Avalon (26 page)

"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."

So Merewyn was allotted a small plain room in the guesthouse which stood outside the Abbey gates. The three foreign merchants were also lodged there. No special provision was made for Go da and Caw, nor did they expect any, but they were allowed to sleep on the floor in the kitchen, and eat scraps hospitably provided by the fat old woman who cooked. Before

he left to enter the Abbey precincts and report to his Abbot, Finian's face twisted quizzically and he said with a shrug, "I'll tell Lord Rumon you're here. No doubt he'll be assisting at None this hour, but ye could see him outside later."

"Thank you," she said. "I shall be praying at King Arthur's grave. Where is it?"

" 'Tween two pyramids, south of the Abbey in the monks' churchyard, 'tis marked. But my child," he added kindly, "ye'd do better to pray in the httle old wattle church which God built. 'Twould be more efficacious indeed. Arthur's not a saint."

"He's my ancestor," she said, "and that of the Abbess Mer-winna whose heart I'm carrying to the homeland of Arthur. I'll pray to the others too, you may be sure."

"Ye moight try St. Bridget," said Finian chuckling. "We've several of her relics, and I suspect that yours is a womanish petition which a female might lend a readier ear to than a man."

Finian blessed Merewyn rapidly, and scurried off towards the Abbey as the great bell began ringing for the service.

Merewyn went to her room and gazed out for some moments through a tiny glassless window at the Tor. She could see the top of the dark green hill with its odd ridges running round and round it; she could see the tower, of course, but the message it had held for her earlier seeped away, giving place to uneasiness.

The Tor, in the bright noonlit sky, no longer seemed a friend. Wliat am I praying for, she thought — why do I want to see Rumon?

She dismissed these uncomfortable questions, with the help of action. She went down to the kitchen, where Goda and Caw were devouring pork trotters, smiled at them vaguely, and asked for a jug of hot water, which the cook provided. She took it to her room, and washed herself thoroughly then doused herself with lavender essence from a small lead vial. She combed and rebraided her hair.

Her gown was sweaty and mud-spattered. With some re-

luctance she donned her other gown — the yellow silk one given her by Alfrida, so long ago. Her aunt's common sense had insisted that Merewyn keep Alfrida's gifts, which included the green mantle and the brooch. Hatred of the donor was no excuse for repudiating such valuable assets.

Embroidered silk, and velvet and a brooch were not in Mer-winna's power to give her niece, "but as long as you are in the world, my child, there will be times when you must dress suitably according to your rank."

Yes, this was certainly such a time, and perhaps one which the Abbess had foreseen. Nor was there any real fear that Rumon would recognize the gown and be reminded of Alfrida.

"I don't think he ever actually saw me at all in those years," she said aloud. "My blessed Aunt, pray for me that it is different now." She crossed herself, and taking the Httle bronze box, wrapped in its linen, held it tight to her chest. Her breath was uneven, her mouth dry as she left the guesthouse and entered the Abbey gates.

The sound of chanting came through the church windows; she skirted the western end, vaguely noting the littleness of the old church, made of wattle and daub, thatched with reeds; and on entering the monk's cemetery, she easily found two small pyramids, and a flat carved stone between them. Of the Latin inscription she could make out "Arturus Rex."

She pressed the bronze box tighter to her breast and knelt down by the slab. Her prayers for the dead rapidly gave way to a feeling of communication. She could almost see King Arthur standing beside her, and his shadoAvy Queen too, could feel him smiling at her and welcoming her as his beloved descendant.

It was thus that Rumon saw her as he emerged from the Abbey, reluctantly yielding to Finian's information. He stopped some feet behind her, and said "Doux Jesu" under his breath. There she was, looking very pretty, praying for King Arthur

with whom she had no connection whatsoever. It was pathetic, exasperating, and positively no concern of his. She was a reminder of all he wanted most to forget — of the agonizing, despicable time with Alfrida. But she must be greeted, of course. Finian said that she particularly wanted to see him.

Rumon cleared his throat, and Merewyn turned around. She got up and looked at him quietly, startled by the changes in him. He wore the lay brother's brown homespun habit, whereas he had always been so richly dressed. His black hair was cut shorter, his face was leaner and paler than she remembered. Nor did he seem as tall, the dark, large, reflective eyes were about on a level with her own.

"Good day, Merewyn," he said smiling and with constraint. "I am distressed to hear of the reason for your journey — the Abbess's death — may she rest in heavenly peace."

"Thank you," said the girl in a small voice. She noted the constraint, and that after the first moment Rumon looked beyond her towards the Abbot's lodging. So he was not glad to see her, there was still the barrier he had always erected. Nothing had changed.

But it had, and Merewyn's interpretations were wrong. Rumon, suddenly, and to his dismay, found the girl appealing, and reahzed that he had never forgotten her, despite the years of silence. For he had dreamed of her several times — dreams scarcely acknowledged to himself, and hastily dismissed. They had been dreams of tenderness and companionship, and once a dream of marriage. Preposterous!

"You wanted to see me?" he asked abruptly. "You have some special reason. Come, we can sit on the bench near the Abbot's kitchen, it's not forbidden to women." He quickly crossed the cemetery and Merewyn followed. They sat down, and he turned shghtly away from her.

"Do I need a special reason for wishing to greet an old friend?" She spoke as coolly as he did, though her heart was sore.

He noted the traces of Cornish in her voice, and that despite the fact that this time she seemed very clean, and smelled of lavender, there was still an earthiness about her, an overpowering essence of crude womanhood. And what is she, after all, he thought, but the bastard of a pirate and an illiterate half-mad peasant woman.

"How long do you intend stopping in Glaston?" he asked.

She stiffened. "I beHeve I shall leave tomorrow."

"So soon?'''' he cried involuntarily, dismayed to find that he did not want her to go. He added quickly, "I mean you'll not have time to see the place properly — pray at the shrines — and you really should cHmb the Tor."

She was silent, staring at a little blue speedwell which grew near her foot.

"The moon's near full tonight," said Rumon. "I'll guide you up the Tor after Compline if you like, the place has a particular feeling at night — one can see the Isle of Avalon as it used to be."

"It is not here anymore, Avalon?" said Merewyn, puzzled by Rumon's sudden offer — uncertain what to say.

"I don't knowr he cried with vehemence. "At least / can't find it here. For me this is not the island of the blest, where all is beauty, all is peace. Though Finian says that there is such an island in the West." He frowned, having half forgotten Merewyn, and went on to voice his doubts. "Ah, I can live here like a cabbage, sink myself into the chants, the devotions, I can illuminate manuscripts, and play the harp, I can talk to Brother Finian, I can do penance for my part in — in Edward's murder. But I do not find peace."

Both were startled by this outburst.

Poor Rumon, thought Merewyn, faintly aware that pity had crept in to her long obstinate love. He seemed diminished, flattened out, and yet a few minutes before, he had been the composed autocratic figure of her memories, despite the hideous lay brother's habit.

"I shall be glad to climb the Tor tonight," she said. "I have always heard that there is magic there — from the long ago."

Merewyn spent the rest of the day praying in the "old" church, offering pennies at the various shrines in the magnificent new one. All this she did in a daze, even when she went back to x\rthur's tomb and offered it a garland of wild flowers which she had made. She supped at the guesthouse, and afterwards in the twilight Rumon appeared to fetch her. He was dressed again as a nobleman — gold-embroidered tunic, red velvet mantle, the atheling's gold circlet on his head. They greeted each other politely and set off upon the road to Weary-All Hill. Two of the French merchants accompanied them, after asking ceremonious permission, and one of them — a man from Calais — was delighted to find a sort of compatriot in Rumon. At least "le prince," though coming from faraway Provence, could speak French, and seemed to be a person of importance.

The man from Calais bombarded him with questions. Was this really such an efficacious shrine? Would this long tiresome climb to the tower of St. Michael surely add virtue to the hard pilgrimage to a dreary little spot in the middle of no place? When he got to London would the discomforts of this journey influence the London merchants in his favor? What sort of people were the English anyway?

Rumon replied as briefly as possible. He was increasingly conscious of Merewyn, walking sturdily and at a few paces withdrawn from the men.