The magical moments in the orchard, Alexander himself, were forgotten. Alice did not wait to hear more, but picked up her skirts and ran upstairs to see her father.
He was in his bed in the abbot’s guest-chamber, a grandly comfortable apartment, with the hospitaller, assisted by one of the nuns and by Alice’s own woman Mariamne, in attendance.
Alice flew to the bedside. “Father? What is it? How are you? What happened?”
The duke, flat on his pillows, and looking grey and tired, managed a smile, but did not speak. One thin hand stirred on the coverlet, and she bent over him, taking it in both of hers.
“Father –”
The abbot, who had followed her, but more decorously, came forward to lay a kindly hand on her shoulder. “Quietly, dear child, be calm. Your father has had a slight seizure, but he will recover very soon. He’s a strong man, and he’s where he will have every care. Brother Luke will tell you that there is no danger. Come away now, leave him to rest.”
The hospitaller, at the other side of the bed, with a hand to the duke’s wrist, nodded cheerfully, and in a while he and the abbot were able to persuade Alice to leave the bedchamber. Once outside on the stair, and with the door closed, they hurried to give her what assurance they could. It was a kind of seizure, they said, they had seen such things before, and it was not easy to predict their course, but it seemed mild of its kind. Already the feeling was returning to the duke’s side, and he could move the fingers of the affected hand – his right. His heart was strong, and though he was tired and a little confused in mind, he had spoken. The words were slow and blurred, but that would come right with time. Best not to let him talk yet, said the hospitaller; let him stay quietly for a few days in bed. What he needed now was sleep and a tranquil mind. If Lady Alice would speak with the messenger herself, she would be able to reassure her father later. It was important for his mind to be at peace.
“Messenger? What messenger?” asked Alice, sharply.
“You didn’t know? Of course, you were out early,” said the abbot. “Well, a man rode in this morning from Castle Rose. He was closeted with your father for half an hour or so before service. I myself had already gone across to the chapel, so did not see him. But I have been wondering if perhaps he brought some news to distress your father. Brother Luke thinks that might have helped cause this seizure.”
Alice could almost feel the blood leaving her cheeks. Bad news from Castle Rose? Fire? A death? “I must see him. Please, straight away? He is still here?”
“Yes.” They were downstairs now, at the door of the abbot’s rooms. A lay-brother, busy there about some cleaning task, was sent hurrying off. “I believe he went to get something to eat. Lady Alice, would you like me to be with you when you see him?”
“Thank you. But … It’s all right. I’m quite all right. You’re very kind, but I mustn’t keep you from your –” She hesitated. The word “duties” was not somehow quite right for the lord abbot.
“From my breakfast?” said the abbot, smiling. “And you should eat, too, my dear child. I’ll have them bring something for you to the parlour. Take him in there, and have your talk in private. Ah, here’s your man.”
She had half expected Jeshua, but it was Adam, one of the menservants. His news, briefly told, was not grave, but it was easy to guess that it might have helped to strike down an elderly and worried man.
Count Madoc, instead of waiting, as he had been asked to do, for the duke’s return, was already at Castle Rose. He had been in residence there already for almost a month, and had brought a troop with him; men-at-arms, said Adam, under a captain, and things were sadly at odds in the servants’ quarters and the stables, and indeed, outside in parts of the estate where the count had been riding out among the duke’s people. Of course they all knew that Count Madoc, being handfast to the Lady Alice, would soon be master of Castle Rose, but even so –
“He is not handfast to me,” said Alice; it might even be said that she snapped it. “There hasn’t yet been any talk of settlement. How could there be, till the duke gets home? Count Madoc is ahead of things, but I suppose it’s understandable. Well, what’s the trouble? Beltrane sent you with some complaint?” Beltrane was the head steward.
“Beltrane is ill, my lady. He’s ailed for some time, and when the new man Jeshua came he was glad and thankful to pass things over to him. A very capable fellow, the Jew, and nice to get on with, and seemingly knows how to manage things, coming from a great household –”
“Yes, yes. So what’s gone wrong?”
“Well, Beltrane bade us all look to Jeshua for orders, while he had to keep his bed, and we would do so willingly, but until my lord your father gets home the Jew has no authority –”
“Who says so? My father gave him letters when he left us at Glannaventa to ride to Castle Rose. You all knew he came from the duke, and if Beltrane appointed him head steward he has all the authority he needs. Does someone query it?”
“My lady, Count Madoc does. He has spoken of dismissing him. And some others of us as well.”
“Indeed? Count Madoc to dismiss my father’s men?”
“He made that threat, my lady. And his men are taking much upon themselves about the estate. There are … there are complaints, my lady.”
“Such as?”
For the first time the man looked away. He mumbled something, his eye on his dusty boots.
Alice, taking breath to speak sharply, let it go again, and said quietly: “Adam, I am not a child. And with my father ailing, I am mistress of Castle Rose. Complaints? Do you mean from the women?”
“Well, there’ve been incidents. Bet’s man got into a fight, but that’s happened before. And yes, there’ve been others. But it’s not just that. The count’s men, there’s some heavy drinkers there, and trouble from time to time. But nothing serious yet, my lady, nothing to knock my lord over the way it did. It was only – we all thought you’d have been home a week or more past, but with you coming here to St Martin’s first, Beltrane thought it would be best if my lord would give him a letter, a paper of some sort, showing that Jeshua and the others of us had his word to keep things right for him till he got home. That’s really all the message I brought, and how was anyone to know it would overset my lord the way it did?”
Alice turned away and went quickly over towards the window. Her hands were clenched tightly at her sides, her pulse racing, quick with anger. She knew perfectly what had shocked her father into this collapse. Madoc, over-ready in his arrogance to claim Alice, and with her the rich inheritance that he was eager for, had presumed a claim before it was even discussed, and was sure enough of her, and of himself, to let his men, by all accounts, use her home like an outland camp.
Well, he had overreached himself. In its way, the news was good. There would be no need, now, to persuade the duke to call off any discussion of that marriage. Nor, surely, to sanction a different one? No need even to wait for a winter wedding to free her father for the holy life he longed for. It should be mercifully easy to set his mind at rest.
She turned back to face the man, who saw with surprise that she was smiling. “Well, Adam, it’s obvious that we must stay here longer, until my father is well enough for the journey home. But I’ll do what I can. I’ll give you letters for Beltrane and for Jeshua. They will give Jeshua the authority to act in my and my father’s name until Beltrane’s well again. I doubt if Count Madoc will ignore the duke’s seal.” She smiled again, and Adam had the swift impression that the sun had suddenly come out through cloud. “They tell me you rode all night.”
“I had to set out late, madam, when the castle was abed, and I came without stopping, except to breathe my horse.”
“You’ve eaten, I believe?”
“Yes.”
“Then after you’ve rested, come back to me for the letters, and tell the stable-man to saddle one of our horses for you. And Adam –”
“Yes, my lady?”
“Tell them at home not to worry too muc
h, but just to put up with a difficult visit as best they can. And tell them that my father is recovered now, and resting, and should soon be well. Whatever it was in your news that distressed him, it will be put right the moment we get home. In fact, it’s been put right already.”
For the next three days Alice was constantly with her father. She sent to tell Alexander what had happened, and that his meeting with the duke must wait till the latter was fully recovered. The message came back that the prince had no plan to leave the monastery until such time as he might meet and talk with the duke, and meantime if there was any service, anything at all he could do, he was her most devoted servant.
The messenger – it was Berin, the duke’s page – was sent running back with Alice’s thanks, no more, but with a postscript added by Berin (now deeply interested) that he was sure his mistress meant to attend some of the chapel services, to add her prayers for her father’s recovery to the fervent representations made by the monks and nuns.
So Alexander went devotedly, morning and evening, to chapel, and spent his days riding out to exercise his horse, and on the third evening was rewarded by the sight of the Lady Alice at vespers, and a smile and brief word as she hurried back afterwards to the sickroom. She looked tired, he thought, and a little pale, but her lovely serenity was unchanged. Her father was better, she told him, gaining strength almost hourly; he was fast recovering the use of his limbs, and his speech, though still slow, was clear. If Prince Alexander still wished to have speech with him –?
He did.
Well, then, very soon, she thought. In two or three days’ time. Would he still be here?
He would.
Alexander went cheerfully back to the stableyard, where he spent most of his time these days in the excellent company of his horse and the lay-brother who worked as groom. It was only when the latter, hissing over the work-mules, asked him if he had been into the chapel sanctuary where Chlodovald’s grail was now splendidly housed in its own carved and canopied apse, that he realised he had forgotten completely about that grail, and indeed about any other.
Except what had become his own heart’s dear desire.
33
Two days later one of Ansirus’ servants came to find Alexander as he sat at breakfast, to tell him of the duke’s wish to see him, and to escort him to his master’s bedside.
Alexander, following the man up the great stairs of the abbot’s house, felt a tightening of the nerves that surprised him. Apart from his dealings with Queen Morgan, his young self-confidence had rarely been shaken, but this interview – he found himself totally unsure of what to say or how to say it, knowing only that it must somehow be said. His dealings with Queen Morgan; there lay the rub. What Alice might have told her father already of that story, and what the duke might have made of it, Alexander did not care to guess. But he was Alice’s father, and the truth would have to be told.
He took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders, and went past the bowing servant into the bedchamber.
The duke was still in bed, propped on high pillows. The chamber was big and sunny, overlooking the river meadows and the mill. Its furnishings were as good as any in a lord’s house – which in fact it was, the abbot being cousin to a minor king somewhere in Wales. There was fine horn in the window-frame, and the hangings were beautifully woven and worked. Only the cushioned prie-dieu in the corner, with the crucifix hanging above it, showed that this was a room in a religious house.
Alexander made his bow and spoke his formal greetings, and the old man smiled and motioned him to a chair set between the bed and the window.
“The son of Baudouin of Cornwall, my daughter tells me? I remember him. I never met him, but he was always well spoken of. A father to be proud of. And I understand that your mother lives still?”
So Alexander repeated his story of his father’s murder and their flight from King March’s court and how his mother had sworn that one day he should avenge his father.
“And that was what you set out to do?”
“Not quite, sir. I would have gone, of course, but she wouldn’t have it. It was not that her love and grief for my father had grown less, but that – she said – things had changed in Britain since that day. There were other ways to bring King March down to shame and perhaps death. She wouldn’t let me go into Cornwall, but told me to ride to Camelot and submit the matter to the High King’s law.”
“Which explains why you are travelling north through Rheged?” said the duke, then smiled. “No, boy, I know why you are here. I have heard of your sojourn at the Dark Tower – what you told her of it – from my daughter. Don’t think I can throw any stone of blame! Once – a very long time ago – I was young myself, and did some foolish and sinful things which I would hardly care to be reminded of now … But even through evil, I believe God can move us in the way we should go.”
He paused, and his head went back on the pillows, as if in weariness, but when Alexander got up, ready to go, or to call in the nun who sat outside, he lifted a hand to stop him.
“No. It’s all right. I’m not tired, only slow. Slow of voice, as you can hear, and even slower of thought. They tell me it will pass with time, but I am afraid that time is a luxury I do not have.”
At that Alexander began some sort of protest, but the duke, smiling, shook his head. “Thank you, but I wasn’t talking about death. I intend to do a great deal before that day! I am talking of now, today, what is needful to be done now, while I, alas, am not capable of doing it.” He drew a long breath, and then, as if it had given him strength, he nodded, with something of vigour and decision. “Yes, there is a lot I have to say to you, Prince Alexander, and a lot to ask of you. But first, will you pour some wine? It’s on that table yonder, and yes, I am allowed to have it, or I assure you that my gentle daughter would have locked it away … Thank you. Take some for yourself, won’t you? And now sit down again, if you will, and tell me the tale that you told my daughter. Perhaps you can tell me more than you would have told to her? But I must hear it, all of it. It concerns me more nearly than you think.”
So once more Alexander went through the story, this time without troubling to conceal anything. It is to be remembered that he had never known the advice or even the presence of a father, and now he found himself talking with a freedom he had not known even with Barnabas at Craig Arian. From time to time, as he talked, the duke put a question, so that when at length the prince fell silent, nothing had been held back.
The duke went straight to the same point as Alice had done. “These ‘councils’ of Queen Morgan’s. Have you remembered all the men who were with her?”
“I think so. I didn’t know all those in her party by name, but the ones who were closest, and sat with her in the east tower, yes.”
“And one of the names you heard was Madoc.”
“Yes, sir. I only heard that name once, when Count Ferlas was talking with the queen.”
“Then he was not there at the Dark Tower?”
“No, sir. But I understood that he had been. He had ridden north on some business of the queen’s. I never knew what, only what I told you Ferlas said. But it was not this – the quest for the grail. That,” Alexander finished bitterly, “was reserved for the expendable fools.”
“Well,” said Ansirus, smiling, “here is one fool who seems to have won clear of his folly – and you are many years younger than I was when that happened to me! No, boy, forget it. I think that things will change for you now. More wine, please, and then, of your goodness, listen to what I have to ask of you.”
When Alexander had served the wine again the old man lay back for a few moments in silence, turning the goblet in hands that were slow and fragile-seeming, but quite steady. When he spoke his voice, too, seemed to come more strongly.
“I believe you told my daughter that though you were vowed to two different quests, you could not continue with either. One was foolish, you said, and the other sinful.”
He paused for a sip of wine, then s
et the goblet aside. “For the sinful one, the quest laid on you by a witch who wants to seize power to which she has no shadow of right, that vow you can forget, and forget in honour. Even had you not been drugged and duped into it, no one can with honour be made to sin. You understand me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And the other, the vow of revenge made all those years ago by your mother, and now laid on you, to destroy your father’s murderer; that, too, you can forget.”
“Sir, how can I? That, surely, must remain as a duty, even though –”
“Revenge is mine, saith the lord,” quoted the duke gently.
“Sir, if you mean by that that I must leave that devil March to God’s stroke –”
“God has already struck. That is what I meant. I heard it as soon as we landed. King March lies sick, and they say he will not live the year out. You need no revenge on him. Of that, too, you are free, and in honour.”
Alexander merely stared, saying nothing. Later, there would be relief, joy, the bursting energy of freedom; but now the freedom came like emptiness. The question echoed again in his mind: what now? Was he to go on to find Drustan in the bleak north-east, and for what, now that March was dying? Or to turn south and find the long road to Camelot, perhaps to join the High King in the wars that were blowing up like storm-clouds on the Continent? Or what he saw now as the least attractive choice of all, to turn for home and the smallness, yes, the smallness of Craig Arian, and his mother’s fond but indisputable rule?