Read Online The Prince and the Pilgrim by Mary Stewart - Free Book Online
Authors: Mary Stewart
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Alice’s slippers had already suffered more than a little, and she did not have so many grand dresses that she could afford to spoil the primrose silk. She hesitated, but the boy repeated it urgently: “Quick! Come quickly!” and went up the track at a run. She hoisted her skirts above her knees and followed him.
At the head of the slope, between the vineyard and the woodland, was a low wall of dry stone, in places overgrown with weeds and bramble-bushes. There were gaps where the stones had fallen. “This way,” panted Theudovald, jumping to the top of one such gap.
Alice paused, dismayed. Her slippers were probably ruined for good, but the primrose silk was not, and was too precious to risk. Even had she been able to scramble over the wall, the wood beyond it looked tangled and thick with undergrowth.
“Where are you going?”
“Quickly! They haven’t missed us yet!” As he spoke, he jumped down into the wood.
Alice, still hanging back, heard the thud as he landed, then a gasp and a cry bitten off short. She ran to the wall and looked over.
“What is it? Have you hurt yourself?”
“There was a loose stone. I’m all right, but these thorns … I can’t get out!”
He was well and truly caught. Tripping on landing, he had gone head first into a patch of brambles, and was trying to wrench himself free of the long, whippy boughs that had fixed themselves in his clothes, and were holding him fast.
Alice, back in the sheep country at home, had many a time had to go to the aid of a ewe trapped by the fierce barbs of bramble or briar. So after all it was goodbye to the primrose gown. She set her pretty mouth, bunched her skirts higher, and prepared to climb the wall. “Stay still a moment. I’ll help you. I’ve got scissors in my purse –”
“No, no! I’m nearly out. There’s just this –” An exclamation in the Frankish tongue, which Alice, perhaps fortunately, did not understand. She saw now that the boy was caught not only by his clothes, but also by the long hair which, like the cloth, was wound tightly round the thorns.
No thought for his clothes there: with a wrench of tearing cloth he dragged himself clear and, still on his knees, pulled a sharp little dagger from his belt and hacked off the piece of thorn-twig that was still tangled with his hair and the torn strip from his tunic. Holding this gingerly, he clambered back across the wall. There was blood on his hands, but he did not seem to notice. He was trying – still with mutterings in the Frankish tongue – to unwind the tangle of cloth and hair and thorn.
“Here, let me,” said Alice, reaching into her reticule for the scissors she always carried.
Theudovald snatched the tangled lock out of her reach. “No! I can do it!”
“But your hands, they’re bleeding! If you’d let me look –”
“No, put those things away! I tell you, you mustn’t cut it! Never that!”
“Why not?”
But even as she spoke she remembered something else her father had told her about these strange people, the Franks. “Their kings never cut their hair,” he had said. “The long hair is a sign of royalty, the lion’s mane. To cut it short is shame and humiliation. It could mean the loss of a kingdom.”
She put the scissors away hastily. “I forgot. My father did tell me about it. He said that the long hair was a royal symbol. I’m sorry. Can you do it?”
“Yes. There, it’s done.” He threw the twig down, and carefully smoothed the long hair back. “What’s a symbol?”
“I – I think it means that it stands for something. A sign. Like, well, like a cross.”
“Or a crown?” The heir of the Merwings, wiping his scratched hands down the front of his tunic, invited Alice, with a gesture, to sit down beside him. She hesitated again, looking doubtfully at the dusty stones, but the prince was her host, and manners were manners, so she kilted the long skirt up again and, choosing the cleanest part of the wall, sat down.
“Where
At the head of the slope, between the vineyard and the woodland, was a low wall of dry stone, in places overgrown with weeds and bramble-bushes. There were gaps where the stones had fallen. “This way,” panted Theudovald, jumping to the top of one such gap.
Alice paused, dismayed. Her slippers were probably ruined for good, but the primrose silk was not, and was too precious to risk. Even had she been able to scramble over the wall, the wood beyond it looked tangled and thick with undergrowth.
“Where are you going?”
“Quickly! They haven’t missed us yet!” As he spoke, he jumped down into the wood.
Alice, still hanging back, heard the thud as he landed, then a gasp and a cry bitten off short. She ran to the wall and looked over.
“What is it? Have you hurt yourself?”
“There was a loose stone. I’m all right, but these thorns … I can’t get out!”
He was well and truly caught. Tripping on landing, he had gone head first into a patch of brambles, and was trying to wrench himself free of the long, whippy boughs that had fixed themselves in his clothes, and were holding him fast.
Alice, back in the sheep country at home, had many a time had to go to the aid of a ewe trapped by the fierce barbs of bramble or briar. So after all it was goodbye to the primrose gown. She set her pretty mouth, bunched her skirts higher, and prepared to climb the wall. “Stay still a moment. I’ll help you. I’ve got scissors in my purse –”
“No, no! I’m nearly out. There’s just this –” An exclamation in the Frankish tongue, which Alice, perhaps fortunately, did not understand. She saw now that the boy was caught not only by his clothes, but also by the long hair which, like the cloth, was wound tightly round the thorns.
No thought for his clothes there: with a wrench of tearing cloth he dragged himself clear and, still on his knees, pulled a sharp little dagger from his belt and hacked off the piece of thorn-twig that was still tangled with his hair and the torn strip from his tunic. Holding this gingerly, he clambered back across the wall. There was blood on his hands, but he did not seem to notice. He was trying – still with mutterings in the Frankish tongue – to unwind the tangle of cloth and hair and thorn.
“Here, let me,” said Alice, reaching into her reticule for the scissors she always carried.
Theudovald snatched the tangled lock out of her reach. “No! I can do it!”
“But your hands, they’re bleeding! If you’d let me look –”
“No, put those things away! I tell you, you mustn’t cut it! Never that!”
“Why not?”
But even as she spoke she remembered something else her father had told her about these strange people, the Franks. “Their kings never cut their hair,” he had said. “The long hair is a sign of royalty, the lion’s mane. To cut it short is shame and humiliation. It could mean the loss of a kingdom.”
She put the scissors away hastily. “I forgot. My father did tell me about it. He said that the long hair was a royal symbol. I’m sorry. Can you do it?”
“Yes. There, it’s done.” He threw the twig down, and carefully smoothed the long hair back. “What’s a symbol?”
“I – I think it means that it stands for something. A sign. Like, well, like a cross.”
“Or a crown?” The heir of the Merwings, wiping his scratched hands down the front of his tunic, invited Alice, with a gesture, to sit down beside him. She hesitated again, looking doubtfully at the dusty stones, but the prince was her host, and manners were manners, so she kilted the long skirt up again and, choosing the cleanest part of the wall, sat down.
“Where
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