Baudouin feels rage and indignation seethe within him. He turns in the opposite direction, firmly resolved to avoid all contact, so far as he may, with that haughty and overbearing girl.
He might have been ready to accept anything—had Aloïs not been… Aloïs. Surely there must be young maidens of gentler temper, less quick of tongue to utter foolishness.
After all, if he must obey the count, he could have reconciled himself to taking a wife—provided she knew how to comport herself, to keep her place, and not set his temper aflame as Aloïs has ever done so well.
He pushes open the stable door and finds his horse, Mars. The beast stirs, then knows its master. Taking up some straw, Baudouin begins to groom him. His movements are sharp, driven by irritation. Yet at the touch of his mount, calm returns, and his anger subsides. Footsteps rustle the hay behind him. Enguerrand appears.
— Messire? You have left the banquet?
— Indeed—and I have no mind to return.
The young servant holds his peace.
— What is it? Baudouin snaps.
— We heard that the count has formally betrothed you to that damoiselle.
— You knew as much already.
— Yet… if I understand aright, your future wife has not caused you to change your mind concerning your wish to avoid marriage.
Baudouin’s lip curls in an ironic grimace.
— That is the least that may be said.
He lets the straw fall and strokes Mars’s neck.
— I know her, he says at last.
— And?… Is that not well?
— Given the damoiselle in question—no. We knew one another as children… In truth, we had our share of quarrels in those days.
— Before you entered the count’s service as a page?
— Just so.
— But then—you were but six or seven years of age.
Baudouin nods.
— Is it not somewhat early to form a judgement of a person?
The young lord lifts his eyes toward his servant. The latter starts.
— It is not my place—I beg your pardon for such bold speech.
Baudouin sighs.
— Nay—you are not wrong.
— And so… Enguerrand ventures, hesitating, you may wish to know that I saw a young maiden running toward the outskirts. She seemed… greatly troubled.
— It must be Aloïs, Baudouin replies, dismayed.
Enguerrand clears his throat.
— Angers by night is no place for a damoiselle.
A stir of guilt troubles Baudouin’s thoughts.
— Which way did she go?
— I shall show you.
The two men leave the stables and quit the castle, following the path Aloïs took but moments before.
She cannot have gone far. Mayhap she has taken refuge in a church, or in the cathedral. Women oft seek God’s protection in such moments. Yet something within him whispers that Aloïs is not of that kind.
They cross the shadowed streets and plunge into the winding lanes of the old city.
— She cannot have gone far!
Unease rises within him. Though he has no wish to wed her, he would not see harm come to her.
A woman appears before them—small, breathless. Baudouin knows her at once for Aloïs’s handmaid. When he reaches her, she pleads:
— Messire, damoiselle Aloïs ran too fast—I could not follow. She went that way.
Marie points toward the Outre-Maine. A dark foreboding seizes him. He breaks into a run. His heart pounds in his chest. He still hears the harsh words he spoke. Regret is not far behind.
He leaves the city by the Hell Postern, then through the Boulet Gate, and comes upon the Great Bridge.
The dark waters of the river stretch before him. Only the moon lends a pale light to the gloom. He steps onto the bridge, half encumbered by wooden dwellings from which a few dim lights gleam. A figure stands near the edge. Baudouin slows. Enguerrand remains behind him, hand upon his knife.
Soon he makes out the young woman’s profile. She seems… calmer.
— Damoiselle Aloïs?
She does not move. Baudouin draws nearer.
— I… think it would be best if you returned to the palace. The streets are perilous at night.
A long sigh answers him. Wisps of breath escape her lips into the chill air.
— You were not… about to commit so grave a sin as to cast yourself into those dark waters? he asks.
This time, she turns to face him.
— What would you have of me, Messire Baudouin?
— I would have you return with me to the castle.
He straightens, setting his hands behind his back.
— As your future husband, I bid you follow me at once.
— Never have I heard an argument so brief—and so poor, Aloïs replies, narrowing her eyes. Must we truly wed?
— I fear so.
Tears suddenly glimmer beneath Aloïs’s lids, though she seems to master them.
— Yet… the squire ventures, mayhap our memories deceive us.
Aloïs looks at him again, troubled.
— We both hold memories of one another that are… less than kind—indeed, most disagreeable. Perhaps our natures have changed with the years… And perhaps our faults have become virtues.
The young woman turns her gaze away and looks down upon the waters flowing beneath her feet.
— For both our sakes, I hope you are right.
— So do I, Baudouin murmurs…
He offers her his hand. She hesitates a moment, then slowly lays her fingers upon his palm.
As they turn to go back toward the town, Baudouin thinks he spies a shadow slipping away behind the clustered wooden huts—an unseen watcher who had been observing them.
*
Archdeacon Anselme steps forward and lays his hand upon Aloïs’s shoulder, then upon Baudouin’s.
— Before God and before men, I declare you husband and wife.
Aloïs feels her chest tighten. Breath fails her. She is bound—and bound to the worst of husbands.
Though his words had touched her that night upon the bridge, he has shown little further care or regard since, while she herself was cast among the sharp claws of the wives of the region’s lords, gathered in the gynaeceum of Countess Mathilde. Dame Hersende bore herself well, taking upon herself the burden of discourse and sparing her daughter any chance of uttering some ill-timed folly. In truth, Aloïs had enough to occupy her with her stubborn embroidery, which she was resolved to complete, if only to preserve what little honour remained to her.
As for Baudouin, he had spent his days training or hunting with the count. Aloïs sees not how he has changed since their first encounters. He is the same—only thirteen years older. And now they are joined until death shall part them.
By good fortune, the ceremony is held in intimacy, sparing them the need to smile before too many. Count Henri and his brother Geoffroy are, of course, present, along with Aloïs’s parents and Baudouin’s sole kin—his brother, the archdeacon Anselme. A churchman she had already glimpsed when she chanced upon the Count of Anjou and again near the abbey of Saint-Aubin.
The provost Raoul has also been invited. He stands close to the new lord and was witness to Baudouin’s dubbing, which took place but a few days prior. Aloïs herself had been present as his betrothed. And though she had not been in the best of spirits, she must confess she had been moved by the rite. When the Count of Anjou, Henri—named his sponsor by inheritance from his father—laid the sword upon the young man’s shoulders and spoke the duties of a knight, Aloïs felt a stir within her.
War and battle alone were not exalted. Henri had spoken of the virtues of knighthood and of the charge to protect the weak—words that found an echo in her heart. The accolade delivered by Henri had brought the rite to its close. And now, it is she who becomes the subject of this other rite.
Aloïs rises and places her hand upon Baudouin’s as they leave the chapel. A meal has been prepared at the count’s command, and all make their way to the aula.
Anselme draws near to Aloïs and offers his congratulations. She smiles faintly and thanks him with a courteous inclination of her head.
— My brother has… certain vexing traits.
She turns toward the churchman, surprised by his words. His face is grave, though a faint hint of amusement lingers at the corner of his lips.
— I can well understand your dismay. Yet I am certain you shall come to know him. God has designs for each of us, and nothing is wrought by chance.
Aloïs takes a draught of wine before replying.
— No doubt.
— And I am certain you will know how to break down the barriers between you. You lack neither wit nor quickness.
The young maiden feels her cheeks flush.
— I am still sorry for my words when I met the count. You must have thought me foolish.
— Not in the least. You were candid and forthright—qualities sorely lacking here…
Such confidences leave her uncertain. She dares not answer and chooses instead to wait.
— All seek to profit from the great. For that, some lie… or deceive…
His gaze comes to rest upon one of the guests. Aloïs notes that Anselme is watching sire Raoul. He seems to rouse himself, then turns back to her.
— I wish you a happy marriage, and be assured of my support, my dear sister.
— I also wished to beg your pardon for…
Aloïs hesitates. The churchman raises a brow.
— For what cause?
— I saw you near the abbey of Saint-Aubin, and my attention lingered upon the monk with whom you spoke…
Anselme seems to search his memory.
— The brother who bore a scar, Aloïs adds.
— Ah, yes, of course! Brother Paul.
— I did not mean to overhear your exchange. I was merely… lost in thought…
— I understand. Yet I suppose you would not have found the matter of much interest in any case—we were speaking of the labours of the abbey’s scribes.
— There is a scriptorium there?
— Indeed… But I shall not weary you with such matters on the evening of your wedding.
Anselme bids her be seated. When Baudouin takes his place beside her, she feels her body stiffen. She must keep her composure and manages to exchange a few common courtesies with her mother. She is also introduced to Raoul, provost and friend to Baudouin, and to his wife, Havoise—a woman of undeniable charm. A few other lords attend the meal, whom Aloïs prefers to ignore.
The banquet draws to its close. Baudouin rises and steps forward to stand before the count. Before all the assembled company, he bows. Henri’s voice then resounds through the great hall, asking the future vassal whether he wishes to become his man without reserve.
Baudouin answers in solemn tone:
— I do so wish.
With hands joined to those of Henri, he steps nearer and exchanges the kiss of peace with the count.
— Baudouin, the suzerain continues more loudly, I grant you my fief of Terlaze, that you may be its lord and castellan. Amen.
Touching the sacred relics presented by the bishop, the newly made knight declares his pledge:
— Before all, I have received and accepted the fief of Terlaze. Before all, I swear upon these relics to labour unceasingly therein for the greater satisfaction of the count, my lord.
Then, turning toward Henri:
— My lord count, I am your vassal and I promise you aid, counsel, submission, and fidelity. I shall guard against harming your person or doing you wrong, and may hell seize me if I prove false.
The count wears a satisfied smile as Baudouin kneels before him.
Aloïs holds her breath. She feels the weight of many gazes settle upon her husband. Though it be but a small fief, every alliance bears weight. Without fully knowing why, she senses a tension among the guests; she cannot help but feel that something of great import is unfolding.
Baudouin returns to her side and offers his arm.
— It is time we withdrew.
The young woman swallows with difficulty. She senses the interest such a simple phrase has stirred among the assembly. She cannot refuse, yet she has no wish to be shut away with this man—especially as none has truly told her what is to follow.
Compelled, she forces a courteous smile and accepts his offered hand. The couple pays a final homage to the count, then withdraws to the chambers lent for the occasion. A great bed stands at the far end of the room, draped with clean white linens and surrounded by heavy curtains.
A shiver runs through her.
Once the door is closed, Baudouin steps away from Aloïs and begins to unfasten his belt.
Panic seizes her.
— What are you doing?
Baudouin halts his motion.
— I am undressing.
Aloïs strives to keep her composure and not yield to panic, yet when he removes his tunic and stands in his camisa, she covers her eyes and cries out:
— You cannot undress here!
— This chamber is as much mine as it is yours. And I have no wish to sleep clothed.
Aloïs parts her eyelids slightly.
— Sleep?
Baudouin smiles, a touch of irony in his expression.
— I have no intention of playing the husband in private. Such things require feeling, I think—and we have none.
Though stung, the young woman nods.
— Yet I would not have it said that nothing passed between us this night, Baudouin continues, thoughtful.
— No one shall know—we will say nothing!
— But there is a detail that will not escape the servants.
— What detail? Aloïs asks, caught between relief and unease.
— The blood.
— What blood do you speak of?
A faint, mocking laugh escapes Baudouin’s lips.
— You truly know nothing of such matters.
Aloïs chooses silence, though she does not look away. He approaches her, a knife in hand.
— A woman bleeds on the first night of her marriage.
Though the meaning remains unclear to her, Aloïs says nothing, her gaze fixed upon the blade in his fingers. He takes her hand as she tries to pull it back.
— If we are to be accomplices in this, each must play their part.
He pricks the tip of her finger. She stifles a cry. Then he leads her to the bed and draws back the sheets. Pressing the small wound against the spotless linen, he leaves a red stain.
— There. That will suffice. Now, let us sleep. I do not often enjoy such fine bedding.
Without another glance at his wife, Baudouin lies down and soon falls into slumber.
Aloïs remains seated for a time upon the edge of the bed. A deep sadness washes over her, until at last weariness overtakes her and carries her into darkness.
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