The Prince and the Pilgrim (8 page)

“I – I think it means that it stands for something. A sign. Like, well, like a cross.”

“Or a crown?” The heir of the Merwings, wiping his scratched hands down the front of his tunic, invited Alice, with a gesture, to sit down beside him. She hesitated again, looking doubtfully at the dusty stones, but the prince was her host, and manners were manners, so she kilted the long skirt up again and, choosing the cleanest part of the wall, sat down.

“Where were we going? What was the hurry?”

He nodded downhill, and Alice saw where, coming up through the archway, were four men. The sun flashed on weapons. One of them, apparently the leader, raised a hand in salute and called something. The men came on up the track. Theudovald stayed where he was, kicking his heels against the wall. “If we’d been quicker we could have gone on into the wood and hidden. There are places where they’d never find us, but you couldn’t get there in those skirts.”

“I suppose not. I’m sorry. You wanted to hide?”

“Of course.”

“Why?”

“Do you need to ask? Look there! It seems it’s the same for you.” And only then did she see that Mariamne, skirts kilted up like her own, was toiling uphill in the wake of the soldiers.

“Don’t you ever want to get away, just by yourself, with no one telling you what to do?” asked the boy. “Do they ever leave you to be alone?”

“At home, yes, sometimes. But it’s different when you’re travelling. My maid’s supposed to stay with me.”

“What harm do they think you would come to here?”

“I don’t suppose they think about it.” Alice was not sure if the question had masked resentment. “They just follow orders. I expect it would be different if I were a boy.”

“Not if you were me.” The men had halted some yards away, apparently awaiting the prince’s pleasure. Their weapons were still in their hands.

They were out of earshot, but Alice lowered her voice. “Well, it’s different for you, you’re a prince. But this is your home! Your grandmother’s home, anyway. What harm do they think could come to
you
here?”

“Oh, anything. I’m always guarded, but even with the guards, you never know who to trust. My grandmother’s spies keep watch, but one can’t always know one’s enemies.”

“What enemies? You’re not at war now, are you?”

“Not fighting, no. My uncles are both in Paris, so my father says that the three of us – my brothers and I – are safe enough, but when he’s away my grandmother comes here from Paris with her people, and she looks after us.”

“But – did you say your
uncles
?”

He nodded, obviously misunderstanding the force of the question. He was quite matter-of-fact. “My uncle Childebert, and King Lothar. Especially my uncle Lothar – these are far better lands than his. Of course they would like to seize them from my father. My uncle Theuderic is the eldest, but he’s base-born.” Pursed lips and another nod. “For all that, my grandmother says, if they promised him enough, he would help them.
Of
course, they would not keep their promises afterwards.”

Brother murders brother, and father, son
, Duke Ansirus had said. Alice, looking at the boy, the smooth childish brow, the royal hair now in a sad tangle, the torn tunic and dirt-stained knees and hands, was silenced by a sharp stab of compassion, mixed with unbelief. Still a child herself, she had never known distrust or betrayal, faces of evil that this boy, even younger, found familiar.

“But –” she began, then stopped as Mariamne, red-faced and breathless, toiled up the last few paces to stand, panting, in front of them.

“Madam – my lady –” She paused for breath, with an uncertain look at the boy. Clothes torn, dirty and blood-stained, Theudovald was by no means Mariamne’s idea of a prince. But she managed a bob of a curtsey, aimed somewhere between the two children. “I thought you were still with your father, madam. They were showing me the stillrooms, and – oh, mercy on us! Your slippers! And that dress! On that dirty wall! It’ll never come clean again! What were you thinking about? You’d best come straight along with me now, and let me try –” The look of amazement on the boy’s face stopped her short, and a hand went to her mouth. “I’m sorry, my lady –”

“It’s all right, Mariamne. The prince was showing me the view over the valley. We were talking. Now, if you will wait with the men?”

Mariamne dropped another curtsey, this time calculated to restore her mistress’s dignity, and withdrew to the waiting group of soldiers.

But Theudovald had already slid down from
his
perch on the wall. “It’s no good. We’ll have to go back. There’s my grandmother’s steward coming now. It must be dinner-time. And anyway, I’m hungry. Aren’t you?”

“Come to think of it, yes,” said Alice. She stood up and started to shake the dust from her skirts. There was a good deal of it. “If we are to wash our hands before meat –”

“What’s the point of that? Wash them afterwards, when they’re greasy,” said the prince cheerfully, and ran off down the hill. The guards made haste to follow him, but the steward, with a word to Mariamne, came on to meet Alice.

It was the young man whom she had glimpsed at the back of the hall where the queen received them. Seen now in the sunlight, he was tall, dark-haired and dark-eyed, soberly dressed in a fawn-coloured tunic with an over-robe of dark brown. The chain of office on his breast was of silver, and from it hung the queen’s badge, gilded. There was a brooch at his shoulder of worked silver, and at his belt, which was of good leather tanned and glossy as a horse-chestnut, hung a wallet and a bunch of keys. The queen’s steward, Theudovald had said. A trusted servant. But, thought Alice, a foreigner, surely? He did not look like a Frank. A Roman, perhaps? One of those unfortunates, often of good or even noble family, who had been taken in war and enslaved by the Frankish conquerors?

But it seemed not. Before the man could speak, Mariamne, flushed and excited, was there at his elbow.

“Lady Alice! Just imagine! He’s from my own
country
– the next village! And here in Tours! Isn’t it like a miracle?”

The young man straightened from his bow. Alice, hands still gripping her skirts, stood stock-still, staring up at him.

“
You?
”

It came out as a kind of gasp.

His brows went up. “Madam?” Then his face lighted to a smile. “Why, it’s the little maid! The little maid from Jerusalem! No longer a little maid, but a lady grown, and a lovely lady, too! How is it with you, and with the little blue sheep of your British hills?”

“I thought you were Jesus.” The words came out with all the force of simplicity. Next moment she would have called them back, and felt herself going scarlet. She added, quickly: “I was very young then, and you were carrying a lamb, and you seemed to know who I was, and – please don’t laugh! I’ve always remembered it, and I know it was silly, but sometimes I tried to pretend it was true.”

He did not laugh. He said gravely: “You did me honour. If I had known, I would have told you that I was only a farmer’s son, and a very ordinary man, but that my name was – is – in fact Jesus.” He smiled at her look. “We do not think as you do about using that name, little maid. But here I am known as Jeshua. It is the same name, and you would find it easier to use, I think?”

“I – yes, of course. So – how do you come to speak my language so well?”

“Jerusalem was always full of pilgrims, many from your country. I have always found it easy to
learn
new tongues. A useful gift –” he smiled again – “if one is ambitious.”

“I see …” She found that she was still clutching the skirts of the primrose gown. She settled the silk to its decorous length, smoothed it down, and with the action felt her composure returning.

“And now you are the queen’s steward?” It was the Lady Alice again. “How did you come here, Master Jeshua?”

“If I may tell you on the way down? It’s dinner-time, and you are waited for. Take my arm, lady, it’s a rough way.”

“I’m afraid my hands are dusty. I don’t want to dirty your sleeve.”

He only laughed, and lifted her hand to his arm, and they went down through the vineyard together, with Mariamne, smiling happily, behind them.

If Alice had been able to hear what Queen Clotilda was saying to the duke, she would have understood more clearly why the young prince was so closely guarded, even in his own home.

“God and His saints only know for how many years we will be able to welcome pilgrims to Tours. As you know, Duke, the land north of the river is in the hands of my son Childebert, so the road you took on your way along the valley, and the monastery where you lodged last night, belong to him.”

“Indeed. And we travelled in safety and comfort. What reason is there to think that he might seek to prevent the pilgrimages? And – with your leave, madam – to forgo the revenue they bring him? He is Christian, is he not? I was led to believe –”

“Oh, yes. When my lord King Clovis was received into Holy Church, my sons were baptised also, and a great number of our fighting men with them.” A twist of a smile. “But our countrymen are warriors first and Christians second.”

“But while you keep your state here in Tours, madam, your sons will surely maintain the shrine
and
the pilgrim roads as you and your husband planned?”

“While I live, yes, perhaps. But with Burgundy forever baying on our thresholds, who knows which of the kings, my sons, will survive the next campaign? Prince Theudovald is well grown, and clever, yes, and I have seen to it that he is devout, but he is not yet seven years old, and already the Burgundians are making threatening gestures along our eastern borders.”

The duke hesitated, and the queen, with another of her wry smiles, gave a sharp little nod.

“You are remembering that I myself am from Burgundy? Rest easy, Duke; I had no love for my uncle Sigismund, and though I was used in my marriage as a pawn in his game of power, I did not stay a pawn – save in God’s hands, and for God’s holy purpose.”

“Straight to the eighth square, and mate?” said the duke, smiling, and she laughed.

“Yes, crowned queen, and a Frankish queen, in name and spirit! If my lord Clovis had lived, he would have moved one day against Burgundy, whatever that time-server in Rome had to say to the matter. And I would have said no word to prevent him. But he is dead, and my sons, alas, quarrel among themselves, so Burgundy may see his chance all too soon.”

“Even so, could Burgundy – alone, for I doubt very much if the emperor would risk an alliance – raise the kind of army that could stand against the full might of the Frankish kingdoms? For, surely, in face of such a threat, your sons’ differences
would
be forgotten, and a united Frankish army would take the field?”

“That is what I pray for.”

“And work for, madam?”

“And work for.” This time the smile was grim. “So I move between my sons’ capitals, and – I make no secret of it – I still have friends near the Burgundian court who keep me informed. For old times’ sake –” the words were said mockingly, but the duke thought they were sincere – “I keep my own palace here, near St Martin’s shrine, and the monastery that he founded, the first in Gaul, and the holiest. So Childebert sits in Paris, while I watch his border here, and Chlodomer waits in Orleans for Godomar of Burgundy to move. As long as I am here …” She lifted her shoulders again in a shrug, and let the sentence die.

“I cannot believe,” said Duke Ansirus courteously, “that such a queen will not succeed in anything she sets out to accomplish.”

“Hah!” It was a disconcerting bark of laughter. No fool, the old queen, thought Ansirus. She knows as well as I do that those sons of hers, skin-deep Christians at best, will, given the least excuse, tear the country apart as surely as hungry wolves tear a carcase. Well, let us hope, for her sake and young Theudovald’s – and more than that, for the sake of Britain and the fragile peace that the High King Arthur keeps there – that Chlodomer stays alive long enough to see his sons grown and his kingdom safely and peaceably bestowed.

His eyes met Clotilda’s. Assuredly no fool, the
old
queen. She nodded, as if in answer to his thought.

“Well, we shall see,” she said.

And here, to the duke’s relief, dinner was announced, and a steward sent to summon the two children.

Alexander’s mother did not marry again, though her youth and beauty – and perhaps the snug little property that was hers now in the Wye Valley – brought a few hopeful gentlemen to her door. But all were disappointed. The Princess Anna remained there unwed, living in comfort and a slowly growing contentment. Theodora and Barnabas were unfailingly kind; the former was happy to have Anna’s company, and the latter, relieved as time went on of the fear that Anna, with a new marriage, might bring in another claimant to Craig Arian, devoted himself to their welfare. With the help of this good and gentle man Anna soon learned to manage the affairs of the small estate, which she and Barnabas did together in Alexander’s name.

As is the way of things, she recovered in time from the shock and grief of her husband’s murder, but she never abated her hatred of King March, nor her determination that some day he should be made to pay for his foul deed. She took care, as the boy grew up, that he should learn what kind of man his father had been, and learn also to be proud and glad of that inheritance. Men called him, in pity, Alexander the Fatherless, but in fact
the
child did not lack the father’s presence as much as he might have done, because Barnabas saw to it that he learned the skills he would need, those of a fighting man, and of the master of an estate, albeit a small one. So Alexander grew up in safety, and even in happiness, for the place was a peaceful one, and ‘the High King’s peace’ was a reality in the gentle valleys he knew.