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

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.

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