The cell is austere: a bed, a stool, and a window overlooking the cloister. Yet this is not what troubles Aloïs most. She turns upon her couch and draws the coverlet up. Marie sleeps beside her upon a pallet of straw laid upon the ground. The maidservant has fallen into a deep slumber. Yet her mistress’s eyes remain stubbornly wide open.
Baudouin’s explanations weigh upon her mind. A single altered fate may bring forth a chain of calamities. The death of William Adelin is tragic not only for the loss of life, but for all that followed thereafter.
Another thought turns within Aloïs’s mind. Mathilde was wed at nine years of age. She was but a child. Of course, she knows it was only to seal the union, that the girl was not made to play the wife at such an age, that such customs are common among the nobility to secure alliances.
And yet, she had never before encountered such women. Mathilde might have become Queen of England. She now reigns over a very different realm.
Aloïs turns once more and strives to close her eyes. Outside, darkness is complete. Only the moon’s pale light lends a faint glow to the night.
A sound suddenly draws her attention. She sits upright and listens. A kind of mournful moan breaks the silence of the night. The young woman moves toward her window and parts the linen curtain set there to keep out the cold. The cloister court lies drowned in shadow. The moonlight shapes shifting, uncertain forms. A figure stands out between the pillars and moves toward the abbey church. It seems to fall to its knees. The weeping resumes, more muffled.
Aloïs turns. Marie still sleeps. She resolves to see for herself what it may be. She draws on her chausses of tiretaine, fastened with a lace, and her houseaux, then wraps herself in her cloak. She pulls up her hood as she makes her way to the stairs. Her unfamiliarity with the place slows her progress all the more. Moreover, she bears only a small beeswax candle to light her path, breathing forth a soft scent of honey.
She passes again through the dormitory, where loud snores rise from the sleepers. Aloïs reaches the door leading to the cloister and steps outside. The cold seizes her at once, and she draws her cloak tighter about her.
The figure has not moved. The sobs now reach her more clearly. From the shape, she discerns it is a woman, clad in a nun’s habit, kneeling before the church. The young lady approaches with care. Despite her caution, her presence is perceived. The unknown woman rises suddenly and turns toward Aloïs with a startled cry.
— No, do not be afraid! I beg your pardon—I meant not to startle you.
She draws back her hood, revealing her face in the flickering light of the flame before her.
— I come to visit the abbess in the name of Count Henry.
The woman seems to seek some means of escape.
— I heard you weeping.
Aloïs inclines her head and steps closer. The light falls upon the nun’s face, scarcely older than herself. Tears have reddened her cheeks and nose, yet her lips are as pale as morning frost. Though not strikingly beautiful, her features are well-formed and would doubtless please men.
— You seemed lost.
— I am…
The stranger’s voice breaks, and her eyes shine with fresh tears.
— Did you come to seek comfort within the church?
The young woman shakes her head.
— I would not dare enter there. I am a sinner—I would never do such a thing before the Lord.
Aloïs’s brows draw together.
— Then what do you here?
A shudder runs through the fragile figure of the nun.
— I would ask forgiveness. I know full well I shall not go to Paradise…
Her breath quickens at the thought, and she seems overcome with despair. Aloïs steps nearer and lays a hand upon her arm.
— I do not believe God closes His gates to the repentant. What have you done to think so cruel a fate awaits you? At times, we judge ourselves far more harshly than the Lord would.
— Do you truly believe so?
Their eyes meet. Aloïs holds the nun’s gaze, wherein doubt and a longing to yield are both plain. The stranger’s shoulders sag.
— I love… a man, and we have… well, you see… though we are not wed.
Aloïs restrains any movement that might seem judgmental.
— God surely forgives such failings.
— But…
The nun hesitates, then lowers her eyes.
— I had a little one… who died.
Aloïs feels as though struck in the chest.
— I did not kill him, that is certain! But I had no coin to care for him, and he was gone ere the frost had fallen upon the fields.
— And what did this man do?
— Oh, he is a man of consequence.
A glimmer of pride lights the stranger’s grey eyes.
— He cannot aid me, he told me so—it would bring him harm.
A gust of wind lifts Aloïs’s camisa, making her shiver. The woman notices nothing and shifts from foot to foot.
— Had he not been in such a station… we might have lived happy, the three of us, with the little one. I asked for little. Now I am here to beg pardon—for him, for myself, for the babe…
A sound causes Aloïs to turn. She senses the nun behind her slipping back into the shadows of the cloister pillars. A woman appears at the dormitory door, an oil lamp in hand. The smell of mutton fat reaches the young lady as she steps forward to meet her and declares herself. An aged nun, her severe features marked by asceticism.
— Forgive me, I had need to go out—it was warm within, Aloïs explains.
The elder regards her with disapproval.
— A strange notion, in such cold…
— You are right—it is time to return.
She follows the nun, almost urging her along back into the building. In the courtyard, not a movement stirs. She returns to her cell, greeted by Marie’s deep, steady breathing. The journey has plainly wearied the maid. Aloïs lies down and at last falls asleep, her mind still troubled.
At dawn, she cannot help but cast a glance through the window.
— What is it you watch so, Lady Aloïs?
Marie finishes putting their belongings in order.
— Nothing… I find the place very fair.
— I would not wish you to live here, all the same. What would become of me?
Aloïs’s face softens into a candid smile.
— In that case, I would hide thee in my chests, that thou mightst never leave me.
The maid returns her smile and gathers her young mistress into her arms.
— Let us make haste—Sir Baudouin must be awaiting us to continue the journey, the servant declares, moved.
— I still struggle to understand why we must go to Chinon…
— Ah, that! Such are the mysteries of these lords.
Aloïs follows Marie through the winding corridors where the nuns move about, preparing to attend the morning office. She had heard them at about the fifth hour entering the abbey church and had then hidden beneath her covers, little inclined to brave the cold once more.
At the abbey gate, the men are already waiting. Abbess Mathilde seems deep in conversation with Baudouin and breaks off as she sees Aloïs approach.
— I came to wish you a fair journey. From here to Chinon, you have but half a day’s ride.
She takes Aloïs’s hands with a gentle, warm smile.
— And if you should persuade my nephew to come and visit me, I would be most grateful. I should very much like to speak with him.
— I shall do so, my Lady Mother.
Aloïs inclines herself with due reverence before the abbess and mounts her horse, aided by her husband. The company sets forth once more upon the road. She casts one last glance toward the abbey, seized by a strange certainty: she shall return thither, and perchance ere long.
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As they draw nigh unto the fortress of Chinon, a light drizzle falleth from the heavens and setteth upon the garments of the travellers.
Aloïs setteth her hood upon her head to shield her veil. She lifteth her gaze toward the enceinte raised upon a broad promontory, much like that of Angers. From without, she discerneth the comital palace standing not far from a lofty tower, doubtless serving both as watch and as store for victuals and arms. Great ramparts encompass the whole, including, as Baudouin hath told her, a priory.
The latter giveth his horse a light spur and draweth level with his wife.
— Your torment draweth to its end.
A faint smile toucheth the corner of his lips.
— I had near grown accustomed to this manner of travel.
Aloïs pats the neck of her mare, which tosses its head. Small droplets cling unto the beast’s mane. Baudouin regardeth the stronghold for a moment.
— I doubt the Count of Anjou be yet arrived, yet his brother shall receive us.
— I trust so. I would not fain set forth again in such weather.
They press on toward the great gates of the fortress. Taking advantage of her husband’s nearness, Aloïs ventures the question that hath troubled her since they departed the abbey.
— Might it be known for what cause Henry would have us here?
Baudouin turneth his head toward the Vienne, flowing quietly at the foot of the walls.
— The Count doth not ever acquaint me with his designs, and the missive borne by Raoul gave me little light thereon. Yet…
He pauseth and looketh upon his wife. She wipeth the rain from her face.
— ’Twere best you be informed, lest you commit some misstep, he continueth.
The young woman feeleth her breast tighten, yet betrayeth it not.
— Henry and his brother… are at odds concerning the future of Anjou. Henry hath sworn that he shall yield these lands unto his younger brother upon the day he be crowned King of England.
Aloïs listeneth, her brow knit.
— Yet naught assureth that he shall keep his word. Much would he stand to lose…
Her husband falleth silent once more.
— Then, saith Aloïs, we come to gauge the tensions that may arise betwixt the brethren?
— Rather to show our fealty unto our suzerain—Henry, for the present.
The lady’s gaze falleth upon the reins in her hands.
— Doth this mean there may be strife between the brothers?
— Most like.
— And… you would be bound to support one or the other.
Baudouin fixeth her with his eyes.
— You have understood.
Aloïs regardeth the walls before her. Behind those ramparts, perchance shall be decided the fate of many men and women.
Baudouin leadeth his wife and their servants unto the stables, there to leave their mounts. A churchman, whom Aloïs straightway knoweth, cometh forth to greet them. Anselme hath thrust his hands within the sleeves of his archdeacon’s robe, thus holding fast his lifeless limb. He welcometh them warmly.
— How glad I am to see you here once more.
His younger brother embraceth him heartily.
— How fareth Geoffrey? asketh the knight.
— The matter with his brother is no easy one, and questions yet remain concerning what is to come.
— Hath he spoken unto thee?
— As one speaketh unto a man of Holy Church. And as thou well knowest, I may not repeat what hath been entrusted unto me.
Baudouin worketh his jaw, silently showing he understandeth the unspoken meaning and shall press no further, though the urge be strong.
— Yet there is one thing ye must know…
Anselme falleth silent. His lips draw tight, betraying a certain unease.
— The King Louis and Queen Eleanor have but now obtained the nullity of their marriage from the Holy Father.
Aloïs presseth her hand to her lips to stifle a gasp of astonishment. Baudouin appeareth no less disconcerted.
— So then cometh the end of these troubled months.
— You knew of this? Aloïs asketh in wonder.
— I had heard some whisperings thereof, yet I deemed the king and his consort would not hasten to part, given what was at stake. Moreover, they had already met with refusal from the Supreme Pontiff upon their return from the Crusade. It would seem Louis hath at last set forth arguments of weight.
He turneth again toward his brother.
— Know we what hath persuaded the Pope in the end?
— The queen hath borne him no male heir… And furthermore, their bond had greatly worsened during that famed crusade wherein Eleanor accompanied her lord. The rumours of scandalous dealings with her uncle, Raymond of Antioch, did sorely trouble the royal couple.
Aloïs findeth it hard to conceive that such a thing might have come to pass. An annulment of marriage—more so between sovereigns—she hath never heard tell of before. As for the rumours, she well suspecteth that political designs have helped give them birth.
— But come within, urgeth Anselme. Geoffrey is within the comital hall. He shall be glad to see you again. And with this rain, ye shall take a chill.
Aloïs would fain thank her good-brother for his care, yet hath not the leisure, for the two men are already gone ahead.
When they enter the aula, the presence of many lords surpriseth her. Is there ever such throng at court?
A young lord is seated upon the chair at the end of the hall, not far from the great hearth. Seeing the pair enter, he beckoneth them nearer.
— Sir Baudouin, I am well pleased to see you again upon my lands. They be but few in number compared to my brother’s, yet I confess Chinon holdeth a singular charm for me.
Baudouin and Aloïs bow before the lord. When she riseth, the young woman catcheth Geoffrey’s gaze resting upon her.
— Madam, permit me to say you are most radiant. Marriage hath no doubt brought you the joy and felicity you desired.
She parteth her lips, yet hesitateth. She casteth a slight glance toward Baudouin, who stirreth not, then answereth as near to the truth as she may.
— Happiness is most oft found in the small matters of each day, not in great occasions.
The lord noddeth, his lips pressed together.
— A most fair manner of viewing life. Perchance the only one, in sooth.
Then he turneth to Baudouin and riseth.
— I would speak with you, my friend…
Aloïs beholdeth her husband depart at Geoffrey’s side and join another company of men.
Left alone amidst folk she knoweth not, the young woman is suddenly ill at ease. A shadow draweth near her.
— I fear you shall not see your husband anon.
Anselme smileth. Aloïs marketh the blue of her good-brother’s eyes. Though his nose be somewhat overlong to be deemed handsome, the archdeacon hath features both even and pleasing. He would have been much sought after, had he not taken the cloth.
— Shall we walk? he suggesteth.
Aloïs casteth a glance toward her husband, who seemeth no longer to give heed unto her. She turneth back to the churchman and offereth him a broad smile. He lifteth his gaze toward the high windows of the hall.
— Unless the rain displeaseth you.
— Nay… not in the least. I would gladly walk with you.
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