by Anya Seton
Merewyn ran back towards the nun. "What it is, Sister?"
"Our Reverend Mother," said Herluva panting — she was portly and she had sought Merewyn all over the convent — "Our Reverend Mother has had a fainting spell. I've given her foxglove tincture, and it has helped," added the Infirmaress, who was a renowned herbalist and skilled nurse. "I've put her to bed, and she asks for you. She summons you to her lodgings at once."
Merewyn nodded, and sped past the Infirmaress. As she ran she felt foreboding, which she at once denied. Aunt Merwinna had had fainting spells before, usually at the end of Lent, when her habit hung like a sack over her spare body. The Abbess asked no self-denial of her nuns which she did not doubly inflict on herself. But this was not Lent, it was a High Feast Day. It's the sultry weather, thought Merewyn, explaining her apprehension. Thunder in the air.
The portress peered through the grille in the entrance door of the Abbess's lodgings, and greeted Merewyn with a worried nod. "Something's amiss," she said, while her huge iron key grated in the lock. "Not an hour ago, I let in a man in a mailed sark, and helmet, his face covered wi' a metal nose mask."
"Why did you let him in?"
"He'd a paper wi' writing on it for Reverend Mother, and she told me to let him in. Then she had her fainting spell, and one o' the servants got Sister Herluva."
"Is the man still in there?"
The portress shrugged. "He's not come out."
Merewyn, puzzled but scarcely disturbed — the Abbess received many visitors of all kinds — walked through the parlor
and knocked at the door of the inner cell. The Abbess was lying on her wooden cot, propped high by pillows filled with wood shavings. Each fold of her black habit was in place, her wimple and veil framed her pale face with their usual precision. Her eyes were very grave. "Come in, child," she said.
"Are you all right?" cried the girl, running to the cot, and taking Merwinna's hand.
"Quite recovered," said the Abbess, scornful of her own weakness. "But I want you to hear of a matter so shocking — and so preposterous — that I can hardly credit it. Gunnar!" she added, raising her voice.
Merewyn looked around in astonishment. Homespun curtains screened off the Abbess's private chapel from the cell. Through the curtains, Gunnar, Thored's son, appeared. Merewyn gaped at him.
She had always seen the young Danish thane dressed as a courtier, in mantles and tunics and cross-gartered stockings scarcely less splendid than his erstwhile master's — King Edward and Martyr. Today Gunnar wore a coat of chain mail, a conical brass helmet with a hinged brass fighting mask pushed up. There were leather greaves on his shins, an immense scabbard hung from his belt, and a round wood and bronze shield painted with a black raven was fastened to his left forearm. He had grown a brown beard, which aged him. Strangest of all was the expression of his hazel eyes which had always gazed at her with hurt devotion — even two years ago when she had finally and impatiently refused the marriage proposals he proffered through Merewyn's guardian — the Abbess.
There was no devotion now in Gunnar's eyes. They were cold, unswerving, and topped by a scowl. "It is," he said to Merewyn, "for the reason that I once luffed you that I come here today. "Also," he added with a grating laugh, "for the reason that I vas once — a Christian."
Merewyn gasped. The Abbess made a sound and clasped
her hands over her crucifix, but she spoke quietly. "You are no longer a Christian, Gunnar?"
"Vy should I be?" he cried. "My King, for whom I vould haf died, vas a Christian, did this help him? Those who killed him are Christians. Should I be one vith them? My father, Thored, my mother, Hilde, they are Christians — so meek — so mild — that do you know vat they are doing!" He lifted his bearded chin, and spat on the floor of the chapel.
"What are they doing?" said the Abbess in the same controlled tone.
"Elgifu!" shouted Gunnar. "My sister! Who vas to marry Edvard, who luffed her! They are giving her to Ethelred. To Ethelred, for whom Edvard vas murdered, they make her ved that pretty little milksop — that coward — and for vy? So that my father, Thored, gets his earldom in the North, so that my mother may be mother to a Queen of England. England stinks of treachery and Christians. So I am no longer English, and I am no longer Christian!"
"And if you are not," said the Abbess, her eyes fixed on the angry young face, "what are you, Gunnar?"
"I am a Norseman," he said, proudly touching the raven on his shield. "I am the loyal servant of Thor and Odin. England shall soon see which gods are most powerful. You shall see it here, tonight — or at dawn perhaps."
There was a silence. Merewyn, uncomprehending, saw her aunt's face quiver, and take on new pallor. The girl turned on Gunnar furiously. "What nonsense is this!" she cried. "No wonder I wouldn't marry you. Always I felt the taint of your Danish blood, always I must have guessed how shallow was your faith. And now you come here dressed — dressed up as some sort of warrior — to frighten women. To threaten them!"
"No, Merewyn," said the Abbess. "Gunnar came to warn us."
"Ja!" he agreed violently. "And if they knew 1 vas so soft they'd split my brainpan vith a battle axe!"
"Who would?" whispered the girl.
"The Jomsburg Vikings," said Gunnar with relish. "And I haf joined them at Southampton."
"Southampton?" repeated Merewyn blankly. Southampton was the harbor down the Test, less than eight miles from Rom-sey.
"Vikings in Southampton?" she said. "What are they doing there? Why, I've not heard of any in all my lifetime. The raid on Padstow which killed my father was twenty-one years ago."
"True," said Gunnar, shrugging. "For all those years England vas strong. Now she is not. And our young chief Sweyn is shrewd. He is the son of the Danish King Harald Bluetooth — who is now my King. Sweyn too vas baptized once. He like me is disgusted vit a religion fit only for silly vomen and puling monks. He worships Thor, the Thunderer — as I do," said Gunnar, making the hammer sign of Thor.
Merewyn shrank, her heart thumping. It still seemed unreal, ludicrous that this arrogant Viking could be the dull courteous Gunnar whom she had so disdained. Nor had she quite grasped the meaning of what he was saying.
The Abbess, however, had, and she no longer felt the first shock of Gunnar's revelations which had caused her to swoon. She saw that the young man was growing restless, that the impulse which had brought him here was waning. She forced herself to smile at him, for she needed more knowledge of the danger.
"Gunnar," she said, "where did these — Vikings — come from on Friday? You told me they landed Friday?"
"They sailed from Normandy," he answered after a moment. "The Norsemen rule Normandy. They are our cousins."
"How many are at Southampton?"
"Seven shiploads. Four hundred and twenty men."
"And what do they want?"
"Plunder — slaves, gold and vomen — the destruction of the false god's temples. Last night they burned the little monastery of St. Michael — they killed the priests and monks, but got little plunder. Sweyn has heard of Romsey, how rich you are, your gold shrines and relics, your silver plate, and he knows that some of the nuns vill be young enough to appease the lust long voyages have incited in his men. So he vill come here."
The Abbess's face showed nothing, though her hands shook and she hid them in her habit. "You came to warn us, what do you propose that we do?"
Gunnar scowled harder. He did regret coming to Romsey, and inwardly vowed that never again would he yield to weakling sentiments. "You could escape perhaps—" he said coldly. "Hide in the voods."
"And what would happen to my Abbey? Even if it is possible for all my nuns and our servants to hide indefinitely in the forest?"
"Your Abbey and all the convent vill be burned, of course," said Gunnar. "After Sweyn has removed the treasure, vich I know is too heavy for you to take in time."
The Abbess thought of St. Ethelfleda's gilded shrine which weighed half a ton. She thought of the rehquary which cont
ained the Blessed Virgin's hair. It was cemented deep into the altar. She thought of the two riding horses which the Abbey possessed, and on the manor farm there were a team of oxen and a wagon. That was all. She thought of her Abbey church in flames, gutted by fire, its timbered roof a heap of ashes in the nave; and of the dozen convent buildings, from Refectory to Chapter House to Dorters, all wooden, all thatched — and all destroyed. She thought of the two old nuns lying in the Infirmary, both paralyzed.
The Abbess arose slowly from her cot. She stood straight and proud before Gunnar, holding out towards him her crucifix. "By this Holy Cross in which you once beheved, I exhort you, Gunnar, to dissuade your chief from harming Romsey!"
The young man shook his head. "I could not stop Sweyn, even if I vished to, I haf sworn to be his man, and pledged it with my blood." Gunnar pointed to a fresh cut on his wrist. "Even this varning I should not haf given," He glanced at Merewyn, who was beginning to understand and had turned as pale as the Abbess. "From now on," said Gunnar, "ve are enemies. I am an enemy of all the English."
"We're not English, my Lady Aunt and I," said Merewyn. "We're Cornish, we are of the line of Arthur —" She did not know what she hoped to gain by this statement.
Gunnar laughed his contempt. "Cornvall is in England'' he said. "And let King Arthur's ghost protect you if it can!"
"No!" cried the Abbess, as Gunnar pushed roughly past her towards the door. "God will protect us. God and Our Lord's Blessed Mother. They have prevailed many times before against the heathen, and they will prevail now!"
Gunnar strode out, his scabbard clanking on his chain-mail tunic. He went through the parlor and shouted to the portress to unlock the door.
For a second Merewyn and the Abbess stood rooted, then the girl sat down on the cot and hid her face in her hands. "I don't believe it! Gunnar's lying, or gone mad!"
The Abbess shook her head. "We've Httle time! Merewyn, get the prioress! And we must remove the sick nuns from the Infirmary — in the farm oxcart — alert all the others, give them their choice."
"Choice!" repeated Merewyn, staring at her aunt's resolute face.
"Yes. Those who wish — whose faith is not strong enough — may try to hide in the forest."
"But what will you do. Reverend Mother!"
Into the Abbess's dark eyes came a look of exaltation. "I shall pray at the High Altar in our church," she said softly. "Pray
that Our Blessed Lord will work a miracle. Get the prioress, mychUd! Run!"
During the next hours of confusion, Merewyn had no time to feel fear. Most of the nuns were incredulous, after the pior-ess had summoned them to the Chapter House, and told them of Gunnar's warning. Not one of the sisters, even the oldest, had any knowledge of violence, let alone of Vikings, whose menace in this southern part of England belonged entirely to the days of King Alfred nearly a hundred years ago. Nor did the prioress — a wispy Kentish lady — possess the Abbess's authority. Consequently after the prioress had announced to them the danger in the words dictated by the Abbess, the nuns fluttered around outside the Chapter House, some exclaiming, a few weeping, many openly scornful of so absurd a threat. Ever and again one of them would slip into the church, longing to question the Abbess. But none dared disobey what they knew were her orders, nor dared disturb that small motionless black figure which was kneeling on the altar steps, the hidden face upturned towards the Blessed Virgin's relic, and the stone Crucifixion.
Merewyn obeyed her aunt; for the second time that day she started towards the Abbey Farm. But now dusk was gathering, the sun had dipped behind Stanbridge Woods, though the breathless heat had scarcely abated. Merewyn scrambled over the stile near the thatched farm buildings, and saw her serf, Caw, pitching hay into the barn.
She ran to him and put her hand on his arm. "Yoke!" she said to him in Cornish, pointing first at the oxen, then at their yoke which leaned against the wall. "Yoke the oxen, hitch them to the wagon!"
"Yoke — oxen?" he repeated in his thick stumbling voice. The little black eyes showed his bewilderment, but they also showed a spark of pleasure at seeing Merewyn, who spoke to him in the only language he really understood, and to whom he knew he belonged.
"Aye! Aye!" she cried, pushing his enormous hairy hands down onto the yoke. The fanner appeared at the bam door, followed by his eldest son — Bodo — a sharp, inquisitive lad of eleven.
"Wot be ye doing here, wi'me oxen?" said the farmer angrily to Merewyn. "T' Lady Abbess can't want 'em terday. 'Tis a Feast."
"I know," said Merewyn. "But we're all in fearful danger. There's seven shiploads of Vikings landed in Southampton."
"A likely tale! Ye be dodders, m'girl," he said, thrusting out his lower lip. "Go back to the women."
The farmer was heated with ale as well as the weather, or he would not have been rude to the Abbess's niece, and the real owner of the useful Caw — though the farmer mostly forgot that the giant Corrushman was not his own serf.
Alerewyn raised her chin, and cried, "Farmer! —There are four hundred and twenty enemies in Southampton — and they'll be here tonight, to bum us all, or kill us all — and rape those they wish to. The Reverend Mother commandeers the oxen and the wagon, so that the two bedridden sisters in the Infirmary may be carried to hiding." She tried to speak with conviction, but doubt crept back as she heard her own words. What could possibly disturb the fragrant stillness of the summer evening, except the drowsy hum of bees around their skep, and the rhythmic munching of the oxen? Gunnar is mad, she thought. I know him better than Aunt Merwinna does; only madness would explain the change in him.
"The Lady Abbess ordered the oxen," she said feebly. "We can't disobey her."
"Bullshit!" The farmer swung on his heel. "Ye may tell her ladyship I'll not work m' beasts on Sunday, for a female whim — Naow wot ails thee?" He broke off addressing his son who was tugging at his arm.
"Look, dad!" cried young Bodo, his weasel face quivering with excitement. "Look yonder!" He pointed south to the
patch of sky between the farmhouse and the barn. The sky was red — a sinister orange red which glowed through the trees and high above them.
"St. Mary!" muttered the farmer. He ran behind his house for a better view. Merewyn stood staring at the red sky, while her breathing checked, then raced. She turned violently back to Caw, crying, "Yoke those oxen!" And she shoved him.
The farmer came back slowly, his face had lost its truculence, he looked as bewildered as Caw, whose labors at goading and hauling the oxen under the yoke he did not stop. "Must be the whole o' Sou'ampton afire," he said dully. "Wot'll us do?"
"They'll be here next," said Merewyn. "You can hide, I suppose, or you can fight. Pull up that wagon!"
The farmer obeyed her in a daze. "I've naught ter fight with," he said. "Bar me mattock an' scythe."
"Bodo," said Merewyn. "You're a nimble lad, and I'm sure you know every part of ground hereabouts. Run and see where they've got to. Don't let them see you!"
" 'Course not!" cried the boy eagerly. "I'll spy on 'em — an' be back in a wink. I'm to go to the Abbey after?"
"Yes," she said. "Report to us there."
Bodo pelted off towards the glowing sky.
Merewyn clenched her hands and waited until the oxen were hitched, and the wagon started trundling down the rutted road, while Caw sluggishly prodded the beasts. "Oh hurry!" cried Merewyn in a frenzy. "I must get back and warn the others!"
"I'll tak' over," said the farmer, yanking the goad from Caw.
"But what about your wife, and the baby?" she cried. "Go tell them to hide." She did not wait to see what happened.
She sped back over the fields and the stile, across the gardens to the cloister, where the nuns were still milling about and murmuring. She saw Elfled and ran to her. "It's true!" she cried. "At least Southampton's on fire. You can see it from the farm."
As she spoke there came a distant rumble of thunder. The nuns gaped at Merewyn, they turned in bewilderment towards
the pri
oress who let out a mew of dismay. "What'll we do?" she whimpered. "We must ask Reverend Mother!"
"She's abeady told you what to do!" cried Merewyn. "You may run and hide in Stanbridge Woods, or you may stay to help her with your prayers."
"Run . . ." somebody quavered. "Hide . . ." said another voice. Panic spread through them as the whispers grew, rusthng like wind through the elms. "Run and hide . . ." "Run and hide ..."
One of the novices began the flight. The prioress gathered up her black skirts and followed. Then the nuns moved as one terrified body, streaking through the cloister gate towards the Mill Bridge over the Test, and beyond into the darkness of the forest.
In a moment there were but three women left standing by the Chapter House — Merewyn, Elfled, and Herluva, the Infir-maress. "I see you got the oxcart, my dear," said the latter calmly, nodding towards the Infirmary door where Caw and the farmer were halting the oxen. "I'll help put my poor old charges into it; send them off, then join Reverend Mother in the church."
"And I also," said Elfled through dry lips. There was sweat on her narrow forehead, but her eyes and voice were steady. "You'd best flee too, Merewyn. You've not trained to prayer as we are." She reached up and kissed her friend on the cheek. "God be with you." Elfled turned and slipped into the church.
Merewyn hesitated. Her heart hammered against her ribs, her muscles were tensed for flight, and yet she could not run to the forest after the others. Not leave her aunt like that. Not betray the royal blood they shared. Let those English women scurry off like started hares, she thought, but my Lady Aunt and I are British; and see too — there's little Elfled. She has not even kinship with King Arthur to give her courage, yet she stays. Though Elfled had never suffered from this kind of danger. She had never had a mother with a withered arm, a scarred
