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out a suitable heiress for him to marry, since he seemed to be so laggard in finding women for himself.
Edgive found several heiresses. Rumon was agreeable, he sang songs to them, he paid them compliments, he kissed their hands. Yet he did not fall in love, and he continued to make the extraordinary assertion that he did not wish to lie with a woman unless he loved her. He also continued to make the other more extraordinary assertion that he did not wish to kill anyone — even an enemy. He had the audacity to quote the sixth Commandment to his grandmother, and to the knights at Les Baux who were urging him to join them in arms against the Saracens. And Rumon followed up the commandment by quoting the Lord Jesus Christ's injunction to love one's enemies.
The knights were disgusted. They said that all that fiddle-faddle was well enough for saints, or might have been a thousand years ago, but the Lord Jesus would certainly be the first to command Christians to kill pagans. Rumon announced that he did not think so. The knights sneered at him, avoided him.
Queen Edgive was baffled and upset. Yet she loved Rumon deeply, perhaps all the more because of his calm almost sorrowful defiance of her wishes.
One day she summoned him to her chamber. They eyed each other in silence for a while. The dowager Queen was old. Her white face was deeply lined, beneath the golden crown her hair was gray and scanty, as it hung in two bound plaits across her bowed shoulders. Yet her eyes were still of a piercing blue — eyes accustomed to obedience. She stared at her grandson seeking to fathom him.
He was dark, fairly tall, rather slight of build as his father had been. His face was thin, though the lips were mobile and full. He was very pleasing when he smiled. Women liked him, they had all shown that — from the high-bom damsels she had provided, to the luscious peasant girls she had asked the Les Baux knights to tempt him with. He always dressed magnificently in
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velvets, gilded embroideries, and furs — as a prince should. He was extremely clean, even his fingernails. He insisted upon the servants hauling water for a daily bath. Another eccentricity which set him apart from others.
"Grandson," said Edgive at last, and in English which she used for grave moments. "I don't understand you." She closed her wrinkled lids, said with difficulty, "Surely it cannot be that you are the kind of man, who — who takes pleasure only in men — like the Comte de Toulouse."
Rumon shook his head, he gave her a tender smile. "No, my royal grandmother, I am not like the Comte de Toulouse, or any of those. Do not fear that. I cannot tell you what I am. Except that I have a great yearning to wander and to search, that this causes a fever in my breast, and dulls my interest in what most folk consider pleasures."
Edgive sighed. "I don't understand you," she repeated. "But if this is the way you are, then I have decided what you must do. No, you will not object again," she said as she saw him start. "For I give you leave to wander, at least I send you from here, sad as this makes me. You shall go to England, to my nephew. King Edgar. You demand peace — and his country is peaceful. An envoy, who came to me at Aries last month, says that England is the most peaceable land in the world at present. You will go to Edgar and give him my greetings.- Tell him that I miss my native country, that if I were not too old I might have come myself. Tell him that I pray him to find some occupation for you commensurate with your own royal birth. You have talents, I suppose, though they are not to me specially admirable. You can write, and draw, you have book learning, you have a quick ear for music and languages. Perhaps the peaceable Edgar can make use of you. And it may be that in England you will find what you seek."
Rumon was so astonished and relieved that for a moment he did not speak. Then he ran to her and kissed one of the blue-veined hands.
"Ah, my lady, my dearest grandmother. This plan of yours makes me happy. I have always longed to see England." England lay in the Western Sea. It was an island. He knew that in some mysterious way this island was tied into his vision, or at least was not antipathetic to it, as everything here had been. And he was heartily sick of Provence where he had no friends.
Rumon set out in September with two servants; they were all well mounted on fleet horses from the Camargue. There was a donkey too, which carried the luggage and sundry presents for King Edgar.
Edgive had not required him to hurry. She suggested that he see something of the countries he would pass through, and also — from her own vivid memories — implored him not to brave the wintry seas, to wait until spring before crossing them.
Edgive wept when they parted, and he was moved out of his youthful self-absorption into realizing how bitterly she would miss him, disappointing to her as he had been. They both knew that there was little chance of their ever meeting again.
In the chapel he knelt beside her in prayer, but could scarcely keep his mind on the prayers for looking at a little wooden image of a ship which hung near the altar. It contained the carved figures of the Three Maries and Martha, and their companions who had all fled from Judea after the Lord Jesus had been translated into Heaven, and the persecutions began. The boatload had miraculously landed on the shores of Provence. Rumon had himself carved the little figures of the Three Maries — Mary of Bethany, Martha's sister; Mary, the mother of St. John and St. James; and Mary Magdalene. A monk had carved Lazarus, Maximus, and Sara, the black servant. Rumon used to imagine himself in the boat with them on that sacred voyage. The legend of it always stirred him. He liked to think of such things.
When they finished praying, Edgive hid her sorrow under her usual sharpness. "So — farewell, Romieux de Provence! I shall
pray daily that you are not so great a worry to your cousin, King Edgar, as you have been to me!" He kissed her and mounted his horse.
For the first time in his life Rumon was at ease as he wandered north through the Franldsh kingdom, stopping at monasteries when the fancy took him. His safe conduct assured him a welcome. It had been illuminated on vellum by one of the monks at Aries and signed by his grandmother as "Edgiva Regina." At the monasteries they read the Latin script and were impressed by the arrival of a scion who descended from both Alfred of England and Charlemagne. Rumon stayed a week at Fleury-on-the-Loire, the great new Benedictine monastery. He was repelled by the strict Benedictine rule, yet fascinated by the tranquil radiance which emanated from many of the black-habited brethren. He had some pleasant talk with them, but no desire to join their order. The necessary vows of chastity, poverty, and obedience he found distasteful. Chaste he was, though had no intention of remaining so when he finally met a woman he could love, and he wanted children too — someday. Obedience he had attempted all his life with mediocre results. As for poverty, it held no charms whatsoever. Poverty went with dirt and shabby garments, both of which he abhorred.
Besides he had escaped from one sort of prisoft at Les Baux, and despite Edgive's fears, he had no wish to be imprisoned in a cloister. He relished his freedom, and like everyone with a keen observant mind he dehghted in travel.
In December Rumon reached Brittany, and was at once stimulated by this land so different from any he had known. The dark forests, the stone temples from the forgotten days before the Romans came, the costumes, the Celtic speech which at first he could not understand — all these were of interest.
On Christmas Eve, which was his twentieth birthday, he arrived at the monastery of St. Brieuc on the coast. It was snowing. The first snow Rumon had ever seen. Past the abbey church
the sea pounded against icy shores, black waves roared in and thundered down in cataracts of white.
Rumen thought of the heat, the sun-baked barren hills of his old home, a languorous heat, ripped through once in a while by a screaming wind — the Mistral, but otherwise of a glaring wearisome monotony.
Rumon stood for some time gazing exultantly at the sea, breathing in the snow-filled air. As though to share in his exultance, the Abbey bells began to peal. They rang to announce the last Mass before the midnight one which would celebrate the birth of Christ. The bells and the sea, thought Rumon, made a wondrous personal salutation to his own birthday. Edgive had ever deplored the date of Rumon's birth. It was bad luck to precede the Lord Jesus by a few hours. Discourteous. Such a birthday was known to invite the attention of demons, of witches and warlocks — all the dark ones who would presently be routed at midnight when the Holy Babe Himself was born. To this unfortunate birthday, Edgive attributed many of her grandson's peculiarities.
Rumon, of late years, had been inclined to think that his grandmother's superstitions were siEy. Yet some uneasiness remained, and he was always relieved when midnight came.
It would seem that ill luck was indeed his portion on this December 24th, for the monks of St. Brieuc would not receive him in their monastery.
Rumon and his attendants, the horses and the donkey were all tired, hungry, cold. Snow fell on them as they stood by the postern gate. A monk appeared, shrugged when he heard Rumon's mixture of Latin and the few Celtic words he knew, then vanished with the safe-conduct parchment to show it to his Abbot. The monk returned in a few minutes, gave back the parchment, shrugged again, clanged shut his heavy oaken door in Rumon's face, and shot an iron bolt inside.
"By the Three Maries!" cried Rumon, stunned and furious. "What ails these stupid Bretons!" He did not get the answer
that night. None of the village would unbar doors to his knock. In the end Rumon's party went supperless, drank some snow water, and spent the night shivering in a deserted bam.
Next morning Rumon rode to church, and assailed the Abbot after Mass. The Abbot was identifiable because he wore a pectoral cross, and because he held a kind of bishop's crozier, otherwise these bearded Celtic monks in shabby white robes were like none Rumon had seen.
"Reverend Father," said Rumon peremptorily in Latin. "Is it the custom in this land to turn hungry wayfarers from your door?"
The Abbot raised his grizzled eyebrows. "Your tone is rude," he said in halting rusty Latin. "And we do not hke foreigners."
"Did you read my parchment?" said Rumon, tilting his chin. "Did you see who I am?''^
"I read last night that you descend from an English king and a Prankish king. Both those nations have cruelly persecuted my race. And I see jjou: that even on this day of rejoicing for the birth of Our Lord you have no humility."
Rumon swallowed. He knew in a vague way that the Celts had been crowded west and farther west throughout the centuries. Pushed to this peninsula in France, pushed to Wales and Cornwall in England. But so accustomed was he to instant respect for his rank that the Abbot's resentment :amazed him.
"xMea culpa, Reverend Father," he said slowly. "I had not thought." And he smiled.
The Abbot's scowl gradually relaxed. "What are you doing in St. Brieuc?"
"I was told I might here find a ship to take us across the Channel to England."
"In this weather!" The Abbot gave a dry cackle. It had stopped snowing, but the northeast wind whistled by, and the breakers pounded below them.
"I have money," said Rumon, touching the heavy coin-filled
pouch under his tunic. "I can pay for our board until a ship does sail,"
"In that case," said the Abbot, suddenly twinkling, "come, join me at Christmas dinner."
As it turned out, no ship sailed until the first of April. The weather grew fierce. The north winds continued to pile icy waves into the harbor. The cargoes were not ready, either.
Rumon passed the time by learning Celtic and listening to legends of the saints which the monks would occasionally tell him. One evening he particularly wished to hear the story of his namesake — or what the Abbot soon decided was his namesake. "Romieux" was obviously only a barbaric form of Rumon or Ronan or even Ruan. So said the Abbot, who could not pronounce "Romieux." The first Rumon was a much revered saint in Brittany. He had come from Ireland centuries ago with St. Patrick. How many centuries? Nobody knew exactly. Five, six, maybe. About the time that King Arthur had crossed the Channel to save Brittany, as he had saved the Britons in England from the marauding Saxon heathens. Blessed King Arthur!
"Blessed King Arthur," repeated all the monks obediently in chorus.
Rumon bowed his head politely, though he was not interested in King Arthur. "Pray tell me about St. Rumon," he said, "since you consider me his namesake."
It was the recreation hour before Compline. The monks were gathered around the central fire in the refectory digesting a meal of rye bread and salt fish washed down with hard cider. Sleet hissed on the wooden shutters; now and then from nearby forests a hungry wolf howled.
The Abbot dozed in his chair, the monks crouched idly on stools; only the chamberer was busy mending a torn habit, squinting near the firelight. Rumon had already observed how much this order differed from the Benedictine abbey he had seen at Fleury. Here, beyond the Offices, and essential tasks of
wood-chopping and cooking, there seemed to be few disciplines. There was also boredom, especially in winter.
The old almoner was by general consent the best taleteller. Presently he cleared his throat and began the story of St. Rumon.
"It was in the days of Grallon, King of all Brittany," said the almoner and went on in a kind of chant, "that the holy Rumon came to us from the Western Isles of Scotia."
Rumon thought the long story of St. Rumon both naive and repellent. It had to do with werewolves and the Devil (here all the listeners crossed themselves), it had to do with a seductive, heathen woman called Keban who was justly smitten with leprosy after she had tried to murder St. Rumon. "And when he died," said the almoner, "his most holy body was put in a shrine at Quimper, where the blessed reHcs have cured many of their ills. May he intercede for us all!"
The almoner folded his hands to show that he had finished.