The Prince And The Pilgrim by Mary Stewart

Author:Mary Stewart [Stewart, Mary]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Horror, Historical, Fiction
ISBN: 9781444737578
Google: UtAAjML7yIcC
Amazon: B0071MAZZA
Publisher: Hodder
Published: 1994-12-31T23:00:00+00:00

Late that night Alice was wakened from sleep by a soft touch on her shoulder and a hurried whisper.

“My lady. My lady! Wake up, please!”

“Mariamne?” Alice, fully awake in an instant, sat up in the bed, her mind racing to the worry that these days was constantly present. “Something’s wrong? What is it? Is my father ill?”

“No, no. It’s all right, don’t be alarmed. But he’s just come back from the bishop’s house, and he sent me to wake you. He wants to talk to you.”

“Quickly, then, my bedgown. Yes, that one will do. And light those candles, will you?”

Alice ran to the door and opened it. The duke was waiting outside, still hooded and cloaked from his walk home from the bishop’s house. He had thrown the hood back, and her anxious look at his face told her that the news, whatever it was, was very bad indeed.

“Father? Come in … No, keep your cloak, it’s chilly. Mariamne, that rug from the bed, please. Sit here, Father, let me put it round you … You’re cold. Shall Mariamne heat a posset?”

“No, no. I had more than enough to drink at dinner. I’m sorry to disturb you like this, Alice, but the matter is urgent. Tell your woman to go back to bed. I must talk to you alone. Don’t look so frightened, girl –” this to Mariamne, hovering wide-eyed by the door. “None of us is in danger. Go to bed now, and see that you wake your mistress in good time in the morning.”

When Mariamne had gone he put out a hand and drew Alice towards him. She sank down on the footstool before his chair. In spite of his reassuring words to the maid, she could see trouble in his face, and feel it in the taut grip of his hand.

“What is it, Father? What has happened?”

“A messenger came to Ommatius, one of his secret couriers. All these high-ranking clergy and nobles use spies – it’s easy to see why. The man brought news from Paris, and I’m afraid it is bad. It could not be worse. The boys are dead.”

The word fell like a blow, stunning belief. When at last she spoke, the words could barely be heard.

“But Father … The boys? The princes? Chlodomer’s sons? And – all of them?”

“All of them, poor children, murdered. Yes, it was murder. Being who they were, of course it was. I’m sorry.”

Alice’s head was bowed in her hands. She was remembering the sunny day not so long ago, and the two children running up through the dusty vines to sit chatting on the wall where the lizards played in the sun, and the queen’s guards watched from below.

“Theudovald … He must have only been about ten, or eleven now. Still so young, and looking forward to Orleans, and being crowned there.” She looked up. “He might have been a good king, Father. Queen Clotilda had brought him up, and she – But where was she? I thought she was in Paris with the boys?”

“She was, but one gathers that she was powerless to help them.

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