Britamund raises a martyr's prayer

The Abbot had been warned that they were coming, and he or one of the monks had already lit all the torches and lamps in the crypt. But Britamund knew it was not the Abbot or one of the monks who had left the flowers on their mother’s tomb.

Nor was it her father: he would not think to give flowers even to his living wife.

It was Caedwulf who held the key to the crypt, and if her father ever wished to come, he had to ask his son for it.

Britamund did not often come without her brother, but even when she did, she always found fresh flowers here below the earth, so long as there were fresh flowers to be had upon its surface. It was a sweet gesture, and yet it suddenly seemed cruel.

“Do you think she would have liked this?” Britamund asked in the hushed voice one reserved for churches and tombs.

“Liked what?” her brother growled. She knew he thought she meant her wedding.

“These flowers down here.”

“These flowers are from her own garden.” He was still growling.

“I know – that’s not what I meant. I mean would she have liked to be… down here?”

He turned his head and scowled up at her. “She did not truly want to die.”

“That’s not what I meant.” She sighed in frustration. “I mean, Mother was buried in the churchyard beside baby Harold. And after a few years our father had her – had her – dug up again…”

He grimaced as if she had said something vulgar. “He brought her and Harold here to lie with her family. With him, and with me, and with her descendents. As befits a Queen. There was not even a church there any longer – is that the sort of ground in which you wish your mother to lie?”

“But she had flowers growing over her grave…”

“And now I bring flowers to her.”

“But it will never rain on her again, or snow…”

“And that is a bad thing?” he cried in a voice reserved for out-​​of-​​doors or for anger.

“No,” she said meekly.

It was no use explaining to him. He would not understand, any more than their father had. They both loved her mother in their way, but she did not think it had been her mother’s way.

“Do you want me to leave you alone with her?” he asked wearily.

“Yes, please.”

He bent and kissed the surface of her casket. There was no risk of dusty lips: her brother kept it clean.

He hugged her quickly and then kissed her cheek with the same lips. Her prosaic, pragmatic brother could have seen nothing wrong with this.

“I shall await you in the chapel,” he said as he went out.

The chapel. The chapel was directly over her head, upon the surface of the earth. In less than a day’s time she would stand in it to be married.

At this time tomorrow she would already be married, perhaps eating her wedding supper at Dunellen. Perhaps dancing with her husband. Perhaps, if they were weary enough after the long day, they would already be heading up to bed.

She had already talked to Eadie about this – or rather, Eadie had talked, and Britamund had listened in silent shock. She knew now that some of the things Emmie and Meggie whispered were not merely the products of the wild imaginations or the misunderstandings of eleven-​​year-​​old girls.

If Eadie could speak of these things, they were real. She must do all of these things if her husband so desired, for it was her duty as a wife, and she could only refuse him under grave circumstances.

She was convinced now that, once in a bedchamber, men turned into ravening beasts who must be appeased at any cost to one’s comfort or dignity.

Eadie had told her this on the eve of her fifteenth birthday, which meant that she had been in possession of the knowledge all through the Birthday Season thus far, and it had been busier than usual due to the arrival of the many guests who had come for her wedding. She was surrounded by men – strange men, some of them – exotic men in dark kilts and Irish cloaks and the colorful tunics of the Manxmen.

Wherever she walked these days, she felt as if she was passing through a kaleidoscope of predatory eyes, slipping between the flanks of dozens of hungry beasts. She was as obtrusive and helpless in her virginity as a white doe in a cage of lions, protected only by their respect and love for the King of Lions who sat at the head of her table. But they must have felt pangs of hunger when they saw her.

At last she spoke to her mother.

“How did you bear it?” she pleaded. “Help me, Mama!”

But her mother had not borne it. Her mother had escaped into madness. Britamund also believed her mother had truly wanted to die.