by Anya Seton
wyn's warnings. "Evil coming." "Blood." "Fear" — "Danger" — the meaningless words. My head spins, I can't think. Why can't I think?
A voice spoke very clearly and quietly inside his mind. "Because you have been poisoned." The voice pierced through him like a spear. He jumped, and running to the brass basin of water for hand-washings, poured the greasy contents over his head. He sluiced his face, and sticking his finger down his throat, tried to vomit, but could not. He flung open the door, thinking even then that it was a mercy there was no way of barring it from the outside.
He ran down the private stairs, and stopped transfixed at a slit window which commanded the gate.
Edward, his fair head gleaming in the sunset rays, was sitting easily astride his gray stalHon, and leaning down to accept the stirrup cup which Alfrida — all welcoming curtsies — was handing up to him.
Cild Aelfric stood upon the mounting block to the left and a trifle behind the King. Wulfgar stood on the horse's other side holding the bridle. Edward, smiling, took the cup from Alfrida, and began to drink.
"Stop!" Rumon shouted through the window. "Edward — don't drink!"
Edward heard the shout and looked around him, startled. At that moment Cild Aelfric and Wulfgar both sprang at the boy-king, who started to laugh, then quavered, "What are you trying to do, break my arm?"
Rumon saw a flash of steel in Cild Aelfric's hand, before half sobbing, panting, he raced down the remaining steps.
When Rumon reached the gate, Edward's horse had bolted. The panicked beast went thundering down the flinty slope, while the boy entangled by one stirrup bumped along face down over rocks and under the hoofs of the terrified stallion.
"Christ!" said Rumon. "Jesus Christ!" He started to run after the fleeing horse and its banging blood-spattered encum-
brance, but Wulfgar at a signal from Cild Aelfric grabbed Rumon and pinioned his arms.
"You'll not catch up on foot, my dear Rumon," said Cild Aelfric, inspecting one of his fingers which had been mashed when he twisted the stirrup, "and unfortunately there are no mounts immediately available. How could one foresee such a deplorable accident? It must have been your shout that frightened the horse."
Rumon struggled against Wulfgar's burly grasp, though a wave of nausea surged through him, and an overpowering weakness. He looked at Alfrida with blurring gaze. She stood frozen by the mounting block, staring at the silver cup which had dropped to the ground during the scuffle with Edward. The fresh garland of primroses still crowned her golden head — and not a petal quivered.
"You are accursed — woman! Accursed!" Rumon whispered, striving to hold on to consciousness. "For the love of God, send help to the King — it may not be too late!"
She did not move, she seemed not to hear. She continued to stare down at the silver cup, and its spreading stain of spilled wine.
Rumon gave an inarticulate moan, and slumped down between Wulfgar's arms into blackness.
"Well — " said Cild Aelfric shrugging, "that poppy juice of yours took long enough to work. Wulfgar, get someone to take Lord Rumon to his lodgings, his churls can care for him — though if he dies 'tis no great matter. Lady Alfrida — rouse yourself, we've much more to do, and see yonder down by the barrow here come my father and the King's straggling retainers. We must prepare to break to them the shocking news — of the runaway."
As she still did not move, he shook her shoulder. Her dazed eyes rested on his impatient face. She turned slowly, and proceeded to climb the steps to the Hall, pausing on each one like an old woman.
In the Hall, Ethelred was waiting, and playing with a hound puppy.
"Where's Edward?" he asked eagerly. "I want to show him Bela's new litter."
"I fear you can't," said Cild Aelfric. "There's been an accident. The stalHon bolted and threw Edward. I'm sorry to tell you that he's dead."
Ethelred's pink cheeks grew white, his round eyes stared. "But he can't be! Edward could ride anything."
"He is dead," repeated Cild Aelfric. "And you^ my pretty one, will shortly be King of England."
The boy shrank back. "I don't want to be —" he whispered. He put his grubby Httle hand to his mouth. "I want Edward." He began to sniffle. For the first time he looked at his mother. "What did you do to him, my lady — you've hurt Edward, I know you did —" he choked and began to sob.
Alfrida made a strange animal sound in her throat. Her body shook with a massive tremor, her lower teeth bared, her eyes became slits.
"You fool — you idiot brat — weeping there — you ingrate — 'twas done for you — Jesu, stop that sniveling!" She whirled and seized the nearest weapon she could see — the huge candle clock. She wrenched it from its spike, and rushitig at Ethelred began to beat him on the head, the shoulders, with the massive flaming candle.
Ethelred screamed, trying to hide beneath the tables, the benches. Still she beat down senselessly, until the flame went out, and Cild Aelfric, momentarily stunned by the onslaught, grabbed her by the hair and jerked her head back. "Lady!" he cried. "If you act lik this, Ethelred will not be King of England. He'll end up in a tomb — like the other."
She dropped the huge candle which was broken in three pieces.
Her hands unclenched, they made a feeble pawing gesture in the air, then she fell do-wn onto the rushes, where she lay
prone, scarcely breathing. And it was thus that Earl Alfhere found her when he presently mounted the stairs and entered the Hall.
For over a month, Rumon lay very ill in his lodgings, cared for by Leof and his two other housecarls who often despaired of his life. Twice they summoned the village priest who came with the viaticum, but each time the young man's body continued to fight, though it had no help from Rumon's will. His mind seemed to have hidden itself behind a gray screen, through which neither memory nor awareness penetrated.
He vomited frequently, and for days could scarcely retain water — as though his body rejected the horrors of realization which his mind would not accept. Day by day he grew thinner and weaker, inertly staring up at the rafters while his servants tended him.
Nobody else came near him but the priest, and Rumon asked no questions of anyone.
On April 22 nd, he at last had a visitor. There was soft fragrance in the spring day. Leof had opened the shutters to the sun, and a beam slanted across the chamber. Rumon gazed at the dancing motes of rust in the sunbeam with more attention than he had shown to anything in a long time. He swallowed some of the beef broth Leof brought him, and found strength to quell the immediate rise of nausea.
Soon there were sounds in the Hall outside his chamber. He heard Leof's peasant voice shrill with some sort of awed excitement, and then another voice — a man's which held a mixture of gentleness and command. The door was flung open, and a smallish black figure limped in. "My son —" it said. "My poor son — what a sorry pass you've come to!"
Rumon raised himself painfully from the straw-filled pillow. He saw the white locks, the ring on the gnarled hand which covered his. He saw the compassionate old eyes.
"My lord Dunstan —" he whispered in wonder.
"Yes, Rumon," said the Archbishop, signing the cross on Rumon's forehead. "I did not know that you were so ill until I came here to consult with Corfe's priest. Indeed I've heard nothing from you in years."
"True, my lord —" said Rumon vaguely after a moment. "At least I scarce remember — scarce remember —"
"Hm-hm —" said Dunstan, and sat down on a stool beside the bed. He sighed as he examined Rumon's gaunt face; the stubble of black beard; the bluish hollows around lackluster eyes. The old man knew from his long wisdom that this sickness of the body was but the outer stamp of soul-sickness, which must now be cured. He sent up a murmured prayer for guidance, and said, "My son — what do you remember of last March 18th, here at Corfe?"
Rumon sank back on the pillow, he made a feeble gesture — let his hand fall limp. He did not answer.
The Archbishop waited a moment, then banged the floor wit
h his staff, calling, "Churl! Come here!" Leof ran in, tugging at his forelock and bowing.
"Have you strong mead?" asked Dunstan.
"Aye, m'lord —" said Leof. "Time and again I've give it to Master, but he alias pukes it up."
"He won't this time," said the old man firmly. •
Dunstan himself raised Rumon's head, and held the cup of fermented honey until it was empty. He sat back and watched a faint color gradually tint Rumon's cheekbones.
"It is necessary that you face the pain," said Dunstan in the authoritative voice which no one ever disobeyed. "Necessary for your soul's sake. What happefied on March 18th?''
"Blackness —" said Rumon with great effort. "Treachery — and the woman accursed."
"Ah-h —" whispered the Archbishop, sighing deeply. Treachery. Treachery and murder. He and Ethelwold had suspected this. But they had no proof. And now it was too late. Too late for England — Blessed Christ help us — thought the old man.
"I shall stay here tonight," he said to Rumon. "You will take the cup of mead with an egg beaten in it every hour. Tomorrow we shall talk again." He blessed Rumon, squeezed his hand and went out to the Hall to give Leof instructions.
Next day, Rumon was much stronger, the gray screen had nearly lifted from across his mind. And the knowledge of Dunstan's nearness had solaced him all night.
When Dunstan appeared, Rumon had been bathed and shaved. He sat upright in bed, his eyes had lost their emptiness. "What date is it, my lord?" he asked, with a feeble smile of greeting.
" 'Tis April 23rd, the Feast of Saint George; we must pray to him that he save England from its dragons of iniquity — O woeful woeful plight wherein Satan has plunged us!"
"Edward is — is dead?" asked Rumon, his voice almost steady.
The Archbishop crossed himself. "Yes. And Ethelred is King. I crowned him at Kingston a week ago. He was elected by the Witan. There was nothing else to do. Our land must have a king. And they wanted Edgar's son. His other son. A lad of twelve who will be under the thumb of Alfhere and his godless party, and of —" the Archbishop paused, looking intently at Rumon, wondering how far he might try the new strength. "And of his mother — who bewitched you."
Rumon put his hand over his mouth as bitter fluid rose in his throat. He retched, and the Archbishop struck him sharply on the arm. "It's finished, Rumon! You're not the first to be duped by the lure of woman-flesh. Our Blessed Lord knows that long ago, I too — but no matter. Shame, disgust, guilt — you have felt and should have done. Now repentance is enough. Presently we will pray together. First, however — Atheling of England — I wish to know what you saw on March i8th."
Rumon started at the title which Dunstan had never used to him. He understood that the Archbishop was invoking the English side of him, the blood line of the great Alfred, and its royal fortitude. He squared his shoulders and permitted the banished memory to return.
lyo A V A L O N
"There was certainly a plot," he said at last. "There were many straws in the wind which in my stupid blindness I would not notice. Even Merewyn — Merewyn — then she was neither daft nor a liar — Merewyn tried to warn me. ily dreams warned me. My dreams warned me — twice."
"They often do," said Dunstan. "But go on,"
"The woman—" He could not bring himself to say Al-frida's name. "She tried to poison me in the morning, or at least to befuddle me into sleep. Someone tried again in the afternoon, and eventually succeeded. Edward was hunting in Pur-beck Chase, so they said. After a monstrous boar, nobody around here had heard of. He was daily expected at Corfe Castle, To pay his respects. Wulfgar — the woman's housecarl — was stationed in the watchtower. Cild Aelfric, Alfhere's son, had been visiting Corfe for a week — with sufficient excuse, or so 1 thought," Rumon paused, and drew a shaky breath. The old man murmured, "Go on, my son."
"That afternoon of March 18th I was playing and singing for them — a Provencal ballad — when Wulfgar told us the King approached alone. She rushed from the Hall with a cup of some liquid. Also Cild Aelfric. She would not let me go. She turned on me the face of a — a — maniac — a devil. But I went down the stairs, and through the window I saw her present the welcome cup to Edward as he sat on his gray staUion. He took it and I shouted a warning. I saw the gleam of a dagger in Cild Aelfric's hand. But when I got down to the gate, the stalHon was bolting, dragging Edward by one stirrup, over rocks, over flints, I tried to run towards Edward, and was stopped by A"ulf-gar. This is all I know. Since then I have not cared — until now."
Dunstan was silent, thinking. After a while he said, "You do not knonjo what was in the welcome cup given to Edward by the LadyAlfrida?"
"No, my lord,"
"Are you sure you saw a dagger in Cild Aelfric's hand?"
"I thought SO, and I know I saw a scuffle, and heard Edward cry out — 'What are you trying to do — break my arm?' "
"You did not see Gild Aelfric or Wulfgar entangling Edward's right foot in the stirrup, nor the blow on its rump which undoubtedly started the stallion's bolt down the hill?"
"No, my lord."
"Ah, they planned shrewdly," said Dunstan, clenching his staff, "And the devil aided them at every point. But they'll not enjoy the fruits of this murder for long. God will punish them. Already there have been miracles wrought by the martyred Edward."
"A4iracles, my lord? Where is his body?"
"Entombed in St. Mary's church at Wareham, where I inspected it three days ago. Most of his bones were broken, his skull crushed in from the rocks over which he was dragged. The flesh is so much discolored by bruises and dried blood that it was impossible to be certain where a dagger wound might be, and yet I beheve I saw such — in his back. Now I am sure, though THEY would deny it. But the miracles — these I heard from the priest here. He has suspicions, though dared hardly voice them even to me." Dunstan's old eyes filled. He rested his head on his hand.
"The miracles, my lord —" said Rumon, striving for something to blank out the thought of the young king's broken body.
"These —" said the old man, after a moment. "By report from the priest. The stallion stopped its wild flight after a mile or so at the bridge. Somebody — probably Wulfgar — was sent from the Castle to find out what happened. Edward's body was hastily hidden in the nearby cottage of an old blind woman, a pensioner of Lady Alfrida's. But that night, she claims that her hovel was filled with a supernatural glow. She was much afraid, yet in the morning found she had regained her sight. She went around Corfe babbling of this. Then they removed the body from her hovel, and stuffed it in a well, near Rempstone. At once the passersby noted a light around the well. They called
lyz A V A L O N
the priest to investigate. He it was who found the body, and supervised its removal to a Christian burial at Wareham. By this time the putrefaction was advanced enough so that the dagger wound might not be seen. No doubt that was their plan.
"At Corfe Castle, the Lady Alfrida, Earl Alfhere and his son, all expressed great horror at the fearful accident, and ignorance of its cause. Little Ethelred seemed dazed, I hear, and scarcely spoke. They had the stallion killed as being the true culprit. It was so that the story reached me in Canterbury. I had grave doubts, so did Bishop Ethelwold, but it was not until I reached here that they have been confirmed."
"Where are they now? — The woman — and the rest?"
"At Winchester Palace. Where else? For Ethelred is King."
"He shouldift be!" Rumon burst out. "My lord Dunstan, how dared you crown that baby-faced weakling, if you suspected murder?"
"I've told you," said the old man patiently. "Edward was dead no matter how, and Ethelred the natural heir, and elected by the Witan. But this reign will never prosper. There've been signs and portents enough, beginning when the wretched Ethelred defiled the font at his baptism, and then a blood-red meteor was seen all over England on the day of his Coronation."
"Will nobody avenge Edward!" Rumon ciied wildly.
"Will you^ Rumon?"
asked the Archbishop in a sad level tone. "Would you assassinate Alfhere, Cild Aelfric, perhaps Ethelred? Would you assassinate Alfrida? Aye, think of it—" he said watching the young man's eye widen. "More murders would not restore Edward. Nor are you a man of violence. Also it is written, 'Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.' "
Rumon's head sunk on his chest. "Oh, wicked, miserable fool that I was. That I loved her, that I blasphemously likened her to the Blessed Mother of God, that over and over I let her dupe me — that I would not listen, nor look at what was plain to see — I might have warned Edward, had I not been so blinded by
my filthy lust —" He beat his fist on his forehead, and gave a choked sob.
"Come now, my son," said Dunstan. "It is natural that you suffer. It is your penance, and I shall impose others, but you may not forever v^allow in remorse. That too is a sin. What do you think of doing nov7, Rumon? You will surely leave this ill-omened Corfe."
Rumon lifted his hands, and let them fall on the blanket. "/ don't know. I suppose so. Yes, I'll leave here. I hadn't thought."
"Shall you go to your own lands in Somerset?" pursued Dunstan. "Or have you still the urge to wander abroad?"
"No!" Rumon cried. His Somerset lands — wandering abroad — the plans he had made for these with Alfrida, To her, while she seemed to assent by her faint seductive smile, and all the time despising him, as he now knew.
"Then —" said Dunstan with decision, "you will return to the Vale of Avalon, to Glastonbury. You will climb the Tor daily for a month and pray in the chapel. You will also pray in the wattle church which Our Blessed Lord dedicated. That holy place will give you balm, and I expect that this time, God will inspire you to join our order."
"I cannot see why God should interest Himself in me," said Rumon, his head falling back on the pillow. "Nor you either, my lord."
Dunstan smiled, and pulled himself upright on his staff. "You are more love-worthy than you think, my poor son," he said.