scores. Her violet eyes moved slowly down the High Table until their gaze rested on another — the Earl Oslac of North-umbria. Here was a man she also hated. An ugly, grizzle-haired Dane, hand in glove with the Monastic party — with Dunstan, Oswald, Ethelwold, and the rest of the sour churchmen who were rapidly turning England into a land of penances, mortifications, and celibacy. Though it was not so much for his ecclesiastical policy that Alfrida hated the Earl. There were more personal reasons, which had been reported to her, jestingly by her brother. Oslac had tried to dissuade Edgar from marrying her, from putting aside Eneda. Worse than that — Oslac did not think her beautiful.
Alfrida's easygoing brother, Lord Ordulf, had thought this a great joke and had chuckled while he repeated a remark of Oslac's which he had happened to overhear. "Alfrida's a scheming wench, and / don't see why such a pother is made about her looks. Why, you can find a hundred yellow-haired lasses just like her in London or York any day of the week."
The remark was made nine years ago, when Alfrida was newly widowed. She had never for a moment forgotten it, though she had never mentioned Oslac's name to Edgar. Oslac seldom visited the South, and when he did Alfrida kept out of his way. Someone else shall be appointed Earl of the North, she thought. Aye, indeed — someone else. And why not Thored?
She turned her gaze on Thored — a dark middle-aged Dane who already ranked second in those murky northern lands, and whose wife was Lady Hilde. Fortunately, Alfrida had not been forced to accept one of Oslac's womenfolk as attendant, since he had none.
Alfrida nodded to herself, and took a sip of wine. And the Bower Ladies. There would certainly be changes there, and at once. Elfled must go. That stupid Wulfsiga of Kent must go. Britta would certainly have gone, except that she was the daughter of Alfhere. And he was an ally. More than an ally — a would-be lover. . . . Aye, probably a good lover, she thought.
examining the Earl of Mercia as he hfted his beaker to receive more wine from his weedy young son Cild Aelfric who was acting as his table thane. The Earl was a big, lusty man with a knowing eye and a note in his voice which always made one feel naked and desired. A strong crafty man who might well provide adventures in bed which the unimaginative Edgar would never dream of.
She shook her head and took another sip. That kind of thought was still too dangerous. And there was another matter of the Bower Ladies to decide. The matter of Merewyn. The Abbess Merwinna should not have her. Of that there was no question. Let the Abbess take that sniveling Elfled to Romsey instead of Merewyn, Alfrida thought, and was so amused at this neat switch that she gave a sudden laugh.
Wulfrid went on eating her way through a saffron pasty, but Godleva jumped, her frightened eyes stared at the Queen. "You spoke. Lady?"
"No," answered Alfrida. "Ah, look! The gleemen are coming. That's why I laughed."
A troop of jugglers and a bearward cavorted into the Hall.
Alfrida watched the bouncing balls, the balanced knives, the performing bear for a moment, she tapped her fingers to the rhythm of the tabor, but she went on thinking.
She looked across at the athehngs, noting that Edward was seated nearer to the King than Ethelred. This must be altered from now on. Edward would retire from Court, send him on a pilgrimage to Rome perhaps, and Ethelred would be proclaimed Edgar's rightful heir. Then there must be a betrothal — a more ambitious match than Edgar or these stupid clerics would think of. A Prankish princess? A German one? He's not too young for betrothal, she thought, and he is such a pretty lad. He has my looks.
Ethelred had been half asleep, but he awakened at the arrival of the gleemen. He squealed with excitement as he watched the unmuzzled bear, lunging to the end of its rope and snapping its
jaws at the tumblers who dexterously kept out of reach. The bear, prodded with a stick from behind, was in a frenzy, its little red eyes murderous. The King and his nobles, most of them half drunk, laughed at the antics of the bear and the tumblers, who hopped and leaped and did somersaults around the bear. They laughed harder when the bear's trainer, puffed by success, seized a burning fagot from the fire and thrust it into the bear's hindquarters. Ethelred jumped up and down in delight as the stench of burning flesh and fur filled the Hall. There were three, however, who did not laugh. Dunstan sat quietly, his hands folded, frowning occasionally as the tumblers made lewd gestures. Edward did not laugh. He turned his eyes away, Hke the little prig and milksop that he was, Alfrida thought angrily. And Rumon did not laugh. He contemplated the spectacle without expression, that remote considering look in his dark eyes which Alfrida found intriguing. He was a strange young man indeed. Never boisterous or drunken like the others, and as much given to book learning as a monk. It seemed that he had felt her gaze, for he now looked across the Hall and his eyes met hers during a long somber moment, which had in it the essence of all that was most flattering. Alfrida sighed voluptuously. He was in love with her, she knew, and perhaps one day — when all was safe — he would be rewarded. No, he should be rewarded at once in a practical way. She was grateful for his prompt help with Ethelred in the Abbey, and the conferring of favors on friends was almost as sweet a fruit of power as the destruction of enemies. Rumon should be given land, rich properties commensurate with his rank. A King's grant, near mine, she thought. Or better yet, one of the new monastery grants in Mercia which would both infuriate Dunstan and dehght Alfhere.
Ah, there were no limits to the intricacies of power — a game far more fascinating than the chess at which she was adept.
Edgar is King, but I shall rule this realm, she thought, for I can rule Edgar, and soon need no longer bow to Dunstan.
The bearbaiters and the tumblers finished their act. The bear was hauled off, half dead — his burned hindquarters dragging. The King and the nobles threw pennies to the tumblers and awaited the next diversion, which turned out to be a troup of musicians from France: four men who played harp, lute, viol, and flute, accompanied by a scarlet-gowned woman who sang in a low, true voice.
Nobody except Rumon had any idea what she was singing about, and most of the sodden noblemen were bored, while the abbesses were shocked. They had never heard of a female entertainer and suspected besides that this new-sounding music was not only secular, but indecent, since the woman danced provocatively as she sang.
Alfrida was interested. She enjoyed music, and had a sufficiently good ear to appreciate the unaccustomed harmonies. The gay tune was followed by a mournful one, a piece so sad and plaintive that Alfrida's assurance was suddenly pierced. The woman was singing of lost love, you could tell from her expression, her gestures, from the music itself.
I coiddn^t lose Edgar's love, Alfrida thought. The lure of her body had never failed — yet as one aged . . . ? She felt a pang of terror. It was followed at once by relief. The witchwoman would help her. Old Gytha, who lived in a hovel outside of Winchester. Alfrida crossed herself secretly.
Danger there. Traffic with such a one was very dangerous. Not only in this world, where the punishment might be death, but in the world to come where it was the fiery agonies of hell. Yet, thought Alfrida, I know nothing of Gytha's potions, I know nothing of what goes on in her hovel. I've but dropped a hint or two through the years, given her money as I do to all the poor, and bought from her certain odd-tasting drugs. No harm in that. No harm in the liquid I put in Edgar's ale ten years ago. I've never done it since. No harm in taking that powder she gave me, so that my courses might come regularly. It is natural that I should not wish to disgust Edgar again with a body
swollen and deformed by childbearing. There was no harm in simply saying to Gytha that Eneda's death would be a mercy.
Gytha is naught but a mad old woman, and I don't believe she can weave spells. All these things simply happened by Providence. I need no power except that of my own wits and beauty. Alfrida's strong hand closed tight around her goblet, and she drank deep of the wine. "Wassail, Alfrida the Queen!" she whispered to herself and smiled.
The Coronation Banquet end
ed when the King came across the Hall and held out his hand to Alfrida. "Come, my dearhng," he said, bending over and giving her a hearty kiss on the mouth. " 'Tis time to retire." He had drunk as heavily as his lords, some of whom were already sprawled and snoring on the benches, yet he showed little sign of tipsiness.
The Queen came around the end of the table and joined him, bending her knees inside her flowing skirts so that she might not look too tall beside him. He drew her arm through his, and they proceeded slowly down the Banquet Hall. "I have been thanking Our Blessed Lord all evening for the great happiness of this day," said Edgar solemnly. "And I'm sure you have." She gave him a soft look and did not answer.
"I'll not make love to you tonight, sweeting," he went on. "The hoHness of my consecration is yet too near-to me for that, and Dunstan would not think it seemly."
She stiffened slightly, and incHned her head. As they passed the end of her table, she saw Merewyn, looking very sleepy, drooping next to her aunt, the Abbess. Alfrida decided to win one small victory at least — this very moment. "My lord," she said, stopping his walk by pressure on his arm, "will you grant me a favor?"
"Of course," he said smiling. "You've only to ask."
"Merewyn. I want her appointed as one of my permanent Bower Ladies."
"Why, I thought she was going to Romsey with the Abbess?"
"I don't wish her to, if you please, my lord. I wish the Abbess
to take Elfled instead; surely one high-born boarder will do as well as another."
"If you like," said Edgar, finding this a trivial matter.
"Tell the Abbess now, my lord," said Alfrida urgently.
Edgar shrugged and walked back to Merewyn and her aunt, who both sank to the floor in bewildered curtsies.
chapteR fouR
On Tuesday morning, July 6th, in the year of our Lord 975, when the urgent summons came from Winchester, Rumon was sitting with Dunstan in a sunny corner of Glastonbury Abbey's garden.
For the past two years since the Coronation, Rumon had made his home at Glastonbury. Rooms in the Abbey guesthouse had been assigned to him, and he had furnished them luxuriously; their plaster walls were covered by vivid frescoes; the bed, table, and chairs had been carved by the most skillful of the Glastonbury monks. There were always clean rushes on the floor and sweet-smelling herbs mingled with the rushes — thyme, verbena, rosemary. An elaborate crucifix hung above the bed, but in the other room a marble bust of some Roman goddess was enshrined on a pedestal. Rumon had bought the head at Bath and found it beautiful. He thought it looked a bit like Alfrida.
The Archbishop came each summer to visit his beloved Abbey. He had been born nearby at Balstonborough, he had been educated here and eventually became Glastonbury's Abbot. He had himself been responsible for enriching and restoring the old building, for making Glastonbury known as "Roma Secunda" to
lOO AVALON
the whole Christian world. On this visit, after conferring with Abbot Sigegar, and praying in the little old wattle church which was the holiest spot in England, Dunstan went in search of Rumon. The old man's eyebrows twitched as he noted the increased luxury of Rumon's chambers; he stared at the pagan goddess and suggested that they sit in the garden. "God has sent us glorious sunshine today, we must enjoy His bounty," said Dunstan, "nor should you be forever stuck with your nose in a book, my son. 'Twas thus I found you last year."
"I do other things, my lord," said Rumon, "I hunt and hawk. I ride out to inspect my land, and I've labored much at the copying and illumination you asked of me."
"Ah, yes." Dunstan eased his aching joints on the bench, savoring the warmth of the sun. "Pliny's Natural History. I'm eager to see your progress, though stiU regretful that you did not choose to work on one of the sacred histories."
He looked keenly at the young man, noting lines of discontent around the full sensitive mouth. "You've not yet found the peace of God here at Glastonbury, Rumon? Have you had any more visions to assure you that this is indeed the Avalon you once dreamed of?"
Rumon shook his head. He looked at the great square Abbey church, a veritable basilica which Dunstan had b.uilt next to the old wattle church to enclose the many precious relics. He looked in the direction of the Tor, the high mysterious hill topped by a guardian chapel to St. Michael. He thought of the lakes and water meads surrounding the town, the Abbey and the Tor, so that in spring this place was truly an island.
"It is a holy spot, my lord," he said. "Yet it is not the Avalon I dreamed of. I have tried to think so. I have prayed much to be rid of this feehng, but always something urges me on, away, and over there . . ." He gestured slowly towards the west.
Dunstan sighed. He had hoped that by now Rumon would have felt some certainty as to the vocation he had seemed obviously fitted for. That he would have moved from the
AVALON lOI
guesthouse to the novices' cloister, and exchanged the gold circlet on his head for a tonsure. That there would not be this talk of hunting and hawking, though Rumon did eschew the other usual activities of a nobleman . . . brawls, gaming, and intrigue. Not to speak of casual wenching.
"You're not happy, my son?" said the Archbishop. "Surely you're not still bedeviled by — by the — the iniquitous passion for which I sent you here?"
Rumon's dark skin reddened. He tore a rose from the wall beside him and crushed the flower in his hands. "No, my lord — I never think of her!"
Neither of them knew that this was a lie.
They sat in silence a moment, both remembering the painful night of Rumon's madness.
It had happened at Winchester a fortnight after the Coronation. Edgar was still with his fleet, somewhere off Wales, after receiving tribute from the western kinglets at Chester. Rumon had been invited to accompany the fleet, whose annual circumnavigation of the whole island had entirely quelled foreign invasions. This show of naval strength was Edgar's own idea, and indeed he was a superb admiral.
Rumon's love of adventure and the sea had not been as compelling as the new obsession which tortured him like St. Anthony's fire. He had refused to sail with the King, had gone instead to the royal palace at Winchester with many of the royal household — and Alfrida. Dunstan, wearied by the Coronation and anxious to return to Canterbury, also stopped at Winchester.
Rumon did not wish to remember the events which led to the chmax; Dunstan did not precisely know them, yet he felt that the sure hand of God had been leading him on that Saturday night. He had been praying in the new Minster, praying for some hours after Compline, and further delayed by a conference with the prior. It was therefore dusk of the June night when he limped out of the Minster and walked across the cemetery towards Bishop Ethelwold's mansion, where he lodged.
As he groped for the gate, motion caught his eye. Figures moving at the far end of the cemetery, amongst some yew trees.
He stiffened and crossed himself; the figures were very like ghosts. Then he heard voices, a man's hoarse tone, and a woman's excited laugh. Servants? Churls? Dunstan thought, annoyed. Whatever they were they had no right to defile consecrated ground by their low amours. He turned and walked towards them over the thick grass. is he approached, and could see clearer, the man fell to his knees, and from him came a torrent of pleadings, almost sobs.
The woman laughed again, very low, seductively. She leaned down, holding her arms out. In an instant the two were locked in a violent embrace.
Dunstan inhaled sharply. He now recognized the voman's laugh. He stood appalled, then he cried, "In the Name of Our Blessed Lord, what is this!"
The pair sprang apart. Alfrida gave a whimper of fear. And Dunstan, sick at heart, saw that the man was Rumon.
The three confronted each other, while a raven cawed and the night wind rustled through the yew trees.
"This is how you repay your King!" said Dunstan, his voice cracking. "My amazement is not great in regard to you. Lady, but Rumon — ah, Rumon —" he faltered. "Tp betray your cousin who has shown you nothing but kindness, to shame y
our own blood — no matter how she tempted you!"
Rumon stood staring at the grass, panting.
" 'Tis not her fault, my lord," he said finally. "I lured her here. She's not to blame. I've been possessed. We've not betrayed Edgar, there's been nothing between us — except what you saw."
"Nor shall there be!" cried Dunstan, in deep relief. He knew that he could trust Rumon's word. "Go to your chamber. Lady, and whatever confession you make to your chapel priest is between you and God. I shall never mention this. Rumon, come with me!"
All the rest of that night, Dunstan wrestled the demon for Rumon's soul. He prayed, he exhorted, he wept, and he won a complete victory. Rumon could not withstand the Archbishops' strength, nor could he withstand his own guilty shame.
He accepted all Dunstan's arrangements. He would leave Winchester at once, nor see Alfrida again. He would live at Glastonbury, partly as penance, partly to make himself useful to the Abbey by employing his talents as scribe. And so that he might not have to depend on the Court for favors, Dunstan would see that he got a substantial land grant from the King. A grant which might enrich Glastonbury Abbey someday when Rumon finally renounced the world, thought Dunstan, who was a practical man.
The grant was duly made after Edgar's return. It was of a thousand acres near Cheddar, and had been part of the royal domain. There were forests and rich meadowland, there was a small section of the Mendip Hills, which included a cave and a lead mine. An affectionate letter from Edgar accompanied the generous grant. The King regretted the loss of Rumon's company, but quite understood the attraction of a semi-rehgious life, especially at Glastonbury. It concluded by asking Rumon to pray for his soul, and for the continuing prosperity of England.