Aloïs cometh back from the woods with Belle, a basket full of blackberries beneath her arm. The harvest hath been good and shall allow the making of sundry sweetmeats—a prospect that gladdeneth her the more.
Her father hath writ unto her to reassure her concerning her mother’s state. Lady Hersende seemeth to have recovered from her chill and hath taken up again much of her labours, weaving in especial. Such tidings do much to strengthen Aloïs in the thought that it was but passing, and that she did trouble herself overmuch. The foreboding she felt, seeing Mélisande so calm, did no doubt betray only her own fear of losing her mother.
As they pass through the gates, they espy a visitor drawing near upon the road on horseback. Aloïs knoweth the figure of the archdeacon. The man rideth forward at a gentle trot and draweth rein beside his sister-by-marriage.
— Do I meet you upon your return from walking?
— I am glad to be come back in time to see you, Father. What bringeth you hither?
— I came to thank you.
Aloïs’ brows lift.
— To thank me?
— For your care. You sent one of your guards to seek news of me after the death of that poor brother.
Aloïs claspeth her hands before her gown.
— I did indeed recognise the religious man with whom you were speaking when first we met. I deemed it best to warn you.
Anselme regardeth her for a moment in silence. His gaze at length maketh her uneasy.
— I can offer you some refreshment. The road from Angers is long.
Anselme assenteth, and they all enter into the baile. The archdeacon yieldeth his horse unto Enguerrand after taking up a leather satchel, and followeth Aloïs unto the lordly lodging. She giveth orders unto the cook ere bidding Anselme be seated.
— Know you whether the provost hath discovered the monk’s slayer?
The churchman’s shoulders lift in a gesture of helplessness.
— Alas, no. They must suppose it the work of thieves.
— Thieves armed with bows—I find that passing strange.
A start runneth through Anselme’s body.
— How know you he was slain by such a weapon?
— Enguerrand marked the mortal wound. He thinketh the killer came back to recover his arrow.
— Your sergeant is a keen inquirer, saith Anselme, in admiration.
— He is well used to the field of battle.
Marie serveth ale unto the churchman, who drinketh thereof. She setteth the pitcher beside him and withdraweth.
— And have you given this knowledge unto the provost? It may aid him in his search.
— Aye, of course! crieth Aloïs.
— That is well…
Anselme falleth silent once more, then lifteth his head.
— And you, how fare you? To hold such a domain must needs be wearisome.
Aloïs foldeth her fingers upon the table.
— I do as best I may. I hope my husband shall be content with the keeping of the castle and the gathering of dues from our hamlets. I have been called to settle certain quarrels among the peasants, yet nothing beyond bearing. It is chiefly the thieves that trouble me. They spread terror throughout the land and do not shrink from assailing any who stand against them. We all live in fear…
— You have not been set upon? asketh Anselme, concerned.
— Nay. The castle hath not been their mark.
She looketh intently upon him.
— Have other domains been plundered? I thought they preyed chiefly upon lonely farms and churches.
The churchman presseth his lips together and tightens the hand that resteth upon his knee.
— It would seem so indeed. That is why I wished to make certain that you likewise are in safety.
This tidings casteth the young woman into perplexity. She had not deemed that the castle itself might be assailed. How should she meet such a peril? The walls offer a fair defence, yet all here is of wood. It is far easier to enter the baile than the count’s own court.
— Be thou therefore wary, and see that the gates be well shut at even.
— I shall see to it. Yet…
— Aye?
Aloïs cannot forget her duty toward the men and women who have placed themselves under the lord’s protection. To shut herself away here giveth her the feeling of forsaking them.
— I was thinking that I ought to consider setting means in place to defend the hamlets.
Anselme steppeth forward of a sudden.
— Thou canst not bear all burdens, Aloïs… Thy husband is gone to war at the count’s side. Thou art not to blame. Henry hath made choices that bring harm upon those he is bound to protect. Thou hast no cause to take upon thee a charge that is not thine, and thou lackest men.
Aloïs regardeth Anselme, at once surprised and moved by his concern. The churchman draweth back into his seat, near weary.
— Forgive my boldness. Yet I would not that harm should befall thee.
— I thank you, and I assure you I shall do nothing unwise.
— I am eased to hear it.
A breath escapeth the man’s lips ere he straightenth and draweth forth the satchel set beside him.
— I have thought of thee. Here are the parchments thou didst desire, as well as ink and an iron shell.
Aloïs starteth up and cometh to the archdeacon. He unrolleth several greyed parchments.
— They are not of the finest making, saith Anselme, yet they shall suffice for some drawings.
— I thank you most heartily. What sum do I owe you?
The churchman waveth his hand.
— Thou owest me naught…
— I must insist. I cannot accept such a gift again.
— In that case… I would have a drawing of thy domain…
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Aloïs sigheth. Enguerrand rideth beside her, yet keepeth somewhat apart. The day hath not been easy. A greater quarrel hath set two freeholders at odds, concerning lands held by the one and upon which the other suffereth his flock of sheep to graze.
It is full hard to determine where the bounds of each holding truly lie. The dispute hath grown to great measure, no doubt worsened by the state of the region. Thefts and assaults are now upon every tongue.
The young woman feeleth weariness and fatigue weigh upon her shoulders. She hath not had the leisure to return and see her parents, nor hath she any tidings of Baudouin. Is he yet alive?
A sigh passeth her lips.
— Thou seemest troubled, Dame Aloïs, noteth Enguerrand.
— I hope I have judged rightly in this matter.
The sergeant noddeth shortly.
— I am certain of it. Thou takest care of others.
Aloïs smileth.
— I doubt I succeed each time. Yet I strive…
The gates of the castle open to let them pass. As she dismounteth, Aloïs marketh Enguerrand casting a lingering gaze upon one of the serving girls, Fanzine, a maid of sixteen or seventeen years.
Aloïs clearth her throat to draw the sergeant’s heed. He starteth and turneth toward his mistress to take the reins of the palfrey.
— Thou seemest lost in thought thyself.
Colour riseth to the youth’s cheeks.
— Forgive me, my lady.
— Thou hast no cause to beg pardon. And thou art right to take note of Fanzine. She is a good and kindly servant.
Enguerrand shruggeth.
— I am not certain the liking is returned.
— I would not give thee counsel in such matters, yet were I in thy stead, I would speak to her plainly.
The sergeant casteth yet another glance toward the young maid, who finisheth gathering the linen.
Cries break upon them. A man hath come before the walls and asketh to speak with Aloïs. The lady of the place hasteneth toward the gate, Enguerrand following, and findeth herself face to face with Jehan. At the sight of her, the road-warden seemeth to hesitate a moment, then draweth near.
— I am come to warn you that a family hath been set upon this night. The father is wounded, and the eldest daughter…
Aloïs’ eyes widen.
— What hath befallen her?
— The thieves have done her violence.
Aloïs’s blood beateth within her temples. The ground seemeth to give way beneath her feet. Jehan’s words awaken old and dreadful memories.
— Are you well, my lady?
The young woman striveth to gather her wits and maketh the sign of the cross, trembling.
— Where did this befall?
— To the west of the village, in a lone farmstead.
Aloïs biddeth her sergeant go and fetch Mélisande.
— And join us there. We ride thither straightway with Jehan.
Enguerrand obeyeth and hasteneth to take his horse.
— Let us make haste, commandeth Aloïs.
Jehan showeth her the way. With quickened step, they go up the road toward the village. The young woman feeleth her heart pound within her ears. Theft is a grievous offense, yet this… this passeth all bounds. She cannot abide the thought that matters have reached such extremity. What would Baudouin do, were he here?
— Are you certain these be the selfsame men?
— I am near certain. They wore black cloths that covered the lower part of their faces, and dark garments, that they be not seen in the night.
— Like…
Aloïs breaketh off and casteth a glance toward Jehan, who seemeth to watch her.
— Aye, like those who assailed me.
Aloïs clearth her throat and turneth her head aside.
— These are but husbandmen, folk of the soil who know not how to defend themselves, saith Jehan.
— And we lack men-at-arms to keep all in safety.
Soon the dwelling showeth upon the horizon, like an isle amid a dark and barren sea. Children espy them and run within the house. A woman appeareth at the threshold and peereth forth, shading her eyes with her hand. When she knoweth Aloïs, she boweth straightway.
— How fare thy kin?
— My Matthieu fareth ill, my lady. And my poor Anne… Yet we had no cause to complain, for we loved to dwell here. The holding that sire Baudouin granted us suffereth us to eat well. But now, we feel no longer safe…
A sob choketh her voice.
— I would see them, commandeth Aloïs.
Terror replaceth sorrow upon the peasant woman’s face.
— Our dwelling is over mean, my lady.
— I care not for thy dwelling. I would speak with thy husband and thy daughter.
The wife draweth aside to let her pass. Three pairs of eyes behold the stranger with open curiosity. The children seem as troubled by their father’s and elder sister’s plight as by Aloïs’s presence.
The house is as all others here: walls of timber and daub, a roof of broom. No window, but a hearth in the midst of the single chamber. Tools hang from the beams. A chest and a bed make up the furnishings, with a three-legged stool beside the wounded man.
Aloïs’s gaze resteth upon a young maiden of some twelve years, seated upon the ground. Her arms clasp her knees, her face hidden within her sleeves. The lady kneeleth and layeth her hand upon Anne’s wrist, yet the child stirreth not. She then draweth near and whispereth soft words into the girl’s ear. The child trembleth, yet lifteth not her head.
Then Aloïs goeth to the bedside of the peasant, a stout man whose face is weathered by a life spent out of doors. His right eye beareth the mark of a cruel blow. A bruise and a great swelling mar his brow. Dried blood clingeth to the corner of his lips. Aloïs taketh his hand gently. He openeth his eyes a little, and a faint grimace lifteth his cheeks.
— I must be dead and in heaven. I see angels.
Aloïs smileth in turn.
— Nay, Matthieu. I am no angel. I am come, for I have heard of the misfortune that hath befallen thee and thine. Canst thou tell me what passed, in truth?
The man closeth his eyes again and seemeth to strive for breath. A grimace wracketh his features.
— I saw little. Anne had gone out to the well. She tarried long. I heard a noise, so I went forth with my fork. I saw shadows… They seemed like ghosts. My little one lay upon the ground…
He pauseth and swalloweth hard.
— Then I felt a blow upon my head. I heard my wife cry out.
His wife confirmeth:
— There were three at the least. They fled after taking sacks we had made ready for the market. And now… our poor little Anne… Who will have her now?
Aloïs is about to answer when the sound of hooves maketh them turn about. Mélisande soon appeareth within the doorway. Aloïs riseth. The woman starteth in fear.
— You have sent for the witch?
Aloïs lifteth her chin, and a stern look setteth upon her face.
— I may bid her begone, yet I deem Mélisande to be thy husband’s last hope.
The wife maketh a troubled face, yet yieldeth the way. The lady goeth forth, Jehan beside her.
— What said you unto that young maid? asketh the voyer.
— I told her, whispereth Aloïs, turning her head aside, that it was not her fault…
Jehan studieth the young woman’s countenance in silence, then speaketh again, anger rising.
— This had not come to pass had he learned to fight!
— I deem it would have changed naught. One man against three could not have withstood them. These men know the art of war.
— How know you this?
The young woman’s gaze meeteth that of the voyer, who beholdeth her not with malice, yet with a quiet resolve. Then she turneth toward the three little ones clinging to their mother’s gown, and toward Enguerrand, who still standeth apart beside his horse.
Aloïs then bendeth slightly toward Jehan, that none but he may hear:
— Very well. I shall aid you.
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