Free Enoch's Device by Joseph Finley Page B

an ogre—a Clothaire—before he ever arrived in Poitiers. Just the thought of him terrified her. Some days she prayed that when the time came, Saint Radegonde would give her the courage to flee and the miracle she would need to escape. On other days, her hope would fail. She would be better off drowning in the Clain than submitting to a man like Adeline’s Renaud. At times, anger overrode her sadness. Her father and mother had made this decision. They had robbed her of her chance for love, the love of her daydreams at Saint Radegonde’s tomb. True love.
    Alais would never forget the time she first saw Geoffrey. It was a cold day in late September, when the leaves had begun to turn. Geoffrey and three of his men had ridden to the palace gates. He wore a wool riding cloak over his mail vest, a broadsword at his waist, and heavy leather boots—hardly the pretentious clothing of a man like Renaud. And to her surprise, he sat his horse well and did not seem an onerous burden to the spirited roan charger. In fact, Lord Geoffrey looked rather trim, even slight, atop his mount.
    This was not at all what Alais had expected. Nor were his eyes. When he turned to look at her, she saw them: blue like the river beneath a bright sky. But he was old, and his nose was wide and crooked, as if it had been broken more than once. His cheeks were sunken, and his short-cropped beard was heavily flecked with gray. He looked her over, from her face to the toes of her sandaled feet, before opening his mouth to speak. But Alais had nothing to say to him. She wanted nothing to say. And before a word could escape his lips, she turned away and hurried down the narrow streets, back to Saint Radegonde’s tomb, for one last chance to summon the courage to make her own destiny.
    Hours later, the abbess found her, clinging to the relief of Saint Radegonde, her eyes red from sobbing. “You must go now, child,” the abbess had said. “You can pray for the saint’s protection, but you cannot defy your father’s will. He is outside with his men. You must go back.” Alais shook her head vehemently, but she felt worn. Broken. The abbess lifted her off the sarcophagus, and Alais’ dreams of courage evaporated.
    They were married the next day. In the dim and crowded cathedral, the somber rite seemed more funeral than wedding. That night, in one of the palace bedchambers, when he took her as his wife, she trembled and winced at the pain. She fought back the tears when she touched where he had entered her, and her fingers glistened with blood. But through it all, Geoffrey had been gentle, and the experience had been far from the violent ravishment she feared. Still, she felt nothing for this man who was her husband—only contempt for her father. And her mother. And, above all, for herself, for she was not the strong young woman she had hoped to become. She was no better than Adeline.
    Until one day when her courage returned on a muddy road near the Anglin River. The day her miracle happened.
    *
    It was the fourth day after Geoffrey’s party had left Poitiers following the wedding. Geoffrey and his men had stopped to water and rest their horses. The men were fretting about the dark storm clouds filling the sky and turning the bright fall day almost to night. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and the next village was still a full league away, perhaps more. For her part, Alais did not care if it poured all day and night, even if it should flood the land, as in Noah’s time, and drown these men whom she hardly knew.
    She had barely spoken to her husband, who seemed content to give her room. Maybe he was being kind, or maybe it was because he didn’t care for her at all—at least, until the sun set and he desired to have his way with her again. She knew she had not been a good wife. But why would she be, when she was not in love?
    The wind whipped up, rustling through the wheat fields bordering the road. Alais had no idea who farmed these lands, for there was