Aloïs lieth with her eyes fixed upon the ceiling of her cell within the abbey of Fontevraud. A cell wherein she shall doubtless spend the last days that remain unto her. A cell that seemeth, with each passing moment, to draw closer about her and crush her.
The rays of this late afternoon striketh the wall before her.
The young woman draweth a deep breath, striving not to sink—sink into madness, into melancholy—not to suffer the darkest thoughts to prevail. Not to imagine Baudouin’s reaction. Not to imagine his grief when he shall learn that his wife hath been seized and punished thus. Her husband knoweth her secret. How shall he defend himself against the accusations spoken by Geoffroy?
Aloïs sitteth upon her bed and turneth her head toward the narrow window. A clear sky hath replaced the dark clouds of January, yet the cold groweth sharper and more biting. Spring is yet far off. And Baudouin likewise. Time changeth men. Perchance he shall see in this matter a sign. Perchance he shall agree with the sentence, ashamed that his wife hath so dishonored herself, and shall cast her aside to preserve his fief and his honor.
Tears run once more down her cheeks. She wipeth them away in anger. Nay—she must expect naught from any soul. She hath brought herself into this plight alone; it is hers to escape it. But how?
The abbess Mathilde hath as yet spoken no reproach unto her, and hath shown her kindness. She compelleth her not, for the time, to take part in any duty. The most tempting would doubtless be to tend unto the lepers. If she must die, better that the sentence be fulfilled swiftly. She seeth not herself taking charge of the stores, nor of the apothecary, nor of the sacristy. She seeth not herself bound to any office—she would depart hence, free!
A knocking soundeth upon her door. Aloïs riseth slowly, wearied, and openeth it. A sister standeth before her, stern of countenance. Sister Jeanne’s mouth droopeth heavily at either side of her cheeks.
— Thou hast a visitor.
The nun turneth her back without awaiting reply, yet with full assurance that Aloïs shall follow. The latter sigheth and passeth through the corridors she had trod more than a year before—corridors she had felt certain she would one day tread again. She had not thought her foresight so true.
As she entereth the hostelry, she knoweth at once the tall form of the archdeacon, deep in discourse with the abbess. Aloïs boweth before these two great persons.
— My dear sister, I am eased to see that thou seemest in good health.
Aloïs striveth to smile, yet yieldeth only a strained grimace. The venerable Lady Mathilde casteth upon her a curious glance.
— I must now leave thee, Father. Yet I remain at thy service shouldst thou have need.
The man thanketh his hostess, who already departeth. His eyes return unto Aloïs.
— I have come to bring thee somewhat.
He steppeth aside and suffereth Aloïs to behold a sword. She draweth near, and a gasp escapeth her lips. She knoweth at once the maxim graven upon the blade—the favored psalm of her father: the battle of David and Goliath.
— I grieve to tell thee of the passing of Sir Aldebert.
Aloïs clingeth unto the table and beholdeth her tears fall upon the wood.
— His heart hath failed him. He did not survive.
A great desolation overwhelmeth her. She hath now no kin left—no parents, nor brother, nor sister… and soon, no husband. The lady falleth to her knees, her body suddenly weighed down beyond bearing. Anselme kneeleth beside her. In a gentle voice, he whispereth:
— I shall not abandon thee. I know thou hatest this plight, yet it was the sole course I could propose to preserve thee. If my brother be in any wise entangled in—
— Nay! I swear it.
Aloïs lifteth a desperate gaze toward the archdeacon.
— I am no thief. Baudouin… Baudouin knew not that I would act in such wise. He desired only that I remain within the castle…
— I believe thee… saith Anselme, laying his hand gently upon the young woman’s shoulder.
His voice… that voice so calm, so soothing… Why doth it trouble her so suddenly?
— What possessed thee to enter that church?
— One of the thieves…
Aloïs closeth her eyes for a moment, striving not to break.
— I would not grant him yet another chance to flee.
Anselme noddeth.
— I see… I believe thee, yet… in sooth, I am not certain the count shall be of my mind.
Aloïs’ body trembleth beneath her bliaud.
— Should Henri come to think the same as his brother… thou mightest lose thy life, and I could not endure it.
She turneth her gaze toward the archdeacon. He looketh upon her with a troubling intensity.
— Thou understandest, Aloïs, I desire to be near unto thee…
The young woman riseth, her brows knit. The man steppeth toward her, pressing her slowly back toward the wooden table.
— I may be far more unto thee. I may protect thee, grant thee all thou dost desire.
She scarce can believe what his words reveal of his intent. She had deemed him a friend. Anselme’s hand grazeth her cheek with softness, yet it burneth her as fire.
Aloïs starteth suddenly, as though roused from a trance.
— Thou art my brother by marriage.
— Nay, perchance I am no longer so. Thy marriage may soon be annulled, thou knowest it.
Aloïs openeth her mouth, yet no word cometh forth.
— I would not have thee remain alone. Thou art… wondrous, Aloïs. Full of courage, of spirit.
Anselme’s hand setteth upon her arm and slideth toward her hip. Aloïs draweth sharply aside. Without a word, she snatcheth up her father’s sword and fleeth the hall. Without pausing for breath, she mounteth the steps toward her cell and bursteth within like a tempest. She slameth the door behind her and presseth herself against it, as though her body might serve as a bar.
All this seemeth a nightmare—yet she cannot be mistaken. Anselme had looked upon her otherwise. A certain desire had gleamed within his eyes. A shudder runneth through her limbs.
She falleth down, seated upon the ground, clinging unto her father’s blade. Her gaze fixed upon the narrow window, she can but follow the eternal course of the sun, soon hidden by the high towers of the abbey.
The sounds without reach her muffled. Aloïs closeth her eyes, hoping her life might end when the moon shall rise amid the darkness. The shadows lengthen slowly about her, until they enfold her wholly. Little by little, calm returneth.
Footsteps echo upon the stair—slow, measured steps that draw near and halt before her door. Aloïs holdeth her breath. Anselme would not dare come hither. She riseth and graspeth her father’s sword. She shall suffer none to cast her down. Never again.
Aloïs stepeth back, granting her visitor leave to enter and meet her final moments.
The creak of hinges resoundeth through the cell. The shape of a nun’s robe appeareth in the dark. The woman cometh forward, and by the moon’s pale light Aloïs discerneth the features of the abbess. Her muscles slacken somewhat, though she remaineth wary.
— Take thy things and follow me, commandeth the nun.
The words chill her like ice.
— Whither dost thou lead me?
— Thou shalt see soon enough.
The reverend abbess Mathilde turneth away.
— And if I will not follow thee?
The nun turneth slowly back to face her once more.
— I think not that thou wouldst refuse to fulfil thy destiny.
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Baudouin gripeth the shaft of his lance. Beneath his armor, he feeleth the padded cloth that shall shield him from blows. He weareth also his sword at his side and his shield. Before him stand the men of King Stephen, set between Henri’s host and Wallingford. A biting cold hath seized the warriors at dawn. Frost covered the wide fields about the town.
Stephen came on the eve to face his young rival. The battle is about to be joined. The stakes are great: to free Wallingford and secure further support for Henri.
No sound stirreth among the ranks. The archers stand in the foremost line, ready to loose their bodkin arrows upon the first footmen who shall advance.
Baudouin sitteth astride Mars, ever more tense. He is among those who shall charge into the fray as soon as the order is given.
Other milites wait behind, ready to take up the fight should it endure the whole day. How many among them shall fall?
Baudouin casteth his gaze across these men, all fixed upon the plain without flinching.
Macé standeth not far from the young lord. He remaineth still, yet his lips tremble from the cold. Others stir restlessly, driven by that fever of battle which springeth from fear.
Count Henri hath ridden forth before the English. He lifteth his arm.
Suddenly, all about Baudouin seemeth frozen. A dreadful silence falleth upon both hosts. He graspeth his weapon the tighter. Cries pierce the stillness—King Stephen hath given the order to attack. The count’s hand falleth, and a cloud of arrows riseth and descendeth upon the foe. The archers make ready again.
Then Baudouin beholdeth an image flicker behind his eyes: Aloïs. He would return unto her. He shall do all to that end. With a cry of fury, he rusheth forth with his men, stirrup to stirrup, lance levelled against the enemy. Taking the fore, he striveth to cut down as many foes as he may.
The strength of Mars proveth an undeniable boon. He thrusteth aside the footmen, who fall beneath his hooves, opening a breach for his lord’s men. Another knight hasteneth toward him, lance levelled. Baudouin setteth his own swiftly beneath his arm, held firm, and aimeth just beneath the helm, at the neck. The stroke is bold, yet if it striketh true, the foe shall be undone.
Mars quickeneth his pace, well used to such encounters. Baudouin holdeth his course. He thrusteth forth his arm and feeleth the shock run through his shoulder. The adversary is cast backward. A stream of blood floweth at once from his throat. The man falleth to the ground, clutching his wound. With a final gasp, he dieth. His body slackeneth slowly and lieth still forevermore.
Baudouin cannot forget that it might have been he. Yet a new feeling possesseth his soul: he would return home. He hath now a true cause to live.
The knight lifteth his head and beholdeth Macé stagger and fall. An Englishman standeth above him, ready to strike him down. Baudouin seizeth his lance and rideth forth at a gallop. He aimeth at the foe’s flank and striketh him violently. The man crieth out and falleth heavily. A part of his mail is rent asunder. Baudouin turneth to his footman.
— Art thou well?
Macé grumbleth and riseth.
— I was but dazed, no more. He had near got me, that one.
Baudouin would turn his steed when suddenly he feeleth his foot jerked upward. A warrior upon the ground seeketh to unhorse him. The man receiveth a fierce blow upon the shoulder and looseth his grip. Macé striketh him again upon the face. The Englishman turneth and falleth senseless.
— We be quits, saith Baudouin.
The two return unto the fray. Other knights break through the enemy ranks with sword-blows. The scent of blood riseth slowly from the damp earth. Mud clingeth to Mars’s hooves and to the soldiers’ boots. Baudouin keepeth his seat and striketh down those who pass within his reach.
Another English lord cometh to challenge him with the sword. Combat in the saddle is less sure than upon the ground, and Baudouin near falleth more than once. He wardeth off another blow.
The words of Aloïs return unto him: haste not, and let thy foe grow weary. The weight of armor, joined with that of lance and shield, shall soon tire the rider. Baudouin guideth the horses in a circling motion and bendeth as low as his hauberk alloweth. Before him, his enemy weakeneth. His blows grow slower, less certain. This is the moment Baudouin chooseth to strike.
He delivereth a fierce thrust with his sword, which maketh the Englishman reel. Baudouin striketh him a second time, driving him backward until he falleth.
Upon the ground, the warrior can rise no more. Baudouin taketh his lance and standeth above him. The man stirreth not, awaiting the final blow. The knight lifteth his arm… and hesitateth. Who awaiteth this man at home?
Baudouin’s gaze wandereth about him. Soldiers fight amid the dead and the wounded. A mist hath fallen upon the field, lending a ghostly aspect to this grim sight. How many widows shall weep this night?
The rage and thirst for blood, born of battle’s frenzy, guideth the hands of the fighters. The clash of arms, the cries of milites, seemeth to spread across all England, so fierce is the struggle.
Suddenly, a horn soundeth. Baudouin seeketh whence it cometh. The soldiers halt little by little, striving, like him, to understand. Then, as one, each warrior turneth back toward his own camp—bewildered, yet perchance relieved—bearing the wounded with them. Baudouin casteth one last glance upon his foe, still lying motionless upon the ground, ere he setteth his horse to a trot.
The knights near the count have already gathered about him, and discourse hath begun. Baudouin learneth that King Stephen hath called for a truce.
What meaneth this? A battle may not be thus broken off.
— The enemy wavereth to begin the fight, proclaimeth one of Henri’s barons. It may be he would rather yield the lands than sacrifice his men. He knoweth thy valor.
The grey eyes of the count gleam with a victorious light. Yet he answereth in a measured tone:
— Let us first hear what he would say. He seeketh speech with me. Thereafter we shall know more.
Baudouin stealeth away, knowing he is of little use for the present hour and eager to inform his men of events they have surely not understood.
He returneth unto the camp and taketh time to tell his soldiers all that he knoweth. The battle seemeth ever less likely. Stephen showeth not such eagerness for the fight. Would he wear Henri down by delay?
If it be so, he erreth greatly. Yet Baudouin deemeth it unlikely that he shall grant Henri’s demand and yield him the crown. For now, the matter standeth still.
He goeth back unto his tent, having first visited the wounded brought from the field. Yvain awaiteth him.
— The battle was swift, Sire, noteth Yvain.
— I am of thy mind. Yet I know not if it be a good thing. As thou thyself hast said: such delayeth peace rather than bringeth it.
Sweat beadeth upon his brow as he casteth off his hauberk of mail and removeth his gambeson. He hasteneth to a basin of water and washeth himself. Marks of chafing upon his neck and wrists show where the mail hath rubbed against his flesh. He dryeth himself with a cloth. The young man doubteth not that Henri shall summon him after his discourse with Stephen.
Yvain handeth him a letter, a faint smile upon his lips.
— A messenger hath brought this. It cometh from France, Sire. Thy lady, mayhap…
The lord draineth the wine from the cup and taketh the parchment. Baudouin openeth it swiftly, a flicker of hope within him.
The first words shatter all. Paleness spreadeth across his face.
— Some ill news, Sire? asketh Yvain.
Baudouin answereth not, his gaze fastened upon the lines that seem to waver before him.
— Aloïs… hath been taken and is suspected of taking part in the thefts. They have cast her into prison, the wretches—they have shut her within the castle cells to affright her.
Yvain steppeth forward, troubled.
— What? Who hath writ this?
— Raoul. He telleth me that my wife was taken unto the Abbey of Fontevraud… But that she fell grievously ill some days after and is… dead…
Baudouin falleth to the ground, undone. A harsh cry breaketh from his lips—a cry of pain and fury. The vellum crumpleth within his grasp as his fingers clutch it fiercely.
— The provost is mistaken, surely, saith Yvain.
Baudouin striketh the damp earth. Tears gather in his eyes.
— None of this would have befallen had I remained beside Aloïs. None of this… would have befallen had Henri not chased after that crown.
He lifteth his head and raiseth his fist toward the heavens.
— Cursed be Count Henri… I curse him! I curse them all!
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