The Prince and the Pilgrim (14 page)

He said, hoarsely: “How did you know my name?”

That subtle little smile again, over her shoulder as she laid a hand to the door. She was really very lovely. “I see and I hear, and what I do not see and hear I know, from the smoke and the crystal and the voices in the dark. So good night, Alexander.”

In spite of her care, or more probably because of it, a trace of the fever returned that night, and kept his mind fretting and alert. There was one person here in the Dark Tower, and only one, who could look like that, and speak like that, and give orders for the stranger to be brought in and housed in these royal rooms. Queen Morgan the enchantress.

And how much more did she know, this witch who could look in the smoke and the crystal and listen to the voices in the dark?

Some four months earlier than this, on a cold, bright afternoon in January, Duke Ansirus sought his daughter out, and found her in her solar with Mariamne in attendance. The girls, who were supposed to be busy with their tapestry-work, were sitting together in the thin shaft of sunlight from the window, laughing at something. If Alice had been anything less than a duke’s daughter, it might have been said that they were giggling. When the duke came in, the laughter stopped abruptly, and both girls rose and made their curtseys. Then Mariamne, at a glance from her mistress, bobbed another curtsey and left the solar.

Alice sat down again, and the duke pulled a chair nearer the window. In spite of the sunshine, and the warmth dealt out by a brazier, the room was chilly. He rubbed his hands together and cleared his throat, but before he could speak she said, demurely: “Yes, Father.”

“What do you mean, yes Father? I’ve said nothing yet.”

“No, but the wind is in the north, and the New Year is passing, and you are feeling the cold.”

Her father knitted his brows and ducked his
head
forward, peering at her. With age he was getting short-sighted. “Well? And so?”

“So, with the castle as cold as a tomb and the draughts everywhere, it’s time to go on pilgrimage again?”

He gave his dry chuckle. “Don’t let Father Anselm hear you talking like that, my child! But you’re right, of course. I do find myself thinking about the spring sunshine in the south, when I know I ought to think of nothing but my sins, and the hardships of the journey, and the prayers we shall offer at the other end.”

“What sins?” asked his daughter affectionately. “I’m the one who does the sinning, and my thoughts just now are sin enough! I was just talking with Mariamne about the Holy Land, and how this might be the year we went again, and how I would enjoy visiting Rome again – that lovely comfortable house with the heated floors! – and the Damascus silks I’d be able to buy from that
souk
in Jerusalem. There’s sin for you!”

“Don’t jest about it, love.”

He spoke gently, but she flushed and said quickly:

“Forgive me. But Father, it’s true. You’re a saint, and God knows you’ve given me every chance to be one, too, but I’m still only a sinful girl who thinks more of – well, of this world and all the lovely things in it, than of the one to come.”

“And of such things as marriage?” At her quick look he nodded, gravely. “Yes, child, that is what I came to talk about, not about journeyings and visitings and prayers.”

She drew her breath in sharply, then sat back,
waiting
, folding her hands together in her lap, a meek gesture that did not deceive her father for a moment.

He said, carefully, as if testing her reactions: “You have passed your sixteenth birthday, Alice. It’s an age when most girls are safely wedded, and looking to their own households and their families.”

She said nothing, and he nodded again. “I know, my dear. We have spoken of this before, and you have been dutiful, but always begging me to wait, to wait another year … and then another. Now you must tell me why. You have no mother to advise you, but I will listen. Would you avoid marriage, child? Is it possible that you have begun to think about a convent?”

“No!” She spoke so sharply that he put his brows up in surprise, and she went on more gently: “No, Father, it’s not that. You know I could never be – I could never accept the holy life. And as for marriage, I’ve always known that some day I’ll have to think of it, but – well, I have a household here, and a care, which is for you! May we not wait? Perhaps till I am turned seventeen? Then I promise I will obey you and let you settle my future –” she flashed him a smile, part affection, part mischief – “always providing that this young man you’ve chosen is handsome and brave – and landless, so he won’t take me away, but will come here to live at Castle Rose!”

He did not return the smile, but spoke soberly: “Alice, my dear, God knows I would keep you with me if I might. But you know this thing must be settled sooner or later, if there is to be a sure
future
for either of us, or for any of our people here.”

“What do you mean?”

The shaft of sunlight had shifted while they talked, and it now fell clear across his chair. In the sharp, cool winter’s light she saw, suddenly, how old he looked. He was thinner, and a look of worry had pared the planes of his face, sharpening the bone structure and driving fresh lines between the eyes. His hair was quite grey.

“You’re ill?” Her voice was curt with sudden fear, making the questions sound like an accusation.

He shook his head. “No, no. I’m well enough. But some news has just come in, grave news. Did you not see the courier?”

“No. Mariamne said she had heard something, but – what news, Father? Trouble?”

“Not for us, not directly. You were jesting just now about my choice of a husband for you … I think you know, from what we have said before, where the first choice might lie.”

“With Drian? Yes. Has something happened to him?”

She spoke with a concern which was little more than formal. Neither she nor the duke had ever met with Drian. He was the younger brother of one of the High King’s Companions, Lamorak. The latter had served recently with Drustan at the court of March of Cornwall. He and his brother were reputed to be good men and loyal servants of the High King.

The duke shook his head. “Again, not directly. But there have been sad doings in the south. There
are
matters of which I have never spoken to you, but no doubt you’ll have heard the tales the local women tell about the High King’s sister …?”

He hesitated, and Alice said quickly: “Queen Morgan, that was put aside by the King of Rheged, and shut in some convent in Caer Eidyn? Yes, of course I knew that, everyone was talking about it. It was ages ago.” She did not add that of course everyone had also talked, in detail, about the queen’s adulterous liaison that had compounded her treachery and forced her husband to put her aside and hand her over to the King’s justice.

“No, no,” said the duke. “Not Morgan. Her sister Morgause, who was widow of King Lot of Orkney, and lived in the northern islands until the High King called her south to bring her sons to his court at Camelot. He has kept them there in his service, but, for some trespass in the past, Queen Morgause was confined, like her sister, in a convent.”

Alice was silent for a moment. Here again, she knew the story, such versions of it as had originally been allowed to come to a child’s ears, and since then some further embellishments to a tale fast becoming folk-lore. It was said that, many years ago, when they were young, Morgause had lain with her half-brother Arthur, and had borne him a son, Mordred, who, known as the High King’s “nephew”, was now high in Arthur’s trust, and close to both King and Queen at court. This in spite of the fact (it was also whispered) that Morgause had hated her half-brother, and had only let the boy live because of Merlin’s prophecy that one day he would be Arthur’s bane. Merlin,
too
, she hated, and had finally overstepped herself by trying to poison him. The old enchanter’s magic had defeated her, and he had escaped with his life, but King Arthur had punished her by locking her away in the convent at Amesbury, on the edge of the Great Plain.

Alice, wondering what, if anything, the old tales of sorcery and plotting could have to do with her father, asked: “I knew of Queen Morgause’s imprisonment at Amesbury, yes. You said she ‘was confined’? Do you mean she has been freed? Or what has happened?”

“She has been killed there, and by her own son Gaheris.” As Alice stared, shocked, the duke moved suddenly in his chair, slapping his hands down on the arms. “Here we are, discussing your marriage, and I am still dealing with you as if you were a child. Forgive me, my dear! Listen now, and I will tell you the whole. It’s a shocking affair. Queen Morgause, even in a convent, and with her past sins to repent, contrived to take lovers. I do not know how, nor whom, but the latest of them was Lamorak. He was stationed nearby on the Plain, and he met the woman first when he was sent to Amesbury on King’s business. It seems that he was honourable enough; he would have married her, and so it might be said that he had some right to her bed. Be that as it may, he was with her when Gaheris, one of her sons, visiting the convent privily at night to see his mother, found her with her lover, and, in a wild moment of rage, drew his sword and killed her. I am not clear about what happened then, but somehow he was restrained from attacking Lamorak, who later
surrendered
his sword to the High King and himself to the High King’s mercy. He has been sent abroad. This for his own safety. The Orkney clan – Gaheris and his brothers – are wild folk, and the King is trying to prevent trouble among his knights. Gaheris has been banished, too.” He drew a breath. “You see what this means.”

“That Drian has gone abroad with his brother?”

“Not that, no. Not yet. He was at Drustan’s place in Northumbria – he may be there still. But I am told that Gaheris has sworn, in spite of anything the High King can do, to hunt Lamorak down and kill him. And then in turn Lamorak’s kin may look for vengeance. And so it will go on, blood crying for blood …” He sounded suddenly weary. “So there it is – and there is an end to our plans for the marriage with young Drian. I will not see my daughter or my house caught into a blood feud. We can only thank God that the news came in time. I had already written a letter, which would have gone north when the courier rides out again tomorrow. Now it must not go. So after all you have your respite, and we think again.”

She bent her head, clasping her hands together in her lap. “I shall pray for them. For Lamorak, who meant no sin that we know of, and for Drian, who committed none.”

There was a silence, while the duke stretched his hands to the warmth of the brazier, and Alice sat with bowed head.

She stirred at length, and looked about her. The quiet solar, with the brazier’s glow and the thick curtains hiding the stone walls; the tapestry-frames, the baskets full of coloured wools, the
spinning
wheel, the harp in the corner. Her room, her everyday room, with the stair beyond the curtain, and her bedchamber opening from the landing above. The view beyond the window, of a terrace with its strip of garden, pretty even in winter, with the tubs of evergreen bushes and the herb beds. Beyond that the river, smooth-running and wide, which served as a moat, for pleasure rather than for defence, for who, in these peaceful days of Arthur’s reign, need fear his neighbour? Not Duke Ansirus the Pilgrim, that devout and gentle man, who was loved by the local folk, and whose daughter, the Lady Alice, could ride anywhere within the bounds of the duchy in safety. Whose neighbours, in fact, would rally to their aid if the unthinkable happened, and an enemy threatened their peace.

But for the news the courier had brought, that peace might well have been broken. It was a chilling thought. The marriage with Drian had seemed a good one, both for herself (“a young man, landless, who will not take me away from home”) and for the future of Castle Rose. But even if the tragedy at Amesbury had not happened, what then? If Lamorak had married Queen Morgause, and Alice had been Drian’s wife, what shadows of evil magic and past sins (the folk-tales had been specific enough) would have crept north to smear the edges of this loved land?