She smiled, saying, as lightly as she could: “Do I have a choice?”

“Of course.”

“I remember a bit about Madoc, from when we were children. A strong boy, and bold. You’ve met him since then, Father. What’s he like?”

“Still strong and bold. A fighting man, but one, I think, to grow impatient with serving Benoic, and eager to claim land of his own.” He looked at her gravely, and nodded. “Very well. I’ll write. It could be a good choice, Alice. I’ll show you the letter before the man rides north in the morning. But leave this now, shall we? I know I spoke of haste, and I would like this matter settled soon – but by that I mean within months rather than days. By winter will be soon enough.”

This was genuine relief. She tried not to show it. “By winter? And this winter still with nearly three months to run?”

He smiled. “Yes, by next winter. You were right in your first guess, Alice. We go on pilgrimage in April. My last, before I go to my long – and longed-for – home at our own monastery of St Martin here in Rheged … Leaving you settled here, and wed, please God, with a strong sword to keep you.” He turned a hand over in his lap. “You knew this was soon to come, my retirement. I don’t ail, except that my bones creak a little, but I find I tire more easily, and more and more in the winter months do I find it tedious to ride out and care for our lands and people. I’ll be glad to hand my cares over to a younger man, and retire to the peace of the monastic life. We’ve talked these things over many times.”

“I know. But it’s like my marriage; it had to come, but never soon.” She straightened in her chair and smiled back at him. “So that’s settled! You write to Count Madoc, and meantime we set sail for Jerusalem. And at least if I’m to be a bride, you will see the real necessity of my buying those Damascus silks!”

He laughed. “You may buy all you like, my dear, but not in the souks! We are not going to Jerusalem. It’s Tours again. Will you mind?”

“Not a bit. I liked Tours. But why?”

“I would like to pay a last visit to the shrine of St Martin before taking my vows in his monastery here. I’ve had this in mind for some time, and have been wondering what the situation was over there, but now, deo gratias, we can make our plans. The courier has brought a letter from Queen Clotilda. Here it is.” He handed her the scroll.

It was a brief letter. The old queen hoped that, as Duke Ansirus had said on their last meeting, he still wished to make pilgrimage in this year to the holy shrine of the blessed Bishop Martin. If so, in spite of the very real threat of war, he could rest assured that his party would travel in safety, and that the duke himself, “and the Lady Alice, if she is with you,” would be lodged with the queen, whose pleasure it would be, and so on …