The Prince and the Pilgrim (6 page)

He came walking along the narrow, stony lane which lay just beyond the garden wall.

Lentulus’ villa was at the edge of the city, with fields beyond – what they called fields, here in the Holy Land; stretches of stony earth with sparse blades of grass in spring, and thin white and yellow flowers like daisies, and the red anemones that her father had told her were the lilies of the field. In summer there was neither grass nor flowers, and the shepherds took the flocks further and further afield to look for pasture.

And this was what this man – Jesus already in Alice’s mind – seemed to be doing. He was not walking the city streets surrounded by his disciples and talking to the people; he was making his way slowly along the lane that led away from the town, and he was knee-deep in sheep. He had
a
crook in one hand, and across his shoulders lay a lamb, its four legs loosely gathered into his other hand.

The Good Shepherd. Alice recognised the picture she had seen of him, even though the young man himself bore very little resemblance to the paintings and tapestries in the churches. Even to an eight-year-old, who looks on thirty as elderly, and forty as decrepit, this man was young. No fair hair and neat little beard, no white robes, and certainly no halo. Just a thin young man, dark-haired and dark-eyed, his cheeks shadowed with a few days’ growth of beard, and dressed in a brown kaftan girded with a knotted red cord. His feet were bare.

The sheep called and crowded close to him. He saw Alice on her perch at the top of the garden wall, in the shade of the tamarisk tree, and looking up, he smiled.

That made it certain. Alice said, a little breathlessly, though it was not possible, in the blazing sunshine, with the noise and the smell of sheep all around, to feel awe: “You did come back, then! I knew you would!”

He stopped, leaning on his crook. The lamb on his shoulder made a small sound and he slanted his head, caressing it with his cheek. “I come this way often.”

Though she had spoken in Latin, he answered her in her native tongue, but that was no surprise. He would, of course.

“And you, little maid?” he said. “You are a guest here, I think, a pilgrim to my city. It must be very different from your home in Britain. How
do
you like it, here in the land you call holy?”

“I do like it, a lot. But I was wondering –” began Alice, then was suddenly seized with a shyness that was normally foreign to her. What in fact did one say to someone who had come back from the dead, and to a place where he had been so cruelly killed? She swallowed and was silent.

“You were wondering?” he prompted. He had very kind eyes, which were still smiling, but she found herself quite unable to go on with her questions.

“Oh, just about the sheep,” she said quickly. “Those long legs, and the funny droopy ears. They’re quite different from ours. And the ones we have at home in Rheged are special. They’re little, with furry legs and blue fleeces, and they stay in the hills all winter. We don’t have to move the flocks about like you do. Where we live there’s always plenty of grass.”

“I know something of your country.” Of course he did. “It must be beautiful in all the seasons.”

“It is. It’s lovely. You will come there one day, won’t you? People say that some day –”

“Lady Alice? Lady Alice?” The interruption came from Maria, her nurse, newly waking from a nap in the sunshine, and hunting the garden for her charge.

“Some day, I hope,” said the shepherd, and raising the crook in a gesture of farewell, he turned away.

Alice slid down from the wall and ran to meet her nurse, whom she astounded by her good behaviour for the rest of that day.

“Have you noticed,” said Alice, who was eleven now, and as pretty as a girl of that awkward age has any right to be, “that my father always starts talking about his soul when the wind’s in the north, and the castle’s full of draughts?”

She was talking to her maid Mariamne, who giggled.

“Well, it wouldn’t do if the wind was from the south, would it? As it is, we’ll get a good fast passage, and be in the sunshine before the end of April, God be thanked! It’ll be good to be home again.” For Mariamne came from a village barely two miles from Jerusalem. She had been taken into the duke’s service on the previous pilgrimage.

Alice gave a little sigh. “It was lovely, wasn’t it? The voyage out was best – you weren’t with us then, though – such good weather as we had, and all the places we saw – Rome, and Tarentum, and then staying with my mother’s family in Athens. You did see Athens on the way home. And then the pilgrimage itself … Of course Jerusalem’s wonderful, though there’s never a lot to do apart from – I mean, I know one really goes
for
the good of one’s soul, only –” The sentence died on something very like a sigh.

Mariamne’s hand paused in its task of stitching a new shift for her mistress. The needle flashed in the sunlight which, for March, was surprisingly bright, and, in Alice’s chamber which faced south, reasonably warm, though to Mariamne, even after nearly three years, the chill of the British winter still struck deep.

“Only?” she prompted.

“Oh, it’s just that I don’t want to leave home just as spring’s coming. Look what we miss, the primroses are coming out already, and my pony will drop her foal in June, and – well, but I suppose we might even be home again in time for that.”

“Home again by June? Oh, no, my lady, you’re forgetting. The sea trip alone took all those weeks, and I remember every one, being so sick as I was! You’ll never be home by June.”

Alice left her chair and crossed to the window. Sunlight slanted in over the wide stone sill, and the scents of early spring – earth and pine resin and budding trees and all the smells of growth – came sifting in on the mild breeze. She thought she could even smell the snowdrops that still lay in late drifts under the trees. She turned to smile at the other girl. For all the difference in their ages – Mariamne was some four or five years older than Alice – it was the latter, mistress of Castle Rose and its acres since the day of her birth, who often seemed the elder of the two.

She spoke gently, the adult breaking bad news and offering comfort. “I’m sorry, Mariamne. I’ve been wondering just how to tell you. My father
doesn’t
plan to go to Jerusalem this year. He talked with me about it yesterday, and it seems that the journey would be too dangerous, even by sea. Even Rome would be impossible, with the Emperor backing the Burgundians, and there has been no news from Athens since my great-aunt died. I’m sorry. I’d have liked to see Jerusalem again myself, and I know how much you were looking forward to going home.”

Since Mariamne had been handed into service by her family for a due consideration, and her status in consequence was, unofficially, not much better than a slave’s, she knew that her expectations mattered not at all, and that in condoling with her Alice was showing a kindness that she would have met with in few other situations. With the patience which was one of the strengths of her race, she said nothing, but went back to her work in silence.

“If things change,” said Alice, “I’m sure we will go again next time. And I promise to see that you go with me.”

“It’s no matter, my lady. You are too good to me. And indeed, I am very happy here.” The needle paused again. “But you said … I thought you said that my lord duke was planning a journey? For his soul’s sake, you said? And that you might be home by June? What is there, as near as that? Oh, yes, there’s the holy man up on Table Hill, or the Chapel Perilous where the High King’s sword was kept and drawn, but that’s hardly a Christian shrine, and your father wouldn’t want to go there. It can’t just be another ride to the convent where your lady mother lies buried –
that’s
hardly a pilgrimage, is it? Nine miles, ten? So where is there to go, besides Jerusalem?”

Alice laughed. “You sound just like me! Only one place in the world for you – Jerusalem for you, Castle Rose for me! But we’re both going to Tours.”

“Tours? Where’s that?”

“In Gaul. It’s in King Chlodomer’s country, quite a long way to the south. The king’s capital is Orleans, but Father says that Tours is a nice enough town. It’s set on a big river, the Loire, that runs through beautiful country, and very rich. It sounds lovely. He says that the old queen – that’s the king’s mother – spends a lot of time there, and she’s very devout, so the accommodation for pilgrims is good. Not that that is a consideration, of course.”

“Of course not,” agreed Mariamne gravely. “And if it’s far enough to the south, it might even be warm. So what takes the Christians to this city of Tours?”

“The shrine of St Martin. He was a bishop, I think.” Alice was vague. “Anyway, he does a lot of miracles. Father didn’t tell me much, but he did say that the old king, King Clovis, that was Chlodomer’s father, was baptised there. He turned Christian in gratitude for winning some battle or other. Queen Clotilda was a Christian, and she persuaded him. I don’t know who he was fighting; they’re always at war over there, Father says.”

The duke had in fact told his daughter a good deal.

Men’s fears about the turmoil on the Continent following the death of King Clovis had been more
than
justified. As was the custom among the Salian Franks (“And a foolish one, as we see it,” said Ansirus), the lands which Clovis during a lifetime of war had conquered and brought under one central government, were divided after his death among his four sons. The eldest, Theuderic, son of one of the king’s concubines, inherited large territories in the north; Chlodomer, the legitimate heir, received the fertile lands along the River Loire; Childebert, the third son, took a broad swathe of coastal land from the Loire to the Schelde, while the fourth son, Lothar, was granted territory north of the river Somme, along with part of Aquitaine. The partition was far from equal, and the consequent quarrelling among the brothers made travel through the Salian lands dangerous, even for pilgrims.

“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.

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!”