Aloïs makes her way about the seigneurial lodging of the castle of Terlaze, ensuring that all has been set in place according to her wishes. Her belongings have been brought from her parents’ home by Marie, who took care to include her male attire discreetly. She had promised her maidservant not to wear them again—yet had not said for how long. Still, it is no easy matter to keep such things hidden here.
The timber-built dwelling, roofed with thatch, is composed of a great hall wherein tables may be set upon trestles as need arises, and of a gynaeceum serving as a weaving workshop for the women. Within the camera, a bed stands, with a sheepskin laid at its foot to rid oneself of vermin. A tub and a few chests complete the furnishing. The narrow windows admit but scant light, yet help to keep the warmth within.
Though she doubts Baudouin would rummage through her belongings, she must nevertheless find a safer place for those garments, which might well draw her husband’s notice. She hopes he will be sufficiently occupied with his new duties to leave her linen undisturbed—not to mention the prospect of a campaign led by Count Henri, which might carry him away…
The few days already spent here have allowed them to make the acquaintance of all who labour for them at the castle: the milites, the smith, the serfs. Some villagers have come forward to present themselves, among them a number of craftsmen.
This time has also served to acquaint her with the place. Within the courtyard, several buildings share the space: a barn, a sheepfold where the servants sleep, the guards’ lodging, the forge, the stables, the kitchen, and the tower where harvests and arms are stored. It is there, too, that Baudouin may sit in judgment when need arises.
For the young lord now bears the charge of justice as well—a duty that shall surely fill his days. All the more so as they dwell now not far from the castle of her parents. Les Ponts-de-Cé lies but half a day’s walk away—the sole comforting thought.
The fief of Terlaze is far more modest than that of her family: a few hamlets depend upon its protection and render account to the suzerain. Vines are cultivated there, and the wine is said to be most fine. The castle is encircled by a palisade of stakes and ashwood, and furnished with a wooden wall-walk, unlike the stone-built stronghold of Les Ponts-de-Cé, raised some fifty years past. Yet the burden of rule is no less weighty.
Aloïs steps out from the lodging and surveys the baile. All this now falls under her charge—a thought that sends a strange shiver through her. At Les Ponts-de-Cé, she had drifted as she pleased, living after her own fashion, with little heed to the constraints of such lands. But here, all is changed.
Baudouin seems no less unsettled, though he speaks not of it. Their relation has scarcely improved. A sort of tacit accord has settled between them—without quarrel, yet without discourse.
As she rounds the building, she spies the young lord in earnest conversation with the vicar Gauzbert. Far from agreeable, this churchman has already paid them three visits and proves as fawning as he is lecturing—a most displeasing mixture, in Aloïs’s view. Worse still, he appears never sated: the meal offered him might have lasted the whole day without troubling him. His body betrays his excesses—short of stature, with a round, flattened nose and plump cheeks. His belly swells above the belt that girds his clerical robe, from which hangs a rosary. The scant honey-coloured hair that remains to him forms a crown upon his head, unlike the deliberate tonsure of Benedictine monks.
The two men have seen her; there is no retreat. She steps forward to greet the vicar.
The visitor’s eyes are like those of a mole—small and black. He stands hunched upon himself.
— Father, to what do we owe the honour of your return? the lady of the house inquires with courtesy.
A strained expression twists the churchman’s lips.
— A reminder of God’s designs, Dame Aloïs. I had come to settle with sire Baudouin the hours of Mass.
The young lord clears his throat.
— I was explaining to Father Gauzbert that such matters ought to be discussed with you.
Aloïs widens her eyes and discreetly shakes her head at her husband. He seems to suppress an amused smile and bows to the churchman.
— I must speak with the guards regarding the evening watch. I leave you in good hands.
Aloïs offers the vicar a strained smile, which he returns.
— Well then, she suggests, perhaps we might discuss this within the aula.
The man rubs his palms together, his gaze suddenly lighting up.
— You are right, it will be more comfortable indoors.
Aloïs bids him enter and offers him a seat. The sight of the empty table appears to plunge Father Gauzbert into deep perplexity.
— You wished to speak of the Masses? Aloïs reminds him.
The vicar surveys the hall with only the barest semblance of discretion, almost twisting his neck to inspect the dishes set behind him.
— Perhaps, the young woman ventures, I might offer you something to eat before we address the matter that brings you here.
The cleric’s mouth widens into a satisfied O.
— I confess I had no time to dine at midday. You know how it is—we hasten to fulfill our duties and forget to nourish ourselves.
Aloïs finds it hard to imagine such a thing of the vicar, yet she may as well give him what he seeks. She has no wish to linger over matters so abruptly thrust upon her by Baudouin, who likely had no desire to deal with them himself.
Marie sets down a bowl in which a portion of chicken rests among lentils and carrots.
Father Gauzbert hastens to devour his meal. Aloïs clears her throat before returning to the purpose of his visit.
— And so… shall we speak of these Masses?
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Baudouin appears once more at the door of the aula. The vicar has at last departed, and Aloïs feels a headache rising. Her pupils widen, darkening her expression.
— Are you satisfied?
— That you have handled the matter in my stead? Indeed.
— And you feel no shame?
— Why should I? You are my wife and mistress of this fief. It falls to you also to take charge of certain duties.
— Those that displease you! A baseness you would do well to confess…
Aloïs rises to leave the hall. Baudouin steps into her path.
— What would you have of me now? Or do you merely seek to thwart me?
Baudouin stands firm before her, hands clasped behind his back.
— We must depart together.
— Together? Whither?
— To the nearby hamlets. We have seen but a small number of those under our protection. The peasants expect to meet us. We must greet them. I wish to take stock of the holdings.
Aloïs draws a deep breath. The request surprises her; she had not thought her husband would involve her in such matters.
— So you do not confine me to the vicar’s petitions?
— No… I believe you must also prepare to govern our lands alone…
Their gazes meet. Aloïs senses the sincerity in his words. There is every chance Baudouin will be called away again under the count’s command. She would then stand without support before the burdens of her rank.
— Very well, I shall come.
— I have had a horse made ready for you.
— A horse?
Aloïs pales.
— A gift from our suzerain upon my dubbing. A fine haquenée—you will like her.
— Might we not go on foot?
Baudouin looks at her intently.
— You jest? Do you know over what distance our lands extend?
Aloïs says nothing and enters their chamber to fetch her cloak. She rejoins Baudouin near the stables. A grey mare, calm in appearance, waits beside the young lord’s horse. A sambue has been set upon her back, ready to receive the lady. A guard stands at the animal’s head, holding the reins. Despite his presence, a cold sweat seizes the young woman.
— She is very gentle, promises Yvain. I assoure you, madame. She can carry you to the end o’ the world without you feelin’ no pain in the—
Baudouin casts a weary glance at his servant before turning to her:
— Shall we go?
The lady manages to mount without too much difficulty and clutches at the mare’s mane.
— You would not prefer the cart, surely? Baudouin asks, perplexed.
— No, of course not.
Pride is a sin she hopes to be forgiven. This husband has been imposed upon her, and she has no choice but to conceal her weaknesses.
The young lord casts a suspicious look at his wife before giving the order to set out. Enguerrand and two men-at-arms accompany them. Aloïs tightens her grip upon the reins as her husband moves forward at a walking pace. She cannot help but think he judges her and has perceived her unease. She does her utmost to conceal her apprehension, lifting her chin and forcing her gaze away from the mare’s mane.
Several villagers appear and greet the couple. Baudouin takes the time to speak a few words to each of them. Though she remains in the background, Aloïs listens attentively, committing the gathered information to memory.
Children play by the roadside. The passing of the mounted party halts them. They bow at once and awkwardly offer their homage.
Little by little, Aloïs relaxes, more absorbed by these encounters than by her mount. As they reach a small hamlet, a man steps forward to greet Baudouin. He appears somewhat past thirty, his long hair bound by a cord. A thick, greying beard covers his cheeks. His large pale eyes narrow as he studies the new lords of the place.
— My name is Jehan, and I am the voyer of this hamlet. I beg your pardon, sire Baudouin, for not presenting myself sooner, but I have had much to do. We are relieved to see at last a lord to govern these lands.
— And I am glad to be that lord. Yet perhaps you have a petition, if you speak thus?
Jehan’s lips curl into an amused grin. His pelisse stirs in the wind. He casts a sidelong glance at his lord.
— Indeed, Sire. You know well that in such hamlets, with trade growing in these parts, it draws thieves.
— Has someone been robbed of late?
— Aye. And I have the sense that such depredations have increased of late. I know men hide in the woods and have already attacked, yet I have not laid hands upon them.
— The sergeants-at-arms must be summoned.
— They do what they can, but there will ever be the envious or the destitute to prey upon honest folk.
The voyer’s attention suddenly turns to Aloïs. Pale blue eyes, lighter than the sky, fix upon her as strands of his hair stir in the wind. The shadow of a smile touches his lips.
— I promise to do my utmost to protect your people, Baudouin assures him. I should also have need of certain repairs for tools at the castle. Could you direct me to a good smith in these parts?
— Aye. You will find Luc at the hamlet of the Favreaux. His hand is steady.
Jehan casts another glance at Aloïs, then bows and yields them passage. The young woman presses her heel to urge her mare onward. She waits until they are out of earshot before addressing Baudouin.
— Can our own forge not undertake such work?
Baudouin shakes his head.
— Not all of it…
Aloïs would swear he is not telling her everything, yet she does not press him further.
Back at the castle, she congratulates herself for having remained in the saddle, though as her foot touches the ground, she suspects she will regret it in the days to come.
— I shall give orders for the supper.
The young woman turns to leave the stables. A hand suddenly stops her. Baudouin steps closer, his fingers closing around her arm.
— Why did you not tell me you feared horses?
— I do not fear them. I am no great rider, that is all.
She meets his gaze for a moment before he loosens his grip.
— Perhaps it is time, since we must live together, that we be more honest with one another, do you not think?
The image of her male garments hidden beneath a heap of cloth flashes through her mind. She coughs softly to clear her throat.
— I agree. We should have no secrets. Do you think that possible?
Baudouin straightens, not taking his eyes from her.
— I leave the supper to you…
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