by Anya Seton
"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, wh
o 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.
The Abbot nodded slowly. "A most edifying account." He turned to Rumon. "You will see from this history of St. Rumon how dangerous women can be, my son. Profit by the lesson."
"Yes, Reverend Father," answered the guest. Yet he had not found the tale edifying. He found it puzzling. If the woman had been possessed by the Devil, if indeed she were mad, as it sounded, and if the saint could work miracles, why could he not have routed the Devil, have converted her, and 'spared her the loathsome affliction of leprosy? Was then the Lord's injunction to love one's enemies, to turn the other cheek, as stupidly impractical as Edgive beheved? Yet, to be sure, murder must be punished. Keban had tried to do murder. Did the Lord Jesus any^vhere say that murder must not be punished? Aye, He had said it on the Cross. 'Tather, forgive them—" Yet was that the same, was it not blasphemy to think so?
Rumon's mind buzzed with questions. The crowded refectory was stifling; he escaped and went riding in the chill twilight.
That night he dreamed about a beautiful naked woman. He knew she was naked though her yellow hair fell around her
shoulders like a mantle. Ivory and gold she was except for rosy nipples on the round uptilted breasts. He could not quite see her eyes, yet knew that they were looking at him with desire and defiance. A strange expression. Rumon felt a thrill of excitement in his dream.
There was cruelty in the woman's face, in the set of the short, square jaw, the outthrust lower lip which disclosed ever so slightly the white teeth behind. Cruelty, power, and an immense allure. She continued to look at him unsmiling, arching her neck, thrusting forward her breasts. He moved toward her fascinated, and saw that she held low down against her side a small jeweled dagger. From its point, blood dripped steadily. When he saw the dagger Rumon was afraid, yet he could not stop going towards her, his hands outstretched as though to cup her breasts.
From somewhere there came a peal of laughter, a harsh, malicious sound which awakened Rumon, who found that he was sweating, and much disturbed. It was the first time that he had felt lust in life or dreams, and it was the first time since his childhood that he had felt such fear.
Too much strong cider, he thought as the impression faded. And perhaps that gruesome story of Keban. Yet he knew that the dream had nothing to do with Keban. Though it undoubtedly came from the Devil. Rumon shivered, and touched the golden crucifix which hung at his neck. "Libera nos, Domine, ab omnibus malis —" he murmured, and rising hastily from the fine-sheeted feather bed the monks had provided for his comfort, he strode into the chapel.
Rumon's jaded old horse stumbled as it plodded along the path towards Padstow. Merewyn clutched hard on Rumon's waist as he jerked the bridle up. "Ai-ee-e," she cried. "It will fall?" She had never ridden a horse before. She did not like it much. She was not exactly afraid of this great beast, not if the Stranger were there, and in all this adventure there was a kind of excitement, yet she knew that the man who was called Romieux de
Provence — a meaningless jumble of syllables — was not in the least aware of her.
"I won't let it fall," said Rumon kindly as to a child, which he thought she was — a very young gawky peasant girl. "How much farther have we to go?"
She considered the landmarks, the broadening of the Camel on their right, the squat thatches in a palisade, which she had gone to visit alone some years ago, and her mother had been angry. Breaca never wanted Merewyn to explore anywhere except on the empty headland of Pentire.
"More on," said Merewyn. "Not very far, to my home at Tre-Uther."
Rumon sighed. He did not care about her home, wherever it was. The monastery she had mentioned was the only hope for a night's sleep — and a meal. Though what hospitality there was in Cornwall, he had so far found very peculiar.
"Move this way a little," said Rumon, indicating the middle of the horse's rump, "I don't suppose you weigh much, but still a double load for this old nag . , ."
It took her a moment to understand his meaning in the oddly accented Celtic. "I can walk," she said, "I always do." She shd off the horse.
"If you like," said Rumon, with the courteous smile he had long been drilled to by Edgive. That it was aA abstracted, as well as courteous smile, Merewyn knew very well, despite her inexperience with any being such as this. Or indeed with any men.
"If you get tired," Rumon said, "you must mount again." He looked at her bare, dirty feet, which actually went along faster than the horse. It occurred to him that she had a grace of carriage, and that her "Thank you" was nicely said. Then he forgot her again as the horse ambled along and had to be guided out of potholes and between rocks.
Rumon's nether thoughts slipped back to the shipwreck which had brought him to Cornwall.
On the first of April, though the weather was still unsettled, Rumon had most thankfully sailed from Brittany. He bought room for himself, his beasts, and servants on a large Frisian coasting vessel which touched at St. Brieuc and was bound for Plymouth with a miscellaneous cargo of wine, silk, and spices that had come overland through Venice from the Byzantine Empire.
A favorable shore breeze blew into the one square sail, the sailors scarcely had to row, and there was hope that the passage of a hundred or so miles would be made by tomorrow.
The hope soon vanished. As they passed the Isle of Guernsey, and left its lee to starboard, an east wind came tearing down the Channel. The waves mounted and began to break. The sailors hauled down the sail and rowed desperately while the captain struggled to hold his course with the steering oar. The frightened horses and the donkey neighed and plunged, straining against their tethers. Rumon, though drenched like the others with rain and spray, was exhilarated by this new experience, and he had felt an immediate love for the sea. He did not know when they were swept far out past Plymouth nor could he understand the captain's despairing cry in Frisian that they must try to head for the open ocean, lest they end up like many before them on the rocks along the South Cornish coast.
They raised the sail agai
n to try to scud before the wind. The sail cracked, tore asunder, and disappeared in the murk ahead.
Rumon knew then that they were in danger. He spoke to his Provencal servants, but in the fury of the storm they could not hear him, and he saw that they were praying. How many hours passed he did not know. It grew dark. He became very quiet inside, as he clung to the gunwhales which were constantly awash. He did not know what was to happen to them, yet he felt that he would not die. The memory of his vision long ago came close to him, and with it the sense of dedication and purpose. It is Thy Will that I should not die now, he thought with certainty.
The ship struck, lifted high by the force of a tremendous wave. She cracked down on the Craggan — off the east tip of the Lizard.
Rumon hit his head against the gunwhale. For some minutes he was dazed. He heard the screams of his companions, he felt the ship breaking up beneath him. Water gushed over him. He struggled, suffocating. He could not swim, but even if he could have, his wet clothes and the money pouch on his chest would have weighed him down. Gasping, he got his head above water, standing for an instant on the Craggan rock itself, as the wave ebbed. Something oblong and dark pushed against him. It was one of the oarsmen's benches. Instinctively he grabbed it. Another wave came and washed him away, yet the bench held his head up. He clung to it frantically. The tide and waves were with him. Presently he felt ground under his feet. He staggered up onto a little pebbly beach, surrounded by cliffs.
He got beyond the line of foam that gleamed in the darkness, before his legs began to shake. He lay down abruptly, his arms outstretched on the welcoming sands. The terror he had not felt earlier rushed through him, to be followed by a passion of gratitude.
He pressed his lips to the sand, turned his head and fell into exhausted sleep. ^