by Anya Seton
chapter seven
Sunday, August 15, of the year of grace 980, was a day of high festival at Romsey Abbey in Hampshire. It was the Feast of the Blessed Virgin Mary's Assumption into Heaven. She was patroness of this Abbey and convent, and the ceremonies in Her honor, the processions, chantings and High Masses had lasted from dawn until the noon feast, which had included such rare and delicious items as rabbit pies and honey comfits. There had even been a roasted peacock (symbol of immortality) served in all the glory of his plumage.
At two o'clock of the hot sunny afternoon, Merewyn sat on a well curb at the foot of the cloister garden, next to Elfled, who had once been Queen Alfrida's despised Bower Lady.
Merewyn wore a plain blue wool gown. It had been given to her by her aunt, the Abbess Merwinna, who had shown much kindness to the girl ever since her desolate appearance at the Abbey portal three years ago, seeking asylum from the miseries of Corfe.
Merewyn was now a grown woman — she had entered her twenties, but the peaceful, ordered convent life, the absence of any emotional strains, had preserved her youthful zest. And
in Merwinna she had found the mother she had so mistakenly sought in Alfrida, Except for the shameful, never quite conquered ache for Rumon, the girl had been busy and content.
At the moment, she might have been fourteen again as she slid from the well curb and crouched on the lawn, searching with absorption to find a lucky four-leaf clover. The curly tips of her thick braids swept the grass; the brilliant sun lit golden flamelets on her bare auburn head, while her sturdy fingers poked amongst the clover.
Her companion, Elfled, had a more productive occupation, although this was the Holiday recreation time and the Abbess permitted idleness for its brief period. But Elfled was a novice who would take the veil when Bishop Ethelwold made his next visitation, and she was very devout. Her small pale face bent over an altar cloth on which she was embroidering a St. Michael in red and gold. Her mousy hair was already cut short, and hidden under the gray novice's hood which topped her shapeless gray gown. Her needle made little plops through the sturdy linen, and she kept peering anxiously at St. Michael's halo which seemed a trifle askew.
Further down the garden, two of the nuns were caressing a pet lamb, which had been presented to the Abbey by a neighboring shepherd. Other black-robed figures walked sedately around the wooden cloisters, chatting together in demure tones.
"I can't evei' find one," said Merewyn, referring to the four-leaf clover. She impatiently went to the border to pick a fat pink rose, then sat on the rim of the well beside Elfled and sniffed the fragrance.
"Well, perhaps you will some day," said Elfled, "and perhaps you'll start your novitiate. I did hope," she added, "that you and I would take our vows together. Since we first shared a bed in that vile woman's Bower — and you were so kind to me, we have been friends, Merewyn. I hate to lose you again."
Merewyn squeezed Elfled's bony knee affectionately, then,
frowning, sniffed at her flower. "We'll still see each other," she said. "You won't lose me."
"Ah, but you know very well it can't be the same," said El-fled, twining a gold thread through Michael's halo. "The Reverend Mother is strict about particular friendships, especially between a nun and a secular. Besides —" She paused, her rather beautiful gray eyes looked troubled. "I had one of my dreams about you, Merewyn, last night. You were not at Romsey. You were far, far away in a place of dark high mountains and ice. There was a man—" She paused again, lowered her lids and colored, adding in a whisper, "He had his arms around you — kisses." She bent close to the altar cloth.
"A man kissing me?" Instinctively, Merewyn thought of Ru-mon. She also thought of shameful dreams she herself had had. Dreams of passion which sent a melting sweetness through her body, the feel of a man's enfolding arms, of his weight upon her; often the man's eyes were Rumon's, sometimes she saw no face, felt only the delicious pressure of a man's naked body. The sorrow of loss when she awoke and the shame of the dreams were a secret misery.
"What sort of man?" Merewyn asked. Elfled's dreams were much respected; often they had foretold happenings in the convent— like Sister Dudda's death, like the disastrous flooding of the river Test two springs ago. Even the practical Abbess had been impressed by Elfled's dreams, as she was by the girl's rather bizarre mortifications — notably bathing in the Abbey fishpond even when it was iced over.
"The man," said Elfled, putting down her needle, "was huge, near as big as that Cornish giant of yours." She stopped and slowly took another stitch. "Oh," said Merewyn. Caw had been retrieved from Lydford by the Abbess after Merewyn's arrival at Romsey, and assigned to the Abbey Farm as general laborer. "Go on," Merewyn said to Elfled. "Is that all you saw of this dream man?"
Elfled answered hesitantly. "He had shaggy hair, the color of corn, a yellow beard — and he wore a bronze helmet."
"Oh, Elfled," said Merewyn, "I don't believe this dream. And they haven't all come true, dear."
"I think this is a true one," Elfled said sighing. "For when I awoke my cell was glowing with a violet light which comes from around my crucifix. This happens after true dreams."
"Well," said Merewyn, shrugging. "I don't know any man like that, nor want to — the bronze helmet sounds like a Viking! Or at least I've heard that's what those beasts wear. And I don't want to leave Romsey, ever. Which means that I am at last almost sure that I have a vocation. Soon I'll tell Reverend Mother so."
Elfled looked up and smiled. "I hope my dream is wrong," she said gently. "It has been your feeling for Lord Rumon which held you back, hasn't it — since you refused Gunnar, and that Kentish thane."
Merewyn nodded slowly. "Rumon — I suppose so. A stupid, mule-headed passion, which he has never shared, and / can't quite stamp out."
"He did send you that letter," said Elfled.
"Aye —" Merewyn's freckles merged in a blush. For she had wrapped the letter in a green silk kerchief, which She kept hidden at the bottom of her chest under her one embroidered chemise. On feast days, she took the letter out, and painfully reread the distinctive black script. Her aunt was teaching Merewyn to read and write, but when the letter came, the girl's skill was not up to deciphering what Rumon had written. The Abbess read it to her.
It was addressed to "The Lady Merewyn — Boarder at Romsey Abbey." It came from Glastonbury, and contained a fervent apology. "Forgive me for the times in which I doubted you. Forgive, if you can, my insensate, my criminal behavior. England's tragedy is my punishment. No worse deed for the English was ever done than that was — since first they came to the
land of Britain. Men — and a woman — murdered Edward, but God hath exalted him. Remember me in your prayers, I beseech. Romieux de Provence."
"Very proper sentiments" said the Abbess Merwinna solemnly as she handed the letter to Merewyn. "And God has exalted the martyred Edward. We should think on this when we pray for his soul."
Merewyn had often meditated upon the events of the year after the young king's assassination. She thought of them now as she sniffed the rose and watched Elfled's industrious needle.
At Romsey they had soon learned most of the facts from Bishop Ethelwold, who frequently rode here from nearby Winchester. He admired the Abbess Merwinna — her royal descent, her aristocratic composure, her devotion to God and the Benedictine Rule, her ability to regulate eighty-two nuns with the minimum of clashes. The austere, often sickly old Bishop found peace in the Abbess's immaculate whitewashed parlor, and solace for his many cares in consulting her able-intelligence, and in keeping her abreast of events in the turbulent outside world.
Merewyn and a discreet nun or two were often present at these interviews, while sitting withdrawn by the window darning the convent's black wool habits and homespun shifts.
Thus it was that Merewyn heard of the rumors and confusion, and heard too that gradually the whole of England, from Cornwall to Northumbria, knew that murder had been done. But thanks to the criminals' shrewd manipulations
of the rumors, few were quite sure what had happened.
One account had it that Edward had been set upon by thieves; another that he had been killed by a mad treacherous Dane. Those who whispered that it would be reasonable to find the culprits amongst those who profited by Edward's death, and how extraordinary it was that no steps were taken to avenge the foul deed — those shrewd ones confined themselves to whispers. For Ethelred was on the throne, and the country was ruled in all
but name by Queen Alfrida (always popular with the masses) and by Alfhere — the terrifying Earl of Mercia. Even Dunstan held his peace, and had enjoined Bishop Ethelwold and others who knew the truth to do so. For Dunstan trusted in God's will — and his trust was justified.
After an unusually long absence, on Shrove Tuesday, March 4th, the year after Edward's death, the Romsey portress hurried to Merwinna's parlor to announce that Bishop Ethelwold and his attendant monks were riding down the Winchester road. The Abbess immediately summoned her prioress and allowed Mere-wyn, who was practicing writing, to remain — not only because of her fondness for the girl, but because she felt that Merewyn's inside knowledge, and forebodings of the crime entitled her to information.
And this time the Bishop was, indeed, full of tidings. After the Abbess, the prioress, and Merewyn had kissed his ring, he settled himself in the armchair and accepted a noggin of strong wine especially kept for him by the Abbess, who never touched spirits herself. He clasped together his blue-veined, emaciated hands and said, "Have you heard aught here, of what happened in February?"
Merwinna shook her head. "With the cold, and the ways so mired, we've had no visitors in weeks, my lord."
The Bishop nodded. It pleased him to impart outstanding news. He crossed himself solemnly. "God," he said, "has already begun the chastisement which man has feared to inflict!"
The Abbess folded her hands and waited. The prioress imitated her superior but Merewyn gazed eagerly at the Bishop, who continued in a low reverent voice.
Last autumn, he said, Alfhere had been stricken suddenly with a loathsome skin disease which appeared first upon his privy parts — an obvious sign of divine wrath at the Earl's notorious venery. And after that God smote at Alfhere's eyes. He suffered great pain in them; his sight dimmed. By Christmastide, so reduced and frightened had the reprobate Earl become that he
had actually sought out Dunstan at Canterbury. The result of that meeting would soon be known throughout England. For in the middle of last February, eleven months after Edward's paltry burial at Wareham, Alfhere himself, with Dunstan beside him, led a ceremonial procession through muddy tracks and frozen fords to conduct Edward's body to the royal Abbey at Shaftesbury, and to a regal entombment there which lacked nothing of the honors accorded to his father, the great King Edgar.
Edward's broken body was placed in a silver casket, covered by a snowy-white embroidered pall worked by the nuns at Shaftesbury. It was conveyed in a chariot painted black and drawn by four black horses. The body was installed at the foot of the altar in the Abbey church. Dunstan and Bishop Ethelw.old between them celebrated the Requiem Mass while Alfhere in black homespun robes — like an ordinary thane — knelt throughout the ceremony. He was observed to shudder at times and to press his hands against his swollen,- painful, and half-blinded eyes.
"True repentance, do you think — my Lord Bishop?" asked Merwinna softly.
"I believe so, Reverend Mother. And even that pimply, perverted son of his, Cild Aelfric, prayed and sighed during the Mass."
"Did the little King not go to Shaftesbury to honor his poor brother?"
The Bishop shook his head. "Ethelred is suffering from a flux, so they said, and was too much weakened for the journey. I think myself he suffers only from fears."
Merewyn, forgetting the decorum her aunt had taught her, burst out, "And Lady Alfrida? The Queen Mother — did she go?"
"Child!" said the Abbess, frowning, but the Bishop was not annoyed. "She did not follow the procession to Shaftesbury," he answered the girl, who had subsided in embarrassment. "She
tried to, but here again God gave a plain sign of her guilt. I did not see this myself, of course, but one of my monks told me of it. When the Queen mounted at Winchester Palace bound to join Edward's funeral cortege, her own palfrey, shivering as though in terror, braced its forelegs and would not budge, though the grooms whipped it and hauled on the bridle. I believe they tried another horse, which also refused to carry the Queen. Then she tried to set off on foot in the direction of her sainted victim, and swooned away at the West Gate. Upon my return to Winchester I found the whole town buzzing, and was told that the Lady herself was secluded in her Bower."
His listeners were silent. Not one of them doubted the tale. Merewyn's heart swelled with wonder — and with triumph too, at the thought of Alfrida's humiliation.
"I thought," said the Abbess, "that when she broke — or repudiated — her betrothal to Lord Rumon," she sent a glance toward her niece who winced, "she and the Earl of Mercia would be wed."
"Ah —" said the Bishop with a dry Httle laugh. "Lord Alf-here is in no condition of mind or body to wed. He has not even seen her since our return from Shaftesbury. And she, concerned at last for her own salvation — if indeed any be possible — is desperately planning to found nunneries. 'One perhaps at Amesbury, another certainly at Wherwell. They'll start building at Wherwell this summer."
The Abbess Merwinna stiffened. "Wherwell!" she cried. Her eyes flashed. "The village above here on our river Test?"
"Yes," said the Bishop, as startled as Merewyn was by the little Abbess's vehemence. "She owns property there and 'tis near where her first husband was — was slain by Edgar."
"Blessed Jesu —" whispered the Abbess. "Must that slut —" She paused mastering herself. "Must the Queen," she went on, "choose a place for the expiation of her crimes which will sully our river with all the ordure from her convent?"
"Oh," said the Bishop, distressed, "I see why you are upset,
my lady Abbess, but you exaggerate the danger. Water purifies itself every — I forget how many yards — but certainly in a mile, of which there are several between here and Wherwell."
Merwinna bowed her head. "Forgive me," she said. "I am very foolish, my lord. It is because nothing earthly concerns me as does the welfare of Romsey. I'll do penance for my outburst."
"You need not, Reverend Mother," said Ethelwold, his withered lips smiling. "I absolve you. It is your anxious care for Romsey which makes it the jewel of nunneries in my diocese — nay, I might venture to say in all England."
Color ran through the Abbess's sallow cheeks. She rose slowly and knelt to kiss the Bishop's ring again.
Merewyn thought of this scene as she sat beside Elfled on the well curb, basking in the hazy sunlit peace. It was so warm as to be sultry, yet there were hints of autumn in the air. A bonfire and the smell of apples from the Abbey orchard; the pungency of thyme, sage, rosemary from the herb garden where the Infirmaress grew her medications.. Roses too added their scent, those wonderful roses from countries far overseas — like Rumon's mysterious Provence, or so Bishop Ethelwold had told them, when he presented cuttings to Romsey. Besides these scents, which Merewyn's keen nose enjoyed, she detected a whiff of incense which still floated through the church's narrow windows — a reminder of High Mass this morning.
Merewyn watched a butterfly drift towards the shining pewter ribbon of the Test. Then she looked at the Abbey church and thought, as she often had, that it was like a huge gray mother cat, keeping a protective watch over all the little thatched convent buildings which surrounded it.
The church was venerable, and considered to be magnificent, with its long nave, its rounded apse, its chapels — all cunningly fashioned of alternating long and short stones, until the walls reached the lofty timbered roof. Few English churches were made of stone. This one had been built seventy years ago by
King Edward, the son of Alfred, for his holy daughter, St. Ethel-fleda, whose gilt and silver s
hrine was one of the wonders of Romsey. Though now, thanks to Bishop Ethelwold's generosity, Romsey contained a relic of such awe-inspiring sanctity that pilgrims came almost daily to worship it.
This was a lock of the Blessed Virgin's hair. Several strands of the sacred hair had been sent as a gift by Pope Benedict VII to Dunstan in Canterbury. Dunstan then shared a portion with Ethelwold for a shrine at Winchester, and the Bishop in turn conveyed three of the precious hairs to Romsey which was dedicated to God's Mother. Merwinna thus was able to install on the High Altar, below the elaborately carved stone Crucifixion, a relic more impressive than any of the saints' bones, or even splinters of the True Cross which other churches boasted. The Abbess had the hair enclosed in a golden box, studded with crystals and moonstones, and often did she admonish herself, and all her nuns against the grievous sin of pride.
The great iron bell began tolling for Vespers, and Elfled, carefully folding her embroidery and tucking it in her pocket, said, "You coming, Merewyn?"
Merewyn hesitated. As soon as she entered the novitiate, she would be obliged to attend every service from Matins to Compline, and gladly would she do so, of course, but this afternoon she felt too lazy for the unrequired discipline of joining the nuns and novices in plain song, and she shook her head. "I'm going to see if I can wheedle a peach from the farmer's wife."
"Oh, Mere-uyn!" Elfled was half amused, half reproachful. "Sometimes I think gluttony is your besetting sin!"
"Well —" said Merewyn laughing, "I've had Uttle chance to try the other six deadly ones, and you wouldn't have me go to Confession with nothing to say, would you?"
"Shame!" Elfled primmed her mouth, but her eyes r^vinkled. She was fond of Merewyn though the girl sometimes shocked her.
Elfled walked off to join the procession of black and gray-
robed figures who were filing into the church. Merewyn sHd off the well curb, and leaving the convent garden — or "Paradise" as they called it — began to climb a stile over the hedgerow which separated the Abbey precincts from the Abbey Manor farmlands. She turned as she heard her name, and saw Sister Herluva, the Infirmaress, standing in the cloister garth and making urgent gestures.
