The clamour of the crowd rises above the ramparts of Poitiers, a city nestled betwixt two rivers, the Clain and the Boivre. Aloïs cannot conceal her delight at discovering new places and at witnessing such an event.
The past weeks have flown by. The young woman turns them over in her mind as she emerges from the edifice upon Baudouin’s arm, awaiting the sight of the newly wedded pair.
They had tarried some while at Chinon. When the count departed the fortress, her husband showed no haste to return to Anjou. Anselme had been forced to leave, to Aloïs’s great regret, for she had at last found in her brother-in-law a kindly ear and a companion for her walks. Thus Geoffroy, Henri’s younger brother, had played the host to them, granting them a more private space—though, in truth, an idle one.
Aloïs casts a glance toward Baudouin. She finds him ever harder to fathom. At times he may be pleasant, even gracious; and yet the next moment he abandons his wife without ceremony, turning his attention to other lords, vanishing to the hunt or elsewhere, without so much as a word to her.
The bells of the cathedral of Poitiers ring out beyond the walls, no doubt disturbing the rest of Lady Radegonde, wife to Clotaire, who lies buried in one of the churches near the city. That departed queen had caused one of the first houses for women to be built. A strange chance, thinks Aloïs, to have heard this tale upon arriving here, after meeting Abbess Mathilde.
Their journey from Chinon had ended with some difficulty: they were forced to pass through the works brought about by the new enceinte of Poitiers, which now encloses the suburbs of Saint-Cyprien and Saint-Jean-de-Montierneuf. Baudouin had finished the journey in a strained mood, revealing the purpose of their sudden departure only once they had arrived.
Within the heart of the city, new religious buildings still rise slowly. Aloïs had admired the church of Notre-Dame-la-Grande as she made her way to the ducal palace, there to accompany the betrothed to the cathedral. The ceremony had stirred memories of her own wedding—save that these spouses seemed truly in love.
The first flowers of May have been laid in bouquets upon the forecourt. Their fragrance rises and gently stirs Aloïs’s senses. A few clouds veil the sky, yet fail to dim the sun.
Applause breaks forth as the newly wedded couple leave the cathedral. The crowd acclaims Henri and his wife: Aliénor of Aquitaine. The bride shines in her rich array—a gown of salmon silk adorned with seed pearls. Her gauze veil is likewise embroidered. Though Aloïs seldom heeds such matters, she cannot but cast an eye upon her own far more modest attire. As she lifts her head, her gaze meets that of her husband. For a moment he seems thoughtful, then turns away to applaud the pair.
The few guests present at this union, held in intimacy, press forward to offer their felicitations to the count and the former Queen of France. To her great surprise, the bridegroom’s brother does not appear to have been invited to the wedding—or perhaps he chose not to attend. It is certain that this alliance must breed tension. Only the count’s half-brother, Hamelin of Warenne, and a handful of knights stand beside him. Aloïs has gathered that the marriage was arranged in great haste… and, it would seem, without the consent of the King of France, though he is suzerain to them both.
The young woman could never have imagined, but a few weeks earlier, upon learning that Louis and his wife were sundered before God, that she would so soon cross paths with this lady—and in such a manner. Henri glows and appears wholly enamoured of Aliénor. She, nine years his elder, seems more composed, yet no less content.
The festivities are held within the count’s palace of the city, and Aloïs is drawn along by Baudouin to attend the feast in the great hall of state. Lent now ended, the most sumptuous dishes are set forth upon the tables. The scent of poached salmon, roasted venison, and boar fills the vast chamber. Pastries of honey and almond rival one another in sweetness, as does the butter set beside crisp wheaten loaves.
Troubadours, minstrels, jongleurs, and even a bear-handler perform their entertainments. Aloïs can do naught but marvel at the splendours before her, as the hours pass far more swiftly than she would wish.
Throughout the following day, the merriment does not abate. Belle and Marie remain ever at their mistress’s side and take their share in the festivities. Merchants have hastened to set up their stalls, offering their wares in the marketplace. A motley array of goods is gathered there, from the most useful to the most curious: knives, meat, spices brought from the East, cloths of varying fineness, ale… Not to mention the minstrels, the jongleurs, and former men-at-arms recounting their exploits in far and exotic lands. All together, it forms a joyful cacophony, heightened by the festive spirit that overwhelms the city.
A strange creature, near akin to a little man yet covered in hair, leaps upon a barrel, held fast by a cord in the hand of a dark-skinned foreigner like Yvain.
Belle moves from stall to stall, a gleam of wonder lighting her eyes. Suddenly, the child halts before a table, her gaze fixed upon several parchments.
Aloïs comes to her and lays a hand upon the child’s shoulder.
— What troubles thee?
Belle brushes the greyish, blank pages with her finger, along with the iron inkpots.
— They be parchments… for drawing.
— I think they may serve to write whatsoever one wills. And wouldst thou have some?
Belle lifts her small, hopeful face toward her mistress, then lowers it once more.
— I’ve no right to ask such a thing.
Aloïs weighs her purse and sighs. In truth, she has not the means. She kneels to bring herself level with the child.
— I shall think on it. I know thou hast a liking for drawing, and I find thee most gifted. Mayhap Father Anselme might tell me where such things may be had in Angers, and at a lesser price.
Once more, Belle gazes at her mistress with a light of adoration in her eyes.
— Oh, my lady, I thank you!
The child throws her arms about the young woman ere Marie can stay her.
— Belle! Such things are not done, she grumbles, pulling the child back.
— It matters not, Aloïs assures her.
A strange warmth steals through her as she clasps the little girl’s hand.
They set off again through the streets, yet are borne along despite themselves by a crowd making toward the training ground of the knights, where banners and pennons adorn a wooden stand. Cushioned benches have been set there in preparation for jousts held in honour of the newly wedded pair. Aloïs takes her place at the edge of the field and soon espies Baudouin, who stands catching his breath at the far end. Yvain offers him a waterskin, which he takes eagerly. Sweat runs down his face, flushed with exertion. His opponent is in like condition. Though they do not truly fight, wielding blunted weapons, the trial is no light one.
As Baudouin turns toward the swelling crowd, their eyes meet. He seems suddenly ill at ease. Aloïs strives to smile at him.
Enguerrand hands the young lord his sword, and he returns to the field. The two men take up the contest anew. Baudouin strikes first, forcing the other back. Yet his adversary is not without skill: he shifts swiftly aside and strikes Baudouin upon the shoulder. The latter evades and answers with a flurry of blows.
Aloïs holds her breath, despite herself. She had never thought to feel concern for her husband! She studies each man’s manner and marks Baudouin’s weaknesses: he strikes hard and swiftly, yet tires as quickly. The other shows greater restraint, husbanding his strength and letting the young knight expend his.
Baudouin seems spent and steps back to draw breath. It is then that his opponent strikes—first a blow toward the head, which the knight wards, then a turn to aim at his calf. With a cry, the young man falls into the dust.
Aloïs starts. Baudouin rises and clasps his opponent’s hand, bearing no ill will, it seems. The lady makes her way through the crowd to her husband. His back is turned when at last she comes within speaking distance. Yet though she longs to know how he fares, she hesitates in how to address him. Baudouin is a proud man—and for now, he appears well enough to stand.
— You have fought with honour, says Aloïs.
Baudouin turns to face her.
— I thank you…
Reassured by his answer, she smiles at him.
— I knew not that you had purposed such an exercise this day.
— It must be done.
Aloïs bites her lip, sorely tempted to tell him what she has perceived. Yet how might she say it without offending him? And worse still—without causing him to question her knowledge in such matters?
— I have observed… that your adversary seemed to take more time ere he struck.
Baudouin wipes his face with a cloth proffered by Yvain and casts her a glance without reply.
— I mean that perchance he husbanded his strength, and let you tire yourself ere he dealt his blow.
The knight smiles, amused.
— I had forgot that you did practise the art of the sword when we first met, as children.
Aloïs tilts back her head.
— I but share a simple observation.
— And I thank you for it. Yet I deem I have no need thereof.
She exhales, vexed, and makes to turn upon her heel when she feels her wrist seized. Baudouin has taken her hand and stays her.
— Your solicitude doth touch me.
For a moment they gaze upon one another, their fingers yet entwined.
A miles then comes before them.
— Sire Baudouin, the Count of Anjou doth summon you with all haste.
— Very well. I come.
He releases his wife’s hand and casts her one last look ere he departs. Marie draws near to Aloïs.
— Think you it grave, that Sire Henri should call for him thus?
Aloïs shrugs, still troubled by her husband’s manner.
— We shall learn soon enough whether we must trouble ourselves…
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Aloïs hath not seen Baudouin again since his exercise. She paces to and fro within the small chamber lent them in one of the city’s monasteries. It affords them some quiet, far from the count’s court.
Their departure from Anjou now lies some months past, and she would fain return home and visit her parents. Perchance Henri meaneth to release Baudouin, that they may go back to their fief. She prayeth God it be so. Yet such discourse should not take so long, in reason.
The twilight spreads an orange glow across the heavens of Poitiers.
— Where can you be? murmurs Aloïs.
At that instant, the chamber door opens and her husband stands upon the threshold.
— You do not sleep?
— It is yet early.
Baudouin enters and seats himself upon the edge of the bed. The young woman draws near and sits beside him.
— Is there some trouble?
Her husband keeps his gaze fixed upon the wooden floor.
— King Louis hath not… taken kindly to the marriage of Henri and Aliénor.
Aloïs shivers.
— Then he was truly not informed?
— It would seem not. Henri is… how shall I say?… a man of independence. He findeth it hard to bend before another, and deemeth that, as heir to the crown of England, he ought to be treated as equal by our king.
The young woman nods.
— Then not only hath he taken a wife without speaking thereof to his suzerain, but moreover—
— He hath wed that same suzerain’s former wife. And what a woman!
Aloïs turns a startled gaze upon Baudouin, who breaks into hearty laughter.
— You must grant that Aliénor of Aquitaine leaveth no soul unmoved—whether by her bearing or her beauty.
She folds her arms across her breast and chooses not to answer, knowing his words to be true. Aloïs hath had but little converse with the former queen, yet hath marked the power she wieldeth and the strength of spirit that dwelleth within her.
— And I speak not only of the lands she bringeth unto Henri, adds her husband. By this match, he holdeth far more territory than Louis himself.
— So greatly?
— Henri is Duke of Normandy, Count of Anjou and Maine, and now Duke-consort of Aquitaine by his marriage with Aliénor. The whole western half of France lieth in his grasp.
— What then shall come to pass?
— Why… we must go forth to war.
— Against the King of the Franks?
— We have fought well against the King of England… or rather, the usurper of the throne.
Aloïs feels her breast tighten.
— Must you go with Henri as well?
Baudouin turns toward his wife.
— Aye…
She strives to master a tremor, yet tears rise to the brink of her eyes. Baudouin arches a brow.
— What aileth you?
— I would not… that you depart… not now.
Their gazes meet, and both fall silent, the soul of one laid bare before the other.
— I would not have you leave when we have but just begun to speak together.
Baudouin sets his hand upon his wife’s cheek with an unwonted gentleness. Slowly, their faces draw near until their lips almost meet. Aloïs feels his breath upon her skin. All her senses awaken. She desires that kiss, and closes the space between them to press her lips to his. A fierce tension courses through her body, and a new delight overcomes all else. She desires naught but that this kiss endure for ever. Baudouin lets his lips stray from the corner of her mouth to her cheek, then down to her neck.
Her breath quickens. She knows not what awaiteth her, nor what she ought to do, yet she longs only that it cease not.
Her husband’s arms encircle her waist, and he gently lays her back upon the bed, never ceasing his kisses. Her heart leaps within her breast as though she were in full gallop.
He lifts himself to look upon her and brushes aside the lock that falleth across her brow.
— Aloïs… if thou but knewest…
The young woman opens her eyes and looks upon Baudouin, perplexed.
— If I knew what?
A knocking sounds upon the door.
— Sire, calleth Yvain from the passage, a man seeketh you. The count summoneth his knights.
Aloïs stifles a sigh of dismay. Baudouin rises.
— I come.
He turns partly toward Aloïs.
— Await me not—take thy rest. I shall like be detained.
She follows him with her gaze as he quitteth the chamber, then lets herself fall back upon the bed, still shaken by the tumult of her feelings.
Sleep seemeth now impossible. Despite his counsel, Aloïs desireth above all to watch for his return. She turns toward the window and beholds the sky darken. Night falleth, swallowing the last of the light. The sounds of steps, of hooves, and of voices reach her, muffled.
Within her mind, the memory of their embrace repeateth itself unceasingly. Her husband’s words echo still. What is it she should know?
Little by little, unawares, Aloïs yieldeth to sleep, filled with dreams—a mingling of battles between Baudouin and King Louis, of Aliénor’s wedding, of Henri calling Baudouin away as he is about to kiss her.
She starts awake with a sudden motion. Without, the sky hath taken on grey hues, yet the sun is risen indeed.
— My lady? murmureth Marie from the passage. Are you awake?
Aloïs goes to open. Before her, her maid and Enguerrand step back.
— Where is my husband?
The servant presses his lips ere he answers.
— He departed at dawn.
— Departed?
Aloïs cannot believe it. He would not have gone without seeing her.
— Sire Baudouin did come by, yet you slept, addeth Marie. Count Henri hath commanded that the knights ride forth at first light to intercept King Louis.
Aloïs feels her legs give way beneath her and returns to her chamber to sit upon the bed.
Enguerrand draws near, timidly.
— Sire Baudouin bade me lead you…
— Whither? asketh Aloïs.
— To your home, at Terlaze…
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