So they went, taking it easily, through the cool mists of a mild November day, and there at the convent Alice, between her father and her husband, prayed at her mother’s tomb. Later, by that same tomb, she said goodbye to her father, and the two groups parted, the duke to be escorted to St Martin’s by his servants, and the young folk to ride home to take up their life together.

Soon after this the looked-for letter came from the High King.

The lovers were walking on the terrace in the faint warmth of the November sun. Below them, along the river’s bank, the beeches blazed, magnificent in red and gold, among oaks still green, but edged and splashed with amber. The delicate birches, half their leaves already gone with the autumn winds, showed spangled with palest yellow. The hollies were rich with berries, and busy with blackbirds greedy for the first fruit. All the birds of summer had gone, but a heron flapped heavily to his fishing-place, and a charm of winter finches wrangled somewhere among the boughs. The river, full and smooth, slid past almost without sound among its reeds and sallows.

There were two letters. Alice, moving still lightly but with more careful grace than of old, sat down on a seat framed by the bare twining stems of roses and honeysuckle, and reached a hand to Beltrane, who came bustling up, full of importance.

“From my father?”

“Indeed, indeed, my lady. And this other has the royal seal. From the High King himself, it must be!” An anxious look. “My lord duke, he’s well?”

“Yes.” Alice was skimming the brief letter. “All is very well. Oh, and he has heard from Jeshua. He and Mariamne reached Jerusalem safely. She’s to have a baby in May, the same as me! They’ll stay with his family till the birth, then he wants to come back to Castle Rose. Since Queen Clotilda went into the convent there’s no place for him there. Well, that’s good news for us. You’ll soon be able to take things more easily, Beltrane! And it will be good to have Mariamne here again. That’s all, thank you. Tell the other servants, will you?”

Alexander was already deep in the other letter, which was indeed from the High King. It was long, beautifully penned by Arthur’s scribe. In it the King thanked Alexander for what he had done to defend his corner of the realm against treachery, and acquitted him of any blame over Madoc’s death. He himself (he wrote) had for some time been watching the activities of the Young Celts; had even, in the person of his trusted nephew Mordred, infiltrated their counsels. So he had been forewarned. But now (he went on) with the possibility of Britain’s involvement in the wars on the Continent, he must make his back safe. To this end he had caused Queen Morgan to be removed under guard to the remote fortress of Castell Aur in the Welsh mountains, where another nephew, Gawain of Orkney himself, was set to keep close watch on her. In any case her following would soon disperse. The fighting abroad would sufficiently divert the energies of the idle swords, and feed the ambition of the young men thirsting for action and glory. Meantime, if Prince Alexander ever rode south to Camelot, he would be assured of an honourable place among the High King’s Companions …