by Anya Seton
The report of Alfhere's blasphemies had greatly angered Dunstan. He bitterly resented slurs on the unique holiness of the Abbey, and he threatened Alfhere with excommunication. But the Earl blandly denied everything, saying that he must have been misunderstood by some of his drunken thanes. Dunstan thereupon wished to put Alfhere to the Ordeal — the plunging of an arm in boihng oil — which would have remained unscathed if the denials were true. But Edgar intervened. Edgar, the mediator and the merciful, had calmed the Archbishop's just wrath. Edgar — whose Requiem Mass they were now celebrating, and whose spirit was mingling with those of the other sacred dead.
A shiver ran up Dunstan's spine as he elevated the Host and
the altar shone with a gentle radiance. A heavenly sign, he thought. Edgar is happy amongst the blessed saints.
The old man's ready tears flowed while the droning voices of the monks became an angelic choir, and the sip of wine from the chalice permeated his tired body with the warmth of fulfillment and certainty.
He had great need of that transfiguring moment, for no sooner was the funeral over than the strife began.
The emergency Council of Wise Men — or "Witenagemot" — was demoralized, split into factions which astounded even Dunstan. He was accustomed to man's senseless rages and greed, but had not expected that anyone would dare to oppose Edgar's dying command.
Yet they did, led by the enemy — Alfhere. Alfhere's group included Lord Ordulf, Alfrida's brother, and most of the other noblemen present.
This first Council meeting took place in the Abbot's Hall at Glastonbury, and the battle lines were at once drawn up. Alf-here, ignoring proper procedure, remained standing, his burly legs widespread, nor even bowed to Dunstan who presided.
"Edward is quite unfit to rule," Alfhere announced in his loud, confident voice. "He is bad-tempered and weak, look at the way he stammers. Besides, his mother was no Queen, and the marriage was dissolved. The idea of crowning Edward is ridiculous."
The other earls and thanes nodded agreement. Across the Hall from the temporal lords, the bishops were gathered. They looked at each other, and they looked at Dunstan who sat hunched in his Archbishop's throne. Hostility crackled through the chamber which was stifling in the July heat.
"You are surely not proposing to elect Ethelred, in the face of King Edgar's express command," said Dunstan, while his right hand trembled on the crozier. "The boy is scarcely ten, and has shown no desirable character traits since his birth."
"Oh, he can be molded," said Alfhere airily, flicking a louse off his red velvet sleeve.
"By whom?" asked Dunstan, straightening up. "You and his mother?"
Alfhere shrugged and cocked his head. "Not by bishops, abbots, and monks anyway. You'll find, my lord, that England is heartily sick of your grasping monasteries, and that foreign Benedictine Rule you foisted on us. It's unnatural. I, for one, am chucking out the monks and putting back the old-time canons on my lands. With their wives and wenches too. Let a priest enjoy himself like a man."
"You cannot/" Dunstan cried, rising, and clutching the chair arm. "You haven't the power!"
Alfhere's contemptuous laugh was echoed along the benches amongst the lords, Ordulf joining in with a belated guffaw. Only old Britnoth, Earl of the East Saxons, looked grave, and sent a worried glance across the Hall towards the bishops.
"Am I to assume," said Dunstan in a voice of terrible control, "that you have no concern for your soul — Alfhere of the Mercians? That you do not fear God's punishment? Do I understand that you would lead England back to paganism? That we have an Antichrist amongst us?"
The Archbishop's eyes glistened as he glared at his adversary. His bent little body stiffened; he seemed to tower through the HaU.
Alfhere drew back very slightly. He tugged at his brown mustache. "Need we make such a pother, my lord?" he said after a moment. "Between a child of ten and a child of fourteen — what difference? Neither is old enough to rule."
"Aha," said Dunstan, sitting down. "I perceive that you are not quite so impervious to the threat of eternal damnation as you would like to think. And so you quibble."
The Earl flushed. Blood ran up his heavy shaven cheeks into the greasy brown hair. His hand clenched on the pommel
of his sword. "I do not quibble," he said in a thick voice. "Etheked shall be England's King, and this choking spiderweb of greedy monasticism shall be torn into a thousand shreds!"
"Aye, aye! Hear! Hear!" chorused all the other lords except Britnoth.
Dunstan expelled his breath sharply. A great weariness clouded his wits while nausea churned his stomach. He longed for the comforting Oswald, the Archbishop of York, but he was not there. Nor were other faces across the Hall who would have been his friends. Athelwine, Earl of East Anglia and his brother. Oslac of the North.
It had seemed unnecessary to summon a full Council of the Witan for so simple a thing as ratifying Edward's kingship. Nor had Dunstan foreseen this other and far graver issue. Antichrist, he thought, Satan is amoungst us. Once he had fought the devil in a dream — if it ivas a dream — long ago. He had felt no fear and routed the fiend with a pair of red-hot pincers, tweaking the black snout until the enemy roared for mercy, and vanished howUng. Whence came that sure strength of mine? he thought, where is it now? His head drooped.
"Why, you've bested the old man!" cried Lord Ordulf in admiration to Alfhere. "He's gone to sleep."
Ethelwold, the grim Bishop of Winchester, had been staring at Dunstan in consternation. "My lord! My lord!" he said, tugging at the hunched black shoulder.
Dunstan moistened his lips, and whispered, "You help me — Ethelwold."
The Bishop did not hesitate. He was a born authoritarian, and renowned for his stern measures. He stalked down the Hall and faced Alfhere, while his voice rang out.
"The Archbishop is unwell, and this meeting of the Council is hereby dissolved!"
"Not until we've voted for Ethelred," roared Alfhere, "and there's more of us than your
"The Witan is hereby dissolved," said the Bishop as though
the Earl had not spoken. "And will reconvene in a month at Winchester, when all the Councilors have had time to appear. I decree this in the Archbishop's name. I'm quite sure nobody will care to invoke the penalty by demurring."
"What is the penalty?" asked Ordulf, his oxlike face gaping at the Bishop.
"Anathema!" answered Ethelwold in a spine-chilling voice.
Ordulf looked frightened though he had no idea what "Anathema" was. Alfhere began to bluster, but was cut short by Britnoth, the grave old Earl. "It is proper that this Witan be dissolved," he said, "and I am leaving now. A brawl here is unseemly and as insulting to the memory of King Edgar whose funeral we are attending as it must be painful to Our Lord Jesus Christ and His gentle Mother." Britnoth turned on his heel and walked out of the Hall. Slowly, sheepishly, one by one the other noblemen followed him. Alfhere said no more. He sat down on a bench, and glanced up once towards a high window which gave on a little gallery outside the Hall; As he had expected, a beautiful face half hidden, by a white veil peered quickly down through the window.
Alfhere shook his head, and waved his hands in an angry gesture. "Not this time, my pretty one," he said aloud as though Alfrida could hear him. "We'll have to wait a bit. God damn those whoreson monks!" His hairy dirty hand clenched hard on the pommel of his sword. At that moment a clap of thunder exploded through the sultry air above the Abbot's lodging. There was a flash of lightning, and more thunder. Alfhere's hand dropped from his sword. He stared anxiously around the empty Hall. "Naught but a thunderstorm," he said. "Nothing supernatural about it." Yet his heart beat fast, and he made the sign of the cross several times until the thunderclaps diminished and he bolted from his seat towards the far door yelling for his son. "Cild! Cild Aelfric! Where are you, you fool! I want
some wme
A month later, at the full meeting of the Witenagemot in
Winchester, Edward was elected King of England, Th
e opposition had not subsided, Alfhere and his friends were prepared to fight — with swords if need be. But Dunstan, who recovered soon from his weakness, had dispatched messengers as far as York. He had summoned the godly thanes from the Danelaw and East Anglia. His co-Archbishop Oswald had arrived, and exerted his benign authority over his fellow Danes. Rumon too had been appointed to the Witan, by Dunstan's wish. "We need you, my son," said Dunstan. "Need every God-fearing soul who is eligible." He did not note the young man's hesitation, nor know how often Rumon had seen Alfrida recently.
The Witan was held in the chapter house of Ethelwold's new Minster, beneath a huge silver crucifix, which contained a fragment of the True Cross and was reputed to work miracles. It worked one on that date, just before the voting started. For it spoke. A deep hollow voice emerged from around the crucifix, saying, "Edward will be crowned, and Dunstan's rule is to continue as before."
The restless, arguing Assembly was struck dumb. They gaped at the crucifix which repeated in a louder thrilling voice, "It is My Will that Edward be crowned and that Dunstan, My vicar, be obeyed."
Astonishment held them frozen; then Ordulf fell to his knees even before the bishops did. "Forgive us. Blessed Lord," he said to the crucifix while he clasped his huge hands in supplication. "Forgive! Forgive! Misericordia!" came murmurs throughout the chapter house. Dunstan spread out his arms in blessing, his weary face was transfigured as he cried joyously, "A miracle! Our Merciful Lord has vouchsafed a miracle!"
Even Alfhere blenched. Sweat glistened on his forehead. He was silent when the voting commenced.
Rumon too was silent. For an instant he shared breath-cutting awe with the others, hypnotized as they were by the shining crucifix from which came this actual Voice of God. Then he chanced to look at Ethelwold, across whose gaunt face there
flitted a very strange expression. Of sardonic triumph? Not of amusement, the Bishop's face was not formed for that, yet of something akin to it.
When the Witan had voted for Edward in a chorus of subdued "Ayes," the Voice spoke again from the crucifix, saying, "It is well. I am content with you."
Rumon thought of Alfrida, of the maternal hopes for Ethelred she had confided in him. Hopes now so conclusively ended. He thought of her soft wooing ways, of her pleading violet eyes, and the fragrance of her body and shimmering hair. They had not touched each other during this month of mourning for Edgar, not so much as a handclasp, yet each time they met their intimacy grew, and Rumon knew that he loved. The thought of the cruel disappointment she was soon to know, roused in him a passion of protectiveness and anger.
The Witan, after prayers of thanksgiving led by Dunstan, filed out of the Chapter House, solemnly, whispering to each other about the miracle. Rumon hung back, making pretense of fixing the cross-gartering on his legs. Soon he was alone except for Bishop Ethelwold, who stood watching him.
Rumon saw that he was not to be allowed solitude, and moved fast. He ran to the silver crucifix, and swung it aside, swiveling it on the supporting peg. Behind in the painted wooden wall, there was a slit, as wide as the Christ's head. The sht was funneled to the outer wall and showed a glimmer of daylight. Rumon knew that the fight came through from some hidden angle of the cloister.
Ethelwold did not move. He continued to observe Rumon steadily.
"How simple," said Rumon. "How extremely simple it is to impersonate the Divine Voice! Which one of your obedient monks had the honor?"
"There are many ways of expressing God's manifest will," said the Bishop. "It is not for you to judge them." He walked over to the crucifix and replaced it to cover the slit.
"Trickery!" Rumon cried. "Deceit! And not for Edward's sake, I vow. Done solely so that you monks can keep your stranglehold on England!"
The Bishop refolded his arms into his sleeves. "That is a strange remark from one whom Dunstan trusts, and whom he considers almost one of us."
"Dunstan!" Rumon repeated uncertainly, remembering the excited joy on the Archbishop's face when the crucifix spoke. "He cannot be party to this shameful fraud! The poor old man is gullible as the rest of these dupes you had here."
The Bishop compressed his pale Hps. "He has certainly been gulHble in respect to you^ Lord Rumon. Your words are obnoxious. You will leave my Chapter House at once!"
Rumon tossed his head. "Ah yes, I'll leave. And I shall tell Alfhere, and — and the Queen exactly how the 'miracle' was worked to insure the ends you wanted. I shall tell everyone'. They shall see the proof!"
Ethelwold shrugged. "Rash, foolish youth! Who will believe your so-called proof? I admit nobody to the Chapter House I do not wish to, and in any case you have had a hallucination, brought on no doubt by the excesses of wine in which noblemen indulge. What did you think you saw behind the crucifix?"
The Bishop reached out his hand and pushed t'he heavy silver cross aside a little. The w^all behind was whole. The even lines of painted boards showed — at least in the dim Hght — no signs of having been tampered with.
The Bishop drew back and hfted his eyebrows. "Another miracle, you see. Lord Rumon. Now relieve me of your unwelcome presence."
Burning with helpless rage, Rumon went. He went to the Palace, and directly to the Queen's Bower which he had not approached since the day of Edgar's death. Merewyn opened the heavy plank door to his thunderous knock. Her sea-green eyes widened as she saw his face. "Oh, Rumon!" she whispered, touching his arm in quick sympathy. "W^hat's happened?"
He Stared past her into the Bower where two of the ladies were embroidering, another folding linen, and Ethelred was curled up on a cushion cradling a shapeless straw doll and nervously watching his mother's white cat devour a mouse.
"Where is she?^'' asked Rumon hoarsely.
"Gone to the chapel to pray for victory in the Witan," said Merewyn after a moment.
"She may save her prayers," Rumon said. He turned and as he hurried off, Merewyn distinctly heard him add, "My poor tender, trusting love." She slammed the door hard and walked towards the little window which looked down on the privy garden. As she passed Ethelred the boy looked up. "Play with me. Lady Merewyn," he pleaded. Often she did so, and also made up stories for him. But now she gazed out the window. The roses and gillyflowers blurred as she stared down at them.
Alfrida was alone in the candlelit chapel; she rose quickly from her knees when Rumon burst in. She stood there, swaying a little, one hand on the prie-dieu, her favorite white gauze veil covering her beautiful head. "We've lost again?" she whispered. Her pink underlip thrust out and quivered. She put her hand over her heart.
"Wicked. Wicked," Rumon cried, hardly knowing what he said. "My darling, I can't bear to have you hurt."
"I've not been sure you were on our side," she said dully. "You're a friend of the monks, of Dunstan."
"No more. Never more! The depraved hypocrites! I want to help you, Alfrida. I love you! / love your
His vibrant young voice echoed through the chapel. She glanced around quickly. "Sh-h . . ." she whispered. "A priest might come in."
"No matter!" he cried. "Edgar, God rest him, no longer stands between us. I want to marry you, my love. To live with you and protect you, always!"
Alfrida swallowed, she glanced aside as she considered rapidly. She had, of course, known Rumon's passion for her, but barring
the ill-judged episode in the graveyard, there had been no more awkward incidents. This last month while she had been influencing him to her course, his decorum had rather amused her. She had put it down to his monkish traits, or to youthfulness and lack of the sort of forthright vigor she admired in Alfhere.
Yet Rumon showed no lack of vigor now, and the proposal of marriage was interesting. Not impossible, in view of his rank, yet one couldn't be certain how useful it would be. These things must be thought out.
"Rumon —" she said softly. Teardrops sparkled on her lashes, and her smile seemed to him like that of the Blessed Queen of Heaven.
He fell to his knees on the chapel tiles, and kissed the
hem of her dark blue robe.
chapteR five
Edward was to be crowned immediately at Winchester, before the effect of the miraculous crucifix could dim, and the opposition again rally its forces. There would naturally be no elaborate ceremonies, nor the priestly consecration Dunstan had instituted for the boy's father. The two archbishops were to follow the older simpler ritual. Yet Edward, on the Coronation Eve, acted very much as his father had — pale, exalted, and tense, praying constantly in the chapel, refusing to eat or drink.
On this same Coronation Eve, Edward's body thane, Gunnar, arrived at Alfrida's Bower, bearing a poHte and searing message, which he delivered with embarrassment.
Gunnar said that Alfrida's presence was not required at the Coronation, since women were not expected to render homage. A widow — who had no blood kinship to Edward — was no longer officially dubbed "Queen." She would be called "Old Lady," the immemorial and respectful title for the widows of kings. So would the noble "Old Lady" now begin to consider her retirement from the Court? To whichever of her properties she selected for a Dower House. Edward knew that she was
well provided for. She need not hurry herself unduly, but Edward wished to dispense with all women in his palace. Until, of course, he married — which event was not now in question.
Alfrida perceived that her prestige had vanished as quickly as she had always foreboded, yet she showed remarkable control. "These are Edward's wishes?"
