— What measure of water shall suffice to cleanse such filth?
Marie setteth down yet another basin beside the tub and resumeth Belle’s washing beneath her mistress’s gaze. The child doth but now begin to take on a human semblance once more. The water is so dark that none may see its bottom.
The handmaiden scrubbeth again the little girl’s dark hair, whilst the young lady bendeth toward her.
— How many years hast thou?
The child shruggeth, her eyes fixed upon her fingers, now for once all white.
— She must be six or seven, saith Marie.
— And thy parents? Aloïs asketh further. Where are they?
— They be in Heaven, with my little brother. They had the fever. I had no more house.
This tale grieveth the lady the more.
— Then now thou hast one. And I care not what my husband may claim.
She poureth the warm water over Belle’s head to rinse away the soapwort. Marie handeth her a brush and presseth her lips together.
— What aileth thee? asketh Aloïs.
— I was thinking on what befell earlier. I could not say how long your husband had been watching us.
— Then here is a far worse thought: he was there, and did not intervene. That man might have struck me.
— ’Tis not that which would trouble me, were I in your stead. I think not that such a wretch could have harmed you, seeing that… you know.
Marie rolleth her eyes and casteth a glance toward Belle.
— Yet, she continueth, had your husband surprised you in the midst of… let us say, defending yourself, he might have begun to wonder certain things.
Aloïs maketh no reply, knowing full well that Marie speaketh true. She helpeth Belle from the tub, dryeth her with a cloth, and arrayeth her in a camisa, a bliaud, and hose of tiretaine that the maid hath found.
— Moreover, the servant goeth on, he must be awaiting you at the banquet.
— I have no mind to go thither. In truth, none shall mark my absence—least of all Baudouin.
At that moment, the door swingeth open, and the young lord entereth in wrath.
— What do you in the servants’ quarters? I have sought you everywhere!
— I had need of a place to wash Belle.
Baudouin’s gaze falleth upon the child, crouched upon the ground and tracing shapes in the dust, and softeneth ere he turneth once more unto his wife.
— Very well, she is at last made clean. As for you, I await you shortly in the aula. And force me not to bring you thither in your shift.
— You would not dare!
— Tempt me not.
As he closeth the door, Aloïs letteth out a growl of fury.
— I shall slay him, I swear it—I shall strangle him with mine own hands!
Marie hasteneth to her mistress’s side.
— To prevent any murder, we had best make haste to attire you.
Marie helpeth her mistress to change and clotheth her in a red bliaud. She girdeth her with a woollen belt and hesitateth as she taketh up the clasp.
— Would you have the brooch the archdeacon gave you?
Aloïs inclineth her head and regardeth the ornament a moment, deep in thought, then assenteth.
— I must do him that honour.
The young lady goeth unto the aula, where most of the guests are already seated at table. Baudouin riseth at the sight of her and pauseth a brief moment ere coming toward her. At once, the attention of the company turneth upon her.
Aloïs feeleth a keen desire to turn back, for she had not thought her tardiness would be so noted.
— I am well pleased I did not bring thee hither in thy camisa, murmureth Baudouin, with an affable and somewhat roguish air. This gown becometh thee far better… And as for the brooch… I knew thee not to possess such a jewel.
Aloïs taketh delight in giving no answer, rejoicing inwardly at the thought of leaving her husband to ponder.
He escorteth his wife unto their place. They seem to have risen upon the ladder of rank, for now they are seated nearer the high table. When she lifteth her eyes, she is astonished to behold the Count Henry of Anjou, his brow adorned with a crown set with precious stones, seated beside his younger brother, who in turn smileth upon her. She greeteth him with due reverence and sitteth beside Baudouin. The cupbearer already presenteth her with a hanap, from which she drinketh a draught. The wine seemeth harsher, naught like that of Anjou, which is far gentler.
— I crave thy pardon… whispereth her husband at her ear.
Aloïs casteth upon him a dark look and returneth the cup unto the cupbearer.
— Thou art swift to ask pardon, yet as swift to misbehave.
Baudouin sigheth and pierceth a piece of meat upon his trencher, holding it aloft without bringing it to his lips.
— I am not wont… to reckon with any save myself.
— That I have well perceived.
— Yet I am not unwilling to learn.
Their eyes meet, and for a fleeting moment Aloïs readeth a certain gentleness within her husband’s gaze.
She turneth her head away. Such sudden frankness disconcerteth her.
— We shall see, then…
A troubadour, accompanied by two musicians, appeareth amidst the tables. He weareth a strange garment clinging close to his body, save at the breast where a collar of many-coloured cloth spreadeth wide. A misshapen cap sitteth upon his head.
— Hearken! Hearken!
Little by little, silence falleth upon the hall.
— Philippe of Vannes is my name. I come to sing you the lays I bear from court to court. And in such courts, I make the noble folk to dance…
The minstrel lifteth his hand to shade his eyes and surveyeth the company.
— For this, I must needs call forth some willing souls—ladies and lords…
The Count of Anjou casteth a glance toward the pair and pointeth out Baudouin and Aloïs unto the troubadour. The man smileth and hasteneth toward them.
— Here is a fair lord and a fair lady. Will ye come forth and tread a measure?
The young woman parteth her lips, surveyeth the assembly, and answereth with a sign of refusal. Then Henry’s voice soundeth across the hall:
— For my pleasure.
Baudouin taketh her hand.
— It cannot be so dreadful.
They rise together and go unto the minstrel at the centre of the U formed by the tables.
— Fear not, I shall guide you.
He showeth them the steps to follow.
— You need but repeat them in like measure, following the music. Are ye ready?
Baudouin assenteth; Aloïs remaineth silent.
Soon the first notes of flute and lute are heard, followed by the rhythm of the tambourine. The young lord gently presseth Aloïs’s fingers and standeth beside her. They move forward, setting their feet according to the given instruction. The melody is pleasing, and little by little the young woman beginneth to ease. Not a single laugh riseth in the aula; all watch them with keen interest.
Aloïs ventureth a glance toward Baudouin. He seemeth wholly intent, yet when he in turn looketh upon her, a faint smile appeareth.
The song fadeth slowly, and the pair come to stillness. Applause breaketh forth from the count, followed by the whole assembly. Henry cometh near them and layeth a hand upon Baudouin’s shoulder.
— What a fair sight ye have given us! I am right glad to see how well ye accord together.
Aloïs boweth to thank Henry. As she casteth a glance toward her husband, a pleasant warmth stirreth within her breast.
Baudouin watches Aloïs, seated in her place, from beside the great hearth. Weariness is writ upon the young woman’s features, though she strives as best she may to withstand it. She is not accustomed to long rides… indeed, she is scarcely accustomed to riding at all, and the strain these journeys have laid upon her is plain to see in her countenance.
He now knows her well enough to discern, beneath her proud bearing, the exhaustion she labours to conceal. She has been struggling ever since the last dancers brought their carole to an end.
The young man turns his gaze toward the flames rising within the vast hearth of the aula. Though spring draws near, the air remains chill, and he takes simple pleasure in warming himself by a good fire.
The guests begin to withdraw from the hall, some making for the lordly lodgings. A place must be found within the common chambers, for the private apartments have been granted to the greatest lords. Others are already stretched out in the corners of the aula.
Once more, his attention returns to his wife. She sways slightly upon her seat and struggles to keep her eyes open. She would no doubt rather wait for him to accompany her, yet she has too much pride to ask it of him.
A trace of amusement and tenderness steals into Baudouin’s heart. Though Aloïs may vex him, it remains true that he admires the strength that dwells within her. She has all that is required of a lady, and could govern an estate in her husband’s absence—a thought that, despite himself, reassures him.
Henri approaches and comes to lean in turn against the beams framing the hearth. A certain joy suffuses his face.
— My dear friend, I see you content in marriage, your gaze ever upon your wife, and I envy you.
Baudouin holds his tongue. It is best not to gainsay his lord over trifles… The young count smiles and turns his eyes toward the fire.
— I too shall soon join the ranks of married men. Would you believe it?
— It would be most welcome news, my lord.
Henri draws a deep breath.
— Oh yes, most welcome indeed…
His sudden silence, and the thoughtful look that settles upon his face, surprise Baudouin.
— I had not thought myself capable of such love, yet never have I beheld a lady so fair. My father… had foreseen that this might come to pass and had made provision for it. I did not think I should one day rejoice in fulfilling the wishes of the late Count of Anjou.
Baudouin hesitates to question his lord and instead waits for the confidences to come of their own accord.
— I met her at the court of the King of the Franks, when I went thither last August to treat with him, on my father’s behalf, concerning the duchy of Normandy. I saw her again when I returned to render my homage after my father’s death and to swear fealty. Her beauty had been much spoken of, yet I knew not how far all men fell short in their praise. I was utterly enthralled.
— I believe you, my lord. You seem… content.
— And so I am! Yet I shall be more so still when she is mine. And not least for what she shall bring me. I now await her answer, yet I remain persuaded she cannot refuse. And I shall bid you to my wedding feast!
Henri leans toward his vassal.
— Breathe not a word of this to any soul.
— Of course, my lord.
Baudouin doubts he alone is entrusted with the young count’s secret. Yet what matter is it?
— I must return to Lisieux to make ready for our next campaign in England and shall leave you here.
— With your brother?
— Aye.
The count lays a hand upon the knight’s shoulder, his gaze fixed upon him. Baudouin inclines his head in quiet understanding.
— You should go to your wife, Henri adds suddenly. She must be weary.
— As you wish, my lord.
Baudouin takes his leave of his suzerain and makes his way toward Aloïs, his mind still occupied with Henri’s words. He halts before his wife.
— Let us go and sleep, if it please you.
Aloïs seems to start from a dream and gives a slight shake.
— Yes, indeed.
As they depart, Baudouin cannot but note the softness of Aloïs’s hand resting within his own. He dares not clasp it more firmly, yet cannot deny the strong desire to do so.
He leads her into a common chamber where shapes already lie stretched upon the ground, and guides her into a more secluded corner.
— We should be at ease here to sleep.
Aloïs wraps her cloak about her and draws up her hood. She lies upon her side, yet a tremor runs through her limbs.
— Are you cold? Baudouin murmurs.
She gives a sharp motion of the chin in denial.
— You are ill at lying.
The young man then presses himself against his wife’s back and feels her stiffen for a moment. Yet he sets his arm about her nonetheless, drawing his own mantle over her and covering her well enough that she no longer shivers.
Beneath his hand, he feels Aloïs’s body grow at ease.
— In truth, you are somewhat of a knight in woman’s guise, he whispers.
Aloïs tenses anew.
— What mean you by that?
Her voice, though low, is troubled.
— Why, that you defend the weak. The little one you took in is doubtless not the only such case, yet she came before you, and you did not turn aside from her plight.
— I could not have done otherwise.
— I know it. And it is a virtue required of a knight.
— I have no wish to be a knight. I would only do what is right and protect those who must be protected, if it be within my power.
— Then you are a humble knight.
He smiles as he hears her sigh. Of his own accord, he draws her closer still and catches the gentle scent of her skin. This closeness stirs within him a strange feeling—a kind of bittersweet happiness.
— You spoke with the count, Aloïs says again.
— Indeed.
— Would it be indiscreet to know the matter of your discourse?
Baudouin recalls the few words exchanged and his promise to speak of them to no one.
— Nothing of consequence. I think you shall learn it soon enough in any case.
A yawn escapes Aloïs’s lips before her breathing gradually slows. Baudouin presses his legs against those of his wife and, in turn, falls into sleep.
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