The Prince and the Pilgrim by Mary Stewart Read Free Book Online Page A

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