October 1151
— Give that bag back immediately!
Aloïs gripped her stick and stood firm in front of the two men who exchanged perplexed glances. She straightened up, confident that no one could recognize her dressed like that: a short tunic pinched at the sleeves with leather straps, dark hose, a mask covering the lower part of her face, and a woolen cap hiding her blond hair. Her figure had disappeared beneath tightly wrapped bands flattening her chest.
It was not her first attempt. But every time, her blood had pounded in her temples and fear had mingled with the thrill of those confrontations.
Her sudden appearance had startled the two thieves. But that rarely sufficed to make them surrender their loot.
The two men hesitated. The surroundings were deserted. The sun barely peeked over the horizon. Shadows still played with the light among the undergrowth. The smell of dawn, a blend of humus and wood, filled the air.
— Are you deaf as well as dishonest? the young woman continued without losing her apparent calm.
— Who are you?
— And you? Who are you to dare rob honest folks?
— Me, I’m…
The second man interrupted his companion.
— Are you mad? Don’t go telling her your name…
Aloïs exhaled beneath her mask.
— If you give back the bag, I will spare you, and you may leave.
The taller of the two dropped his bundle with his accomplice and spat into his hands. He was as tall as he was ugly, with a bloated nose, cheeks pitted by disease and wine, and his right eye perpetually shut.
He stepped forward, determined, growling in rage as he raised his arm to strike his opponent. Aloïs stepped aside swiftly whilst striking his ribs with a sharp blow from her stick. He cried out and arched in pain. She gave him no respite and attacked again, hitting above his brow. He collapsed, clutching his head.
— Filthy weasel! shouted the second. I’ll teach you to try and bash us!
He dropped the bag and lunged. He was a full head shorter than his companion but made up for it in width. His thick fingers reached forward, trying to grab Aloïs by the neck. She didn’t give him the chance to come closer and thrust her weapon straight ahead, striking the thief in the stomach. His breath caught instantly. She hit his shoulder, then his ear. He screamed as blood splashed onto his clothes.
Aloïs grabbed the bag and prepared to head the other way when shapes on the path stopped her. Four unknown men were approaching. She chose not to take risks, unsure of those newcomers’ intentions, and quickly headed for the woods. The shouts behind her soon confirmed she had been right to flee, and that those were likely accomplices of the two thieves. Outlaws were common and often operated in small bands. She quickened her pace, but the load hampered her progress.
Behind her, the men advanced briskly, more agile and unburdened. Taking on two or three brigands was manageable, especially since they barely knew how to fight. But a group like that would soon overpower her. Just a few more steps, and she would be able to hide the bag and find shelter.
The first trees were finally within reach. Beneath the canopy, a semi-darkness still reigned. The perfect place to vanish.
She set down the recovered bundle and hid it behind a large stump. Then she moved off among the trunks. Already, the echo of exchanged words reached her. They were looking for her. Or rather, they were looking for the stolen loot.
She ran as much as she could, but roots, branches, and brambles complicated her escape. She drew her knife and gripped it tightly, more for courage than with any real intention to use it. Pressed against a tree trunk, she caught her breath and glanced back. The men hadn’t seen her and were heading in the opposite direction. Ahead, a gentle slope rose. She could hide on the other side of that incline. She set off again, making sure no one was coming that way, when her flight was abruptly cut short. Aloïs fell heavily, her ankle trapped. Her knife slipped from her hand. She turned to see what held her back. Her foot was caught in a snare.
She tried to free herself, but the net tightened too firmly around her leg. Impossible to remove it! Aloïs searched for her weapon and spotted it out of reach. She lay down and stretched her arm. Her fingers extended as far as they could. It wasn’t enough! She pounded the moss-covered ground in frustration. Panic rose as voices drew nearer.
What would be worse? What those men would do to her when they found her, or the dishonor she would bring upon her family if someone discovered her secret?
Neither choice appealed to her. She fumed, and tears threatened to well up in her eyes. The rope tightened even more around the leather of her shoes. Her fingers couldn’t grasp any part of the snare to free herself.
A shout made her straighten up. They had seen her, that was for sure!
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Baudouin closed his fingers around the reins. The nostrils of Mars, his steed, quivered, and puffs of steam escaped from the beast’s thick lips. The young squire stroked his mount’s neck. He felt the cold seeping under his woolen cloak.
The night had been short, offering him only a meagre rest along the road from Le Mans. But he knew that that night, he would sleep under shelter in the hall of the Angevin count's palace.
Enguerrand, his servant, followed on his palfrey. The seventeen-year-old boy, with Venetian blond hair, had grown considerably since Baudouin had taken him under his wing. He had used to roam the camps of Geoffroy the Handsome’s soldiers, their liege lord, doing small errands for a few coins. His parents, modest Norman lords, had been massacred a few years earlier in a conflict with an old enemy eyeing their mill. The boy still bore the mark of that tragedy on his arm: a large white scar running from his elbow to his shoulder. He had no other family.
Baudouin had immediately appreciated Enguerrand’s combative yet discreet nature and had chosen to keep him by his side. His servant was by then nearly as tall as him and had become a valuable ally on the battlefield.
A third man rode behind them on a more modest mount. He swayed dangerously, mouth agape and eyelids shut. Dark-skinned, black-eyed, he often drew attention. A woolen cap hid his short, curly hair. Yvain had joined Baudouin’s retinue as a servant, as a reward for a tournament won by the young squire. He kept his distance from swords and hand-to-hand combat, focusing solely on logistics. Despite his station, Yvain never hesitated to voice his thoughts, often mangling words he did not fully master. He never spoke of his past, but his back bore the scars of past beatings. Something Baudouin had never tolerated.
The three men rode past sleeping fields where cows and sheep dozed. Smoke rose from isolated farms. The countryside awakened slowly. And despite the pleasure of that peaceful calm, Baudouin kept in mind the urgency of reaching Angers as soon as possible.
The death of Geoffroy the Handsome, called Plantagenet, Count of Anjou, had taken everyone by surprise. He had been fighting for years against Stephen of Blois, the usurper of the English throne. Geoffroy and his wife, Empress Matilda, the rightful heir, had aimed to place their eldest son, Henry, on that island’s throne. Yet, the Count of Anjou had suddenly died of a cold, momentarily putting an end to the conflict. Momentarily was indeed the word that best described that interruption.
For Baudouin had known Henry well: he would not let England slip from his grasp. At fourteen, with only one ally for battle, he had gone to London to try to achieve that goal, a failed attempt. Now older, he benefited from experience and showed himself all the more strategic.
A wide yawn pulled a smile from Baudouin. Apparently, Yvain was coming out of his nap.
— Master, we gettin’ there soon?
— We’re getting closer. We’ll likely arrive before midday.
— Ah... I thought so, since I can’t feel my...
Yvain straightened up and vigorously rubbed his lower back. Perched on a packhorse, he never missed a chance to remind everyone of his discomfort. Baudouin shook his head, ignoring the not-so-subtle implication.
He turned to Enguerrand, usually sparing with words. Yet, the furrowed lines on his brow told his master something was troubling him.
— What are you thinking about?
The servant turned toward Baudouin, pulled from his thoughts.
— Pardon, Master?
— You seem elsewhere.
Enguerrand’s lips tightened into a grim line.
— Yes, Master...
— What troubles you?
Enguerrand avoided his master’s gaze and watched a cow rise in the adjacent field to graze on stubble.
— Will I have to wrench the words from your mouth, or will you finally express your thoughts plainly?
— Forgive me, Master... I was wondering... what will become of us.
Baudouin shifted in his saddle, the leather creaking. He had asked himself that same question. The death of Geoffroy the Handsome deprived him of a lord and a patron. He had passed away a few weeks ago and had been buried with full honors in Le Mans Cathedral.
— If we’re here at the same time as Henry, sighed Baudouin, it was also to see about that.
— He becomes Count of Anjou, Enguerrand continued.
— Exactly.
A loud snore made them turn. Yvain swayed on his mount, eyes closed again and mouth ajar.
— That one won’t even notice the journey we’ve made, unless he falls off first.
The shadow of a smile passed over Enguerrand’s face before vanishing again.
— Do you think Henry might grant you land?
Baudouin sighed.
— To be honest, I don’t know if I even want that. If the count gives me a fief, he’ll expect me to marry, and I have no desire for that.
— Why not?
— Because... it’s a useless burden. And when one fights, the risk of death is daily. What future could I offer a woman?
— Perhaps... one day, you could settle down?
Baudouin tugged at his earlobe and grimaced.
— I do not wish it. I made a promise, to take a place and hold it. I will keep my word. But still, I wish to pledge allegiance to Henry, and perhaps he will accept me as his squire. We could always take to the road again, seeking tournaments to earn us our daily bread.
Enguerrand nodded subtly before slowing down. Shadows in the distance had caught his attention.
— Master Baudouin, look over there. Men are running.
A group seemed to be rushing toward the woods. At the edge of the hedgerow, Baudouin spotted a slender figure disappearing into the thicket.
— Thieves? asked the servant.
Without another word, Baudouin spurred his horse, which instantly bolted into a gallop. Enguerrand followed close behind. Yvain, startled by the sudden departure, struggled to get his reins in order but eventually took the same path.
The three riders quickly closed the distance. Forced to slow his mount due to the narrowness of the path, Baudouin dropped to a trot, then to a walk as they entered the woods.
Six men moved ahead of him. They seemed to be searching the area. They were a good hundred feet away, engrossed in their hunt. Baudouin tried to guess what had interested them so much. A beast? A pig that had escaped? Such an animal could feed a family through the winter. Whatever it was, they clearly did not intend to give up.
The squire scanned the rows of trees. Everything appeared peaceful. Suddenly, something moved distinctly to the right—a mass pressed to the ground, struggling without moving away. The shadow straightened, and he realized it was not an animal, but a person.
Baudouin clicked his tongue to spur his horse toward the figures. Mars neighed in protest. One of the men, a very tall fellow with one eye shut, turned around and shouted. The six companions scattered abruptly into the woods like a flock of startled sparrows.
— Well, that was the fastest fight I’ve ever had to wage.
Yvain joined him at a slow trot, halting beside his master.
— They ain’t got a clear mind.
— Perhaps they mistook us for bandits, suggested Enguerrand.
— They ain’t blind, retorted Yvain. Just look at your outfit, Master, to know who they’re dealin’ with.
Baudouin turned his horse around and dismounted.
— What are you doing, Master? asked Enguerrand.
The young lord signaled him to be silent. Sword in hand, he advanced slowly among the trunks. The silhouette became clearer. A boy lay on the ground, struggling to free himself from a trap set there. Half of his face was covered with a cloth. Baudouin straightened, sheathed his sword, and smiled.
— Are you a thief or a victim?
The stranger startled, his eyes widening. Large, clear eyes that momentarily unsettled Baudouin. The other planted himself proudly on his seat.
— I am not a thief!
— Then why do you hide your face?...
The individual fell silent and tried once again to free himself.
— And who were those men?
— Outlaws.
— Really?
Lifting his head, he locked eyes with Baudouin.
— Whether you believe me or not doesn’t matter. I would like to be able to free myself quietly.
The boy’s audacity amused the young squire.
— Fine. Go ahead.
The stranger turned and suddenly lay flat on his stomach, arm outstretched. Baudouin noticed an object on the ground, out of reach for the prisoner. A growl of rage escaped his lips.
The squire stepped around him and kicked the knife, allowing the captive to grab it. The prisoner sat up and quickly cut the rope that bound him, getting up just as swiftly.
— Thank you.
He froze upon seeing the two companions on horseback.
— Are you going to arrest me or can I leave?
Baudouin’s eyebrows furrowed.
— You speak well. Where do you come from?
The sound of bells in the distance suddenly echoed through the underbrush. The boy jumped, as if stung by an insect, and started running.
— Wait!
The stranger seemed no longer to hear him. He disappeared toward the clearing. Baudouin joined his companions. Yvain looked puzzled.
— Are you letting him slip away?
— I don’t think he’s dangerous. I don’t know who he is, but he must be harmless.
The young man took up his reins again.
— And we must hurry to finish our journey.
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