by Anya Seton
He emerged with reluctance to hear Merewyn sobbing wildly. To see Caw, looming in the doorway, his huge face puckered by fear, while the dog cringed in a corner, whining.
Rumon stood up and looked at the bed. He put his hands on Merewyn's shoulders, and lifted her away. "Hush —" he said to her. "It's finished. Your mother's sufferings are over. Her soul has gone to God."
"That bird!" Merewyn cried. "I shouldn't have brought it in. Birds in the house mean evil tidings. Oh, dear Lord, why did 1 bring it in!" She covered her head with her arms.
"Merewyn," said Rumon sternly, "Perhaps the white dove came from God. Raise your head and look now at your mother!"
She shuddered but she heard, and slowly obeyed him.
From Breaca's upturned face all marks of pain had gone. It looked as young as Merewyn's, and on the pale lips there was a faint delighted smile.
They left Tre-Uther the next morning ... Rumon and Merewyn on the horse, Caw shambling behind with a great sack thrown over his shoulder. It contained the girl's few portable possessions. The dog trotted beside them.
They had buried Breaca below the house on the river shore as she had once told Merewyn she wished to be. She could not, of course, be put in consecrated ground. She had died unshriven. That she had nonetheless died in a state of grace, Rumon was sure, but he knew the impossibility of explaining this to Poldu. He did not attempt it; though he did see the fat prior again, long enough to arrange the sale of Tre-Uther's pigs and chickens to the monastery. Nobody wanted the house or the land, which was now Merewyn's.
"Haunted — that place is," said Poldu. "Was before an'll be worse now wi' that doomed witchwoman's ghost wailing round it. So ye're taking the lass wi' ye! Bit o' risk donsidering her blood, but lads must have their fun no doubt, an' she's not an ill-looking wench. I saw her once last autumn."
"Spying from a treetop, I suppose," Rumon said acidly.
The prior chuckled. "I'm too stout now for such games. I saw her as I was passing Tre-Uther on the way to Bodmin. By the bye remember we've a frohc in our village tonight, honor o' St. Petroc. Like to go?"
"No," said Rumon, gathering up the silver which Poldu had reluctantly disbursed for Merewyn's livestock. "And I bid you farewell."
"God be wi' you," said the prior mechanically. "Ye've
diddled a good price from me for that brat's chattels, now mind in return, don't ye go stirring up aught against my comfort when ye leave here."
Rumon shrugged. "I assure you, Reverend Sir, that I hope never to think of you or Cornwall again!"
It was a pity, Rumon thought, while he and his charges jogged along the track up the Camel River, that Merewyn could not feel the relief that he did at leaving. She had wept bitterly this morning. She was crying now. He could feel the quiverings behind him on the horse and hear stifled noises.
Poor thing, he thought impatiently, I hope she'll get over it soon. He had no wish to cart a sobbing damsel into England; they were an odd enough party as it was. He glanced back at the gigantic Caw and his great bumpy pack. Then it began to drizzle, and Rumon frowned, trying to decide Just when they ivozild reach England, and from those conjectures he thankfully turned to the memory of the vision he had seen above Breaca's bed. It warmed and contented him like a fire. Yet he knew that this had been only a glimpse of the mystery, which had revealed itself more fully years ago. Or was it a fringe of the same mystery, or had he perhaps been deluded, as Edgive would certainly have said. He could hear her voice of scorn.
"Foolish boy. You were wrought up by the dying woman's pitiable state, though you didn't want to do as she begged. And after all it was a real dove, wasn't it? You've seen a hundred like it at Les Baux. You'll be trying next to tell me that you've seen the Holy Ghost. Ah, Romieux, will nothing knock the fancies out of you!"
Merewyn had no visions to sustain her. Again and again she turned, straining to see the stones and thatching of Tre-Uther, to see the spot on the riverbank where her mother had been laid. When she could no longer see those she gazed back at the great headland of Pentire where she had so often wandered on
the seaside cliffs collecting odd-shaped stones and wild flowers to bring home. She remembered Breaca's pleasure and the pretty designs they made together. She remembered her mother's rare tender smiles and the wonderful stories she could tell by the fireside on winter nights — stories of piskies and mermaids, and of King Arthur, his courage, his gallantry, of the way he slew giants and routed foreign demons who threatened their beloved country. And always when these tales ended, Merewyn would hold her head high, feehng a little sorry for her mother who might not also claim the hero's glorious blood as her own.
Ah, I must be worthy of him — she thought. And worthy of my father, Uther.
Yet she could not stop weeping. Every thud of the horse's hoofs carried her further away from all she had known. "Alone, forlorn, alone." The words rang in her head like the dirge of the passing bell from the church as it often tolled from the Padstow hillside at someone's burial.
"Merewyn," said Rumon over his shoulder. "I know you have great sorrow, but I also think you have courage. Have done with this sobbing. I believe I see Bodmin ahead."
"Ah, you're ashamed of me," she cried, choking. "I know you don't want me here. And I don't want to go!"
"Needs must, my dear," he said with a shrug, startled by her vehemence. "It won't be too long before I deliver you to your aunt."
"And glad of that you'll be!" she cried so wildly that the dog stopped trotting and looked up at her.
Why shouldn't I be glad? thought Rumon, a bit annoyed by this feminine inconsistency of which he had no experience. He said nothing, and he was relieved to hear that she too grew silent. He returned to his thoughts while they entered a huddle of wooden houses on the outskirts of Bodmin.
They spent the night in wretched lodgings, and the next day they started into Bodmin moor. At noontime they were swathed in a sudden drifting white mist, and Rumon stopped to ask the
way from a shepherd who was sitting on a stone which formed part of the many prehistoric villages dotting the moor.
"Straight on yonder," said the shepherd. "Leave Dozmary pool to your right. Mind ye don't get pisky-led into the pool. 'Tis haunted."
"Dozmary pool?" said Merewyn suddenly. "Isn't that where King Arthur's sword was thrown before he died?"
"I've heard some such tale," said the shepherd, staring at the simply dressed Cornish girl, then at the disdainful, elegantly clothed young man.
"I am a descendant of King Arthur's," announced Merewyn. "My mother told me about Dozmary pool."
"Be ye so, now!" said the shepherd, staring harder. "I've heard tell there was a family of Arthur's blood living over Pad-stow way."
"That's ours!" she cried. "That's Tre-Uther. My father was Uther!"
"Merewyn!" Rumon interrupted. "We must hurry on." He kicked his horse's flank, and the beast broke into a trot leaving the shepherd behind.
"Soon," said Rumon, "we'll be across the Tamar and into England. I'm sure they've scant interest in King Arthur there. I wouldn't mention him again." He spoke more sharply than he meant to because her childish pride in what he knew to be a miserable falsehood made him uncomfortable. "And by the bye, that reminds me, you'll have to learn some English. We'd best start at once."
The girl sighed. How had she displeased him now? All morning they had ridden in harmony. She had controlled her sorrow, and tried not to think of the past. They had chatted of the sights along the way — the bleak mysterious moors, the sharp cone of Brown Willy rising in the distance. They had shared a youthful, excited interest. Now he had gone stern and aloof. She glanced at the back of his head, at his shining black hair from which came the delicious clean scent.
"Cornish *den', " said Rumon, "is 'man' in English. 'Benen' is 'woman.' Repeat it."
She did so, in a small subdued voice. The lesson continued. Rumon was a good teacher, and Merewyn was quick to learn. By the time they approached their night's stop at Launc
eton she could translate several words and was delighted by his praise. "Good," he cried, smiling. "From now on I'll speak only English to you. You'll learn quicker thus, and you must be as tired as I am of my very foreign brand of Cornish."
"Oh, no!" she objected. "Please don't stop speaking Cornish to me, it'll be lonely, and English is ugly."
"I don't think it is," he answered after a moment in Cornish — exasperated by the reminder of how dependent she was on him. "I believe most unfamiliar things seem ugly at first, unless, of course, one has a zest for travel and change, as I have. Perhaps women don't," he added. "The girls I've met were always wanting to settle down."
Merewyn was silent, conscious of her ignorance about what most women wanted — or men either. She knew however with sad certainty what she wanted. She wanted Rumon to take her in his arms and hold her close while she laid her cheek against the blue velvet mantle on his shoulder. Her thoughts went no further than that, and she was perfectly aware of their impracticability. He had not touched her since the morning he arrived at Tre-Uther and took her hand in sympathy. Yet surely he treated her less as though she were a troublesome child than he had when they started the journey. And surely now and then she pleased him, because he would smile at her with friendliness.
She had walled off the memory of her mother and all the years at Tre-Uther; she was too young and too reasonable to indulge in useless grief even if she had not seen that it vexed Rumon. Yet though sorrow for the past could be quenched, dread of the future could not. If only this journey might Inst indefinitelv. She had no wish to find the baleful-soundingr
"Shaftesbury" or the unknown aunt, no wish to meet the English king, who would — according to Rumon — at once settle the disposition of her person, and dispatch her to her aunt.
They reached Launceton by sunset, and Rumon found them lodgings in an inn below the Castle hill. This inn was the most elaborate place Merewyn had ever seen, since it had several sleeping chambers, and a lofty public hall through which servants scurried with steaming dishes and foaming tankards for a motley collection of patrons.
Caw, who had so far eaten with them, was now sent off to the kitchen, while Merewyn shrank down on a wall bench indicated by Rumon and listened nervously to some incisive English voices which mingled with the slower lilting Cornish,
Rumon consumed his blood sausages and ale, then left her to join a party of English merchants who were singing lustily and playing catchpenny. He came back in ten minutes crying, "We're in luck! The Court is at Lydford across the river, not two hours' ride from here. We'll be there at noon tomorrow."
Her eyes widened, and she shook her head. "I don't understand."
"To be sure," said Rumon. "I forgot I was speaking English." He translated his news, and added more.
"I couldn't have come at a better time. It seems King Edgar is to be crowned at last on Whitsunday at Bath, but is at present visiting his Queen's old home at Lydford. Most of the Court is with him."
"Oh," said Merewyn, in a small voice. She had never seen him so enthusiastic, or so handsome. His eyes sparkled, his voice rang out and attracted the attention of a Launceton man who was supping alone further down the table. He was a silversmith, a meager, pointed-nosed little man, with a taste for gossip, which his calling gave him an opportunity to enjoy for he sold his silver thread and silver-gilt brooches not only here in the Cornish castle town but across the Tamar in England. He cocked his
brows and said sardonically to Rumon, "You'd best stick rowan in your shoe and tell your beads before you meet the Queen, young sir."
"Why?" Rumon stared at the little man, who shrugged and gave a wary glance around.
"From what I hear, ye'll be in trouble if she don't like ye, and in worse trouble if she do."
"Bah!" said Rumon laughing, "I believe I can take care of myself. What's her name? Eneda?" He dimly remembered his grandmother mentioning Edgar's Queen.
"No," said the silversmith. "That was the first one. Eneda the WTiite Duck they called her for she was plump and fair. Eneda was the first one the King inarried, but he was a rare one for the wenches, slaves, maids, ladies or nuns he'd yank 'em all to his bed.'
Merewyn drew in her breath and stared at her lap. Why would he want all those women in his bed? She didn't know, yet she was shocked. Neither man noticed her.
"Well," said Rumon, "kings always have special opportunities, but you speak as though this wenching was past. Why's that?" He was anxious to learn all he could of the Court he was bound for. He signaled to a servant and ordered an ale for the silversmith, who was gratified and answered promptly.
"Ah, they say he's right under the Queen's thumb — besotted by her. Also there's the Archbishop Dunstan. Strict in his views Dunstan is. That's why he wouldn't crown the King all these fourteen years he's been reigning, sort of penance for that early lust."
"Oh," said Rumon, thoughtfully, "But what's the Queen's name?"
"Aelfryth, or some such Saxon bungle they won't pronounce themselves, for I understand everyone calls her Alfrida."
"Latinized," said Rumon nodding. "Have you ever seen her?"
"Once," answered the silversmith, warmed by Rumon's ale, and quite ready to oblige since the young man had the dress and
manners of the well-born. Besides he spoke Cornish, and there was no danger of a touchy Englishman overhearing. "There's a royal mint at Lydford," said the silversmith," and I go there now and again to buy silver from the moneyer. That's where I saw Alfrida. Lydford was her home. She was born there, daughter of Ordgar, Earl of the Western Shires. Now her brother Lord Ordulf lives there. A great hulking mountain of a man, he is — most as big as that servant o' yours I saw going to the kitchen."
"And is Queen Alfrida a great mountain of a woman?"
The silversmith shook his head. "She's tall, maybe as high as you, sir, but she's slim like a hazel wand and has yellow hair to her knees. She's reckoned the most beautiful woman in England," he lowered his voice, " — and the most wicked."
"Indeed. What an interesting tribute. Just how has she earned the latter distinction?"
"Murders," whispered the silversmith with relish. "She's stopped at nothing to be queen. She was wed early to the East Anglian Earl Athelwold, but when King Edgar saw her — and they say she gave him a love potion — he had to have her. So he lured her husband to Wherwell Forest, and stuck a spear in the Earl. Then there was Eneda, poor duck, the King repudiated her and married Alfrida, but Dunstan he said the marriage was irregular as long as Eneda Uved, another reason he wouldn't crown the King properly. And this winter Eneda died. So you see . .."
"You suggest that Eneda was poisoned?" asked Rumon coldly. The judicial side of his nature made him view the silversmith's assertions with skepticism and by counterbalance he felt some sympathy for the slandered Alfrida, who was royalty, and therefore kin of his own. "Folk often die quite naturally, and it appears that Alfrida had no hand in her husband's death."
The silversmith looked offended. "She's a witch," he said, "and makes others do her bidding. I'm only repeating what I've heard. You asked me, and I can see you're not a Sawsnach —
SO I answered. Well, I must be off to m'smithy. The Lady Buryan at our castle has ordered brooches and buckles to wear at the coronation, for I'm the only able silversmith in Cornwall." The little man rose abruptly, and bowing, quit the inn. Rumon suddenly remembered Merewyn, who was plucking at a fold of her red cloak and frowning.
"Don't ever be worried by rumors and gossip," said Rumon kindly to her. "I'm sure we'll find that the Queen's wickedness is as exaggerated by report as is, no doubt, her beauty. And besides you'll have nothing to do with the royal family, I'm sure."
The next day, having forded the Tamar and entered England, they came into Lydford at noon.
Lydford, the seat of the Devonshire earls, was a straggling wooden village, surrounded by moorland streams, earthworks, and a palisade. It was dominated by its castle, built of stone and timber, perched high on a hill. From the topm
ost wooden turret there billowed a large green flag with a white horse embroidered on it, denoting that the King was in residence. The lanes and alleys at the foot of the castle were crammed with soldiers in chain mail and bright helmets. Rough shelters had been erected both inside and out of the earthworks for the accommodation of the court's overflow. There were even hastily built huts on the south bank of the Lyd. The air was filled with a constant din, such as Merewyn had never imagined; not only the raucous shouts of English soldiers, the lowing of oxen, the pealing of the church bell, the hawking of peddlers, but a clanging tooting racket near the church where some musicians were practicing on cymbals and trumpets. Rumon held his head high, and approached the castle bridge at a trot. Merewyn had slipped oflp the horse, suspecting that he would not want to be embarrassed at this important moment by the presence of a Cornish peasant girl, cHnging to him around the waist. She waited nervously behind across the castle ditch with Ca^' and Trig, and was for a time sufficiently busy preventing dog-
fights while Trig exchanged insults with the Lydford curs whicii rushed at him in all directions.
At the bridge the sentry indifferently challenged Rumon and as indifferently waved him into the castle when Rumon gave his name. Lord Ordulf perforce kept open house during the King's visit. In the paved courtyard there was a welter of merchants, housecarls, black-habited monks, and two richly dressed mounted thanes from other parts of Devon, who watched the mob superciliously. All were apparently waiting their turn to ascend the circular stone steps to the upper stories. Rumon paused uncertainly, looking for someone in authority, when there was a sudden hush. The milling crowd drew apart to form an aisle, and Rumon saw a smallish black figure slowly emerging from the bottom of the stairs.
