Marie paceth to and fro within the camera, watched with wonder by Belle. Aloïs finisheth to set her garments in a basket.
— You should not go thither.
The young lady restraineth a sigh.
— I deemed well thou wouldst not approve this design.
— And how should I approve it! You reveal a secret, which I have taken such peril to guard, unto a… voyer. A man who might tell all unto sire Baudouin. And who then should answer for it?
Aloïs casteth an amused glance at her chambermaid.
— I. My husband would surely lay no blame upon thee. And I am certain Jehan will hold his peace. He hath pledged it unto me.
Marie shruggeth, doubtful. Belle followeth this exchange, though she seemeth lost therein.
— Dame Aloïs, what will you do with the voyer? asketh the child at last.
After a brief moment’s wavering, her mistress answereth:
— Thou shalt know, for thou shalt come with me.
Marie lifteth her arms to heaven.
— Here is yet another folly! moaneth the maid. Are you sure you would not rather go walk in Angers clad as a man, that all may know your nightly doings?
Belle’s eyes widen.
— As a man?
— If thou speak thus, thou wilt affright the child, reproveth Aloïs.
— She would do well to be afeared.
The young woman taketh her basket.
— I charge thee to tell Enguerrand that we go to gather blackberries with Belle when we are gone from the castle.
— There be no more blackberries! crieth Marie.
— Then find some other fruit we might gather upon our walk. But above all, tell him not whither we go. He must not see me.
Marie pointeth a finger aloft, triumphant.
— Ah! I knew you feared sire Baudouin.
— I fear him not. I deem I have the right to keep some secrets.
Aloïs taketh Belle by the hand.
— Hast thou heard? This is our secret.
— I shall say naught, my lady! the child promiseth.
They both go forth. The child runneth as soon as they pass the gates. A strong wind sweepeth the fields and driveth the grey clouds gathered above the land. The young lady halteth in the underwood to change her attire. When she appeareth clad as a boy, Belle hideth not her astonishment. Mouth agape, she standeth speechless. Aloïs leadeth her toward the place appointed with Jehan.
A faint unease groweth as she draweth near. Despite the words she spake unto Marie, Aloïs feareth she may have erred in agreeing to train the voyer. He might have sought the prévôt, or Baudouin upon his return. Or simply Enguerrand. Might he intend to turn this against her?
Aloïs putteth aside the thought. Jehan is a man of plain dealing, who acteth as his heart and his honour guide him. He would not betray her.
The voyer’s form showeth among the trees as they come forth from the wood. He watcheth the surroundings, seated upon a fallen trunk. Belle treadeth upon a branch, and Jehan starteth. As soon as he beholdeth them, he riseth to his feet. Tension is writ upon his features, though he striveth to conceal it. Yet when at last he beholdeth Aloïs, another feeling passeth across his face—a kind of joy, mingled with admiration.
He greeteth her with respect.
— I thank you, my lady, for your aid.
— I ask one thing of you, if we are to meet thus.
— What is it?
— Cease to call me so.
The lady casteth her gaze about.
— One knoweth not if we be observed. I would not be known.
— I deem none could guess that beneath such attire standeth the lord’s wife.
Aloïs heedeth not the remark, and continueth.
— Moreover, we are well agreed: you shall be the only one to know of my doings.
— I have sworn it unto you.
— Very well. And how fareth Matthieu?
Jehan noddeth.
— He mendeth, as his wife saith.
— And Anne…
A sorrowful tightening of his lips confirmeth the grievousness of the matter.
— She speaketh not a word.
Aloïs feeleth wrath rise within her once more.
— Then let us see that this cometh not to pass again…
The voyer presseth his lips together, then casteth a sidelong glance at Belle, who hath seated herself upon the ground beneath the trees’ shade. Aloïs marketh well the object of his gaze.
— Fear not, Belle will speak naught. And I would also that she be able to defend herself.
— She is but small.
— I was of her years when I learned to wield arms.
— May one know who taught you? asketh Jehan, whose voice betrayeth both wonder and admiration. I saw how you fought. It must needs be a knight.
— It is so. My uncle, to speak plainly. He dwelleth now in Poitou, where his liege hath granted him a domain.
— Wherefore did he teach you to fight? I know little of the customs of the nobles, yet I have not heard the like before.
Aloïs falleth silent, and her jaws tighten. Old and painful images rise within her mind: Berthe, her parents, Pierre, the coffin, and her uncle…
— The reason mattereth not. It sufficeth that I may now teach you this skill in turn.
A faint smile lifteth Jehan’s lips.
— And you, for whom do you fight? asketh the young woman. I know you to have no kin.
Jehan lifteth his eyes toward the forest and draweth a deep breath.
— I was wed… She died in childbed.
— I am sorry.
— The babe lived not either.
He holdeth Aloïs’s gaze, and she dareth not add a word. Jehan releaseth her from this unease.
— Shall we begin? It were best not to lose time.
She gathereth a length of wood, long enough to serve as a weapon.
— This shall suffice.
She casteth it unto him and gripeth her own within her hands.
— Now show me the measure of your skill.
Jehan’s eyes widen. He holdeth fast his staff… yet moveth not. Aloïs raiseth a brow.
— What wait you for?
The wonted assurance of the voyer seemeth to have fled: he standeth still as stone.
— I had not thought I must needs fight against you.
Aloïs leaneth upon her weapon, which she planteth in the ground, and exclaimeth:
— How deemed you we should train you?
Jehan shruggeth.
— In truth, I know not.
Aloïs regardeth him for a moment. Then she taketh up her staff once more.
— Very well. If it be not you, then I shall begin.
She steppeth forth of a sudden toward Jehan, resolved to teach him that which he shall surely need.
*
61Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡY11Yi7HUHx
— Dame Aloïs, would you not return unto Terlaze?
Enguerrand leaneth upon his mount and rubbeth his lower back. Since morn, they have ridden about the lands near Angers, seeking tidings. Their meetings with the several lords yet in Anjou—or their wives—have left a bitter taste with Aloïs. On the one hand, they confirm the gravity of this band of thieves; on the other, they seem loath to speak overmuch of it with her.
Moreover, all await a remedy from the count and have no mind to act. It is vain to seek allies among such cravens! Had Baudouin been present, he would doubtless have gathered more knowledge, if not to find the outlaws’ lair, then at least to gain some clue to seize them.
— Have we yet more castles to visit?
— Nay, my lady. And if we go farther, night may overtake us.
— Very well. Let us pass by Angers ere we return.
From La Haie-Joulain, where they now are, unto Terlaze, the way by the city is longer; yet Enguerrand holdeth his peace and biddeth they set their mounts to a light trot. Little pleased by so uneasy a pace, Aloïs nevertheless consenteth, seeing the sky grow dark.
They ride unto the abbey of Saint-Serge, to the north-east of the town. Marshes lie round about the place, which they skirt. From this vantage, the ramparts awe the eye; they seem to crush any rash soul who would seek to force them.
They pass through the city gate and thread their way among the folk in the narrow streets.
— Whither would you go, my lady?
— Unto the prévôt.
Aloïs gripeth her reins. She hath no other course but to seek tidings at their source, hoping he will grant them unto her. And it shall also serve to prove unto Raoul that she hath full right to hold her place as a wife.
They dismount. Aloïs giveth her horse into the sergeant’s keeping.
— Wait for me here. I shall not be long.
The young woman knocketh upon the heavy wooden door and is straightway admitted by a servant, who withdraweth to let her pass. At that moment Havoise cometh down the stairs that open into the hall. Astonished, she wideneth her eyes.
— Dame Aloïs? What bringeth you hither?
— I would speak with your husband.
Havoise casteth her gaze upward. Her lip tightneth in a troubled grimace.
— Well… he hath but just returned, and—
— I shall not detain him long. Yet I must speak with him.
The mistress of the house hesitateth, then goeth back up the steps and vanisheth. Aloïs closeth her eyes and prepareth her speech within her mind: to appear firm, assured—though she is far from it—and resolute.
Footsteps sound again, and this time Raoul appeareth to meet her. He greeteth the young lady with due respect.
— I come to ask you for further tidings concerning the death of the religious man.
Raoul’s brow furroweth. Aloïs foreseeth his question.
— I was much troubled by that sight, and I would be certain that he who did this can harm no other.
— Alas, we have not been able to name the slayer of that brother. It must be the work of certain thieves.
— Thieves would not assail a monk, answereth the young woman sharply. There is little chance they would gain aught of worth from a man who liveth in austerity and want.
The prévôt straightenth and foldeth his hands. Aloïs perceiveth that she hath not taken the right course and that she may, at best, offend him, at worst be bidden to depart.
— I crave your pardon for my heat. Yet I was troubled by…
— I understand. A murdered man is no sight for a gentle lady.
Aloïs biteth her lip, lest she answer too harshly, and turneth to that which troubleth her most.
— And speaking of theft, have you learned aught new?
Raoul holdeth back a sigh.
— Nay. Nothing further.
— I have gone to question the lords of the region, and—
— You have done what? crieth Raoul.
Aloïs’s blood runneth cold.
— I sought to learn from the other domains how far this band doth range.
— My lady, saith the prévôt in a tone that would be even, yet ill hideth his displeasure, I thank you for your goodwill and understand your wish to see these men taken, yet this lieth within my charge.
— Of course. I meant not to cause you trouble.
Raoul’s narrow eyes fix upon Aloïs’s emerald gaze. He is silent a moment, then speaketh again, calm of voice.
— Yet I think I may bring you good tidings.
The young woman draweth herself up.
— Parley should soon be held between Henri and his brother Geoffroy in the coming weeks. The strife with the king may cease, and your husband should at last return.
Hope warmeth Aloïs’s heart, and a truer smile cometh upon her lips.
— I thank you. Indeed, this is glad news.
A sound above maketh them both look upward. Raoul cougheth, ill at ease. Aloïs heareth the rustling of garments. Was Havoise hearkening to their speech?
— And as for the thieves, continueth Raoul, know that we do all in our power to take them. I have much to do, for I must make ready for the coming of merchants within a fortnight, and see that they may come hither in safety.
— Merchants?
— Aye. They shall be in the town for the fair and shall bring pepper among other wares, jewels, and cloths such as silk.
Aloïs noddeth slowly.
— I see. And from whence come these merchants?
— They cometh from Tours and from Poitiers.
— They shall pass by Terlaze, I trow.
Raoul frowneth.
— Aye, most like. It lieth upon their road for some.
Aloïs draweth breath and showeth once more a frank smile.
— I thank you for your precious aid. I must needs return ere night falleth.
— In sooth, it were more prudent.
She turneth, yet stayeth.
— Would you greet your wife in my stead?
— With good will.
The servant openeth the door before her.
— My lady.
Aloïs turneth again toward the provost, who hath stepped somewhat forward, his hands behind his back.
— Your husband hath bidden me keep watch over his lands during his absence, and I have sworn it unto him. I assure you I shall do all that lieth in my power that you be kept in safety. Therefore, I pray you, do naught that might hinder me in the keeping of my word.
The young woman meeteth Raoul’s gaze and inclineth her head.
— Of course.
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