The queen herself was standing by one of the archways, with a sword in her hand, turning the blade this way and that in the sunlight, her head bent to study its line, and her thumb trying the edge. A man, a slave by his dress, and wearing the leather apron and wrist-guards of a smith, stood by her, apparently waiting for her verdict on his work. When the chamberlain announced the newcomers she looked up and turned, in the same movement throwing the sword to the man. The blade struck him, clanging against the studs of the tough leather, then slid down, and the fellow, shifting quickly, caught the sword as it fell within an inch of his foot. He hefted it safely, grinned at Alice’s shocked face, and crossed the courtyard towards a gate which must lead to the workshops.

“My lord duke.” The queen had not even glanced to see where the sword fell. “And your daughter, the Lady Alice? Be welcome to our kingdom here.”

There were chairs set outside one of the archways, where the spring sunlight fell warmly on the courtyard’s flagstones. She led the way to these, and a servant brought a dish of some savoury pastries, and a flagon of wine, pale gold in colour, and smelling deliciously of flowers. Alice, seated on a stool beside her father’s chair, sipped and listened to the exchange of courtesies, watching the white doves as they strutted and cooed on the rooftops, and wondering if this pilgrimage, like the one to Jerusalem, would do good (presumably) to her soul, but none at all to her brain or her body. If only her father’s friends were not all so old!

‘Old’ though she naturally appeared to a child’s eyes, the queen was perhaps a year or two short of fifty. When a girl she must have been handsome; one could guess at the proud and vital look, the direct blue gaze, the upright carriage. Now she was thin, and care had worn lines in the fine skin and hooded the eyes with weariness. Her hair was hidden under a veil, and the robe she wore was of a sombre colour somewhere between brown and green. It was a plain, almost nun-like garb for a queen, but her girdle had a golden buckle most beautifully worked, and at her breast hung a jewelled cross on a gold chain. The slippers showing beneath the sober gown were of soft bronze-coloured kidskin. Nun-like the dress might be, but the effect was one of subdued elegance, and the pride and vitality were still there, unimpaired by age.

But Alice saw none of this. If only, she was thinking, if only their hostess had been young, a young queen with children of Alice’s age …

And at that moment, as if her thought had been a wish, a boy came running up through the pasture from the river bank, and into the courtyard, with a woman, red-faced and anxious, toiling after him and calling his name.