"I would/ cried Rumon from his heart. "Of late I've even dreamed she was my wife."
"Uhm-m —" said the Archbishop, and was silent a long time before he spoke.
"Many things are shown to us in dreams. She is an excellent and Christian girl, no matter what her birth. I understand how THAT deters you, for arrogance, Rumon, and an excessive squeamishness are faults of yours. But since you have at last come to appreciate Merewyn, I think you should marry her. After all, nobody in England but you and me will know the facts. This is not a sinful deception, it is the very spirit of the vow you took to Breaca, and were rewarded by a vision, were you not?"
"Yes," said Rumon, "but no visions have been granted me in years. My lord —" he added, his eyes grew brilliant, his face suddenly young and eager, "then you really think I should wed her? But she's gone. She was very angry with me. She may not want me anymore."
"Follow her," said Dunstan. "And find out. Aye, and you
shall have a mission to Padstow which accords very well with my plans. Reports on that deplorable priory there are most unsatisfactory, and the Bishop of Crediton is lax and won't bestir himself. I shall send you with Brother Finian to make a personal inspection. I believe that reprobate Poldu is still prior, but even this is unclear. You will be able to travel faster than Merewyn, and will soon catch up with her. At any rate you must forestall any contact between her and the priory."
Rumon nodded joyfuUy. "Danger that Poldu would tell her what he told me? — though I don't think Merewyn would believe him. She was too much impressed by her mother's hatred of those monks and their 'Hes.' "
"So now you look happy —" said Dunstan smiling. It pleased him to bestow happiness, of which there was so Httle on this earth. God's will, of course — and suffering for sins was man's lot — but surely Rumon had expiated his sins by now, and human love was acceptable in God's sight. There were some who could not truly understand divine love, or worship, without the aid of human love. They went into an arid state of outward conformity — and nothing more. As Rumon had.
"Pray in the Old Church, my son," said Dunstan. "Pray that Our Blessed Lady will smile upon your mission.*'
Rumon and Brother Finian set out the following dawn for the West. They rode on exceptionally fleet and sturdy horses — Rumon's own stallion, and the Abbot of Glastonbury's best gelding.
Rumon was dressed according to his rank, but Dunstan who supervised every detail, had ordered that he wear beneath his tunic a suit of very fine chain mail, and that he carry a dagger as well as a sword. The country in general had grown lawless since King Edgar's death, moreover there were rumors of a Viking raid near Bristol. As for Finian, he could not of course bear arms, but he had a formidable eating knife in his saddlebag, and his black habit should protect him in all Christian places.
Rumon obeyed Dunstan only from courtesy. He had no thought of danger, in fact now that he permitted himself to, he thought only of Merewyn, and enjoyed a feeling of certainty that despite her head start of a day, they would very soon find her.
As the two men left Street and began trotting along a causeway, Rumon burst into a Provencal love song. The Irish monk laughed.
"I'm wondering would these merry spirits be entirely from the hope o' seeing your young woman, or maybe part from the journey itself — which pleasure I share wi' ye."
Rumon smiled. "It is good to be headed west again. Since my childhood, I've had a yearning towards the west, and visions of a magic place out there in the pathless sea or beyond it. It was foolish of me."
"I'm not so sure," said Finian slapping a horsefly off his gelding's neck. "Have ye not read St. Brendan's 'Navigatio'? We've a copy at Glastonbury. He set out from Ireland for the Isle of the Blest, and found many marvels on the way."
"Yes," said Rumon laughing. "Too marvelous! Like lighting a fire on the back of that friendly whale who kindly appeared each Easter so that Brendan and his monks might dine on top of him."
Finian snorted. "There's naught impossible to the real saint, remember that, especially an Irish one! And 'tis not only Brendan who voyaged out to wonderful lands. Our Culdees have gone westward ever westward for centuries, fleeing from those Norse heathen, until they reached a country beyond the sea — may God have preserved them."
"How do you know this?" asked Rumon, interested and skeptical.
"Sure and how does a body know anything? 'Tis handed down from father to son, and so on backwards through the years. The priest who taught me in Connemara, he knew much about the wanderings o' the poor Culdees. Moreover if ye
have 'the sight' and many have it in Ireland, ye'll know things wi'out the need o' being told."
Rumon digested this in silence, half agreeing.
"What exactly are Culdees?" he asked.
"Celi De, 'Servants o' God,' a sect we had in Ireland, white monks who felt called to become hermits in the dark unknown lands, but they were men o' peace. I'm bound to admit they left Ireland, because o' certain disagreements. That was a long time ago, m' son, in the time o' me great-great-grandfather, I believe."
"I see," said Rumon. "Well, unless they actually found that Blessed Island, there'll be nothing left of them in this world now."
"Loikely not," said Finian shrugging. "I spy a fine shade tree yonder, me belly's growling, and I wish to sample the bread 'n' cheese the Cellarer sent wi' us."
On the third day they crossed Dartmoor by the usual western trackway, the remains of the Roman road — having suffered several delays and annoyances. Finian's gelding went lame from a sharp stone wedged in its hoof, nor was cured until they found a smithy at Exeter. Then Dartmoor treated them to one of its sudden mists; they lost the increasingly muddy track and had to wait until the mist lifted. Then the bridge over the West Dart had crumbled during the winter, the river was in spate and the horses seemed as incapable of swimming it as were their riders. They searched a long way upstream before they managed to struggle through a ford.
They were a weary hungry pair when they finally got to Tavistock in the dusk, and heard the Abbey bell ringing for Compline.
"Ha, 'tis a welcome sight," said Finian of the large new Abbey, which had recently been finished by Lord Ordulf — Alfrida's brother. Ordulf, Devonshire's richest nobleman, had skimped neither time nor money in finishing the Abbey as his dead father, Earl Ordgar, had wished. The church, the separate
bell tower, and all the monastic dependencies were unusually large — built from massive oaken timbers, painted white. This shining whiteness gave the whole Abbey an effect of light and purity, and startled Rumon pleasurably. " 'Tis like the floating City of God," he said. " 'Tis like no Abbey I've ever seen." He felt a flash of kinship with this Abbey, of serenity he had never known at Glastonbury. He listened to the mellowness of the bell, which mingled with the rushing gurgle of the Tavy as they crossed the bridge, and because all his inner thoughts were now centered on Merewyn, he at once decided that he would find her here, at the guesthouse.
Inquiries along the way had produced no news of her, but despite their own delays, she could scarcely have come further than this — the only logical stop on the way into Cornwall.
"We'll find her here," he said exultantly to Finian. "I'm sure of it."
The emotion in Rumon's voice caused the monk to give him a quizzical glance. "I hope so, m'son," he said, "and I observe that ye've really fallen in love wi' her at last. M'self — shall be glad o' meat, drink and a bed. But then our wants are different."
They entered the cluster of white buildings, and Finian presented their credentials to the porter. It turned out that Lord Ordulf was here, that indeed — though he was not in orders — he acted more or less as Abbot for his foundation. An irregularity which Finian noted as something to be reported to the Archbishop; though there were precedents.
Both were invited to sup with Lord Ordulf and they were directed to the hostel.
The hosteller, a pleasant, apple-cheeked young monk named Lyfing, greeted them warmly, said he was glad to see someone from the outer world, and at once produced bread and beer for them. Finian murmured a blessing and downed the beer.
Rumon, however, stared at Brother Lyfing, and said slowly, "Have you had no guests lately? Hasn't a young woman come here with two servants?"
"Haven't seen a woman in months," said Lyfing cheerfully. "Barring his lordship's Lady Albina, and it was last Yuletide she paid us a visit. Why would women be traveling through? There's naught beyond here but Cornwall."
"This one was going into Cornwall," said Rumon, and his voice dragged. "I'm trying to find her, and I was sure she'd come through here. How else could she go?"
"I don't know, my lord," said the young monk. "This is the only good way west, but she might not know about Tavistock — or indeed she might be lost on the moor. The Devil has raised more mists than usual this spring."
Finian was cutting off a slice of bread with his own knife, but he looked up and said to Rumon, "Did ye not tell me that when ye two came from Cornwall years ago, ye went to Lydford? She'd know that. Could she've gone back there?"
"To be sure, she might!" cried Rumon, clutching again at hope. "We never came near Tavistock before. We went straight from Lydford to Bath. She must have gone there." He refused to consider the possibility of Merewyn lost on the moors. Or the possibility that he might not find her nearby. With each delay his love grew more compelling.
"His reverend lordship would know if the lady went to Lydford," said the young monk. "He was back there at the castle yesterday."
But when they got to the Abbot's lodgings, and were kindly received by Ordulf, Rumon was again disappointed.
The huge blond Thane was fifty now and had grown very stout. He sat them down at once to a supper of capons, roast beef, and wine; he asked a few desultory questions about their journey; he was eager to talk about Tavistock, and proud of his achievements here; but he knew nothing of Merewyn whom he had some difficulty in remembering. "She wasn't at Lydford yesterday," he said, signaling to his table carl for more wine. "I'd've heard at once. She'd go to the castle of course."
"Yes-s —" said Rumon, for where else in Lydford would she
go for hospitality? It never occurred to him that Lydford Castle's connection with Alfrida — whom Merewyn had first met there — might be a deterrent. And so unreal now seemed his own passion for Alfrida that this meeting with her brother did not disturb him. He thought only of finding Merewyn.
"It could be —" he said, "that travehng as slowly as she must, she has not yet arrived. We've somehow passed her."
"Indeed," agreed Ordulf, gnawing gustily on a capon thigh. "There've been mists on the moor. You'd better wait a day or so. I'll send a churl to Lydford Gate, in case she comes there, and it'll be my pleasure to keep you two here as guests, case she comes here. Are you not surprised at the fineness of my Abbey?" he asked, reverting to his favorite topic, and dismissing this boring chase after a woman. For Ordulf, the hot pursuit of any woman was long past. He was contented enough with his lethargic wife, Lady Albina — when he saw her. Life outside of Devon, and particularly Tavistock, never captured his interest. He knew, of course, that Lord Rumon — this dark intense young man — had once been embroiled with Alfrida, who had thrown him over when in some way best forgotten young Ethelred ascended the throne. Well, all that was far away and finished. Ordulf did not concern himself with the behavior of his ambitious sister, nor even of his nephew young Ethelred. It was agreeable to be uncle to the King, no doubt, but neither he nor Albina bestirred themselves to go to Court. The overlordship of Devonshire; the reeveship of Cornwall — which he never visited — these were public duties enough. For the rest, eating, drinking, occasional hospitality and the ov^ership of this Abbey, as his father had envisioned it, satisfied him.
"Och, and 'tis a splendid Abbey, m'lord," said Finian as Rumon did not speak. " 'Tis dedicated to Our Saviour, an' His Blessed Virgin Mother, isn't it? Sure, it must've been Our Lady Herself inspired ye to paint it white. Ye must be touched wi' grace."
Ordulf nodded, his mild blue eyes shining. "My father was.
It was his idea. Took tons of wiiitewash too. But wait'll you see the inside of the church. We've pictures on the walls — angels, saints, the Holy Family as big as life. I sent clear to Rome for a painter fellow who could do 'em."
Ordulf continued to talk about his Abbey, while Rumon struggled with indecision. Was Merewyn really behind them? Should they lose further time by waiting, in case she weren't? Why should he have a sudden foreboding of disaster when he had been so confident two hours ago? "Have you sent your man to Lydford, my lord?" he suddenly interrupted the ponderous catalogue of Tavistock's attractions and the precious relics enshrined beneath the altar.
"To Lydford? "said Ordulf gaping. "Whatman? What for?"
"To see if the Lady Merewyn has come there." Rumon tightened his jaw. "Never mind, I'll go myself. Pray give me a guide."
Ordulf slowly adjusted his mind to this request, and found it erratic. "But 'twill be deep night when you get there," he objected. "Eight miles or more. You can go in the morning."
Finian chuckled, his sharp gaze on Rumon's flushed, anxious face. "Let him go, m'lord. I've oft observed ye can't argue wi' a man in love. They've no more sense than puppies. I'll keep a look-out at the hostel here," he added smiling to Rumon, "but remember, there's no cause for this mad haste. A day or tM^o won't matter either way."
These sage words echoed in Rumon's head as he galloped along the trackway north, accompanied by a carl of Ordulf's who grumbled and cursed as loud as he dared. It was indeed dark when they got to Lydford, and Rumon made himself thoroughly unpopular by immediately starting inquiries from householders who had long since retired. Had anyone seen a young woman and tu'o servants? Nobody had. Nor had they at the castle when the sleepy porter finally succumbed to a bribe and disturbed the slumbers of Lady Albina.
"You mean the girl descended from that old British King who
was here some years ago?" she asked, yawning and clutching a purple gown around her ample figure. "Whatever made you think she'd be here?"
Whatever indeed? thought Rumon suddenly aware of the folly of this trip. He apologized to Lady Albina, accepted a bench in the Hall for two hours' sleep, then prodded up his outraged guide for the journey back to Tavistock. He arrived there at six, while the thrushes sang and the dew lay glistening on the lavish Abbey gardens. He heard the monks chanting Prime inside the church, and entered. After he did so he had two separate and vivid impressions.
The first was that Merewyn was there. He thought he saw her kneeling at one corner of the south transept, her face upturned to the High Altar. She looked older, thinner than when he had seen her last on the Tor, she was garbed in something dark green and he felt that she had suffered. He stared for a moment, his heart melting with relief, love, pity. Then the figure rose and resolved itself into a black-cowled monk.
Rumon blinked and knelt down hard, on the prie-dieu. Am I going mad? he thought. I was sure that was Merewyn. Am I bewitched? He shivered, aware that he felt very odd, as another impression seized on him. The beauty of the church itself. The walls sparkled with color, fresh, vivid and at that moment to Rumon magical as well. He gazed at the fresco of Our Lady. She was garlanded with roses, her blue gown was translucent. She seemed to smile and beckon. The other figures grouped along the walls, and the Calvary over the altar all pulsated with life. Then his eyes were drawn upward to a silver dove with crystal eyes. It hung by plaited flaxen threads two feet in front of the High Altar. It hovered there swaying gently in the breeze which came through the open windows, and from its outstretched wings there radiated a benediction. This is where I belong, Rumon thought. He bowed his head, and at once the mystical feehng vanished. He looked up and saw a large, well proportioned church with well-drawn frescoes and an expensive
silver emblem of the Holy Ghost strung overhead. How had that oxlike Ordulf even with money, luck, and a high degree of filial piety managed to achieve so much? Well, the ways of Providence were inscrutable — and actually this wooden Abbey, impressive as it was, could not hold a candle to Dunstan's stone creation at Glastonbury.
Rumon hurried out of the church and to the hostel, where there was no news of Merewyn.
All the remnants of exaltation vanished. He discovered that he was bone-weary, but he had emerged from the marshes of indecision. "We'll travel on today," he said to Finian. "Either wait for her at Padstow or find her there."
"As ye loike, m'lord," said Finian sighing. "I'm comfortable here, but've long since learned that comfort is seldom the Lord's wish for us. So off into Corn'll, and may St. Christopher keep an eye on us — and your young lady," he added as an afterthought. "By the bye — there's been rumor of another Viking raid on the Avon. Brother Lyfing heard it from a Somerset trader, who came here wi' venison last night for the Abbey — poached n' doubt."
Rumon shrugged. "The Norse pirates have come and gone for a century, hke bleeding comets, like crop failures, Uke the plague — but all of these pass."
Finian screwed up his long-hpped ugly face, one that sometimes reminded Rumon of the intelligent ape the Lord of Les Baux had kept for his own amusement in Provence.
"Everything mortal does pass," Finian said solemnly, "but ye may find someday that there's something beyond mortal worth fighting for, even it might be — the love o' a woman. Which I've never known, excepting for me ould mother in Connemara. Ye're a restless man, m'lord, an' I pray for ye. For ye're not all o' a piece. Ye want this woman now. Whilst back ye wanted another woman. An' all the time beneath, ye've a hankering for Avalon."
"Avalon?" said Rumon, astonished and a bit annoyed at the tone of criticism. "What do you mean by Avalon?"
" 'Tir nan og' the Irish call it — 'tis all the same. The fairy islands o' the Blest. We've talked o' them before. I'm something drunk, m'son. Lord Ordulf's wine is good an' I had a flagon to breakfast wi' him. Well — never mind this now. I must go to the W'est — 'tis the Lord Archbishop's orders. An' ye're on fire to go. So we go. God alone knows what 'ill come 0' it."
chapteR nme
Rum ON and Finian entered Cornwall at Launceton, since there was no southern way to cross the river Tamar, which was in spate like the Tavy, nor could a horSe ferry be found. At Launceton there was a bridge. There was also the Castle Inn which Rumon remembered well from his previous journey with Merewyn. And here at last, Rumon got news of her. As he ate he spied the same long-nosed silversmith they had met eight years ago. Rumon approached the man, greeted him, offered another flagon of ale and hopefully asked his question in Cornish — or at least the approximation to Cornish which he could remember.
"To be sure," said the silversmith, appreciatively guzzling his drink. "There was a woman through here two days ago, and now you remind me, I suppose she was the girl with you before. / never thought of it, but I remember you. You were going to King Edward's Court at Lydford." The silversmith sighed. "By St. Neot, I wish we had Edgar back."
"Yes," said Rumon, "but what of the woman?" "Oh, she didn't linger, just long enough for her and the giant serf and another man to eat and drink. Great hurry she was in.
like she was running away from something. The Sawsnach complained she kept 'em walking all day and most the night. I couldn't understand him well, but I gathered he had to do her orders. Good looking wench," added the silversmith reflectively, "though I like 'em darker and smaller myself."
Rumon, elated, went back to Finian. "Only two days ahead of us and we've barely two more till Padstow. She'll be there all right."
"No doubt," said the monk, and belched crossly. The Cornish pasty he had just sampled was loaded with rancid grease. "Must have iron stomachs down here," he said, but Rumon was already outside telling the ostler to saddle the horses.
From then on they made good time. The tracks were dry on Bodmin Moor, and Rumon waved a jubilant hand towards the hill called Brown Willy, thinking how recently Merewyn must have passed by here, and that she must have remembered how they had once seen it together, while he remembered the delicate pressure of her arms around his waist as she had ridden pillion behind him. Yet at the time he had scarcely noticed that. How strange; when now he so longed for her nearness. What a senseless young gawk I was, he thought.
The late afternoon sun was still bright when they came to the broad estuary of the Camel River, and looked down it northward towards the sea. There seemed to be a bluish haze ahead of them; Finian pulled up his gelding, frowned and sniffed the air. "Smells like smoke," he said.
Rumon shrugged. "Somebody's lit a bonfire. What's the date? They've a lot of pagan customs here. Light fires, dance the old dances with a hobbyhorse, jump over wishing wells . . ."
Finian gave a snort. "Dare say they do. But as near as I can figure, it's Tuesday, June second, which doesn't celebrate any Christian event I know of. — Now, what 'Id that be?" He pointed to a thicket where something moved, and two dark eyes peered out. "'Tis a child," he said. "Come here, Uttle one!"
But the child would not move until Rumon spoke to her in
Cornish. Then a frightened small girl emerged gingerly. "Are you more of them?" she whispered, hanging on to a branch and staring from the monk to Rumon who said, "What's the matter?"
She pointed down the Camel and gabbled something, whereupon Rumon flinched.
"What's she saying?" cried Finian. "It sounds like trouble — like *anken,' we've much the same word in Ireland."
"It is trouble, I think," said Rumon. Spurring his stallion he galloped ahead down the river road.
Finian followed, while the little girl scampered back into the thicket.
The acrid smell of smoke grew stronger as they neared Tre-Uther, and soon they came upon the site of the house. The thatch had fallen down amongst the slates, and still smoldered. "Merewyn!" Rumon cried, though he could see that there was nobody in or near the burned house. "I suppose the thatch caught fire," he said to Finian, as calmly as he could. "She'll have taken refuge in the village, or even the monastery."
"I hope so, my son," said Finian, and crossed himself. "There's more smoke ahead. I'm beginning to wonder has there been a Viking raid."
"Impossible!" cried Rumon with the fury of fear. "Don't be a fool!"
"There was one before."
"Twenty and more years ago!" Rumon cried.
They continued towards the village and looking below saw several heaps of smoking rubble, and no sign of hfe. "The church," said Rumon. "The church is granite, it wouldn't burn, they must be there."
They turned up the hill towards the church of St. Petroc. The horses had been increasingly restive, and as they neared the churchyard Rumon's stallion reared, nearly unseating its rider, then stood trembling, while the gelding balked.
They soon saw why. There were two bodies lying beside the road. One was Caw, his cudgel and knife still clenched in his
hands. Rumon knew the gigantic figure for Caw, even though the skull was split down to the hairy black chin. A cloud of gnats circled the mess of bloody brains. The other man had not been treated so roughly, though he lay in a red pool which oozed from a chest wound. He still made gurgling sounds. Rumon, so horrified that he trembled like his staUion, recognized the Bishop of Winchester's badge on the man's sleeve.
Finian jumped ofiF his horse, which promptly bolted, and kneehng by Goda, held up his crucifix and began prayers for the dying. The glazed eyes responded for a moment. "I did me best," he gasped, and tried to kiss the crucifix Finian held to the gray lips.
Rumon had already sUd oif his stallion, which streaked down the road after the gelding. "Merewyn! The Lady Merewyn, where is she?" Rumon cried. But there was no reply. Goda gave a last gasp; his eyeballs rolled upward. He was still.
"Doux Jesu, Doux Jesu," Rumon whispered over and over, staring down at the second corpse.
Finian closed the eyelids, murmured a prayer, then said firmly, "Now we'll go to the church, and mind ye, m'lord, whatever we find'll be God's Will. Cc7«^," he added, taking Rumon's arm. "Have ye never before seen a man die? I've seen hundreds."
"Not hke this," said Rumon. "Not like this..."
"Don't brood on it." Finian propelled Rumon up the hill. "Plenty o' martyrs've died loike this, an' loike that other poor lad," he indicated Caw. " 'Twill shorten their purgatory, I don't say they were martyrs f'r the faith exactly, but they did die doing their duty, and that's heavily counted in their favor." He continued to talk in a calm, reasonable voice, though he noted that there was more smoke far up the hill where he guessed that the monastery had been, and he tried to ignore the question of Merewyn, for if she too were found with her skull spHt he suspected what would happen to Lord Rumon. Madness. That sensitive artistic mind would never keep its balance under such
horror. May Our Lord have mercy—thought Finian — and there's nobody in the church either. The carved wooden door had been wrenched from its hinges and carried off. Sunlight flooded through the door hole, and one could see that there was nothing inside. Except the bare altar.
The monk and Rumon walked in silently. The latter was still shaking as though he had an ague, while Finian clenched his hand around his crucifix.
"Look!" said Finian pointing to the floor, where a small square stone had obviously been moved. On it was scratched a crude "Merwinna." "She got the heart buried," said Finian, "anyway." Rumon stared down at the stone.
"But there is someone here!" Finian cried with forced heartiness and pointed to a fat white shape which was hunched on a tombstone in the cemetery. "At least he's alive." For the figure was rocking back and forth, its queerly tonsured head held in its hands.
Rumon looked and said in a thin voice, "It's Poldu, the prior."
"Ah —" said Finian. He walked over to the rocking figure and put a gentle hand on the grayish-white cloth shoulder. "Are ye hurt. Brother?"
Poldu started, he shrank, and then seeing the black-robed Benedictine, he moaned and began sobbing. "They took m'sil-ver ring, 'n' m'gold brooch."