The Prince and the Pilgrim

by Mary Stewart

  2

  The king came home three days later, and before he was well within the courtyard of his stronghold he heard about the attempted Saxon landing and his brother’s success in repulsing it. From the captain of the troop that Baudouin had led, to the groom who took March’s bridle and the servant who drew off his boots, all were eager to tell the king what had happened, and to praise the prince’s resourcefulness.

  “So where is my brother now?” asked March.

  “I saw him come in barely an hour before you, sir,” said the servant. “He went to his own chambers. The little boy was ailing earlier this week, and your brother’s lady wife was anxious.”

  “Hm.” The king betrayed no anxiety about his brother’s child. This was a boy just over two years old, and so far the only child of Baudouin and his young wife Anna. A lively, and normally a sturdy child, he served as another spur to the elder brother’s jealousy: March had no son, and though he was attentive – some said too attentive – to his Irish queen, she bore him no children, and he was too jealous of her youth and beauty to put her aside. The thought that his brother’s son Alexander seemed likely to be the sole heir to the kingdom only served to add to the bitterness that thinned his blood and put rancour in all his days.

  As was customary on the king’s return after an absence from court, March held a council that evening. It was an informal affair, merely a meeting of the Cornish nobles and officers held before supper in the great hall. The queen was not present. Baudouin sat, as usual, on the king’s right, and Drustan, his nephew and the king’s, on March’s left. While the men were still waiting for the king to enter the hall and open the proceedings, Drustan leaned across the empty chair to speak with Baudouin.

  “A word with you, cousin.” The two men were much of an age, so that between them the title of ‘uncle’ would have come absurdly. Drustan was a big man, brown-haired and fresh-skinned, with the look of a fighter. Which, indeed, he was. He was the son of King March’s sister by the lord of Benoic, and had the open nature and gallant bearing learned at the court of that splendid ruler. Of him, too, March was jealous, and in fact had good reason for being so; but suspicion was not evidence, and of that there was none. So Drustan was still, perforce, made welcome at the Cornish court.

  He had been with King March on his Welsh journey, so was eager, now, to hear Baudouin’s account of the adventure with the Saxon ships. He, too, had heard the rumours of a Saxon attempt to make landfall in the remoter parts of the west, and praised the other man’s action. “As,” he added with a grin, “you won’t hear yourself overmuch commended by our gracious lord. But never mind that. Less said the better till we see how the wind blows. So … They tell me that young Alexander was ailing while we were abroad? I trust he’s better now?”

  Baudouin, thanking him, assured him that all was well in the nursery, and then the king came into the hall, and took his place.

  “Ha, brother.” It was the first time March had seen Baudouin since his return. The greeting was loud, for all to hear, and hearty enough, if brief. “They tell me that you have been busy defending our shores. It was well done, and we thank you. Later, after we have examined the prisoners, and know perhaps a little more about the purpose of this raid, we will talk again. But for the present our business must concern what was said and agreed between myself and the Welsh king – and then, by the gods, to supper! Our lodging in Dyfed was well enough, but we fared thinly on the road home!” He gave his great laugh, and clapped Baudouin on the shoulder, but he was looking the other way, at Drustan, and there was no mirth in the pale eyes. “And there are other things a man is hungry for, after so many days and nights away!”

  At that council, no more was said to Baudouin, and once supper was over the king did not stay to speak with anyone, going straight to the queen’s rooms, but next afternoon a servant sought Baudouin to tell him that his brother would see him privately that evening, for supper.

  When he told Anna, his wife, she said nothing, watching with careful calm as her maids drew fresh clothes for him from the cedar chests and laid them ready on the bed. Only after the girls had gone, their soft steps dying away down the stone stair of the tower where Baudouin’s family was housed, did she turn swiftly, her eyes anxious.

  “Take care. You will take care?”

  He did not need to ask what she meant. “Oh, I will. But what can you fear for me? From all accounts his councils went well, and he was in a good enough temper at supper last night. Indeed, he spoke well of my fight down by the bay.”

  “What else could he do?” The anxiety in her voice robbed it of sharpness. “He knows, who better, what the people think of you. But you and I know –”

  “Anna!” He said it warningly, though they were alone in the tower room, and the walls were thick; but most people at March’s court were used to caution, and who more so than the king’s heirs?

  “I’m sorry, love. No more. But take care.” She said it softly this time, then put a hand up to caress his cheek, and smiled. “The barber, my dear, before you go to this royal supper, and look, I finished the shirt while you were out on your adventures. Do you like it?”

  He fingered the fine embroidery that she was holding, then pulled her to him and kissed her. “It’s beautiful. Like you, my love. Am I allowed to wear it, or is it to be laid away with herbs and cedar-wood for Alexander to inherit?”

  She nestled closer, and her lips sought the hollow of his throat. “It is for you, every stitch of it, as well you know. But tonight? You would wear it tonight? Why trouble yourself just for – I mean, just for an ordinary talk and a supper?” Then, suddenly fierce, as if in spite of herself: “And doesn’t he hate you enough already, with everyone in the place dinning into his ears what a great fighter you are, and how the men love you and follow you, and now you want to go to him looking like a prince of the High Kingdom – as fine and as handsome as King Arthur himself?”

  He laid a gentle hand to her lips. “Hush now, let that be enough. These things don’t need words. And we had best hurry. So, my love, help me put on my best for my brother the king. Yes, this beautiful shirt; why not? My thanks. And the collar of citrines. And now the dagger for my meat … No, nothing more. Can I go armed to sup with my brother?” He kissed her again. “Now, enough of your fretting, Anna. Get the boy to bed, and I’ll see you soon enough. I doubt if I’ll be late – you can be sure I won’t stay any longer than I have to!”

  “As long as you stay sober,” she said, and they parted with laughter.

  It was late. The chamber where Anna and Baudouin slept was on the west side of the castle, in the corner tower. Though the sea was half a mile or so away, the sound of waves could be heard all night, as they washed and boomed among the hollows of the rocky coast. Through the narrow, unglazed windows the night wind eddied, gently at this time of year, and full of the scents of the cliff-top pastures and the salt of the sea.

  In a corner of the room, out of the draught from the windows, the child Alexander lay fast asleep under the soft blankets woven by the princess’s women from the wool of the local sheep. His mother, sleepless in the great bed on the other side of the room, turned her head sharply on the pillow, and put a hand up to push her long hair out of the way. If only she could sleep! If only Baudouin would come to his bed, then they could laugh together at her fears, and perhaps make love, and be at peace. But lying here, wondering what that fox of a brother was saying, was planning, was doing … In spite of herself, her mind went back over the past, the times when March’s jealousy and genuine dislike of his younger brother had shown itself in petty, and sometimes not so petty, actions. And lately, how that bitterness had seemed to be directed also at the child. Little Alexander, who, for all his boldness and gay spirits, was only a baby still, and helpless against such power as March could wield. Might, in one of his sudden rages, see fit to use.

  At last! Someone was coming rapidly up the tower’s curving stairway. Her long breath of relief checked in her throat, and she s
at up, rigid against the pillows. Those were not Baudouin’s footsteps, and whoever was coming, was coming clumsily, heavy-footed and noisy, with no care for the sleepers upstairs. And he was armed. She could hear the chink and clang of a scabbarded sword against the curving sides of the tower stair.

  He was almost at the door. Before the heavy steps halted, she was out of her bed and over beside her son’s, with a coverlet dragged from her bed to hold round her shoulders, and Baudouin’s sword naked in her hand.

  When the knocking came at the door, it was, horrifyingly, not a knock, but a kick with a booted foot.

  “Anna! Princess? Are you awake?”

  The sword point wavered and sank, but the fierce tautness still locked her bones. She recognised Drustan’s voice, but the kick at the door, the breathless syllables and the faltering steps, could only be heralds of disaster. She flew to the door and opened it.

  It was Drustan, his foot raised for another kick. He was very pale, and seemed, under his voluminously muffling cloak, to be only half dressed. His shirt gaped open at the throat, and his cuffs were undone. There was sweat on his skin, and his breathing laboured. As she swung the door open he staggered, and lurched against the jamb, and she saw that he was heavy with some burden carried under the cloak. “Anna –” he said, on a gasp, and, as he came forward into the candle-light, she could see what he carried.

  In the sudden silence the rustle of his cloak as he let it slip back from Baudouin’s body sounded as loud as the sea-waves beyond the window. Wordless, he waited, while she stood there in her shift, staring and dumb, with the bedcover held tight to her breast while breath stopped, life stopped.

  Then came back, with pain like blood after frostbite. Drustan trod, softly now, towards the bed, and laid the young prince’s body down. As he did so the child in the corner stirred under his blankets, murmuring something, then slept again. But when Anna, with a cry, flung herself down by her husband’s body, Drustan gripped her by the arm, and pulled her to her feet again.

  “Listen to me, lady! There’s no time now for mourning! The king – yes, of course it was the king, who else? – he was half mad and swearing to wipe out all his brother’s brood as well, and that means you, Anna, and the boy. Do you understand? You are both in danger. You must go, leave the castle, leave Cornwall, even. You must have some place to go to? For pity’s sake, lady, listen to me! There’s no time! Wake the boy –”

  “How did it happen? And why?” She hardly seemed to have heard him. She was fixed, white-faced, oblivious of everything but the gashed corpse lying in its spreading stains on the bed.

  “Oh, March’s way,” said Drustan harshly. “A quarrel forced, then high words, and out comes the sword. Did he ever need a reason? Or do you need to ask for one?”

  “He was unarmed,” she said stonily.

  Drustan leaned forward and took the sword gently from her grasp. “So I see.”

  “So must March have done. Surely, even he would not be so ignoble as to draw his sword on an unarmed man?”

  “He was drunk. So men will say –”

  “So they will.” Her voice was bitter with contempt. “And they will hold him excused therefor. But I,” said the Princess Anna, “will not!”

  “Nor should you,” said Drustan quickly. “Look, there will be time later on to think what you must do. But now you must go, and the child with you. Listen. This happened after they had supped. They were private; wine was left and the servants had been sent away. The king drank too much, and then this crime befell. But Baudouin, armed as he was only with the knife with which he had been eating, defended himself nobly, so that there was commotion, with tables and benches overturned, and the king, far gone in drink and passion, setting up such a shouting that the servants in the outer rooms were roused, and went running in. They were too late to save Baudouin, but one of them came running for me, and when I got to the supper chamber I found your lord as you see, and the king bleeding –”

  “Ah,” was all she said, but he answered her.

  “A couple of flesh wounds, no more than cuts, but the servants called for salves and bandages, and the leech came, and between them they have held him there. But he is raving still, and now it is treachery that he is shouting, and your life and that baby’s yonder that he is swearing must now be forfeit.”

  “For what?”

  “For the treason your husband committed in defending himself with a knife against his king.” Then, violently, “What does it matter? It has happened! I have brought him to you, but you cannot stay to bury him, nor even to mourn him. For the child’s sake, Anna, go, and quickly!”

  A sound at the door brought them both round, Drustan’s sword whipping from its scabbard, but it was only the princess’s woman, apprehensive and curious. “Madam? I heard something – aah!”

  The sound was a half-shriek as she caught sight of the blood-stained body on the bed. It roused the child, who began a whimpered protest at being wakened, and it shook Anna out of her nightmare trance of shock. Time enough, later, for the bereaved wife to weep; now she was a princess, and the mother of a prince, and this was a situation that she and Baudouin had spoken of and even, reluctantly, planned for. Baudouin was dead. His son must be saved. And they had, unforeseen, the valuable help of Drustan, who might even now be risking his own life for them. He had already – he told her this as she and the woman began hastily to pack their things – sent his servant for horses, and the man would accompany them for the first part of their way. There was no need to discuss where they would go. That, too, had been spoken of many times. Anna’s cousin had owned a castle a few weeks’ journey to the north, well out of Cornwall, and in gentler country; far enough for safety. This, since the cousin’s death, had been kept by his widow, who had promised, if need arose, to give Anna and her son shelter. Even King March could not molest them there.

  So it was that, some twenty minutes later, Drustan, with his sword ready in his right hand, and the little boy held in his other arm, kicked the door wide and prepared to lead the way down the tower steps. Anna and Sara, her woman, had crammed as much as they dared carry into bundles ready to be stuffed into saddle-bags, and the princess went armed still with her husband’s sword.

  “Quickly, now,” said Drustan.

  But Anna, on the threshold, turned suddenly back into the chamber. She ran to the bed. The other two waited for the sad farewell, the kiss on the corpse’s forehead. The child, on the man’s shoulder, watched silently with wide eyes still full of sleep.

  She stooped over the bed, and for a grotesque few moments seemed to be wrestling with her husband’s body. Then as she stood back they could see that she had stripped from him the embroidered shirt that, so short a time ago, he had put on with affectionate laughter. Across the breast, where the fine silks made the pattern, the bloodstains were already stiffening and growing darker.

  It seemed she had done with kisses. She stood for a moment with the bloody shirt clutched to her, and spoke to the man on the bed.

  “My lord,” said Baudouin’s wife, “your son shall wear your shirt and carry your sword, and when he is grown he will pay the beast of Cornwall for this night’s work. I promise you this, and these three are my witnesses.”

  Then she turned and followed Drustan down to where the servant waited with the horses.

  3

  There was a half-moon, hazed over, but giving a little light. They went carefully, but when they reached the shore track the sea seemed to reflect light back to the sky, and their way showed more clearly. They kept by the shore for some miles, splashing through fords and going as fast as they dared over the rough ground, until at last the track turned steeply uphill towards the crest of the moor where the old Roman road bridged the Tamarus River, and the way lay clear towards the east.

  Here, even without the sea-light, going was easier. The road ran straight, and though broken here and there and weedy, it was in reasonable repair. After a while the sky cleared, and a few stars showed.

 
; Goren, the man Drustan had sent with them, knew the road, and the horses he had provided were good ones, and fresh. They made fair speed. Anna, straining past her bay’s shoulder to watch the road for pitfalls, still had no time for grief. All her being, now, was set on escape, on securing her son’s safety. Baudouin’s sword was sheathed at her horse’s pommel, his bloodied shirt, hastily rolled up, had been thrust into her saddle-bag, and the big bay she rode was Baudouin’s own horse. For the moment, that was enough; Baudouin was with her, and Baudouin’s son slept soundly in Sara’s arms. She fixed her eyes on the dim roadway, her thoughts on the journey ahead, and rode for her life and his.

  Even so, they had gone barely ten miles when Goren turned in his saddle, pointing urgently to the rear. In a moment Anna could hear it, too. The beat of hoofs, coming fast along the road behind them.

  She slashed the reins down on her horse’s neck, and the bay quickened his already headlong pace. Behind her she heard the child start a sleepy whimpering, and Sara’s frightened voice trying to quieten him.

  “It’s no use, lady,” said Goren, breathlessly. “We’ll not keep this up for long. Yon Sara’s no great rider, and going like this, if she should let her nag stumble –”

  “How many horses? Can you tell?”

  “Two at least. Maybe no more. But two’s enough,” said the man grimly.

  “Then what do we do? Stop and face them? I’m armed, and so are you, and by the time they come up with us we will be breathed, and they will not. If we pull aside on to the moor –”

  “Aye, but not yet. There’s a place a little way from here, an old road-metal quarry. There’s trees there, growing thick, in out of the winds. Plenty of cover. It’s all we can do – get in there, and hope they’ll maybe pass by.”

  “Or that they’re harmless travellers, and nothing to do with us?”

  But on that desperate night, with the beat of hoofs hard behind the fugitives, it was not possible to believe it. She said no more until, in a very few minutes, Goren pointed ahead, and then she saw the thicker darkness of the quarry and its sheltering trees. They turned their horses in. Goren slid from the saddle, took the reins of the three horses, and led them deeper among the trees, then stood holding them with their heads against his body, muffling their nostrils in the folds of his cloak. The fugitives waited, still and tense. The approaching hoofbeats grew rapidly louder, then all of a sudden were upon them. No pause as they breasted the quarry; the headlong pace never slackened. The pursuit was going past.