Alice gave a little sigh. “It was lovely, wasn’t it? The voyage out was best – you weren’t with us then, though – such good weather as we had, and all the places we saw – Rome, and Tarentum, and then staying with my mother’s family in Athens. You did see Athens on the way home. And then the pilgrimage itself … Of course Jerusalem’s wonderful, though there’s never a lot to do apart from – I mean, I know one really goes for the good of one’s soul, only –” The sentence died on something very like a sigh.

Mariamne’s hand paused in its task of stitching a new shift for her mistress. The needle flashed in the sunlight which, for March, was surprisingly bright, and, in Alice’s chamber which faced south, reasonably warm, though to Mariamne, even after nearly three years, the chill of the British winter still struck deep.

“Only?” she prompted.

“Oh, it’s just that I don’t want to leave home just as spring’s coming. Look what we miss, the primroses are coming out already, and my pony will drop her foal in June, and – well, but I suppose we might even be home again in time for that.”

“Home again by June? Oh, no, my lady, you’re forgetting. The sea trip alone took all those weeks, and I remember every one, being so sick as I was! You’ll never be home by June.”

Alice left her chair and crossed to the window. Sunlight slanted in over the wide stone sill, and the scents of early spring – earth and pine resin and budding trees and all the smells of growth – came sifting in on the mild breeze. She thought she could even smell the snowdrops that still lay in late drifts under the trees. She turned to smile at the other girl. For all the difference in their ages – Mariamne was some four or five years older than Alice – it was the latter, mistress of Castle Rose and its acres since the day of her birth, who often seemed the elder of the two.

She spoke gently, the adult breaking bad news and offering comfort. “I’m sorry, Mariamne. I’ve been wondering just how to tell you. My father doesn’t plan to go to Jerusalem this year. He talked with me about it yesterday, and it seems that the journey would be too dangerous, even by sea. Even Rome would be impossible, with the Emperor backing the Burgundians, and there has been no news from Athens since my great-aunt died. I’m sorry. I’d have liked to see Jerusalem again myself, and I know how much you were looking forward to going home.”

Since Mariamne had been handed into service by her family for a due consideration, and her status in consequence was, unofficially, not much better than a slave’s, she knew that her expectations mattered not at all, and that in condoling with her Alice was showing a kindness that she would have met with in few other situations. With the patience which was one of the strengths of her race, she said nothing, but went back to her work in silence.