Behold before you the abbey church, the chapter house; the refectory lies behind us, the kitchens in the corner opposite the church, and lastly the dormitories.
— I have never beheld such buildings, breathes Aloïs.
— The site hath undergone certain changes. The nave was altered after the death of the Great Prioress Hersende of Champagne, near forty years past. The choir and transept had been built most simply under her direction, yet after her passing, an ornamented domed nave was constructed.
The abbess leads them through the buildings, answering patiently the questions of her guest.
— You seem greatly taken with our abbey.
The young woman feels her cheeks flush.
— Forgive me if my questions have troubled you.
— Not in the least. It is good to see some spontaneity among those who surround my nephew.
Baudouin allows himself a faint, sidelong smile. A bell suddenly rings out.
— We may now go to table. Pray forgive the modesty of this meal.
All three return to the refectory, now filled with nuns. Yet not a word is spoken as each takes her place. Supper is served in deep silence. Enguerrand, Yvain, and Marie have joined them and sit at their side. Loaves of wheat bread are set upon the tables, and vegetables with lentils are served.
Aloïs leans toward Baudouin.
— The abbess is a remarkable woman, to govern so great an abbey thus.
Baudouin murmurs in return:
— I have heard that certain monks reject her authority.
— Monks? I have seen none.
— I told you—there are several convents that do not mingle. This one is for the Fontevrist nuns.
The young woman falls silent and studies Mathilde from afar at the opposite table.
— How came she to be abbess?
Baudouin casts her a glance tinged with irony.
— Why ask you that? Would you take her place?
She shakes her head, wearied by the young man’s jest.
— No. Yet I sense in her bearing a great sorrow…
Baudouin draws a breath and swallows a spoonful of cabbage leaves and cardoons.
— Mathilde of Anjou should never have held this charge. She might even have prevented the conflict between Anjou and England that yet endures.
Aloïs turns sharply toward Baudouin.
— Truly?
The exclamation escapes her, drawing the attention—and the silent wrath—of the nuns. The lady shrinks into herself, yet still leans toward Baudouin.
— How so?
— Mathilde is the sister of the late Geoffrey the Fair, the former Count of Anjou. She was wed at but nine years of age to William Adelin, sole heir of Henry Beauclerc, King of England. Yet a year later, her husband perished in the wreck of his ship, the White Ship. Some years thereafter, she chose to take the veil. She is the second abbess of this place.
— And for England?
— The abbess’s brother, Geoffrey the Fair, wed another Mathilde—the sister of William, the dead prince—and rightful heir, or near so, to the crown of England. When their father in turn died, Mathilde laid claim to the crown, yet being a woman…
— The lords would not accept it.
— They set Stephen of Blois upon the throne. Yet Mathilde refused to yield, and still less for her young son, Henry, who was but two or three years of age at the time. As the years passed, she did all in her power that the crown might return to her heir. She is a harsh and cold woman, lacking not in spirit. Despite her quarrels with her husband, Geoffrey the Fair, they strove together to attain their aim—yet in vain. Until now, at least. But Count Geoffrey died without seeing his son ascend the throne.
Baudouin concludes, bitterly:
— Had Mathilde and William truly been able to reign over England, Henry would not have spent so many years striving to reclaim his inheritance.
Aloïs studies the woman.
— I believe, in the end, that none may truly foresee the fate that awaits us…8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡI2zgomekeh
and then Add to home screen.