My Lord, the Hermit Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  By the Same Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  By the same author

  MURDER AT THE ALTAR

  MURDER BY SUICIDE

  MURDER OF INNOCENCE

  MURDER BY ACCIDENT

  MURDER IN THE GARDEN

  MURDER BY COMMITTEE

  MURDER BY BICYCLE

  MURDER OF IDENTITY

  MURDER IN HOUSE

  MURDER BY MISTAKE

  MURDER MY NEIGHBOUR

  MURDER IN MIND

  MURDER WITH MERCY

  MURDER IN TIME

  FALSE CHARITY

  FALSE PICTURE

  FALSE STEP

  FALSE PRETENCES

  FALSE MONEY

  FALSE REPORT

  FALSE ALARM

  FALSE DIAMOND

  LONGSWORD

  THE TARRANT ROSE

  THE SIEGE OF SALWARPE

  MY LORD, THE HERMIT

  Veronica Heley

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  This title first published in Great Britain in 1980 by Corgi Books

  Corgi Books are published by Transworld Publishers Ltd,

  Century House, 61-63 Uxbridge Rd,

  Ealing, London, W5 5SA

  Originally published under the pseudonym of Victoria Thorne.

  eBook edition first published in 2014 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 1980 Victoria Thorne.

  The right of Veronica Heley to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0136-2 (ePub)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This eBook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  CHAPTER ONE

  LORD and lady, priest and page; the hunting party had ridden out from the castle at dawn, and was both hungry and tired. Thunder rolled above, but as yet no rain fell. The Count’s son, Lord Julian, reined in his horse. The others followed suit.

  Then it happened.

  From out of the trees plunged a wild boar, screaming. He was upon the dogs, tossing them to the left and right, before the huntsmen realized what was happening. Julian’s horse reared, sidling into the pony ridden by one of the pages. Amory was only nine years old, and taken by surprise. He fell, arms upraised. His scream was echoed by a cry from the priest. Even as the boy tumbled to the ground, the boar turned on him.

  Joanna of Leybourne dug her heels into her horse’s flanks, and swept down on Amory, bending over her horse’s neck to scoop the lad up and out of danger. The boar’s charge missed her by a scrape of hide. The animal backed and turned, eyes red-rimmed, heavy body ready to charge at whatever might move next.

  Joanna wrenched her horse’s head round and sent him hurtling through the trees away from danger. The boy Amory screamed, his legs beating now at the ground and now on the air as Joanna dragged him along.

  All was quiet. The boar had not followed.

  Joanna pulled up her horse, and allowed Amory to slip to the ground. He hit her, childishly angry with himself and with her.

  ‘I could have managed,’ he said.

  ‘Nodkin!’ said Joanna politely. Her face was pale. She had hurt her wrist in dragging the boy along. She threw back her plaits and inspected her arm, drawing up the long sleeve to disclose a graze on the inside of her wrist. Her forearm pulsed with pain.

  ‘I’m going back to watch the kill,’ said the boy.

  Her instinct was to let him go, but just in time she remembered that he was an orphan of noble birth, and that if anything happened to him, there would be the devil and all to pay. ‘You stay here till we’re sure it’s safe,’ she said. She grabbed his tunic and held him close to her horse’s side. He wriggled, but could not free himself.

  The sergeant-at-arms cantered through the trees towards them, looking anxious. He smiled, seeing them both unharmed. Joanna did not know his name. She was newly come to the castle, and had not yet had time to learn the names of all her uncle the Count’s retainers. She did recognize this man, however, because his head was almost completely round, and he was very capable.

  ‘He is quite safe,’ she said.

  ‘And you, my lady? That was a brave thing to do.’

  ‘I?’ She flexed her arms. Tears glazed her eyes, for the pain was sharp. ‘A wrench. Nothing. Is my cousin safe?’

  ‘Lord Julian is quite unharmed, and they have killed the boar.’ He reached down an arm for the boy. ‘Hop up, my lord, and I will give you a ride back before me.’

  ‘You may get down, and I will ride your horse,’ said the boy. He was very much on his dignity.

  ‘Why, you little toad!’ said Joanna.

  ‘Peace, mistress,’ said the large man, dismounting. ‘He’s only a child, and he’s had a fright.’ He threw the boy up into the saddle. The page shook the reins and dug his heels into the horse, making it trot back to the others.

  ‘That was kind of you,’ said Joanna. ‘You are the sergeant, are you not? What is your name? Have you children of your own?’

  ‘Nay, lady. A bachelor am I, and they call me Herkom.’

  He had an air of calm patience which she admired but could not emulate. In his place, she would have given the boy a box on the ear. Her arm was bad. The pain was gripping at her elbow now. She shook back her sleeve. The wrist was swelling, there was no doubt about that.

  ‘Did the lordling do that to you?’ inquired Herkom.

  ‘And never a word of thanks. Is there a stream nearby where I can bathe it? How far are we from the castle?’

  ‘I will ask, but I think not. We are no more than an hour’s ride from the castle, however.’

  ‘Is there no dwelling hereabouts where I could rest awhile?’

  ‘Nothing, lady. This is wild land, near the border of Sir Bevil’s estates. He is not particular about the laws of property, and therefore men avoid this part of the forest. East lies the abbey, from which Father Hilarion came to be our chaplain, but I fear it is a longer ride that way than back to the castle.’

  She straightened her back, and nodded to the man-at-arms to precede her back to the glade. Young Amory’s voice floated back across the sward to meet them, complaining of ill-usage at Joanna’s hands. The priest was on his knees, feeling the boy’s limbs.

  ‘Nothing broken, I thank the Lord.’

  The boar lay nearby, three spears in its side. It was dead. Some verdurers were cutting saplings from which they would suspend the boar, in order to carry it back
to the castle. Julian was quaffing wine.

  His father’s jester leaped forward and bowed as Joanna rode up.

  ‘Behold the huntress returns, having proved herself in more ways than one. All praise to you, lady.’

  ‘You’re quite right,’ said Julian. He bestowed an approving nod on Joanna. ‘That was well done, cousin.’ Thunder cracked overhead, and they all glanced up. Julian threw the wineskin down, and gathered up his reins. ‘We should return, I think.’ He rode off without waiting for Joanna, and behind him went the priest and the two pages. Joanna swayed in the saddle.

  ‘Lady?’ That was Herkom.

  She jerked herself upright. ‘It is nothing. Perhaps, if there is any more wine? I can manage.’

  ‘That you cannot.’ Midge the jester held the wineskin to her lips, but there was hardly a mouthful left. She felt the eyes of the men on her, kind and watchful. But the outline of their faces was dimming. She jerked herself upright once more. She must not faint. She, Joanna of Leybourne, did not faint for a simple sprain of the wrist.

  ‘Let us go,’ she said. She urged her horse forward. The others were almost out of sight, but one of them was returning to inquire how she did. Was it Julian? No, her cousin was well-meaning, but not at all perceptive. It was one of the pages. It wouldn’t be Amory, of course. No, it was the other one, the dark-haired lad. Fulk. Yes, that was his name. A pleasant lad, and concerned for her.

  ‘… she will not be able to ride back to the castle without a rest. …’ Was that Herkom or Midge speaking?

  ‘What of the hermit? He could help her, if he is there.’

  ‘It has been dry of late, and he has been dragging a big stone up the hill. I saw him in the distance yesterday, when I was riding out.’

  The voices came and went, and she could not tell who had spoken, though she turned her eyes from one to another. The page was nodding, turning his horse’s head, calling back that he would let the others know what had happened.

  Herkom had his hand on her bridle, urging her horse along. They were climbing. She held her arm up, over her breasts. She shook her head to clear it. She was angry with herself for showing weakness.

  ‘This is not the way we came, is it?’

  ‘No, lady. We hunted in a wide sweep through the hills that surround the valley. We return the direct way, up this hill to where the Travellers’ Road runs from east to west, and then straight down into the valley beyond. It is much quicker, though not such a good road.’

  They came out on to the top of a hill. Thunder rolled in the distance, but no rain fell. Here and there a patch of sunlight gleamed with fierce splendour across close-cropped turf. There were no trees up this high. She saw that they were on a ridge, travelling along a path which had been worn chalk-white through the turf. Sheep scattered at their approach. To her right lay the forest in which they had been hunting, and to the left there was a steep drop to the broad valley in which the castle lay. The path led along the top of a line of hills which bounded the southern end of the valley. Here and there gullies broke away to north and south, but the path unerringly followed the highest line. On the next rise lay a yellow-grey jumble of stone.

  ‘Is that a house?’ she asked. ‘Can we not rest there awhile?’

  ‘It is not a house,’ said Midge, and his voice was heavy. Even in the midst of her own pain, she could tell that he was hurt and angry about something.

  ‘It is a church, lady,’ said Herkom. ‘Keren the Hermit took a vow to build a chapel on the Travellers’ Way, in silence and poverty. He has been building it for nearly nine years now, and that is all there is of it. The stone has to be quarried down in the valley, you see, and brought up on his sledge. Every single stone.’

  ‘He must be a very saintly old man,’ said Joanna, whose only previous experience of hermits had been a fleeting glimpse of the white-haired and bearded recluse who had lived in a cave near Leybourne, when she was a child.

  ‘Saintly?’ said Midge. He laughed. ‘Not really, no. Or perhaps – come to think of it – perhaps he is.’

  ‘Old?’ said Herkom. He shook his head. ‘He is a healer, lady. He will heal you, if he is there.’

  A dog barked on the rise before them.

  ‘He is there,’ said Midge.

  Joanna narrowed her eyes. The late afternoon sun was breaking up the clouds, and the hill glowed with light. Thunder still rolled, faintly, but it was no longer menacing. On the hill before her she saw a figure toiling to haul a sled up to the church. A dog galloped about him, now and then stopping to point his nose in their direction, and bark.

  ‘A hermit with a dog?’ she wondered. ‘Are they allowed possessions?’

  ‘The dog was given him by a shepherd, whose skin he healed of a rash. Father Ambrose said it was all right.’

  ‘Father Hilarion said it wasn’t,’ said Midge. ‘But the bitch would not leave Keren by that time, and no one had the heart to kill her.’

  ‘Who is Father Ambrose? I don’t know him, do I?’

  Midge shook his head at Herkom. ‘Herkom talks too much, lady. Pay him no heed.’

  The track divided, one branch taking a sudden dive into a dell. Herkom guided Joanna’s horse that way. Below an outcrop of rock, a crude shelter of hides had been built. The framework was of neatly-trimmed saplings, and the floor had been covered with bracken. A home-spun cloak lay folded on a bracken bed, and in front of the dwelling a ring of stones held the glimmerings of a fire, over which a black pot hung on a tripod.

  A spring welled up out of the ground nearby, and trickled away through the turf down the hill into the trees. Where it came out of the ground, someone had widened and deepened the rivulet to form a basin, and this in turn had been lined with smooth white stones. Everything proclaimed neatness and poverty.

  Herkom went off to fetch the hermit, while Midge helped Joanna to dismount. He was not much above four foot in height, with an ungainly, twisted body; but his eyes were beautiful, and though his tongue could be sharp, his voice was soft.

  ‘He is taking his time,’ she said. The pain in her arm would not let her rest. She walked to and fro.

  ‘Every such visit as this takes him away from the building of the church, and drains his strength. It may be that he is reluctant.’

  ‘I will pay him well.’

  ‘What is money to such as he?’

  She was silent. Midge was right. She was frequently thoughtless.

  ‘A pity we have no bread with us,’ said Midge. ‘The country folk bring him something when they pass, and he has a small garden nearby. When he is working in the quarry, they allow him a ration of food, but often he goes hungry.’

  The dog barked above them on the bluff. She was a beautiful collie, intelligent and suspicious. Her tail was waving; it seemed she had recognized Midge. The fool whistled, and the dog sloped down the bluff, barking wildly, and threw herself on Midge, who made much of her. Two figures came down the path at the side of the bluff, but the sun was in Joanna’s eyes, so that they only appeared in silhouette. One, the larger man, must be Herkom. The other was tall and slender, and moved awkwardly, leaping and halting.

  Midge set the dog aside, and ran to meet the newcomer.

  ‘This is the Lady Joanna, a distant relation of the Count. She is but eighteen years of age. Since her father’s death, she is ward to my lord the Count. They say she fears no one; not even God. Perhaps they are right, for she took the whip from the Seneschal’s hand the other day when he would have thrashed one of the serving girls for a trifling fault. She has twisted and grazed her arm, and is in pain. …’

  ‘She saved the boy Amory,’ said Herkom. ‘She plucked him from the ground as the boar charged at him. …’

  ‘And the little toad gave me no thanks for it,’ said Joanna, her voice sharpening as she fought to control the waves of pain which were threatening to overwhelm her.

  The hermit hesitated, and then stooped to wash his hands in the spring. He moved awkwardly because there was a chain round his ankles, lin
king them together a stride apart. He did not seem to be all that old, for his hair was still black.

  So much she gathered before another wave of pain hit her, and she closed her eyes, feeling sick. Strong, firm, slightly damp hands took her forearm into their keeping. One hand cupped her elbow, the other held the palm of her hand, with the fingers outstretched. He did not speak. She did not open her eyes.

  ‘Can you take the pain away? She is nigh fainting.’ Midge’s voice came from far away.

  His hands were warm. The pressure on her elbow increased, but it was not unpleasant. Numbing. Yes, the pain was going. She heard him sigh. The pain flooded back. Not as badly as before, but it was coming back. She tried to move her arm. He shifted his grip. She heard him breathe in, deeply. The pain was going.

  She couldn’t believe it. The pain had gone. He still held on to her arm. She opened her eyes, cautiously. The earth was no longer dissolving around her. He was standing very close to her. Heat came from his body to hers. His arms were tanned, every muscle standing out on them. There were fine dark hairs on his forearms, and his homespun tunic was very clean. He also smelled clean, which was unusual for a peasant.

  He turned, and in doing so, turned her. He inclined his head, indicating the spring, pulling her to sit down beside it. He plunged her forearm into the water, and left it there, holding it under the surface. She gasped. The water was icy. But there was no pain. Only the numbness, changing in quality. A dull ache came. She wanted to withdraw her arm, but he held it firm, under the water.

  ‘Keep still now,’ said Midge, squatting at her side. ‘He’s only killed the pain for a moment. The cold water will reduce the swelling. Then he can see where the damage is.’

  She pressed her left hand down into the turf, studying the fine grass beneath her fingers, and a tiny yellow rock rose growing beside her thumb. Presently the ache went, and only the numbness was left. Keren stood up, shaking water from his hands. She looked up, and again she could not see his face, for he still stood between her and the sun. He motioned to her to keep still. Midge put his hand on her shoulder, to make sure she did not remove her arm from the water. She had no inclination to do so.