by Mary Stewart
“Except for Chlodomer’s kingdom of Orleans, that’s safe enough,” said Ansirus. “He’s a Christian, at least in name, and the roads are open to pilgrims. In fact they are made welcome. Queen Clotilda, Clovis’s widow, spends a lot of time at Tours. If she is there during our visit, then I shall hope to present you to her.” He smiled. “No, don’t look so excited, child. Remember these Franks are rough people, who live for war, and, whether Christian or not, think nothing of murder when it suits them. Be thankful that our status will protect us, but don’t expect Camelot.”
“I wish,” said Alice wistfully, “that a bishop or someone would die and do miracles at Camelot, then we could go there.”
But she did not say it aloud.
7
They came in sight of the city of Tours on the evening of a wet and windy day in April.
The Frankish city was certainly no Camelot. The citadel was grimly built of grey stone, the houses crowded near it – cowering under it, it seemed – were at best half stone, half wooden, and at worst mud brick with dripping thatch. The circling river, majestically broad, was grey too, with rushing caps of white under a low grey sky. Anything further removed from the rose-red charm of Ansirus’ castle, or the sun-baked and crumbling splendours of Jerusalem, it would be hard to imagine. But the pilgrims’ hostel, on the river bank across from the town, was stoutly built and dry, and welcomed them with fires, meat and a red wine better than any they had tasted before. The duke, thankful to find that no royal summons awaited him, retired straight after supper, with the rest of his party, into exhausted sleep.
Next morning the rain had gone, the sun was high, and across a dimpling blue river the little city looked, if not splendid, at any rate attractive, with blossoming fruit trees among the houses, and people streaming across the river bridge towards the morning market. There was even a gilded spire catching the sunlight, and from the citadel a pennon flew, to announce the presence either of the king or of the old queen, his mother.
Sure enough, the summons came as they were breaking their fast. Queen Clotilda was in Tours, and would receive the duke and the Lady Alice once their first devotions had been paid at the holy shrine, and thereafter she would be happy to make them welcome as guests under her roof for the duration of their stay. She was lodged, said the messenger, not in the citadel, but in her own palace on the other side of the city. An escort would attend them there.
Their first sight of the ‘palace’ was as disappointing as the rainswept introduction to Tours.
“Palace? It’s just a farm!” said Alice to Mariamne, whose mule ambled alongside her pony. She spoke softly, in case the men sent to escort them might hear her, and looked doubtfully down at the embroidered primrose-coloured skirt of her best gown. “I wish I’d brought my thick shoes instead of these slippers! I suppose it must be the right place, but are you sure the messenger this morning said ‘a palace’?”
“Yes,” said Mariamne, who, before her first sight of Castle Rose, would certainly have judged this to be, if not a palace, a very prosperous-looking place indeed. “But it looks nice, doesn’t it, like being in the country? I didn’t think much of the town! Those beggars everywhere, poor things – I’d hate to have to go anywhere without an escort to keep them off! And didn’t the streets smell bad?”
Since at that moment they were riding up a narrow roadway, something like a farm track at home, their progress hindered by a herd of pigs being driven in from the woods, Alice laughed.
“I suppose that anywhere a queen lives is a palace. It’s the queen that makes it, after all. But I do hope that the floors are clean!”
Queen Clotilda, widow of the great Merwing king Clovis, would have lent royalty to a pigsty. Which may have been just as well, since the byres and sties of what was certainly a farmstead were very near the room where the duke’s party was received. This was a large, long room, a hall which still had about it some of the dignity of its Roman origin; the floor was of well-made mosaic, the wall-hangings were worked in bright colours which had faded pleasantly, and the fourth wall of the hall was open, where a series of arches gave on a courtyard with some tubs of flowers and orange trees gay with both fruit and blossom, and a very pretty fountain. The sleeping-chambers and guest rooms made up two other sides of the court, and the fourth was open to a slope of pasture leading down towards the river. Beyond the guest-chambers lay the kitchens and servants’ quarters, and separated only from the royal rooms by a narrow strip of garden and orchard were the stables and barns and store-houses of a large and prosperous farm.
The ‘palace’ was indeed a farmstead, but rather more; like most of the houses of the Frankish nobles, it was a unit, a settlement in miniature, self-sufficient in times either of peace or war. On the April breezes, along with the smells of stable and sty, the lowing of cattle and the incessant cackling of poultry, came other sounds: the clink of a smith’s hammer, the different clangour of an armoury, the clack of shuttles and the laughter and calling of women’s voices busy over the washing down at the river’s edge.
But inside the hall there was, if not ceremony, a respectful silence. At the end of the hall was a low dais, at the centre of which stood the great chair of state. Some score of men stood near, and a couple of women, the latter both in the sombre habits of nuns. Most of the men were obviously warriors, dressed in armoured leather, with jewelled belts and armlets; to a man they were tall and blue-eyed, with shoulder-length fair hair and long moustaches. Two other men waited in the background; one in priestly habit, his face hidden by his cowl, the other a young man, tall and dark-haired, in a long robe, with round his neck a silver chain that seemed to denote some sort of palace functionary.
The queen herself was standing by one of the archways, with a sword in her hand, turning the blade this way and that in the sunlight, her head bent to study its line, and her thumb trying the edge. A man, a slave by his dress, and wearing the leather apron and wrist-guards of a smith, stood by her, apparently waiting for her verdict on his work. When the chamberlain announced the newcomers she looked up and turned, in the same movement throwing the sword to the man. The blade struck him, clanging against the studs of the tough leather, then slid down, and the fellow, shifting quickly, caught the sword as it fell within an inch of his foot. He hefted it safely, grinned at Alice’s shocked face, and crossed the courtyard towards a gate which must lead to the workshops.
“My lord duke.” The queen had not even glanced to see where the sword fell. “And your daughter, the Lady Alice? Be welcome to our kingdom here.”
There were chairs set outside one of the archways, where the spring sunlight fell warmly on the courtyard’s flagstones. She led the way to these, and a servant brought a dish of some savoury pastries, and a flagon of wine, pale gold in colour, and smelling deliciously of flowers. Alice, seated on a stool beside her father’s chair, sipped and listened to the exchange of courtesies, watching the white doves as they strutted and cooed on the rooftops, and wondering if this pilgrimage, like the one to Jerusalem, would do good (presumably) to her soul, but none at all to her brain or her body. If only her father’s friends were not all so old!
‘Old’ though she naturally appeared to a child’s eyes, the queen was perhaps a year or two short of fifty. When a girl she must have been handsome; one could guess at the proud and vital look, the direct blue gaze, the upright carriage. Now she was thin, and care had worn lines in the fine skin and hooded the eyes with weariness. Her hair was hidden under a veil, and the robe she wore was of a sombre colour somewhere between brown and green. It was a plain, almost nun-like garb for a queen, but her girdle had a golden buckle most beautifully worked, and at her breast hung a jewelled cross on a gold chain. The slippers showing beneath the sober gown were of soft bronze-coloured kidskin. Nun-like the dress might be, but the effect was one of subdued elegance, and the pride and vitality were still there, unimpaired by age.
But Alice saw none of this. If only, she was thinking, if only their hostess had been youn
g, a young queen with children of Alice’s age …
And at that moment, as if her thought had been a wish, a boy came running up through the pasture from the river bank, and into the courtyard, with a woman, red-faced and anxious, toiling after him and calling his name.
“Theudo! Prince Theudo! Theudovald! Come back! Your grandmother has guests, and you know you are to stay with me!”
She saw the queen, and her voice trailed away. She halted, dropping a curtsey as the boy, paying her no heed, ran laughing towards the queen, then, seeing Alice and the duke, paused and, with a composure a little breathless, made his bows.
The woman, his nurse presumably, bobbed again, muttered something, and scuttled away. Neither the queen nor the boy took any notice of her. It seemed that the Merwings were not accustomed, thought Alice, to paying much attention to their inferiors.
“My grandson.” There was pride in the queen’s voice, and also quite a new note; it seemed she was fond of the boy. He was younger than Alice, some six or seven years old, but well grown for his age. His hair was fair, like that of the other menfolk, but he wore it very long, hanging almost to his waist. That, with the clear skin and blue eyes, and full-lipped childish mouth, might have made him look girlish, but for a lift of the head that spoke of arrogance, and a touch of stubbornness in the set of the jaw. He went confidently to his grandmother’s side. One of her hands touched his shoulder lightly, and she ran a tress of the long hair through her fingers.
“This is your son’s, King Chlodomer’s, eldest, I take it?” said Duke Ansirus, smiling at the boy. “He’s a fine, well-grown boy. You must be proud of him. And there’s a brother, I believe, a few years younger? Are they both here with you now?”
“Yes. Whenever I am here in Tours, the boys come to me. Their father is abroad, as often as not, and Queen Guntheuc goes with him. There are three of them now; another boy was born last spring. The second boy, Gunthar, and the baby Chlodovald stay with the nursemaids, but Theudovald is of an age when he would rather be with the men –” her lips thinned in what might have been meant for a smile – “or with me. He knows that I count him already a man grown.”
Duke Ansirus made some reply, and soon the queen and he were deep in talk about the recent settlements of the Frankish kingdoms, and what they might mean. The same old talk, thought Alice, sitting on her stool with hands folded in her lap and her eyes fixed rather wistfully on the sunny prospect of treetops beyond the courtyard roof, though here her father was unlikely to give his views on the subject of land-partition that inevitably brought with it quarrels and fighting, with all the dreadful consequences of war, not least the temporary ruin of the very land that was fought over … Ah, they were safely past that subject, and starting to talk about the holy shrine, and the plans the queen had for its embellishment. And that, too, could go on for a very long time …
A tug at her skirt drew her attention. Theudovald, with a jerk of the head and a question in his eyes, was silently inviting her to go with him and leave the adults to their talking. She nodded eagerly, and cleared her throat for the formal address suitable to their company.
“Madam, my lord duke – Father. With your gracious permission –”
“I’m going to show Alice the horses, Grandmother,” said Theudovald, and, apparently in no need of permission, gracious or otherwise, he took Alice’s hand and pulled her to her feet. He was nearly as tall as she was. She threw a look, half-laughing, half-apologetic at her father, received his smiling nod, and followed the boy out into the sunlit yard. The queen glanced her way, but never faltered in something she was saying about her son King Chlodomer and the sacred trust he had inherited in the church of St Martin, with the constant stream of pilgrims to the holiest shrine in Europe and the great basilica that had been built over the site a few hundred years before.
Alice, with a bob of a curtsey, turned and ran across the courtyard after the prince.
8
The place – palace or farmstead – was even bigger than Alice had thought, a vast, sprawling complex of cottages and farm buildings, garths and orchards where men dug and planted, and yards where maids bustled with baskets of provisions or armfuls of clothing. In the stableyards, men – the guards and fighting men, one could guess – lounged idly about or sat over dice games on the warm flagstones, while grooms and cattlemen were busy about their charges. The prince led the way at a run between two rows of beehives and a pen crowded with white goats, and Alice, kilting up the primrose skirts, followed him, picking her way as best she could over cobbles which had certainly never been swept. They passed the forge, where the smith, at work again on the sword he had shown Queen Clotilda, gave them a nod of greeting. Behind him in the flickering firelight of the smithy Alice could see a forest of lances stacked in a corner. Queen Clotilda’s palace could probably supply, mount and equip a small army.
Theudovald paused to wait for her where a narrow archway, casting an arc of deep shadow, led out of the maze of buildings into the vineyards beyond. These stretched, open to the sun, right up the sloping valley-side to a crest of woodland nearly half a mile away. The wines were just budding, small stumpy plants set in careful rows up the hillside, with no promise of the harvest to come. Even so, it could be seen that they were better than the vines so carefully tended in the sheltered half-acre at Castle Rose. The sun was hot now, blazing down on the young leaves and rosy buds, and between the ranks of vines the soil was already drying to summer dust. No wonder, thought Alice, that the wines of the Loire tasted quite different from the vintages of Rheged.
They were out of sight now of the servants and guards in the courtyards. Theudovald cast a look behind him. “Quick!” he said. “This way!” and ran in among the vines.
There was a track leading straight uphill, bisecting the vineyard. It was wide enough for a cart, and deeply rutted. It was also very dusty. Alice’s slippers had already suffered more than a little, and she did not have so many grand dresses that she could afford to spoil the primrose silk. She hesitated, but the boy repeated it urgently: “Quick! Come quickly!” and went up the track at a run. She hoisted her skirts above her knees and followed him.
At the head of the slope, between the vineyard and the woodland, was a low wall of dry stone, in places overgrown with weeds and bramble-bushes. There were gaps where the stones had fallen. “This way,” panted Theudovald, jumping to the top of one such gap.
Alice paused, dismayed. Her slippers were probably ruined for good, but the primrose silk was not, and was too precious to risk. Even had she been able to scramble over the wall, the wood beyond it looked tangled and thick with undergrowth.
“Where are you going?”
“Quickly! They haven’t missed us yet!” As he spoke, he jumped down into the wood.
Alice, still hanging back, heard the thud as he landed, then a gasp and a cry bitten off short. She ran to the wall and looked over.
“What is it? Have you hurt yourself?”
“There was a loose stone. I’m all right, but these thorns … I can’t get out!”
He was well and truly caught. Tripping on landing, he had gone head first into a patch of brambles, and was trying to wrench himself free of the long, whippy boughs that had fixed themselves in his clothes, and were holding him fast.
Alice, back in the sheep country at home, had many a time had to go to the aid of a ewe trapped by the fierce barbs of bramble or briar. So after all it was goodbye to the primrose gown. She set her pretty mouth, bunched her skirts higher, and prepared to climb the wall. “Stay still a moment. I’ll help you. I’ve got scissors in my purse –”
“No, no! I’m nearly out. There’s just this –” An exclamation in the Frankish tongue, which Alice, perhaps fortunately, did not understand. She saw now that the boy was caught not only by his clothes, but also by the long hair which, like the cloth, was wound tightly round the thorns.
No thought for his clothes there: with a wrench of tearing cloth he dragged himself clear and, still on his
knees, pulled a sharp little dagger from his belt and hacked off the piece of thorn-twig that was still tangled with his hair and the torn strip from his tunic. Holding this gingerly, he clambered back across the wall. There was blood on his hands, but he did not seem to notice. He was trying – still with mutterings in the Frankish tongue – to unwind the tangle of cloth and hair and thorn.
“Here, let me,” said Alice, reaching into her reticule for the scissors she always carried.
Theudovald snatched the tangled lock out of her reach. “No! I can do it!”
“But your hands, they’re bleeding! If you’d let me look –”
“No, put those things away! I tell you, you mustn’t cut it! Never that!”
“Why not?”
But even as she spoke she remembered something else her father had told her about these strange people, the Franks. “Their kings never cut their hair,” he had said. “The long hair is a sign of royalty, the lion’s mane. To cut it short is shame and humiliation. It could mean the loss of a kingdom.”
She put the scissors away hastily. “I forgot. My father did tell me about it. He said that the long hair was a royal symbol. I’m sorry. Can you do it?”
“Yes. There, it’s done.” He threw the twig down, and carefully smoothed the long hair back. “What’s a symbol?”
“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.