She shook her head. "We can't go home, Caw. 'Tis better here."
He turned dumbly back to the forge while his fellow slaves chuckled and Jeered at him behind their hands. Merewyn was sorry for him and Trig, yet little seemed important anymore except the castle life.
She saw nothing of Rumon, save at the dinner hour when she might look at him sitting near Alfrida at the High Table, while Merewyn was naturally placed at a side table amongst the lesser ladies. Rumon also had new clothes; a scarlet mantle edged with miniver, a white silk tunic, a gilt-pommeled sword presented by
Edgar, and a gold circlet on his head like all of the very highborn. He had acquired servants too, and lodged with them in a guesthouse next to the palisade; he had a new horse, a black stallion, and spent his days riding the moors and hawking with the noblemen. In the evenings he read Latin to Dunstan or — at Alfrida's request — took the harp from Ordulf's bard and sang plaintive songs in his native Provencal. When he had first seen Merewyn dressed in Alfrida's gifts he had given her a smile of astonished greeting. She knew from his look how much he thought her appearance had improved, and she hoped that he might come and tell her so. Almost at once, however, he turned back to Alfrida, magnet-drawn, Merewyn did not blame him.
In the radiance of the Queen all other women dimmed like daylight stars. Yet Merewyn could not repress her longing.
On the morning of the Court's departure for Bath there were several incidents. The Ladies' Bower was in a frenzy of packing coffers, searching for a lost pot of unguent, getting their mistress dressed while she changed her mind repeatedly as to which gown she wished to wear. In the middle of aU this while Alfrida was still in her shift, the hapless Elfled managed to upset a pan of dirty water over the Queen's new red velvet shoes.
Alfrida's underlip jutted out, she began to tremble, and seizing her long-handled polished steel mirror she belabored the girl furiously on her head and shoulders. Elfled screamed, "Blessed Jesu, save me!" while she fell to her knees, and blood ran down her face from the sharp-edged mirror. Merewyn stood by stunned. Britta and .Wulfsiga, who had seen these rages before, nervously went on ^vith their tasks. Hilde, however, the Danish Thane's wife, wrenched the mirror from Alfrida and put it on the dressing table. "You must not kill the girl, Lady," she said dryly. "It would be most unfortunate just before the Coronation." Her quiet Danish voice with its foreign lilt always calmed Alfrida.
She bit her underlip; her eyes, which had been glittering as
jet, slowly widened. Her hands stopped trembling. "Get up!" she said to Elfled. "Stop sniveling there!"
But Elfled was dazed, and lay in a huddle, whimpering, "Jesu, Lord Jesu, save me!"
At this moment the door curtain was pushed aside and the King came in with his two sons. "What's this, darling?" he cried toAlfrida. "You're upset!" He looked down at Elfled. "What ails her?^^
"Naught, my lord," said the Queen, and instantly turned her most caressing smile on her husband. "Except that I've given her a beating she richly deserved. The clumsy fool."
Edgar nodded slowly. "You must, of course, regulate your women as you see fit, particularly this one to whom you stand in place of a mother. And I'm sorry she proves exasperating."
''You put her here, my lord," she said softly, adding on a lower note, "Or Dunstan did."
Edgar frowned, watching Lady Hilde and Merewyn who carried Elfled to her bed, where the girl gave a moan and slumped down. Edgar always tried to ignore the antagonism between Dunstan and his beloved. "Well!" he said with a curt laugh, "This seems to be the day for unruly children. Here are two more."
He gestured towards his sons who had hung back near the doorway. Both were flaxen-haired and blue-eyed. Aside from that, each resembled his own mother. Edward, at eleven, was plump and sturdy, his hair was straight and hung in a shock over his ears. His square face was often anxious, he revered his father and was continually afraid of offending him, yet he could stand up for himself if he had to, though the effort brought on a stammer. He gripped his hands tight, and waited, breathing hard.
Ethelred was eight, he had long slender bones like Alfrida, and was nearly as tall as his elder brother. His hair was a mass of curls, his eyes beneath the flaxen brows were wide and innocent, his pink mouth pouted adorably. He ran now to his
mother and buried his face on her thigh. "I never did," he wailed. "I never did! Edward's lying!"
Alfrida patted his head, and said, "The athelings have been quarreling again? Have we time for such nonsense, my lord, when we should be starting our journey?"
"Ethelred needs correction," said the King. "Since you will not permit anyone to punish him, you must do it yourself, my dear. You don't spare the rod in other cases." He gestured towards Elfled. "This child has done two dishonorable, sly tricks, designed to injure his brother."
"I want to ride first in the procession," whined Ethelred, looking tearfully up at Alfrida. "You said, Mama, that the son of the real King and Queen should go first!"
"N-No," interjected Edward, his hands gripping harder. "I am the oldest atheling. All the thanes s-say I should ride ahead."
"With this view I concur," said the King. "I had no idea that Ethelred dared to think otherwise, or could invent means of degrading his brother,"
"He p-painted my new horse green all over!" said Edward, his voice shaking. "Made it s-sick, so I'll have to ride a m-mule like a woman!"
"I never didP'' cried Ethelred. "A serf must've." He saw a secret smile in his mother's eyes, and clung to her harder.
"You were seen painting the horse, Ethelred," said the King, and there was no smile in his eyes. "And worse than that, you stole Edward's sword, the Sword of Athelstan. It was found hidden under your bed."
"Childish pranks, my lord," said Alfrida softly. "He doesn't understand."
"Then he must be made to. An atheling may engage in brave fights, he may show anger, he may even play pranks, but he may not steal and lie, and cringe when he's caught. I am much distressed."
"I wonder," said Alfrida in a silky voice, "that you did
not go to Dunstan about this, my lord — as you usually do."
The King drew himself up. His mouth hardened, "The Archbishop has already left for Bath. And / wonder at your tone, my lady."
Alfrida quivered. The King never combated her wishes. Stem as he could be to others, he had never addressed her like that. She pushed Ethelred aside, and threw herself down on her knees before Edgar, seizing his hand and covering it with kisses. "Forgive me, my dear lord." The upturned violet eyes sparkled with tears.
At once Edgar softened. She was considerably taller than he, and he was sometimes vaguely distressed by this, nor did he realize how Alfrida with instinctive coquetry usually managed to minimize the discrepancy. He seldom saw her standing up beside him, and in bed, of course, it made no difference. Now he looked down into the beautiful tearstained face, saw the superb breasts and delicate flanks outlined by the clinging shift. The kisses on his hand kindled the beginning of desire which her touch always awakened. Was there time before they started for Bath? No, there was not. The procession was already beginning to form. He leaned down and kissed her on the mouth. "Hasten and dress, sweetheart. I'll leave you to deal with Ethelred as you think fit. Come, Edward!"
His eldest son follow^ed him miserably from the Bower. Nothing had been gained by this interview. Ethelred would certainly not be punished. And I shall have to ride the mule, he thought. Every horse in Lydford was bespoken. There was no time to cleanse his own horse of the thick coat of green paint. Besides the poor beast had colic. She always won. Edward clenched his fists and quelled the unmanly sob he felt in his throat. He reckoned, however, without his father's sense of justice and of rank.
The King commandeered a horse from a Mercian thane who was exceedingly angered but dared not show it. And Edward,
wearing the famous sword which King Alfred had given to little Athelstan, rode ahead of Ethelred in the procession.
On the Feast of Pentecost, Whitsunday, May nth, the nobility and high clergy of England were packed into St. Peter's new Abbey at Bath, waiting for the Coronation to begin.
The Abbey was lit by a thousand tapers, it smelled of incense and of sweat; the May day was warm, and there were several hundred excited people crammed on tiered benches in the transepts, or standing in the nave.
Outside in the sunshine the royal procession was slow in starting because Dunstan must supervise every detail. The Coronation was his triumph. He had worked for years on its "Ordo" or directions for performing the sacred rituals which would make of Edgar the first divinely appointed king in England. Dunstan had fashioned his "Ordo" from examples of coronations abroad, those of French kings and of Popes, yet he had added many ideas of his own. For these he had searched the Bible, and prayed for heavenly guidance, which he knew had been sent to him. He was exalted, as he stood near the Abbey cloister beside Oswald, the Archbishop of York, while they endured the inevitable delays. Elfstan, Bishop of London, was late but sent a breathless messenger to say he would arrive shortly. Lady Britta, who, with Lady Hilde, was to hold up Alfrida's pearl-studded white mantle, suddenly had an attack of nervous vomiting, and was given laudanum by the Abbey monk-physician. Then Ethelred decided to play with his mother's Coronation ring, and managed to lose it, which set a dozen people anxiously searching for it until it turned up in the grass.
Dunstan waited patiently enough, listening to the pealing of the church bells, and the chanting of the monks inside the Abbey. "This is a most joyous day," he said to the other Archbishop, who smiled. "You haf vorked hard to make it so, goot Dunstan," Oswald said with a slight Danish accent. "Ah, my
yS A V^ A L O N
heart svells ven I see this fine new Abbey, and think of all the abbeys we haf founded, or purged of vickedness and brought under the Benedictine rule. God must be happy, and very pleased vit you, Dunstan, for your success in molding this fine young King."
Dunstan grasped his friend's hand and his eyes moistened. "I love Edgar like a son — a very dear son. And today he becomes a Holy Emperor on earth, as surely as Our Lord Christ is Emperor of Heaven."
Oswald nodded. It was truly an empire over which Edgar reigned, now that all Northumbria was subject to him, and the Danelaw, and that the Welsh kinglets avowed his supremacy. Even Kenneth, King of the Scots, had arrived for the Coronation to do homage.
"I see a cloud of dust on the London road," said Dunstan peering at the hilltop to the east. "Let us pray that 'tis Bishop Elfstan arriving. And then we can begin." He moved off to alert the King who sat inside the cloisters looking pale, and sipping water — the only substance which had passed his lips since midnight.
Within the Abbey, the great congregation waited. Merewyn was seated in the ladies' section of the north transept, beside her long-sought Aunt Merwinna. There were several black-habited abbesses, scattered amongst the vividly gowned earls' and thanes' wives in this privileged place. All the Queen's ladies were there except Britta and Hilde who, by reason of their rank, were to assist in the actual ceremony.
The south transept contained abbots, thanes and the King's owTi housecarls; in the choir were the Abbey monks; the nave seethed with lesser priests, and whatever members of the general populace who had been able to squeeze themselves in.
Merewyn sat demurely beside her aunt, trying to imitate that lady's perfect composure. The black wool habit and black veil were motionless, so were the precisely folded hands. The golden
crucifix on the Abbess's shapeless breast was unstirred by her quiet breathing. Merwinna, Abbess of Romsey, was as famous for her decorum as she was for her piety and kindness. She was short, sHght and dark-skinned; thirty-five and looked older, because of the hollows around the large black eyes; and a bony beaked nose, and compressed mouth which nonetheless could curve into smiles or even laughter. Her nuns revered and obeyed her; most of them also loved her.
The monks in the choir finished one chant and began another. The great western doors still did not open to admit the procession.
Merewyn sighed and thought about the meeting with her aunt tliree days ago.
Upon her arrival in Alfrida's train three days ago Merewyn at last spoke again with Rumon. He had arrived in Bath earlier, but was waiting for them near the Avon bridge. Waiting for the Queen, no doubt, Merewyn thought, though her heart jumped at the sight of him.
He looked magnificent to her, sitting his new stallion so proudly, his dark hair shining, his shoulders thrown back with an easy grace. He bowed low to the Queen as she rode past, then to Merewyn's flustered delight, he came up to her as she crossed the bridge.
She was riding pillion behind young Gunnar, Lady Hilde's eighteen-year-old son who was body thane to Prince Edward.
"Good evening Gunnar —" said Rumon, smiling, ^^and Mere-vi^n. I've found your aunt. She's waiting for you. Will you come with me? I'll take you there."
She shpped joyfully off Gunnar's horse, while Rumon dismounted. "Tarasque is too weary to carry extra weight," he said, throwing the reins to a servant. "We'll walk."
Merewyn asked nothing better. The sunset air was fresh; the grass brilliant green and spangled with pink daisies; a cuckoo
called three times from an alder copse — three times for the Trinity meant good luck.
"How have you been?" asked Rumon, as they strolled along. "Do you enjoy your duties to the Queen?" As he said "the Queen," his voice faltered, took on a deeper note.
"Yes," said Merewyn slowly. "She's so beautiful, and she is kind to me."
"Ah —" he said, sighing. "She's an angel." Alfrida la toute belle, he added to himself.
"She's not always an angel," Merewyn objected, thinking of Elfled. "She can get very angry."
■'Why not? In a righteous cause. Even our Lord Jesus could be angered at times. Remember that, Merewyn, and do nor presume to judge so lovely and exceptional a woman."
"No, sir," said Merewyn, wondering if the drenching of velvet shoes were a righteous cause, yet herself so much under Alfrida's spell that she accepted Rumon's rebuke.
"Your new clothes vastly become you," said Rumon kindly. "They were her gift, I suppose?"
She nodded, hoping that during the entire walk they would not be constantly discussing Alfrida, but Rumon continued.
"Generous, virtuous and devout is our lady. How fortunate the King is!" He stopped abruptly. The emotions he felt for Alfrida were as disquieting as they were thrilling. He did not understand them. He tore his thoughts back to Merewyn for whom he still felt responsibility; now at last to be discharged when he delivered her to her aunt, as he had promised the dying Breaca.
"Did you enjoy your ride with young Gunnar?" he asked, chuckling a httle. "He's a pleasant youth, and I thought he looked at you tenderly as you said farewell."
Merewyn had been too much engrossed by Rumon's appearance to notice what kind of look Gunnar had given her. She lifted her chin and said, "I hate the Danes. They're Northmen.
It disturbs me to find so many at Court. I fear them. Why should I not, after what they did at Tre-Uther?"
"I know," said Rumon slowly. "But, child, you must see that these Danes are different from those heathen Viking pirates. These are Christians, they are becoming Englishmen, they are loyal subjects of the King, who has handled them superbly. Besides, remember that way back hundreds of years ago, the Anglo-Saxons were of the same stock as the Danes."
"I'm not," said Merewyn proudly. "I'm Cornish — British."
Rumon frowned. "It is Edgar's and Dunstan's hope that all races in this island shall live together in harmony," he said after a moment, and changed the subject. "How are Caw and Trig?"
Merewyn drew in her breath, staring at the ground. "Trig died. Caw was left behind at Lydford, working in the smithy. He's very homesick."
He heard the tears in her voice, and took her hand out of sympathy. ^'Yoiire not homesick anymore, are you Merewyn?"
She clung to his hand, while her bones seemed to melt, and a honey-sweet fire run through them. "No," she said, and added so low that he was not quite sure of hearing, "Never, if I can be near you."
He dropped her hand and spoke briskly, "Ah, there's the Abbey guesthouse. Now we shall find your aunt."
Guesthouses had been put up all over Bath to accommodate the Coronation visitors. The one for the Abbesses was near a bubbhng sulphurous hot well, which had been used by the Romans, and was still used for the cure of skin afflictions.
The Abbess Merwinna was waiting for them in a small parlor off the refectory. As the two were ushered in by one of the nuns, she rose, bowed to Rumon, and reaching up, kissed Merewyn on the forehead. "So, here I have a Httle niece," she said gently in Cornish. "Lord Rumon has explained to me your trials — and I did not even know that you were born! I heard
nothing from Uther or Breaca since the day I left for England, Now I know why."
Above the beaky nose, the Abbess's large dark eyes examined Alerewyn, and into them came a puzzled look.
"You are nothing like your parents," she said with a shade of astonishment. "Not like Breaca, and certainly not Uther, whom / perhaps unfortunately resemble." And she smiled, a transforming smile which gave sweetness to her sharp thin face. Still she examined the girl, her height, her auburn braids, her freckles, and the green-blue eyes.
Rumon drew back against the wall. He found that he did not now wish the secret of Merewyn's birth discovered. He did not wish her to be thus devastated, and he had an instinct of protection. "No doubt. Reverend Mother," he said casually, "there might be some ancestor in Breaca's line whom Merewyn resembles."
"Very possibly," said the Abbess in her composed way. "Breaca came from the wild southern parts of Cornwall, and I knew little about her family. My dear —" she turned to Merewyn, reverting to Cornish, "you may be sure, that with God's grace, I'll look after you for the sake of my poor brother, Uther — God rest his soul." She crossed herself slowly, while the other two followed suit. "You will stay here at the guesthouse with me, and when the Coronation is over, return to my convent at Romsey."
But then I'll never see Rumon, thought Merewyn overwhelmed — nor the Queen. She dared not speak, but the Abbess, who had much experience with girls, looked at her shrewdly.
"It was to be under my care that you have made this long journey," she stated. "And I believe it is high time, considering your youth, that you be removed from the perils and temptations of the world."
Nobody ever gainsaid A4erwinna when she spoke in this tone, and Merewyn w^as aware that she should be grateful, that this
result was precisely what her mother and Rumon had intended.
Still her mouth grew dr)% and into her chest there came a lump. The lump grew heavier as Rumon took his leave, smiling at her, patting her on the shoulder like a child. And in the refectory later sitting next to her aunt amongst the other silent abbesses, Merewym could eat nothing. After the bustle, chatter, music — yes and even the strife of the Queen's Bower — this hush was formidable. The black-robed abbesses of Shaftesbury, of Wilton, of Barking, of Winchester — and Merwinna of Rom-sey all sat with downcast eyes, their lips moving only to receive the morsels of food which they plucked delicately off the plates their attendant nuns put before them.
I can't stand it, Merewyn thought. I can't, and she gave a gulp, at which her aunt shook her head slightly, and put a restraining hand on the girl's arm. Please, Blessed Holy Virgin! Please, dear Lord Jesus! Please, St. Petroc! Merevi^n prayed desperately, clasping her hands tight on her lap.
Her prayers were answered promptly. Answered through the very earthy medium of Lady Albina, Ordulf's large indolent wife, who was waiting in the parlor as the abbesses and nuns filed out of the refectory.
Lady Albina had been sent by the Queen. "Merewyn is to return with me. Reverend Mother," said Albina, drawling a Httle and yawning, for the journey had wearied her. "The Queen will not retire for the night until she has Merewyn's combings and rubbings."
The girl's head flew up, her face was transfigured, while a crease appeared between the Abbess's dark brows. "I would prefer to keep the girl with me, as everyone has planned."
Albina shook her head. "It is a royal command," she said indifferently. "The Queen wishes Merewyn to return and perform her usual duties."
After a moment the Abbess inclined her head. "I cannot ignore a royal command. Just what are your duties, Merewyn?"
"Oh —" said the girl eagerly. "Combing her hair, polishing
it with silk, or washing it in honey oil. Then I rub and stroke perfumed creams all over her body. She loves it."
The Abbess's nostrils wrinkled with distaste. "Singular duties," she said. "And when the Queen has no need for you, I shall expect you to be here with me."
"Yes, Reverend Mother," said Merewyn faintly. And so it had been these past days — a shuttle between the scented noisy Bower in the palace and the austere offices and silences of the black-robed women. She admired her aunt and tried to please her — she did not yet love her. She loved Alfrida who be-glamoured her with compliments, an occasional caress, and the loveliness of the slender white body which stretched in languid pleasure. Alfrida almost purred like her white Persian cat under the touch of Merewyn's hands.
At last there was a bustle near the Abbey's west door, which swung slowly open and let in a burst of trumpets while the new organ swelled in triumph throughout the taper-lit Abbey. The choir struck up the antiphon, as the two Archbishops entered first, walking down the nave with stately steps. They were followed by the premier earls of England — Alfhere, Britnoth, Athelwine, Oslac. These bore the King's regalia — the sword, the ring, the sceptre and the rod. The earls were dressed in purple mantles lavishly furred with ermine, yet Merewyn scarcely glanced at them, because Rumon followed alone behind, his hands clasped in prayer, a strange dreamy fight on his face as he gazed up towards the altar.
Next came the athelings — Edward and Ethelred, both boys dressed in green gold-embroidered satin, both looking frightened.
There was a pause, and then appeared the King escorted by the Bishops of Winchester and London. Edgar wore nothing but a white lawn baptismal shift, the thin gold circlet on his crisp straw-colored hair. At Dunstan's request he had shaved
off his beard, since in all details this was to parallel a priest's ordination. He looked very young.
The Queen came last, followed by her two ladies — Hilde and Britta. Alfrida too was in white; but no simple shift like the King's. She wore a gown and mantle of silver-threaded tissue embroidered with tiny freshwater pearls. The serving women had been sewing them on for days. Her chaplet was made of lilies. Her tremendous plaits of shining hair were intertwined with threaded pearls. She was breathtaking as she undulated down the Abbey, a faint smile on her full reddened Hps when she heard the murmurs around her. For some moments nobody looked at the King, who had prostrated himself on the altar steps while Dunstan led the choir in chanting a Te Deum.
The bishops raised the King, while Dunstan put a gold crucifix in his hand. Edgar stood silent for a second on the altar steps, his eyes were shut; he began to take the Coronation oath in a shaking voice which quickly gathered strength.
"These three things to the Christian peoples subject unto me I do promise in the Name of Christ:
"First, that the Church of God and all Christians under my dominion in all time shall keep true peace;
"Second, that acts of greed, violence and all iniquities in all ranks and classes I will forbid;
"Third, that in all my judgments I will declare justice and mercy; so to me and to you, may God, gracious and merciful, yield His mercy — Who liveth and reigneth forever and ever."
"Amen!" Dunstan cried, and all the congregation kneeling, whispered back, "Amen."
That was beautiful, Merewyn thought. Justice, Mercy, Peace were English words she by now understood. Comfortable words. Only one other could be more consoling — Love. And that word she caught in the prayers for Edgar which followed. It came in Dustan's prayer or Oswald's for the two archbishops alternated. "Govern them with Thy love — give to this Thy serv^ant Edgar the spirit of wisdom . . ."
Shall I ever have a spirit of wisdom? thought Merewyn. All her sorrows, passions and rebellions dropped away, she felt herself as pure and dedicated as the King they were now consecrating up there. Half dreaming, lulled by the chanting and the organ, she watched the distant figures. This was the feast of Pentecost, and perhaps the great white dove had already descended. Perhaps it was hovering over the Abbey, enfolding them all in its wings, sending peace into their hearts.
Up in the choir, Rumon, who had erstwhile been the one for such visions, now had none, because he had been placed near Alfrida and the athelings. She was seated on a small chair near the choir entrance, waiting for her part in the ceremony. Rumon tried not to look at her. He knew it to be blasphemous that not the solemn ritual, nor the King, not even the altar and its crucifix, afi^ected him like the sight of Alfrida in her shimmering white robes, her unfathomable violet eyes resting on the scene, her red lips parted slightly.