This pale grey cloak, this air of mystery… all bringeth back unto him the woman he had espied beside the dead one. The stranger keepeth her head bowed, and her face is in part veiled. Her hands likewise are hidden beneath long mittens. The mantle is wide, yet suffereth one to discern a body bent and slender.
— Who art thou?
Baudouin would fain draw back her hood, yet she hindereth him, staying him with a swift motion.
— Nay, Sire. I may not show thee my features.
Her hoarse voice soundeth like a pained whisper.
— For what cause?
— I have had the leprosy, Sire… My visage is now marred by the sickness.
Baudouin feeleth a shock within his breast: this woman beareth the same affliction as Aloïs. He stretcheth forth his arm once more, yet is again stayed.
— When wast thou thus afflicted?
— It is some years past. I was the daughter of a petty lord of Poitou. I took this malady, and my parents gave me unto the leper-house. I had the fortune to live, yet since then I dwell apart from the world, lest I bring fear upon men. I can give thee tidings of her who is dead.
The knight lifteth his chin and narroweth his eyes.
— I came hither for this alone, to speak with thee. Yet I could not, in goodly fashion, do so in the street.
Her speech holdeth together, and Baudouin letteth his arm fall.
— I hearken.
— The woman dwelt at the abbey of Fontevraud.
— How knowest thou this?
— I was tended there. She was among the religious women. I had speech with her aforetime.
— Knowest thou her name?
— Claude. I know also that she was the mistress of a man. She had borne a child, yet the babe died in misery.
Baudouin’s gaze wandereth into the void.
— I understand.
The woman is silent for a moment.
— I saw her some months past, when the venerable Lady Mathilde departed this life.
The knight remembereth full well the passing of the abbess. The shock was deep for all. Mathilde of Anjou had given her life unto the abbey; she had faced many trials as a woman set over such a place. The monks had long withstood her authority and had forced her to call upon the count. Yet, for all that, she remained a lady both honoured and beloved, and many wept her death.
— At that time, the… victim told me of her desire to rejoin the man she loved.
Baudouin raiseth a brow. Somewhat ringeth false in this tale.
— Thou sayest thou didst see her again some months past.
— Aye, Sire.
— Since when had she been in the convent?
— I cannot tell with certainty, yet doubtless for some years… She was not one to abide enclosed. She fled more than once. It is hard for me to say how long she remained there.
Baudouin passeth his fingers through his beard. This might well explain how Raoul had met her three years past, at the time when Aloïs hastened unto the church of Saint-Lézin to be taken.
— And knowest thou the name of her lover?
— Alas, I have it not.
— I see. ’Tis a pity, yet I thank thee. Thou hast given me tidings of worth, which may aid me to find her slayers. I shall speak thereof unto the provost.
It is unlikely that the poor woman spake of this man unto other sisters of the abbey, yet Raoul will doubtless be minded to go thither, to seek further knowledge of the victim. A tremor shaketh the stranger’s shoulders, her head ever bowed.
— Art thou cold?
— Nay, Sire. I shall not tarry longer. A noble in the company of a leper, though healed, would be ill seen.
He stayeth her once more by the sleeve as she turneth away.
— Here, take this.
Baudouin extendeth his hand, wherein lie several coins.
— It is needless, I cannot…
— Thou hast brought me thy succour; I may at the least thank thee for it.
The former invalid holdeth her peace and with difficulty raiseth her palm. Baudouin marketh the trembling of her arms. The tips of her fingers appear—fine, pale…
The clink of the coins striking one another draweth him from his thoughts.
— I would fain ask thee one last question.
The woman stirreth not.
— Hast thou… encountered a noble lady by the name of Aloïs when thou wast at the leper house? She was there three years past.
Once more, silence falleth betwixt them. The stranger’s head wavereth softly.
— I think… it speaketh somewhat to me.
— She was sent thither for having… ill done. It seemeth she had wished to render aid.
— A young lady with clear eyes, the wife of one of the lords of the region?
— Even so.
A hope stealeth over Baudouin.
— Knowest thou what befell her?
The woman’s hands begin again to tremble.
— She is… dead, Sire.
The stranger turneth about all at once and hasteneth forth through the door. Baudouin remaineth fixed, unable to stay her, so sorely doth grief smite him anew. He striketh with redoubled fury against a beam. Never had he willed to believe in Aloïs’s death; yet all now confirmeth it unto him.
It were perchance time to let her go, to accept that she is no more and shall never return hither. It were perchance time to turn the page and go forward.
*
Baudouin hath kept silence since their departure from Angers. Enguerrand hath not opened his mouth, honouring his master’s need for quiet. As they reach the castle, the young man yieldeth his horse unto a servant.
— Go within; I have somewhat to do.
Baudouin taketh the path through the woods and maketh toward the raised stele. As he draweth near, he hath the sense of having chosen the very place for Aloïs: shaded enough to shield from the sun’s rays in summer and from the winter winds. A brook runneth not far off, bearing a soft and ceaseless murmur.
Baudouin croucheth by the stone and removeth the fallen twigs. He sigheth and letteth his gaze wander round about ere lowering it again upon the grey-blue surface.
— I think I must now needs admit that thou art gone for ever, and that thy body hath indeed been burned with those of the other sick.
A painful knot setteth itself within the hollow of his throat.
— Thou didst deserve far better. I hope thou mayst come to rest here. I deemed these grounds would please thee…
He presseth his lips together and draweth forth the brooch from his leather satchel. Baudouin remaineth a while in silence, his eyes fastened upon Aloïs’s jewel, which at last he layeth beside the stone. He would have fain given her such a gift. He had not the time.
The knight riseth slowly, then goeth back toward the castle, resolved to accept the inevitable.
When he entereth, Marie awaiteth him.
— What is it?
— Thou hast received a missive, Sire.
She holdeth out the letter, which he taketh.
— I thank thee.
— Wouldst thou have somewhat special for supper?
— What thou wilt; it mattereth little to me.
Baudouin goeth into the lodging and unfoldeth the vellum. Sir Geoffroy hath at last made reply. A faint smile stretcheth the knight’s lips. He calleth unto Fanzine and biddeth her bring him that which is needful for writing into the aula.
The lord setteth himself there and readeth again the message, well pleased. The maid bringeth the vellum sheets and withdraweth swiftly, leaving behind her a scent of lanolin contained within the Bristol soap she useth. The lord biteth the inside of his cheek. The young wife seemeth to do all she may to avoid her master, doubtless afeard of his reaction at her wedding.
He sigheth, for the nonce unable to trouble himself with the opinion of others. He setteth his mind once more upon his missive and traceth the first words. Baudouin knoweth how to play a close game and must show himself a subtle diplomat, else he shall undo all his labours with Geoffroy.
The phrases cometh by degrees, according to the end he hath set before himself: to keep distance, yet to extend the hand; to reveal his strengths and conceal his weaknesses; to dissemble. Is it not thus that all great lords comport themselves to obtain that which they desire of others?
Aloïs was otherwise. She knew not how to hide her feelings, nor how to outplay another. Her sole secret lay in her desire to answer unto her own values. Baudouin feeleth as though he betrayeth her in so acting, yet he hath no choice. If he would attain his purpose, he shall not have a thousand paths open before him.
He bringeth his letter to its end. The close of his missive should sweep away the last doubts: “The consequences of the present lack of boldness and firmness in Anjou are most grievous. I mourn a wife who, beneath your protection, would yet be alive.”
Baudouin setteth his seal with a rod of wax. Weariness suddenly presseth upon him. Overmany thoughts have thronged within his mind, and the very act of yielding hope of ever beholding Aloïs again hath drained his last strength.
He supeth in silence, with wine for his only companion, and falleth upon his bed. Sleep taketh him swiftly, and images begin to dance before his eyes: Aloïs as a child, challenging him to a duel; their meeting again in the forest, when the young woman hung fast by the foot in a snare; their betrothal, constrained and compelled… and then the day he surprised her confronting a drunkard to save Belle.
The vision of Aloïs riseth before him. She weareth a fair blue bliaud, and her light hair is bound by a veil of purest white. She layeth her hand upon her brooch, a golden rose—the same she wore at Chinon.
The image of the jewel left beside the stele plucketh him from his sleep. He starteth and sitteth upright in his bed. The sun hath already risen. Baudouin goeth forth hastily from the lodging and meeteth Marie.
— Sire, shall I prepare thy meal to break the night’s fast?
— I must first needs recover somewhat.
He departeth in haste from the bailey and maketh for the bocage. As he draweth near unto the stone, he seeth not the brooch. He falleth upon his knees and scrabbleth at the earth. Nothing! The jewel is gone.
— No!
He breath eth out in despair. A movement in the wood draweth his gaze: someone runneth. Baudouin riseth and giveth chase. Without taking his eyes from the figure, he weaveth betwixt the trees.
— Halt!
The form glideth lightly among the trunks and seemeth ever to draw farther away. Of a sudden, Baudouin’s foot striketh a root. The knight cannot keep his balance and falleth heavily to the ground.
He lifteth his head and perceiveth the thief afar. The latter hath turned and looketh toward him. The distance betwixt them is overgreat for him to discern the features; yet one thing alone seemeth likely:
— But… it is a child!
The little one gazeth at him yet a moment. He would swear she wavereth. Wherefore? At last she turneth about and departeth with swift steps. Baudouin riseth again, yet abandoneth the pursuit.
Hasty footsteps behind him cause him to turn. The servant cometh to a halt beside him, out of breath.
— Sire… we have received a message from Yvain.
Baudouin turneth, tense.
— He prayeth to see thee with all haste, Sire…
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