— I have sworn unto my brother to watch over thee.
Aloïs wringeth her fingers. Standing before Anselm in the aula, she knoweth no longer how to refuse his offer without seeming rude or giving offence.
— I do fully understand thy desire to keep thy word, yet I assure thee I shall be able to guard the castle. The attacks have ceased; nothing giveth cause to think they shall begin anew. And it lieth close to my heart to watch over our lands until Baudouin’s return.
The memory of his departure still teareth at the young woman’s soul. Their first night together haunteth her. Never had she thought her husband capable of such gentleness and care. At dawn, he had taken the road again after pressing one last kiss upon her lips—a kiss that spake plainly of his wish to remain by her side. Yet Baudouin is a man of honour; he would never flee from his duty.
Anselm sigheth and claspeth his idle hand before his robe.
— So be it… I yield to thy wish. Yet I would ask thee to promise that thou shalt come to Angers to visit me and bring me tidings of thyself.
A faint smile stretcheth Aloïs’ lips.
— I give thee my word.
The man draweth near unto her, full of kindness.
— Then I shall be content with that. Yet be assured that if I see thee not for a time, I may send the provost to fetch thee.
— That shall not be needful. I intend soon to visit my father and mayhap lend him aid as well.
Anselm’s countenance changeth, and compassion passeth across his features.
— Thy father hath endured a sore trial with the loss of thy mother. He knoweth not, perchance, what hath befallen thee?
— I would not have him know. It were of no use to trouble him.
And above all, Aloïs desireth not that too many explanations should alarm Sir Aldebert. He knoweth of her skill in arms, yet he would be beside himself with fear were he to guess she useth it thus.
The lady escorteth her brother-by-marriage unto his horse.
— Be wary, my dear sister.
Anselm quitteth the bailey and rideth forth at an amble along the road, under Aloïs’ gaze. A strange shiver passeth through her, and she returneth within the castle.
Enguerrand cometh to meet her.
— My lady, one of the free tenants from the hamlet of the Favreaux hath come. It seemeth the hail that fell some days past hath damaged the mill.
— Very well, go thou thither. Thou shalt give me thy report upon thy return.
The sergeant boweth and maketh to depart, yet checketh himself.
— What aileth thee?
— I was wondering…
Aloïs knitteth her brow.
— What wast thou wondering?
— Art thou certain thou wouldst have me go? I could send one of the guards—Eudes, for instance.
The young woman inclineth her head.
— I thank thee for thy concern, yet I run no danger. Thou mayst go to the mill with an easy mind. Thou shalt be gone but a few hours.
Enguerrand presseth his lips and obeyeth. Amused, yet above all touched by such care, Aloïs watcheth him. There is none more faithful to Baudouin. He was doubtless sorely troubled when Marie and the servants returned without their mistress, and likely blamed himself. Yet he too is not at fault.
Aloïs turneth toward the kitchens to give orders for the meal. She lifteth her head and casteth her gaze across the bailey.
— Hast thou seen Belle? asketh she of a servant.
— I reckon she was in the sheepfold.
The lady maketh her way toward the building. Within, the bleating of a young beast greeteth her. She findeth the child, intent upon a parchment she hath spread before her upon the ground. Belle hath cleverly set broad pieces of slate, no doubt gathered nearby, to serve as a table and keep her work from the earth. So absorbed is she in her drawing that she hath not seen her mistress enter, who now observeth the care with which the girl traceth her shapes. She discerneth the castle, the tower, the hall, a few beasts within the yard…
— It is most fair.
Belle starteth and striketh the iron inkwell, sending black liquid across the sketch. Aloïs restraineth a cry.
— Oh, Belle! I am sorry! I meant not to startle thee.
The child striveth to smile, yet her face remaineth turned toward the stained parchment. Aloïs taketh another sheet, the last of the roll.
— I shall help thee, and we shall go to seek more of the archdeacon when I go to visit him.
— Nay, my lady, it mattereth not.
— Aye, it doth. Thou hadst laboured much. Let me amend my fault.
Belle lifteth her gaze unto the young woman, a curious look betwixt sorrow and mischief.
— I thank thee, then.
Both seat themselves upon the beaten earth and set again to their work. Aloïs followeth closely the gestures of Belle, tracing first the general shapes, then entering ever deeper into the details. She in turn maketh trial, with greater care. Little by little, she feeleth her muscles grow numb, yet she remaineth intent and refineth the shadows, adding figures. Time flieth, and when they finish their work, the sun already declineth.
— Thou dost well, deemeth Belle.
— I thank thee.
The young lady restraineth a smile.
— I think indeed we may be pleased. Now must I rise, which shall not be the easiest of tasks.
Belle bursteth into a fair, frank, and innocent laughter as she beholdeth Aloïs striving to unfold her limbs and stand, with many a grimace.
Suddenly, cries ariseth from the bailey, and they both turn.
— What happeneth now?
The mistress goeth forth and beholdeth the vicar Gauzbert in the midst of the yard, swaying and waving his arms before a man-at-arms. She draweth near unto them.
— What aileth thee, Father?
— A thief, within my church!
Aloïs’ stomach tighteneth at once, and an ill shiver runneth down her back.
— How knowest thou he is a thief?
— I tell thee, I caught him entering by stealth. So I shut him in and came straightway to seek thy aid.
— Very well, I shall see to this with my men. Give me the key and hasten home.
The man obeyeth and departeth at a trot. Aloïs casteth her gaze about her: the guards have gone with Baudouin to war. The few soldiers that remain are but peasants from the neighbouring hamlets, come to fulfil their duty unto their lord. They know naught of the art of battle. Her only hope is that Enguerrand returneth swiftly. But if he cometh back too late? For Aloïs, it would be worse than all to know that one of these thieves hath slipped once more through her grasp.
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Aloïs treadeth the floor of the chamber, unable to still the storm that this news stirreth within her. Time passeth without cease, and Enguerrand hath not yet returned. The companions of this bandit might come to free him, and then this rare chance would slip from her hands.
If the vicar hath spoken true, Aloïs might yet have a chance to bring them to justice. To seize one man of the band would lead them unto their chief. The provost would know how to make him speak. And then, she might at last behold the faces of her tormentors; she might bring justice to young Anne… and in some wise avenge Berthe. Can she truly afford to wait? Ere long, night shall fall. She shall not have the strength to face the darkness after what she hath endured. If she must take him, it must be now.
Yet as she moveth, resolved, toward the door, her legs fail beneath her. Fear paralyzeth her. The images return with violence and set her whole body trembling.
The young woman falleth to her knees and claspeth her hands.
— My God, have mercy upon me and come to mine aid. Grant me the strength to act, that I may avenge all the victims of these men.
She feeleth her heart beat within her breast and closeth her eyes, striving to regain her composure. Her deep breathing little by little bringeth calm again. She turneth her thoughts unto older memories—unto her uncle, unto her elder brother, Pierre, who filled her with counsel to strike in the right place and cast down the foe, strengthening the teachings of her kin.
Aloïs can do it: she can succeed in taking this man; she can help bring an end to the deeds of these thieves.
Aloïs bethinketh that, by the word of the religious man, but one man had entered therein. Against a single foe, she hath some chance to keepeth the upper hand.
She riseth and taketh a moment to feel steadied upon her legs. Then she layeth hold of her garments, as best they had been cleansed by Marie. She changeth in haste, then casteth over them an old bliaud and a cloak to conceal these manly raiments, and taketh up her staff.
— My lady, what do you?
The young woman starteth and findeth herself face to face with Belle. The child gazeth upon her, distraught.
— Say naught to any, I shall not be long, I promise thee.
— But sire Baudouin hath said one must not seek to settle a matter alone.
— And sire Baudouin speaketh true. Were it in my power, I would await Enguerrand, yet I fear this thief may slip from our grasp. If his fellows come to free him, we shall lose our sole chance to take them. Wouldst thou not that these men be punished?
Belle setteth her jaw, yet noddeth her head.
— I would as well. Then say but this unto the sergeant: that he meet me at the church of Saint-Lézin, agreed?
Aloïs leaveth her and goeth toward the gates, giving her orders unto the guards: that none enter herein till her return, save Enguerrand. The lady departeth the castle and hasteneth toward the road. The sun sinketh ever toward the horizon, painting the heavens in bright hues, even as those she had beheld upon their journey with Baudouin toward the abbey of Fontevraud. She taketh shelter within a wood to finish her change, and hideth her gown within the roots of an ancient oak.
As she maketh ready to depart again, fear ariseth suddenly. Memories throng her mind. She had met these men ere now under like conditions. If she should once more find herself in such a plight…
Aloïs thrusteth these thoughts aside. She must not be ruled by her passions; she must not suffer these men to master her life. She runneth as swiftly as she may and soon discerneth the shape of the church.
The young woman croucheth behind the brush. The place seemeth deserted. No sound breaketh the stillness. Aloïs casteth her gaze about in search of accomplices. All is so quiet that she beginneth to wonder whether the vicar hath erred. The church door remaineth shut fast. If a thief be within, he showeth no will to come forth.
She setteth her mask aright and goeth forward warily unto the building. She halteth upon the dry stones before the portal, then setteth the key within the lock and turneth it slowly. Alert and ready, she prepareth to strike the man should he rush forth.
Nothing.
Aloïs openeth swiftly and beholdeth the nave, narrow and dark. No motion within. She gripeth her staff and advanceth with care. Her eyes grow used unto the gloom.
She entereth the church, her breath unsteady. Her gaze searchest the void—an unaccountable void. There is but one issue from this place. How then hath he vanished?
Suddenly, the sound of hasty footsteps causeth her to turn. A shadow standeth framed within the doorway, armed with a pointed weapon set against her.
— In the name of the Count, I arrest thee.
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Aloïs standeth, unable to utter a single word. Before her, Raoul threateneth her with his weapon. He deemeth her a thief. Yet how may she prove him in error without revealing herself?
Other guards enter in their turn into the church and encircle her. The provost cometh forward. She discerneth the fine lines of his face and his expression, coldly composed. He showeth neither satisfaction nor fear. He doth but his duty.
— At last we have a chance to discover the authors of these crimes. Let us see who hideth behind this mask.
Aloïs starteth back swiftly and presseth her hand upon her nose.
— Stay, messire, thou art mistaken. I am no thief.
— Then what doest thou within this church?
— I came at the bidding of Lady Aloïs. She gave me this key to seize the man whom the vicar had shut within.
The religious man chooseth that very moment to join them. His uneven gait as he runneth lendeth a strange air unto this grave hour.
— My key! Lady Aloïs would never entrust it unto a stranger!
— I am… a guard of the castle.
— Enough. In that case, show thy face, crieth Raoul.
He maketh a sign unto his men to lay hold upon the intruder. The young woman striveth to resist, yet Raoul teareth away the mask. Upon his face, great astonishment is writ. The captive turneth her head aside, unable to endure his gaze any longer.
— But it is… Lady Aloïs! crieth the vicar.
The provost seemeth for a moment discomposed, yet soon recovereth himself and speaketh unto the men-at-arms.
— Release her, and search ye the surroundings. The thief we have not.
The guards obey. The cleric remaineth, struck with wonder, beside Raoul. The latter waiteth until all have departed ere he addresseth the young lady.
— What hath possessed thee?
— I did desire to aid in the taking of these thieves.
The provost narroweth his eyes, full of suspicion.
— Thou wearest the very garb described of the bandits by the witnesses.
— I may swear unto you it is not so.
For a moment, the thought of calling upon the road-warden passeth through Aloïs’ mind. Yet this might bring Jehan into greater trouble still than that which he hath already suffered with Baudouin. She claspeth her hands as in prayer.
— Raoul, I beseech thee, believe me. I am no thief. I clad myself thus that I might not be known, and so seize the man whom Brother Gauzbert had shut within.
— A lady, proclaimeth the cleric, ought not comport herself in so dishonourable a fashion. To disguise oneself as a man is sin!
Raoul casteth his eyes upon the small round man, whose disgust showeth plainly, then turneth once more unto Aloïs.
— Thou must understand that I am bound to present thee before Sir Geoffroy. In his brother’s absence, he holdeth charge of justice.
A shiver of dread seizeth her.
— There is no cause to—
— There is. Thy husband is absent, and thou behavest in a manner… unseemly. I may not suffer it.
A look of outraged scorn appeareth upon the vicar’s lips. Raoul biddeth Aloïs follow him and compelleth her to mount his horse. She feeleth herself sway beneath the weight of her fear.
A rider cometh at the gallop. Enguerrand! Aloïs perceiveth the dread that must gnaw at the sergeant. She forestalleth him and turneth unto Raoul.
— My servant knoweth naught.
The provost casteth a glance toward the young man, who halteth a few paces from them. The lady fixeth him with a resolute gaze, willing him to make no move.
— Enguerrand, unto thee I entrust the castle. I shall return…
The sergeant clenchest his jaw and noddeth slowly.
Raoul mounteth behind Aloïs and striketh his horse with the spur, having given his commands unto the men-at-arms.
Fields and forests pass by. Darkness gathereth over the countryside. Aloïs closeth her eyes, knowing she hath perchance wrought the greatest error of her life. Raoul speaketh not unto her—a mercy, in truth.
All too swiftly, the mighty walls of Angers riseth upon the horizon. They pass the gate at an amble and ride up toward the palace. Raoul helpeth her to alight.
— Thou art not bound to do this, murmureth Aloïs.
Raoul delivereth his horse unto a soldier, then standeth before his prisoner.
— I have no choice. Thou hast been seen and known by many men, the vicar Gauzbert among them, who already hasteneth to spread the tale. If I act not, we both stand in peril. Thy deeds might bring dishonour upon thy husband. Thy liege being the Count of Anjou, I must present thee before the court of justice held by the seneschal of Sir Henri.
Aloïs’ eyes grow dim with tears, though she striveth to master them. She draweth breath and dareth ask the question that tormenteth her.
— What thinkest thou the seneschal shall do?
— I know not… yet he may show mercy, if he believeth thou hast acted only to protect thy folk.
— It is true, I swear it!
— It is too late for now. We shall see upon the morrow. I am constrained to place thee within a cell for the night.
Fear riseth once more within Aloïs. She is led into the tower of the castle and passeth before the porter on watch, who casteth upon her a look of scorn. Dark stairs descend unto the cells below. Upon the walls, water seepeth, making the stones to glisten as they pass.
Raoul setteth an oil lamp within a hollow of the wall, then lifteth a heavy bar of iron and openeth the dungeon door. A foul stench striketh her throat—a mingling of filth, of urine, of rotting straw… and of blood. God alone knoweth what wretch had been kept there before her.
— I shall have somewhat brought thee to eat, suggesteth Raoul.
— It is needless. I could swallow naught.
Aloïs feeleth the straw crackle beneath her steps. The door creaketh shut upon its hinges. The sound of iron telleth her she is locked within. She dareth not turn, her gaze fixed upon the wall before her.
A movement stirreth in the darkness, causing her to start—rats flee through unseen holes, whilst a dreadful cry resoundeth from the passage.
The young woman’s muscles grow rigid, and tears sting her eyes. She is alone, far from Baudouin. And this time, she seeth not what miracle might deliver her from such peril.
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