Merewyn drew in her breath and stared at her lap. Why would he want all those women in his bed? She didn't know, yet she was shocked. Neither man noticed her.
"Well," said Rumon, "kings always have special opportunities, but you speak as though this wenching was past. Why's that?" He was anxious to learn all he could of the Court he was bound for. He signaled to a servant and ordered an ale for the silversmith, who was gratified and answered promptly.
"Ah, they say he's right under the Queen's thumb — besotted by her. Also there's the Archbishop Dunstan. Strict in his views Dunstan is. That's why he wouldn't crown the King all these fourteen years he's been reigning, sort of penance for that early lust."
"Oh," said Rumon, thoughtfully, "But what's the Queen's name?"
"Aelfryth, or some such Saxon bungle they won't pronounce themselves, for I understand everyone calls her Alfrida."
"Latinized," said Rumon nodding. "Have you ever seen her?"
"Once," answered the silversmith, warmed by Rumon's ale, and quite ready to oblige since the young man had the dress and
manners of the well-born. Besides he spoke Cornish, and there was no danger of a touchy Englishman overhearing. "There's a royal mint at Lydford," said the silversmith," and I go there now and again to buy silver from the moneyer. That's where I saw Alfrida. Lydford was her home. She was born there, daughter of Ordgar, Earl of the Western Shires. Now her brother Lord Ordulf lives there. A great hulking mountain of a man, he is — most as big as that servant o' yours I saw going to the kitchen."
"And is Queen Alfrida a great mountain of a woman?"
The silversmith shook his head. "She's tall, maybe as high as you, sir, but she's slim like a hazel wand and has yellow hair to her knees. She's reckoned the most beautiful woman in England," he lowered his voice, " — and the most wicked."
"Indeed. What an interesting tribute. Just how has she earned the latter distinction?"
"Murders," whispered the silversmith with relish. "She's stopped at nothing to be queen. She was wed early to the East Anglian Earl Athelwold, but when King Edgar saw her — and they say she gave him a love potion — he had to have her. So he lured her husband to Wherwell Forest, and stuck a spear in the Earl. Then there was Eneda, poor duck, the King repudiated her and married Alfrida, but Dunstan he said the marriage was irregular as long as Eneda Uved, another reason he wouldn't crown the King properly. And this winter Eneda died. So you see . .."
"You suggest that Eneda was poisoned?" asked Rumon coldly. The judicial side of his nature made him view the silversmith's assertions with skepticism and by counterbalance he felt some sympathy for the slandered Alfrida, who was royalty, and therefore kin of his own. "Folk often die quite naturally, and it appears that Alfrida had no hand in her husband's death."
The silversmith looked offended. "She's a witch," he said, "and makes others do her bidding. I'm only repeating what I've heard. You asked me, and I can see you're not a Sawsnach —
SO I answered. Well, I must be off to m'smithy. The Lady Buryan at our castle has ordered brooches and buckles to wear at the coronation, for I'm the only able silversmith in Cornwall." The little man rose abruptly, and bowing, quit the inn. Rumon suddenly remembered Merewyn, who was plucking at a fold of her red cloak and frowning.
"Don't ever be worried by rumors and gossip," said Rumon kindly to her. "I'm sure we'll find that the Queen's wickedness is as exaggerated by report as is, no doubt, her beauty. And besides you'll have nothing to do with the royal family, I'm sure."
The next day, having forded the Tamar and entered England, they came into Lydford at noon.
Lydford, the seat of the Devonshire earls, was a straggling wooden village, surrounded by moorland streams, earthworks, and a palisade. It was dominated by its castle, built of stone and timber, perched high on a hill. From the topmost wooden turret there billowed a large green flag with a white horse embroidered on it, denoting that the King was in residence. The lanes and alleys at the foot of the castle were crammed with soldiers in chain mail and bright helmets. Rough shelters had been erected both inside and out of the earthworks for the accommodation of the court's overflow. There were even hastily built huts on the south bank of the Lyd. The air was filled with a constant din, such as Merewyn had never imagined; not only the raucous shouts of English soldiers, the lowing of oxen, the pealing of the church bell, the hawking of peddlers, but a clanging tooting racket near the church where some musicians were practicing on cymbals and trumpets. Rumon held his head high, and approached the castle bridge at a trot. Merewyn had slipped oflp the horse, suspecting that he would not want to be embarrassed at this important moment by the presence of a Cornish peasant girl, cHnging to him around the waist. She waited nervously behind across the castle ditch with Ca^' and Trig, and was for a time sufficiently busy preventing dog-
fights while Trig exchanged insults with the Lydford curs whicii rushed at him in all directions.
At the bridge the sentry indifferently challenged Rumon and as indifferently waved him into the castle when Rumon gave his name. Lord Ordulf perforce kept open house during the King's visit. In the paved courtyard there was a welter of merchants, housecarls, black-habited monks, and two richly dressed mounted thanes from other parts of Devon, who watched the mob superciliously. All were apparently waiting their turn to ascend the circular stone steps to the upper stories. Rumon paused uncertainly, looking for someone in authority, when there was a sudden hush. The milling crowd drew apart to form an aisle, and Rumon saw a smallish black figure slowly emerging from the bottom of the stairs.
All those not mounted fell to their knees.
Now who can this be, Rumon thought, startled by the tokens of respect around him — homage worthy of a king. Yet it was certainly not the King. This was a man in his sixties, clothed in the black Benedictine habit, yet with additions; a gold-embroidered cope fastened at the neck by a jeweled cross; a pearl-studded skullcap with two flaps half concealing a grizzled tonsure. He carried an elaborately carved ivory and silver T-headed staff on which he leaned heavily, hmping a trifle.
Rumon heard someone murmm* "Dunstan" and was enlightened. So here was the redoubtable Archbishop of Canterbury, who did not look redoubtable at all. He had ruddy cheeks, a snub nose slightly askew, and a vague benign gaze beneath bushy gray eyebrows.
The benign gaze, however, altered as the Archbishop paused in his progress and instantly perceived Rumon. The wrinkled lids parted and disclosed burning eyes sharply focused.
Ever watchful of his King's and country's interest, it was Dunstan's business to recognize and investigate any stranger. He advanced at once towards Rumon, held up two fingers in benediction, and said, "Christ's blessing on you, sir. I've not seen
you before." The voice was mellow yet most authoritative. So was the gesture that Dunstan made.
Rumon dismounted and knelt. The Archbishop extended a delicately molded hand, and Rumon duly kissed a huge amethyst ring on the forefinger.
"You may rise," said Dunstan, noting with surprise the grace of the stranger's gesture. The Archbishop had been laboring for years to instill proper ceremonial observance amongst the unruly earls and thanes of Edgar's court, and the results were still often disappointing.
"You are gently born?" said Dunstan, "And from overseas, I think?"
"Yes, my lord." Rumon pulled his Latin parchment from under his tunic and presented it.
Dunstan scanned it rapidly and was astonished. An atheling? he thought. A prince descended from the right line of Cerdic and of King Alfred? He didn't look it, he carried no sword, his mount was a plow horse, poorly harnessed, while the man himself was too dark complexioned to have Saxon blood, he thought, and though we've peace in the Daneland and Northumbria, yet who's to be sure of what those Norse heathens are up to overseas. Also passports may be forged or stolen.
Dunstan examined the young man, while Rumon reddened. It had never occurred to him that his word might be doubted.
Dunstan at last said sternly, "You have a retinue outside, sir? You have come for the coronation?"
"Neither, my lord," answered Rumon. "No retinue, and I knew nothing about the coronation. I was shipwrecked at the tip of Cornwall." He gave the Archbishop his shghtly rueful smile. "I swear by the Blessed Blood of Our Lord that my safe-conduct speaks the truth."
"Well —" said Dunstan. "That is a mighty oath but I've heard others like it which were false. There are some questions I wish to ask." He glanced at the kneeling figures who were
muttering and shifting, curious to hear what went on. "In here —" said the Archbishop, gesturing towards a doorway and preceding Rumon.
The door lead into a small guardroom, empty now since Ordulf's men were at dinner in the lower hall. The Archbishop shut the door and sat down on a bench. "Now—" he said twining his fingers around his crozier. "I'm an old man, and I've much experience in judging people. You have a frank face but so has many a villain. You must see that it is my duty to guard the King from impostors, or from any threat of danger. In eleven days Edgar will, at last, become the Lord's Anointed. He will receive Divine Sanction for the ruling of his realm. It will be the happiest moment of his life — and of mine. No untoward incident of any sort must mar it."
"I see that, my lord," said Rumon, "and I assure you that my only wish is to serve King Edgar, who is my cousin."
The Archbishop shrugged. "Tell me your tale from the beginning."
Rumon obeyed, starting slowly, stammering a little, then finding confidence. He told of his early years at Aries, then of those at Les Baux. Dunstan listened so carefully, never shifting his eyes, that Rumon said more than he meant to about his fears, about his hatred of battles and his distaste for wenching. He spoke of Vincent, the blind harpist, and even to his own astonishment mentioned the vision he had had at fifteen. Here Dunstan raised his eyebrows, and a different fight momentarily softened the steady gaze, but he said nothing. Rumon went on to tell of Edgive and her disappointment in him. Of her decision to send him to the English Court. Then Rumon told of his travels through the Frankish kingdom, of the winter in Brittany, of the shipwreck on the Lizard, and the uncouth heathen family there. Here Dunstan interrupted.
"Did you not try to convert them?"
Rumon shook his head. "They were animals, my lord."
"They have immortal souls," said Dunstan coldly. "But go on."
Rumon told of his wanderings, of his meeting with Merewyn, of his night at Poldu's monastery, though not of what Poldu had told him about Merewyn. His oath to the dying Breaca precluded that.
Rumon paused to moisten his lips, and the Archbishop said thoughtfully, "There have been none of those Viking pirate raids since Edgar started to reign. The Lord has protected us under his merciful wings. Glory be to God! And what you tell me of that so-called Cornish monastery is indeed disgraceful, yet reform takes time. The whole of England was as lax but recently." He recollected himself and concentrated on the young man he was investigating. "Continue."
Rumon went on to tell of Breaca's death, when suddenly his voice trembled, and he paused again.
"This poor Cornish woman's death moved you so much?" asked Dunstan dryly.
"When it happened, I had a vision." Rumon spoke with reluctance, nor did he describe the advent of the white pigeon.
Dunstan himself had had many visions, mostly prophetic, but he asked no questions. He waited.
Rumon then hastily described his unwilling guardianship of Merewyn, and the journey out of Cornwall. "That is all, my lord, we arrived here some two hoiu-s ago."
"Where is the girl now?"
"In the village with her slave and dog."
"And you indicate that she is as much a virgin as when she left her home in Padstow? You have not bedded her?"
"Holy Mother of God — no!" cried Rumon. "It never occurred to me."
A smile twitched the corners of the Archbishop's lips. "You seem to be quite an odd young man, and you tell a remarkable story. I still desire proofs. You claim an extraordinary educa-
tion. Can you read this?" Dunstan fished in the pocket of his habit and brought out a small exquisitely illuminated vellum book in Latin. "Can you read this prayer — which you certainly don't know since I wrote it myself."
Rumon read the indicated prayer in Latin.
"Now translate it into English."
Rumon did so,
"Now into French, and then Celtic."
Rumon obeyed, with a touch of complacence.
Dunstan nodded. On his journey to Rome to obtain the Archbishop's pallium from the Pope, he had perforce heard much French, while the Irish monks at Glastonbury had taught him some Celtic. "I believe your translations are correct," he said, "I congratulate you."
We indeed might use a man like this, he thought. Use him in the Church for which he obviously has a leaning. But the Archbishop was thorough, and none of this linguistic prowess was proof of the high birth the young man claimed.
Dunstan leaned forward. "When I was a child at Glastonbury, I saw the Queen Edgiva who you say is your grandmother. It was just before she sailed for France on her way to marry the bhnd King Louis of Aries. She had gone to take communion in our most sacred church in England — the little old wattle one built by Christ's angels for St. Joseph of Arima-thea, and dedicated to Our Lady. Do you know anything about what happened in the church that day?"
Rumon thought a moment. "I don't know what you mean, my lord. Except something my lady grandmother once told me as a — a bad example. While the Abbot was celebrating High Mass for her, and just as she was about to sip from the sacred chalice, a frog hopped through the door. It hopped up the chancel steps and hid itself beneath the Abbot's robes. My grandmother, who was very young, burst into laughter, even spilling the consecrated wine. The Abbot was shocked. He
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