The Western Fens
Tim was a man of few words who brought them quietly up the river for the better part of six days. Myrne decided she would earn her keep as best she could while they sailed up the Ames. To Wolf’s surprise she could catch, clean and gut fish and Sanelin was the best cook in the southern kingdoms. He did not say this because he sensed Myrne would not appreciate that. In the mornings, Myrne rolled up her sleeves, and with soap stone and water, scrubbed clothes, then hung them to dry from the edge of the boat.
“There’s some’ ut bout a lady who can work,’ Tim said, “and you can jus’ look at’er and tell she’s a lady.”
Wolf nodded. That you could, and he wished to work beside her. The evenings where, at the sunset, she had him preparing the cakes for supper, were pleasant, and her bossing him about was a strange music to her ears.
“Mind you, don’t burn the corn cakes again,” she said. “The first time was one thing, but now you need to pay attention.”
“Yes, love,” he said.
“Whaddit you—?” she began.
“Yes, Myrne,” Wolf said.
Inglad
In time, Myrne and Wolf parted from Sanelin and Tim, and Bessie’s kin sailed north for Ambridge, Tim declaring, “You all be the best crew this boat ever had.”
But now they rode south along the low valley to Durham, for the double abbey of Saint Clew, and presently they saw a troop of White Monks bearing, the banner of the Eternal Sun, riding toward them.
“Is that the banner of Daumany?” Wolf said.
“But it is,” Myrne observed. “Well… do we join them? Or do we follow behind?”
“It would be strange if we rode quickly to get ahead of them,” Wolf said. “We would be delayed if we continued to ride behind them. They are foreigners. Let us ride as we are and see what happens. Stay behind me. I will ride at the head.”
But even as they were approaching, the train of black monks stopped and the banners lowered.
“Myrne!” Wolf said.
“It’s too late to turn around now,” she returned, riding on.
She rode straight to the main litter, black as night, and as she did, the curtain opened and a long tall man, with a longish but not unpleasant face was lowered.
“Peace!” Myrne called out.
“And peace to you, Lady.
“I am the Lady Myrne of the Rootless Isle, and this is my manservant, Wolf.”
“Manservant?” Wolf murmured.
“Be quiet,” Myrne hissed.
“We are on our way to Saint Clew, for we have had a vision that danger is about to strike, and we have come to warn the sisters and, if we can, protect them.”
Odo’s eyes widened, then he said, “My lady, I am on my way there for the same reason. Come, join our party. Be at your ease. We shall reach the monastery together.”
The Abbey Of
Saint Clew
“My father loved me,” the Abbess Gertrude declared, while Hilary lifted her veil, and began to unwrap the wimple from about the old woman’s face.
“When I was seventeen he prepared a small dowry, what he could afford, to have me married to a young knight, and he did well. He did very well for himself. Father always told me he would get me a good husband, but I said no. I wished to become a nun. And so,” Gertrude bowed her head, “he bowed his head to this and brought me to Saint Clew. I was nothing but a choir sister, not lowly as a farm sister, for in those days they still had two levels of nuns. In time, by the grace of heaven, I became Abbess. There were more powerful women than me, and certainly wiser, but the title came to me, and now it comes to you,” she said to Hilda.”
Hilda sat across from her, entirely covered in the great black veil than went over her white robe.
“Hilary, I thank you,” Gertrude said, touching the girl’s hand, and Hilary knew she was dismissed. She bowed to the old woman and then to Hilda.
When the door closed behind her, Gertrude spoke.
“We were not born alike. I was the bastard daughter of a lusty knight who cared for the child he got on a tavern wench, and you are the daughter of a king and queen, born from noble lines, sister to monarchs. But we are the same in spirit. If I had not known it before, I knew it at your father’s funeral when you sang the morning hymn and there were no dry eyes in that house.
“Tonight will be the last time I recite the prayers before announcing that you will become Abbess. You will be made abbess twelve days hence.”
“Mother!”
“Ah, but it is all but done now,” Gertrude said. “You are truly abbess in all but name. But all the same, the name counts.”
There was a reluctant knock at the door and Hilda rose to answer.
Hilary was on the other side.
“You have visitors. The abbey has visitors. Abbot Odo of Saint Fundagast at Fonteroy, the brother of King Rufus of Daumany has come to pay court.”
Hilda rose and left the room without bidding goodbye to Gertrude who smiled and said, “I am napping until night prayer.”
The monastery was two great long low buildings of stone joining by a cloister and before a great chapel. A courtyard was before the cloister and in it the monks of the abbey were helping the visiting monks take their things to the guesthouse. Bells were ringing from the carillon, and as Hilda came out into the busy yard, she saw Odo and he saw her. She stopped herself from running.
“Sister Abbess,” he said, placing his hands together, and bowed his head before looking up at her.
“Brother Abbot,” she murmured in return, and the two of them stood like that until she saw two more approaching, and raised her eyes blinking uncertainly.
“I know you!” she began. “You were at my father’s funeral. In Kingsboro.” Then she said, “You were the liegeman of the Lord Ohean.”
But before Wolf could say anything, Myrne said, “My lady, I have traveled for weeks to reach you. A vision came to all of us. You are in the greatest of dangers. We are here to help.”
“I do not remember you,” Hilda said. “Were you to in Kingsboro?”
Myrne looked to Wolf before she said, “I was in hiding, with your brother Anson, and until now we have been in the company of Anson and Ohean. My name is Myrne, daughter of Ceoldane of Herreboro, twice born of the royal line of Wulfstan.”
Wolf looked at her, for though he had always known this must be true, she had never spoken the dangerous Wulfstan name. Now she stood before the brother of the King of Daumany and the sister of two monarchs declaring herself.
“Then I will declare as well,” Wolf said.
“Declare what?” Myrne demanded.
His sword rang as it came out of its scabbard, and some of the guards put their hands to their scabbards as others came to attention.
“I am Osric Wulfstan,” Wolf sang to Hilda, “son of Eoga, grandson of Edred and heir to the thrones of Hale, Inglad and North Hale, and if by my breath and body I can aid you, then I shall.”
We're taking a break from our tale for a few days to get recalibrated and let new readers catch up, and then we'll return with Part Two of The Book of the Broken!
