Avalon (24 page)

Merewyn jumped at a sound like the crackle of tearing linen, then a stupendous thunderclap while the church was ht by white brilUance. Elfled and Herluva also started. Elfled grabbed for the Infirmaress's hand. But the Abbess never moved.

The thunderstorm! Merewyn thought in fresh panic. The heathen god Thor was the Thunderer. Gunnar said so. They've called on their gods to help destroy us. And what can ive

simpletons do? Praying to that sorrowful Woman up there, to that Man, already dead, limp on the Cross, having begged His God in vain to spare Him. Blasphemy! The accusation seemed to hurtle around her amongst a new explosion of thunder, and another blinding flash throughout the church.

I can't stand this, she thought. She glanced at the west door. It was not even barred, but if it were — 420 berserk men could have broken it down in a trice. Were they outside yet — surrounding the church? She could hear nothing but a cataract of rain on the wooden roof.

The altar candles had burned down and were guttering. Oh, but we can't wait here in the dark! Desperate for any action, Merewyn ran to the little sacristy, where she groped until her fingers found the box of candles. She took four and hurried to the altar. She genuflected, and sidled around the motionless black figure on the steps. As she replaced the candles, she looked into the Abbess's face. It was luminous and blank as a pearl. The wide dark eyes, upturned towards the Crucifixion; never flickered, nor seemed aware of Merewyn. From the eyes streamed power, almost it might be command directed towards the Figure on the Cross.

A calming awe fell over Merewyn. She walked slowly down into the choir and knelt near Elfled, who received her with a tiny nod, then went on murmuring her prayers. Merewyn echoed them as best she could. She had ceased to think. Drowsiness, a sense of lull, enfolded her like a feather bed.

The rattle of the rain gradually softened to a whisper. Thunder rumbled ever farther off to the north, then vanished. The fresh candles burned down to half their length. Time went by. Merewyn vaguely observed that the slits of sky through the windows were brightening.

She began again with Elfled, whose voice had grown nearly inaudible and who was trembling from giddiness. "Libera nos, quaesumus, Domine, ab omnibus malis —"

Herluva also had weakened; no longer able to endure the pain

in her legs, she rested her bulk on a stool, though her head was devoutly bowed as she recited the Agnus Dei. But from the black figure on the altar steps there was still no sound. The three women in the choir had joined in another Pater Noster, when they heard a shout outside. They stiffened, sucking in their breaths. Herluva crossed herself, the others followed.

They saw the west door thrown open, letting in some morning light.

Transfixed they watched, but all that came through the door was a small boy, crying, "Sisters! Sisters! I couldna find ye!"

"Bodo!" cried Merewyn. "What news?" Her voice cracked and she put her hand to her throat.

"They've gone!" said the boy triumphantly, coming into the choir. "Them Viking pirates has sailed away in their snake ships, bound for the sea."

"How do you know?" demanded Herluva.

" 'Cause I watched 'em, that's why. They was at the head o' Sou'ampton Water, guzzling an' burning an' hollering fit to wake the dead. Then the storm come. I was right near 'em, I'd shinnied up an oak, an' could see fine." Bodo tossed his head, exceedingly pleased with his exploit. "Oh, they was coming here all right. I heard 'em saying, 'Romsey, Romsey —' an' they don't speak very different from us, I could sense some o' their meaning."

"Yes. Yes. But why did they leave?" said Herluva. "Hurry up, lad!"

"Thunderstorm," he said. " 'Twas fearful bad down there, an' the chief's boat was struck by lightning. It hit the mast an' splintered it an' killed one o' the crew who was still aboard."

"The thunderstorm," repeated Merewyn in a dazed voice. "Thor is god of thunder."

"That's wot they kept screeching, Lady. 'Thor! Thor!' an' they'd make signs wi' their fingers like we do fur the Cross, an' they'd run about and jabber something like '111 luck.' Sounded so ter me."

"You're sure all the shiploads left?" said Herluva.

"Aye, Lady. All seven o' 'em. They towed the chief's ship. Cast a rope around its prow, an' horrid ugly them prows are too, carved an' painted like grinning monsters — snakes maybe or dragons."

"But what if they came back . . ." whispered Elfled, far more frightened now that Bodo's report had made the threat real.

"They won't," said Merewyn with certainty. "Not when they think Thor hurled a thunderbolt to show his anger, not when a man was killed by Thor's hammer." She had no idea how she knew this, her speech had spurted forth from some deep atavistic well, of which she had no inkling.

The two women and Bodo stared at her, but the Iniirmaress at once recalled herself. "Then we are saved," she said quietly. "Thanks be to God and His Son, to the Blessed Virgin — and —" she gestured towards the kneeling figure — "to our Holy Abbess, who is surely bound for sainthood."

Herluva walked to the altar steps, and put a gentle hand on the black shoulder. "We are saved, Reverend Mother," she said. "The danger is gone. You must rest now."

The Abbess seemed not to hear. The two girls watched with awe from the choir. "There's a light around her," Elfled whispered. "Not from the candles — can you see it?"

Merewyn shook her head. Her eyes blurred. So the Christian prayers had won. The True God had won, and used the false god as his instrument. But the real warrior had fought in that dedicated little body up there, with the unremitting force of faith and invocation which had conquered evil.

Herluva spoke again, and this time she was heard. The Abbess swayed, then fell forward, arms outstretched on the altar step.

"Help me carry her!" cried the Infirmaress. The girls and Bodo rushed forward. "She dead?" asked Bodo curiously, as they maneuvered the limp body through the church door to the convent.

"No!" Herluva snapped. "But her heart is very feeble, and I pray she'll have the strength to recover from this night."

They bedded the Abbess in her own cell, while Herluva hurried to get the foxglove tincture from the Infirmary. Merewyn and Elfled chafed the thin bloodless hands, after loosening the linen wimple around the Abbess's face and throat.

Herluva came back and added other ministrations, but so slow was the Abbess's return to consciousness that soon all three women were weeping.

"Bodo!" called Herluva to the parlor where the boy was amusing himself by making a whistle out of an oat straw. "Can you find the priest?"

"No, Lady," he answered with a snicker. "Leastways he wasn't in his house, I went there after I couldn't find nobody i' the convent."

"He ran to the forest with the others," said Elfled. "I saw him."

"The coward!" cried Merewyn, furious with fear that not only would she lose her beloved aunt, but that there might even not be time for the last rites.

The Abbess suddenly opened her eyes which rested upon Merewyn's anguished face. "Hush, child," she said. She breathed more deeply as her feeble gaze traveled to Herluva, then Elfled. "Are you the only ones who stayed with me?" she asked in a tone of remote interest, almost amusement. Their silence answered her.

"I shall not need the priest just yet," she said, "I wish to see all my household together again, and stronger in faith than they were before. Merewyn," she added. The girl knelt down and kissed her aunt's hand. "I think I could relish a noggin of our Bishop's special wine. "Tis no longer a feast day — yet I think I would relish it."

chApteR eight

The Abbess slowly regained strength. She was able to preside in the Chapter House, and to hold private interviews with each of her contrite awe-struck nuns. Herluva saw to it that everyone heard of the Abbess's heroism, and many took on voluntary penances for their desertion — though the Abbess imposed none. She spoke to them only of faith, and devotion.

In October Bishop Ethelwold visited them, and Elfled with four other novices took the final vows. Shortly afterward Mere-wyn asked to be accepted into the novitiate. She was startled when her aunt demurred. "I don't think you are ready yet, child," she said gently. "I've seen no signs of true vocation. Gratitude or affection for me is not a sufficient motive."

This interview took place in the Abbess's parlor, at the hour of Merewyn's writing lesson. She was copying an EngHsh translation of the "Regularis Concordia" or "Monastic Agreement of the Monks and Nuns of the English Nation." This was an extremely detailed document written by Dunstan and Ethelwold for the uniform regulation under Benedictine rule of all the country's convents. It specified the prayers, procedures, and ceremonies to be observed on each day of the year. Merewyn

in her copying had at last reached the rule for Easter Sunday. The joyous ceremonies decreed for that day filled her with excitement — the Cross which had been hidden in the Easter Sepulcher since Friday now returned to the altar loaded with lilies; the three nuns weeping. They represented the three Marys; the nun who represented the angel was sitting in the empty sepulcher. Then came the triumphant announcement of the Resurrection, and the shouts of "Alleluia, Resurrexit Dom-inus!" All these Merewyn had, of course, seen from the congregation but never understood as she did while copying the instructions, and it was her strong desire to act — some day — in the glorious pageantry herself; it moved her to announce her decision to the Abbess.

"Nor," went on Merwinna, smiling as she inspected the parchment and her niece's blotted writing, "is the enjoyment of the little drama we play at Easter a sign of true vocation. If I thought so — and I have given the matter many prayers — I would certainly not make a request of you which precludes your entering the novitiate at present."

"Request — of me?" said Merewyn, — "Oh, Reverend Mother, you know I'd do anything for you, but I am, am disappointed that you don't think I have a vocation. Certainly I've no wish to marry, or even live outside Rofnsey. I want to be near you, and Elfled."

Merwinna put her hand on the girl's shoulder and searched deep in the upturned blue-green eyes. "I think you are made to wed," said the Abbess slowly, "that the natural desires of your body are strong, that you are made to be a mother, and that if Lord Rumon should want you for his wife, you would forget all about Romsey."

Merewyn blushed; her gaze faltered from her aunt's. "He never will," she said, cleansing her goose quill on a scrap of linen and then thrusting the pen into a noggin full of river sand.

"Perhaps not," said the Abbess, thinking of Bishop Ethelwold's recent remarks about Rumon, whom he heard of through Dun-

Stan. "Yet in all this time since he went back to Glastonbury, Lord Rumon has neither married nor taken orders. And the letter he wrote you showed interest. However —" added the Abbess hastily, chiding herself for unconsidered speech, "whatever happens is God's will, and has naught to do with my request, which is a personal one, for which my conscience pricks a little."

Merewyn stared at her aunt, whose face had lost its serenity and whose bluish lips were parted to ease the rapid breathing.

The Abbess sank down in her chair and gazed at the embers of the small fire she had recently permitted herself, since her hands and feet were always chilled. The November gloaming was lit only by Merewyn's working candle.

"I shan't be with you long," stated Merwinna. "No, dear child," she said, raising her hand to still Merewyn's shocked protest. "It's true, and I'm ready to go — may God be merciful to my sins, and may He permit me to continue praying for Romsey's welfare. They will bury me here, wherever the newly elected Abbess may think fit in the church, but —-" She paused. Whom would they elect to replace her? The prioress probably, though Herluva would be a better choice. There would be bickerings and jealousies alas. "I've been thinking of Cornwall. My childhood home. Lately many memories of Padstow have come to me in the night. The river Camel and its golden sands, flowing past Tre-Uther on its way to the sea. That sea of blue and emerald — much like your eyes, my dear. The sound of the sea beating over against the rocky cliffs — the beds of sea pinks behind those cliffs, how we romped in them, running, tumbling — boisterous as puppies, Uther, my brother — and later another lad."

"Another lad?" repeated Merewyn, trying to imagine her aunt as a romping girl.

The Abbess rested her chin on her hand, still gazing at the embers. "Another lad," she said quietly in Cornish. "One who made me a garland of sea pinks and the white sandwort, I loved him."

"What happened?" whispered Merewyn, as her aunt seemed to have stopped speaking.

"My father —" said the Abbess, coming back from memories, "always vain of his royal blood, thought the lad unworthy to wed into the line of Arthur; he planned for me a marriage with the old lord of Bodmin, but God had other plans — for which I thank Him daily. My father died suddenly before the marriage settlements had even been broached, and Uther, who inherited of course, would force me to nothing against my will. Ah, my brother was a good man . .."

"Aly jathei'T said Merewyn, her eyes aUght. "But then you could have married the lad?"

"He was drowned," said the Abbess. "One fearful night of storm when he was crossing the Camel in his curragh, bound for Tre-Uther and me."

The girl silently put her hand on the black-covered knee. Grief, she thought, and love loss, she had never thought her aunt touched by these. But then she had never thought of the Abbess as young.

"He was buried in St. Petroc's churchyard," continued Mer-winna in a faraway musing voice to which the Cornish Hit added cadence. "Yet it is not for that reason — I'm sure it is not for that, nor even that all our family are buried there — that I make my request of you, Merewyn."

The request. The girl had forgotten the request.

"In St. Petroc's one morning I was praying —" said the Abbess. "I cannot describe what happened, I think it wrong to describe holy things, but I know God called me, and then I knew that I would never be the bride of any man," her voice dropped, and she added very low — "Only the Bride of Christ."