August, in the Year of Our Lord 1152
— Lady Aloïs, I am truly glad that you thought to come and see me.
Havoise stood upright, seated upon a chair in her hall. The house was not large, yet the stone walls kept the heat of the day at bay most pleasantly. The ground floor held, it seemed, three separate chambers: a vestibule with the great table where guests were received, a small room that served the provost as an office, and a kitchen at the rear. Like many jettied dwellings, the first level was narrower than the upper storeys, so that it overhung the street. Yet the place was fair and well ordered. Lady Havoise had, it would seem, no wish to dwell within the castle walls, but desired a house of her own beyond the palace—a thing Aloïs could well understand, though it surprised her, for she would have thought Raoul’s wife drawn to the Court.
The young woman observed her hostess. Fair blue eyes, a high brow, prominent cheekbones, and soft vermilion lips. Her azure bliaud revealed the curve of her breast. A golden brooch shaped like a tulip fastened her collar.
— Your husband told me of your wish to see us again. As we were coming to Angers for the market, I thought to pass and greet you.
— I see… And did you find fair wares?
— Where so?
— Why, at the market?
Aloïs started slightly.
— Aye… and nay. I went more for the pleasure of beholding the goods set forth by the merchants.
Havoise smiled, yet held her tongue.
— Your husband, Sir Raoul, is absent?
— Aye, he attends the assembly even now.
— Of course! cried Aloïs. It was held this day. I had wished to greet him…
— He will doubtless return late, for thereafter he must go to Saint-Symphorien to speak with the lord there. It seems strife has arisen between him and his neighbour.
— I see.
Aloïs coughed lightly and cast a glance toward the narrow window.
— Did he speak to you of the matters to be treated at the assembly?
Havoise’s shoulders stirred faintly. She inclined her head, doubtful.
— I do not question my husband on such matters. He tells me only what he wills, and that is most oft in general terms.
— Aye, I understand…
Havoise’s answers did little to aid the young woman. She longed to discern what had led the provost to lie to her concerning the thefts at Terlaze. Yet it was not from him she might gain such light—and plainly not from his wife either…
— I shall not detain you longer. I must return.
Havoise rose as her guest did.
— I have not asked whether you have had news of your husband.
The lady fixed her gaze upon Aloïs, and in her grey eyes there lay a trace of concern.
— I have had none, no.
This answer darkened her hostess’s countenance yet more.
— Yet I am not surprised. Baudouin will not hasten to write me. I suppose that, if no letter has come, it is because he fares well.
Havoise inclined her head.
— I shall pray for you.
Aloïs thanked her and left the house to rejoin Enguerrand in the streets.
— It is time to return. I shall gain nothing more here.
— I may fetch the cart, if it please you, my lady.
— Aye, and meet me by the Hugon Gate.
They parted, each taking a different way, and Aloïs hastened toward the walls. A man in a monk’s robe came toward her. His tall stature set him apart from the throng. The young woman stepped into his path, a broad smile upon her lips. Anselme had not yet marked her and seemed deep in thought as he tucked a roll of parchment beneath his arm.
— Good day, Father.
The archdeacon started and raised his head. When at last his eyes fell upon Aloïs, a light of joy kindled in his azure gaze, and a soft relief seemed to ease his shoulders.
— My dear sister, what joy to see you here!
— The joy is mine. I trust your journey from Chinon was a fair one.
— God guided my steps, and I was spared ill encounters. Your own journey was no easy one. Yet you had the honour of attending the count’s wedding.
— That is so. A fair ceremony…
— Which, nonetheless, foretold many troubles.
They both fell silent for a moment. A swine chased by a child forced Aloïs to step closer to the archdeacon. She raised her eyes to the man, who had not moved and looked upon her with curiosity before at last stepping back.
— My brother has followed Henri, I suppose.
She nodded.
— Let us hope the king’s wrath shall be short-lived. Meanwhile, I shall have the pleasure of seeing you again in Angers. What brings you to the city?
— I was bound for the market…
— Indeed? asked the cleric, his gaze heavy with doubt.
A flush rose to Aloïs’s cheeks.
— To speak plainly, I sought to find answers.
— To what end?
The young woman leaned toward her brother-in-law, wary of prying ears.
— I wished to understand why the provost had lied to me.
Anselme started.
— Raoul has lied to you?
— Aye… or at the least, he did not inform me of matters of import that befell at Terlaze during my absence.
— You speak of the thefts?
— How come you by such knowledge?
— I have heard some tidings…
Aloïs fell thoughtful ere she continued.
— Do you know Raoul well?
— Aye, he is a very good friend to Baudouin. They met here, in this very place. Baudouin drew him out of a foul pass against certain other scholars in a narrow street, as Raoul was ending his day at the university. The young man swore thereafter to aid my brother ever, should he have need. At times, he may prove… overzealous in the handling of his charge. Yet he is loyal, of that I have no doubt.
Aloïs bit her lip.
— Then why did he not speak to me of these troubles?
A kindly smile came upon the archdeacon’s face.
— I think, without meaning you offence, that he deems it not his place to involve you in such matters.
The thought displeased her, yet it seemed the most likely explanation. She stifled a sigh and turned her gaze to the parchments tucked beneath her brother-in-law’s arm.
— Might I presume, Father, and ask if you know where I might procure some parchment?
— Parchment?
— Aye, such as that.
Aloïs pointed to the roll he carried, and the archdeacon seemed suddenly ill at ease.
— Only a few sheets, and I shall pay for them, she assured him. I would also need walnut ink, and a small iron shell to serve as a vessel.
Anselme cleared his throat.
— At the market, you shall not find what you seek. Those merchants ever strive to draw more coin than is meet.
Aloïs held back a sigh. Belle had deserved that she keep her word and grant her at least the chance to sketch a few drawings.
— Yet… I may inquire at the abbey whether they might sell some at a fair price, enough for a few writings.
A bright smile lit the young lady’s face.
— I must thank you again, Father. You have brought me the only good tidings of this day.
The cleric bowed his head, casting her a gentle look.
— I would not do so for just anyone. Yet I must beg your pardon, for I must take my leave. I counsel you not to tarry overlong. To return too late might place you in peril.
Aloïs thanked him and let him go back toward the city. She had not, in truth, wholly lost her time.
Aloïs waited near the city gate for Enguerrand to return with the cart. She came to see that it would not be easy for her to govern the domain if some withheld from her matters of weight. Yet how might she win Raoul’s trust? It was too late to seek him out this day, but perchance she might speak more plainly to him upon his next visit to the castle.
The sun still stood high enough in the heavens to assure their return ere nightfall. Aloïs let her gaze wander across the lands stretching far and wide: vineyards, a few distant farmsteads, and beyond them, past woods and tilled fields, she imagined Terlaze and its lands.
Families and merchants were slowly leaving Angers to return to their homes.
Aloïs turned toward the walls just as a man passed through the gate. She started upon recognizing Jehan. He too seemed surprised to meet her. He came forward and greeted her with due respect, yet when he raised his head, she marked the wariness in his expression.
— Lady Aloïs, you have come to Angers this day?
— For the market.
Aware she was justifying herself, she bit her lip and resumed in a more measured tone.
— You attended the assembly.
— I was there.
Would she be forced to draw the words from him, or would he speak of his own accord? Aloïs held herself still, wary of cutting short his confidence.
The road-warden looked away.
— I must return.
— We may accompany you, she said quickly. You would thus be spared ill encounters…
A faint smirk touched the corners of Jehan’s lips. Aloïs started as she caught sight of Enguerrand.
— Here comes my guard even now, with the cart.
The man cast a glance toward the harness.
— Very well…, he conceded. And thus you may put to me all the questions you will.
Aloïs coughed, ill at ease, and turned aside. They both climbed into the cart. The lady strove to resist the urge to question him, yet in the end she yielded.
— What was said at the assembly? Will there be aid from the count’s guards?
Jehan nodded slowly, an amused look upon his face.
— I think it were better that I speak of it with Sir Baudouin.
Aloïs turned sharply toward the road-warden, vexed.
— Sir Baudouin is not here, and in his absence it is to me that you must speak. You had pledged to inform me of what was said.
They measured one another in silence ere Jehan relented with a sigh.
— I was not alone.
— How mean you?
— Other road-wardens and lesser lords have of late reported attacks and thefts. They too think that Count Henri cannot ensure the safety of his lands.
— A hasty judgment, muttered Aloïs.
— Mayhap, yet he cannot deny that there are many depredations.
— Could these be the same bandits of whom you spoke to me?
— I cannot swear it.
Aloïs fell thoughtful.
— What said the bishop?
— That he would write to the count to make him aware of the matter. Some lords still present sought to seize the assembly to speak of their petty quarrels of land. A waste of time…, Jehan grumbled. And seeing that Count Henri now wars against the King of the Franks, remedies shall not come swiftly, that is certain. And I shall not sit idle…
The young woman studied the road-warden with curiosity.
— What do you intend?
— Well…
The man hesitated, casting a glance toward Aloïs ere he went on.
— The hamlet of the Favreaux has not yet suffered theft. I thought it might be well to keep watch there, and to spread word that iron has but lately been brought to the smith.
— Dangerous…
— Bold. I shall set myself there from the morrow at dusk to watch the place.
A cry made them all start. A woman came running through the vines, hastening toward them. Enguerrand leapt down from the cart, as did Jehan. The peasant reached them, terror plain upon her face. Breathless, she spoke to the guard.
— The monk… the monk, he is dead…
Aloïs rose. Enguerrand motioned for her not to stir.
— I shall go and see, my lady.
She paid no heed to his words and bade the peasant, still shaken, to wait there. Accompanied by the two men, she went into the rows of vines. A dark shape slowly took form upon the ground. Aloïs slowed. Her heart beat hard beneath her bliaud. She hoped Enguerrand and Jehan might not hear it.
She had never drawn near to the dead, save for Berthe—and that had been long ago.
The coarse robe now showed more plainly. The man lay upon his back, his neck resting against a vine-stock. His eyes were wide open. Aloïs stifled a cry as she beheld the face of the corpse.
— Lady Aloïs, said the road-warden, you should return to the cart. This is no sight for ladies.
The young woman kept her gaze fixed upon the dead man.
— I know him.
A broad scar crossed the cleric’s cheek: the very man who had spoken with Anselme when they first saw one another nearly a year past now lay before her.
Enguerrand examined the body. A dark mark showed upon his left side.
— He was struck by an arrow, he said. And the slayer has taken back his shaft.
Aloïs felt her legs give way. She sank to her knees, as much to look more closely as to hide her faintness. Who would slay a monk?
The man’s fist was clenched against his side. Aloïs drew back his arm. A scrap of parchment showed between his fingers. She tried to take it, but could not.
— Enguerrand, can you open his hand?
— I fear it will not be easy. He has been dead since dawn, mayhap. He has gripped it fast—it will be hard to loose.
— Try nonetheless.
The guard, aided by the road-warden, prised open the dead man’s fingers one by one, and at last freed what he held.
— His skin is stained with ink, noted Enguerrand.
— I am not surprised. He is one of the monks of Saint-Aubin, where the scriptorium lies.
Enguerrand handed the scrap of parchment to Aloïs, who examined it swiftly. She turned it beneath her gaze, dismayed.
— Nothing… There is nothing written upon it, nothing to tell who he was.
Her eyes returned to the dead man.
— And yet, he seemed to hold it dear…
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