Beyond the church and up the hill Rumon saw what must be the monastery though it did not look like any ecclesiastical foundation he had ever seen, being nothing but a collection of various-sized huts inside a wooden fence. Outside the fence were fields green with flourishing crops of barley, leeks, and beans. Sheep were pastured nearby, the newborn lambs frolicking around their ewes. A score of beehives attested that the
monks were not short of honey, nor of the strong mead which was made from it.
As Rumon dismounted, he was amazed to hear feminine laughter, and a snatch of song which sounded extremely secular.
Nobody answered his call, so he tethered the horse and walked up to the largest hut, from whence the noise emerged.
The door was open to the mild spring dusk, and Rumon stuck his head into a smoky room, well lit by six tallow candles.
Several monks were lolling around a table, holding leather tankards and munching gustily on chicken legs and chops between drinks. There was also a woman, a buxom wench who leaned over the table giggling while she tickled the fat roll at the back of a stout monk's neck.
If they ivere monks. They certainly wore grayish-white robes, but their tonsures were extraordinary. Their hair was shaved back from the forehead to a line across the scalp above the ears, giving them a naked half-headed look. The fattest monk wore a round gold disk or breastplate on his chest. This marked him as the prior, and he started when Rumon cleared- his throat. All the others and the woman turned to stare.
"Who're you?'''' said the fat one, putting down his tankard and frowning.
Rumon held out his safe-conduct parchment. The monks all gazed at the illuminated vellum, the fat prior waved it away.
"How're we supposed to know what it says? We don't read." He shrugged and pursed his mouth above the double chins, then cried, "Oh, I know what you are, ye're a spy!"
"I'm not!" cried Rumon, taken aback. "What nonsense!"
"Oh yes, ye are. You've come from Wulfsige, that Saxon bishop they've foisted on us in Cornwall, or worse yet, you've been sent by that sour old meddlesome Dunstan. Fellow they made Archbishop of Canterbury — wherever that may be. Oh, we've heard all about it and been expecting some prying busybody to disturb us."
"Maybe so," said Rumon, smothering a laugh. "Someone may
indeed disturb you, for you seem to me a singular monastery. But I'm not the man. I come from the southern part of France, and am bound for England to see King Edgar."
The young woman had been staring openmouthed at Rumon. She now leaned forward and said to the fat monk, "I think he's honest. Papa Poldu. And maybe he's hungry."
Father Poldu gave her a pinch on the cheek and a playful slap on the buttock. "If you say so, m'dear," He turned to Rumon. "Sit down and eat. Me wife vouches for ye."
"Your wife . . ." repeated Rumon faintly.
"To be sure. Some of us are wed. We belong to the good old church, no matter how they try to Romanize us."
"Well . . ." said Rumon. He sat down and took a chicken breast from the heaped platter. Ecclesiastical squabbles and points of view were no concern of his. He ate and drank plentifully, while all the monks except Poldu, the prior, drifted from the table and out to their cells to sleep. They were a plump and incurious lot. Once having accepted Rumon as a chance wayfarer and no menace, they lost interest in him.
Presently Poldu's wife yawned and said, "I'm for bed. The stranger can share a pallet in Conan's hut. Tomorrow's the Feast of St. Petroc," she added to Rumon. " 'Twas the day he landed here in a silver bowl, or maybe the day he flew up to be man i' the moon. Anyway we have Masses 'n' dances wi' a hobbyhorse so fierce 'tis a treat to see, bonfires later on Pentire Head." She reverted to the prior. "Don't drink too much, Papa. Ye'U have a full day."
"I'll drink as I please, m'dear," said Poldu amiably, folding his hands on his belly. "Go along with ye."
Rumon was daunted by this domestic interchange, and uncertain how to begin on the tragic subject which had filled his mind upon his arrival.
"Reverend sir —" he said urgently, seeing that the monk's popeyes were watery and vague, while a flush had spread up
through the shaven scalp. "Reverend sir — were you here about fifteen years ago, when the Vikings landed at Padstow?"
Poldu slowly focused his wandering gaze on the visitor. "What d'ye know of that time?" he said. " 'Twas only a random raid from the north. They've not been back since."
"I know that at Tre-Uther most of the household was massacred."
"So 'twas," said Poldu, belching comfortably. "Too bad."
"You knew what was going on, but you hid in the church with the other monks?"
"We hid all right. What else could we do? No sense getting ourselves slaughtered. As it happened, the raiders never did come near the monastry, they crammed their ship with what they got from Tre-Uther, and after they killed Uther himself — they sailed away." Poldu waved a pudgy hand to show how the Vikings had departed. A massive silver ring twinkled on his forefinger. It caught the prior's attention. He began to shine the ring carefully on his sleeve.
Rumon, who loathed violence, and had glibly exhorted the Les Baux warriors to forgive their enemies, could not in justice rebuke Poldu's eminently reasonable attitude. He abandoned the subject of the long-past raid. "The woman, Breaca, is dying," he said. "She must be shriven. And the girl, Merewyn, needs Christian help."
"Have they asked f'r it?" The prior, having done rubbing his ring, began buffing his round gold breastplate.
"No," admitted Rumon. "Yet if you sent one of your monks there in charity, the girl at least would be grateful and might persuade her mother."
"Bah!" said the prior. "The woman's a witch, known to practice black magic. M'monks wouldn't go near her, nor would 1. Nor, young man, should your Poldu added, banging his tankard.
"But they are descendants of King Arthur!" cried Rumon,
remembering how the monks at St. Brieuc had reverenced the British king's name.
"Who is?" said Poldu impatiently. "Oh, I believe Uther made some such claim and our old prior, m'father, ye know — and I've got a son to be prior after me. A bouncy H'l lad he is too. Talks already. Why t'other day he —"
"To be sure," interrupted Rumon sharply, quelling paternal anecdote and accepting the oddness of hereditary priorship. "But what did your father think of Uther's claim? I've heard no menrion of Arthur's descendants."
"Oh, he had 'em all right. Foreigners wouldn't know. M'father always respected Uther. However, that doesn't apply to the women."
"Of course it does!" Rumon cried. "At least the girl has royal blood."
"Not a bit of it." The prior yawned and hiccuped. "The girl's a Viking brat. One of 'em raped the mother. The big red-bearded chief, I saw him doing it on the beach, while his men scurried round killing the serfs and hauling off the cattle."
"This is monstrous!" cried Rumon, after a stunned moment. "Now I know why Breaca said you would lie. You couldn't possibly know this."
"Mind your manners, young man. I do know this because I hadn't time to get to the church, I was up in a tree down there and watched the whole thing."
"No matter what you saw, or imagined, no matter what happened to that poor woman, you cannot possibly know that Merewyn is not Uther's child."
"Ye weary me," said the prior. "Yet I'm sorry for ye, since that witch must certainly have cast some spell. So I'll answer once more. The girl's not Uther's because he'd been on a four-month voyage, and got back just in time to be killed as he landed. That was in July, and Breaca's brat was bom the next April. If she was Uther's she was thirteen months i' the womb, an' that's against nature, m'lad."
"How do you know when Merewyn was born?" said Rumon, his voice wavering.
"Because m'father, the old prior, heard o' the birth from a fisher wife. He went to Tre-Uther and christened the httle bastard, though the mother was wild — shouted blasphemies, insults, and woulda done him harm had she been strong enough." Poldu chuckled. "Ah, I see ye've no more questions. Cheer up an' have a drink! Can ye sing any merry songs? I'm very fond o' music. Very, very, very fond!" caroled the prior, thumping out a rhythm with his tankard. "Fond o' riddles too. Here's a sly one . ..
What's sweet as flowers when it wishes Other times can stink like fishes?"
The prior leered across the table. "Come! A lusty young man 'Id be able to guess that!"
"I'd like to retire, Reverend Sir," said Rumon rising. "Kindly direct me to the hut where I may sleep."
Rumon left the monastery next morning, greatly regretting his promise to revisit Tre-Uther. He.had not only failed in his mission to get help for the women, but he had discovered the miserable secret that was probably responsible for Breaca's intermittent madness. Nor did he doubt its truth. Rumon had acute intuitions. The prior was fat, lazy, dissolute and heartless, but he was neither cunning nor devious. Besides there was Merewyn's appearance. The hair with its auburn tint, the blue-green eyes, the freckles and fair skin differed greatly from the dark Cornish.
He thought of her pride of descent from Arthur. He thought of the troubles she had endured, sustained partly by that pride. With all his heart he wished to be rid of the two women and their woeful predicament. They're nothing to me! he thought angrily. I can do nothing for them. What reason to see the girl again, especially now that she did not even possess the royal blood which Edgive's training had taught him always constituted
kin with other royalties, no matter how remote. I'll not stop by, he thought. The weather was still fine. He had received clear directions as to how to find Bodmin, the next town on the way to the English border. He was sick of delays, sick too of discomforts. He longed to reach the English Court where there would be intelligent people to talk with, and good music; there would also be servants and fresh clothes.
Cornwall had provided nothing except squalor and distressing problems. No, I'll not stop by, he thought.
But Merewyn was waiting on the road outside Tre-Uther. She ran up with a wave and a shy smile. "I was wondering when you'd get here!" She wore a clean brown frock. Her glossy hair was neatly braided. Her little face glowed with the pleasure of seeing him.
Rumon pulled up his horse and said, "Good morning," in a restrained tone which the girl did not notice.
"My mother's better," she said breathlessly. "The terrible pains went away in the night. She's most eager to see you again — I pray you come in," she added in surprise, as he hesitated. "I've made girdlecakes for you."
Rumon sighed and slowly dismounted. He followed Merewyn once more into Tre-Uther.
In the hall, Breaca was propped up in bed. Her face was much whiter than the homespun pillowcase, her (lark eyes were enormous. They gazed at Rumon with sad resignation and understanding.
"You've breakfasted?" she asked calmly. "At the monastery?"
He reddened, and nodded. "Then Merewyn's girdlecakes can wait." She addressed her daughter, "Go outside, child. Hunt for eggs. I heard the hens cackling. Don't come back until we call you."
The girl, looking puzzled, at once obeyed.
"Sit here," said Breaca, to Rumon, indicating a stool by the bed. "I've little time, you know. A few hours at most."
"But you're better, madame. Merewyn said the pains stopped." She shook her head. "My death is near. I believe I've waited for you to come. Nay, don't draw back. I understand you well. You meant to get help for us, and you found none. Isn't it so? x\nd then they told you," she paused, went on quietly, "about Merewyn's birth. Don't fear me now. The hatred burned out of me last night. And the madness which has been my bitter lot at times — it too has gone. Rumon!" cried Breaca, sitting up in bed. "The child must never know about her birth. Never know she was not Uther's!"
"No, madame," he said gently. "I hope she never knows." "Swear that you won't tell her. Swear on the crucifix!" "I?" he cried. "Why should / teU her! I'll never see her again." "Swear!" cried Breaca. "I command you to swear you'll never let anyone know she is not Uther's."
"Very well," said Rumon, thinking how little this mattered. "I swear it by the crucifix. Pray calm yourself." ''Kiss the cross," she cried. He did so, reluctantly. She sagged on the pillow. "I see I push you too fast, but I've so little time. You're going into England to see the English king. Why is that?"
"He is my cousin, madame. My grandmother, who is dowager Queen of Aries, has sent me to King Edgar."
She sighed as though satisfied, and was silent while she fought against the mounting weakness. At last she spoke in a thin whisper. "Uther's sister went to England — many years ago, before the — day — the Vikings came. She was a dear woman. She wanted to become a nun. She went to a nunnery called Shaft — Shaftesbury. Aye, that was it. Her name was Merewyn. I loved her. When the baby came I called her —"
Breaca's face contorted, under the sheet her heart began to pound visibly. Rumon jumped up and seeing a jug on the table, poured out a cup of ale. She moistened her lips and pressed her hand hard against her chest.
"You will take my Merewyn into England with you," she said in a stronger voice. "Take her to her aunt, for there is nothing else to do."
It was a command, not a request, and Rumon's dismay was such that he could not speak.
"You are young and free," said Breaca, watching him. "You do not wish to be encumbered by anything. And yet you have a good heart, which fights always that selfish, restless side of you. Your heart must win this time. Take Merewyn away from here, bring her to her aunt, who I feel is still alive. It is not much to ask."
Yet he was silent, and she twisted herself around to look up at the crucifix. "For the love of God, and Our Lord, Jesus Christ — have mercy now, Rumon," she said. "I have hitherto known no mercy."
Rumon lowered his head and crossed himself, and yet he could not give assent. Why should he take responsibility for a girl he had met but yesterday, a girl scarcely more than a child? How was he to find an aunt — somewhere in England called Shaftesbury — or beHeve that such an aunt still lived, despite Breaca's fey assurance. How true it was that he did not wish to be encumbered with any other human being. And what was really in Breaca's mind? Did she wish to trap him, by desire — by propinquity — into an association with her daughter which would ensure Merewyn's future? He thought of Edgive's efforts to lure him with heiresses. But they had been girls of noble birth, while this poor little misbegotten thing, the fruit of sickening violence and a half-mad Cornish woman — what had he to do with her?