Aloïs brushes at her garment to rid it of dust. Her feminine form is concealed beneath a bliaud of linen in vivid blue, a mark of her belonging to the well-born. The rounded collar of her gown rises close about her throat. The embroidery remains modest, yet honourable. God alone knows where Dame Hersende found such a gown—unless she spent the few coins they possess to provide her daughter with fitting attire for this evening at court. Aloïs trembles with anger. All this is but waste. She has no mind to wed any man.
She escaped the ceremony that marked the young Henri’s taking of the county, wherein the lords rendered their fealty and homage to their suzerain. Yet she has been caught again for the banquet, which she must now attend. The veil, roughened by time, chafes against her neck. There is no use complaining to her mother, who is still angered by her daughter’s disappearance scarce had they arrived in Angers.
Marie has managed to help her make ready in time to enter the aula alongside the other guests. She takes her place behind her parents and follows them into the vast hall.
Within this comital palace, raised near two hundred years past, hangings lit by candlelight drape the walls. Several braziers stand in the four corners of the great chamber, lending warmth to the place. Foulques Nerra had the building enlarged to some eighty to one hundred and thirty feet in length, forty in breadth, and thirty in height.
Rows of mullioned openings and small high-set windows line the sides, offering a view over the Outre-Maine. The steep drop toward the Maine, which flows at the foot of the rocky height, might well make the boldest head spin.
Tables are set in a U-shape; that of the count stands raised upon a dais, its back turned to the great hearth. The ministeriales bustle to feed the braziers. The warmth within is far more welcome.
Aloïs almost hopes to glimpse the knight she met in the courtyard. At least he knows her weaknesses and seemed not troubled by them. Yet in that case, he might well seek to avoid her.
For her part, she chiefly desires not to encounter again her forest saviour. She had scarcely time to judge his attire—he might be merchant, or craftsman… The chance of meeting him at the banquet seems slight.
These thoughts steady her. She has naught to fear. The evening shall pass swiftly, and with some fortune, she may persuade the count of the folly of such a marriage. On the morrow, she shall return to Les Ponts-de-Cé and resume her life far from this tumult.
She tries to ease the veil from about her neck and nearly loses it, catching it just in time as two young men enter at the far end of the aula. At once, the nobles bow low. Aloïs remains still, unable to follow their example: seated at the high table is the very man she struck in the courtyard. The young lord wears a tunic of silver and bears his sword—yet it is indeed he whom she met but a short while before.
Her mother gives her a sharp tap upon the arm.
— Aloïs, for mercy’s sake, bow.
The young woman starts and obeys. Thoughts crowd upon her mind. Could fortune have so utterly forsaken her? The man with whom she exchanged those pitiful words cannot be… Count Henri of Anjou!
Aloïs presses her eyes shut and clenches her fists. How has she brought herself into such a plight? And above all—what did she say to him? Her memory fails her. Surely she did not speak of the count before the count himself?
But what, precisely, did she say? Unless she spoke of that lord only to mock herself, remarking upon the gulf between them… Might he condemn her to death for it?
— Come, her father commands, we shall present you.
Aloïs resists.
— Nay, it is not needful. He seems much occupied…
— Speak no folly.
Her parents move inexorably toward the young man she no longer dares to look upon. Mayhap it were better to warn them, that they might brace themselves for the worst. Or else let them discover the full measure of the disaster when faced with it… Yet it may be the count will not know her again, if she keeps her head bowed.
All at once, part of their earlier exchange returns to her—alas, the part most to her disadvantage.
Plague take it!
Henri had spoken of Sire Aldebert—he knows full well who she is. Is there some hidden passage by which she might flee the place unseen?
They now stand at the foot of the dais. Aloïs keeps her head lowered, though she knows the gesture vain.
Her father bows and offers his homage, recalling his steadfast devotion to Geoffroy the Fair and swearing fidelity to his heir.
Henri leans slightly upon his high seat to glimpse Aloïs, still half-hidden behind her parents. Her father steps aside, bidding her come forward.
— My lord, here is our daughter.
Aloïs dares not face the count and keeps her gaze fixed upon the ground.
— Raise your eyes, that I may behold them. I am told they are of a most fair green.
Aloïs presses her lips together and lifts her head. She meets Henri’s gaze—and finds in it no anger, only a glimmer of mischief, and perhaps a trace of provocation.
Unable to bear it, she bows lower still.
— I beg your pardon, Sire, for my words. I meant not to show you disrespect, nor to suggest that I was ungrateful for the honour you have done our family in summoning us hither.
The words spill forth too swiftly, no doubt. A sepulchral silence falls upon the hall. Aloïs’s parents stand as though turned to stone. Dame Hersende is the first to recover.
— For the love of Heaven, child, what have you done?
There is no need to answer just yet—they shall soon enough learn.
The count’s lips slowly curve upward before a peal of laughter rings out, soon taken up by the other guests. Dame Hersende and Sire Aldebert relax, though with some effort.
— Your frankness does you credit, Henri replies. You have not offended me in speaking your love for your lands—something I can well understand. Did not God create the world for Man to behold it? I spend much time upon the roads and at times forget whence I came—a painful feeling for one who never rests. I admire, too, the passion that stirs within you.
The count rises, comes around the table, and stands before Aloïs.
— Lose it not. And thus I am certain that you and your husband shall come to good accord.
Aloïs’s eyelids fall shut. She would have given anything for the matter not to be raised so soon.
Henri makes a sign with his hand, and a man steps forward. He emerges slowly from the throng and is revealed in the light of candles and torches.
No!
Aloïs nearly falters. This cannot be true. She dreams a waking nightmare!
The noble who comes to stand before her is none other than the man she met that very morning in the forest. He regards her with dark eyes and offers a courteous smile. She turns her head away, avoiding his gaze.
— Messire Baudouin, in thanks for your loyalty to my father, the fief of Terlaze shall be granted to you. And you shall wed this young damoiselle, who, I deem, shall keep you well entertained by her lively spirit.
A murmur of approval runs through the assembly.
Yet Aloïs cannot accept this—she must speak, argue, explain—now, here. Else she shall never find the courage. Her lips move, but no words come.
— My lord…
A voice rises in the hall—not hers, but that of Messire Baudouin.
— I thank you once more for your trust, yet as I told you earlier, such a union seems to me premature.
Aloïs lifts her head. Hope suddenly stirs within her. He too does not wish to wed! At least they are agreed on that… Unless it be that she has so shamed herself moments before that she has driven away her sole suitor.
No matter! The chief thing is to avoid this marriage.
Henri’s jaw tightens slightly. She cannot let her betrothed plead their cause alone.
— I am in full accord, Messire Baudouin, she adds quickly. And as you have seen, I am not what might be deemed the best match. I know little of the customs of—
The count raises his hand, cutting short the protests of both young people. He beckons Baudouin closer—near enough to keep others at bay, yet not so far that Aloïs cannot hear.
— I have designs for you, and believe me, those designs require your presence here. Accept the part I grant you.
Baudouin turns slightly and exchanges a glance with the cleric seen beside Henri earlier that day. Aloïs had not yet noticed him, and his presence deepens her unease. The young squire lifts his eyes, then declares in a clear voice for all the hall to hear:
— I accept this honour and shall strive to prove worthy of it.
Aloïs feels her legs weaken beneath her. Yet she remains upright, grave of countenance. Avoiding Baudouin shall now prove far more difficult indeed.
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Aloïs keeps her eyes fixed upon the trencher upon which rests a piece of meat. What it may be matters little—she could not swallow a bite in any case. Not even the cheese, though it be her favourite dish, which she glimpses borne upon broad wooden boards. The white damask cloth darkens little by little as dish after dish is set down without cease.
God has forsaken her—that alone can explain it. She is punished for her falsehoods and her dawn wanderings. And though she acts only to bring justice, He must not see matters in the same light.
The dishes come forth from the nearby kitchens, whence rise the savoury fumes of roasted meats—doubtless venison or swan… yet also preparations of chickpeas, beans, and lentils, served with vegetables: cabbages, leeks, cardoons, chard, spinach, and greens.
Voices echo throughout the aula, now bathed in the wavering glow of candlelight. Seated nearer the exit than the count, she does not complain of not being reckoned among Henri’s close circle. Though those set farthest from the lord may only savour the subtle scents of the finest dishes, she would rather remain where she is. The courses are served according to rank, and they must content themselves with humbler fare.
In truth, she has no hunger and wavers betwixt anger and despair.
Baudouin sits beside her and has spoken no more than she. Her parents seem relieved and converse with their table companions, paying no heed to their daughter. They abandon her—there is no other word.
A man—by his bearing, the provost of Angers—seated not far from Baudouin, seems to watch her from the corner of his eye, as does the woman beside him. Aloïs cannot say whether she was among those who spoke with her betrothed earlier in the courtyard.
A minstrel, bearing a lute, steps forth between the tables for the interlude.
— Hearken! Hearken!
The voices fall silent.
— Martin is my name. Grant me leave to recount to you some verses from Aquitaine, the land of our queen, Aliénor, the fair bride of Louis…
He raises his instrument and strikes the first notes of the melody. Aloïs can neither take pleasure in nor attend to the words, sung in a tongue unknown to her. Even the music itself stirs a kind of distaste.
— Your dish will grow cold.
Aloïs turns toward her neighbour, with the strange feeling that she had almost forgotten who he was for a fleeting moment. She avoids his eyes and looks again to her meal. The lentils mingle with the sauce, a thick ochre liquid heavy with grease.
— I have no appetite.
— Nor have I.
He signals to the cup-bearer, who brings him a goblet filled with spiced wine. The young man offers it to Aloïs, who declines. The very thought of facing the sharp scent of its spices deepens her unease.
Her fingers rub together in nervous agitation. Baudouin’s earlier protest echoes again in her mind.
— Why did you not press the matter further? she bursts out suddenly. You wished this marriage no more than I. Why yield? Was what the count promised you enough to persuade you of the worth of such a union?
She has turned toward Baudouin, her gaze fixed upon him, all restraint forgotten. He has not moved.
— What would you have had me add? Much stands at stake this day—more than you can understand.
Aloïs lets out a short, sharp laugh.
— Because I am a woman, I cannot understand?
— Nay. Because you dwell but seldom at Court, as you yourself told the lord, Baudouin replies, a hint of vexation in his voice. It is not only our future that hangs in the balance—it is far more than that. It surpasses you as much as it surpasses me.
Aloïs sinks back into her chair. Baudouin keeps the courteous smile he shows to those about them. Then, all at once, he fixes his gaze upon her so intently that it makes her uneasy.
The young woman turns her eyes away. Could he have known her?
— What if we were to step outside and walk a while? Are you not too warm?
Aloïs glances at the guests seated near them and understands that their exchange has drawn listening ears, scarcely concealed. Yet Baudouin may also wish to speak with her of that chance encounter in the forest that very morning…
Hard though it be, she cannot well refuse. The pair leave the table and make their way into the lord’s courtyard. Marie, watchful, follows as they walk toward the church of Sainte-Geneviève. Upon the ramparts, the banner bearing the arms of the Plantagenets stands out against the darkness, marking the count’s presence.
Aloïs clutches her cloak nervously. Baudouin is the first to break the silence.
— If we are to become husband and wife, mayhap we might make one another’s acquaintance?
Aloïs casts him a wary glance, then inclines her head.
— So be it. Yet know that what you learn shall only confirm the grievous error the count is about to commit.
At last, a faint smile touches Baudouin’s lips.
— You are the lord’s squire?
— I served for several years Geoffroy the Fair, of the house of Plantagenet.
— You must have travelled through many lands.
— I have seen somewhat of the world, I deny it not. England holds certain treasures…
He falls silent, his gaze turned toward the walls.
— Yet I prefer my native Anjou. These lands, blessed by God, ever call me back to them.
— You were born here?
— My parents held a small fief near Angers. I was chiefly raised in the countryside by a nurse. At first I was destined for the Church, as befits a younger son. But my elder brother was wounded while yet a squire. I took his place.
— I understand… I too have not the fate my kin had in mind. My sister died, then my brother. I was made to take a place I never desired.
They fall silent together.
— I am sorry for your family. What lands does your father hold?
— Did not Henri tell you?
— Henri said little, save: wed.
Aloïs gives a small, bitter laugh before answering:
— He is lord of Les Ponts-de-Cé.
Baudouin seems to search his memory. Then he stiffens; his brows lift suddenly.
— Les Ponts-de-Cé… Then you are… that Aloïs?
A crease forms between the young woman’s brows.
— What mean you—that Aloïs?
Baudouin struggles for words.
— Are you the little girl who would never cease correcting me when I lived with my nurse?
Aloïs, in turn, searches her memories. Images of childhood slowly rise from the mists of her mind.
Suddenly, the face of a boy with jet-black eyes returns to her. She sees herself quarrelling with him over every petty thing, each more vexing than the last. Words fail her. This is no longer a nightmare—but a very hell opening beneath her feet.
— Never could I wed you! cries the young man.
— Nor I you! It is no longer a matter of principle, but one of survival!
Marie, far from grasping the cause of their dispute, stands aghast behind them, unable to intervene. Baudouin points a threatening finger at Aloïs.
— You speak true—it is indeed a matter of survival, for surely one of us shall be dead ere a year of marriage be past! I go at once to seek audience with the count.
With a sweeping gesture, Aloïs gives him way.
— Pray do. I fully support your course.
As they reach the entrance of the aula, Baudouin halts. The sight of the count upon the high table, engaged by other lords, makes him hesitate.
— What do you await? presses Aloïs.
Baudouin steps back, drawing her with him.
— You are insufferable. And believe me, if I thought I had the least chance of changing the count’s mind, I would do so—but we are both trapped. I am the more to be pitied in this matter.
Aloïs steps forward sharply, as though ready to shove him.
— The more to be pitied? And what of me? I must leave my parents, my lands, all I know, to follow a man… odious and disagreeable!
Lips pressed tight, she meets Baudouin’s gaze in silence.
— God help me, he mutters bitterly. I could not have fallen lower than to be bound to a woman such as you. Anyone—but not you…
Baudouin’s final words stir a surge of revolt within Aloïs—revolt, and a dull wound that throbs in her ears.
She steps back, unable to answer, overwhelmed by the sudden pain that engulfs her.
Then, abruptly, she turns and runs toward the town.
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