The Prince and the Pilgrim (29 page)

So once more Alexander went through the
story
, this time without troubling to conceal anything. It is to be remembered that he had never known the advice or even the presence of a father, and now he found himself talking with a freedom he had not known even with Barnabas at Craig Arian. From time to time, as he talked, the duke put a question, so that when at length the prince fell silent, nothing had been held back.

The duke went straight to the same point as Alice had done. “These ‘councils’ of Queen Morgan’s. Have you remembered all the men who were with her?”

“I think so. I didn’t know all those in her party by name, but the ones who were closest, and sat with her in the east tower, yes.”

“And one of the names you heard was Madoc.”

“Yes, sir. I only heard that name once, when Count Ferlas was talking with the queen.”

“Then he was not there at the Dark Tower?”

“No, sir. But I understood that he had been. He had ridden north on some business of the queen’s. I never knew what, only what I told you Ferlas said. But it was not this – the quest for the grail. That,” Alexander finished bitterly, “was reserved for the expendable fools.”

“Well,” said Ansirus, smiling, “here is one fool who seems to have won clear of his folly – and you are many years younger than I was when that happened to me! No, boy, forget it. I think that things will change for you now. More wine, please, and then, of your goodness, listen to what I have to ask of you.”

When Alexander had served the wine again the old man lay back for a few moments in silence,
turning
the goblet in hands that were slow and fragile-seeming, but quite steady. When he spoke his voice, too, seemed to come more strongly.

“I believe you told my daughter that though you were vowed to two different quests, you could not continue with either. One was foolish, you said, and the other sinful.”

He paused for a sip of wine, then set the goblet aside. “For the sinful one, the quest laid on you by a witch who wants to seize power to which she has no shadow of right, that vow you can forget, and forget in honour. Even had you not been drugged and duped into it, no one can with honour be made to sin. You understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And the other, the vow of revenge made all those years ago by your mother, and now laid on you, to destroy your father’s murderer; that, too, you can forget.”

“Sir, how can I? That, surely, must remain as a duty, even though –”

“
Revenge is mine, saith the lord
,” quoted the duke gently.

“Sir, if you mean by that that I must leave that devil March to God’s stroke –”

“God has already struck. That is what I meant. I heard it as soon as we landed. King March lies sick, and they say he will not live the year out. You need no revenge on him. Of that, too, you are free, and in honour.”

Alexander merely stared, saying nothing. Later, there would be relief, joy, the bursting energy of freedom; but now the freedom came like emptiness. The question echoed again in his mind: what
now?
Was he to go on to find Drustan in the bleak north-east, and for what, now that March was dying? Or to turn south and find the long road to Camelot, perhaps to join the High King in the wars that were blowing up like storm-clouds on the Continent? Or what he saw now as the least attractive choice of all, to turn for home and the smallness, yes, the smallness of Craig Arian, and his mother’s fond but indisputable rule?

And Alice? His hopes, that had seemed so sure and shining, had vanished like mist while the two of them were talking. The duke had been kind, but what father would accept his suit, after those weeks in the Dark Tower? Honour had required the confession, and now honour was all he had.

The duke was speaking again.

“It seems that March’s kingdom of Cornwall might be rightly yours, if you were ever to claim it. Would you?”

Alexander hesitated, then spoke the truth. “I hardly know. I don’t think so. My mother told me something of it, a hard kingdom, with hard neighbours. And after all these years, a foreign land to me.”

“Then you will go back to this Craig Arian and care for your lands there?”

“I suppose so. Though with Barnabas and my mother there, there’s not much need of another master.”

“That being so, I could use your sword, Alexander,” said the duke.

His tone was casual, almost flat. It took several slow seconds for the sense of what he had said to get through to the young man’s brain.

“You mean on your journey home? Or – or at Castle Rose itself? Serve you there?”

“Both. What did my daughter tell you about her home?”

“Only that it was the most beautiful place on earth, and that it, with you, my lord, had all her heart.”

“And that I am soon to retire into the life I long for, of prayer and solitude. The holy life?”

“She said something about it when we first spoke, but, not knowing you then, I paid little attention.”

“Then listen now. Before I can accept your service, there are things you must know. I have an heir, the younger son of a cousin who is dead. The elder brother keeps the estates in the north, and this man is landless. Before I left for Tours I sent him a letter suggesting that we meet and talk over the idea of a marriage. He was abroad at the time; I was not told where, but now I think I know. Well, I planned to proceed with the matter once I got home.” A pause. “You may have heard what has happened. A few days ago I got news that this man is already at Castle Rose, with some of his fighting men, and sees himself already – according to my servants – as lord of the estate.” Another pause. “And, though nothing yet has been settled, or even spoken of, counts himself as plighted and soon to be married to my daughter.”

“No!” It burst out, a violent protest. Alexander would have caught it back, but the duke merely cast him a swift, amused look.

“No. No indeed. Though he is distant kin of mine, his name is not one I would want my
daughter
to bear. You know it, I understand. Madoc of Bannog Dun.”

A gasp from Alexander. “The same?”

“The same.”

“Then that was the business that took him north from the Dark Tower?”

“Presumably. You told me that Madoc been sent north on some business of the queen’s, and Count Ferlas brought word back that he ‘was already in possession, and all was well’. That, I think, would be the marriage, and with it the disposition of Castle Rose.”

“And the queen’s interest in it? To have one of her people established there, in command of a stronghold, a central point in Rheged?”

“We can only guess at it. But I think we must suppose so.”

“And he’s there already, in possession! Tell me, sir, could Count Madoc hold your castle against you? Could he prevent your return?”

“That I doubt. He has only a few of his own men with him, and none of mine would help him against me. And as yet he has no idea that I know of his plans. He must still be expecting to be received as my daughter’s promised husband. But if he were to refuse to go when I bid him, and if he called his allies in – well, I am an old man, and ailing a little now, and I am afraid of what may happen to my people.”

“So you want my sword. Of course it’s yours!” Alexander spoke with a kind of impatient violence. “But this of the Lady Alice. A marriage arranged for her, spoken of, you say, but never
agreed?
She said nothing of it, even though – I mean, would she – did she consent?”

“Yes, she consented. She saw it as her duty. But one,” said the duke, smiling, “that she has abandoned without regret. Another marriage has been spoken of, by Alice herself. She tells me that she is going to marry you. With your consent, of course? No, don’t answer, boy. Get your breath back, and have another drink.”

They were married two days later in the monastery chapel, on the morning of another lovely summer’s day. Abbot Theodore himself married them. It was the duke’s first excursion from his bedchamber since his seizure, but though slower than before in his movements, he was steady enough, and the relief of the occasion, with the sight of his daughter’s happiness, brought an almost youthful brightness back to his eyes. The couple were attended to the altar by a solemn child in the white robe of a novice, whom Alexander had not met before, but who, he was given to understand, was Chlodovald, the Frankish prince who had come from Tours with the duke’s party, bringing the relic he called the grail for safe keeping here in St Martin’s.

After the ceremony there was a brief service of prayer and thanksgiving, then the young couple broke their fast with the abbot, the duke and Prince Chlodovald in the abbot’s dining-parlour, while outside the duke’s party made ready to leave that day for home. This rather against the hospitaller’s advice, but the duke was anxious now to go, and had agreed to travel in the litter that Alice had used. She in her turn was happy to
ride
beside her new husband on the all-too-long journey home.

All-too-long, because it had been agreed, almost without saying, that the consummation of the marriage, the bride’s bedding, must wait until they reached Castle Rose. A monastery was hardly the place for a wedding night, and the inns along the road were few and none of them good. The journey, for Ansirus’ sake, would have to be taken slowly, with at least one night’s halt on the way, and it was far from certain how many miles the party would be able to cover before the duke needed to stop and rest. To Alice, moreover, it seemed wholly right that the future lord of Castle Rose should take possession of her, and with her her beloved home, in that home itself.

A message had been sent ahead to the castle to warn of their coming. Nothing more; no word of the marriage; just enough to ensure that all the castle’s retainers, with some of the folk of the estate, would, as they usually did, assemble to welcome their duke home. To them he intended immediately to announce their lady’s marriage, and then publicly present their new lord.

Though this would be a severe blow to Count Madoc, Duke Ansirus did not feel himself bound by the exchange of messages made in the spring. Neither party had been committed, and the Count’s arrogant pre-emption of mastership made it doubly certain that the estate people and the duke’s neighbours would support him in ridding himself of the pretender. However disappointed and angry Madoc was, there was little that he, as a guest in the castle, and with only a
handful
of his own men, could do. Ansirus, who had never feared any man in his life, had no fear now of his young relative. Angry words there might be; talk there might even be of broken promises; but that could be countered by a more dangerous word,
treachery
, and after that, what was there for Madoc to do but accept the fact, tell Queen Morgan of his failure, then go back to his own country, there to hatch his plots against the kingdom’s peace, aware that his plotting, and the queen’s, were known, and might at any time be reported to the High King.

What Queen Morgan might think, when she knew that her plan for Castle Rose had been foiled by her own dupe Alexander, that young man neither knew nor cared. The lure was broken. A different magic held him. His own quest was almost accomplished, his own grail won.

So the party set out on the road north with laughter and gaiety, and with nothing in view but happiness and fulfilment.

The weather stayed fine and they went safely, with no mishaps – a true wedding journey, said Alice happily – and came at length over a gently wooded hill to see the valley of the Eden curving below.

The sun was just on setting, in a floating veil of thin, saffron-coloured cloud. No less brilliant were the trees and water-meadows of the valley, their summer richness lit to green-bronze and golden-bronze, with here and there the black glint
of
holly or fir, and everything, forest and hedge and dry-stone dyke, sharply outlined by the low sun with shadows of violet and deepest indigo. And glimpsed here and there as it curved through meadow and richly billowing woodland was the cool shine of the river.

“Castle Rose is over there,” said Alice, pointing. She and Alexander were riding a little ahead of the rest of the party.

“How far?”

“Another ten miles or so. We’ll be there in good time tomorrow. I’m glad we managed this far today.” She pointed again. “Once past that beech-wood yonder, and on the valley floor, there’s a small foundation that will be glad to house us for the night. They’ll be expecting us, too. We told them we would come there on our way home, and I sent Berin ahead an hour ago.”

“Another monastery!” This time his voice, not so carefully schooled, was very clearly that of a disappointed lover, and a dimple showed as Alice answered.

“Indeed. In a sense, our own – your own, now. My mother is buried there.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No need. I made my first pilgrimage there – so I am told – at the age of two. My father goes there always on special days – their wedding day, her birthday, and mine, which was the day she died. To him, I think, it’s a place where they still meet.”

“Then I’d have thought that he would retire there, near your mother, and nearer home, not away at St Martin’s.”