The palfrey cometh to a halt near unto the castle of Les Ponts-de-Cé. It hath been many months since Aloïs last paid them visit. The place hath not changed since she departed thence a year ago—a year wherein her life hath been wholly transformed, for the worse and… for the better.
A faint smile draweth upon her lips as she calleth to mind the last moments shared with Baudouin ere he went forth to war against the King of the Franks. Yet Aloïs can but take comfort in the memories that abide within her mind.
She urgeth her mount onward, Enguerrand following close behind, and maketh request to see her parents. The guards grant her passage. Belle and Marie have not accompanied her this time; Aloïs deemed it needless to bring so many for so short a journey.
The young lady lifteth her eyes unto the stronghold. The castle boasteth stone walls and a tower sturdier than that of Terlaze. This fief holdeth great strategic worth for the Count of Anjou by reason of its place upon the Loire. The river hath in times past borne many foes, even as the Northmen. Yet long hath it been since such raiders were seen in these parts.
The palfrey passeth into the lord’s court. Servants receive the young dame and bid her enter the aula.
Aloïs feeleth her heart tighten as she stepeth into that which was her domain throughout all her childhood—a castle she ever deemed a place of safety, whose every secret she knew. Aye, even that of one chamber whose door would never wholly fasten, wherein she would ask to serve her punishments. She would wait until her nurse had gone, then slip forth from her prison, returning only shortly ere her sentence was done.
As she entereth the great hall, she espieth her father bent over parchments. The old man hath not marked her coming. Aloïs advanceth, her steps sounding upon the tiled floor.
The lord lifteth his chin and narroweth his eyes; then his gaze is lit with recognition.
— Aloïs? Is it truly thou?
The young woman noddeth and standeth before her father, who hath risen.
— I am glad to see you again.
Overcome with feeling, sire Aldebert gathereth his daughter into his arms, once so strong.
— I had thought thou wouldst never return.
— I pray you forgive me, I should have come to visit you sooner…
The man draweth back and looketh upon his child. A crease of concern formeth between his dark eyes.
— Thou must have had many matters to tend. Marriage and the keeping of lands demand much time. I feared… that thou mightst bear us ill will.
Aloïs stepeth back.
— Bear you ill will?
— For thy marriage unto sire Baudouin.
She answereth at once:
— Nay! Of a truth, nay! I understand now the reasons that led you to accept this union.
Aloïs claspeth her father’s hand. A weary smile crease th the lord’s features.
— And my mother? Is she here?
Sire Aldebert draweth a deep breath.
— Aloïs… thy mother is… ailing.
A shiver runneth through the young woman.
— What aileth her?
— A fever…
With sudden urgency, she asketh to see her. Her father leadeth her unto their chamber. Upon a bed overlarge lieth the weary form of Dame Hersende. Her fair hair hath turned toward white and lieth spread upon the pillow about her head.
Aloïs hasteneth to her side and taketh her mother’s hand. The woman’s eyes open slowly—eyes hollowed by sickness. When she beholdeth her daughter’s face, a faint smile appeareth.
— My child…
Aloïs claspeth those slender fingers and presseth a kiss into her palm. A fit of coughing shaketh Dame Hersende’s frail body.
— Who hath tended her? asketh the young lady.
Her father shruggeth.
— One of the town’s leeches. Yet he hath but worsened her state.
Aloïs riseth and goeth down to find Enguerrand.
— Go, fetch Mélisande, the healer. Thou hast been unto her once with sire Baudouin.
The sergeant assenteth and maketh haste to mount his horse again. She watch eth him depart, then returneth unto her mother’s side.
— Why did you not send for me?
Dame Hersende setteth her head once more upon the bolster, which giveth forth a gentle scent of lavender.
— I am not dying…
Aloïs smileth and taketh up a cool cloth, which she layeth upon the sick woman’s brow. She turneth unto her father.
— I shall care for her; be not troubled.
The man casteth one last look upon his wife, then his daughter, ere he leaveth the chamber. Aloïs giveth orders unto the maid that broth be brought.
Dame Hersende drifteth betwixt waking and sleep. Time passeth, and Aloïs groweth uneasy. Enguerrand should have returned ere now with the healer. What if he hath not found her? Or if some ill hath befallen Mélisande?
At last, the sound of hooves ringeth within the court. Aloïs hasteneth to the window and knoweth Mélisande by her garb.
The healer is brought into the chamber and, without word, examineth the patient. Aloïs wringeth her hands, awaiting some speech to ease her fears. Mélisande layeth her fingers upon the woman’s brow, then her throat. She taketh her wrist, as though seeking some hidden sign.
She openeth her satchel and draweth forth sundry herbs.
Aloïs draweth nearer.
— How fareth she?
— Dame Hersende hath lived a full life.
The young woman’s jaw tighteneth.
— Mélisande, this is no hour for thy riddling words! Dost thou mean that my mother shall die?
— We all must die…
— I mean now!
Mélisande turneth unto Aloïs.
— Nay… she shall not die this day…
Relief filleth Aloïs.
The healer prepareth a draught and maketh her patient drink. A fresh fit of coughing wringeth a moan from Dame Hersende. She falleth back upon her cushions, spent.
— You shall recover, I promise you, saith Aloïs, striving for confidence.
The woman gently pat teth her daughter’s hand. Aloïs turneth toward Mélisande, more at ease—but when she meeteth the healer’s gaze, an ill foreboding seizeth her.
Dame Hersende shall not die this day… yet the end draweth nigh.
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The host hath made camp within a wide clearing. Beyond the hill, King Louis seemeth to mock them, ever delaying battle.
The weeks that have passed have seemed without end unto Baudouin. Louis the Seventh, called the Young, hath hastened into Normandy, threatening Duke Henry’s lands, seeking redress for the treachery of his vassals. Henry’s forces could not return in time, and the enemy host—Louis, Robert of Dreux, Thibault of Blois, and Henry of Champagne—hath seized Neufmarché. Geoffrey, Henry’s younger brother, hath also joined their foes.
Though the young lord hath not spoken openly before Baudouin, he doubteth not that such betrayal goeth ill with him. Yet, by what Yvain hath heard, Geoffrey himself sought the hand of fair Eleanor—another cause to resent his elder brother.
But the Count of Anjou and Duke of Normandy hath more strength than these lords supposed. He hath taken their armies unawares, dealing them a first defeat that stayeth their advance.
And yet, betwixt skirmishes and waiting, time hath stretched on, and summer draweth now toward its end.
Yvain entereth his lord’s tent and setteth down helm and hauberk. He wipeth his brow with his sleeve.
— I had not thought Enguerrand would be missed so sorely.
A faint smile toucheth Baudouin’s lips.
— Complain not. Count Henry hath granted us a squire.
The servant snorteth softly.
— He is as thin as an eel. The armour is over-heavy for him.
Baudouin riseth and hefteth his gear.
— Then forget not that I am the one who beareth it in battle. I should have greater cause to lament—and all the more in this heat of summer.
Yvain gathereth the garments and setteth them aside, sighing.
— The castle doth lack me…
Baudouin arch eth a brow.
— Thou hast spent but little time there.
Yvain denieth it not, yet remaineth pensive, a shadow of melancholy upon his face.
— Aye… yet it is the first place I have ever called mine own.
These words echo within Baudouin, for he too longeth to return and see Aloïs once more. The last evening he spent with her hath awakened in him a true desire to hold her again. She was right in saying they were more alike than he had believed. She vexed him, perchance, because she bore the same faults as he—a mirror that showed him his own failings.
Yet she is also that which he needeth most: a wife who tempereth him, who speaketh plainly. He loveth the way she riseth against injustice, the strength with which she defendeth her values and her beliefs.
And yet, he hath spent most of their marriage making her think he could not abide her. Shall he ever have the chance to confess his feelings?
Death may claim him on the morrow, upon the field of battle.
A guard presenteth himself and informeth Baudouin that Henry desireth to speak with them.
The young man followeth the soldier and passeth through the camp of the nobles. The footmen are set further south, nigh unto the watercourse, whilst the count’s mercenaries gather not far from the sergeants-at-arms. Above their heads, the sky groweth overcast. Autumn is not far hence.
Already, several knights stand before Henry’s tent, the greatest in all the host, fashioned like unto a great round pavilion of red and gold cloth. Above it floateth a banner bearing the arms of the House of Plantagenet: gules, three leopards Or, one above the other. The murmur of voices filleth the heavy silence. At length the count appeareth, followed by his closest lords. The men fall silent.
— Messires, ye accompany me right valiantly, and I thank you for it. We cannot suffer King Louis to seize the lands that are mine by marriage, a bond made lawful and blessed by God! If we were to let this lord act unpunished, what would he take next?
Murmurs of assent run through the assembly.
— Yet have I no wish that these quarrels should endure. I shall therefore go to meet my brother, Geoffrey, who hath allied himself with the king, and seek with him a path unto peace.
This time, silence greeteth his words. Baudouin beholdeth in each man both surprise and relief.
— I deem that ye all would fain, as would I, return unto your wives. The more so as tidings have reached mine ears that trouble me greatly.
He holdeth his peace a moment and casteth his gaze upon the men before him.
— Many among you hold fiefs in Anjou. It would seem that bands of robbers spread fear throughout our lands.
The hairs upon Baudouin’s neck bristle. Aloïs remaineth alone within the castle. Though he trusteth in Enguerrand, the young sergeant lacketh experience. Could he withstand an assault?
— I have learned that the provosts, the road-wardens, and the men-at-arms are mustered to put an end to this scourge. Yet I deem it meet that we ourselves should ride thither and take these thieves. I shall see to it that an example be made, that none thereafter dare assail our lands.
Acclamations break forth at the count’s speech. Baudouin keepeth silence. His fists clench. Not only doth he fear for Aloïs, but above all he feeleth himself utterly powerless. He can but hope now to return with all haste—and that choice lieth in the hands of Henry and of Geoffrey.
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