by Mary Stewart
“Is anyone there?”
No reply. No sound except the rush of the stream and the harsh laughter of a raven overhead. The place seemed deserted, the raven an omen. He had raised his hand to knock again, when the door opened suddenly, and a man, the porter by his dress, swung it wide to the wall, and stood back, bowing.
Beyond the man, through the black shadow of the archway, Alexander saw a courtyard where servants bustled to and fro, girls with armfuls of linen, men carrying platters, or bowls and dishes, all apparently busy with preparations for the evening meal. The delectable smell of roasting meat met his nostrils, and he felt suddenly, ravenously hungry. Dark Tower or royal prison, the swollen river had done him a favour in bringing him to this lodging. No monastery, surely, would have been serving such a meal as he could smell here.
He was opening his mouth to identify himself to the porter, and make his plea for a night’s lodging, when a woman came hastily forward past the bowing man. In the darkness of the archway he could not see her clearly, but she was slightly built, and moved like a young woman. Her dress was dark and plain, but he caught, in the torch-light, the gleam of gold at her waist, and the glint of jewels. The royal exile herself, come to the gate to greet a chance traveller? Hardly. Besides, the smith had said Queen Morgan was not in residence. This, then, must be the lady who kept the castle for the queen – and who had come herself to the gate to welcome him.
The adventure was starting to take shape. Alexander stepped forward and made his bow.
“Madam –”
The lady stopped short. The porter straightened up, took one look at Alexander, another at the bridge behind him, empty of all but the horse, then, unbelievably, laid both hands to the gate to swing it shut in the young man’s face.
He was not quite quick enough. The prince jumped forward, set knee and shoulder against the oak, and with a thrust of his arm pushed it wide again, sending the man reeling. He turned to see the lady, her eyes wide with alarm, opening her mouth to summon help.
He said hurriedly: “Madam, forgive me! I mean no harm – and indeed, what harm could I do? I am alone, and crave only for a night’s shelter.”
She merely stared, saying nothing.
He went on quickly: “I’d been planning to seek lodging at the monastery, but the river’s in flood, and there was no way to cross. I’m sorry if I handled your man a bit roughly –”
“No matter. He’s not hurt.” Recovering from her surprise, whatever had caused it, she came forward quickly. “I ask your pardon for the rough welcome, sir, but we were expecting other guests, and my gateman is a fool, and mistook his orders. Pray come in, and be welcome. Leave your horse, the grooms will see to it.”
He followed her into the courtyard. In the light of the torches that flickered and flamed in their brackets on the walls, he could see her more clearly. She was young; so far the adventure held true; but unlike the heroines of the tales he had enjoyed, she was not beautiful. Her face was thinnish, her eyes round and light-blue, with pale brows and lashes, and her mouth was small and close-lipped.
But her smile at Alexander was a sweet one, and her voice was pleasant.
“This way, sir. I’m afraid it will be plain lodging for you tonight, but it’s all we can offer.”
She repeated what she had said about expected guests, and the main rooms of the place already prepared for them, but with no suggestion, which Alexander was already half waiting for, that he should join the company in the hall for supper. She finished merely: “But you will be warm and comfortable, and I will send someone to see to you. So the bridge is down again? It seems to happen whenever the river’s in spate, and we get travellers, parties even, who come seeking a night’s lodging. We could not have taken in a party tonight, but a single traveller, who will be content with a dry bed and a good meal –”
“Of course. I’m only sorry if I’ve come at a bad time.”
“No, no. If you – ah, here is Grif. He’ll look after you.”
An elderly man, a chamberlain by his dress, came hurrying across the court towards them. The lady, still with the smile, but with her mind, obviously, elsewhere, handed Alexander over with a brief, “Be welcome, sir, and God give you a good night,” and hurried away, vanishing through the main door of the castle.
“This way, sir,” said Grif.
Alexander, pausing only to see his horse taken in hand by a groom, followed him towards a small door set near one of the towers. It was apparent that he could not expect the honours due to a guest of his princely standing; she had not even asked his name. But supper and a good bed were all he had a right to ask for, and after the hard day’s riding they were beginning to be all he wanted.
The chamberlain led him along a chilly stone-flagged corridor to a smallish chamber. This was well enough appointed, with a bed, a cross-stool, a small table and a chest for clothing, but the man spread an apologetic hand.
“My lord, it’s poor lodging for such as yourself, but the best chambers are bespoken, as my lady would tell you, and if this will serve –”
“Of course it will serve. I’m grateful for your lady’s kindness. May I know her name?”
“She’s the Lady Luned, who was the wife of Gerin. Since his death she lives much retired, keeping this castle here for the queen her mistress, but before that she was at court.”
“This must be a lonely place, after what one hears of Camelot.”
“Oh, not the High King’s court,” said the man. “King Urbgen’s, of Rheged. My lady waited on the queen there, Queen Morgan, that was Urbgen’s wife and is King Arthur’s sister.”
This went some way to explaining the surprising amount of service that this small and isolated place seemed to offer, even in the absence of its owner. The Lady Luned still kept her state.
“And your lady still receives guests,” said Alexander. “The road looked well travelled to me. Or are the tracks worn by strays like myself who cannot get to the monastery?”
The man laughed. “There are plenty of those, my lord. The river sends a deal of company our way. Only for a night, as a rule; the flood goes down as sharp as it rises. You needn’t fear to be held back for long.”
“But tonight there are guests expected for whom your lady goes to the gate herself? May one know who they are?”
“Why, Queen Morgan herself,” said the old man. “She’s on her way from the north to Castell Aur in Wales. It seems she petitioned the High King to let her go there to her own place. She’ll come escorted – under guard, that is – but he lets her have her own people about her, so this will be like her own court again.” A smile and a sigh. “Ah, well, poor lady. It’s a busy time, but a lively one for the valley folk. She’ll maybe rest here a few weeks, if the weather’s good, and the company she’s brought pleases her. She should be here soon. You’d see the place was in a rush and my lady Luned herself much occupied … But you’re welcome, she always sees to that. And now, my lord – for ‘my lord’ it is, by your ways, young sir? – have you all you want? I’ll send a boy to you, and I’ll go myself and see what the kitchens have got ready to send you. You’ll find the privy straight across the passageway.”
He bowed his way out. Alexander threw his saddle-bag down on the chest and pulled a clean shirt out of it. The chance traveller, understandably enough, could not expect to be bidden to the royal table, or even to catch sight of the royal guest, but when the promised boy arrived with a bowl of hot water and a fresh towel he made a careful toilet, wondering as he did so what sort of figure he would cut in front of a queen. For this was not only the former Queen of Rheged, and Arthur’s own sister, but also from all accounts a notable witch, whom men feared, and called Queen Morgan the sorceress, Morgan le Fay.
15
By the time Alexander had changed into clean clothes, and washed the stains of the journey away, he had realised with relief what a lucky chance had saved him from giving his name to the Lady Luned, and thereafter possibly taking his place at the royal table. After h
is long day on the road, with no one but his horse to talk to, he had been in danger of forgetting the purpose of his journey, and that he could hardly claim his right to royal birth and title without doing the very damage that he, with Brand and Uwain, had set out to prevent. Alexander, son of Prince Baudouin, must stay dead, and Anna the widowed princess must stay unmolested, until such time as Drustan their kinsman should put them in the way of the High King’s judgment and justice.
So the Lady Luned’s chance traveller was a nobody, and would dine in his own chamber. And in that case, thought Alexander cheerfully, as footsteps came hurrying along the corridor, and the delectable smells of the meal approached, he could eat straight away, and not be compelled to wait for the belated royal party.
He called “Enter!” and retired into the window embrasure as a couple of servants came in with steaming platters and a generous basket of bread still hot from the oven. The boy who had served him earlier set a jug of wine down, with a goblet and a couple of napkins. The napkins were of fair linen, and the goblet was a graceful thing of silver. It seemed that one need not be royal to be given the best that the Lady Luned had to offer.
He thanked the men, who bowed and withdrew. The boy, lifting the wine-jug, and proffering one of the napkins, was apparently ready to stay and serve him, but Alexander, with a quick word, dismissed him. Even when he had gone, and the door had shut behind him, the prince did not move straight away to the table.
The window of his room gave on the outside of the castle. The opening was narrow, but afforded a reasonable view of the road leading round the edge of the moat towards the bridge and the main gate. The noise of the waterfall had hidden the sound of hoofs, but a few moments ago two horsemen had appeared, riding towards the gate. Before they reached it they drew rein, turning, apparently, to meet and greet two others who came cantering to overtake them. Then came the sound of hammering at the gate, and the shouting that would bring the porter to open.
The first of the queen’s party? Alexander turned thoughtfully from the window, more than ever thankful for the chances that had kept him in seclusion.
The flare of the gatehouse torch had shown him, on the breasts of the second pair of horsemen, the badge of King March of Cornwall.
The rest of the party – the main body of it – arrived just as he had finished eating. It was a large company, some twenty armed horsemen escorting three litters and a small drove of baggage-mules. Mounted servants carried torches, so, although the night was now quite black, Alexander, at his window once more, saw it all clearly.
The queen, of course, would be in one of the litters; the foremost, borne by sturdy white mules and with gilded paint glinting, must be hers. He looked for the royal badge of Rheged, then realised that of course a rejected queen would have no right to her husband’s honours, nor to his protection. Not in fact that it was protection, except as guards would provide it for their prisoner. So – with a queer little stir of excitement he realised it – the men-at-arms would probably be the High King’s own. There was no badge or pennon that he could see, but he had heard that Arthur carried a plain white shield – for God to write on, said the churchmen. Well, for whatever reason, thought Alexander, men like Arthur, duke of battles, undisputed ruler of a kingdom united and at peace, was above and beyond, far beyond, the need to flaunt identity and achievement.
So, all unconsciously, impelled by a boy’s instinctive hero-worship, Alexander made the first move of the fight to combat evil, without even suspecting that the evil existed.
He began to find out next day.
He slept deeply, without dreams or disturbances, and woke early to find the servants back at his door with food and fresh water. The old chamberlain Grif was with them, sent by his hostess to ask after the traveller’s comfort, and to give him good wishes for his journey. The Lady Luned had not yet risen, said the old man, and managed, with the gentlest courtesy, to make it clear that when she did, she would be much occupied with waiting on her royal guest. Alexander, who was anxious now only to be on his way, sent back messages of warm thanks and good wishes, then broke his fast, packed his good clothes into the saddle-bag, together with such food as was left over from breakfast, and made his way out into the courtyard.
All was bustle there, men eating and drinking and chaffing the giggling servant-girls who carried food and beer to them; men cleaning their weapons and seeing to their horses and harness; the castle’s own grooms busy with buckets and brushes, and the coming and going by the gate of market-women and local folk bringing their wares to sell.
Alexander made for the stable where he had seen his own horse led on the previous evening. It was there, comfortably housed and sharing a manger with half a dozen others. His saddle was on a wooden rack near the door. He was lifting this down when one of the grooms came in, dumping the pail he carried and hurrying to Alexander’s side.
“You give me that, sir. I’ll do it.” He took the saddle and lifted it to the horse’s back, then stooped to pull the girth tight. “’Tis a rare handsome beast you’ve got here. I did him last night myself. He was tired – come a long way, had you? – but I gave him a warm mash with a drop of beer in it, and he ate up a treat. There he is now, ready to go. You going far, young sir?”
“That depends. I see people have come in this morning, country folk. Have you heard if the river’s still in flood?”
“It’s well down this morning, so not to worry, young master. It’ll be down to no more than knee-deep by this. The track this side never gets flooded – not so’s you can’t get through – and the footing’s good.” He gave the horse’s rump a caressing slap. “You’re going north, I take it?”
“Yes, for Rheged and then the north-east.” Alexander, grateful to the man for his care of the horse, stayed chatting for a few more minutes, then thanked him and took the bridle, leaving the groom beaming over a couple of copper coins. Without exciting more than some curious stares and a civil “Good morning” or two from the crowd in the courtyard, he led his horse out, and across to the gate. He saw no reason to reward the porter there, merely waiting in silence while the man pushed the heavy door open for him. Once across the moat he mounted and turned his horse’s head along the track north of the river, heading for the road he had glimpsed yesterday, that led up past the monastery buildings from the end of the broken bridge.
He never reached it.
Three of Queen Morgan’s escort, up and about even earlier than Alexander, had ridden out hunting, to find something more substantial for the castle’s table than the fat geese and capons brought in by the local peasants.
They rode up into the woods that clothed the sides of the valley. Here the going was rough, the trees close-growing, with dense underbrush, and they soon scared up a deer. That it was a young doe, heavy with fawn, did not trouble them. The chase was all. The hounds were urged on with shouts and laughter, and the party galloped helter-skelter, necks for sale through the trees as the doe made downhill for the river.
The river, though it had certainly fallen during the night, was still fairly high, and running noisily, so that Alexander, riding at a swift canter along the bank, heard nothing of the hunt. The first he knew was when the doe broke suddenly out of the trees, which here grew close down to the water, and sprang clear into the road, barely three inches in front of the horse’s nose.
The chestnut was a good horse, as steady as he was swift, and did not easily take fright, but the inevitable check, with the violent swerve and plunge to one side, only narrowly avoided collision with the fleeing doe. Even so, Alexander might have stayed in the saddle and kept control, had not the beast’s sharp swerve taken it off the track and right to the river’s edge, where the recent flood had loosened a section of the bank.
Under the slam of hoofs the ground broke, crumbled, and slid into the water. The horse fell, pitching his rider sideways into the river. The doe, untouched, flew the broken bank like a bird and was soon lost in the trees on the far side, while the hunting party, b
reaking from the woods a few moments later, found their hounds circling at a loss at the water’s edge, and Alexander’s big chestnut floundering up the river bank.
Alexander himself lay still where he had been flung, half in the rush of water, half on the stony rubble of the broken bank.
16
Alexander woke to a headache, a sharp pain in the left foot, and a nagging soreness in the left forearm. He was in bed, and it was dark, but a candle burned beside the bed, and its little light showed him that he was back in the bedchamber in the Dark Tower where he had slept last night. Last night? He felt drowsy, and slightly sick, with a heaviness in his limbs that set him wondering how long he had slept, or indeed – as the wraiths of dream still hung about him – whether he had ever ridden out from the place at all. The candle-light swam against his eyes. He shut them, and slid into sleep again.
When he awoke it was to daylight, and the click of the door-latch. The door opened to admit a stout woman with a basket over her arm and a beaker in one hand. She was followed by the boy who had served him yesterday, carrying a steaming bowl and an armful of linen towels.
“Well, and so you’re with us again!” The woman spoke with a sort of familiar, almost professional cheeriness. From this, and from her plain dress and amply aproned figure and the white wimple hiding her hair, it was a good guess that she had been nurse to a couple of generations, at least, of the owners of the castle. She dumped her basket on the table. “And in more ways than one, young master! You thought you’d got away from us, didn’t you, and found it wasn’t quite as easy as that! Eh, well, you were lucky they found you so soon. You’ll come to no harm, but you’ll have to bide a few days, and let old Brigit look after you … Here, drink this. Can you sit up? That’s right … Put the bowl down here, Peter, and get the other things set out for me. Quickly now! Come along, young master, all of it … Done you good already, by the looks of you. If you could have seen yourself yesterday morning when they brought you in from the river, like a drowned corpse you were, as white as wax and with that black bruise on your face and the blood, and dripping with water as cold as snow-broth –”