by Mary Stewart
“You’ve been here long?”
“Nearly a week.”
“I just rode in today, from the south. I don’t know this part of the country, at all, but this seems a good place. How long will you be lodging here?”
“I don’t know. Some days, I suppose. They never tell us anything, but it wouldn’t surprise me if the master wasn’t aiming to stay here for a bit longer.”
“And your mistress?”
“Oh, she’ll be all for going home, once she’s seen the prince safely settled in. Why do you ask? Who are you?”
“One who would like to have a talk with your mistress, if that could be arranged? I’m travelling alone, with no servant, but if I sent my name to her tomorrow, would she see me, do you think?”
“Well, of course!” The boy, who had been surveying Alexander in the light from the open door of the dormitory, sounded confident. “She’s a sweet lady, the mistress. No ceremony, anyone can talk to her. If it’s important –”
“To me it is. What’s your name?”
“Berin.”
“Well, Berin, can you tell me more of your lady? Is it true that –?”
“Listen,” said the boy rapidly, “there’s the bell. They’ll be locking up in a minute. I’ll tell you the easiest way to speak with my lady. She goes walking in the orchard first thing in the morning, while the master’s still at prayers. It would be easy then to speak with her … No, no need for that, sir! Look, there’s Brother Magnus now, waiting to shut the hens up! We’d better hurry! Good night to you!”
He took to his heels, and Alexander, returning the second bribe of the evening to his pouch, hastened after him.
* * *
SIX
Alice and Alexander
* * *
31
So they met at last, Alice and Alexander, in the early morning of a beautiful summer’s day, in the orchard of the monastery of St Martin.
She was sitting under an apple tree. The tree was full of fruit, baby green apples crowding so round and glossy, among leaves and branches so symmetrically pruned, that it looked like a tree in an illuminated missal – the Tree itself, before it ripened to the Fall. Among the shorn, tawny grass at its foot, some poppies and dog-daisies had escaped the scythe, and there were buttercups, and the little low-growing heartsease, and clover already a-flutter with small blue butterflies.
She was wearing blue, the colour of the butterflies’ wings, and, intending to go to chapel later, she wore her veil. She was about to push its folds back from her face, so that she could watch the robin that had just flown down from the apple-tree and was perching within a yard of her feet, on an upturned bucket that someone had left there. Then, as Alexander approached across the grass, the robin scolded and flew, and Alice paused, still veiled, and turned her head.
“Lady,” he said, a little hoarsely, and made his bow.
Looking up through the veil, she saw a handsome young man, with blue eyes bright in a tanned face, and brown hair curling thickly to his shoulders. He bore himself proudly, and his clothes, though worn and serviceable rather than fine, were good. His sword-belt gleamed bright as horse-chestnuts, and the hilt of his sword was jewelled.
“Sir?” said the Lady Alice, and waited.
And now that the moment had come, and the end of his quest for the fabled powers of Macsen was so easily, so magically in sight, Alexander found that he had forgotten all about it. There was some enchantment here that was stronger than Queen Morgan’s, stronger than Macsen’s, an enchantment that the first apple tree of Eden might have been able to account for. He tried to speak, cleared his throat, and said, merely: “If I might see your face? Of your courtesy, if you would put aside your veil?”
“I was just going to,” said Alice. “I only ever wear it for chapel, and I think it was frightening the robin.” And, pushing the fine folds back, she looked up at him, smiling.
Without knowing even that he had moved, he was down on his knees in front of her, taking breath, but only able to stammer, half stupidly: “You – you cannot be a witch! Who are you? Who are you? You are the most beautiful girl I have ever seen in my life! Tell me who you are!”
“I’m Alice, daughter of the duke Ansirus of Castle Rose in Rheged. And I do assure you that I’m no witch, though I’ve sometimes wished to be! And you, sir? You have a name, too?”
She was laughing at him, but he did not notice. He answered, careless suddenly of all concealment, all possibility of danger. “I am called Alexander. My father was Prince Baudouin of Cornwall, brother to King March. My mother keeps Craig Arian for me, in the valley of the Wye.”
“And what brings you here, Prince, to Rheged – and expecting witches here, by the sound of it?”
“I think,” said Alexander, meaning every word of it, “that I came here only to meet you. And I think that I love you.”
In the sharp silence that followed, the robin flew down again to the rim of the bucket, and trilled a loud, indignant song that went quite unheard.
Neither of them, in later years, could ever fully remember what happened next, what was said, or even if anything was said at all for the first long moments while they looked at one another, each knowing that they had been moving steadily through their young lives towards this meeting. To Alexander it was like coming out of mist into sunlight, out of dark water into fresh and glittering air. The Dark Tower had never been. Some day, somehow, its story must be told, its stupid sins confessed, but not now, please God, not yet. Now was the moment when his life as a true prince, a knight, a man, might really begin.
For Alice, the moment was the one where the anxious mariner sees the lights of harbour. Or, more practically – and Alice was always practical – the moment of recognising the future master of her beloved Castle Rose, the man to whom she could go not merely in duty, but with joy as a lover; the young and eager sword that would keep herself and her people safe and in peace when their old lord had left them.
Whatever their eyes and spirits said to one another, their tongues found themselves uttering the normal civil commonplaces of strangers meeting for the first time in a place new to both. Alexander’s outburst was ignored; Alice hardly knew how to reply to it, or even whether to take it seriously, and Alexander himself was not even sure that he had spoken his thoughts aloud.
So, sitting down beside her on the grass, he hurried now to say something of the beauty of the day, the welcoming comfort of the monastery; he hoped that the duke’s party was well housed, wondered how long they had been on the road, and – the nub of it at last – how long they proposed to stay at St Martin’s?
“Only a few more days. We are making for home after a journey abroad, but we had to stay here awhile. My father and the abbot had business to discuss.”
Business to discuss? A terrifying thought made him catch his breath. Perhaps this lovely girl was destined to become a nun? But before he could speak she smiled, and said calmly, as if answering him: “My father will one day enter this monastery, but now we came only to accompany someone who seeks refuge here. A boy from the Frankish kingdoms who was in danger there, and who also seeks the religious life.”
“From Gaul? Wait – you said your father was Duke Ansirus? He whom they call the pilgrim duke?”
“The same.”
“I have heard of him, of course. And of you, too. I believe our families have some connection, and I have heard my mother speak of the duke and his daughter. They call you ‘the pretty pilgrim’. Did you know?”
“They mock me, I think,” said Alice. She spoke quite without coquetry.
“Mock you? How could that be, when –?” began Alexander, hotly, but, partly to prevent a repetition of his first outburst, she said quickly: “Indeed yes! I believe it’s thought strange for a young girl – and I’ve travelled with my father since I was six years old – to go on these long journeys and mingle with rough folk on the road, and sometimes meet with danger, or at any rate the risk of it. But I wouldn’t have had it otherwise. I
’ve seen wonderful things, and been to beautiful places. I don’t think I shall ever forget them as long as I live.”
“And now that your father plans to retire into the Order here, won’t you find life dull and stale after so much adventure?”
She shook her head. “In all my travelling I’ve never seen a lovelier country than this, or a more beautiful place than my own home in Rheged. Even Rome, Athens, even Jerusalem, can’t show anything to compare –”
“Jerusalem!” As if the word had been an arrow striking home, he remembered. The quest, so hotly undertaken for Queen Morgan; the grail; his private plan to gain the confidence of the bearers of the marvellous relic. His hope, in fact, to take it, if necessary by force.
“What is it?” asked Alice, disturbed by his look.
He turned away from her, his head bent, his hands unconsciously savaging some inoffensive weed, tough-rooted in the grass. At length he spoke, still looking away from her.
“I spoke with the tavern-keeper up yonder in the village. It was he who told me of this place, and the good lodging to be found here. He told me, too, of a party – he called it a ‘royal party’ – that had recently ridden in bearing some great treasure to be lodged here for safe keeping. This must have been your party? Was the story true?”
“Quite true. I told you that we came to escort a young Frank who is to join the brothers here. He is a prince, and he brings with him a princely treasure.”
“From Jerusalem?”
“Oh, no, from Gaul. I suppose it may have come in the first place from Jerusalem, or somewhere in the Holy Land, but it has been in Gaul for many years. Queen Clotilda, who was wife to Clovis, the Frankish king, first acquired it, and kept it in her own private chapel. That’s all I know, except that now there is war, so the grail has been sent here for safe keeping.”
“Then it is the Grail?”
“They say so.”
He did not appear to notice anything evasive in her reply. He was frowning down again at the weed in his fingers: “I was told that the Grail was here, in Britain, in the keeping of Nimuë the enchantress, who is queen of some castle in the north. In Rheged, she – they said.”
“Macsen’s treasure. Yes, everyone knows that.”
“That is why –” he spoke awkwardly. “You must have wondered when I spoke of witches. I thought that the treasure must have been brought here by Queen Nimuë, perhaps on her way south to the High King’s court. And you were veiled, so I, well, I –”
“Took me for the King’s enchantress?” Alice laughed. “I see. And you sought speech with her. May I ask what your concern is with Macsen’s treasure?”
“I – yes, of course I will tell you. Later I will tell you all of it. But believe me, it doesn’t concern me now. Not as it did. Do I understand that you know where it is?”
“I know that Queen Nimuë’s husband, Pelleas, has a castle in the north-west near the sea, some miles beyond the borders of our land. She also has a house near Camelot, that was Merlin’s house. It’s called Applegarth. She spends a lot of time there, when King Pelleas is with the High King. But I don’t know where she has lodged Macsen’s treasure. How should I? Nobody knows. It’s said that she keeps it hidden by enchantment until Arthur, or the High Kingdom, may have need of it.”
He was silent, thinking back. Sitting here in the orchard, with the sunlight gilding the grasses, and the fresh sounds and scents of morning around him, it seemed impossible that he had ever fallen victim to the smoky charms of Morgan le Fay.
Alice, seeing the trouble in his face again, spoke gently: “Did you perhaps think that you yourself had need of it? I’m sorry. It seems that poor mortals such as we have no right to it, to any part of it, even if we could find where the rest of the treasure – the spear and the grail – lies hidden. Perhaps they are now beyond the reach even of Nimuë. Perhaps they are with Merlin himself, hidden in the light. You know what they say of him, that he sleeps in his own holy hill, with all his fires and travelling glories around him. So you must content your spirit, my lord, with the sight of the grail that we brought with us from Gaul.”
“Yes, that – the grail you brought. This is what I don’t understand. You make it sound as if there was more than one cup of the Lord’s Supper!”
“Oh, there is,” said Alice, a little sadly.
“What do you mean?”
“I told you that I’ve travelled with my father on pilgrimage – twice to Jerusalem, and twice to the shrine of St Martin in the Frankish kingdom. In those places, especially in Jerusalem, the pilgrims are offered relics of the time when Jesus lived; relics, even, of the sacred moments of His life and death. And – but I don’t want to distress you –”
“No. Go on.”
“Well, there are men who make a living from this trade – for that’s what it is. Relics command good prices, from poor pilgrims and also from the emissaries of the wealthy churches and courts that would own and revere such things. I’m sorry if you didn’t know this.”
“Only because I never thought about it! But now that you tell me … But do you mean that Macsen’s treasure, those things of power, are false? Surely that cannot be!”
“Of course not! But from what one has heard, Macsen’s grail, though like the sword they call Caliburn it’s a thing of power and great beauty, is no more the cup that Jesus drank from than a dozen or so I’ve seen in the Holy Land.”
“And the one that you brought with you?”
“It’s a small cup of gold, very lovely, and beautifully made.” She smiled. “But would you have thought that Jesus and his friends ate and drank off gold?”
“I – I never thought about it like that.”
“I’m afraid that His cup must have been clay, a simple pot long since broken to pieces.”
“But if you know this –” Alexander, she was glad to see, was not disturbed by any flaw in faith, though he still looked troubled – “if you know this, why did you – or rather why did the duke your father – let this Frank who travelled with you bring this ‘grail’ back to the brothers here? Already tales of its holiness are going about, and the poor folk will expect miracles!”
“Then they will probably get them,” said Alice calmly.
As he stared at her, really troubled now, a bell began to ring. Alice picked up the veil that had slipped to the turf, and made to rise, but he put out a hand.
“No, please wait. Tell me what you mean. Are you – you cannot be talking of trickery?”
Not, he was thinking, while you sit there looking like a young angel.
“Not trickery. It’s honest enough, a matter of faith. You see, Chlodovald – that’s the prince – believes; the old queen believes; and the brothers here, too. That’s the real ‘grail’, that belief, even though the actual one must have been broken to fragments hundreds of years ago. It’s an idea, a symbol, just as it was meant to be on that first evening. That’s what my father says, anyway – and Jesus said so himself, if you remember?”
“You talk as if you’d known him.”
“I think I did, when I was very little.”
Another pause, while the chapel bell rang to its sweet, echoing finish, and silence came back.
“I came to find the grail,” he said suddenly. His voice was rather too loud, and he lowered it. “I came on a sinful quest, to find Macsen’s great cup, and take it, by guile or by force, for someone who wanted its power. Someone whom I served. Other knights have travelled abroad on the same quest. None of them have found it, and two at least have died in the seeking.”
“Then,” she said, very simply, “they have found some sort of truth. And you? Will you go on? This person you serve, will he require you to do so?”
“I was sent by a lady. For me, it was a quest, and an adventure. For her, it was –” He checked himself.
“For her? For its power, you said? Well,” said Alice, “perhaps she thinks she has need of it. Everyone has their own grail.”
“That lady?” He said it violentl
y, then stopped, ashamed. “Forgive me,” he said, very humbly. “I have been very wrong. I had no right to speak to you as I have done, or to speak about – her, as I would wish. I think I had better leave you.”
This time it was she who put out a hand. “No. Please stay. Why don’t you tell me about it, this quest of yours that troubles you so much?”
So he stayed. He sat down again beside her on the warm grass and told her the whole story, from its beginning at Craig Arian to its shadowed ending in the Dark Tower. There, indeed, he could not bring himself to tell her everything, but even so, when he had done, he sat in unhappy silence, not looking at her, awaiting either her censure or a silent and disgusted withdrawal.
She was, indeed, silent for some time, but when she spoke she merely asked: “And now?”
“I don’t know. I can’t go on with this quest, nor can I turn around and go south to deal with King March. Both quests are wrong, though I am in a sense vowed to both; I can see now that one is sinful and the other foolish. But what is left for me? What am I to do?”
Alice turned aside again to pick up the fallen veil. “It seems to me that the most important thing is what you learned from the Lady Luned about these secret meetings of men who are enemies of the High King’s policies. Even if you don’t know anything of their plans, you know some of their names, and one of them, certainly, will interest my father. So – ah, listen! I think they’re coming out of the chapel now. Don’t you think that the first thing to do, and the best, is to go and talk to him?”
32
It was some days, however, before Alexander managed to have speech with the duke. When Alice, parting from him at the door of the men’s refectory, went to join Abbot Theodore and her father at breakfast, she found the place in what would have been, in less quiet and determinedly peaceful surroundings, an uproar. The abbot himself hurried to meet her with disquieting news.
Her father had been taken ill, quite suddenly, in the chapel, at the end of the service. It seemed that he had felt tired that morning, and slightly giddy, but had brushed his people’s concern aside, and insisted on going to the morning office. When he saw that Alice was not in chapel, he forbade anyone to give her news that might alarm her. And indeed to his servants’ watching eyes all seemed well. But at the end of the service, when the duke came to get up from his knees, he half rose, then staggered suddenly as if losing strength in his right leg, and fell across his chair. Nor could he move again. When Alice had heard the chapel doors opening and the folk coming out, it was an anxious little procession bearing the duke, conscious but helpless, towards his bedchamber.
