Baudouin approached the city via the old Roman road, which led them past the Saint-Martin Collegiate Church, almost entirely rebuilt over 100 years ago. He could make out the Saint-Aubin Abbey hidden behind the Saint-Michel-la-Palud parish church, surrounded by the houses that had expanded up to the stone walls. The bustle of the city was already felt outside the ramparts, and the noise—a mix of merchant cries, people calling to each other, and animals—already overwhelmed the young man. Baudouin sighed: he had hoped for more comfort, but he generally preferred to avoid crowds.
The squire entered through the Hugon gate, followed by Enguerrand and Yvain. The three of them progressed at a slow pace, keeping an eye out for the passersby swarming the streets. Peasants came to sell their products, artisans, beggars at the foot of buildings… A rotisserie was set up between two houses, just a few planks to protect the meat from rain and wind. Some houses were made of stone and wood—probably those of notables or merchants with shops on the ground floor and living spaces above, in overhanging houses. But the majority of the dwellings looked like simple huts, some with thatched roofs. Every space was adopted, used, and mixed a heterogeneous population. Prostitutes exposed their shoulders as the three men passed, smiling at them insistently.
A foul stench assaulted Baudouin as he sank into the muddy streets, filled with waste and animal excrement. This condition wasn't exclusive to Angers, but to all cities where people were crammed together. A fact that heightened his sense of discomfort.
He progressed gently uphill toward the castle, built on a rocky spur, a perfect position for monitoring potential enemy invasions via the Maine River. The river flowed almost 100 feet below. In the lord's courtyard, priests, men-at-arms, merchants, and servants came and went between the buildings. The enlarged count’s palace, built under Foulque Nerra, was to the right. In front of them, the church of Sainte-Geneviève proudly displayed its bell tower. The Chanzé gate opened to the left and led to the Esvière district, named after the stream that separated it from Angers. Other buildings occupied the remaining space: stables, the servants' quarters, the lord's quarters. Then, farther away, the smell of rye bread escaped from a bakery nestled between two shops and seemed to overpower the stench and other unpleasant odors.
Baudouin dismounted, followed by his servants. Yvain let out a sigh of relief.
Nobles seemed to have gathered in front of the castle.
— Sir, Yvain whispered, is it certain we have the place to... ?
He closed his eyes and pretended to snore. Baudouin gave him a side glance. The servant shrank back.
— I was just asking.
A clergyman descended the steps of the palace. Baudouin immediately recognized his older brother, Father Anselme, now archdeacon[1]. The man's fingers remained hidden under the wide sleeves of his robe. Baudouin always felt the same pang when he saw him. He knew why the man was forced to keep one of his hands hidden beneath his clothing.
Many months had passed since their last encounter, but as soon as Anselme spotted him, his expression changed, and a broad smile lit up his face.
— Baudouin! The squire approached him, and the two shared a warm embrace.
— You still look good, remarked the older brother.
Anselme stepped back and examined his brother's attire. Baudouin wore a blue tunic with embroidered sleeves and collar, a woolen belt, and linen hose. Not the finest fabric, but clothing that signaled his noble status, however modest. Baudouin smiled at him.
— I'm happy to see you again.
— And I'm glad to find you alive...
— Unfortunately, our battles didn't achieve the expected outcome.
— Everything comes in due time for those who wait. God gives when He deems it the right moment.
Baudouin let out a doubtful grunt.
— Let’s hope He doesn’t take too long, then. The English climate doesn't suit me.
— You prefer Anjou, his brother guessed.
— By far... And you, so you're now an archdeacon!
— Finally!
— Congratulations!
Anselme noticed the two servants, who were still standing with the horses.
— You were going to the palace to wait for Count Henri?
— Indeed. Have you been able to speak with his younger brother, Geoffroy?
The clergyman swept the space with his eyes.
— I’ve just come from there.
— And how is he?
— As bad as a son who has just lost his father.
Baudouin pressed his lips together, remorseful.
— I imagine the vows made by the late count didn’t escape the young man.
— He knows that the lands of Anjou should return to him once Henri is on the throne of England.
— That’s no secret.
Anselme gave his younger brother an odd look.
— But no one knows if Henri will keep the promise his father made, to honor his last wishes.
Baudouin blew on his hands to warm them.
— For now, the main concern is to secure the crown of England, and that’s why I’m here.
The archdeacon tilted his head. His eyes narrowed slightly.
— So, you too hope he will grant you some lands...
The almost disappointed tone in Anselme’s voice didn’t escape the younger brother.
— I don’t wish to settle down just yet. But I plan to make myself available to him and offer him my support. I think he won’t wait too long before seeking the crown again. We’ll only stay a few days. However, I’d like to take advantage of this time to see you and spend a little time together. We could resume your training.
Baudouin gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. The archdeacon let out a small amused laugh.
— You’re aware that our mock battles in the fields are no longer an option for me.
— I imagined you’d still be in shape! Baudouin teased. Where are you staying?
— In the archdiaconal house near the Stone Ladder. We’ll see each other very soon. I’ll be at the banquet in honor of the new count of Anjou.
— Understood.
Anselme gave his brother a final salute. Baudouin turned toward the count’s palace, fully aware that events unfolding here soon could have repercussions that would extend far beyond these walls.
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Rabbits had darted in front of Aloïs and had escaped into the fields where sheep grazed peacefully. A few goats had raised their heads at the approach of the young woman but had quickly returned to their meal.
Aloïs had adjusted the bag resting on her shoulder. Outlaws who lived by pillaging had swarmed in the forests around the villages and hamlets. Aloïs had known these lands well, having walked them since she was old enough to tread the soil of Anjou. She had also learned to be wary and, above all, to defend herself.
Her uncle, squire to her father, had chosen to teach her the art of fighting when misfortune had struck her family. He had never mentioned it to Aloïs’s parents, but had taken advantage of the time spent with his niece to pass on his knowledge. The man’s words had stayed etched in her mind. The little girl who had become a young woman had only grown stronger with each passing year.
Her mother had often thought her child was ill, so many times had she returned covered in bruises. Aloïs had claimed she had fallen from a tree or tripped on the road while running. Never had a child seemed so clumsy. A far cry from the truth.
Aloïs had rarely regretted roaming the paths since choosing this way, driven by a sense of injustice toward the victims. However, these outings had remained occasional. Moreover, she had avoided facing groups that were too large. Her targets had been limited to a few small, isolated thieves whom she had managed to surprise at the edge of the woods.
She had ascended the path that led to the river, whose waters were slowly rising with the arrival of winter and the heavier rains. She had turned between two large trunks to slip into the woods abandoned by the charcoal burners and sawyers. Aloïs had known the route by heart, even though no clear path was marked. But the one she had been about to reach occupied a special place in her life since it was the one who had saved her life.
Aloïs had quickly spotted the dome of branches built by the healer, Mélisande. Many in the village had taken her for a witch. But to Aloïs, she had remained the one who had healed her from a fever when she was eight years old. Her parents had tried calling the mire[2], but the child’s condition had only worsened in the hands of this man.
Lord Aldebert had refused to lose his youngest, his last child, and had gone into the woods to seek Mélisande. She had rushed to Aloïs’s side and had stayed by her for two days and two nights, until the illness had finally left her body. Since then, not a week had gone by without them seeing each other.
Mélisande had appeared, as always, to be waiting, her hands clasped in front of her. It had been impossible to guess her age, perhaps thirty or forty. Her patched tunic had been protected by a cloak just as worn by time. Mittens had hidden her wrists. Soot had covered her face. She had seemed to maintain this appearance, including her smell, which had been reminiscent of goats, probably to drive away the more curious.
Aloïs had dropped her spoils near the entrance to the hut and had stretched her back. The young woman had clapped her hands to shake off the dust.
— Has justice struck again this night? the healer asked.
— As long as men are hungry, thieves will plague the land... Could you take this to the village church, as usual?
Mélisande had lowered her gaze to the bag.
— They’ll end up thinking I’m their benefactor.
— They also think you’re a witch. That balances things out. And besides, you’ve healed many of them; the blacksmith and the butcher owe you their lives.
— Man forgets quickly.
— They won’t forget what you’ve done for them. That wouldn’t be fair.
A faint smile had tugged at the corner of Mélisande’s lips.
— Justice follows the side of those who administer it.
Mélisande had tilted her head, never taking her eyes off the young woman.
— Sometimes, one must have the courage to acknowledge before everyone who we truly are.
Aloïs had held back a sigh. She had no longer been surprised by this kind of question, as she had been so used to her savior’s cryptic sayings. Occasionally, she had tried to grasp the meaning of the hints, but that day, she had neither had the time nor the desire to understand the true meaning behind them.
The young woman had removed her bonnet, replacing it to cover the blonde strands escaping. A hare had jumped not far from the shelter and had frozen, its pupils dilated with fear. It had finally dashed off in the opposite direction, bounding away as fast as it could.
— Certainly... I must leave, it’s late.
Mélisande had grabbed the bag and weighed it in her hands before turning toward Aloïs to offer her a basket full of mushrooms, which the young woman had accepted.
— Have you met your destiny?
Aloïs had stared at the healer. Not a single twitch of her impassive face had given her any clue about this implication.
— Probably...
— Sometimes, we think we control things that slip through our fingers, and others that seem to come by chance, but in the end, they were already written.
Aloïs had desperately wanted to ask her to be clearer, but she hadn’t had any time whatsoever to debate over the depth of Mélisande’s ideas.
— Thank you again for your help.
She had headed off running, following the hare’s trail, which had surely returned to its burrow. What Aloïs should also have done was hurry to her own home before her absence worried her parents.
[1] Ecclesiastical dignitary invested by the bishop with a sort of jurisdiction over the priests of the diocese
[2] Doctor
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