Avalon

by Anya Seton

  "Now," said the Abbess briskly in English seeing the girl's tearful surprise, "we must be practical. I'm aware that when I'm gone, you'll be very much alone. Nor, naturally, by the rules of our order, do I have property to leave you. I do however possess one valuable brooch given to me personally by King Edgar. It is kept in the sacristy. I have consulted about this with the Bishop, and he feels that the money from the sale of this jewel may very properly be given to you, since I am your only relation, and that the expenses of the journey actually constitute those of a pilgrimage."

  "Oh, Reverend Mother—"whispered Merewyn. "It hurts me to have you talk like this. Sister Herluva can make you well — and all our prayers too."

  "No," said the Abbess impatiently. "My body is worn out, and I do not wish to stay. Listen, please, to the rest of my instructions. You will take Caw with you, and since England is not the safe ordered place it was under Edgar, the Bishop will lend you one of his brawniest housecarls as well."

  She paused for breath, fighting a nauseating wave of blackness. It passed, and she went on. "I would like you to go to Glastonbury on your way west, pray for me at the tomb of our ancestor, King Arthur, and — she added quietly, "if Lord Rumon is still there, I would approve of your seeing him."

  The girl gathered herself in tight. "Dear Reverend Mother —" she said, "you have hopes for me, where I have none."

  "I cannot —" said the Abbess with sudden force, "think that a man hke Lord Rumon could find you unpleasing; he was only beglamoured — by — the Devil and that lady who is again our queen. I am chary of praise, as you know — but you are comely." She looked at the tendrils of auburn hair, the wide sea-colored eyes and was puzzled, as she had not remembered to be

  for years, by Merewyn's total lack of resemblance to her parents. "Comely enough," she went on. "You have intelligence, a warm heart; and high birth, which I believe would have an influence on Lord Rumon, as I beheve that your sad lack of fortune would not affect him. You both have modest ambitions, it seems."

  Merewyn was startled and excited by the remarkable things her aunt was saying. It was so unlike the Abbess to be personal, so unlike her to actually be encouraging thoughts of pursuing Rumon.

  The Abbess read the girl's mind, and sighed, not entirely easy in her conscience because it was the strong motherly affection she bore the girl — the fears for her wordly future, which had moved her to abandon her usual aloofness. And earthly love, earthly concerns, must never be excessive. They interfered with pure spiritual devotion. "Ah well —" she said quickly, "you are in God's hands, my child, and must hsten ever to his voice — not mine."

  That was the last private conversation Merewyn ever held with the Abbess, who had another fainting spell that night, and who thereafter never again found enough strength to leave her cell. Herluva and other nursing nuns were in constant attendance, and they managed for some months to keep life in the fading body which at last became swollen with dropsy. Mer-winna never complained, she lay in a shadowy half-land, aroused only by the priest's or Bishop Ethelwold's arrival with the Blessed Sacrament.

  The end came at last in the rainy dawn of May 13. The Abbess spoke aloud and exultantly, "In manus tuas Domine," and ceased her long struggle for breath.

  During the next days of mourning, the gentle spring rain dripped down as steadily as did the nuns' tears — and Merewyn's. They all knew their loss, nor needed the Bishop's eulogy to remind them of the heroism which had saved their Abbev and

  also shortened Merwinna's life. Already they spoke of her as Saint Merwinna, and planned a tomb as gorgeous as St. Ethel-fleda's.

  After the Requiem Mass, all the sisterhood gathered in the Chapter House to begin the balloting which would end by electing a new Abbess. And Bishop Ethelwold summoned Mere-wyn to the guest lodgings where he was installed.

  He greeted the girl solemnly, and pointed to a small bronze box, which lay on a strip of white linen. "You know what that is, I suppose, my daughter? The Reverend Mother told me she had informed you of her wishes."

  "Yes, my lord," said Merewyn kneeling to kiss his ring. Then she rose and crossed herself, looking sadly at the small box. She had no more tears left to shed, and the sharpest grief had passed.

  "I've made the arrangements for your journey to Cornwall, and though the ways will be muddy after this rain, still I believe not impassable, and I think you should start tomorrow."

  "Yes, my lord," she said. She was eager to go.' The convent now seemed empty, dull — and though she was not of them she could not help noticing the little whispering plots amongst the sisterhood, the disunity and factions, none of which would be resolved until a new abbess was elected — if then.

  "Here," said the Bishop, tendering a leather pouch, "is the silver for your expenses. I have defrayed them myself and in return taken King Edgar's brooch, which I shall have embedded in our shrine at Winchester. My rehable housecarl, Goda, will accompany you and your serf, that should be sufficient protection, even for a young woman."

  "Thank you, my lord," said Merewyn. "I shall do everything commanded by you, and my dear aunt — but where shall I go on my return?"

  The Bishop hesitated. He knew that the Abbess had hoped the girl's future might be assured by Rumon, but he was not sanguine, since by all accounts that young man was half a monk

  already; moreover he did not share Dunstan's indulgence towards Rumon's behavior in general. For that matter, he had to lash his weary mind, his sense of duty to a royal ward, into feeUng much interest in Merewyn's welfare. Either a suitable husband must be found for her — difficult without a dowry — or she would enter a convent. It was simple enough, but the responsibility was a nuisance. "Report to me at Winchester when you return," he said. "You may lodge in the nunnery at the new Minster, until your future is decided." He picked up the bronze box, blessed it and gave it to Merewyn. "God be with you," he said with finaHty, and stalked off to pray in the chapel about really important matters, such as the management of the rebellious members of the Witan, who were constantly bullying Ethelred into refusing new land grants to the monasteries.

  The weather was clear at last when Merewyn set off next morning on her long journey. Her only regret was the farewell with Elfled, who kissed her at the convent portal and lingered some time watching and waving until Merewyn's little company crossed the river Test and turned west towards Salisbury.

  The Bishop had done his full duty by Merewyn. He had provided her with a saddled horse — a small gentle bay mare, who had no liking for speed; consequently the two men on foot easily kept up with her. The Bishop had armed both Caw and Goda. They had knives strapped to their belts, and rugged blackthorn staffs which would act as cudgels if need be. Goda was a big man, near six feet high, but he was dwarfed by the enormous Caw, whose sluggish wits had finally understood that he was going home with his mistress, and M^as as excited as his dim emotions would permit,

  Goda was older than the other two, somewhere near thirty. He was nimble, intelligent, and devoted to the Bishop, simply because custom had decreed that he be the Bishop's housecarl, as had Goda's father before him. He was an ugly brownish man, scarred across the face in a drunken brawl with one of Earl

  Alfhere's housecarls. He left a woman and six children behind in Winchester, nor thought about them at all.

  Merewyn wore her green wool mantle and hood, which she soon slipped down around her waist as the laggard sun made up for the past week by brilliant warmth. The saddlebag strapped behind her carried her few possessions: a comb, a shift, another gown, and — wrapped in white linen — the bronze box containing Merwinna's heart. The pouch full of silver hung at her girdle, and gave her a new feeling of importance.

  Never before had she been in full charge of any enterprise, except that long past and useless trip to St. Gundred's Well, when she had met Rumon.

  The mare and the men sloshed along the muddy roads, which were rapidly drying; thrushes and blackbirds caroled from the tender-leafed trees on either side, the air was fragran
t from crab-apple blossoms and wayside violets. Merewyn, with an uprush of hope, allowed herself to think of Rumon. Of all her meetings with him from that first moment by the Camel River. I loved him at once, she thought. There have been these miserable years between, but they're gone. Soon I'll see him again. Aunt Mer-winna thought that this time he'll not be indifferent to me. I'm no longer a child, and I am comely — other men think so. She lifted her chin and smiled faintly, aware that Goda's eyes held respectful admiration.

  "How lovely it is," she said impulsively, "to be on a journey through the May time! Surely Heaven can't be more beautiful!"

  "Aye, Lady," answered Goda politely, looking at the mud which encrusted his leather shoes and sturdy bare legs, and wondering when they would come upon a decent alehouse — surely there would be one this side of Salisbury.

  "How soon do you think we can reach Glastonbury?" asked Merewyn whose exuberance demanded speech. Response from Caw was naturally impossible. He shambled along like a patient mastiff, his eyes on the road.

  "Three days wi' luck, mebbe a bit over," said Goda who had never been west of Winchester, but had prepared himself for this jaunt by consultation with a West Countryman in the Bishop's household.

  "Ah well —" said Mereuyn dreamily, looking at thousands of bluebells below an oaken copse, "it matters not, we'll reach the Isle of Avalon in God's own time."

  "Isle of Avalon?" said Goda frowning; he didn't Hke his plans disrupted. "What's that, lady? My Lord Bishop said naught about any Avalon, an' he told me where we're to go."

  " 'Tis what some call Glastonbury," said Merewyn laughing. "It was a fairy island once, I think, where everyone was happy. At least so my mother used to tell me, and that's why they buried my forefather— King Arthur — there with his queen."

  "To be sure —" said Goda, relieved. He had never heard of any King Arthur, but he knew that his charge had some kind of royal blood, the Bishop had said so. ^'There^s an alehouse, lady," he added, pointing to a thatched hut, with a bush hung above the door. "We better quench our thirst. I'm dry as straw."

  Merewyn made no objection; she dismounted; gave Goda a silver penny and waited contentedly in the sunshine outside the malodorous hut.

  The fine weather held, and their journey progressed without incidents. Nobody molested them. The few travelers they met were either perfectly indifferent local thanes riding out to inspect their lands, or drovers herding cattle to the nearest market. Merewyn spent two nights in monastic guesthouses, where her proffered payment was refused. Goda and Caw slept in haymows.

  On May 27th, Merewyn and her escorts set out from Pilton, having spent the night on a farm — there were no monasteries to be found nearby — and breakfasted heartily on rye bread and the yellow cheddar cheese which was the district's specialty. It had rained in the night, and the marshy land grew even wetter as they descended from the slopes of the Mendips. Often the

  mare was in water up to her hocks, while Goda and Caw splashed along doggedly.

  Even though her gown and feet were soon wet, Merewyn did not mind. The sun was out, and she was enchanted by the Mendip Hills which appeared to her as veritable mountains.

  Then she looked ahead over the shimmer of grassy marsh and cried with such force that the mare started, "Oh, there it is! It must be!" And she pointed. "The Isle of Avalon!"

  Caw looked up obediently, and Goda stared at the high round hill to the West. "Looks like a upended green bowl wi' a stump stuck on top," Goda said. "Wot's so good about that, lady?"

  What, indeed? Merevyn thought. Yet her first sight of the Tor had given her goose pimples. Was it because her mother had told her that long long ago before even the Romans came there had been worship on top of that hill? The supplanted folk of her own race — the Celts — had worshiped there, ever searching for the magic door through which the fortunate dead might pass into a blessed abode where there were no storms, diseases, or sorrow. Breaca had heard these things from Uther who had traveled much, and Httle Merewyn had Ustened eagerly to her mother.

  In any case the Tor exerted on her now a mysterious attraction. She watched it all the time as they approached, and saw that what had seemed to be a stump was actually a stone tower, surmounted by a cross.

  Just as the ground began to rise, there were tremendous splash-ings on the road behind them, and the whicker of a horse. Goda instantly whirled around, his hand on his knife hilt. "Beware!" he said to Caw, who had been taught this word and at once brandished his cudgel menacingly.

  There was a cavalcade behind them; four well-mounted horsemen and a string of pack mules. Goda's hand relaxed as he saw that the leader was a Benedictine monk. The other three men were dressed in colored mantles, cross-gartered hose, and embroidered caps — obviously of the upper classes.

  "Greetings in Christ," said the monk, surveying Merewyn's party with astonishment. "Ye've naught to fear from us. Must that — monstrous gossoon keep flaying about with his staff? He'll do someone harm."

  "Stop it, Caw!" commanded Merewyn in Cornish. ''No danger!" Her giant serf lowered his staff, and the monk laughed. " 'Tis a mountain o' protection ye got there, I'm thinking," he said, his shrewd green eyes twinkling. "Ye're bound for Glaston loike the rest of us, no doubt?"

  "Yes, Father," said Merewyn. "Is it far now?"

  "Glory be to St. Michael," said the monk, bowing towards the chapel on top of the Tor. "It is not. Ye on a pilgrimage, my daughter? They are." He indicated his companions, and surveyed Merewyn curiously. It was rare indeed that women made this pilgrimage — not unless they had dreadful sins to expiate. Moreover, oddly enough her command to her serf had been made in recognizable Celtic. "We'll ride along together," he said. "I know the paths hereabouts loike the back o' me hand. And ye might go astray t'other side o' the Tor."

  Mereviyn agreed, and readily told her mission, although omitting mention of Rumon. In return she discovered that this was Brother Finian, the Irish subprior of Glastonbury, that he had been in Canterbury to consult with Archbishop Dunstan, who had delegated him to guide back these three foreign pilgrims. Two were French and one was Frisian; they spoke little English. All three were merchants. "And I'm thinking," said Finian with a shrug, "that they've come to England not so much for the good of their souls but wi' an eye to trade." He indicated the pack mules. "They'll be off to London, once they've prayed and been shriven here."

  "I didn't know Glastonbury was so great a shrine," said Merewyn.

  "Second only to Rome, m'daughter," said Finian in his sprightly way, "an' some of us, loike the Archbishop and me, would say second to none, what with our Blessed Lord coming

  here as a lad, and dedicating the little old church Himself to His Holy Mother."

  "I see," said Merewyn, and again a thrill went through her. "I didn't know Our Blessed Lord came here," she whispered.

  "Och, but He did, as a boy with His uncle — that would be Joseph of Arimathea who was a merchant, loike those behind us now. The Holy Grail is here too, m'daughter," added Finian with sudden solemnity, "but that no mortal eye is pure enough to look on, ye can only see the blood-red water which runs from the chalice's secret hiding place."

  Merewyn was too much awed for speech.

  They circled the Tor's base, and Merewyn watched the chapel on top, while an odd elation grew in her. That tower was a finger pointing to heaven, pointing upward to bliss. In this sacred place nothing could happen except good. Her anticipation deepened and mingling with it a sharper yearning for Rumon, almost a fever to see him.

  Wattle huts and some wooden buildings now lined the road.

  "There's the Abbey," said Brother Finian, pointing to a great stone church ahead. Merewyn scarcely glanced at it. "Reverend Father," she said abruptly, her hands trembling on the reins, "Lord Rumon — the King's cousin. Lord Rumon — he is here, isn't he.?"

  Finian raised his eyebrows, noting the sudden color in the girl's face. Now what was this.? Obviously there was more to the colleen's visit than a pious pilgrimage and wish to pray
at her ancestor's grave. "He was here when I left for Canterbury," he said cautiously. "Ye wish to see Lord Rumon?"

  "Yes," she said, dropping her eyes. "I wish to very much."

  "Then no doubt ye may," said Finian briskly. "Rumon is ever courteous, — but he's got scant use for women. Once bitten, twice shy, and he still does penance for that wretched affair at Corfe. He'll be a priest yet. What do ye want o' him?" added Finian in a sterner tone. He was fond of Rumon, and had been glad to see the young man's gradual immersement into the

  monastery's activities. Rumon, though as yet only a lay brother, was superior to any of the clerical monks in the Scriptorium. He had made a gem of gold illumination on the first pages of the Leofric Missal; he had designed a silver chalice, of which even Dunstan approved. He had composed a new and very moving tune for the Te Deum, which he accompanied on his harp. His daily devotions shamed those of many a monk. If ever a man seemed called by God, this was he, and yet — though Finian thought, the flesh was subdued — he could not ignore a restlessness, a lack of resolution in Rumon. Finian looked with new attention at Merewyn.

  A pleasing and buxom young woman — aye. He noted the full bust, the wide tender-set mouth, the earnest eyes of a color you didn't see every day in the week. He couldn't see much of her hair; it was properly covered by the hood of her gown, but the hair seemed to be red. She reminded him of a lass or two in Connemara — fisher girls, peasants — as Finian had once been himself. What could she possibly have to do with the aristocratic and disillusioned Rumon, who moreover — during many a conversation about the past — had never mentioned her.

  "What do ye want of Lord Rumon?" he repeated more sharply.

  She lifted her chin, and spoke with dignity he had not expected. "I cannot see why that should concern you, Brother Finian."

  The little monk was taken aback and then he laughed. "I see ye've got spirit, and perhaps ye may be roight." He pointed with a knuckly finger. "Yon's the guesthouse. We've few females here, but the cook'll look after you."