“But we did hear, when we lay one night on the road – I forget the name of the place, but the monks were kind – that my brothers had been carried to St Peter’s church in Paris, and my grandmother saw them buried there with all the honours that were due to them, and the people wept and hung the streets with mourning.”

“But how was this possible?” Alice was startled into speaking. “Surely your uncles –”

“After it was done they ran away.” Chlodovald sounded indifferent. “They were afraid. They will quarrel now, and kill one another. It is with God.”

“Perhaps, since the people love your grandmother, and mourn for your brothers, they’ll want you to go back?”

“No. My grandmother will go into the convent now. She planned it long ago. And I –” a lift of the shorn head – “I need never be king.”

“‘Need’?” That was the duke.

Chlodovald met his eyes with a sort of defiance. “I cut my hair myself. I would have you know that. And I did not cut it from fear.”

“You don’t need to tell me that, Prince Chlodovald. I’ve assumed that you’re set on entering God’s service. As I am myself. My daughter and I were speaking of this earlier. There’s plenty of time, before we reach Britain, to make plans for the future. We’ll see you safe there, and later, when you are grown to manhood, you will know what decisions to make.”

“I shall come back home,” said Chlodovald. He spoke with a total lack of emphasis that somehow made the words more final than a vow.

“Home? To the Frankish kingdoms?” exclaimed Alice. “To Orleans?”

“To Orleans, I think not. But to my own land, yes. Not as a king, no, but I shall return. I have something that I must bring back to my own country.”

“What is that?”

“If you will excuse me?” He slipped from his stool and went quickly into the inner cabin. In a moment he came back carrying a box.

He threw a quick glance at the door. “They will not come in?”

“Not until I bid them,” said the duke.

“Then I will show you. My grandmother entrusted it to me, and she bade me keep it safely and one day bring it home.”

He set the box on the table, pushing the used dishes out of the way, and opened the lid. The box appeared to be full of floss silk, blond and shining.

“Your hair?” said Alice, wonderingly. The long-haired kings held this symbol so very sacred? As sacred and precious as a real crown?

But Chlodovald pulled the soft stuff aside to show what was packed in it. A goblet, more golden than the gold hair, with gems glittering crimson and green and primrose yellow in the handles. A beautiful thing, certainly very precious, but seemingly more than that. As he unveiled the thing from the enwrapping silk, the boy crossed himself, then turned, eyes shining, to Alice and the duke.