Avalon (8 page)

Stopped the Mass and upbraided her from the altar steps. She was much ashamed and never forgot the disgrace of that moment."

"Aha!" said Dunstan, slowly. He had been an acolyte and well remembered the episode. He was now nearly convinced, yet he did not show it. He still questioned. "And later did the Abbot — whose name was Aelfric — did he give her anything?"

"Yes, my lord. A reliquary which she must always wear secretly in her bosom, as indeed she has."

"But you have seen it?"

"She opened it once to show me before I left her, saying that she would pray to it for my safety."

"What was the relic that she showed you?"

"A thread from the Virgin's robe, my lord."

"And what color was the thread?"

"Blue, my lord."

Dunstan's hands fell from his staff, he gave a long quivering sigh. "Forgive me, my son," he whispered. "Forgive me. No one else could have known these things." His eyes blurred and filled with tears. "You are the prince you claim to be," he said almost on a sob, "You are cousin to King Edgar and therefore distant kin to me." Copious tears dripped down his cheeks.

Rumon viewed these with gratified astonishment. He did not know that the Archbishop often wept — from humility, or pity, from the contemplation of a virtuous deed or a beautiful manuscript — or when singing praises to Our Lord,

"What can be sharp as a dagger, yet soft as spring rain?" was a popular riddle, which one of his monks had made up about Dunstan.

"Now," said the Archbishop, drying his eyes on his black sleeve, "I will take you to the King, but stay — what about that girl — Merewyn you call her, she must be hungry, poor child. And it's not fitting that a woman of high blood should be left outside with the rabble. You said that her father is descended from King Arthur?"

Rumon compressed his lips. "I had not thought that the Cornish king of so long ago would be well thought of in England."

"On the contrary. King Arthur and his Queen Guinevere are buried at Glastonbury. Our Celtic monks — of which we have many there — reverence the graves. It is my desire — and King Edgar's — that all the different nationalities of our island shall respect each other and live in harmony together — as you will see, we even have several Danes at Court. But the girl. I know her Aunt Merwinna well, a most holy woman. She is no longer at Shaftesbury, she has become Abbess of Romsey."

"Then Merewyn can be sent to her at once?" asked Rumon eagerly.

Again a flicker of amusement crossed Dunstan's face. Such zeal to escape from a woman's company might mean that she was ugly, but more likely it came from a true monkish vocation, as yet unacknowledged, and the Archbishop was delighted. Here in this young man was perfect ecclesiastical material waiting to be molded by skillful hands. A bishop, someday, he thought. He looked tenderly at Rumon, whom he now liked immensely, and all the more so from sorrow at having suspected him.

He smiled and said, "It would not be wise to send the girl to Romsey at present, since the Abbess will be traveling to Bath for the Coronation, as are all the dignitaries, secular and clerical in the kingdom. As zve shall be. No, I'll summon the girl and see that she is properly received here first."

The Archbishop rose with decision, and Merewyn's future was changed from that moment.

chApteR thnee

RuMON and Merewyn were ushered together into the Great Hall of Lydford Castle. Dunstan waved the girl back as he led Rumon towards the dais at the far end, where the King was sitting in a carved red armchair.

Merewyn shrank into a corner near the entrance. She was dazed by the rapid events of the last half hour; ever since a servant of the Archbishop's had retrieved her from her long wait across the castle ditch, and made it plain by gestures that she was to follow him into the castle. She had been startled by the Archbishop's extremely courteous greeting, puzzled by Rumon's constraint, and the curtness with which he explained in Cornish that they were both to be presented to the King.

While they had waited in an antechamber for Dunstan's reappearance, they drank ale and ate bread brought them by another servant. Merewyn caught glimpses of several court ladies trailing up and down the stairs. The ladies were visions in multicolored robes trimmed with fur and embroideries, flashing with gold chains and brooches. Merewyn became miserably aware of her brown homespun kirtle, her worn sheepskin sandals, her old travel-stained cloak. She decided that Rumon was in-

creasingly ashamed of her, and did not blame him, though she was hurt by his silence. Now she sat down on the edge of a bench and waited.

The huge raftered Hall was lit by high windows open to the May afternoon sunshine which glowed on the gaily painted wall hangings depicting war scenes, ships, and odd beasts, including a blood-red dragon. Above these wall cloths a continuous row of decorated wooden shields made a glittering frieze when the sun caught the central gilt bosses. The shields belonged to Lord Ordulf's men — his thanes and housecarls — and were ready for instant use if there should be a battle call. Though there had been no such alarm in anyone's memory. Not since the days of Alfred. As for the Cornish (against whose raids from across the Tamar this castle at Lydford had been originally built), they had caused no trouble for a hundred years.

Yet men still enjoyed hearing of great battles — those of Charlemagne and Alfred, of Arthur, of Julius Caesar, and particularly the exploits of Beowulf.

The Hall benches were empty; the dinner hour had passed and the company all gone. Only the High Table was occupied.

King Edgar sat in the state chair, sipping occasionally from a flagon and listening critically to Ordulf's bard who stood a little behind the King, plucking at a harp and chanting the lay which the King had requested — "The Battle of Brunanburgh."

Edgar was fond of this song since it celebrated his uncle. King Athelstan, and his father, King Edmund, and the glorious victory they had won in Northumbria against the Norsemen, thirty-five years ago. Edgar knew the lay by heart, and once corrected the bard who forgot a line; but he smiled as the chanting voice deepened emphatically for the triumphant ending. "Then the two brothers, both together — the King and the Atheling sought their kin in the land of Wessex, exulting in the conflict . . . never was an army put to greater slaughter by the sword since the time when hither from the East the Angles and the Saxons came, seeking Britain over the broad ocean, and the

haughty warsmiths overcame the Britons and won for themselves this land!" The bard rippled up his harp strings and bowed.

"Good," said Edgar, his blue eyes shining. He tossed the bard a silver penny.

Next to Edgar, Queen Alfrida's chair was vacant, but two most powerful noblemen were seated further down the table, playing chess.

One was Ordulf, royal thane and brother-in-law to the King. He was, as the silversmith had said, "a mountain of a man." Few horses could carry him, and his pink fingers looked hke sausages as they rested on the ivory chess pieces. He was indolent, amiable, a trifle slow-witted and very devout. He even acted as a kind of lay abbot at nearby Tavistock Abbey which his father, Earl Ordgar, had founded. Ordulf incHned his flaxen head towards the King in gratitude that his bard had given satisfaction. The other chess player — Earl Alfhere, the Lord of all Mercia, instantly seized upon this moment of inattention, and soon put Ordulf's king in check. Then he gave a peal of derisive laughter, before pursing his shiny red hps, and eying his opponent maliciously. Alfhere was a handsome hawk-nosed man of forty, who usually succeeded in any game of wits, though he had not so far succeeded in ousting the Monastic party, especially as represented by Dunstan whose influence over the young King Alfhere resented. The Earl owned a quarter of England, or had done so, before Dunstan had made the King filch land from him for the new Benedictine monasteries and nunneries the intrusive Primate kept founding. Not only that — Dunstan; Oswald, Archbishop of York; and Ethelwold, Bishop of Winchester were all briskly ejecting secular clergy, thus crushing many of Alfhere's relations who now looked to him for support.

It was therefore with marked annoyance that Alfhere's hooded gray eyes watched the arrival of Dunstan and Rumon, and the latter's presentation to the King.

The Archbishop addressed Edgar for some moments, though

he had already prepared him for the appearance of a cousin. Then Dunstan waved his hand and Rumon kneeled before the red chair, saying humbly, "My Lord King, I bear the loving greetings of your aunt, Queen Edgive of Aries, and I bear also the hope that I may be of service to you."

The King jumped up. He leaned down and kissed Rumon on both cheeks, crying, "Welcome, welcome, Cousin!" in such glad ringing tones that Merewyn could hear the greeting at the other end of the Hall. She watched Rumon rise, and saw with surprise that though he was not uncommon tall he towered over the King who was a small chunky man, scarcely bigger than a lad, though his straw-colored mustache and beard precluded immaturity, and he was in fact twenty-nine. His hair was tawny as a fox's pelt and curled over his ears. He wore a simple circlet of gold, and a squirrel-trimmed, gold-threaded cape over shoulders which were very broad for one of his height.

He drew Rumon down beside him into the Queen's seat and showed warm delight. His laugh which was deep and pleasant rang out.

There ensued a round of drinking from gem-studded beakers in which the lords and the Archbishop joined. The King kept his arm twined affectionately around Rumon's neck, while they drank from the same cup, and altogether the evidences of welcome and good-fellowship pleased Merewyn for Rumon's sake, though she did finally begin to wonder if everyone had forgotten her again. And if so, what was she to do? She longed to run away but there was no place to go.

Dunstan, however, who never forgot anything, had kept a distant eye on the girl while he waited for the excitement of Rumon's arrival to abate. He interrupted the King quietly and said, "My lord, your newfound cousin has brought with him a most piteous child, whose story will, I know, move your tender heart. She is an orphan. A maiden of royal blood — the ancient British blood — yet destitute."

"Indeed?" said Edgar, his eyes sparkling. "Tell me about her, my lord of Canterbury!"

Dunstan inclined his head. "I will, unless the Atheling wishes to?" He gestured towards Rumon who drew back, and showed his discomfort so blatantly that the King began to laugh.

"On the contrary, I beHeve," said Dunstan smiling. "Lord Rumon has but done his Christian duty in conducting her here. Her tale is this ..."

Whereupon Rumon perforce listened to an account of Mere-wyn's life which was remarkably accurate except for the central premise which alone ensured her ceremonious reception. The King was interested. He best loved tales of battle and adventure, yet he enjoyed novelty, and in Dunstan's skillful telling the pathos of Merewyn's situation became vivid. And Edgar had a particular fondness for the legends of King Arthur whom he sometimes fancied he resembled. At his palace in Winchester he kept several bards, and the Welsh one knew many songs about Arthur, who had fought so bravely for his country against the Saxon invaders, five hundred years ago. That those Saxon invaders were also Edgar's own ancestors no longer seemed important.

The Saxons had adopted Arthur as one of their heroes; after so long a time the conquerors felt no animosity towards the old Celtic stock; nor had need to.

"Where is the maiden?" Edgar cried as his Archbishop finished. "She shall be cared for at once by the Lady Alfrida. Summon the Queen!" he said to a servant.

Merewyn, blushing hot, walked timidly down the Hall, and imitating Rumon, fell to her knees before the King. He seized her gently by the chin, and raising her face, examined it with a connoisseur's eye. Pretty lass, he thought. Unusual appearance. A rosy skin unfortunately marred by some freckles across a blunt little nose. What he could see of the downcast eyes was good. They were large and light, and of a color between green

and blue. The lashes and brows were dark, but the hair — very-abundant to judge by the thickness of her plaits — was of a hue the King had never seen before. Almost dark red, rather like the color of the great garnet which decorated his mantle brooch. Figure seemed undeveloped — one couldn't be sure what lay under the hideous homespun shift and cloak. Once I would have tried to find out, Edgar thought, then he glanced guiltily at Dunstan, who stood watching.

"Rise, Lady Merewyn," said the King. "I have heard your unhappy story, and bid you heartily welcome to my Court. We will befriend you, and treat you with the honor due to the last of King Arthur's line."

Merewyn blushed harder, she understood the gist of what the King had said, stammered "Thank you, sir" in English, and could not forbear darting at Rumon a look of puzzled triumph. He had told her that nobody in England would care about King Arthur, had forbidden her to mention her lineage, and yet he must have done so himself. How strange.

Rumon's face showed a mixture of annoyance and resignation. Yet there was a slight smile on his lips. He gave a shrug, raising his hands and letting them fall again — a foreign gesture, of which he had several.

There came a rustling at the door behind the. dais; everyone turned and then stood up, except the King, who said tenderly, "Ah, here you are, my love!"

Alfrida walked towards them with a graceful glide, her tall slender body seeming to undulate. xMerewyn gasped; Rumon also drew in his breath and held it, while he stared.

Nobody upon first beholding Alfrida ever questioned her flawless beauty, possibly because she never questioned it herself, and worshiped it for the power it gave her. She was twenty-eight and enchanting. Her wavy hair — the exact shade of buttercups — fell loose to her knees. Her eyes were \aolet, so was her silk gown, its bodice cut low enough to expose her round provocative breasts down to the pink nipples. A gauzy white

veil framed her face, softening a determined clefted chin. In repose her full moist mouth, reddened by cochineal paste, had a slightly protruding lower lip, which disclosed the lower row of small perfect teeth. A seductive, and at times sulky mouth, one that many a man had ached to kiss, while some had succeeded. High cheekbones and a short straight nose completed a face whose proportions were exquisite.