Avalon

by Anya Seton

  Then he spoke to the yellow-beard, and gave a command. The young man picked up Merewyn and slung her over his shoulder, but gently, as though she were a valuable burden. As she still remained completely limp, the young man transferred her to his arms, and ran down towards the ship.

  Ketil, the chief, came over to Poldu and himself untied the prior's wrists and ankles. He said something in his heathen tongue, and made a solemn though mocking salute. Then he led his men out of the churchyard. As soon as he dared, Poldu got up, and saw the great dragon ship sailing down the estuary towards the sea.

  Then Poldu collasped. The fear he had not quite felt earher

  overwhelmed him. His legs turned to water. He could not move and he had stayed in the churchyard.

  When Poldu finished his account, his jowls quivered. He looked at his two appalled listeners and whimpered, "I'm thirsty."

  Rumon paid no attention. He drew a long harsh breath and said, "My Merewyn, my poor love. So now she knows. I suppose she knoiDsT

  Finian looked around at the young man who stood with clenched hands, staring into the distance. "Knows what?" said Finian, anxiously inspecting Rumon for signs of extreme disturbance. "What d'ye mean?"

  Rumon gave the monk a perfectly lucid, sad look. "Didn't you understand what the prior said?"

  "Some o' it. That the red-beard raider, Ketil, was her father. Ye don't believe those vapors — do ye? This poor prior's maundering."

  "No," said Rumon. "It is the truth. I've known it over eight years. And do you think they would have spared Poldu, if in his own way Ketil had not been grateful that Poldu stopped him from vile incest?"

  "Ye amaze me," said Finian, screwing up his face as he digested this. So the Lady Merewyn was actually a Viking's brat, and unless matters were more sinister for her than Poldu's account would indicate, she would not be harmed. All very bad, Finian thought, but there were more pressing things to be considered. "We must see what's happened at the monastery," said Finian.

  Rumon did not hear him. He continued to gaze down the estuary towards the open sea. "I shall go after her. It is my fault that this happened. Had I not insulted her at Glastonbury, had I not been such a vacillating fool then and earher — ah, I see it now. I'll find her this time, may Our Blessed Lord protect her, and I'll bring her back to what she and I both want."

  Finian opened his mouth to protest, to point out the difficulties

  of this pursuit — where would Rumon find a boat in the deserted village? How would he know where to go? But Finian did not protest. Rumon's tone convinced him. This was a man who had found a purpose at last. And all was in God's hands. No doubt it was God's wish that a Christian girl be rescued from the heathen murderers. If such a miracle could happen.

  "Well, may all the saints help ye," he said, "and in the meantime," he took Poldu's fat arm and dragged him to his feet, "there's much to be done now."

  The next morning Finian stood on the Padstow beach waving goodbye to Rumon, who had certainly so far received evidence of divine favor. A large fishing coracle had come back to Pad-stow at dawn. When the four fishmen saw what had happened to their village, they scarcely needed Rumon's money to persuade them to set out again. They were mad with grief and the lust for vengeful action — any action. Nobody would listen to Finian's tentative warnings. That even granted they could find the Viking ship, or catch up to her, what could five men do against the fifty aboard?

  That was not the plan, Rumon said, with an icy determination Finian had never seen him show. He had been conferring with the ablest of the fishermen: one Colan, who had often been to Ireland and knew the christianized Norse settlements at Dublin, Cobh, and Limerick. This raid, said Colan, was obviously instigated by Vikings from the far Northern Seas who had persuaded some of their Norse-Irish kin to join them. They would undoubtedly return to Limerick for provisions and barter. There was a famous Icelandic merchant at Limerick, Rafn by name, who played both ends against the middle very cannUy. For silver he would do anything. And he could certainly raise an Irish force from the surrounding countryside to overcome these Viking murderers.

  "So — Brother Finian," Rumon had said in the same con-

  trolled way, "my plan to rescue Merewyn is not as foolish as you think."

  Finian said no more. He saw many uncertainties in this expedition. He wondered if Rumon — notably averse to violence — realized what such a battle could mean if it did happen. Yet if the young man had divine guidance . . . ?

  So he had shriven Rumon and celebrated Mass in the empty church and bidden him Godspeed.

  And there went Rumon in the coracle, a proud diminishing figure in his velvet mantle, the favorable southeasterly wind blowing into the one lugsail while the fishermen paddled.

  Finian returned wearily to Poldu and the ruined monastery. There were seven corpses to be decently buried, including Merewyn's two servants. But it might have been worse. Since Ketil had started his raid at Tre-Uther, the clamor had given warning in time for some escapes.

  One by one they straggled in from hiding — four monks, ten of the villagers. They had no homes left; many of their precious pigs had been thrown on board — and other valuables such as wooden doors, fishing tackle, cheeses, casks of ale, and, of course, the ornaments from the monastery and church. But they were aHve.

  Poldu seemed in a stupor. He drank water without protest. He ate the new peas one of his monks put before him, and did nothing else but sleep. Yet Poldu was amongst the lucky ones. His wife had died some years ago, and his son was on a visit to Truro, and had escaped the whole disaster.

  Finian took charge. He buried the dead in the churchyard. He assured the wailing bereaved ones that the Blessed Lord Jesus would take these slaughtered lambs directly to his bosom. He forebore to express any displeasure at the ridiculous state of the so-called monastery — at the long-forbidden type of ear-to-ear tonsure exhibited by the monks, at their dirty white robes, at the two young women who returned from hiding and obviously belonged — as wives or not — to the monks.

  When all was in order he walked around the ruined village, and even as far as the blackened shell of Tre-Uther. He came back and roused the somnolent Poldu.

  "Bestir yourself, Brother!" he said. "You're leaving here."

  It was some time before he made the prior understand, though Finian spoke in slow measured Celtic. Then Poldu raised frightened objections.

  "I've the authority," said Finian, "invested in me by Lord Dunstan, the Aichbishop o' Canterbury, to whom — though you seem not to know it — you owe every obedience. Here's the parchment to show it."

  Poldu gaped at the vellum document which he could not read, "That Viking ship'll probably never return," continued Finian. "But I understand this is the only dacent harbor within a hundred miles. Some other band of heathen may decide to try here, an' you've no means o' protection at all. I shall lead you, your monks, and the villagers who wish to, as far inland as Bodmin anyway. There they've a monastery with a prior who obeys the Benedictine rule, and you shall join them."

  So Finian on his recaptured gelding and Poldu on Rumon's stallion headed a weeping procession away from devastated Pad-stow. Finian settled the little flock in Bodmin before he set ofi^ wearily on his own journey back to Glastonbury. He found that he missed Rumon, and worried about his safety — for which there was no recourse but prayers.

  Rumon and his fishermen reached the mouth of the river Shannon on the sixth day after leaving Padstow. All had been favorable. The Irish sea was calm, and the coracle skimmed over the ripples with a following southeasterly breeze. They had been parched and starved until they touched the Irish coast past Cobh. There the fisherfolk welcomed them with food and drink and sped them on their way, having refused Rumon's offer to pay for their hospitality.

  These Irish all hated the Norsemen who had gradually en-

  trenched themselves into parts of their proud island, and they wept with sympathy at the tale of the Padstow raid.

  It was drizzling when the
coracle entered the Shannon. Ru-mon, exhilarated by the hope that this time he would find Mere-wyn, scarcely felt the wet, and stood up to see where might be a Viking ship.

  Colan, the able skipper, reproved him. "Crouch down!" he cried. "Put that sealskin over yer shoulders! If they saw ye in that red mantle anyone'd know we wasn't an ordinary fishing boat. We must reach port wi'out their noting us."

  Rumon started, then humbly obeyed, hiding under the sealskin. He felt lightheaded. His belly gnawed. The cooked pilchards they had put aboard near Cobh were scanty fare. The barley cakes were finished, and the cask of ale.

  They continued quickly up the Shannon on a flood tide. They reached the first wooden quay at Limerick before the turn, and drew the coracle under the wharf. They emerged cautiously onto the shingle, and looked up the harbor. There were a dozen ships in port, some at anchor, some provisioning at a dock. "There's three Norse ones," said Colan, after peering a moment. "Yon —" he pointed, "will be from the Orkneys, I know her. There's a Dane, I think, at the dock. T'other one, I can't tell, — but they're all traders, not fighting ships, and none big enough for all the men ye said was aboard." He looked at Rumon.

  "She must be here," said Rumon on a long breath. "Up the river perhaps?"

  Colan shrugged. "Might be — best thing is to find Rafn, he'll know."

  They walked into Limerick — a town of muddy streets lined with thatched cottages and dominated by a high gabled church. Six days had cooled Colan's fever for revenge. He and his men had consulted during the voyage and realized that they had not waited long enough in Padstow to see who might have escaped the slaughter. They had set out again in obedience to this black-browed foreigner's command — and silver. There was that, to

  be sure — Lord Rumon had promised them each a piece of silver. But if they did not find the particular Viking ship this young man was after? Would he pay? Aye, he would — Colan thought. They were five against one. And even I, alone, could best him. Colan looked contemptuously at the slender fine-boned man who had been seasick on the voyage though the sea was calm as milk, and who talked very little, though when he did, it was either about this woman he'd lost, or to say prayers. Neither topic befitted a man.

  "Rafn's house," Colan grunted, pointing to a stone mansion which commanded both rivers — the Shannon and the Abbey. "And there's his wharf, and a trader beside it."

  Rumon could see this for himself, and he also felt the unfriendly change in Colan. Rumon lifted his chin and eyed the Padstow fisherman sternly. "You will be paid," he said. "No matter what happens. I've given you my word, nor have ever broken a promise in my life. Wait here. I'll talk to Rafn alone."

  Colan found himself bowing assent. His crew uncertainly copied him. They all muttered amongst themselves as Rumon banged his sword hilt on the Limerick merchant's door.

  The door was opened at once by a tall fair-haired woman with bright gray eyes and an elaborate gold necklace. She stared a moment; murmured something and stood aside while motioning Rumon to come in. He entered the Hall where a stout middle-aged man was bent over a table transcribing figures by the light of a whale-oil lamp. The man put down his goose-quill pen, and studied Rumon. "What do you want?" he said in Irish.

  Rumon started to reply in the same language, but Rafn gave a chuckle. "Is it perhaps that English would be better?" he asked. "I have all the tongues, even the Prankish, I need them in my business, which is that of being the best merchant in the whole Christian world. I see you're Christian." He stabbed the pen towards Rumon's crucifix.

  "Yes, I prefer EngHsh," said Rumon. "I've heard that you're

  a famous trader. And that you know everything which happens in Limerick, and many other places too."

  "Very true," said Rafn, examining the young man's crucifix— gold; the red velvet mantle, spotted but of good quality; the bulge under the linen shirt which probably indicated a money pouch. "Gudrun!" he called. His wife appeared from the shadow of a doorway where she had been listening. Rafn gave a rapid command, and the tall fair-haired woman reappeared with bread, roast lamb, and two silver mugs.

  "Drink!" said Rafn. "Skoul! This is the best Prankish wine. Now you must say 'Skoul' to me before we do business."

  "Skoul..." said Rumon, and sipped warily. But the wine was excellent. The best he had tasted since his days at King Edgar's Court. It restored his strength. He drank deep and ate a hunk of bread. "I am searching," he said, "for a Viking ship, striped sail with a raven on it, about fifty men aboard, and at least one captive. The chief is a big red-beard called Ketil."

  "Ah . . ." said Rafn. His faded blue eyes narrowed as he re-inspected Rumon. "That would be the Bylgja, She put in here — Ketil had several little items of trade for me — mere trifles." Rafn glanced towards the great strongbox in the comer of his hall where Poldu's brooch and ring and the silver rehcs from St. Petroc's reposed. "The Bylgja sailed yestermom," he added, leaning back in his chair and tapping his pudgy fingers.

  "She's gone . . ." said Rumon after a moment. "She can't be gone yet. It can't be. Doux Jesu, where has she gone?" He bowed his head and stared at the lush Turkey rug which covered the floor planks.

  "To Iceland, of course," said Rafn brisky. "My own home, though naturally I regret its heathen state — good Christian that I am."

  "Iceland," Rumon repeated. He had barely heard that there was such a place, somewhere in the far frozen North. "Ul-

  tima Thule — the end of the world, had not Pytheas said so, or was it Phny?"

  "May I —" inquired Rafn in a neutral tone, "ask why you are so interested and apparently upset by the destination of the Bylgjar

  "There was a woman on board — captured in Cornwall by those pirates." Rumon continued to stare at the rug.

  "Ah-ha—"said the merchant. "Your woman?"

  Rumon raised his hands and let them fall on his knees. "Yes," he said. "My woman." He looked up suddenly. "Could it be that she escaped here?" His somber eyes Ht with hope.

  Rafn beckoned his wife to replenish the mugs. "You ask many questions, sir," he said, "I think some —" His voice trailed off.

  Rumon put his hand down his shirt and extracted a coin from the pouch. He handed the money silently over to Rafn, who tucked it in a recess of his mantle. "Ketil," he said pleasantly, "had two women aboard, but since one was a thrall — an Irish serf captured not far from here — I suppose it is the other one you want to know about. A red-haired handsome girl. She stayed here with my Gudrun while the ship was at dock. We treated her well, but she acted daft. Never spoke once. Not a word. I don't even know her name, but Ketil said she was his daughter. How then could she be your woman?"

  Rumon was silent. The futility of explanation overwhelmed him.

  "She didn't try to escape," continued Rafn. "She lay like a log in the box bed, saying nothing, eating and drinking a bit when Gudrun made her. She didn't even weep, as many captives do. I've seen quite a few go through here," said Rafn, then checked himself. "To be sure, I deplore these heathen raids, but business has nothing to do with religion."

  As Rumon still did not move, Rafn continued. "One of Ketil's crew, a brawny lad called Sigurd — I believe he's Ketil's foster son — he came twice a day to see the young woman. He even brought her a little gilded brooch he had picked up some-

  place. But she wouldn't speak to him either. I thought they had cut her tongue out, but Gudrun looked one night when the girl was asleep, and she still had her tongue."

  "She never spoke," said Rumon. He bowed his head on his hands, feeling in his own fibers the shock and despair which Merewyn must have felt. The helplessness. She had seen her two servants murdered. She had fled to the church as a sanctuary. Here she had been nearly raped by Ketil. And then, worst of all perhaps, she had heard Poldu's warning. And she had known at last the falsehood on which her whole life had been based. Now she knows what I meant by my insults on the Tor, he thought, my brutal behavior, and she thinks I deserted her. She doesn't know that I love her and have followed her. My sinful pride
has ruined her. He clapped his fist on his chest and whispered savagely, "Mea culpa."

  Rafn stared, recognizing a phrase of self-blame from the Christian rites in which he joined when it seemed expedient,

  "What is it exactly that you want?" he asked, eying the bulge of the money pouch. "I've told you all I can."

  "I want to follow her, to find her." Rumon spoke in the same agonized whisper.

  The merchant considered this, and shrugged. Young men — he thought. Yet long ago, had he not himself wanted Gudrun very badly? Enough to kill for her. It seemed very long ago, and other interests had naturally supervened. "So you want to follow the lady?" Rafn said "the lady" in a respectful voice, because though she might or might not be Ketil-Redbeard's daughter, it was obvious from the dress, speech, and demeanor of this young man that the whole affair had to do with the highborn. Rafn had experience of those — in Norway, Frisia, and even here amongst the Irish.

  "I want to find her," Rumon repeated. He cut himself a slab of lamb and gulped it down. He finished his wine.