by Anya Seton
"To Lydford? "said Ordulf gaping. "Whatman? What for?"
"To see if the Lady Merewyn has come there." Rumon tightened his jaw. "Never mind, I'll go myself. Pray give me a guide."
Ordulf slowly adjusted his mind to this request, and found it erratic. "But 'twill be deep night when you get there," he objected. "Eight miles or more. You can go in the morning."
Finian chuckled, his sharp gaze on Rumon's flushed, anxious face. "Let him go, m'lord. I've oft observed ye can't argue wi' a man in love. They've no more sense than puppies. I'll keep a look-out at the hostel here," he added smiling to Rumon, "but remember, there's no cause for this mad haste. A day or tM^o won't matter either way."
These sage words echoed in Rumon's head as he galloped along the trackway north, accompanied by a carl of Ordulf's who grumbled and cursed as loud as he dared. It was indeed dark when they got to Lydford, and Rumon made himself thoroughly unpopular by immediately starting inquiries from householders who had long since retired. Had anyone seen a young woman and tu'o servants? Nobody had. Nor had they at the castle when the sleepy porter finally succumbed to a bribe and disturbed the slumbers of Lady Albina.
"You mean the girl descended from that old British King who
was here some years ago?" she asked, yawning and clutching a purple gown around her ample figure. "Whatever made you think she'd be here?"
Whatever indeed? thought Rumon suddenly aware of the folly of this trip. He apologized to Lady Albina, accepted a bench in the Hall for two hours' sleep, then prodded up his outraged guide for the journey back to Tavistock. He arrived there at six, while the thrushes sang and the dew lay glistening on the lavish Abbey gardens. He heard the monks chanting Prime inside the church, and entered. After he did so he had two separate and vivid impressions.
The first was that Merewyn was there. He thought he saw her kneeling at one corner of the south transept, her face upturned to the High Altar. She looked older, thinner than when he had seen her last on the Tor, she was garbed in something dark green and he felt that she had suffered. He stared for a moment, his heart melting with relief, love, pity. Then the figure rose and resolved itself into a black-cowled monk.
Rumon blinked and knelt down hard, on the prie-dieu. Am I going mad? he thought. I was sure that was Merewyn. Am I bewitched? He shivered, aware that he felt very odd, as another impression seized on him. The beauty of the church itself. The walls sparkled with color, fresh, vivid and at that moment to Rumon magical as well. He gazed at the fresco of Our Lady. She was garlanded with roses, her blue gown was translucent. She seemed to smile and beckon. The other figures grouped along the walls, and the Calvary over the altar all pulsated with life. Then his eyes were drawn upward to a silver dove with crystal eyes. It hung by plaited flaxen threads two feet in front of the High Altar. It hovered there swaying gently in the breeze which came through the open windows, and from its outstretched wings there radiated a benediction. This is where I belong, Rumon thought. He bowed his head, and at once the mystical feehng vanished. He looked up and saw a large, well proportioned church with well-drawn frescoes and an expensive
silver emblem of the Holy Ghost strung overhead. How had that oxlike Ordulf even with money, luck, and a high degree of filial piety managed to achieve so much? Well, the ways of Providence were inscrutable — and actually this wooden Abbey, impressive as it was, could not hold a candle to Dunstan's stone creation at Glastonbury.
Rumon hurried out of the church and to the hostel, where there was no news of Merewyn.
All the remnants of exaltation vanished. He discovered that he was bone-weary, but he had emerged from the marshes of indecision. "We'll travel on today," he said to Finian. "Either wait for her at Padstow or find her there."
"As ye loike, m'lord," said Finian sighing. "I'm comfortable here, but've long since learned that comfort is seldom the Lord's wish for us. So off into Corn'll, and may St. Christopher keep an eye on us — and your young lady," he added as an afterthought. "By the bye — there's been rumor of another Viking raid on the Avon. Brother Lyfing heard it from a Somerset trader, who came here wi' venison last night for the Abbey — poached n' doubt."
Rumon shrugged. "The Norse pirates have come and gone for a century, hke bleeding comets, like crop failures, Uke the plague — but all of these pass."
Finian screwed up his long-hpped ugly face, one that sometimes reminded Rumon of the intelligent ape the Lord of Les Baux had kept for his own amusement in Provence.
"Everything mortal does pass," Finian said solemnly, "but ye may find someday that there's something beyond mortal worth fighting for, even it might be — the love o' a woman. Which I've never known, excepting for me ould mother in Connemara. Ye're a restless man, m'lord, an' I pray for ye. For ye're not all o' a piece. Ye want this woman now. Whilst back ye wanted another woman. An' all the time beneath, ye've a hankering for Avalon."
"Avalon?" said Rumon, astonished and a bit annoyed at the tone of criticism. "What do you mean by Avalon?"
" 'Tir nan og' the Irish call it — 'tis all the same. The fairy islands o' the Blest. We've talked o' them before. I'm something drunk, m'son. Lord Ordulf's wine is good an' I had a flagon to breakfast wi' him. Well — never mind this now. I must go to the W'est — 'tis the Lord Archbishop's orders. An' ye're on fire to go. So we go. God alone knows what 'ill come 0' it."
chapteR nme
Rum ON and Finian entered Cornwall at Launceton, since there was no southern way to cross the river Tamar, which was in spate like the Tavy, nor could a horSe ferry be found. At Launceton there was a bridge. There was also the Castle Inn which Rumon remembered well from his previous journey with Merewyn. And here at last, Rumon got news of her. As he ate he spied the same long-nosed silversmith they had met eight years ago. Rumon approached the man, greeted him, offered another flagon of ale and hopefully asked his question in Cornish — or at least the approximation to Cornish which he could remember.
"To be sure," said the silversmith, appreciatively guzzling his drink. "There was a woman through here two days ago, and now you remind me, I suppose she was the girl with you before. / never thought of it, but I remember you. You were going to King Edward's Court at Lydford." The silversmith sighed. "By St. Neot, I wish we had Edgar back."
"Yes," said Rumon, "but what of the woman?" "Oh, she didn't linger, just long enough for her and the giant serf and another man to eat and drink. Great hurry she was in.
like she was running away from something. The Sawsnach complained she kept 'em walking all day and most the night. I couldn't understand him well, but I gathered he had to do her orders. Good looking wench," added the silversmith reflectively, "though I like 'em darker and smaller myself."
Rumon, elated, went back to Finian. "Only two days ahead of us and we've barely two more till Padstow. She'll be there all right."
"No doubt," said the monk, and belched crossly. The Cornish pasty he had just sampled was loaded with rancid grease. "Must have iron stomachs down here," he said, but Rumon was already outside telling the ostler to saddle the horses.
From then on they made good time. The tracks were dry on Bodmin Moor, and Rumon waved a jubilant hand towards the hill called Brown Willy, thinking how recently Merewyn must have passed by here, and that she must have remembered how they had once seen it together, while he remembered the delicate pressure of her arms around his waist as she had ridden pillion behind him. Yet at the time he had scarcely noticed that. How strange; when now he so longed for her nearness. What a senseless young gawk I was, he thought.
The late afternoon sun was still bright when they came to the broad estuary of the Camel River, and looked down it northward towards the sea. There seemed to be a bluish haze ahead of them; Finian pulled up his gelding, frowned and sniffed the air. "Smells like smoke," he said.
Rumon shrugged. "Somebody's lit a bonfire. What's the date? They've a lot of pagan customs here. Light fires, dance the old dances with a hobbyhorse, jump over wishing wells . . ."
Finian gave a snort. "Dare say they do. But as near as I can figure, it's Tuesday, June second, which doesn't celebrate any Christian event I know of. — Now, what 'Id that be?" He pointed to a thicket where something moved, and two dark eyes peered out. "'Tis a child," he said. "Come here, Uttle one!"
But the child would not move until Rumon spoke to her in
Cornish. Then a frightened small girl emerged gingerly. "Are you more of them?" she whispered, hanging on to a branch and staring from the monk to Rumon who said, "What's the matter?"
She pointed down the Camel and gabbled something, whereupon Rumon flinched.
"What's she saying?" cried Finian. "It sounds like trouble — like *anken,' we've much the same word in Ireland."
"It is trouble, I think," said Rumon. Spurring his stallion he galloped ahead down the river road.
Finian followed, while the little girl scampered back into the thicket.
The acrid smell of smoke grew stronger as they neared Tre-Uther, and soon they came upon the site of the house. The thatch had fallen down amongst the slates, and still smoldered. "Merewyn!" Rumon cried, though he could see that there was nobody in or near the burned house. "I suppose the thatch caught fire," he said to Finian, as calmly as he could. "She'll have taken refuge in the village, or even the monastery."
"I hope so, my son," said Finian, and crossed himself. "There's more smoke ahead. I'm beginning to wonder has there been a Viking raid."
"Impossible!" cried Rumon with the fury of fear. "Don't be a fool!"
"There was one before."
"Twenty and more years ago!" Rumon cried.
They continued towards the village and looking below saw several heaps of smoking rubble, and no sign of hfe. "The church," said Rumon. "The church is granite, it wouldn't burn, they must be there."
They turned up the hill towards the church of St. Petroc. The horses had been increasingly restive, and as they neared the churchyard Rumon's stallion reared, nearly unseating its rider, then stood trembling, while the gelding balked.
They soon saw why. There were two bodies lying beside the road. One was Caw, his cudgel and knife still clenched in his
hands. Rumon knew the gigantic figure for Caw, even though the skull was split down to the hairy black chin. A cloud of gnats circled the mess of bloody brains. The other man had not been treated so roughly, though he lay in a red pool which oozed from a chest wound. He still made gurgling sounds. Rumon, so horrified that he trembled like his staUion, recognized the Bishop of Winchester's badge on the man's sleeve.
Finian jumped ofiF his horse, which promptly bolted, and kneehng by Goda, held up his crucifix and began prayers for the dying. The glazed eyes responded for a moment. "I did me best," he gasped, and tried to kiss the crucifix Finian held to the gray lips.
Rumon had already sUd oif his stallion, which streaked down the road after the gelding. "Merewyn! The Lady Merewyn, where is she?" Rumon cried. But there was no reply. Goda gave a last gasp; his eyeballs rolled upward. He was still.
"Doux Jesu, Doux Jesu," Rumon whispered over and over, staring down at the second corpse.
Finian closed the eyelids, murmured a prayer, then said firmly, "Now we'll go to the church, and mind ye, m'lord, whatever we find'll be God's Will. Cc7«^," he added, taking Rumon's arm. "Have ye never before seen a man die? I've seen hundreds."
"Not hke this," said Rumon. "Not like this..."
"Don't brood on it." Finian propelled Rumon up the hill. "Plenty o' martyrs've died loike this, an' loike that other poor lad," he indicated Caw. " 'Twill shorten their purgatory, I don't say they were martyrs f'r the faith exactly, but they did die doing their duty, and that's heavily counted in their favor." He continued to talk in a calm, reasonable voice, though he noted that there was more smoke far up the hill where he guessed that the monastery had been, and he tried to ignore the question of Merewyn, for if she too were found with her skull spHt he suspected what would happen to Lord Rumon. Madness. That sensitive artistic mind would never keep its balance under such
horror. May Our Lord have mercy—thought Finian — and there's nobody in the church either. The carved wooden door had been wrenched from its hinges and carried off. Sunlight flooded through the door hole, and one could see that there was nothing inside. Except the bare altar.
The monk and Rumon walked in silently. The latter was still shaking as though he had an ague, while Finian clenched his hand around his crucifix.
"Look!" said Finian pointing to the floor, where a small square stone had obviously been moved. On it was scratched a crude "Merwinna." "She got the heart buried," said Finian, "anyway." Rumon stared down at the stone.
"But there is someone here!" Finian cried with forced heartiness and pointed to a fat white shape which was hunched on a tombstone in the cemetery. "At least he's alive." For the figure was rocking back and forth, its queerly tonsured head held in its hands.
Rumon looked and said in a thin voice, "It's Poldu, the prior."
"Ah —" said Finian. He walked over to the rocking figure and put a gentle hand on the grayish-white cloth shoulder. "Are ye hurt. Brother?"
Poldu started, he shrank, and then seeing the black-robed Benedictine, he moaned and began sobbing. "They took m'sil-ver ring, 'n' m'gold brooch."
"Werra, werra —" said Finian soothingly. "Those cursed horses've bolted wi' the saddlebags or I could give ye a drop to calm ye down. We can see ye've had bad times. An' I begin to wonder do ye understand the English tongue?" For Poldu's ashen, sweating moon-face was a frightened blank. "Can you get this better?" continued Finian in Celtic. After a moment the prior nodded.
"Lord Rumon, come here!" said Finian sharply. "Betwixt the two of us, we can foind out what's happened."
Rumon stiffened and squared his shoulders. His trembling
Stopped. "Yes," he said, and turning to Poldu, added in halting Cornish, "Have you seen the woman Merewyn from Tre-Uther? Is she dead?"
Poldu shook his head. "She wasn't when they took her away in their longship, and it's because o' her that Vm alive. Don't know who else is." He pointed his fat hand back towards the monastery. "They slaughtered and burned everywhere. I've been here since yestermom when they spared me."
"What happened?" said Finian and sat down on another gravestone. Rumon remained standing, his arms folded tight against his chest; there were swirls of blackness in his brain which he ignored with a violent effort.
It must have been about dawn when they came, Poldu said. Nobody saw the Viking ship sail down the harbor, over the sandbar. But they saw it later: its carved snaky prow and stem, the solid flanking of round shields along the gunwhales and the great red striped sail with the black raven on it. Must have been fifty men aboard, and they landed near Tre-Uther because they burned that first, whooping and yelling, Couldn't've got much loot from there, and Merewyn escaped up the road with her two servants, the Vikings hot after her. Poldu didn't know what happened to the servants, but the young woman tried to take refuge in the church. They soon found her and because the chief — a great red-bearded fellow — obviously took a fancy to her, she was bound and thrown on the grass in the cemetery while they ravaged the church, putting everything they got from it aboard their ship, including the silver reliquary which contained some of St. Petroc's bones. "They burned the village," said Poldu, "and then they went for the monastery. I remembered the raid years ago, and ran for the same tree I'd been up then. But I couldn't get up it now. They soon caught me."
Rumon held himself very still, while Finian shook his head. "And then —" he said.
"They bound me and threw me in the churchyard near that
girl, yammering about a special sacrifice to Thor. Some of those devils were from Ireland, an' I could understand them a little."
Poldu went on to say that Merewyn never made a sound as she lay with thonged ankles and wrists in the cemetery, but that he, Poldu, knew of course who she was. She had come to the monastery upon her arrival, and requested someone to officiate at the burial o
f her aunt's heart in the church. Poldu had not bothered to do this himself, had sent a young monk who didn't know her story — but they all had a good laugh later in the Refectory about the appearance from England of Breaca's bastard. However, as Mereviyn lay bound in the churchyard and despite the terror of his own fate, Poldu had felt sorry for her. After burning the monastery, the chief and his men had returned to the churchyard. They had kicked Poldu, guffawing at his fatness and two of them rolling him like a tub between them. By then Poldu had recognized the captain in his horned helmet; he seemed scarcely older than when he had come before, but he had a lumpy purple scar across his cheek, which Poldu had seen clearly from his tree — and saw now.
This red-bearded leader went to Merewyn, and untied her anldes. There was no doubt what he had in mind. She gave a low hoarse scream and began to kick as hard as she could. The red-bearded man laughed and his men laughed. Then Poldu spoke up in a desperate shout.
"And so, you Norse fiend — you would rape your own daughter?"
The majority did not understand, but the Irish Vikings did. They cried in warning, "Ketil, Ketil!" which seemed to be the leader's name.
Ketil, who was already on top of Merewyn, looked up much astonished. He stared around and came over to Poldu, jabbering something and waving his battle-axe.
Poldu, though expecting the axe to finish him any moment, saw indecision in the scarred face, scented reprieve and repeated, "Your daughter. You were here twenty years or so ago. You
raped Breaca, the little dark woman at Tre-Uther, and you murdered her husband that very day. He'd not been home in four months. This woman is your child."
Ketil lowered the axe; he turned to the Irish-speaking Vikings and demanded to know what the prior had said. His men shifted uneasily, they stared at the ground, but two of them translated. Ketil went back to Merewyn who had gone limp as grass. He examined her carefully. Poldu had lifted himself on one elbow to see what was happening. Her eyes were staring blindly at the sky. Ketil gazed into them for a moment. He said something like "My mother" in a startled voice. He yanked down her bodice and examined her skin. He pulled loose from its long braid one half of her hair, and held the strands against his own beard. The hair mingled with his beard, darker, finer, but of the same reddish hue. His men drew around, murmuring and watching. One of them — a big young fellow with a beard like ripe com — said something, and Ketil listened. After a moment he nodded. It was odd, said Poldu, to see the change in all their faces which had been hideous with blood lust and jeering laughter. They became grave, thoughtful. They all drew aside near the church and conferred. Ketil spoke for some time pointing down to Tre-Uther and nodding again.
