Alberic the Wise and Other Journeys

Dedication

For my mother and father

Contents

Title Page

Dedication

ALBERIC THE WISE

SHE CRIES NO MORE

TWO KINGS

About the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

ALBERIC THE WISE

MORE THAN MANY years ago when fewer things had happened in the world and there was less to know, there lived a young man named Alberic who knew nothing at all. Well, almost nothing, or depending on your generosity of spirit, hardly anything, for he could hitch an ox and plough a furrow straight or thatch a roof or hone his scythe until the edge was bright and sharp or tell by a sniff of the breeze what the day would bring or with a glance when a grape was sweet and ready. But these were only the things he had to know to live or couldn’t help knowing by living and are, as you may have discovered, rarely accounted as knowledge.

Of the world and its problems, however, he knew little, and indeed was even less aware of their existence. In all his life he had been nowhere and seen nothing beyond the remote estate on which he lived and to whose lands he and his family had been bound back beyond the edge of memory. He planted and harvested, threshed and winnowed, tended the hives and the pigs, breathed the country air, and stopped now and again to listen to the birds or puzzle at the wind. There were no mysteries, hopes or dreams other than those that could be encompassed by his often aching back or impatient stomach. This was the sum of his existence and with it he was neither happy nor sad. He simply could not conceive of anything else.

Since the days were much alike he measured his life by the more discernible seasons – yet they too slipped easily by, and would have continued to do so, I’m sure, had it not been for the lone traveller who appeared unaccountably one chill morning at the close of winter. Alberic watched him make his weary way along the road until, when they stood no more than a glance apart, he paused to rest before continuing on his journey. A curious old man – his tattered tunic was patched on patches and his worn shoes left hardly a suggestion of leather between himself and the cold ground. He carried a massive bundle on his back and sighed with the pleasure of letting it slide gently from his shoulder to the ground – then just as gently let himself down upon it. He nodded and smiled, mopped his face carefully with a handkerchief easily as old as himself, then acknowledged Alberic’s timid greeting and finally began to speak, and when he did it was of many, many things. Where he had come from and where he was bound, what he had seen and what there was yet to discover – commonwealths, kingdoms, empires, counties and dukedoms – fortresses, bastions and great solitary castles that dug their fingers into the mountain passes and dared the world to pass – royal courts whose monarchs dressed in pheasant skins and silks and rich brocades of purple and lemon and crimson and bice all interlaced with figures of beasts and blossoms and strange geometric devices – and mountains that had no tops and oceans that had no bottoms.

There seemed no end to what he knew or what he cared to speak about, and speak he did, on and on through the day. His voice was soft and easy but his manner such that even his pauses commanded attention. And as he spoke his eyes sparkled and his words were like maps of unknown lands. He told of caravans that made their way across continents and back with perfumes and oils and dark red wines, sandalwood and lynx hides and ermine and carved sycamore chests, with cloves and cinnamon, precious stones and iron pots and ebony and amber and objects of pure tooled gold – of tall cathedral spires and cities full of life and craft and industry – of ships that sailed in every sea, and of art and science and learned speculation hardly ever dreamed of by most people – and of armies and battles and magic and much, much more.

Alberic stood entranced, trying desperately to imagine all these wonderful things, but his mind could wander no further than the fields that he could see and the images soon would fade or cloud.

“The world is full of wonders,” he sighed forlornly, for he realised that he could not even imagine what a wonder was.

“It is everything I’ve said and even more,” the stranger replied, and since it was by now late afternoon he scrambled to his feet and once more took up his heavy bundle. “And remember,” he said with a sweep of his arm, “it is all out there, just waiting.” Then down the road and across the stubble fields he went.

For weeks after the old man had gone Alberic brooded, for now he knew that there were things he didn’t know, and what magic and exciting things they were! Warm wet breezes had begun to blow across the land and the frozen fields had yielded first to mud and then to early blossoms. But now this quiet hillside was not enough to hold his rushing thoughts. “It is all out there, just waiting,” he said to himself again and again, repeating the old man’s words. When he had repeated them often enough, they became a decision. He secretly packed his few belongings and in the early morning’s mist left his home and started down into the world to seek its wonders and its wisdom.