Aloïs followeth the archdeacon amidst the stalls of merchants and craftsmen, which stand in long rows beside the houses upon the market square. Marie keepeth a few paces behind. The murmur of the crowd blendeth with the cries of beasts being bargained over, as they make their way toward the outer ward to the west of the palace.
The young woman cannot forbear to admire the wares set forth: embroidered alms-purses, adorned girdles, wooden utensils, certain spices, livestock, silver brooches—goods fit only for the wealthy…
A light mist hath replaced the drizzle, and the damp stealeth through their garments. She draweth her cloak close and suppresseth a shiver.
— Would you return within? asketh the churchman.
— Nay, I have great desire to behold the fortress.
— Baudouin hath no doubt already shown it you.
— Not truly…
Anselme casteth a glance toward her and continueth in an even tone:
— In truth, the place is most remarkable.
— When was it raised?
— I have heard that the site hath been occupied these many centuries, mayhap even a thousand years. It standeth most advantageously, allowing one to spy the enemy from afar.
— The walls seem so broad.
— Indeed, they were strengthened by Fulk the Fourth, grandsire to Geoffrey the Fair, our late count, that the bounds might be enlarged and the priory received.
Aloïs feeleth a strange sensation within this vast stronghold—a mingling of safety and unease.
— Hath your husband not told you of his travels?
She regardeth her good-brother. There is no mischief in his face, only a sincere wish to speak.
— My husband hath told me but little of his past… save that…
Unwittingly, her gaze falleth upon Anselme’s arm.
— Ah… He hath told you that neither of us was meant for this life.
She noddeth slowly.
— Do you… repent it?
A light kindles in the churchman’s eyes.
— Nay, I am well content to serve God and His children. I protect them in another fashion.
— Baudouin greatly admired you when he was a child.
Forestalling his question, she continueth:
— We discovered that we had crossed paths in our youth. At that time, he thought of naught but battle. By his own telling, he took you for his model.
Anselme turneth his gaze forward.
— ’Tis true I wielded the sword with some skill, and was no poor archer. I had, as men say, good gifts for combat.
He sighs, and Aloïs perceiveth in it a trace of regret.
— God hath willed it otherwise. He had other designs for me.
Anselme turneth to her again and offereth a warm smile, which she returneth.
— And your parents? How fare they?
— In truth, I have had little occasion to see them, yet upon my return I would visit them.
— That is a worthy thought.
She remaineth silent a moment.
— I begin to perceive that they grow old… and may one day leave me…
Anselme lifteth a hand heavenward.
— Then shall they be with the Lord.
— Aye…
— I suppose their lands might one day pass unto you and Baudouin, should they depart this life. Mayhap Count Henry hath spoken of it with my brother.
Aloïs turneth slightly and looketh upon him in surprise. She had not expected such discourse from him.
— I know it not, nor do I wish to dwell upon it for the present.
— I understand…
He draweth near a stall where lie fabrics of exceeding beauty. Brooches of diverse patterns are set in rows.
Anselme taketh one and turneth it in his hand, studying it closely. Marie hath come up beside her mistress, no less perplexed, and whispereth:
— May an archdeacon truly wear such a thing?
Aloïs softly clicketh her tongue and biddeth her maid be silent.
— Seek you somewhat? she asketh.
He looketh at her, a kindly smile playing upon his lips.
— Aye. A gift for my young good-sister.
Her eyes widen.
— A gift? There is no cause for it, and such ornaments are dear.
— At times I may allow myself such a pleasure. I am become archdeacon, forget it not.
He draweth coins from the purse at his belt and handeth them to the merchant. Then he turneth and presenteth the brooch to Aloïs.
— To welcome you into our family.
The young woman hesitateth, glanceth toward Marie—no less astonished—and at last accepteth the gift. The golden brooch beareth the likeness of a rose in full bloom, its petals wide and open.
— I thank you. It is most fair… yet it was not needful.
— I… know my brother, and I know how vexing he may be—aye, even… overbearing. And should he ever wound you, or… do you harm…
At this, Aloïs feeleth the ground near slip beneath her.
— He hath never harmed me, nor would he do so, the young woman declareth, striving for a steady tone.
Anselme biteth his lip.
— You are right. I trouble myself for naught. Be that as it may, he addeth more lightly, I am glad indeed to have you for my good-sister, and am pleased to offer you this small token.
Aloïs looketh upon the brooch. She would by no means have called it small, yet chooseth not to argue.
— Perchance I shall soon have the joy of a nephew to cherish.
At these words, the young woman straightens and forceth a smile.
— I must return unto Geoffrey, Anselme excuseth himself, for the bishop hath charged me to watch over the young count. Yet I shall soon depart again for Angers, for the canons ever have many matters to lay before me.
— I understand.
— Shall I escort you back?
— Nay, I think I would walk yet a while.
Anselme lifteth a brow, then smileth once more.
— Very well. Yet stray not too far. The surroundings are perilous for a gentle lady.
— I shall take heed.
She boweth to the churchman and followeth him with her eyes as he retraceth his steps.
Aloïs cannot tell why, yet she feeleth suddenly far less oppressed.
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Dark clouds gather anew above the fortress. Aloïs hath no wish to return within, though rain threateneth. She hath spent but a short while in the comital palace, yet a grievous tension reigned therein. Anselme hath perchance drawn her away from an uneasy moment. Baudouin troubled himself no more with his wife, nor did he wonder at her absence.
A crease formeth between the young woman’s brows. Without expecting tenderness or great care from him, she had thought, after their late discourse, that he might show her somewhat more courtesy. Plainly, such conduct lieth far from him.
Aloïs’ eyes fall upon the golden brooch. Anselme is not like his brother. She knoweth not what to think of this gift.
— ’Tis a fair jewel, saith Marie.
The lady turneth to her maid.
— Aye, I know it. Yet I struggle to understand what moved him to bestow upon me such a gift. To be of his family seemeth scarce cause enough for so costly a token.
— Well then, mayhap he but wished to be kind. He must know your husband well enough to guess your marriage is not all ease and roses.
The young woman falleth silent. Her good-brother’s last words concerning Baudouin leave her troubled. Did he truly believe her husband might become violent toward her?
Baudouin hath his faults in plenty, yet never hath he shown himself harsh—no, not even in private, for he hath not so much as touched her.
She turneth toward Marie.
— Think you that…
Aloïs breaketh off. Her gaze is caught by a child who runneth through the crowd. Terror is writ upon her dust-streaked face. Her loose hair clingeth to her brow and cheeks. A man pursueth her.
Without thought, the young woman giveth chase, striving in vain to keep the tall figure in sight amid the throng and beasts. Marie is soon left far behind. Aloïs darteth between the wooden huts set along the walls. She deemeth the man hath halted suddenly. He bendeth low as she at last cometh near.
When she reacheth him, the little one is seized roughly and lifted, crying aloud.
— Ho there! What would you with this child?
The man—foul and loathsome to behold—turneth slowly toward Aloïs and measureth her with his gaze. A reek of wine or sour vinegar issueth from his toothless mouth.
— That is none of thy concern.
Still held fast by the arm, the child lifteth a frightened face toward the lady. Bruised marks may be seen upon her legs and her visage.
— I think not. I command thee to release her.
A corner of the stranger’s lip curl eth upward.
— Good Lady, I know not who thou art, but that one is mine, and I do with her as I will.
Marie cometh, breathless, to Aloïs’s side, who addresseth the little one:
— Is he thy father?
— I said she were mine, the man cutteth in, not that she were my daughter. I paid for her, and I do with her as I will. And I fear not the rich—I have little to lose…
The fellow’s insolent bearing doth kindle the young lady’s wrath. She steppeth forward, ready to raise her hand, but Marie restraineth her. The handmaiden shaketh her head.
— Not here.
Aloïs setteth her jaw.
— What price askest thou?
The man’s eyes widen at the sight of the coins the servant hath drawn from her mistress’s purse, then narrow again into dark slits.
— She is of worth. A good worker…
At her lady’s bidding, the maid placeth Angevine deniers into the other’s grimy hand. He smirketh.
— Ere long, I might have sold her unto customers…
Indignation filleth the young woman’s eyes. A wave of nausea passeth over Aloïs, who signaleth again unto Marie. The latter draweth forth yet more coins.
— And think not to ask more of me, lest we learn what the provost maketh of thy trade…
The man casteth her one last glance ere loosing the child.
— She is thine…
He turneth away, counting his coin as he goeth.
Aloïs bendeth toward the child, who, head lowered, dareth not lift her eyes unto her saviour.
— What is thy name? the young lady asketh gently.
— B… Belle…
— A fair name indeed. And it becometh thee well…
— It shall suit her better yet after a good washing, crieth Marie, pinching her nose.
Aloïs straight eneth and holdeth forth her hand.
— Come with me, and fear not. Thou art in no more peril.
Belle obeyeth timidly. As the lady turneth to depart, the sight of a man rooteth her to the spot. Baudouin standeth before her, as though he had been watching.
— Good Lord, my husband! What do you here?
He draweth nearer, his gaze passing from Belle unto his wife.
— I sought thee, that we might return unto the palace. My brother told me thou wert yet abroad. I see thou canst not refrain from succouring every soul in distress…
By instinct, Aloïs draweth the child unto her and placeth her behind her back.
— I would not leave her to be beaten.
— Knowest thou how many are in her plight?
The young woman hesitateth. She glanceth about her, then looketh again upon Baudouin, who awaiteth not her answer.
— They are many. And I doubt thou hast coin enough to buy them all.
— What then should I do? Leave her?
Baudouin bendeth and regardeth the child, who hideth herself yet more behind her protectress.
— Nay… For this one, it is too late. Yet we must not bring every stray cur of the town into our house.
His words stir Aloïs to the quick; she steppeth forward, sudden and threatening, forcing her husband back.
— I will not suffer thee to speak thus.
At first taken aback, Baudouin at last seemeth amused.
— Thou hast not changed…
— Nor hast thou, Aloïs casteth back, to my great regret. Thou art the same foolish boy, consumed by battles, wars, and thy training. Is there ever a moment wherein thou thinkest of any but thyself?
The lord doth not flinch, holding her gaze. The young woman taketh again the child’s hand.
— Come, Belle, we must wash thee.
She passeth by Baudouin, the little girl and Marie following, and hasteneth toward the palace without so much as a glance back at her husband.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8zhs9bnAWV
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