The Prince and the Pilgrim

by Mary Stewart

  Then voices, kept low; men’s voices, whispering, but echoing from the water, and carried up through the open port. Then the soft slap of rope against the ship’s side, and the creak and strain of the ladder as someone climbed it.

  Alice sat up and threw back the rugs. Mariamne, undisturbed, slept on. Alice took the three steps to the port-hole and stretched on tiptoe to peer out.

  Her cabin, on the starboard side, looked straight out over a narrow stretch of water towards a sizeable island thick with trees. The Merwing hardly seemed to be moving at all; the island seemed to float, still, black on smooth water.

  But directly below the port-hole there were ripples, ringing out edged with a faint apricot shimmer from the riding-light. A boat lay close under the ship’s side, and, a little way to the right of the port-hole, a rope ladder hung down. A man stood in the boat, holding the ladder steady for the climber. She tried to lean out, straining upward to see, but he must already have reached the deck. The ladder, released, came snaking down, and slid into the water with hardly a splash. The boatman dragged it in, piling it anyhow in a heap, then, with no more than a wave of the arm, thrust the boat away from the ship’s side and propelled it with silent oars to be lost in the dense shadow of the island trees.

  Alice snatched up her bedgown, belted it quickly round her, failed to find her slippers, and ran barefoot out of the cabin to seek her father.

  The door of his cabin was open. The bulkhead lantern was lit, and showed an empty bed. She ran for the companionway, where the guards ought to be awake and on station.

  Someone was coming down the stairs. Not the duke; a tall man, moving carefully, his cloak wrapped round some bulky bundle carried in his arms.

  He blocked the stairway. She backed, drew breath to call out, and then stopped as he spoke quietly, under his breath.

  “Lady Alice? Little maid?”

  As he came into the edge of the lantern’s glimmer she knew him.

  “Jeshua!”

  He looked weary, and there was a smear of mud on his face. He smelled of sweat and horses and dank water. He was smiling.

  “The same. By your leave, lady. This is your father’s bedchamber?” He went past her and stooping, laid his burden, still close-wrapped, on the duke’s bed.

  “What are you doing here? What’s happening? Where’s my father? And what is that?”

  The questions poured out, as if a dam had broken that had held back the tensions of the last night and day.

  He answered only two of them, but they were enough.

  “Your father is on deck, talking with the master. And this –” indicating the motionless bundle on the bed – “this is Chlodovald, King of Orleans, whose brothers, as you know, were killed, and who, by your leave, is going home with you.”

  22

  She stared at Jeshua for a breathless moment, feeling the blood rushing up into her face.

  “Chlodovald? Prince Chlodovald? We were told they were all dead!”

  “The two eldest are. We managed to smuggle the third boy away. Now if you –”

  Her hands flew to her cheeks. She swung round to look at the motionless lump in the bed. “Is he all right? Was he hurt?”

  “No, no. He’s asleep. It’s been a long journey and a hard one, and he’s very young. He’s been dead to everything for the last hour or more. Now, Lady Alice, I must go and talk to your father. He’s above, with the master. I’m glad you woke. If you of your goodness would stay here with the boy, in case he should wake, and wonder where he is? He’s a brave little boy, but he must be very frightened.”

  “Of course I’ll stay with him. Ah, we’re under way again. The master expected this?”

  “He hoped. We managed to send word ahead, so he has been watching for us. Now by your leave –?”

  “Of course.”

  She watched him take the steps to the deck two at a time, heard a softly spoken word, presumably to one of the guards, and he was gone. She tiptoed across to the bedside and stooped over the boy.

  In the glimmer of the tiny bud of light from the lantern she could see nothing clearly. He lay half curled up, just as Jeshua had laid him down, the thick folds of the cloak covering him completely, but for the face. He was lying turned away from the light, and she leaned closer to look. A pale forehead, fair brows and closed eyes with fair, curtaining lashes. A childish mouth and determined chin. The gleam of a long strand of hair, yellow as gold, escaping from the folds of the cloak – she was looking at Theudovald again, at six years old, the Merwing arrogance and drive lost in the deep sleep of childhood. Chlodovald, who had been a baby last time she was in Tours. Whose brothers had been murdered; whose mother had married the murderer. Who must have learned, in the most brutal fashion, to trust nobody, to fear everyone. But by God’s mercy, and through the loyalty of one or two servants, he was here, and safe.

  She sank to her knees by the bed, and, her first instinct in this miraculous moment, sent a prayer of thankfulness in the wake of her earlier, troubled devotions. Then, the boy still sleeping, she settled herself to watch till Jeshua or her father should come.

  Time passed slowly. Eager to know what had happened, what was to happen, Alice found the waiting hard. Once the sleeping child stirred, and murmured something, but sank back into sleep again. Faint sounds came from time to time from above, but only the normal sounds of the ship by night; the creak of timber, the snap of a sail, the soft murmur of water along the sides. They must be moving faster now. The air that filtered down the companionway was fresher. She wondered if the Merwing had won clear of the islands and into the wide waters of the estuary. The master had said that they would be in Nantes by morning, and that there should be a British ship there to carry them home to safety.

  The cabin’s single chair was just under the porthole. Clutching her bedgown round her, she knelt up on the cushioned seat, and gripping the sill, pulled herself up to peer out at the darkness.

  The cabin itself was so dimly lit that her eyes adjusted almost at once to the dark outside, and she could see reasonably well. They were not yet in open water; land – she could not tell if it was the shore, or just another island – was sliding past, dark on dark. No lights anywhere, and now even the few stars were gone. The breeze was freshening, and the water slapped and gurgled along the ship’s side.

  It drowned the sounds that might have warned her. She did not hear the soft word spoken with the guard on deck, or the padding of swift feet down the stairway. There was a quick step behind her. Before she could even turn her head, powerful hands seized her from behind. A hand jammed itself over her mouth, stifling any sound she might try to make, and she was dragged bodily from the chair, held hard against her assailant’s body. Dim though the light was, it showed the thin gleam of a knife raised to strike.

  He was very strong, and the folds of her bedgown hampered her, but she struggled and kicked out. She heard him give what sounded like a grunt of surprise, and his grip slackened momentarily, so that she twisted sharply in his grip, clawing up for his face with her one free hand, and lashing out as best she could with her feet. Barefooted as she was, she could hardly have hoped to hurt him, but she caught him off balance, and as the two of them lurched across the little cabin towards the bed, one wild and random kick landed squarely on the sleeping child.

  There was a gasp, a jerk of movement from the bed, then a shout in a high young voice, ringing to rouse the ship, “Guard! Guard! To me!” and the quick flash of another knife as the boy flung himself at them and stabbed down, hard.

  Alice found herself on the floor, breathless, tousled, and bruised, but unhurt. Above her a curse, and another cry. It might have gone hard for the child, but the guards had heard. There was an answering shout, then the crashing of armed feet as the two men hurled themselves down the stairway and into the cabin. One of them trod on her hand as he jumped to seize the attacker. The latter made no resistance. He had dropped his knife and was clutching his right arm with fingers through which blood dripped. Some
one else came running with a lantern, and the place was suddenly filled with noise and light. Standing on the bed, cloak thrown off and fair hair flying, the child Chlodovald, dagger in hand and blue eyes blazing, looked ready to strike again.

  Then the duke was there, on his knees beside her.

  “Alice! Child! Are you hurt?”

  “No. No, I’m all right. Really I am, Father. What happened? Who is he?”

  “One of the crew, I think. A servant.” He helped her up and set her back in the chair. “That’s how he got past the guards. They knew him. He told them I had sent him.”

  She looked up, still dizzy with the struggle and the tossing light and shadow and the noise in the crowded cabin. The boy was shouting something in the Frankish tongue, sounding alarmed and angry, and two men – it was Jeshua and the ship’s master – were trying to calm him and, presumably, explain where he was and that the danger was past. The assassin, a thickset young man whom she vaguely remembered having seen somewhere about the ship, was in the grip of the two guards.

  “He was going to kill the prince?”

  “It would seem so. They’ll soon find out when they question him. No, stay still, my dear.” He pressed her gently back into the cushions of the chair, and straightened, lifting his voice above the chaos in the little cabin.

  “You men. Take him up now.” This to the guards holding the attacker.

  “Wait!”

  It was Chlodovald, still standing on the bed, and by this keeping a commanding height. Shaken and disoriented though he must have been, waking among strangers in a strange place to find murder still stalking him, that was past, and he was himself again, a Merwing prince whose first instinct was for revenge. He had no attention, now, for anyone but the prisoner.

  “You were paid for this? By whom?”

  The man, scared and sullen, shook his head and muttered something unintelligible, but as one of the guards raised a hand the duke spoke sharply.

  “Not here! By your leave, Prince Chlodovald. Let me present myself. I am Duke Ansirus of Rheged in Britain. I and my daughter are guests of your grandmother Queen Clotilda, and we are here to escort you to safety. So if you will, put up your dagger, and we will take this man up out of here. It seems he is one of the crew, so it will be proper to let the master question him.”

  Even standing on the bed, the boy had to look up to the duke. He hesitated, then, with a formal little bow that almost made him lose his balance on the soft mattress, he sheathed the long knife and jumped to the floor.

  “Sir,” he said, and then, to Alice: “You were hurt, lady? I’m sorry. I didn’t see. I didn’t see there was a lady there at all. It happened so quickly, and I was asleep.”

  “I know. It’s all right. It’s nothing.” There was hardly enough room in the cabin for Alice to make her curtsey, but before she could attempt it her father’s hand gently held her back in the chair.

  “No, my dear. Stay quiet. Why, you’re trembling. It’s all right now, all’s well.” A pat on her shoulder, a word to the ship’s captain, and then again to the guards. “You men, take the fellow up. And now, Prince Chlodovald, if you will go with the master, while I look to the Lady Alice? Ah, Mariamne, there you are. Come in, girl, stop gaping, there’s no danger now. See your mistress back to her bed. And see to her hand, it’s bruised and needs a salve. Good night, my dear.”

  “Danger?” The duke, last out of the cabin, was barely on the bottom step of the stairway before Mariamne, still wide-eyed and open-mouthed, flew across the cabin to her mistress’s side. “What danger? What did my lord mean? Madam, madam, Lady Alice, that was Jeshua! Wasn’t it? In this light, and he never said anything, and his face was all mud, but I could have sworn –”

  Alice laughed, a little shakily. “Yes, it was Jeshua. And there was danger, but it’s over now, and I think we shall find that Jeshua has done something very fine and brave. And I also think he’ll be going back home with us.”

  Back in her cabin, while the maid dressed the bruised hand, Alice told Mariamne what had happened. The girl’s shocked horror at her mistress’s near escape from injury or worse was soon over-come by her pleasure at the news of the young prince’s escape, but it was obvious that all else was eclipsed by the knowledge that Jeshua was on the Merwing, apparently prepared to accompany his master with the duke’s party to Britain.

  Once dismissed to her pallet, the girl soon slept, but Alice, exhausted though she now was, found sleep still far away. Her hand hurt a little, but what kept her wakeful was her guess at what must be happening on deck. She could hear no sounds but the slap and suck of water along the ship’s side. She moved restlessly, trying to listen, then trying not to listen, hoping not to hear … She forced herself to reason, attempting calm. If the man was one of the Merwing’s crew, and had been paid by Chlodovald’s murderous uncles to finish their work and kill the child who was now his rightful king, then no doubt he would now himself be killed as a traitor and assassin. That, in the law, was right. And once the facts were known the duke would see to it that the end was just and clean. So take comfort; take what comfort had come, thank God, out of the recent tragedy and horror, that this last murder had twice been foiled, and the boy was safe. They were all safe, and soon they would be home again. Think of that. Think of home, and the summer fields and forests, and the peace of Rheged’s hills and lakes. But first …

  But first to add a final prayer to the confused messages that had passed that night between Alice and her God. It was a simple prayer for the soul of the wretched man who had almost killed her, and had meant, for whatever reason, to kill Chlodovald.

  And in His own way, Alice’s God answered her. She was fast asleep and did not hear the heavy splash, some time later, as the body was thrown overboard.

  23

  It was late next morning. Alice and the duke were on deck, watching the edges of the river recede as the estuary widened towards the sea. There was no sign of Chlodovald. He must, said the duke, be still sleeping.

  He himself had slept on deck, leaving his cabin to the boy, with Father Anselm on watch for his waking, and guards, freshly alert and watchful, at the companionway.

  “But there’s no danger now,” said Ansirus. “It’s certain that the fellow was telling the truth. He was one of the crew, who had heard some rumour of the murders, and the loss, as he took it, of Queen Clotilda’s control over her sons. He assumed that Lothar would soon be declared King of Orleans, and that the queen’s property – and that would include the Merwing – would be seized along with the kingdom. It was ill chance that he was on watch when Jeshua came aboard. When he saw Jeshua carry the child below and then come back to speak with me and the master, leaving Chlodovald, as he thought, alone in my cabin, he seized his chance. He planned to kill the child and then claim a reward from King Lothar. He would have taken some token as proof of the killing, and then gone overboard and swum ashore – you remember we were close in then. Well, when he came off watch he went below with a flagon of warmed wine which he said had been ordered for the boy by me, and the guards, knowing him for one of the crew, let him through.”

  “And he attacked me thinking I was Chlodovald?”

  “He said so. You were kneeling on the chair by the port-hole, wrapped in your gown and with your hair loose down your back, so he took you for the child standing there to look out. He clapped a hand over your mouth to prevent you from calling out, and dragged you back to stab you. And found you were no child, but a young woman. Then the boy woke, and shouted out. And the rest you know.”

  “Not quite. The man’s dead, I suppose?”

  “Yes.”

  She was silent for a moment, head bent as she smoothed a hand along the polished ship’s rail. “Did Chlodovald kill him?”

  “No, no. That first wild stroke was a lucky one; it cut through the sinews in the fellow’s wrist, and made him drop his dagger. Then once the first scare was over, and the boy knew what had happened and where he was – and that he was safe on the queen
’s ship – he was content to leave things to the master and to me. Except for –”

  “Yes, Father?”

  “Except for insisting that the man should be confessed and shriven before he died,” said the duke.

  “It was Chlodovald who insisted?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ah.” It was more a sigh than a sound. Then she looked up. “Well, let’s hope it’s over, and the man was telling the truth. If he was really acting for himself, and wasn’t sent by Lothar or the other uncles –”

  “We can take it as true. He made that part of his confession openly.”

  She sighed again, this time with relief. “So they don’t know where Chlodovald is. Thank God for that! It’s really over, he’s safe, and we’ll soon be home … I wonder how he’ll settle there, poor boy, after what’s happened? Has Jeshua told you about it?”

  “As much as he knows. He was with the queen’s household when the boys were sent for by Childebert and Lothar, to be made ready, they said, for the coronation. The next they knew was when one of Lothar’s creatures, a man called Arcadius, came to tell the queen that the boys had been seized, separated from their tutors and their own servants, and locked up separately until they would renounce their claim to their father’s lands.”

  “How did Chlodovald escape?”

  “He’d already been smuggled away into hiding. His tutor suspected what might happen, and he and another servant hustled the child away. They didn’t dare take him back to Queen Clotilda, but the servant went to tell her, and she sent Jeshua to bring him south to the Merwing, and see him safely into my care. They came a roundabout way, but they met with no trouble, and the tutor has ridden back to tell her the child is safe.”

  “So she’ll soon know that he’s with you, and on his way to Britain?”