Edward was duly crowned — then Ethelred, Rumon, and all the noblemen knelt to do him homage and swear fealty. Thereafter Dunstan was delighted by the anxious sense of responsibility the boy king showed in his new position. And he kept his head throughout the continuing conflicts with Alfhere's party. The Earl retired to his own Mercia, where he systematically ousted the monks from all the religious foundations and replaced them by loose-living canons who in return filled Alfhere's coffers with gold. The wicked sedition spread too; other earls followed Alfhere's example, monasteries were destroyed, even nunneries. The disgruntled abbots, priors, monks escaped south to Wessex, or to East Anglia which remained staunch, thanks to Athelwine and Britnoth. Something very like civil war threatened England, but the monks could not bear arms, and Edward's royal guard was tiny and untrained. Edgar had not needed one.
Dunstan agonized over the brealdng down of the Holy Bene-
dictine system he, Ethelwold, and Oswald had labored so long to implant. He resorted to fasts and frenzied prayers. Particularly, and with Edward kneeling beside him, Dunstan prayed to St. Swithin, Winchester's especial saint, whose precious bones had been moved into the new Minster by Ethelwold and performed more miracles than all the other relics put together.
Undoubtedly the next event of that autumn was one of St. Swithin's miracles. A blazing comet appeared, streaking through the night, and was seen all over England. Certainly a portent of some kind, and so stated by Dunstan, who interpreted it in many a sermon as a sign of God's wrath at the evildoers.
Alfhere tried to scoff, but it was noted that he abated his persecution of the monks, and retired to winter in seclusion at his castle in Shrewsbury.
By spring a worse disaster hit England. Famine. Bitter cold, even snow, continued into June, and the crops failed. The herring shoals did not arrive as they always had. And then murrain — the cattle plague — swept the country. Starving beasts were consumed by starving men, who became themselves diseased. There was scarce a cottage in the land without a corpse, in many places whole villages perished.
The remaining Benedictine monasteries did what they could, though suffering themselves. The almoners handed out doles of bread and ale in ever diminishing quantities, as day by day the famished throngs increased outside their gates. The royal Palace at Winchester was equally generous — after Edward, upon returning from a stag hunt in Wherwell Forest, saw a moaning young mother die of hunger right on the Palace doorstep. Her skeleton body, her bloated belly, and the wizened dead baby in her arms shocked him into awareness of his people's misery. He ordered the stag to be roasted for them. He announced that during the famine the death punishment for poaching in the royal preserves would not be enforced. He had his housecarls issue the dole, and when even the royal stores began to dwindle,
he himself subsisted on fish from the Palace pond, or birds brought down by his falcons.
Now when the serious sturdy lad rode out through the streets of Winchester, his people swarmed around to bless him and kiss his hand.
Little by little the ghastly monsters of famine and murrain loosed their hold. The church bells no longer tolled hourly for the dead. Amongst the strong or lucky who had survived, there was new energy to replace the apathy of doom. Young Edward was happy. He knew himself beloved by the people, and in the autumn of 977, he himself fell in love.
Edward's love was Gunnar's sister, daughter to Thored — Earl of Yorkshire — and of the Lady Hilde. The girl had come from York on a visit to Winchester with her father, and stayed at Bishop Ethelwold's guesthouse, since the Palace no longer received women. Her name was Elgifu, and she was not quite fourteen — a gentle, pretty thing; modest, quiet, with chestnut curls, and a soft adoring gaze rather like that of Edward's favorite hound. He longed to fondle Elgifu, and though they were both shy he never stammered when he spoke to her. Dunstan was in Canterbury, and not available for advice, but Bishop Ethelwold whom Edward tentatively consulted was not averse to the thought of union between the two, except on the grounds of youth. The Earl of Yorkshire's daughter was suitable enough for the Enghsh King. The alliance would further cement to the throne, all of the Anglo-Danes.
Ethelwold added that he and Dunstan had considered marrying Edward to Britta — Alfhere's daughter — which move certainly might quell that insubordinate earl's renewed persecution of the monks. "But," said Ethelwold, eying the young King's start of alarmed disgust, "My lord Dunstan has already decided against that. Britta is too old and ugly, she is sickly like her mother. We doubt she would be a breeder. Were it not for that, I'd expect you to sacrifice inclination to duty. Dunstan is
more softhearted, and concerned for your happiness, even in this Hfe. So we will find some other way of defeating Alfhere and speak no more of Britta, nor even search amongst the Welsh or Scottish kings to find a bride for you. Since you haven chosen well enough for yourself."
Edward heaved a tremulous sigh. His round blue eyes lit up, he gave a boyish joyful laugh. "Thank you, my lord. With Elgifu b-beside me, I shall be a g-good ruler. I know it! My prayers are answered."
The happiness in Winchester did not extend sixty miles southwest into the Isle of Purbeck, where a great many other emotions centered around Alfrida at Corfe Castle. But not happiness.
For Rumon there was the dark, violent slavery of passion, often thwarted, since Alfrida was most sparing of her favors and insisted upon the maximum discretion. Consequently their trysts took place outdoors — in the forest, or the prehistoric rings deemed haunted by the Corfe villagers, or on the riverbank. He rebelled against these arrangements. Each time when her favorite and stupid housecarl, Wulfgar, appeared at Rumon's lodging with a scrawled summons from Alfrida, Rumon clenched his jaw and vowed he would not go. Yet each time he went. And was rewarded by the fragrant softness and the knowing wiles of her body. When the rapture had subsided, he would rebel again.
"Why must we meet like this, my love? Like loutish serfs afraid of their master! Why won't you wed me, so that I may share your bed in open decency? You say you love me. You give yourself to me as though you love me. Or is it I am such a fool I do not know?"
Always she soothed him, pressing her mouth on his, her naked breasts against his chest, murmuring in her sweetest voice, "Be patient, darling — yet a little while. Of course I love you, but be patient."
"Patient! Why must we wait and lurk in hedgerows?"
And she would answer sadly, her golden hair covering him like a cloak, her scented breath close to his ear, "You know why, Rumon. I cannot reconcile it with God and my conscience to wed so soon after Edgar's death. It would be heartless."
At first this silenced him, and he respected her scruples, while blaming himself bitterly for having led her into sin.
As time went by and her summons to the trysts grew fewer, he chafed mightily and yearned for her with an obsessive hunger he could not control. He and three servants lived in a house at the end of the village near Corfe common. Alfrida had maintained that her poor little castle on top of the hill lacked room to lodge him properly, and that the temptation to expose their love would be far greater if they were under the same roof. Also there might be moral detriment to little Ethelred. Rumon could not but agree, and admire her character even as he lusted for her body. So white and lovely and pure was she that despite that which was between them, he often thought of her with worship as he had in the Royal Chapel at Winches^ter.
By the Yuletide of 977, Rumon was frantic. He had not lain with her for a month, and then but for a hurried hour in a deserted shepherd's cot on the heath.
That tryst had not gone well. Alfrida was distracted, captious. Though he had covered a pile of straw with a bearskin, and lit a fire for her, she complained of cold. She drank several draughts from the wine flask he had brought, then said she was sleepy. When he put his hands gently on her breasts and started to kiss her, she pushed him away.
"Oh, Rumon — can you think of nothing else? Or at least a different —" Her voice trailed off and she smothered a yawn.
He stiffened, his hands dropped from her breasts. "I weary you, my love?" he said, and heard his own voice trembling, abject. "What can I do to please you?"
She threw him a quick speculative glance, and laughed. "Jesu! Don't look so woebegone! Here, go on — have done with it." She unfastened her girdle, and pulled off her gown.
He flinched, and the sign of desire left him. Nor, though now she smiled at him and mm*mured endearments, could he for some time regain it. The consummation when it came left him miserable and uncertain instead of triumphant.
After that and as usual Rumon saw her often at her castle but always amongst others of her entourage — her remaining ladies, Merewyn and Britta, her chapel priest, her housecarls. He went to the castle because the excuse for his dwelling at Corfe had been the tutoring and guardianship of Ethelred. Each day he conscientiously spent time with the boy. He took him riding in the forest or to the sea. He taught him hawking. He tried to teach him Latin, reading, writing. Ethelred enjoyed the outings, but he was no scholar. Lessons bored him. He fidgeted and spilled the ink. His long-lashed violet eyes stared mutinously and without the sKghtest comprehension at the alphabets Rumon drew for him.
Once in exasperation, Rumon switched him, and the boy ran howling to his mother who expressed her displeasure during their next tryst.
"You must not lay hands on my kingly son, Rumon. Such an act gives me doubts as to our marriage. I had not thought you cruel."
So much in thrall to her was Rumon that he humbly apologized. And though he was not fond of Ethelred, the boy's extraordinary Kkeness to Alfrida often tore at his heart. The same eyes, and purity of feature, the same curly golden hair, the same grace of movement. Moreover, he knew with some sympathy that Ethelred was often lonely. He was twelve now, and in little Corfe there were no companions of his rank and age. Indeed Corfe was a backwater, and Rumon had often dreamed plans for his beloved after they married. He would take her to his property in Somerset, build for her there a beautiful castle. Or they might travel together — see new lands. Ireland, he thought, instinctively choosing a land to the west, though the old pull towards these, and the visions of a Quest had long been
forgotten. Other Interests of his early life had also lapsed . . . reading, study, translations, had lost their savor. Even his harp hung untouched on the wall unless Alfrida commanded him to play at the castle.
During all the period of his enslavement he had but twice left the Isle of Purbeck and those were journeys to buy presents for his mistress. Once to Southampton where a Levantine ship had put in bearing damask, attar of roses, and the fine gold-threaded gauze she loved.
And later, he went to London. She needed a new comb which must be made of the smoothest walrus ivory, the handle carved with her name and a motif of crowns. She also wanted a new girdle clasp from France — gold, of course, enameled and studded with gems. London seemed the best place for Rumon to find goldsmiths and craftsmen able to fill these needs. He journeyed there eagerly, anxious to please her, proud of his ability to do so, saddened only by separation from her.
He was impressed by London — its Roman walls encircHng stately brick or marble Roman villas, crammed into the bustling city amongst new wooden Saxon houses. He might have enjoyed himself in the taverns where there was music and superb French wines, had he not been in such a fever to return to his enchantress.
Alfrida was delighted with his gifts, and for some time rewarded him by frequent trysts.
On this Christmas Eve in his lodging Rumon sat sadly by his empty table, his head in his hands remembering how fervently she had returned his lovemaking then, how their eyes had met secretly when she wore his girdle clasp in public, or combed her magnificent hair with his ivory comb. Yet this morning, when he went to fetch Ethelred for a ride in the forest, she had worn the clasp, but there was no message in her glance. She bade him a casual "Good day," then turned away.
If I got her another gift, he thought, a New Year's ofi^ering? A magnificent ring, perhaps? He pondered gloomily how this
might be arranged. There were no foreign ships in the harbors. The nearest skilled goldsmith was at Winchester. iMoreover, Rumon had spent most of his cash on the earher gifts. His Somerset property would have supported him well enough if he had lived there to supervise his reeve, his tenants and serfs. But from Corfe, he could not control laxness and dishonesty on his estate. Then there had been the famine last year and greatly decreased revenue. What could I sell? he thought, looking around his sparse httle Hall. It must be land then. Nothing else would provide a ring worthy of Alfrida. As he thought of her, he was seized by a spasm of yearning so sharp that he groaned.
At that moment the church bells rang out through the chilly twilight drizzle, and Rumon was suddenly reminded that this was his twenty-fourth birthday. I should go to Midnight Mass, he thought dully. I always did. Yet of what use to go to Mass, since he dared not go to confession to the village priest in Corfe, and therefore could not take Communion. Last Christmas he had ridden four miles to Wareham and confessed a vague tale of fornication to a hurried priest who did not know him and gave him a light penance. This year the trip seemed not worth the effort.
He got up and began to pace the rush-strewn floor. Alfrida took the Sacraments in her tiny private chapel. She had told him so, recounting with a wistful smile all the scoldings and penances she endured from her chapel priest for Rumon's sake.
He had felt horribly guilty and loved her the more, yet he could not forbear saying that these sins need not be. She had but to marry him.
To this she replied only by another sad smile.
He stopped pacing and listened in surprise to a distant commotion from the Castle end of the village — heavy thumps of galloping hoofs, and the long drawn-out blare of horns. Visitors? he thought. Or some Yuletide celebration? Would not this unusual hubbub provide an excuse for going to the Castle, even though Alfrida had said that Ethelred should have no