January, in the Year of Our Lord 1153
— Sire Baudouin, asketh Belle, think you that Dame Aloïs shall soon be better?
The child standeth beside the lord within the barn whilst he inspecteth his helm and his hauberk. The sun hath at last returned after many days of gloom, bidding the cold settle in full measure. The feasts of the Nativity are passed and have brought an air of devotion and joy. The servants took great care to adorn the castle with holly and greenery, and the birth of Christ was celebrated by all—even by Aloïs, restored at least in body.
Baudouin observeth the little maid. Belle resembleth no longer the wild child his wife once saved. Her long dark hair is now neatly bound with a cord, her bliaud falleth to her calves. Even her manner of speech hath changed. Of a gentle and placid nature, she showeth keen delight in all manner of crafts. She might soon surpass her young mistress in embroidery—so much the more as Aloïs showeth but little liking for such work.
She lifteth her great grey eyes, flecked with gold, toward her lord, seeking answer.
The young sire kneeleth to bring himself to the child’s height.
— Dame Aloïs is strong. She hath but need of rest, and of all the affection thou canst give her.
— She will not go walking with me any longer.
— My wife holdeth thee dear, and desireth not that harm should befall thee. Understandest thou?
— But I can defend myself—Dame Aloïs hath taught me…
Baudouin stiffeneth and lifteth a warning finger toward the child.
— I forbid that thou fight. Dost thou hear me? Never seek to resolve a matter alone.
Belle wideneth her eyes.
— Thinkest thou that Count Henry would cast himself into battle with no men beside him? continueth he.
The child draweth up her shoulders, tense, and shaketh her head.
— Nay.
— Even so, addeth the lord in a gentler tone, he hath many knights, squires, and men-at-arms about him… Together, we are the stronger.
— With God’s aid.
— With God’s aid, confirmeth the lord.
Belle presseth her lips together.
— Think you that Dame Aloïs hath forgotten this?
— I think she had need to save someone.
— She near died.
Baudouin riseth, still troubled by the thought.
— Aye, indeed. Then forget never, Belle, that thou mayest ask for help if need be. Promise me.
— I promise.
A half-smile of contentment appeareth upon Baudouin’s face.
— And now, make haste and finish thy tasks. I feed thee not for idle chatter.
Belle starteth and runneth toward the sheepfold, near to colliding with Aloïs as she passeth. The young lady followeth the child with her eyes, then draweth near her husband.
— Still frightening our servants?
— They are so easily startled…
The young woman suppresseth a faint smile and turneth her gaze toward the gear laid behind him.
— You seem occupied.
Baudouin examineth his arms.
— I have taken some blows and would see whether I must call upon the smith.
— Think you to depart again for war?
Baudouin standeth still.
— We must consider it.
— I thought you wished to wait until the thieves were taken ere you set forth again.
— I would wish it… Yet, strangely, since that night, the attacks have ceased.
Aloïs shruggeth.
— If this affair hath brought an end to their deeds, then I should regret nothing.
— You jest? Tell me not that you would do the like again?
Aloïs shuddereth.
— I said it not…
— Yet thou confessest thou hast no remorse.
— Wherefore should I? I alone have borne the consequence of this choice.
— And I, Aloïs?
The lady gazeth upon Baudouin.
— I? What should I have done hadst thou died?
He cannot temper the vehemence of his speech. Overcome by the torment he felt upon beholding his wife wounded, he findeth himself undone.
— I thought not that… stammereth Aloïs.
— That what? That I loved thee?
This time, those words seem to wound his wife.
— Indeed… concedeth the young lord. We spent the first months of our marriage shunning one another, lest we strangle each other outright.
Baudouin boweth his head.
— I confess it, thou hast ever had the gift to drive me beyond reason. Yet…
He lifteth his eyes and resteth them upon his wife’s face.
— Yet now, I cannot conceive of life without thee.
He draweth near unto Aloïs and layeth a kiss upon her lips, his hand lightly brushing her cheek.74Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNlsgA281XE
She remaineth still, neither refusing the gesture nor returning it. Baudouin withdraweth somewhat, awaiting her answer.
— And thou, Aloïs?… What feelest thou for me now? Wouldst thou still slay me?
A smile doth spread upon their lips. At that moment, a guard hasteneth in, breathless, and entereth the barn.
— Forgive me, Sire, but a messenger of the count hath left this for thee.
The lord taketh the vellum and unrolleth it. His countenance darkeneth at once. Aloïs draweth near unto him.
— What aileth thee?
Baudouin keepeth his gaze fixed upon the missive.
— Henry summoneth my return. We depart for England.
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Baudouin finisheth brushing Mars, then maketh certain of the state of his shoes. The beast hath not greatly suffered from their last campaign, yet England may well put the destrier’s endurance to sore trial.
The horse snorteth. Baudouin stroketh him, taking pleasure in the warmth of his faithful companion beneath his hand. Footsteps within the stable cause him to turn. He straightway knoweth the robe of a cleric. Anselm draweth near and halteth beside him.
— I have heard tell of a new departure.
— In sooth.
The archdeacon remaineth silent, his lips tightening in displeasure.
— And how fareth thy wife?
Baudouin gently striketh Mars’s neck and turneth toward Anselm.
— Better… far better. She mendeth slowly.
— What thou sayest bringeth me comfort. Thou mayst depart with a lighter heart.
— I should depart with a lighter heart had we found the men who did this unto her.
Anselm’s cheek tighteneth.
— I doubt it not. The provost hath not ceased his search since that misfortune. He still mustereth many guards and men-at-arms to scour the land.
— I know not if it shall avail, for the thefts seem to have ceased.
The cleric noddeth slowly.
— Then let us see, in this misfortune, some unforeseen and better fruit.
Baudouin giveth his elder a bitter smile.
— I could think I heard my wife speak. I would far rather she had not endured such a plight for these crimes to end.
Baudouin remaineth pensive a moment.
— Might I ask of thee a service?
— Aye, of course.
— Wouldst thou bring Aloïs unto thee in Angers for the span of mine absence?
Anselm beholdeth his younger companion and boweth his head.
— I shall watch over thy wife.
— I thank thee for it.
The archdeacon draweth nigh and layeth his hand upon the knight’s shoulder.
— Thou hast taken up a right heavy burden.
Baudouin keepeth silence, holding his brother’s gaze. Then he speaketh again in a lighter tone.
— Come, let us go and greet Aloïs; I am certain she shall be glad of thy coming.
The two men leave the stable and cross the bailey. The lady of the place cometh forth at that moment from the barn and seemeth surprised at the sight of the churchman. Soon her countenance softeneth, and a warm smile welcometh the visitor.
— What joy to behold thee again, Father!
— The joy is mine likewise. And above all, to find thee in such good health.
Aloïs inclineth her head, yet answereth not. The couple biddeth Anselme share their meal. The churchman carefully avoideth speaking of Baudouin’s coming departure, for which the latter thanketh him in silence. He hath not truly spoken thereof with his wife since he received the command the day before. And he well deemeth that such a prospect doth not please Aloïs. Worse still, it may well affright her.
After the archdeacon’s departure, Baudouin hasteneth to complete his preparations. He must ride to Angers at first light. The journey before him is well known, yet this time a far heavier weight troubleth the duty.
When evening cometh, the couple sitteth together at table. Rain beginneth to fall, slowly turning to hail that striketh the roof with violence. Aloïs hath not spoken, keeping her gaze upon her supper. Baudouin stirreth his spoon within the barley pottage scented with rosemary, he himself unable to swallow aught. Thick slices of bacon lie untouched.
— Thou eatest not?
His wife looketh upon him without ceasing. The seeming calm upon her face surpriseth the knight.
— I have no hunger.
Aloïs seemeth to hesitate. At last she riseth and cometh to stand beside Baudouin. She lightly toucheth the man’s cheek with her fingers. A shiver runneth down the young lord’s back.
— I gave thee no answer.
Baudouin knitteth his brow.
— When thou didst ask me of my feelings toward thee, I gave thee no answer.
He turneth toward her eyes filled with unease. She answereth him with a smile full of warmth.
— Nor I… I could not live without thee…
Baudouin returneth her smile, his face alight with fierce joy. He riseth and claspeth his wife in his arms, and this time she returneth his kiss. Their gazes meet, tender and full of love. Baudouin’s hand slowly descendeth to Aloïs’ hips. He leadeth her gently toward their chamber, brushing her lips, her neck, exploring the skin of his wife. Their breaths mingle. He feeleth the tension rise within Aloïs. He knoweth that, despite her fear, she shall say naught. Both lie upon the bed, ceasing not to kiss. Warmth spreadeth through their bodies. The young woman’s breathing slowly filleth the chamber. Desire mounteth and draweth them strongly into each other’s arms.
His fingers lift gently—though desire burneth within him—the bliaud of Aloïs, who maketh no protest. She riseth to cast off her gown, and appeareth in a spotless chemise. Lying once more before her husband, Aloïs fixeth her gaze upon Baudouin. The rosy hue upon her cheeks revealeth her emotion. The knight dareth no longer move.
— Perchance I did affright thee when I spake of blood upon the night of our wedding.
The young woman moveth not, yet he perceiveth a slight trembling upon her lips.
— If it be with thee, I have no cause for fear.
He layeth his hand upon his wife’s cheek with tenderness, then kisseth her, resolved to engrave within his heart their last night together.
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