by Anya Seton
All those not mounted fell to their knees.
Now who can this be, Rumon thought, startled by the tokens of respect around him — homage worthy of a king. Yet it was certainly not the King. This was a man in his sixties, clothed in the black Benedictine habit, yet with additions; a gold-embroidered cope fastened at the neck by a jeweled cross; a pearl-studded skullcap with two flaps half concealing a grizzled tonsure. He carried an elaborately carved ivory and silver T-headed staff on which he leaned heavily, hmping a trifle.
Rumon heard someone murmm* "Dunstan" and was enlightened. So here was the redoubtable Archbishop of Canterbury, who did not look redoubtable at all. He had ruddy cheeks, a snub nose slightly askew, and a vague benign gaze beneath bushy gray eyebrows.
The benign gaze, however, altered as the Archbishop paused in his progress and instantly perceived Rumon. The wrinkled lids parted and disclosed burning eyes sharply focused.
Ever watchful of his King's and country's interest, it was Dunstan's business to recognize and investigate any stranger. He advanced at once towards Rumon, held up two fingers in benediction, and said, "Christ's blessing on you, sir. I've not seen
you before." The voice was mellow yet most authoritative. So was the gesture that Dunstan made.
Rumon dismounted and knelt. The Archbishop extended a delicately molded hand, and Rumon duly kissed a huge amethyst ring on the forefinger.
"You may rise," said Dunstan, noting with surprise the grace of the stranger's gesture. The Archbishop had been laboring for years to instill proper ceremonial observance amongst the unruly earls and thanes of Edgar's court, and the results were still often disappointing.
"You are gently born?" said Dunstan, "And from overseas, I think?"
"Yes, my lord." Rumon pulled his Latin parchment from under his tunic and presented it.
Dunstan scanned it rapidly and was astonished. An atheling? he thought. A prince descended from the right line of Cerdic and of King Alfred? He didn't look it, he carried no sword, his mount was a plow horse, poorly harnessed, while the man himself was too dark complexioned to have Saxon blood, he thought, and though we've peace in the Daneland and Northumbria, yet who's to be sure of what those Norse heathens are up to overseas. Also passports may be forged or stolen.
Dunstan examined the young man, while Rumon reddened. It had never occurred to him that his word might be doubted.
Dunstan at last said sternly, "You have a retinue outside, sir? You have come for the coronation?"
"Neither, my lord," answered Rumon. "No retinue, and I knew nothing about the coronation. I was shipwrecked at the tip of Cornwall." He gave the Archbishop his shghtly rueful smile. "I swear by the Blessed Blood of Our Lord that my safe-conduct speaks the truth."
"Well —" said Dunstan. "That is a mighty oath but I've heard others like it which were false. There are some questions I wish to ask." He glanced at the kneeling figures who were
muttering and shifting, curious to hear what went on. "In here —" said the Archbishop, gesturing towards a doorway and preceding Rumon.
The door lead into a small guardroom, empty now since Ordulf's men were at dinner in the lower hall. The Archbishop shut the door and sat down on a bench. "Now—" he said twining his fingers around his crozier. "I'm an old man, and I've much experience in judging people. You have a frank face but so has many a villain. You must see that it is my duty to guard the King from impostors, or from any threat of danger. In eleven days Edgar will, at last, become the Lord's Anointed. He will receive Divine Sanction for the ruling of his realm. It will be the happiest moment of his life — and of mine. No untoward incident of any sort must mar it."
"I see that, my lord," said Rumon, "and I assure you that my only wish is to serve King Edgar, who is my cousin."
The Archbishop shrugged. "Tell me your tale from the beginning."
Rumon obeyed, starting slowly, stammering a little, then finding confidence. He told of his early years at Aries, then of those at Les Baux. Dunstan listened so carefully, never shifting his eyes, that Rumon said more than he meant to about his fears, about his hatred of battles and his distaste for wenching. He spoke of Vincent, the blind harpist, and even to his own astonishment mentioned the vision he had had at fifteen. Here Dunstan raised his eyebrows, and a different fight momentarily softened the steady gaze, but he said nothing. Rumon went on to tell of Edgive and her disappointment in him. Of her decision to send him to the English Court. Then Rumon told of his travels through the Frankish kingdom, of the winter in Brittany, of the shipwreck on the Lizard, and the uncouth heathen family there. Here Dunstan interrupted.
"Did you not try to convert them?"
Rumon shook his head. "They were animals, my lord."
"They have immortal souls," said Dunstan coldly. "But go on."
Rumon told of his wanderings, of his meeting with Merewyn, of his night at Poldu's monastery, though not of what Poldu had told him about Merewyn. His oath to the dying Breaca precluded that.
Rumon paused to moisten his lips, and the Archbishop said thoughtfully, "There have been none of those Viking pirate raids since Edgar started to reign. The Lord has protected us under his merciful wings. Glory be to God! And what you tell me of that so-called Cornish monastery is indeed disgraceful, yet reform takes time. The whole of England was as lax but recently." He recollected himself and concentrated on the young man he was investigating. "Continue."
Rumon went on to tell of Breaca's death, when suddenly his voice trembled, and he paused again.
"This poor Cornish woman's death moved you so much?" asked Dunstan dryly.
"When it happened, I had a vision." Rumon spoke with reluctance, nor did he describe the advent of the white pigeon.
Dunstan himself had had many visions, mostly prophetic, but he asked no questions. He waited.
Rumon then hastily described his unwilling guardianship of Merewyn, and the journey out of Cornwall. "That is all, my lord, we arrived here some two hoiu-s ago."
"Where is the girl now?"
"In the village with her slave and dog."
"And you indicate that she is as much a virgin as when she left her home in Padstow? You have not bedded her?"
"Holy Mother of God — no!" cried Rumon. "It never occurred to me."
A smile twitched the corners of the Archbishop's lips. "You seem to be quite an odd young man, and you tell a remarkable story. I still desire proofs. You claim an extraordinary educa-
tion. Can you read this?" Dunstan fished in the pocket of his habit and brought out a small exquisitely illuminated vellum book in Latin. "Can you read this prayer — which you certainly don't know since I wrote it myself."
Rumon read the indicated prayer in Latin.
"Now translate it into English."
Rumon did so,
"Now into French, and then Celtic."
Rumon obeyed, with a touch of complacence.
Dunstan nodded. On his journey to Rome to obtain the Archbishop's pallium from the Pope, he had perforce heard much French, while the Irish monks at Glastonbury had taught him some Celtic. "I believe your translations are correct," he said, "I congratulate you."
We indeed might use a man like this, he thought. Use him in the Church for which he obviously has a leaning. But the Archbishop was thorough, and none of this linguistic prowess was proof of the high birth the young man claimed.
Dunstan leaned forward. "When I was a child at Glastonbury, I saw the Queen Edgiva who you say is your grandmother. It was just before she sailed for France on her way to marry the bhnd King Louis of Aries. She had gone to take communion in our most sacred church in England — the little old wattle one built by Christ's angels for St. Joseph of Arima-thea, and dedicated to Our Lady. Do you know anything about what happened in the church that day?"
Rumon thought a moment. "I don't know what you mean, my lord. Except something my lady grandmother once told me as a — a bad example. While the Abbot was celebrating High Mass for her, and just as she was about to sip
from the sacred chalice, a frog hopped through the door. It hopped up the chancel steps and hid itself beneath the Abbot's robes. My grandmother, who was very young, burst into laughter, even spilling the consecrated wine. The Abbot was shocked. He
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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 t
he 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."
