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.
"Merewyn," 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. Mere\vyn 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 Mere\vyn 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.
The report of Alfhere's blasphemies had greatly angered Dunstan. He bitterly resented slurs on the unique holiness of the Abbey, and he threatened Alfhere with excommunication. But the Earl blandly denied everything, saying that he must have been misunderstood by some of his drunken thanes. Dunstan thereupon wished to put Alfhere to the Ordeal — the plunging of an arm in boihng oil — which would have remained unscathed if the denials were true. But Edgar intervened. Edgar, the mediator and the merciful, had calmed the Archbishop's just wrath. Edgar — whose Requiem Mass they were now celebrating, and whose spirit was mingling with those of the other sacred dead.
A shiver ran up Dunstan's spine as he elevated the Host and
the altar shone with a gentle radiance. A heavenly sign, he thought. Edgar is happy amongst the blessed saints.
The old man's ready tears flowed while the droning voices of the monks became an angelic choir, and the sip of wine from the chalice permeated his tired body with the warmth of fulfillment and certainty.
He had great need of that transfiguring moment, for no sooner was the funeral over than the strife began.
The emergency Council of Wise Men — or "Witenagemot" — was demoralized, split into factions which astounded even Dunstan. He was accustomed to man's senseless rages and greed, but had not expected that anyone would dare to oppose Edgar's dying command.
Yet they did, led by the enemy — Alfhere. Alfhere's group included Lord Ordulf, Alfrida's brother, and most of the other noblemen present.
This first Council meeting took place in the Abbot's Hall at Glastonbury, and the battle lines were at once drawn up. Alf-here, ignoring proper procedure, remained standing, his burly legs widespread, nor even bowed to Dunstan who presided.
"Edward is quite unfit to rule," Alfhere announced in his loud, confident voice. "He is bad-tempered and weak, look at the way he stammers. Besides, his mother was no Queen, and the marriage was dissolved. The idea of crowning Edward is ridiculous."
The other earls and thanes nodded agreement. Across the Hall from the temporal lords, the bishops were gathered. They looked at each other, and they looked at Dunstan who sat hunched in his Archbishop's throne. Hostility crackled through the chamber which was stifling in the July heat.
"You are surely not proposing to elect Ethelred, in the face of King Edgar's express command," said Dunstan, while his right hand trembled on the crozier. "The boy is scarcely ten, and has shown no desirable character traits since his birth."
"Oh, he can be molded," said Alfhere airily, flicking a louse off his red velvet sleeve.
"By whom?" asked Dunstan, straightening up. "You and his mother?"
Alfhere shrugged and cocked his head. "Not by bishops, abbots, and monks anyway. You'll find, my lord, that England is heartily sick of your grasping monasteries, and that foreign Benedictine Rule you foisted on us. It's unnatural. I, for one, am chucking out the monks and putting back the old-time canons on my lands. With their wives and wenches too. Let a priest enjoy himself like a man."
"You cannot/" Dunstan cried, rising, and clutching the chair arm. "You haven't the power!"
Alfhere's contemptuous laugh was echoed along the benches amongst the lords, Ordulf joining in with a belated guffaw. Only old Britnoth, Earl of the East Saxons, looked grave, and sent a worried glance across the Hall towards the bishops.
"Am I to assume," said Dunstan in a voice of terrible control, "that you have no concern for your soul — Alfhere of the Mercians? That you do not fear God's punishment? Do I understand that you would lead England back to paganism? That we have an Antichrist amongst us?"
The Archbishop's eyes glistened as he glared at his adversary. His bent little body stiffened; he seemed to tower through the HaU.
Alfhere drew back very slightly. He tugged at his brown mustache. "Need we make such a pother, my lord?" he said after a moment. "Between a child of ten and a child of fourteen — what difference? Neither is old enough to rule."
"Aha," said Dunstan, sitting down. "I perceive that you are not quite so impervious to the threat of eternal damnation as you would like to think. And so you quibble."
The Earl flushed. Blood ran up his heavy shaven cheeks into the greasy brown hair. His hand clenched on the pommel
of his sword. "I do not quibble," he said in a thick voice. "Etheked shall be England's King, and this choking spiderweb of greedy monasticism shall be torn into a thousand shreds!"
"Aye, aye! Hear! Hear!" chorused all the other lords except Britnoth.
Dunstan expelled his breath sharply. A great weariness clouded his wits while nausea churned his stomach. He longed for the comforting Oswald, the Archbishop of York, but he was not there. Nor were other faces across the Hall who would have been his friends. Athelwine, Earl of East Anglia and his brother. Oslac of the North.
It had seemed unnecessary to summon a full Council of the Witan for so simple a thing as ratifying Edward's kingship. Nor had Dunstan foreseen this other and far graver issue. Antichrist, he thought, Satan is amoungst us. Once he had fought the devil in a dream — if it ivas a dream — long ago. He had felt no fear and routed the fiend with a pair of red-hot pincers, tweaking the black snout until the enemy roared for mercy, and vanished howUng. Whence came that sure strength of mine? he thought, where is it now? His head drooped.
"Why, you've bested the old man!" cried Lord Ordulf in admiration to Alfhere. "He's gone to sleep."
Ethelwold, the grim Bishop of Winchester, had been staring at Dunstan in consternation. "My lord! My lord!" he said, tugging at the hunched black shoulder.
Dunstan moistened his lips, and whispered, "You help me — Ethelwold."
The Bishop did not hesitate. He was a born authoritarian, and renowned for his stern measures. He stalked down the Hall and faced Alfhere, while his voice rang out.
"The Archbishop is unwell, and this meeting of the Council is hereby dissolved!"
"Not until we've voted for Ethelred," roared Alfhere, "and there's more of us than your
"The Witan is hereby dissolved," said the Bishop as though
the Earl had not spoken. "And will reconvene in a month at Winchester, when all the Councilors have had time to appear. I decree this in the Archbishop's name. I'm quite sure nobody will care to invoke the penalty by demurring."
"What is the penalty?" asked Ordulf, his oxlike face gaping at the Bishop.
"Anathema!" answered Ethelwold in a spine-chilling voice.
Ordulf looked frightened though he had no idea what "Anathema" was. Alfhere began to bluster, but was cut short by Britnoth, the grave old Earl. "It is proper that this Witan be dissolved," he said, "and I am leaving now. A brawl here is unseemly and as insulting to the memory of King Edgar whose funeral we are attending as it must be painful to Our Lord Jesus Christ and His gentle Mother." Britnoth turned on his heel and walked out of the Hall. Slowly, sheepishly, one by one the other noblemen followed him. Alfhere said no more. He sat down on a bench, and glanced up once towards a high window which gave on a little gallery outside the Hall; As he had expected, a beautiful face half hidden, by a white veil peered quickly down through the window.
Alfhere shook his head, and waved his hands in an angry gesture. "Not this time, my pretty one," he said aloud as though Alfrida could hear him. "We'll have to wait a bit. God damn those whoreson monks!" His hairy dirty hand clenched hard on the pommel of his sword. At that moment a clap of thunder exploded through the sultry air above the Abbot's lodging. There was a flash of lightning, and more thunder. Alfhere's hand dropped from his sword. He stared anxiously around the empty Hall. "Naught but a thunderstorm," he said. "Nothing supernatural about it." Yet his heart beat fast, and he made the sign of the cross several times until the thunderclaps diminished and he bolted from his seat towards the far door yelling for his son. "Cild! Cild Aelfric! Where are you, you fool! I want
some wme
A month later, at the full meeting of the Witenagemot in
Winchester, Edward was elected King of England, The opposition had not subsided, Alfhere and his friends were prepared to fight — with swords if need be. But Dunstan, who recovered soon from his weakness, had dispatched messengers as far as York. He had summoned the godly thanes from the Danelaw and East Anglia. His co-Archbishop Oswald had arrived, and exerted his benign authority over his fellow Danes. Rumon too had been appointed to the Witan, by Dunstan's wish. "We need you, my son," said Dunstan. "Need every God-fearing soul who is eligible." He did not note the young man's hesitation, nor know how often Rumon had seen Alfrida recently.
The Witan was held in the chapter house of Ethelwold's new Minster, beneath a huge silver crucifix, which contained a fragment of the True Cross and was reputed to work miracles. It worked one on that date, just before the voting started. For it spoke. A deep hollow voice emerged from around the crucifix, saying, "Edward will be crowned, and Dunstan's rule is to continue as before."
The restless, arguing Assembly was struck dumb. They gaped at the crucifix which repeated in a louder thrilling voice, "It is My Will that Edward be crowned and that Dunstan, My vicar, be obeyed."
Astonishment held them frozen; then Ordulf fell to his knees even before the bishops did. "Forgive us. Blessed Lord," he said to the crucifix while he clasped his huge hands in supplication. "Forgive! Forgive! Misericordia!" came murmurs throughout the chapter house. Dunstan spread out his arms in blessing, his weary face was transfigured as he cried joyously, "A miracle! Our Merciful Lord has vouchsafed a miracle!"
Even Alfhere blenched. Sweat glistened on his forehead. He was silent when the voting commenced.