Avalon (23 page)

The Abbess's face showed nothing, though her hands shook and she hid them in her habit. "You came to warn us, what do you propose that we do?"

Gunnar scowled harder. He did regret coming to Romsey, and inwardly vowed that never again would he yield to weakling sentiments. "You could escape perhaps—" he said coldly. "Hide in the voods."

"And what would happen to my Abbey? Even if it is possible for all my nuns and our servants to hide indefinitely in the forest?"

"Your Abbey and all the convent vill be burned, of course," said Gunnar. "After Sweyn has removed the treasure, vich I know is too heavy for you to take in time."

The Abbess thought of St. Ethelfleda's gilded shrine which weighed half a ton. She thought of the rehquary which contained the Blessed Virgin's hair. It was cemented deep into the altar. She thought of the two riding horses which the Abbey possessed, and on the manor farm there were a team of oxen and a wagon. That was all. She thought of her Abbey church in flames, gutted by fire, its timbered roof a heap of ashes in the nave; and of the dozen convent buildings, from Refectory to Chapter House to Dorters, all wooden, all thatched — and all destroyed. She thought of the two old nuns lying in the Infirmary, both paralyzed.

The Abbess arose slowly from her cot. She stood straight and proud before Gunnar, holding out towards him her crucifix. "By this Holy Cross in which you once beheved, I exhort you, Gunnar, to dissuade your chief from harming Romsey!"

The young man shook his head. "I could not stop Sweyn, even if I vished to, I haf sworn to be his man, and pledged it with my blood." Gunnar pointed to a fresh cut on his wrist. "Even this varning I should not haf given," He glanced at Merewyn, who was beginning to understand and had turned as pale as the Abbess. "From now on," said Gunnar, "ve are enemies. I am an enemy of all the English."

"We're not English, my Lady Aunt and I," said Merewyn. "We're Cornish, we are of the line of Arthur —" She did not know what she hoped to gain by this statement.

Gunnar laughed his contempt. "Cornvall is in England'' he said. "And let King Arthur's ghost protect you if it can!"

"No!" cried the Abbess, as Gunnar pushed roughly past her towards the door. "God will protect us. God and Our Lord's Blessed Mother. They have prevailed many times before against the heathen, and they will prevail now!"

Gunnar strode out, his scabbard clanking on his chain-mail tunic. He went through the parlor and shouted to the portress to unlock the door.

For a second Merewyn and the Abbess stood rooted, then the girl sat down on the cot and hid her face in her hands. "I don't believe it! Gunnar's lying, or gone mad!"

The Abbess shook her head. "We've Httle time! Merewyn, get the prioress! And we must remove the sick nuns from the Infirmary — in the farm oxcart — alert all the others, give them their choice."

"Choice!" repeated Merewyn, staring at her aunt's resolute face.

"Yes. Those who wish — whose faith is not strong enough — may try to hide in the forest."

"But what will you do. Reverend Mother!"

Into the Abbess's dark eyes came a look of exaltation. "I shall pray at the High Altar in our church," she said softly. "Pray

that Our Blessed Lord will work a miracle. Get the prioress, mychUd! Run!"

During the next hours of confusion, Merewyn had no time to feel fear. Most of the nuns were incredulous, after the pior-ess had summoned them to the Chapter House, and told them of Gunnar's warning. Not one of the sisters, even the oldest, had any knowledge of violence, let alone of Vikings, whose menace in this southern part of England belonged entirely to the days of King Alfred nearly a hundred years ago. Nor did the prioress — a wispy Kentish lady — possess the Abbess's authority. Consequently after the prioress had announced to them the danger in the words dictated by the Abbess, the nuns fluttered around outside the Chapter House, some exclaiming, a few weeping, many openly scornful of so absurd a threat. Ever and again one of them would slip into the church, longing to question the Abbess. But none dared disobey what they knew were her orders, nor dared disturb that small motionless black figure which was kneeling on the altar steps, the hidden face upturned towards the Blessed Virgin's relic, and the stone Crucifixion.

Merewyn obeyed her aunt; for the second time that day she started towards the Abbey Farm. But now dusk was gathering, the sun had dipped behind Stanbridge Woods, though the breathless heat had scarcely abated. Merewyn scrambled over the stile near the thatched farm buildings, and saw her serf, Caw, pitching hay into the barn.

She ran to him and put her hand on his arm. "Yoke!" she said to him in Cornish, pointing first at the oxen, then at their yoke which leaned against the wall. "Yoke the oxen, hitch them to the wagon!"

"Yoke — oxen?" he repeated in his thick stumbling voice. The little black eyes showed his bewilderment, but they also showed a spark of pleasure at seeing Merewyn, who spoke to him in the only language he really understood, and to whom he knew he belonged.

"Aye! Aye!" she cried, pushing his enormous hairy hands down onto the yoke. The fanner appeared at the bam door, followed by his eldest son — Bodo — a sharp, inquisitive lad of eleven.

"Wot be ye doing here, wi'me oxen?" said the farmer angrily to Merewyn. "T' Lady Abbess can't want 'em terday. 'Tis a Feast."

"I know," said Merewyn. "But we're all in fearful danger. There's seven shiploads of Vikings landed in Southampton."

"A likely tale! Ye be dodders, m'girl," he said, thrusting out his lower lip. "Go back to the women."

The farmer was heated with ale as well as the weather, or he would not have been rude to the Abbess's niece, and the real owner of the useful Caw — though the farmer mostly forgot that the giant Corrushman was not his own serf.

Alerewyn raised her chin, and cried, "Farmer! —There are four hundred and twenty enemies in Southampton — and they'll be here tonight, to bum us all, or kill us all — and rape those they wish to. The Reverend Mother commandeers the oxen and the wagon, so that the two bedridden sisters in the Infirmary may be carried to hiding." She tried to speak with conviction, but doubt crept back as she heard her own words. What could possibly disturb the fragrant stillness of the summer evening, except the drowsy hum of bees around their skep, and the rhythmic munching of the oxen? Gunnar is mad, she thought. I know him better than Aunt Merwinna does; only madness would explain the change in him.

"The Lady Abbess ordered the oxen," she said feebly. "We can't disobey her."

"Bullshit!" The farmer swung on his heel. "Ye may tell her ladyship I'll not work m' beasts on Sunday, for a female whim — Naow wot ails thee?" He broke off addressing his son who was tugging at his arm.

"Look, dad!" cried young Bodo, his weasel face quivering with excitement. "Look yonder!" He pointed south to the

patch of sky between the farmhouse and the barn. The sky was red — a sinister orange red which glowed through the trees and high above them.

"St. Mary!" muttered the farmer. He ran behind his house for a better view. Merewyn stood staring at the red sky, while her breathing checked, then raced. She turned violently back to Caw, crying, "Yoke those oxen!" And she shoved him.

The farmer came back slowly, his face had lost its truculence, he looked as bewildered as Caw, whose labors at goading and hauling the oxen under the yoke he did not stop. "Must be the whole o' Sou'ampton afire," he said dully. "Wot'll us do?"

"They'll be here next," said Merewyn. "You can hide, I suppose, or you can fight. Pull up that wagon!"

The farmer obeyed her in a daze. "I've naught ter fight with," he said. "Bar me mattock an' scythe."

"Bodo," said Merewyn. "You're a nimble lad, and I'm sure you know every part of ground hereabouts. Run and see where they've got to. Don't let them see you!"

" 'Course not!" cried the boy eagerly. "I'll spy on 'em — an' be back in a wink. I'm to go to the Abbey after?"

"Yes," she said. "Report to us there."

Bodo pelted off towards the glowing sky.

Merewyn clenched her hands and waited until the oxen were hitched, and the wagon started trundling down the rutted road, while Caw sluggishly prodded the beasts. "Oh hurry!" cried Merewyn in a frenzy. "I must get back and warn the others!"

"I'll tak' over," said the farmer, yanking the goad from Caw.

"But what about your wife, and the baby?" she cried. "Go tell them to hide." She did not wait to see what happened.

She sped back over the fields and the stile, across the gardens to the cloister, where the nuns were still milling about and murmuring. She saw Elfled and ran to her. "It's true!" she cried. "At least Southampton's on fire. You can see it from the farm."

As she spoke there came a distant rumble of thunder. The nuns gaped at Merewyn, they turned in bewilderment towards

the prioress who let out a mew of dismay. "What'll we do?" she whimpered. "We must ask Reverend Mother!"

"She's abeady told you what to do!" cried Merewyn. "You may run and hide in Stanbridge Woods, or you may stay to help her with your prayers."

"Run . . ." somebody quavered. "Hide . . ." said another voice. Panic spread through them as the whispers grew, rusthng like wind through the elms. "Run and hide . . ." "Run and hide ..."

One of the novices began the flight. The prioress gathered up her black skirts and followed. Then the nuns moved as one terrified body, streaking through the cloister gate towards the Mill Bridge over the Test, and beyond into the darkness of the forest.

In a moment there were but three women left standing by the Chapter House — Merewyn, Elfled, and Herluva, the Infir-maress. "I see you got the oxcart, my dear," said the latter calmly, nodding towards the Infirmary door where Caw and the farmer were halting the oxen. "I'll help put my poor old charges into it; send them off, then join Reverend Mother in the church."

"And I also," said Elfled through dry lips. There was sweat on her narrow forehead, but her eyes and voice were steady. "You'd best flee too, Merewyn. You've not trained to prayer as we are." She reached up and kissed her friend on the cheek. "God be with you." Elfled turned and slipped into the church.

Merewyn hesitated. Her heart hammered against her ribs, her muscles were tensed for flight, and yet she could not run to the forest after the others. Not leave her aunt like that. Not betray the royal blood they shared. Let those English women scurry off like started hares, she thought, but my Lady Aunt and I are British; and see too — there's little Elfled. She has not even kinship with King Arthur to give her courage, yet she stays. Though Elfled had never suffered from this kind of danger. She had never had a mother with a withered arm, a scarred

thigh, and the intermittent light of madness in the desolate eyes; Elfled had never had to imagine a father with his skull split open by a Norse battle-axe.

And still Merewyn stood trembling in the cloister. She saw the oxen start off with their loaded wagon, accompanied by Caw and the farmer who prodded the great beasts into a shambling lope. The wagon rumbled over the wooden bridge towards the forest, while the noise of the clumsy wooden wheels was echoed by another growl of thunder from the south — where surely the sky was redder — and surely now she could smell smoke.

Herluva came waddling back from the Infirmary, and in the gloom bumped against Merewyn. "Why, my dear!" she said, peering, "You stiE here? Why don't you go with them?" She pointed towards the disappearing oxcart.

"Listen!" said Merewyn, not moving. "Listen!"

The Infirmaress paused but her ears were not keen enough to hear what Merewyn meant. A distant rhythmic howling or roaring, like wild beasts, like demons — like nothing- the girl had ever heard, and yet she knew the sounds for battle cries. "They're coming nearer," said Merewyn. "The fires are nearer too!"

Lady Herluva took her by the arm. "I hear nothing but thunder," she said. "Come into the church. 'Tis never wise to brave a thunderstorm."

"Is it wise to let us be slaughtered?" Merewyn gasped.

"Blessed Jesu!" snapped the Infirmaress, forcibly propelling the girl along the cloister. "You can die but once. And if this happens at prayer in a sanctuary, your road to heaven will be that much shorter." She opened the church's little convent door, and pushed Merewyn inside.

The church was lit only by the four wax altar candles. Between and below them, a small erect black figure knelt as motionless as it had been two hours ago. Even the wavering of the candlelight on the stone Crucifixion — its angels, its figures of

the Blessed Virgin and St. John, its Roman soldiers, and the impaled Central Figure, seemed not to flicker over the Abbess. She was as still as a tree trunk, as an ebony post.

Merewyn's knees could carry her no longer. She sank onto a rough bench which had been placed in the nave for sickly parishioners.

She clasped her hands, and tried to pray.

"Merciful Mother of God — Ave Maria ora pro nobis — Our Saviour — Pater Noster — St. Michael — St. Petroc — St. Gundred where I went to help my mother — yet it didji't help. O Blessed Christ —" she began again, but her invocations jangled in her head. In her heart was panic, her ears strained for sounds from outside. She tried to concentrate on the three praying women. Elfled and Herluva were kneeling together in the choir, many paces behind the Abbess. They were not uncannily still like their Superior. From them came murmurs while Elfled rocked slowly back and forth, and the stout Infirmaress leaned often against a choir stall to ease her rheumatic knees.

We'll be trapped in here, Merewyn thought. They'll come first to the church for the treasure. She looked toward the altar above the motionless black head. The gold and jewels of the Blessed Virgin's relinquary sparkled in the candleHght. Will they come by boat, she thought. Up Southampton Water and into the Test? Or along the banks? Oh, where is Bodo? Perhaps they caught him. She had an instant image of the boy — his head spht in two, the spurting mess of blood and brains. Stop it! she cried to herself, forcing desperate concentration on the altar.