The Prince and the Pilgrim (9 page)

That happiness was not marred by any knowledge of his father’s death. When, childlike, he had first asked about it, Anna told him merely that he had been born in Cornwall, where Prince Baudouin had served his elder brother King March, and that Baudouin had died when his son was two years old. Since Baudouin, as a younger son, would have had no claim to land in Cornwall, Anna had (she said) decided to leave and stake her own and Alexander’s claim to Craig Arian. And rightly, she would add, since King March, though he had no child of his own, was still living, so for both her son and herself there was a better life and a better future in the rich valleys of the Welsh border.

“He must be an old man now,” said Alexander one day, when they were speaking of it again. He was fourteen, tall for his age, and considered himself a man grown. “And he has no son. So soon, perhaps, I should travel into Dumnonia and see Cornwall and the kingdom that may one day be mine?”

“It never will,” said his mother.

“What do you mean?”

“You would be better to forget Cornwall and all it holds. It can never be yours. King March is
not
your friend, and even if he were, and left you the ruling of the kingdom, you would have to fight for every foot of its barren soil. Since Duke Cador died, who used to hold Tintagel, his son Constantine has ruled there. I am told that he is a hard and cruel man. March clings to what is his, but when he dies it will be a strong man and a fortunate one who keeps his stronghold after him.”

“But if it is some day to be mine by right, then surely the High King will support and help me? Mother,” said Alexander eagerly, “at least let me go to Camelot!”

Anna refused, but he asked again and again, and each time it was harder to find a reason, so that at length she told him the truth.

It happened one day, in the spring of Alexander’s eighteenth year, that he rode out with Barnabas and two other men – they were the castle’s retainers, not strictly fighting men, but ready, as men were in those days, to defend themselves and their lord – to ride the bounds of the estate. In a curve of the river, where the water ran broken and shallow over smooth stones, they saw on the far bank a group of three armed horsemen apparently preparing to cross. These were strangers, and as Alexander pressed nearer, he saw that on the breast of one man’s tunic was a boar, the badge of Cornwall. Spurring forward, he hailed the man eagerly.

It so happened that the Cornishmen, who were
heading
for Viroconium, had missed their way and, knowing that they were straying on some lord’s territory, were looking for a crossing-place which might lead to a farm cottage or the hut of a shepherd who could set them back on their road. But at Alexander’s shout they thought their crossing was being disputed. They halted, then the fellow with the badge, seeing what he took for a young knight accompanied by three armed men, shouted some sort of challenge in return, and drawing his sword, set his horse at the water.

A moment of shock, a warning shout from Barnabas, and then it was too late. Alexander, young, ardent, and filled with tales of bravery and daring, had been spoiling for just such a moment as this. Almost before he had thought, Baudouin’s sword was in the boy’s hand, and there, in the middle of the dimpling waters of the Wye, Alexander struck the first blow of his first fight.

It was a lucky one. It met the other’s blade, knocked it aside, and travelled straight and deadly fast into the man’s throat. He fell without a sound. Barnabas and the servants spurred forward to the boy’s side, but the fight, such as it was, was over. The dead man must have been the leader of the group, for as he fell the other two pulled their horses’ heads round and galloped away.

Alexander, breathless with excitement and the shock of his first kill, sat, instinctively controlling his plunging horse, and staring down at the body sprawled in the shallow water. Barnabas, as white as he, caught at his bridle.

“Why did you do that? See the badge! That’s
the
Boar of Cornwall! Those were March’s men!”

“I know that. I – I didn’t mean to kill him. But he would have killed me. He drew first. Did you not see? I called out to know his business, that was all. But then he drew, and the others with him. Did you not see, Barnabas?”

“Yes. I saw. Well, it can’t be helped now. You two, take the body up. We’d best get back and tell your lady mother what’s happened. This is a bad day, a bad day.”

The horses splashed up out of the river, and the party rode slowly back to the castle.

Anna was in the orchard, watching one of the gardeners pruning an apple tree. When Alexander began to tell her his story she took him by the arm and quickly led him aside, out of the man’s hearing, “Because,” she said urgently, “if these were indeed March’s men, there could be danger here.” And she would not let him say anything more until they were in her private chamber, and she had dismissed the maid who was busy there.

“But Mother,” protested Alexander, “the men were trespassing on our land, and the one I killed – he attacked me. If you ask Barnabas, he’ll tell you how it happened. I saw the Cornish blazon, and I called out to greet them and ask their business, and the fellow drew on me. What else was I to do?”

“Yes, yes, I know. There could be no trouble because of that. But the others – when they get back to Cornwall – you say you and Barnabas had two of our men with you? Were they close? Close enough for March’s men to see their badges?”

“Certainly.” The boy was impatient. “And they would surely know from them that they were on our land, but even that did not stop them.”

Anna was silent for a moment, then, with a little
sigh
, she turned and walked slowly over towards the window. A chair stood there, with her embroidery frame beside it. She pushed the work aside, and sat down to stare, chin on hand, out of the window. One of her white doves, seeing her there, flew up to strut, cooing softly, on the stone sill, hopeful of grain.

She neither saw nor heard it. She was back in that midnight room in March’s castle, with all the memories she had striven to keep alive, and at the same time forget. She turned sharply away from the window, straightening in her chair. At the movement the dove, startled, rose with a clap of wings and flew away.

“Alexander –”

“What is it, Mother? You look pale. Are you not well? If I’ve distressed you, I’m sorry, but why should you speak of danger? You said yourself there could be no trouble about the man I killed, and it’s true –”

“No, no. It’s not that. This is a different matter, and a heavy one. There’s something I must tell you. I planned to tell you when you were turned eighteen, and ready to go to the High King to offer your service there. But this has happened, so I must tell you now. Here, take this.”

She put a hand to the bosom of her gown and withdrew a small silvery key which she handed to the boy.

“Go to that press in the corner and open it. Pull harder, the hinges will be stiff. That’s it. Now look, there on the floor, that leather box with the rope round it, bring it here, to the light … Yes. Now open it. No, don’t trouble with the knots; there’ll
be
no need to tie it up again. Cut them. Use your dagger. So.”

She turned in her chair to look out of the window again. “I don’t want to see what’s there, Alex. Just open the box, and tell me.”

Below the window the gardener was working still among the orchard trees. His children, a boy and a little girl, ran and shouted, playing with a half-grown puppy. But all that Anna heard, loud above those happy sounds, was the creak of leather hinges and then a rustle, a dry rattling sound, and Alexander’s voice, so like Baudouin’s, sounding puzzled.

“There’s nothing much here, Mother. Just some clothing … A shirt, an old shirt, and it’s – faugh – it’s filthy! Stains, blackish, and gone stiff …” A sudden sharp silence. Then in a different voice: “That’s blood, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” She was still resolutely turned away.

“But – whose? What is this, Mother? What is it?” Then, before she could speak, on a sharply drawn breath: “No, I don’t need to ask. My father’s? Why else would you keep such a thing? It was his?”

She nodded without speaking. He had been kneeling over the box, fingering the stained cloth fastidiously. Now he took the shirt in both hands, holding it fast against his breast. He got to his feet.

“How was he killed? You told me – you let me think he had died of some sickness! But this – why have you kept this dreadful thing all these years? He was foully killed, that’s it, isn’t it? Isn’t it? Who killed him?”

She turned then. Alexander was standing full
in
the sunlight, with the embroidered shirt clutched to him. “King March,” she said.

“I guessed it! I guessed it! Whenever that name has been mentioned, you’ve had this same look. Mother, tell me how!”

“Yes, I’ll tell you. It’s time you knew.” She motioned him to lay the shirt down in its box, then sat back against the cushions with a kind of relief. The moment had come and gone, and it was time, more than time, to let the long-cherished ghost recede. “Sit down, here beside me, my dear, on the window-seat, and listen.”

She told him from the beginning, from the day when the Saxon warships sailed into the bay below the cliffs. Her voice was dry and even, long since purged of grief, but at one point in the narrative, when she described how Baudouin had put on the shirt and laughed with her, Alexander reached a hand to lay it over hers. She went steadily on; the flight, the encounter with Sadok and his brother, the safe refuge at Craig Arian.

He began to say something, some word of comfort, but she shook her head. Drawing her hand from under his, she turned her eyes on him. They were dry and very bright.

“I don’t need comfort. I need vengeance. I vowed many years ago that when you, my son, were grown, you would seek out this vicious fox of a king and kill him. Will you do that?”

It would not have occurred to the young Alexander that he might do anything else. He said so, hotly, and jumping to his feet, began at once to make plans for a journey into Cornwall, but she stopped him.

“No. Listen still. I told you that I’d planned to tell you this story when you were turned eighteen. I have done it now because your meeting with March’s men this morning changes things.”

“But how?”

“Didn’t you take it in? Sadok was sent after us that night to murder us. He promised me that he would tell March that you were dead, and, if it seemed needful, that I was dead too. Don’t you think that if the Fox had thought you were still alive, he would have sent long since to seek us out and kill you? And he would surely have sent spies up here. Where else would I take you?”

“Then these men today were spies?”

She regarded him. He was a tall youth, blue-eyed like his father, with brown hair falling thickly to his shoulders, and a slender but well-muscled body. Standing tall and aggressive-looking in the bright sunlight from the window, he was the very picture of a splendid young fighting man. No need – Anna admitted it to herself, indulgently – no need for such a man, young and handsome and lord of a snug little castle and fertile lands, with good servants and a clever mother, to have quick wits as well.

She said, without impatience: “No. I believe this encounter was an accident. But these were March’s men, and if by chance they recognised you – you who are the living spit of your father – they will go back to Cornwall and tell the Fox that Baudouin’s son is still alive, and well found here at Craig Arian. And by killing his man – no, my dear, I know that you had to, wait – you have given him the excuse to send now to seek you out
and
finish the work that Sadok was supposed to do all those years ago.”

“So,” said Alexander with triumph, “I will go first! If I set out straight away, and ride hard, I can be in Cornwall before they get there!”

“No. What chance would you have? This must be done differently. Times have changed, Alexander. This morning you killed because you were attacked, and you cannot be impugned for that –”

“But you said that it had given March the excuse to seek me out for it and kill me!”

“March does not work by rule of law. I am talking about law. For the killing today you have a right. But a killing purely for revenge, and the killing of a king, at that – times have changed. It must be done by process of law. You will go to the High King and take your case, and its proof there, with you. You will go to the Round Hall and tell my story, show them the bloody shirt, and ask for the High King’s judgment. From all accounts, Arthur and March are not friendly, and Arthur is very likely to let you challenge March and fight him in the course of law. You are young yet, Alexander, and this will give you time and experience to make yourself a match for such as March. You are not that yet, my son, and this is an arrow that must not miss. Do you not see? There was a time – those first years – when I would have given the world for March’s death, come how it might, but we grow wiser with the years. If you went now to Cornwall and managed, though God knows how, to kill him and escape the swords of his guard, you yourself would be arraigned by Arthur’s law-keepers, and we would gain nothing.
Go
to Arthur first, and then we have right and law on our side.”