Baudouin folds his arms across his chest and looks down at Yvain, sprawled upon the floor of the stables, with a mingling of severity and mirth. A valet finishes laying fresh straw in one corner of the building, paying no heed to the three men.
—He had already drunk well ere your departure, recounts Enguerrand, yet he hastened his pace. And when those fellows took to mocking the hue of his skin, he flared up in his own tongue.
A broad dark bruise spreads about the poor servant’s eye as a drunken hiccup shakes his frame.
—They grew vexed at not understanding him, Enguerrand goes on. I stepped between them, yet could not spare him all their blows.
Baudouin crouches before Yvain, who parts his eyelids, still dazed.
—It were high time thou learnedst to defend thyself, my friend…
—Messire, I could ha’ kicked ’em, but I durst not do ye no wrong.
—Thou shouldst not have held back. I think not it would have brought me more trouble than to see thee in such a state.
—The tavern-keeper will serve us no more, Enguerrand informs him.
—He hath lost a good customer.
Baudouin turns toward the young boy.
—Go, fetch water to refresh him and clear his wits.
Enguerrand obeys and quits the stables.
Yvain hiccups.
—Forgive me, Messire… I meant it not, but I do love wine dearly.
—And it loveth thee as well…
Baudouin sighs and sets his hands upon his hips.
—Thou hast some little time ere the count’s banquet begins. I grant thee this respite to recover.
Anselme appears at the doorway of the building and comes to join them.
—I was seeking thee, worm!
Yvain’s eyes widen.
—Anselme, Baudouin growls, I thank thee to forbear that name thou gavest me when I was yet in the nursery.
—Pride is a fault. And there is greater urgency. The count would speak with thee.
—What would he of me?
—God and Henri alone may know.
—Think you he would speak to you of my doing? Yvain frets.
—Nay, trouble not thyself over that.
At that moment Enguerrand returns, a jug of water in his hands.
—Tend to him and set him back upon his feet.
The servant steps aside to let the two nobles pass.
Baudouin follows his brother toward the palace. To his great surprise, Henri stands once more without, deep in discourse with other men—the cutler and the smith. He must be hastening the preparation of the coming hostilities with England, which may prove good tidings for Baudouin, if war may be counted a source of gladness. At the least, it is a sign the count may have need of his service and has summoned him for such purpose. Baudouin and his brother draw near.
Henri espies them and beckons them forward. He thanks the two notables and turns to Baudouin.
—I remember you. My father held your worth in esteem.
—It is an honour, Sire, yet I have but done my duty.
—Modesty is a virtue I well know. I better understand why the count was minded to reward you.
Baudouin raises a brow.
—To reward me?
—My father had made known to me his wish to grant you lands here upon your dubbing to knighthood.
Baudouin’s stomach tightens. To become a knight is the crowning of many years of devotion to one’s suzerain and the surety of one’s future. Yet Baudouin feels not the soul of a settled man and has no desire to bear such burdens.
—It would be too great a reward, Sire, yet I deem I may serve you better still by placing my strength at your command.
— You shall bring me as much by guarding a portion of my lands, and in truth it would be but a small territory for now. The lord of Terlaze has, alas, lately passed from this world after a grievous fall from his horse and left no heir. The fief now stands without a lord.
— Terlaze lies… near Les Ponts-de-Cé?
— You know it, then?
— I sojourned there a while, as a child, with a nurse after my mother’s death.
— The castle is of wood, yet you should draw a fair income from it, and mayhap improve the dwelling thanks to the mill and the vineyards. I have bidden that your betrothed come this very evening.
The squire pales all at once.
— I had not thought it would so soon be a matter of marriage.
— The daughter of Sire Aldebert shall suit you well. He grows old, and naught remains to him but his youngest, whom he has yet to wed.
Baudouin clears his throat. He had made ready for such a turn and pondered the words he must speak in such a case. Yet there is a vast difference betwixt speaking alone and doing so before one’s suzerain, be he ever so young. He inclines his head slightly.
— My lord, I thank you for your kindness, yet once more, it is too soon for me to think of settling. I could ride with you upon the fields of battle, I could become your squire and—
— You shall ride with me in the coming battles, of that I have no doubt. Yet I also look to you to fulfil your station and become one of my vassals. Would you be held for a bachelor-knight?
Baudouin bites his lip.
— Nay, indeed… My thanks… Sire.
— I am certain this young maid… Aloïs… will suit you well. We shall meet again at this evening’s banquet.
Henri turns away toward other nobles, leaving Baudouin alone with his dismay. Anselme lays his sound hand upon his shoulder.
— God holds thee in His grace. Thou art a lord now. Thou shalt be dubbed a knight, and a fief shall be granted thee. My felicitations!
The young man feels no heart at all for such praises. Aloïs… The name stirs but a faint memory within him. He would, no doubt, have preferred never to hear it spoken.
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Aloïs feels the sway of the cart driven by one of the guards. Each rut and unevenness in the road sends jolts through the vehicle, shaking both mother and daughter. Marie sits behind, alongside the handmaid of Dame Hersende. Sire Aldebert rides astride his horse, one of the few beasts still in their possession.
The shadow of the town rises in the distance. Rows of vineyards and the ruins of ancient Roman buildings form a first boundary to be crossed ere venturing toward the Angevin city.
Aloïs has no wish to go thither. She has accompanied her mother but on rare occasions—for fairs, for processions, and for holy ceremonies. Yet the young woman far prefers to move through the woods, across the fields of their lands, than to face such throngs.
And more still, she has no desire to meet Count Henri and his Court. She has not been prepared for such a thing—Berthe had been.
Dame Hersende has never truly found her smile again since the loss of her two eldest children. Aloïs shall doubtless never be able to lift that sorrow from her. She would fain answer the expectations of their world, yet all this frightens her far more than facing thieves at dawn in the meadows. Her parents had left her free—free to live a life from which her elder sister had been so suddenly deprived, a life to which Aloïs aspires, and to which she longs to return with all haste. Then what do they here?
Sire Aldebert adjusts his cloak and strives to settle himself more firmly in his saddle. A grimace betrays that he is no longer so at ease as once he was. Yet pride forbids him from presenting himself otherwise than mounted before the Count of Anjou—a pride which, in Aloïs’s eyes, is folly. Henri expects naught from them. He will scarce take notice of this minor lord, who poses him no threat and can hardly fight at his side any longer.
— Would you not take my place, Father?
A patient smile stretches the old man’s lips. Freckles speckle his weathered cheeks, and his grey eyes now match full well the colour of his hair.
— I thank you for your concern, yet all is well. Besides, you must be presentable this evening.
Aloïs feels an uneasy stir pass through her mind.
— I know how to comport myself and shall not bring you shame.
— It is not so much the matter of shaming us that troubles me. Yet it would not do to repel your betrothed.
The young woman stares at her father. Did she hear aright? Or does her mind play her false?
Dame Hersende coughs, ill at ease. Her husband turns toward her in astonishment.
— You have told her nothing?
— I had not the time.
Aloïs straightens.
— Not told me what?
Sire Aldebert pays her no heed and continues, addressing his wife:
— No time? We received Henri’s letter near three weeks past.
— I wished to find the proper moment.
— I think the moment is more than come! Unless you meant to tell her only when the count himself presents this lord to her.
— Hold! cries Aloïs. I beg you, enlighten me as to what passes. Am I betrothed?
Her parents exchange a strained glance ere Dame Hersende answers.
— Aye…
— But I do not wish to wed! And least of all to a man whose very name I know not.
— Baudouin. He is called Messire Baudouin.
Baudouin… The name stirs some faint remembrance in Aloïs, yet she cannot place it clearly.
A vision forms within her mind. She pictures him old, or sickly—or both. Yet in none of these imaginings does marriage appear a happy thing.
— And what would you have? her father demands in a harsh tone. Would you enter a convent and devote your life unto God?
— A most honourable path, Dame Hersende softly adds.
— But not a path for my child.
The man draws his horse to a halt, forcing the cart to do the same. He then fixes his gaze upon his daughter.
— Aloïs, I grow old, and I shall not live forever. What would become of you, were I to die upon the morrow?
The young woman had never given thought to such a prospect. Her parents age, certes, yet they have never shown any sign that their lives might soon be cut short.
— Are you ill?
— That is not the matter. Illness is not the sole cause of men’s deaths.
He sets his hands upon the pommel of his saddle, and his shoulders suddenly sag.
— You are our last child. I know no sorrow more grievous than to bury one’s own flesh. And I shall not depart in peace if I know you not safe—you and your mother.
Aloïs keeps her gaze fixed, her eyes wandering the horizon without truly seeing aught. Her father’s words echo through every corner of her mind.
— When God calls me back unto Him, your mother and you shall be cast out from the castle. You must either wed the highest bidder, or—
The word is meant to provoke, and it succeeds in planting doubt within Aloïs.
— —or you shall be sent to a convent, there to end your days. Unless some distant kinsman might take you under his protection—but that is far from certain. And speak not to me of your uncle Gautier! He left this land long ago, that hot-headed fool—and it is well so.
A chill runs down Aloïs’s spine.
— Is there no third path?
The man slowly shakes his head.
— You and your habit of bargaining… Nay, I see not what other fate could be offered you. Yet… this much I know: the path set before you is most honourable. The young sire to whom you are promised served Geoffroy the Fair with great valour.
Young… the only word now that allows Aloïs to sketch the faintest outline of her future husband. A meagre description indeed.
— Your husband will doubtless be called to travel in service of his suzerain, and you shall then have all freedom to roam the woods and the lands.
Sire Aldebert casts a curious glance toward Aloïs, who bites her lip.
— Let us tarry no longer. We are expected at the banquet held in honour of the count.
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The ramparts of the Angevin city rise before Aloïs and her kin as they make their way toward the Hugon Gate. The gates stand open in the morning, to let pass the peasants who dwell in the outskirts and come to sell eggs and milk, or to fetch ale and spend their coin in the taverns… Folk seem to flow without ceasing, and to this constant motion are added the noise and… the stench. Aloïs discreetly covers her nose with her hands and regrets not having brought with her a few sachets of dried rose and violet petals.
They pass through the gate and come to a halt near the castle.
— There are too many folk, sighs Sire Aldebert. We must go on foot.
He dismounts and leaves his horse in the care of his guard. Aloïs studies those about her. All these unknown faces—merchants, notables, nobles—only deepen her unease.
— Come, orders Sire Aldebert.
The young maiden steps before her father.
— I would fain walk a little… ere we join the count.
Dame Hersende draws nearer and seems to exchange a silent word with her husband.
— So be it, the man yields. Marie shall go with you. But linger not. I must needs pay homage to the lord.
Aloïs gives her word and watches her parents vanish into the press of passersby. She sighs and turns in the opposite direction, seeking quieter places—if such may be found.
For a moment she glances toward her parents’ cart, still unable to move, held fast by the crowd. The urge to take it and return home tugs strongly at her. None would mark her absence in any case.
— What thoughts run through your head? asks the handmaid. Think not on such things, she whispers, casting a glance toward the cart.
Aloïs shrugs and strides swiftly the other way. The two women thread their path through winding streets, their feet caught in refuse, jostled by children at play and dogs chasing one another.
Marie hastens to draw level with her mistress.
— To go back to Les Ponts-de-Cé on foot would be no wise course either… she says as they near the ramparts.
— I do not wish to return…
Aloïs scans their surroundings.
— I but need to step beyond these walls. I find them oppressive.
— The walls—or your betrothed? Marie asks with innocent candour.
— I know him not. I can say naught.
— He may be a good man, the servant insists. God, in His great mercy, may yet bring joy to your family.
Aloïs turns her head away. The handmaid resumes in a softer tone.
— I mean that ere you refuse, you must weigh all things.
— Enough!
The young maiden turns sharply and stands face to face with the servant.
— There shall be no question of my wedding any man.
Marie opens her mouth, brows knit and countenance affronted, yet no word comes forth.
— I understand what my father fears, and he might almost have persuaded me. But when he spoke of this… husband riding to war, the risk of being wed again to the highest bidder—or shut away in a convent—would be the same. I would rather spare myself the step of marriage.
— And how think you to do so? If it be the count who has decreed your betrothal, you shall not make him change his mind.
— And why not? I may well set forth to him how I see things. My father grows old—he has said so himself. I shall be of greater use to my family than to a husband who…
A shudder of distaste runs through her.
— I am certain he would have no need of me.
Marie shrugs and once more follows her mistress in silence as they leave the city. They reach the borough of Saint-Aubin and slip through the narrow streets about the abbey, a fair edifice of white and dark stone, wrought of local materials—schist and tufa. Aloïs halts and admires its form.
— A fine work indeed, Marie concedes.
Aloïs’s attention is drawn to two monks standing not far from the entrance, their discourse seeming heated. She sees the younger only in profile, but the other faces her almost full on. A broad scar runs across his right cheek, from ear to the corner of his eye—hard to miss. The other seems to her very tall and of a strong, athletic build, which surprises her in a man of religion. He bears rather the look of a… guard, or a knight. The latter suddenly turns his gaze toward her, making her start. Aloïs turns quickly to face Marie.
— It grows late, grumbles the handmaid, who has not marked her mistress’s disquiet. Your parents will grow anxious.
The young woman concedes and turns back toward the town, troubled. Why had she felt caught at fault when the monk beheld her? He had looked at her as though seeking to read her thoughts. Aloïs casts one last glance, yet the man has drawn up the hood of his wide cowl and hides his face. She hastens away, choosing to forget that uneasy feeling.
Together they walk along the ramparts and pass before the Hugon Gate.
— You go not that way? asks Marie.
— We are in no haste. I think I have never walked in the outskirts.
The bell towers of the three collegiate churches—Saint-Pierre, Saint-Maurille, and Saint-Mainboeuf—rise above the thatched roofs.
— ’Tis no place for a young maiden, Marie frets.
Aloïs pays no heed to her servant’s protests. Her interest turns instead to the beggars who fill the alleys. A curtain is stretched between two wooden huts.
— What think you it hides? asks Aloïs.
— I know not, replies the handmaid, crossing herself, and I think I would rather not learn.
A woman suddenly appears from behind the cloth. Her attire leaves no doubt as to the services she renders men. She casts them a mocking glance before turning away.
Aloïs goes on and reaches the square bordered by the three churches. At the corner of one, a gaming table has been set, and shouts rise with the casting of dice.
— We truly should not tarry here, mutters Marie, near pleading…
The damp of the ground clings to the hem of Aloïs’s gown, weighing it down against her ankles. She shakes her feet to free the cloth and casts one last thoughtful look about the place before turning away.
As they reach the lord’s courtyard, the sight of a man brings her to a sudden halt. Short hair, black with amber glints. He wears a tight, knowing smile and seems deep in discourse with several young women. The very man who had aided her in the forest stands there, but a few paces away.
Might he know her again? Aloïs strives to reason with herself: impossible. She had worn a mask, and they had crossed paths but for a fleeting moment in the dim underwood. And yet, she is not like to forget the features of that sly fellow: the perilous plight in which she had stood had seemed to amuse him.
— Are you well, Damoiselle Aloïs?
But if she has known him, he may well do the same. The young woman steps back.
— Aye, but I think I still have need of—
A sudden collision cuts her short. As she turns swiftly to go the other way, she strikes against a man and loses her balance. The stranger catches her by the arm. Aloïs quickly notes noble attire and fingers laden with golden rings supporting her.
— Forgive me, Sire! I saw you not!
Aloïs makes him a graceful curtsey and straightens. In truth, he seems but very young—eighteen or nineteen at most. A little taller than she, with hair faintly auburn. The short cloak he wears draws the eye, as does his bearing. He smiles, seeming amused by the moment. A cleric stands beside him and studies Aloïs with curiosity.
She knows him at once—the monk glimpsed near the abbey! Ill fortune indeed.
— Pray, think nothing of it. I have known harsher blows upon the field of battle.
Aloïs turns her gaze back to the young noble.
— I doubt it not. You seem… strong.
A light nudge at her back tells her Marie finds not the words well chosen.
— I mean—you have a knightly bearing. I imagine you are well accustomed to combat.
Marie must be in torment. The cleric appears no less perplexed. Only the lord takes delight in the exchange.
— I take it for a compliment.
— It was meant as one.
— You are not wont to come to the castle.
— No… and I fear it shows all too plainly.
— If you speak not, none shall know.
Aloïs casts him an amused glance.
— I shall strive to remember that. I will feign myself mute before the count—hoping he believes it.
The cleric steps forward of a sudden, yet is stayed in his motion by the lord.
— I think he will forgive your… missteps. He is as young as you and I.
— That would be a comfort. I confess I feel not at ease here and long to return home with all haste.
— And where might that be?
— At Les Ponts-de-Cé.
The young man nods slowly.
— Then Sire Aldebert is your father.
— Aye, Sire. I am the daughter he chose to keep hidden—and you may well guess why.
A hearty laugh escapes the noble’s lips, drawing the gaze of those nearby—to Aloïs’s great dismay, for she sees her forest saviour, too, turn in interest.
— I beg your pardon, but I must take my leave, she hastens to say. We shall doubtless meet again.
— Of that I am certain.
Aloïs starts—the man from the forest is making toward them. She turns back toward the town after a hurried farewell to the young sire. No matter her parents—they will forgive her tardiness far sooner than any scandal, should that man come to know her.
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