The image of that man, lying among the vine stocks, haunts Aloïs. She chooses to hold her tongue and spare herself any remark from Marie, who had repeated all the way back that she ought rather to have kept her distance.
Enguerrand has gone to inform the provost. Men-at-arms came to take away the body, and Raoul heard the woman who had discovered the unfortunate wretch. The comital officer did not linger and urged Aloïs to return home with all haste.
Yet, since that occurrence, she cannot banish the man from her thoughts. Belle enters the camera bearing her mistress’s bliaud.
— Dame Aloïs, Marie bade me lay by your garment.
The young woman smiles upon the child and beckons her nearer. Belle’s presence brings her far more comfort than she would have thought.
— I thank thee. Wilt thou call Enguerrand?
The little one obeys and runs from the chamber. Aloïs gives orders to one of the servants for the ordering of the stores in the tower, then goes to meet him who is now become the sergeant of the domain in the aula.
— You would speak with me, my lady?
There is in his tone a desire to do well.
— Aye, Enguerrand. Knowest thou if aught new hath come to light concerning the death of the churchman?
The sergeant opens his eyes wide.
— I have heard naught of it.
— Couldst thou go unto Angers and inquire after the health of my brother by marriage?
He inclines his head.
— And bid him take heed for his safety.
— For his safety?
Aloïs nods.
— I saw the archdeacon in discourse with the monk who was slain. They were acquainted.
— As are… most churchmen in Angers, I suppose.
— Mayhap. Yet I would take no risk. Canst thou depart this very morn?
— I go straightway.
Enguerrand makes his reverence and quits the lodging. Aloïs’s fingers clasp together in anxious tension. She would not that harm befall Anselme. Yet another question steals into her mind: what shall become of the road-warden if he carry out his design? He is no man of battle. And are they but thieves—or have they already wrought darker deeds?
A darker vision rises again in Aloïs’s thoughts—one she would fain forget, yet which is graven forever upon her memory. She steps forth from the lodging and leans against the wall to draw breath. Belle plays in the midst of the baile, with all the innocence of her years, even as Aloïs herself once did ere Berthe’s death…
The need to walk overtakes her. She takes up a mantle and beckons the child.
— Wouldst thou walk with me?
The girl skips with delight.
— Oh aye! May I take my basket, if it please you, to gather creatures?
— Creatures?
— Aye, I caught them yonder when I was alone, to eat.
The lady suppresses a grimace of distaste.
— Thou shalt have no need to hunt such fare. And, alas, the season of chestnuts is not yet come. Yet we may walk, if it please thee.
With a brisk nod, the child gives her assent.
Together they quit the baile and take the path, then turn not far from the old slate quarries toward the river. Unwittingly, Aloïs follows the road that leads to her family’s dwelling. The memory of her morning runs seems to belong to another life—an existence almost dreamlike.
The fear she felt upon her last venture, clad as a man, has quenched all desire to hazard such a thing again. Yet Jehan’s words turn ceaselessly in her mind. He means to act… alone. Never could he withstand men doubtless far more seasoned in strife than he.
Belle runs ahead of her. Birds wheel across the blue sky of Anjou. Aloïs savours these last fair days, knowing well that the chill shall soon return, and lifts her face to the gentle warmth of the sun. She then comes upon the child, who has halted suddenly in the road.
When she opens her eyes, Aloïs perceives that Belle no longer stirs, as though turned to stone. Before her, a strange figure has halted.
Aloïs tilts her head and narrows her gaze, uncertain whether she knows the one who has appeared.
— ’Tis a ghost, whispers the child.
— Nay, this is Mélisande, a friend.
Belle turns wide eyes toward her mistress. The healer draws nearer and greets the young woman. As ever, she wears her worn woollen pelisse. Her coif seems darker still, and traces of soot veil the lines of her face.
— Doth something trouble you, my lady?
— Nay, I wished but to walk. I present to thee Belle.
The little one keeps her mouth parted, yet cannot speak. Mélisande offers her a faint smile, then turns again to her mistress and lifts her gaze toward the heavens.
— The swallows shall soon depart… yet they ever return in time.
Aloïs, in turn, regards the few birds wheeling above them.
— Nature taketh her rest, that she may be fit to bear her charge.
Mélisande lowers her eyes and sets them upon Aloïs. Her calm bearing unsettles the young woman anew.
— What meanest thou?
— Only this: we all have need of respite, yet must know to take up our task again when the hour is come.
Mélisande sets off once more, cutting across the fields, climbing the rise, and vanishing beyond it.
Aloïs follows her with her eyes until she can see her no longer. Then she stretches out her hand to Belle.
— Come, it is time we returned.
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Enguerrand passes through the gates of the baile and straightway reassures the young lady, seated within the aula and readying herself for supper. Anselme is in good health. The archdeacon gives thanks to his sister by marriage for her care and bids her not trouble herself on his account.
— Well then! ’Tis good tidings indeed.
— Have you other charges for me?
— Nay. Thou mayest withdraw.
The young lad bows and quits the hall. Aloïs hastens to her chamber and brings forth once more her man’s attire. The absence of Baudouin easeth her purpose: she may depart by night without raising suspicion. She need only wait until Enguerrand goes to sup within the house of the milites to slip away.
At that moment Marie enters the lodging and scarcely stifles a cry of surprise.
— My lady? You would not still…
— Aye. And I shall have thee keep watch.
— Keep watch—Oh no!
Aloïs takes up her cloak and casts it about her shoulders.
— But whither will you go forth? The castle gates are shut and a guard keepeth them.
— I have made provision. I fashioned a small opening behind the forge.
Marie sinks upon the bed.
— I shall be as swift as may be, her mistress assures her.
The young woman presses herself near the window and watches Enguerrand. He speaks with two guards who prepare to take the night watch.
— Why would you go forth again?
The maid’s plaintive tone draws a sigh from Aloïs.
— Because I am answerable for these lands.
— But last time…
— Last time, I was taken unawares by Baudouin. The wound was not grievous—I was but afraid.
— Afraid of those thieves?
— Nay, afraid of being discovered…
Aloïs sits upon her bed, her gaze still fixed upon the baile.
— I know not what Baudouin would say, were he to learn my secret, yet I deem he would disapprove. And then this castle would become my prison—which I refuse. But this night, I fear nothing. And I mean not to suffer an innocent to be harmed.
Marie sniffs loudly.
— I thought you had resolved to cease.
Aloïs rises, marking Enguerrand’s figure entering the building. She sets her hands upon her servant’s shoulders.
— I cannot abandon whilst I may yet be of use. I rely upon thee to cover my absence.
The young woman slips from the lodging, taking care not to be seen from the watchtower. She passes behind the building and moves along the wooden palisade, keeping to the shadow cast by the ramparts. She reaches her aim and gropes for the breach she had made. Her hands strike the wood again and again, and she begins to wonder whether she shall find her way out. Naught can be seen in such darkness. I did not dream this gap!
She straightens and goes on. Of a sudden, emptiness meets her fingers. She stifles a cry of triumph and squeezes through the narrow passage. Wary, she hastens away, slipping toward the woods that encircle the castle. Once sheltered, she at last draws breath. Now she must take the road toward the hamlets. Jehan had said the thieves strike by night. She hath but little chance of crossing their path—but if she may, she must attempt it.
She quits the wood and takes advantage of the quarter moon that casts a faint light upon fields and meadows. Little by little, silence falls about her. The young woman pauses to pray, beseeching God and Christ to guide her steps. The sounds of night resound—the chirring of crickets and the hooting of an owl nearby. The warm breath of this summer night bends the last ears of grain awaiting the sickle.
Soon, houses rise upon the horizon. She quickens her pace when shadows seem to stir at her right. Aloïs crouches at once. She discerns two or three men. From their bearing, she doubts they be honest peasants. She grips her weapon and makes ready to advance when another shape suddenly appears, brandishing a torch.
— Ho there! Who goes?
Jehan stands forth before the three men. At last, Aloïs discerns their faces. All three are masked and clad in dark garments. These are no mere outlaws such as she hath met ere now.
The three men keep silence. Jehan remains unmoved.
— I asked who you are. I am the voyer, and I command you to declare yourselves and cast off your masks.
In one motion, the three thieves spring upon Jehan. Taken unawares, he strives to defend himself with his torch, sweeping it before him as though it were a sword. He begins to whistle sharply, a thing Aloïs cannot fathom. It checks one of the brigands for a moment, yet stays not the others. Jehan is struck in the back, then in the belly.
Aloïs then leaves her hiding place and hastens to aid the voyer. Her sudden appearance startles the brigands, who turn from their prey.
— This is no chivalrous conduct, cries Aloïs. One man against three…
One of them laughs.
— True enough. With thee, the number shall be evened.
With a nod, he bids his fellows deal with the young woman. She takes her stance, ready to ward their blows. The two assail her at once. Aloïs steps back, then strikes each in turn—one to the head, the other to the shoulder—forcing them to fall back. Enraged, one charges again. Aloïs turns her wrist in parry and beats the blow aside. She strikes him in the stomach, robbing him of breath, then rushes upon the second and wounds him in the thigh.
Cries from the hamlet interrupt them. Folk are hastening toward them. The three thieves take to flight. Aloïs bends over Jehan.
— Are you well?
The man raises his head, one hand pressed to his side.
— Aye… I am well… I thank thee… I should learn the art of arms.
The lady smiles and, troubled, forgets to alter her voice.
— I deem it would serve you well indeed.
Jehan lifts the torch, casting its light upon the young woman’s face, so near his own.
— I know you…
Aloïs starts. Their eyes meet. She rises swiftly and casts a glance toward the approaching folk.
— I leave you; you shall be in good hands.
— Stay! cries Jehan.
He steadies himself and catches her by the arm.
— Who are you?
She slips free.
— I must away.
Aloïs runs in the contrary direction to the hamlet. As she puts distance between herself and the voyer, she dearly hopes she hath not made a grievous error.
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The serfs bring in the harvest to the castle against the coming winter, under the watch of their lady.
Aloïs follows the well-mastered movements of these men. Upon their backs, sacks of wheat or barley seem to weigh naught.
Marie busies herself near the barn, spreading the linen. Belle never leaves her side, handing her the garments while speaking without cease. Though Aloïs cannot hear her words, she perceives the child speaks in a steady stream. Marie remains silent.
The maid was ill pleased with her mistress’s night venture and made it known upon her return. Yet Aloïs repents it not. Thus she was able to succour the voyer, Jehan. Without her, he might well have been sorely wounded.
The trouble lies in this: they stood side by side. And despite the moment, she fears he hath marked enough to link the matter to her. Yet the morning hath passed without his coming to the castle.
Another concern weighs upon her: these thieves seem skilled in combat. They are ordered, and she hath little chance of facing them alone. Should Raoul discover her nightly deeds, he would hasten to tell Baudouin upon his return. And she hath no wish to be barred from the field. These are her lands, and she must defend them.
As she makes ready to go to the cook and give orders for supper, a man appears at the castle gate. Enguerrand goes to meet the intruder. Aloïs’s blood runs cold: Jehan hath entered the baile.
She hesitates and considers withdrawing to the camera of the lord’s lodging. She might well leave her sergeant to deal with the visit.
Yet to hide would breed suspicion. She knows not whether he harbours doubts as to the identity of his saviour. In other times, she would have received him—and even pressed him to declare his purpose. Better to act as ever she doth.
The young lady smooths her bliaud and advances, head held high, toward Jehan. The nearer she comes, the more she discerns the marks of blows upon his face. His brow is bruised, and his lip bears scratches. When she is within speaking distance, she exclaims:
— Good God, sire voyer, what hath befallen you?
The man’s eyes narrow for a moment. He casts a glance toward Enguerrand.
— I was set upon.
— By whom? asks Aloïs, feigning ignorance.
— By thieves. I went to the hamlet of Favreaux and found them there.
— You went thither alone?
— Nay… I was to light the torch to warn of the brigands’ coming. Yet they were nearer than I deemed when first I spied them.
Aloïs recalls the cry from the dwellings and the voyer’s whistling.
— Yet I was aided by a strange figure…
The young woman keeps her composure and feigns curiosity.
— A figure, say you?
— Aye, he seemed a young boy.
Enguerrand steps forward.
— A masked boy?
The voyer nods.
— I saw naught but his eyes.
As he speaketh these words, Jehan fixeth his gaze upon Aloïs, who steelest herself lest she turn her eyes away. Enguerrand, carried by his fervour, exclaimeth:
— I am certain it is the same boy whom sire Baudouin near apprehended last time.
Jehan frowneth.
— Nay, he is no thief. He who aided me drove mine assailants to flight, and I am deeply beholden unto him. Were it in my power, I would fain ask of him a service…
Once more, he regardeth Aloïs with insistence. The sergeant seemeth doubtful.
— I understand you. Yet come, sire voyer, that I may offer you drink. The air is cooler within the aula. Enguerrand, canst thou fetch Marie, that she may bring somewhat for refreshment?
— Would you not rather it be the cook?
— Nay, Marie will suffice.
Aloïs accompanieth Jehan unto the building and goeth before him into the modest hall of reception.
— Then I take it you know not who your saviour may be.
The man smileth faintly, never ceasing to look upon the young lady.
— I have mine own thought. And I deem that, were he before me, I might ask his aid without him taking wonder at it.
Aloïs inclineth her head.
— What maketh you think so?
— I imagine this benefactor to be a man of great justice. He would not refuse to aid me.
— Aid you? Did you not say he had already saved you?
— Even so. I would have him teach me to defend myself.
She biteth her lip. At that moment Marie entereth, a pitcher in hand, and poureth mead into the cups. Jehan thanketh her. He drinketh a draught of Chenin and seemeth lost in thought, ere turning once more toward the young lady.
— Might it be that you know him?
Aloïs starteth.
— How should I?
— He had… your eyes.
Jehan’s frankness discomfiteth her. She can no longer maintain her composure and turneth toward the narrow window.
Marie stepeth forward, as a shield before her mistress.
— I crave your pardon, sieur Jehan, but I must speak with Dame Aloïs of, ah… household matters.
The man noddeth slowly and setteth his felt cap aright.
— I shall not trouble you further. Yet if by chance you should know where I might find this young boy, I would be most grateful if you would inform me.
The voyer boweth and taketh his leave. Aloïs feeleth a great weight lift from her breast.
— Tell me not he saw you in the midst of…
Marie mimeth the gestures of swordplay. Aloïs maketh a rueful face.
— Holy Virgin, come to our aid! Sire Baudouin will have me whipped!
— No harm shall come to thee. He hath no means to prove that I am this masked person.
Marie purses her lips.
— Aye… save if you venture forth again. But you meant not to go out once more, did you?
Aloïs turneth toward the door of the aula. Upon the floor, the sun casteth a golden glow.
— For now, I would pay a visit. A visit I have put off far too long…
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