The Prince and the Pilgrim (15 page)

The sun had left the window. She turned to look out at the prospect that had always been so lovely in her eyes, and now, with shadow both real and imaginary veiling it, showed a thousand times more beautiful. Not to be lost, please, dear God.
I
will do anything to keep it, and ease my father’s mind. Anything.

Looking again at her father sitting silent, an ageing grey man, in grey shadow, she thrust aside her own feeling of relief, and set out to comfort him.

“Nothing may come of this, Father, no danger to Drian, or his family. Will you wait to hear what happens, or do you want to write now to Bannog Dun to see what Madoc has to say?”

The Madoc she referred to was keeper of a stronghold – too small to be called a castle – near the northern borders of Rheged. He was a distant cousin of Duke Ansirus, and related also to King Ban of Benoic. He was, in fact, the heir to Castle Rose in default of a male heir – a son born to Alice. His was a somewhat sideways claim – that is, legitimate, but through a younger son two generations back; however, it was a claim that might well stand, failing a better one. And in the direct line there was only Alice.

The duke stirred and straightened, looking, she was glad to see, relieved. “That is one of the things I came to ask you. It seems the best.”

She smiled, saying, as lightly as she could: “Do I have a choice?”

“Of course.”

“I remember a bit about Madoc, from when we were children. A strong boy, and bold. You’ve met him since then, Father. What’s he like?”

“Still strong and bold. A fighting man, but one, I think, to grow impatient with serving Benoic, and eager to claim land of his own.” He looked at her gravely, and nodded. “Very well. I’ll write.
It
could be a good choice, Alice. I’ll show you the letter before the man rides north in the morning. But leave this now, shall we? I know I spoke of haste, and I would like this matter settled soon – but by that I mean within months rather than days. By winter will be soon enough.”

This was genuine relief. She tried not to show it. “By winter? And this winter still with nearly three months to run?”

He smiled. “Yes, by next winter. You were right in your first guess, Alice. We go on pilgrimage in April. My last, before I go to my long – and longed-for – home at our own monastery of St Martin here in Rheged … Leaving you settled here, and wed, please God, with a strong sword to keep you.” He turned a hand over in his lap. “You knew this was soon to come, my retirement. I don’t ail, except that my bones creak a little, but I find I tire more easily, and more and more in the winter months do I find it tedious to ride out and care for our lands and people. I’ll be glad to hand my cares over to a younger man, and retire to the peace of the monastic life. We’ve talked these things over many times.”

“I know. But it’s like my marriage; it had to come, but never soon.” She straightened in her chair and smiled back at him. “So that’s settled! You write to Count Madoc, and meantime we set sail for Jerusalem. And at least if I’m to be a bride, you will see the real necessity of my buying those Damascus silks!”

He laughed. “You may buy all you like, my dear, but not in the
souks
! We are not going to Jerusalem. It’s Tours again. Will you mind?”

“Not a bit. I liked Tours. But why?”

“I would like to pay a last visit to the shrine of St Martin before taking my vows in his monastery here. I’ve had this in mind for some time, and have been wondering what the situation was over there, but now,
deo gratias
, we can make our plans. The courier has brought a letter from Queen Clotilda. Here it is.” He handed her the scroll.

It was a brief letter. The old queen hoped that, as Duke Ansirus had said on their last meeting, he still wished to make pilgrimage in this year to the holy shrine of the blessed Bishop Martin. If so, in spite of the very real threat of war, he could rest assured that his party would travel in safety, and that the duke himself, “and the Lady Alice, if she is with you,” would be lodged with the queen, whose pleasure it would be, and so on …

Alice handed the letter back. “It was good of her to remember and to write. Yes, I’d like to see Tours again. I wonder if the boys will be there? Theudovald must be – what? – ten or eleven by now, I suppose. Probably training for war already. This war! What must it be like to live always with the ‘very real threat’ of it?”

The duke smiled. He was looking better already. Alice thought: the prospect of travel always pleased him, but it was not only that. Her marriage, the settlement of the estate; yes, that, too. But most of all – and she accepted it with sadness – the knowledge that soon, now, the time would come for his final dedication to God’s service.

He tucked the scroll back into his sleeve. “Not many years ago, and that was the case here in
Britain
, too. I suppose one gets used to anything, and I doubt if the Franks would be grateful for peace even if it were offered! I gather from the courier – and these King’s men hear everything – that it’s true that the Burgundian war looks imminent. When did it not? But it’s also true that the roads are still open, and pilgrims safe enough. And with Queen Clotilda’s protection … Yes, I will certainly go, but if you would rather not – ?”

“Of course I would like to go! It may be my last journey, too, and in any case my last chance to go with you.”

This time next spring, she was thinking, this time next spring … My father still alive, please God, and happy in your service, and myself still here in Castle Rose, and sitting with Mariamne making baby-clothes for Madoc’s child?

She looked into her father’s anxious eyes and smiled brilliantly, reassuringly.

“Then let’s get those letters off to Count Madoc, and to the queen, and start thinking about summer silks! And our souls, too, of course!”

Her father laughed, kissed her, and went to set his scribe to writing the fateful letters.

Arrangements for the “last pilgrimage” were soon under way. One precaution was taken; the party would not this time risk the long overland journey through Frankish territory, but would take ship right to the mouth of the Loire, and, changing vessels there, sail clear up the river to Tours itself.

Nothing more had been heard from Queen Clotilda. Nor from Madoc, who, it appeared, was abroad somewhere, but who – said the message from his man of affairs – “would of a certainty be more than happy to discuss the duke’s proposal; the alliance was one which had, it was well known, been for a long time near to his heart”.

“I’m sure it has,” said Ansirus, a little drily, and left it at that.

They embarked in mid-April. The voyage was uneventful, the weather calm, turning steadily from spring to early summer as they sailed south. They dropped anchor briefly at Kerrec, in Less Britain, and stayed there for some days, resting at the house of a kinsman. From there Duke Ansirus sent a message to Queen Clotilda, letting her know of his party’s progress. This as a mere matter of courtesy, but when at length their ship docked safely at Nantes, the busy estuary port of
the
Loire, they were surprised and flattered to find an escort waiting for them, a strong troop of armed men bearing the old queen’s colours, and sent by her, their officer said, to help the British party re-embark on the smaller ship that would take them to Tours, and to accompany them there in safety.

“Safety?” Ansirus’ question came a little sharply. “What danger could there be to us on the river?”

“None, sir.” The officer’s voice was smooth, like his neat, well-barbered person. No Frank this, but a Roman by his accent and bearing; and his troop bore, unmistakably, the Roman marks of discipline and order. Following his upward glance they saw that the standard at the mast-head, like the troop’s colours, sported the queen’s emblem.

“Then this is Queen Clotilda’s own ship?”

“Indeed, sir. The river-boats that normally ply here make half a dozen calls between here and Tours – a tedious end to your long voyage.” His eyes slid to Alice in a kind of hesitating, sideways look, then away again. She had the impression that he changed what he had been about to say, and added instead: “When the queen had news of your coming she wished to make the journey easier for you. The
Merwing
will carry you swiftly and in comfort, and once in Tours, my lord, you are to be lodged in the castle itself. The queen is not – that is, she does not stay in her own palace at present.”

“We are indebted to your mistress for her care and courtesy. She is well, I take it?” The duke spoke calmly, adding polite enquiries after the
health
of the other members of the royal family, but through it all, and through the briefly formal replies of the officer, Alice could sense anxiety on the one hand, and on the other, a growing and even grim reserve. As soon as the British party was safely embarked on the trim little royal ship, Ansirus and the officer, who gave his name as Marius, went below together, leaving Alice with Mariamne on deck. They stood together at the rail, watching the sunlit countryside slip by.

After the sea voyage, this promised to be a journey of sheer delight. The river, smooth and majestically wide, flowed in vast curves through country rich in forest and vineyard and pastureland. From time to time they passed villages – settlements, rather, with some important-looking stone-built house or grange surrounded by orchards and well-tended gardens, supporting and supported by a cluster of wooden or turf-built huts which presumably housed the servants and slaves who worked the estate. It all looked very peaceful, the blossoming orchards and lush gardens, the rows of bee-hives with their straw skeps showing golden in the sun, a flock of white geese grazing by the river’s edge, a boy with clappers scaring away birds from the vineyards where the young growth showed green. Here and there a church could be seen, a small structure of wood or wattle crouching well within the protective walls of a settlement. A rich and lovely country, but where one had to go chin on shoulder for fear of one’s neighbour; a country (thought Alice) which had had no Arthur, duke of battles, to bring
its
warring kings together, and seal its beauty and wealth with peace.

They passed a wharf, and then in a short while another, small ports each with a single jetty serving some settlement that crowded at the water’s edge, where river-boats were moored, and where ferries plied. Here there was bustle. Waggons were drawn up at the wharfs, or moved slowly along the roads, pulled by their yokes of white oxen. The fact that all the waggons were heading the same way – westward – or that most of them seemed to be piled high with what looked like household goods and furnishings, did not mean anything to Alice, as she stood dreaming in the sunshine by the ship’s rail, but she did wonder what her father and the queen’s officer were taking so long to talk over below decks, and – a fleeting thought this – wished that, marriage or no marriage, they were all safely home again.

It must have been a full hour later, and the
Merwing
was steering carefully between islands shaded with gilt-green willows and alive with nesting birds, when Duke Ansirus came on deck again to his daughter’s side, motioning Mariamne out of hearing. One look at his face set Alice asking anxiously: “Father? Is there bad news? What is it?”

“Bad enough.” He laid a reassuring hand over hers on the ship’s rail. “No, not for us, child, I hope; we are still pilgrims, and this is a Christian country, may the good St Martin bear witness! But
it
will be a brief pilgrimage. This time the talk of war was no mere cry of ‘Wolf!’ There has been fighting already, and we cannot guess what more is still to come.”

“Fighting? With Burgundy?”

“Yes.”

“But – oh, Father, this is terrible! And poor Queen Clotilda –”

“No poor about it,” said the duke, curtly, for him. “She herself planned it. She persuaded her sons – no, drove them to it. I believe she is still fighting King Clovis’s long battle to bring all Gaul under Salian rule, but that is not the lure she used to bring the Frankish kings, her own three sons and Theuderic, together against Burgundy.”

“Then what?”

“What would appeal to these wolves? A crusade for Christ?” Ansirus spoke with a kind of sad and bitter contempt. “Hardly! No, she called for revenge.”

“Revenge against Burgundy?” exclaimed Alice. “For what? I thought she herself was born a princess of Burgundy.”

“Indeed. And Sigismund of Burgundy – he and his brother Godomar – murdered her mother and father. And would have killed her, too, doubtless, if Clovis had not seen her and demanded her hand.”

“But surely – all those years ago –”

“The stories are still told, and they are tales not easily forgotten. And how could Clotilda, Christian or not, forget?”

Below the ship’s rail a flight of small wading-birds flew with glinting wings and a chorus of
sweet
calling. They were flying westwards. Alice watched them almost wistfully; her instinct had been true.

“So what has happened?” she asked. “You say there has already been fighting?”

“There has. Marius – the officer – told me of it. It’s a long tale and a sad one, but I’ll be brief. The Frankish kings joined to attack Sigismund and Godomar, and defeated them. Godomar fled, but King Sigismund was taken prisoner. It was Chlodomer who took him.”