18 SEPTEMBER 1993, Page 38

The players come to the castle

Our leader's lines. Now I, the poor Boy playing queen, tell what I saw.

The hall lay dark and icy, Its scarlet rugs rubbed bare. No word or gesture came from The prince, slumped in his chair. It was a dream of welcome, After miles of storm, The table steamed with cakes and game, The royal fire sprang warm.

Alison Brackenbury