“If he agrees.”

“Indeed. He may well be filled with thoughts of bloody revenge. That would be normal, for a Merwing. Until we’ve had a chance to talk with him, we can’t tell. But it does look as if a monastery would be the best place for him in the meantime.”

“St Martin’s?”

“Why not? It’s not far from Castle Rose, and I shall soon be there myself. We can lodge there on the way home, and I’ll talk to Abbot Theodore. Ah, look, there, away on the horizon, that could be Nantes. And there is Jeshua, going below to wake the prince and bid him to eat with us. We shall have to be careful with him, Alice. God alone knows what grief and fear that child has suffered.”

“He’s very young,” said Alice, practically, “and probably very hungry. So no doubt God will see us through.”

No one was in the main cabin but the servants. They finished laying the meal, then, at the duke’s bidding, withdrew. As the door closed behind them the inner door opened, and Chlodovald came in, with Father Anselm behind him.

It was like seeing Theudovald again, a fair boy, slightly built but whippy and quick-moving, with the same proud carriage. There were the wide-set blue eyes and jutting nose that would, in adulthood, be aquiline, but the mouth showed a sweeter line than the elder boy’s, and this child – understandably enough – displayed nothing of his brother’s mischievous self-assurance.

He had washed and tidied himself as best he could, but still wore the travel-stained shirt and tunic which were presumably the only clothes that had been salvaged for him in his flight. Though the day was warm, he kept the dark cloak still hugged about him, with the hood pulled close.

The priest stooped to whisper something, then with a bow to the duke, left the cabin. The boy still hesitated in the doorway.

Alice, smiling, lifted the cover from one of the dishes. “Be welcome, Prince, to your own table. I’m glad you slept so late. I hope you’re recovered now, and hungry? Won’t you come and eat with us?”

The duke, moving to one side, indicated the high-backed chair at the table’s end, but at that the boy shook his head. He came quickly forward and, with an abrupt gesture, pushed the hood of his cloak back.

The gesture was both dramatic and startling. His hair had been cut short. The long tresses, symbol of Merwing royalty, had gone; the hair hung straight, thick and short, roughly cut just to cover the ears. The presumptive King of Orleans had, by his own act, abdicated.

He said nothing, but stood straight as a spear, his head high, with an air of defiance, of aggression almost, that must be the nearest a Merwing prince could ever get to betraying insecurity. As Alice and her father sought for the right thing – anything – to say, the boy’s hand went up in the gesture Alice remembered his brother using, the sweep of the hand to push back the heavy mane of hair. It met the rough crop and slid down over the bare neck at the back.