by Anya Seton
Dunstan duly arrived that afternoon, and his Utter was set down before the Abbot's lodging. Abbot Segegar came rushing out, followed by the Prior and by Finian, and other ranking ojSicials of the monastery. They all knelt to kiss the amethyst ring, and then helped the Archbishop emerge from his leather-curtained litter.
He had grown frailer since his last visitation to Glastonbury; his white tonsure was sparser; he had lost all his teeth but his cheeks were pink, and his voice as mellow as ever.
" 'Tis ever good to return," he said looking around the beloved Abbey. "I see you've a new carved door to the chapel — and there's a fine stand of early peas." He waved towards the vegetable garden, then peered more closely. "Surely that's not Lord Rumon wielding a spade! Come here and greet me, my son!" he called.
Rumon slowly obeyed, murmured apology for his tardiness, but he did not meet Dunstan's probing eyes, and the old man saw that there was something amiss. "Come to my chamber, immediately after Vespers," said the Archbishop, and turned to precede the Abbot into his lodgings for an hour of questioning, consultation and report.
Rumon later reluctantly presented himself as he had been told, and found that Dunstan was alone, meditatively sipping mead, and glancing over the list of novices the Abbot had given him.
"Well," said the old man smiling, "since when have you taken to rough work? You must save your hands for the crafts at which they are so skilled. Or was it some penance?"
"Perhaps, my lord," said Rumon, and clamped his mouth shut. He could see the Tor through the open window behind Dunstan's chair, and he stared at it. His dark eyes were glum.
Dunstan pushed aside the parchment, folded his hands in his sleeves and considered Rumon, who had never before been so curt or shown so little affection. "Sit down, my son," said Dunstan. "I can see you're troubled. I insist that you tell me what it is."
"My troubles could scarce interest you again, my lord; there must be plenty of far worthier men in this monastery who need to unburden themselves."
"No doubt," said Dunstan dryly. "And they shall have opportunity either by interviews or in the confessional. At the moment I wish to hear from you."
Rumon sat down on the extreme edge of a stool and continued to look beyond the mitred head towards the Tor.
The Archbishop had dealt with hundreds of recalcitrants before this but there were few of whom he had been so fond. Yet, why, he thought, should I be astonished at any human behavior? Oh, Blessed Christ, he thought wearily, it must be a woman again — but surely not that woman who was known to be moping in Winchester, or quarreling with Ethelred, and —
by reports Dunstan received — ailing with a sldn disease much Hke Lord Alfhere's.
"Rumon," said the Archbishop quietly, "I have always looked upon you as a son. I always remember you in my prayers. I observe with sadness that again you are not on the list of apphcants for the novitiate. Let that pass."
As Rumon said nothing, and continued to gaze at the Tor, Dunstan continued in a neutral voice. "Did I understand from Brother Finian that you've had a visitor? In fact, the Lady Merewyn?"
The young man's start, and sharp intake of breath were answer enough. Dunstan sighed and nodded slowly. *'So is that good reason for you to look tormented?"
Rumon clenched his hands and whirled around on the stool. "I desire her!" he said fiercely. "By God, I love her!"
"Well—"said Dunstan raising his grizzled brows. "Is that such a tragedy? I believe that she has always loved you. It seems that it is not God's will that you become a monk now, and if so 'tis better to wed. Our Blessed Lord has said so. St. Paul has said so. 7 said so to you, long ago, here in Glastonbury. This girl of high birth — in these latter years most carefully trained by her aunt —"
Rumon jumped to his feet, interrupting Dunstan with vehemence. "The Abbess of Romsey was not her aunt!"
"Not her aunt . . . ?" the Archbishop repeated, frovming. "What is this nonsense?"
Rumon threw back his shoulders and confronted the old man. "Shall I break a vow I took?" he asked with a mixture of defiance and anxiety. "A sacred vow to a dying woman. I swore by the Cross, and kissed her crucifix. Shall I break a vow, my lord?"
Dunstan took a sip of mead. "That is a difficult matter to answer," he said slowly, "but I am inclined to think that you have already broken it when you said that the Abbess Merwinna was not Merewyn's aunt, and I also think there is little sin in
telling ME this secret, which I shall treat as though you were in the confessional."
"Very well, my lord," said Rumon in a rush. "Merewyn has no drop of Arthur's blood — nor Uther's. She was sired by a chance-come Viking raider, whose name nobody knows."
"Ah — h," said Dunstan on a long breath. He shook his head. "Poor child, poor child . . . Now tell me exactly how you know this, Rumon."
Rumon, full of rehef, quickly described the actual events at Padstow eight years ago, the interview with Poldu the prior — the pitiful confirmation given by Breaca.
"I see," said Dunstan at the end. "This is indeed distressing. Especially for a man of your pride. From the worldly viewpoint, it is most distressing. But search yourself, Rumon. If Merewyn were what she thinks she is, would you then wish to wed her?"
"I would/ cried Rumon from his heart. "Of late I've even dreamed she was my wife."
"Uhm-m —" said the Archbishop, and was silent a long time before he spoke.
"Many things are shown to us in dreams. She is an excellent and Christian girl, no matter what her birth. I understand how THAT deters you, for arrogance, Rumon, and an excessive squeamishness are faults of yours. But since you have at last come to appreciate Merewyn, I think you should marry her. After all, nobody in England but you and me will know the facts. This is not a sinful deception, it is the very spirit of the vow you took to Breaca, and were rewarded by a vision, were you not?"
"Yes," said Rumon, "but no visions have been granted me in years. My lord —" he added, his eyes grew brilliant, his face suddenly young and eager, "then you really think I should wed her? But she's gone. She was very angry with me. She may not want me anymore."
"Follow her," said Dunstan. "And find out. Aye, and you
shall have a mission to Padstow which accords very well with my plans. Reports on that deplorable priory there are most unsatisfactory, and the Bishop of Crediton is lax and won't bestir himself. I shall send you with Brother Finian to make a personal inspection. I believe that reprobate Poldu is still prior, but even this is unclear. You will be able to travel faster than Merewyn, and will soon catch up with her. At any rate you must forestall any contact between her and the priory."
Rumon nodded joyfuUy. "Danger that Poldu would tell her what he told me? — though I don't think Merewyn would believe him. She was too much impressed by her mother's hatred of those monks and their 'Hes.' "
"So now you look happy —" said Dunstan smiling. It pleased him to bestow happiness, of which there was so Httle on this earth. God's will, of course — and suffering for sins was man's lot — but surely Rumon had expiated his sins by now, and human love was acceptable in God's sight. There were some who could not truly understand divine love, or worship, without the aid of human love. They went into an arid state of outward conformity — and nothing more. As Rumon had.
"Pray in the Old Church, my son," said Dunstan. "Pray that Our Blessed Lady will smile upon your mission.*'
Rumon and Brother Finian set out the following dawn for the West. They rode on exceptionally fleet and sturdy horses — Rumon's own stallion, and the Abbot of Glastonbury's best gelding.
Rumon was dressed according to his rank, but Dunstan who supervised every detail, had ordered that he wear beneath his tunic a suit of very fine chain mail, and that he carry a dagger as well as a sword. The country in general had grown lawless since King Edgar's death, moreover there were rumors of a Viking raid near Bristol. As for Finian, he could not of course bear arms, but he had a formidable eating knife in his saddlebag, and his black habit should protect
him in all Christian places.
Rumon obeyed Dunstan only from courtesy. He had no thought of danger, in fact now that he permitted himself to, he thought only of Merewyn, and enjoyed a feeling of certainty that despite her head start of a day, they would very soon find her.
As the two men left Street and began trotting along a causeway, Rumon burst into a Provencal love song. The Irish monk laughed.
"I'm wondering would these merry spirits be entirely from the hope o' seeing your young woman, or maybe part from the journey itself — which pleasure I share wi' ye."
Rumon smiled. "It is good to be headed west again. Since my childhood, I've had a yearning towards the west, and visions of a magic place out there in the pathless sea or beyond it. It was foolish of me."
"I'm not so sure," said Finian slapping a horsefly off his gelding's neck. "Have ye not read St. Brendan's 'Navigatio'? We've a copy at Glastonbury. He set out from Ireland for the Isle of the Blest, and found many marvels on the way."
"Yes," said Rumon laughing. "Too marvelous! Like lighting a fire on the back of that friendly whale who kindly appeared each Easter so that Brendan and his monks might dine on top of him."
Finian snorted. "There's naught impossible to the real saint, remember that, especially an Irish one! And 'tis not only Brendan who voyaged out to wonderful lands. Our Culdees have gone westward ever westward for centuries, fleeing from those Norse heathen, until they reached a country beyond the sea — may God have preserved them."
"How do you know this?" asked Rumon, interested and skeptical.
"Sure and how does a body know anything? 'Tis handed down from father to son, and so on backwards through the years. The priest who taught me in Connemara, he knew much about the wanderings o' the poor Culdees. Moreover if ye
have 'the sight' and many have it in Ireland, ye'll know things wi'out the need o' being told."
Rumon digested this in silence, half agreeing.
"What exactly are Culdees?" he asked.
"Celi De, 'Servants o' God,' a sect we had in Ireland, white monks who felt called to become hermits in the dark unknown lands, but they were men o' peace. I'm bound to admit they left Ireland, because o' certain disagreements. That was a long time ago, m' son, in the time o' me great-great-grandfather, I believe."
"I see," said Rumon. "Well, unless they actually found that Blessed Island, there'll be nothing left of them in this world now."
"Loikely not," said Finian shrugging. "I spy a fine shade tree yonder, me belly's growling, and I wish to sample the bread 'n' cheese the Cellarer sent wi' us."
On the third day they crossed Dartmoor by the usual western trackway, the remains of the Roman road — having suffered several delays and annoyances. Finian's gelding went lame from a sharp stone wedged in its hoof, nor was cured until they found a smithy at Exeter. Then Dartmoor treated them to one of its sudden mists; they lost the increasingly muddy track and had to wait until the mist lifted. Then the bridge over the West Dart had crumbled during the winter, the river was in spate and the horses seemed as incapable of swimming it as were their riders. They searched a long way upstream before they managed to struggle through a ford.
They were a weary hungry pair when they finally got to Tavistock in the dusk, and heard the Abbey bell ringing for Compline.
"Ha, 'tis a welcome sight," said Finian of the large new Abbey, which had recently been finished by Lord Ordulf — Alfrida's brother. Ordulf, Devonshire's richest nobleman, had skimped neither time nor money in finishing the Abbey as his dead father, Earl Ordgar, had wished. The church, the separate
bell tower, and all the monastic dependencies were unusually large — built from massive oaken timbers, painted white. This shining whiteness gave the whole Abbey an effect of light and purity, and startled Rumon pleasurably. " 'Tis like the floating City of God," he said. " 'Tis like no Abbey I've ever seen." He felt a flash of kinship with this Abbey, of serenity he had never known at Glastonbury. He listened to the mellowness of the bell, which mingled with the rushing gurgle of the Tavy as they crossed the bridge, and because all his inner thoughts were now centered on Merewyn, he at once decided that he would find her here, at the guesthouse.
Inquiries along the way had produced no news of her, but despite their own delays, she could scarcely have come further than this — the only logical stop on the way into Cornwall.
"We'll find her here," he said exultantly to Finian. "I'm sure of it."
The emotion in Rumon's voice caused the monk to give him a quizzical glance. "I hope so, m'son," he said, "and I observe that ye've really fallen in love wi' her at last. M'self — shall be glad o' meat, drink and a bed. But then our wants are different."
They entered the cluster of white buildings, and Finian presented their credentials to the porter. It turned out that Lord Ordulf was here, that indeed — though he was not in orders — he acted more or less as Abbot for his foundation. An irregularity which Finian noted as something to be reported to the Archbishop; though there were precedents.
Both were invited to sup with Lord Ordulf and they were directed to the hostel.
The hosteller, a pleasant, apple-cheeked young monk named Lyfing, greeted them warmly, said he was glad to see someone from the outer world, and at once produced bread and beer for them. Finian murmured a blessing and downed the beer.
Rumon, however, stared at Brother Lyfing, and said slowly, "Have you had no guests lately? Hasn't a young woman come here with two servants?"
"Haven't seen a woman in months," said Lyfing cheerfully. "Barring his lordship's Lady Albina, and it was last Yuletide she paid us a visit. Why would women be traveling through? There's naught beyond here but Cornwall."
"This one was going into Cornwall," said Rumon, and his voice dragged. "I'm trying to find her, and I was sure she'd come through here. How else could she go?"
"I don't know, my lord," said the young monk. "This is the only good way west, but she might not know about Tavistock — or indeed she might be lost on the moor. The Devil has raised more mists than usual this spring."
Finian was cutting off a slice of bread with his own knife, but he looked up and said to Rumon, "Did ye not tell me that when ye two came from Cornwall years ago, ye went to Lydford? She'd know that. Could she've gone back there?"
"To be sure, she might!" cried Rumon, clutching again at hope. "We never came near Tavistock before. We went straight from Lydford to Bath. She must have gone there." He refused to consider the possibility of Merewyn lost on the moors. Or the possibility that he might not find her nearby. With each delay his love grew more compelling.
"His reverend lordship would know if the lady went to Lydford," said the young monk. "He was back there at the castle yesterday."
But when they got to the Abbot's lodgings, and were kindly received by Ordulf, Rumon was again disappointed.
The huge blond Thane was fifty now and had grown very stout. He sat them down at once to a supper of capons, roast beef, and wine; he asked a few desultory questions about their journey; he was eager to talk about Tavistock, and proud of his achievements here; but he knew nothing of Merewyn whom he had some difficulty in remembering. "She wasn't at Lydford yesterday," he said, signaling to his table carl for more wine. "I'd've heard at once. She'd go to the castle of course."
"Yes-s —" said Rumon, for where else in Lydford would she
go for hospitality? It never occurred to him that Lydford Castle's connection with Alfrida — whom Merewyn had first met there — might be a deterrent. And so unreal now seemed his own passion for Alfrida that this meeting with her brother did not disturb him. He thought only of finding Merewyn.
"It could be —" he said, "that travehng as slowly as she must, she has not yet arrived. We've somehow passed her."
"Indeed," agreed Ordulf, gnawing gustily on a capon thigh. "There've been mists on the moor. You'd better wait a day or so. I'll send a churl to Lydford Gate, in case she comes there, and it'll be my pleasure to keep you two here as guests, case she com
es here. Are you not surprised at the fineness of my Abbey?" he asked, reverting to his favorite topic, and dismissing this boring chase after a woman. For Ordulf, the hot pursuit of any woman was long past. He was contented enough with his lethargic wife, Lady Albina — when he saw her. Life outside of Devon, and particularly Tavistock, never captured his interest. He knew, of course, that Lord Rumon — this dark intense young man — had once been embroiled with Alfrida, who had thrown him over when in some way best forgotten young Ethelred ascended the throne. Well, all that was far away and finished. Ordulf did not concern himself with the behavior of his ambitious sister, nor even of his nephew young Ethelred. It was agreeable to be uncle to the King, no doubt, but neither he nor Albina bestirred themselves to go to Court. The overlordship of Devonshire; the reeveship of Cornwall — which he never visited — these were public duties enough. For the rest, eating, drinking, occasional hospitality and the ov^ership of this Abbey, as his father had envisioned it, satisfied him.
"Och, and 'tis a splendid Abbey, m'lord," said Finian as Rumon did not speak. " 'Tis dedicated to Our Saviour, an' His Blessed Virgin Mother, isn't it? Sure, it must've been Our Lady Herself inspired ye to paint it white. Ye must be touched wi' grace."
Ordulf nodded, his mild blue eyes shining. "My father was.
It was his idea. Took tons of wiiitewash too. But wait'll you see the inside of the church. We've pictures on the walls — angels, saints, the Holy Family as big as life. I sent clear to Rome for a painter fellow who could do 'em."
Ordulf continued to talk about his Abbey, while Rumon struggled with indecision. Was Merewyn really behind them? Should they lose further time by waiting, in case she weren't? Why should he have a sudden foreboding of disaster when he had been so confident two hours ago? "Have you sent your man to Lydford, my lord?" he suddenly interrupted the ponderous catalogue of Tavistock's attractions and the precious relics enshrined beneath the altar.
