The Archbishop returned from his memories to see that Rumon had plucked another rose from the vine and was absently tearing it to pieces, while he stared into the sky.
"Perhaps you should marry someone, my son," said Dunstan sadly. "Though it would impede what you know I hope for you, and — except for that one incident — I would have thought you a man made for holy celibacy."
"I don't want to marry, my lord."
"We could find a desirable girl," pursued the Archbishop, wishing as always to explore a situation fairly. "You can build yourself a fine house on your land, have children to carry on your exceptional line. After all, you're twenty-two, aren't you? I am distressed to see you drifting — neither in the world nor
out of it. By the way, have you heard aught of that httle Mere-wyn, she whom you brought to Lydford and who became Queen's lady?"
Rumon shook his head. "She's still serving the Queen, I suppose. As you know, I've had no contact with the Court."
"Yes," said Dunstan. "I know that you have faithfully kept your promises to me and God. I saw Merewyn last month when I was at Winchester. She is pretty, and has several suitors, I understand, though favors none of them." Here he cocked an inquiring eyebrow towards Rumon. "Romsey Abbey is flourishing. The girl, whom I find charming, will doubtless bring some sort of dowry." As Rumon said nothing, and seemed to be scarcely listening, Dunstan went on more plainly. "I believe she's very fond of you. She asked me several questions. If one does marry it is well to take a wife who loves one."
"Wife!" cried Rumon, startled into awareness of the old man's drift. "Merewyn! My lord, you're jesting!"
"Not at all. The girl is estimable, her royal Celtic line is quite fit to mate with your own. And I would like to see her removed from the Court influence. From the Queen," he added. "Here I quite agree with her Aunt Merwirma. But marriage seems the only way in which the child's bond to Alfrida may be broken."
"Let her marry, then," said Rumon tartly. "One of those suitors you mentioned." He opened his hand and let all the crushed rose petals fall to the ground. Even his liking and reverence for the Archbishop could not allay vexation. The thought of Merewyn was painful either because he alone knew the pathetic secret of her birth, or because the girl naturally called up memories of Alfrida — memories he had some minutes ago denied ever having. In that instant he thought the old man both tactless and tiresome. He changed the subject. "The glass-blowing progresses well, my lord. Have you inspected their new beakers?"
Dunstan raised his brows and contemplated the scowling young face before answering with a certain quiet amusement.
"Not yet, my son. But you may be sure that I shall give my closest attention to all the matters which interest me, and for which I am responsible at Glastonbury . . . the glassblowing, the goldsmithy, the scriptorium, the spiritual and physical welfare of the brethren. Nor shall I neglect to examine the bed of oriental poppies I ordered sown by the infirmary wall, nor even the clogged drain from the lavatory which Brother Cuma — on my last visit—held to be the cause of illness amongst the novices. All these and many other matters I shall deal with presently. At this moment I am concerned with youP
Rumon flushed, accepting the Archbishop's rebuke. " 'Tis kind of you, my lord. But there's no need."
"Have you friends, Rumon?" asked the Archbishop. "Who are your companions?"
The young man shifted uneasUy. Had he ever had real friends? Men for whom he felt affection, whose company he cherished, except Vincent, the blind harpist, long ago — and then, yes — Edgar. For a little while there had been Edgar. "Why," he said, "I go hawking, or hunting with several of the neighboring thanes — Oswerd, Elmer:—you know them, my lord. And I see a good deal of Brother Finian, here at the Abbey."
"Finian the Irish monk, recently elected subprior?"
"Yes, my lord."
"You find Brother Finian congenial?"
Rumon assented, and Dunstan felt surprise as he considered what he knew about Finian, who was a spare little man of forty — his tonsure already graying. He had darting green eyes and quick nervous motions rather like a sparrow. He had been born to humble parents — fisherfolk — somewhere in the western parts of Ireland — Connemara, was it? Anyway he had no high birth to recommend him, nor even adequate book learning. There had been some question about his appointment to the post of subprior. But Finian was a good administrator, particularly apt at handling his own countrymen of whom there were many
at this famous Abbey which boasted the remains of both St. Patrick and St. Bridget. Finian was also useful in matters pertaining to the lay community, "Little Ireland" down by the river.
None of this, however, explained why Rumon — out of the hundreds of brethren at the Abbey — should select Finian for mention.
Rumon might have explained that Finian not only had a mordant sense of humor — mother wit which ticlded Rumon — but that he also had a deeply hidden mystical bent. That he could sometimes be persuaded to talk of the eerie lands to the west, from whence nobody ever returned, and about the Culdees, Irish monks who had during the centuries fled westward — ever westward in search of peace.
There was no time for explanations because a young man came dashing through the garden gate, came panting up to the Archbishop, and kneeling to kiss the ring, explained at the same time, "My lord, my lord — I bear dismal news! The King lies ill unto death at Vinchester. He has sent for you — and for you too. Lord Rumon," added the messenger in a distracted way. "He vants to see you both before the end."
"Blessed Lord Christ!" exclaimed the old man. "How can this be! I saw Edgar last month. He was hale as ever!"
"Not now, my lord."
Rumon, almost as shocked as the Archbishop, now noted that the messenger was Gunnar, Thored's son and body thane to young Edward.
Even while the Archbishop questioned anxiously, Rumon had a sharply irrelevant thought. Was Gunner one of Merewyn's suitors mentioned by Dunstan? He was short and dark — a dark Dane — yet he had matured since Rumon last saw him into manliness and he looked to be a dependable sort — trustworthy. He and his father were highly placed at Court, and a girl might do worse for herself — far worse. She could hardly expect to do better, thought Rumon with a spurt of anger he did not examine,
and which vanished as the tremble in Dunstan's voice recalled him to the news.
"The King cannot be very ill," said the Archbishop. "He is but thirty-one and leads a temperate life nowadays. Moreover he has no enemies."
Gunnar shook his head. "There's no question of enemies, my lord, nobody vishes him ill. Our King has had a cruel griping and blood in his guts for two weeks. He burns vith fever and is sometimes lightheaded. He cannot eat, even the best wine he vomits. Bishop Ethelwold's Spanish monk — the physician who has effected marvelous cures on others — even he has lost hope. The King expects to die. That is vy I am sent to summon you."
Dunstan made the sign of the cross and raised his old eyes towards the serene white clouds lazily drifting across the summer blue. "We will leave at once," he said.
Two days later, on Thursday afternoon, July 8th, the Archbishop, Rumon, Gunnar and a group of attendant monks arrived at Winchester.
They went immediately to the Palace and were met inside the gate by the young Prince Edward, who had been crouching on the well curb and eagerly arose to greet them. "My father still lives," he cried, trying to smile though there were tears on his round cheeks above new golden fuzz. "My lord D-Dunstan," Edward continued, "The King has been p-praying steadily that you would reach him soon."
"He's better then?" asked Dunstan, while Edward knelt to kiss the amethyst ring.
"I don't rightly know, my lord," said the boy with a gulp. "They won't let me in. One of the thanes brings me n-news.. ."
"Won't let you in to see him?" asked Dunstan frowning.
"No, my lord. The Queen is there with Ethelred. She's given orders."
"Come with me now," said Dunstan. "You too, Rumon."
The Kin
g lay tossing and moaning on a feather bed while
Alfrida bent over him, stroking his temples with vinegar water. The chamber was darkened, because the sunhght hurt Edgar's eyes, but a huge clock candle in the corner made it possible to see.
Brother Pedro, the Spanish physician, stood by the bed; his long austere face set in gloom. A monk whispered prayers from behind a wooden screen. Ethelred, who was now ten, stood at the foot of the bed where Alfrida had placed him. The child kept licking his lips and staring in horrified fascination at his father. At the emaciated body, which, constantly tossing, threw off the coverlet to disclose a grossly swollen belly sprinkled with pink dots; at the sunken face between sweat-darkened hair; at the trickle of blood which ran from the right nostril; and at his mother, dabbing the hollow temples, and murmuring "J^^u, Jesu, Jesu . . ." beneath her breath.
Alfrida looked up as Dunstan, Rumon, and Edward entered the chamber. Her eyes narrowed, and her underhp thrust out, but Edgar suddenly gave a loud cry, and clenched his hand on his belly. She whirled back to him. "Oh, what is it, my love?"
"It is the end, Lady," said the Spanish monk. "Or will be shortly. The gut has ruptured. I've seen many of these cases. He will now have a few moments of respite, and he may know you all."
"Holy Mother of God," murmured Dunstao. "He's been shriven? Last rites?"
"Aye, my lord. This morning by Bishop Ethelwold. And afterwards we thought he rallied. We were hopeful."
Edgar lay suddenly quiet, propped up on pillows. The pain furrows smoothed from his forehead. Full consciousness cleared his eyes. "Bring near the candle," he said. "Ah, Dunstan, my teacher and my friend. I'm glad you're with me, and know how able will be your prayers for me . . . Rumon? Is it Rumon — my cousin? I've missed you, yet know you've found the peace you sought in Glastonbury."
Rumon bowed his head and murmured something.
The King's gaze roamed over the faces near him. "Edward!"
he said. "To you I give my Kingdom. It is for you to carry on — with God and Dunstan's help — the peace and unity of England."
Alfrida gave a gasp. "My lord!" she cried. "My lord, you promised me that Ethelred should be your heir!"
The King slowly turned his head and looked up at her with a sad smile. "I've loved you very much, Alfrida, but I never promised you that. It would be a crime against reason and justice. I've tried to please you, I banished Earl Oslac at your request, and many other things I've done for you. But I command that the Witan elect Edward to be England's King when I'm gone."
Alfrida collapsed on Edgar's chest in a torrent of inarticulate sobbing, highly appropriate to the tragedy of the moment. Only Dunstan thought that this heartrending grief sprang as much from the frustration of her desires as it did from the imminent loss of her husband.
Edgar raised his fleshless hand and stroked her golden head. "There, my dear, there —" he whispered tenderly. "Think of this only as a temporary parting between us — and we've had many. If our Dear Lord is merciful, we shall meet in Heaven."
Alfrida sobbed harder. Dunstan leaned over and pulled her off Edgar's chest. "Hush —" he said. "The King is still trying to speak."
The face on the pillow had gone livid, the Ups gray. Edgar's life blood gushed out beneath the coverlet. "Edward," he murmured. "Kiss me — and promise you will remember what I have tried to teach you."
The boy leaned over and kissed his father on the forehead. "I p-promise, m-my lord."
There was a moment's silence while the King struggled for breath, then he spoke again. "Ethelred — my son — come here, I can't see you."
The child was so frightened that his knees shook. He seemed unable to move, and Dunstan pushed him towards his father.
no AVALON
who said, "Poor little lad — you are afraid. Death is not fearsome, and you must learn not to fear anything. You must be a brave atheling — obey your brother and your mother — I give you — my blessing . . ." The last word was scarcely audible as a convulsion shook the King's body. He closed his eyes, and his mouth sagged open.
"In manus tuas Domine —" whispered Dunstan to the silent room. He made the sign of the cross and continued prayers for a passing soul while tears coursed down his cheeks. The others knelt; Ethelred still trembling, pressed close to his rigid mother.
Rumon's own eyes were wet as he bowed his head on his clasped hands and listened to the two monks join Dunstan's intoning of the Latin prayers. A great King is dead, Rumon thought. Dead in his prime, and for what? Why did God permit him to die Hke this of an inglorious rotting in the belly! Edgar's early sins were atoned for long ago. He was beloved by all his people, he brought prosperity to England, and he loved life. Was God then — not the all-merciful Father described by Lord Jesus, but the Old Testament God of senseless, jealous vengeance? A bleak misery came into Rumon. He thought of his Quest, so long in abeyance; of his early visions which now seemed but childish vaporings.
Of what use were these mouthing clerics and,their cringing beseeching prayers for the dead? Where was this heaven they talked about so glibly? The dead were dead, that body would dissolve in dust. And as for that soul they kept speaking of — had anyone ever seen a soul? Nobody, thought Rumon angrily. It was Hfe that mattered, life and the body — which contains life.
He shivered, and in a sudden great revulsion felt the clamoring of his own hf e through his veins, his sinews, his manhood. W^hy was he letting it drift away — this great force, unused, unexplored.
That thing on the bed had been Edgar — the warm, brave, virile Edgar — and look at it now!
He did look for an instant, then turned his gaze slowly towards Alfrida.
She knelt where Dunstan had thrust her, motionless, -while Ethelred whimpered unnoticed into her green skirts. If two years had altered her at all, no trace of alteration showed in the wavering candlelight. The golden hair, the grace of her body, the lure of her averted face, and especially the indefinable magnetism which seemed to exude from her like her perfume — all these were unchanged. So Rumon felt. And he allowed himself to feel, while the prayers continued, and from outside there began the sounds of lamentation — wailings, and the ponderous tolling of the Minster bell.
Dunstan ceased his prayers as the chamber filled with people, tiptoeing, hushed — Bishop Ethelwold, other monks, the ranking thanes.
The Archbishop wiped his tears and spoke to the newcomers. "Aye," he said. "It is finished. Do what is needful, for he must lie in state before the Minster's High Altar, that his subjects may take leave of him." The Archbishop bent down and put his hand on Edward's head. "Rise, my lord —" he said gently. The boy slowly obeyed, and Dunstan addressed the gathering. "This is your new King. This is England's future. May God and His Son and all the saints in heaven guide him aright."
Rumon was watching Alfrida, whose lovely face was suffused, while her hands clenched each other so violently that the knuckles whitened. She trembled, her lips moved, but Rumon could not read the explosive soundless words they were forming.
She was the very image of anguish, and Rumon's desire mellowed into sympathy. He moved near her, and said to Dunstan, "The Queen is suffering from shock and grief. She must be tended." He put his arm around Alfrida, and after a dazed look at him, she swayed against his shoulder.
The Archbishop's mouth tightened, yet he could not deny that Alfrida looked very odd — like a sleepwalker. "Take her
to her bower, Rumon," he said. "Her women will care for her."
Rumon and Alfrida walked from the death chamber. She leaned against him and his steadying arm. They moved in silence through anterooms and the Great Hall, while Httle Ethelred trailed behind them. They chmbed stone steps to the Queen's Bower, where her group of ladies were weeping. When they saw Alfrida, they surged forward clamoring their pity.
"Merewyn . . ." said Alfrida faintly. "I want Merewyn."
The girl rushed with outstretched arms towards the Queen, then stopped as she saw who Alfrida's escort was.
"Merewy
n," said Rumon acknowledging her vaguely. "Take care of her, help her. She has need."
For an instant, Merewyn stood rooted. The King's death, the Queen's need were eclipsed by the sight of Rumon whom she had never managed to forget. She noted the tenderness in his eyes — in his voice — as he spoke of the Queen. Merevyn had hitherto not seen tenderness in that dark lean face which she knew she still loved.
"He's gone —" whispered the Queen, shuddering again. "Gone. Gone. Gone. And all my hopes with him. I can't bear it. Can't bear it!"
"Lie down, my poor lady!" cried the girl. "We'll bring you wine, and I'll stroke your back for you. Please,-dear lady."
Alfrida allowed herself to be led to her couch, and Rumon, sighing deeply, bowed himself from the room.
Merewyn bent over her mistress with soothing sounds while she removed the gem-studded girdle, loosened the green robes, began the stroking and massaging which had never failed to calm the Queen. This time they failed. Alfrida shook her off. "I can't bear it," she repeated, stiffening, the violet eyes narrowed, staring past Merevyn towards an embroidered wall hanging of Salome's dance before Herod. "I will NOT bear it," said Alfrida, loudly and distinctly. "They shall see who wins!"
Merewyn was transfixed by the venom in Alfrida's voice, but the Lady Britta, who was hovering anxiously, whispered, "She
raves, poor thing. Grief has unsettled her wits." An explanation the girl tried to accept. One of the housecarls came running in with a beaker of strong mead but Alfrida would not touch it. She continued to stare at the wall hanging, her penciled brows drawn together intently.
King Edgar was buried at Glastonbury, as he had always desired. Dunstan and Abbot Sigegar officiated, and during the High Requiem Mass Dunstan felt a mystical union with all the exalted Beings who pervaded this most sacred place. Though there were skeptics, he knew.
Alfhere, the cynical power-mad Lord of the Mercians, had dared to question Glastonbury's possession of St. Patrick's and St. Bridget's holy remains. He had contemptuously doubted that the old wattle church was built by angels at Our Lord's direct command, or that the Arimathean Joseph had arrived here bearing the cup which contained Christ's precious blood. And he had blasphemously jeered at the event which to Dunstan was the most moving of all — that the Lord Jesus Himself had visited Glastonbury as a lad when he accompanied his great-uncle — Joseph of Arimathea — on a trading voyage to the Mendip lead mines.