The eve before.
Aloïs runneth as swiftly as her legs may bear her. She withdraweth as far as she may from the stables. What hath come upon her? What folly was it to draw so near unto Baudouin! Yet when they stood before the corpse of Sister Claude, her heart did race. And yet she had done all to forget him during those three years spent far from him.
At the sight of his face, the sorrowful cast of his eyes, Aloïs was cast back unto the hour when her life was overturned—unto the moment when she made the hardest choice of her days and quitted the abbey. Three years wherein she made herself ready to return unto Anjou and learn who had ensnared her. She had sworn to keep her distance from Baudouin, hoping he might have forgotten her and, mayhap, even become a father…
She had no intent to see him again here; yet in following Anselme she espied him once more and made her way into the stable.
Aloïs could no longer govern her trembling hands: betwixt the stirring of being so near him and the dread of being discovered. For what would she have done in such a case?
No thought of drawing him into this matter! Henceforth, it is her vengeance, and it toucheth not Baudouin. If he was not accused of the thefts then, nothing assureth that he would not be troubled now. And he would be unable to stand aside, were he to know that Aloïs had lived and was returned. The best she may do is to remain dead—to him… to them.
The young woman slackeneth her pace, now certain that Baudouin followeth her not. She chafeth at having given him tidings of the nun, yet she was taken unawares. It was the only excuse she found to turn aside his heed. Yet this bringeth little peril: Baudouin himself said he would speak of it unto the provost, and there it shall doubtless end. He could never conceive that any bond might lie betwixt Aloïs and that woman. Moreover, she gave him not the most weighty matter.
Aloïs goeth more quietly toward the tavern called The Vine Stump, not far from the Stone Stair. The stench of the city—a mingling of urine, beasts, and refuse—had not been missed by her. She windeth her way betwixt pools of foul water and the droppings of animals.
As she turneth into a narrow lane, she heareth a song rise above the noise of passers-by and carts. The voice is not unknown unto her, yet above all the tongue of the song draweth her heed. She draweth near unto the beggar, set against a wall, with naught but a simple hat laid before him to gather alms. The dark-skinned man swayeth greatly, and a reek of drink cometh from his garments. At the sight of his face, Aloïs starteth back.
Yvain!
What doth he here? The fellow, as though drunken, goeth on crying words without sense. His head waggeth to the measure of the tune he singeth. He breaketh off as he beholdeth the stranger draw near.
— My good lady, if thou hast a little coin in thy purse…
Aloïs bendeth toward him, her countenance yet concealed.
— Tell me, good fellow, what hath befallen thee that thou must needs beg?
The man peereth askance at the young woman.
— Ah!… My master was not well pleased with me.
The lady narroweth her eyes.
— What fault hast thou wrought, to be thus cast forth?
— I love a little overmuch the wine… and to speak. And I have no more leave to set foot within the fief. And, in truth, I have no more desire.
He taketh another draught from an ale jug set beside him. Aloïs snatcheth it from his grasp.
— What doest thou? I have need of it!
The young woman overturneth the vessel upon the servant’s head, who starteth up crying aloud. She removeth her mask and casteth back her hood, thus revealing her features unto the former servant. The man, at first wroth, suddenly groweth pale.
— Lady Aloïs? Is it… thou?
She setteth her finger upon her lips and biddeth him be silent. Yet Yvain cannot bridle his joy.
— Thou art alive! God be praised! It must be told unto Lord Baudouin.
Aloïs stayeth him.
— No! If I have shown myself unto thee, it is that I mean not to leave thee thus forsaken by thy master. Thou hast said thou wert cast out.
— Aye, aye… in sooth. But if I return with you, I might well cause my follies to be forgotten.
— No such thing, thundereth the young woman, her gaze dark. If ever thou speakest aught, it is I who shall cut out thy tongue ere casting thee into the pit. Know well that, were Baudouin to learn it, he would run to his undoing. Thou must say nothing of my presence here, nor yet that I am alive.
Yvain casteth upon the young woman a look suddenly more clear.
— Thou fearest somewhat?
— I fear those who drove me unto fault. And I would discover who hath sought to rid themselves of me.
— I see.
Aloïs casteth her gaze about.
— Let us not remain here. Belle awaiteth me at the tavern.
— Belle also?
A sly smile appeareth upon the lady’s face.
— I see this maketh many risen from the dead…
Yvain followeth in her steps, and the two enter the house. At the sight of her young mistress, Belle, seated at a table, riseth at once. Yet the presence of Yvain maketh her wary. Her protectress hasteneth to name him again unto the child, now grown much. The three sit and call for supper.
— How came ye back from the dead? asketh Yvain. All folk think ye are in heaven.
Aloïs draweth a long breath.
— It is better so. I may but tell thee that I have found allies as unexpected as they are precious, and that I have made ready to return unto Anjou. Yet once my purpose is fulfilled, I shall depart again. Therefore, I say it once more: I rely upon thy silence.
The host setteth the meal upon the table.
— Eat, commandeth Aloïs, it shall help thee to overcome the drink.
— What would ye do? continueth Yvain.
— Naught that concerneth thee.
— I may aid thee.
— No! It is over perilous.
Yvain turneth toward Belle, who yet regardeth him whilst eating her bread.
— And the little one? Is it not perilous for her?
Aloïs glanceth toward her, then sigheth.
— I could not persuade her to remain with mine uncle.
— Then let me aid thee somewhat also.
The lady hesitateth.
— I know the town, I pass unseen clad as a beggar, and I have eyes and ears in every place, addeth Yvain. If thou wouldst have me hearken unto any, I may.
Belle shifteth upon her seat. A page slippeth forth and falleth to the ground. Yvain bendeth to take it up. The likeness of a woman is drawn thereon. He speaketh unto Belle:
— Thou drawest better than I speak!
The child smileth.
— Yet I have not drawn Lady Aloïs. It is another whom we have met.
Yvain maketh a face of wonder.
— And thou speakest like fair maidens.
— Lady Aloïs hath taught me the art of speech. I have also learned to read and to write.
A spark of pride shineth in the maiden’s eyes. The mistress taketh the work in hand.
Yvain bendeth closer and openeth wide his eyes.
— Is it not the dead one?
In her turn, Aloïs is amazed:
— Hast thou heard tell of it?
— I tell thee, I know all that passeth in Angers…
The young woman presseth her lips and exchangeth a glance with Belle.
— Very well… I accept thy aid. And first, I would have thee tell me all that thou knowest concerning a man…
*
Aloïs passeth her finger over the portrait that Belle hath drawn, tracing the lines of the face. The hall of the tavern beginneth to fill in this late morn, yet for the time it is still quiet enough to grant her thought. She hath not yet fulfilled the errand she meant to undertake upon her coming hither. The death of Claude hath for a while drawn her aside from her purpose. Yet Aloïs hath sworn it—she shall go to meet that man.
In the meanwhile, she now holdeth tidings of another matter, which the poor nun hath given her unwittingly, beyond all doubt.
Aloïs findeth full well again the innocent features of the sister she had met many years before in the shadowed cloister of the Abbey. Never had she thought to behold her anew in such grievous circumstance.
At the passing of the venerable Lady Mathilde, Aloïs knew her again—not so much by her visage as by her fearful bearing and that guilty air. The young religious had fled the convent, only to return thereto shortly ere the abbess’s death. She had confessed unto her that she could not renounce that man—a man rich and of great influence, who filled her with dread. His manner troubled her sorely: he could show himself gentle and tender, then become cold and unfeeling the very next moment. The power he held might send her unto a far stricter and more austere house. A power, it seemed, that he gained by means little Christian.
Her lover had shown no grief upon learning of the death of his child, and had even deemed it a good thing. Aloïs could not forbear to find this most odious.
And then their paths crossed once more when the lady had at last resolved to return unto Anjou. She had sojourned awhile with the nuns and had seen Claude again. She seemed more at peace and had resolved to give herself wholly unto her monastic life. Then had she entrusted unto her a troubling matter—one that Aloïs had kept from Baudouin: the man she loved wrought crimes. He had gathered unto himself many stolen goods and had no mind to cease. His ambitions drove him ever to desire more. Claude broke off her tale, overcome with shame. Some graver thing yet gnawed at her, yet she was unable to confess it. When Aloïs sought to see her again upon the morrow, the nun had vanished. She found her, slain, upon the road to Angers, at the same time as Baudouin.
To have named her unto the knight shall at least spare Claude the common pit, and her body may be borne back unto the abbey.
To find again that man whom she had loved might lead Aloïs unto the master of thieves. And though this be not her first intent, she might also put an end to the deeds of these criminals.
Thus hath Belle drawn two likenesses of Claude, and they have gone through the town to show them unto passers-by. Perchance someone hath seen her leave a house or wander certain streets, which would narrow their search. Aloïs knoweth she must seek a wealthy man whose power might well have made the nun fear grievous reprisal. The signs are broad, yet all must be weighed.
And it was in pursuing this quest that Aloïs felt the greatest fear of her life, when she beheld Belle draw near unto a man: the archdeacon. The child remembered him not and questioned him as any stranger. Yet what startled Aloïs the more was her brother-in-law’s manner: he seemed greatly troubled, even to the point of seeking to seize the parchment. Belle had the wit to guard her drawing and fled at once. Aloïs chose to follow the churchman, intrigued by his bearing. And it was then that she saw Baudouin again. She heard not the beginning of their speech within the stable; and by the time she resolved to enter, they spake of Count Henri and the strife with his brother.
She lifteth her head. Noon draweth near, and Belle is yet not come. The child departed at dawn without waking her mistress, which bode ill. She would not have the little one pursue the search without her. Yester eve they had come near unto disaster. By good fortune Anselme knew not the young servant.
Yvain entereth the tavern and cometh to sit beside Aloïs, having checked himself from bowing. His garments are yet in poor state, yet he smelleth scarce of wine and seemeth to have made his ablutions, so that he is presentable. A faint scent of mead clingeth to the folds of his mantle and mingles with flowery fragrances. His bearing too is changed: more upright, more assured.
— I am sorry, my lady, I woke not. By night, it is no easy thing to sleep abroad…
— Thou needst not excuse thyself; thou owest me naught. I could pay thee a chamber here, if thou wilt.
— Oh no! By no means. Else I could no more listen.
The servant falleth silent.
— The little one is not here?
— I awaited her. Hast thou seen her not?
— No…
Yvain leaneth toward the young woman.
— Why not ask the aid of Sir Baudouin?
— No! I have told thee already.
He inclineth his head.
— Ye have a strange manner, both of you, to protect one another…
Aloïs lifteth a brow.
— What meanest thou by that?
A rueful grimace twisteth the thick lips of the former servant.
— I say but that…
At that instant the door openeth, and Belle entereth running, out of breath.
— Ho! Shut the door behind thee! crieth the tavern-keeper.
Belle turneth back and doth so with haste beneath the vexed gaze of the host.
— Lady Aloïs! I have lost the second portrait.
— Whither wert thou gone?
The child swalloweth.
— I had left the city early this morn to seek witnesses beyond the walls. As I returned, I had the sense of being followed, and I hastened toward the ramparts. Yet a man stayed me. He wore black garments and a sword at his side. He snatched the drawing from me and bade me meddle not in this matter. I struggled, and as I cried out, another man came, and I took that moment to flee as swiftly as I might.
— Wert thou followed? asketh Yvain.
— I think not.
— Where befell this? saith Aloïs again.
— Not far from the Hugon Gate.
— Let us go thither.
She draweth up the child’s hood and her own, and the three go forth from the tavern. This man may well be he whom she seeketh: the leader of the band. One that beareth arms must needs possess goods. They cross the city, jostling beasts and folk. Belle runneth ahead, taking heed that Aloïs and Yvain follow still.
She halteth suddenly and turneth back to hide at the corner of a house, and her mistress and the servant do the same.
The child pointeth toward a man—tall, clad in black, with harsh features.
— It is he.
The stranger speaketh with another whom Aloïs cannot clearly discern, ever hidden by passers-by. At last she beholdeth him, and her heart leapeth.
— But… saith Yvain in agitation, he speaketh with the archdeacon.
Aloïs cannot believe it. Wherefore should the churchman speak with such a one? Would Anselme shelter a dishonourable lord?
The young woman bendeth toward Belle.
— Return to the inn. Shut thyself within the chamber. I shall knock our sign, that thou mayst open.
The little one departeth the other way. The two men part suddenly.
— We must follow them, crieth Aloïs.
— I take the tall one, and thou followest the arch… the churchman.
Without awaiting her answer, Yvain hasteneth after the first. Aloïs muttereth in vexation, yet taketh the path of Anselme. He goeth up toward the cathedral and entereth therein. The young woman cannot follow without peril of being marked. She is constrained to wait without, wondering if she letteth slip some key matter. She hath a strong desire to go and question him. Yet what would be his answer? Their last discourse troubled her deeply. Anselme’s expectations of her were not hers. And how should she question him? It would give him to think she suspecteth him of aiding thieves. It were near blasphemy to suppose that a man of such rank could act so vilely.
At last the churchman cometh forth, and Aloïs hideth herself once more. She followeth him back unto the canon’s house, where the archdeacon entereth. This time she groweth impatient. She will not await him till eventide. She lingereth yet a little, then resolveth to return unto the inn, where she findeth Belle in the chamber. The child showeth herself disappointed, and above all grieved to have let the portrait be taken.
— Trouble not thyself; we have the other, and this hath led us unto a trail. It is all we sought.
Aloïs casteth a glance through the window: the hour advanceth, and Yvain is yet not returned. A dark foreboding stealeth upon her—what if ill hath befallen him? The servant knoweth not how to fight. He is cunning and bold of tongue, yet against a sword it availeth him little.
Aloïs and Belle go down into the hall for supper, yet the young woman cannot swallow a single morsel.
Each time the door of the inn openeth, she starteth, tense.
— Think you he shall soon return? asketh Belle.
— I hope so.
How far hath he gone, to tarry thus long? Of a sudden, Yvain’s face appeareth at the entrance of the hall. He cometh quickly toward them and sitteth, plainly well pleased.
— Well? asketh Aloïs.
— I think I have somewhat… a house.
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