Another letter – perhaps slightly overdue – was sent at the same time by Alexander to Craig Arian to tell his mother the news of his marriage and his accession by it to the lordship of Castle Rose. With it he gave her the news of King March’s imminent death, which had ended his own quest for vengeance. He had not thought it necessary, he told her, to take the matter further in his letter to the High King, nor had he any wish to pursue a possible claim to what was to him a foreign kingdom; there must surely be some other heir, whom Arthur could approve, waiting anxiously for King March’s demise? As for Craig Arian, he would of course, if she wished, come south to talk with her about the settlement of the estate there, but …

He could have saved himself the doubts. The Princess Anna herself came north with the returning messenger to bring her own assurances of joy and satisfaction over the match, and to declare herself content at last to lay Baudouin’s ghost to rest. Sadok had already sent word to her of March’s approaching death, so on receipt of Alexander’s letter she had (with some private ceremony, it was understood) burned the blood-stained shirt and buried its ashes at Craig Arian, which was now her home, as Castle Rose was to be Alexander’s.

So Cornwall and its dark past were laid aside, and all was rejoicing. Another feast was held to welcome the Princess Anna, with nothing more alarming to follow than an exchange of gifts and compliments. The two ladies embraced, assessed one another carefully with the sweetest of smiles, and found that, with the one fixed at Craig Arian and the other at Castle Rose, they could be and remain the fastest of friends. And so it came about. Anna, truth to tell, would have grudged handing over the rule of Craig Arian to one she still saw – would probably always see – as an untried boy. She went back to it, and to the undemanding help and devotion of Barnabas and Theodora and their servants, and waited eagerly for the next news to come from Castle Rose.

Which it did, in time. But not until Alice and her father had made their last pilgrimage together.

It was early in November. By that time affairs were in good train at the castle; Alexander had come to know every farm, field and tenant on the place, whom to trust, whom to watch, when to move and when to be patient. Soon he was almost as much part of the place as Alice, and the duke, watching with deep contentment, could set out at last on his journey home.

Alice, nearly four months pregnant, insisted on going with him, and allowed the litter to be ordered mainly so that her father, should he tire, might be persuaded to ride in it. They set out quietly, as so often before, and if this time there were tears among the people assembled in the courtyard to watch them go, why, there had always been tears, even when their lord had been expected to come home again.