My Lord, the Hermit Page 11

  They were silent. Father Hilarion’s sermon had had a powerful effect on the Count, and the priest was high in favour. The new convent was shortly to be opened, for the Lady Elizabeth and her band of nuns to enter. They were to build such a place of holiness, said Father Hilarion, that evil would never dare to show his face in the valley.

  ‘Of course,’ said Joanna, ‘prayers can be very powerful. I suppose. And yet Keren had to take up a sword to protect himself and the people who had sought refuge with him.’

  ‘Father Hilarion’s argument is that Keren only had to take up a sword because he was not pure of heart.’

  Joanna made a rude noise. ‘I’d like to see Father Hilarion confront twenty men-at-arms intent on rape and murder.’

  Midge chuckled, but made no other comment.

  That evening the tirewoman who served Joanna and her cousins told them that they would have to find someone else to take the part of the Saracen Lady in the masque. The Lady Elizabeth was taking her two daughters to Father Hilarion to be clothed in their nuns’ habits on the morrow. Two of the serving wenches were also to be admitted to the order at the same time, to look after the holy nuns.

  Joanna sat with her head on her hand, pondering the oddity of life. Poor Anne! What sort of nun would she make? But perhaps, if she could learn to serve with joy as Keren did, then she would be happy. Only perhaps it was nothing to do with serving God, but something that was born in you, or not, as the case might be. Father Hilarion had been born without joy, and Joanna did not think he would ever achieve it. Keren had probably been born with it, and would have been a happy man whatever had happened to him. Or would he? She sighed and went to talk to Joyeuse. She had a feeling at the back of her mind that Joyeuse might prefer to follow her aunt and cousins into the convent, rather than marry Sir Walter. Joanna was selfish enough not to wish that to happen.

  The following morning at dawn the Count, Sir Walter and their escort of twenty well-armed and well-mounted men left the castle, and took the western route out of the valley towards the abbey. They would be gone at least a week, and in the meantime all was to be prepared for the marriages of Joanna with Julian, and Joyeuse with Sir Walter. The rehearsals for the pageant went but slowly, without Anne. Floria selected a quiet girl from among the waiting-women to take the part of the Saracen Lady, but she blushed so much, and spoke so softly, that it was thought to be an exchange for the worse.

  The Lady Elizabeth and her nuns installed themselves in the convent, together with a sufficiency of servants, both religious and secular. Father Hilarion was nearly always to be found there, or in the unfinished church, sternly bidding everyone make haste and work for Christ. The refugees were removed from the main convent building and given quarters in the outhouses, pending settlement of the score with Sir Bevil.

  Joanna found Herkom looking down on the convent and its outbuildings from the ramparts, and inquired why he looked so grim.

  ‘Lady, it is a soldier’s nightmare.’ He waved his hand at the new buildings, clustering around the unfinished ribs of the church. ‘They lie beyond the castle walls, and there is a ford across the river at that point. Father Hilarion insists that no one would dare to attack a convent and church, or those who labour in its making, but I am not so sure. I remember that Sir Bevil and his men are excommunicate, and therefore have nothing to lose by attacking convent, church, or any who work on them.’

  ‘Have you pointed out the danger to Father Hilarion?’

  ‘He says that we will have plenty of warning of an attack, but I can see he does not really believe that there will be any. He says that the people in the convent could easily regain the castle, if there were trouble. I doubt it. The nuns are nimble enough, but there are sick and injured among the refugees, and some of them could not be moved, save in a litter. I envy Father Hilarion his faith, but I cannot share it.’

  ‘Surely, with Keren armed and astride the road from the Travellers’ Way, and with a guard on the quarry, Sir Bevil’s men could not possibly get through to the valley. The refugees are coming in from far to the west or the east, either from the abbey lands, or along the road that leads past the quarry. There are no other roads Sir Bevil can take, are there?’

  ‘There are a few tracks, used by the shepherds, but I agree with you that if there is an attack, it will come by one of those two ways. Only, Father Hilarion has ordered me to take him and a party of men up to Keren’s church tomorrow, to bring down the people who have collected around him, together with the arms and the remainder of the horses they took from Sir Bevil and his men.’

  Joanna clutched at the coping on the wall beside her. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Oh, no. He could not … could he? Does he not understand what would happen if he deprives Keren of weapons and men? The road from the south would be open to Sir Bevil and his men, and we would be in danger at once.’

  ‘Yes, lady. So think I. But Father Hilarion thinks otherwise, and has persuaded the Countess and the Seneschal – who give the orders round here – that our need of those weapons is greater than Keren’s. Besides, says Father Hilarion, what business has a hermit with weapons?’

  Joanna had gone white. Her voice trembled. ‘He will allow Keren to come down to the castle with the others?’

  ‘No, lady. Keren is to stay, to go on with his work on building the church up there.’

  ‘But when Sir Bevil comes … and he surely will come … when he finds Keren alone and without weapons. …’ She covered her face with her hands. ‘Does Father Hilarion not know what Sir Bevil has threatened to do to Keren?’

  ‘He has been told. There are many here who are beholden to Keren. The masons, the quarry-workers, the carpenters, all would be angry if they knew; and so it is that our mission is to be kept secret until we return.’

  ‘And you are to lead this – this disgraceful foray?’

  ‘I have no choice, lady. I owe service to the Count.’

  ‘I thought you loved Keren!’

  ‘Yes, lady. Always. That is partly why I go. It may be that I can conceal a sword and some armour in a secret place for him. But he will need money, if he is to make his escape, and I have none.’

  She eyed Herkom. She remembered that she had suspected Midge and Herkom of knowing more of Keren than they had allowed. Herkom would, perhaps, be an easier subject to question than the nimble-witted Midge.

  ‘I wonder,’ she said, apparently changing the subject, ‘whether men like Keren are born happy, or whether they learn how to endure with a smile.’

  ‘He was greatly loved, lady, though his father died when he was young. He was a silent boy, uncomplaining when he hurt himself, thoughtful for others. He was a good rider, and loved sword-practice, but was always distressed by wounds and illness. His foster-brother, Keren, and his mother taught him something of herbs and healing. …’ He stopped. ‘Lady, you go too fast for me.’

  ‘No, I knew already that you and Midge had been with his family before. So Keren is not his real name, but the name of his foster-brother?’

  ‘Yes, lady. He took Keren’s name when disgrace came upon him. There had been much love between him and his foster-brother, and when the fever took Keren, my lord took his name, in remembrance.’

  ‘What really happened? I know only that he is supposed to have killed his wife. Amory is their son, is he not?’

  ‘Yes, lady.’ He sighed. ‘I know not what happened. No one knows, save she who died. The Lady Mariana did not see eye to eye with my lord’s mother, so when he went abroad on the King’s business, she took a small household of servants, and went to stay in one of her manors, deep in the forest. Midge stayed with my lord’s mother, I went with my lord. We knew the lady Mariana was pregnant, and we were in haste to return to her side after our time in France. My lord had only one letter from her during the time we had been away. She was well cared for, and the abbey was nearby, so that she could call for assistance should she need it. My lord outstripped us on the last lap of our return. He thought the child might already h
ave been born, and he was so happy, so anxious. … Keren was ailing, and could not ride fast. My lord rode on ahead. We came on more slowly. When we got there, the women were screaming, and servants running … and he, my lord, was lying flat on his back unconscious, with a bad cut on his brow, and the bed was covered with blood, and there was blood on his sword, which had fallen by his right hand, and the Lady Mariana was standing there, with blood dripping down from a great wound in her back. She was in labour. She told us my lord had entered, and tripped, and fallen, hurting his head. She said that when he got up he had not seemed to recognize her, but had drawn his sword and struck at her with it, and then had fallen down again, in a faint. I do not know.

  ‘The prior from the abbey told us to take my lord away and care for him. When he awoke, he had no memory of what he had done. The Lady Mariana was safely delivered of the child, but what with the wound in her back, and the fever women sometimes get following childbirth … she died. But before she died she cursed my lord, and formally accused him of her murder.

  ‘The abbot said my lord must be restrained, lest he do himself or others a mischief. He was very ill, with the same fever that had taken Keren. They took him to the abbey to nurse him, and some six months later he took the oath to build a church for God in silence and poverty, in expiation of his crime.

  ‘Midge and I were never happy, after that, although my lady his mother was a good mistress. Yet there was no scope for a fool in a household of women and one small babe, and there was little work for me to do, since my lady sent no men to the wars. We are both free men, Midge and I. So after a couple of years we set out on our travels to see the world. It is four years now since we came into this part of the country and heard tell of Keren. We went to see him.’ His face worked. ‘Midge cried. We would have stayed and helped him to build the church, but we had no money, and had to seek a new master. So it came about that we took service with the Count, to be near Keren and help him when we might. And bad servants have we proved to be of late.’

  Joanna pressed his arm. ‘It must have been a great comfort to him, to know you were nearby, and to see you sometimes.’

  ‘Nay, lady. He has comforted us, rather than we him.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, and now there was colour in her face again, and her voice was gentle. ‘I think he is a very wonderful man, and I have only met him once. How strange it seems. Only once. …’ She looked up to see him looking at her shrewdly. It came to her that Herkom, although more obviously straightforward than Midge, had not really been tricked, but had told her exactly what it had been in his mind to let her know. ‘Herkom, ought we not to tell the master mason what is going to happen tomorrow, that he may remonstrate with Father Hilarion?’

  ‘Nay, opposition merely makes Father Hilarion more certain that his way is Christ’s way. His vision of God is very narrow to my way of thinking, but who am I – unlettered and sinful as I am – to say he is right or wrong? No, we must obey him. We must bring down the poor people who have taken refuge with Keren, together with the weapons and the rest of the horses. I will contrive to leave a good suit of clothes, arms and a horse somewhere in the woods below the church. My lord must leave before Sir Bevil arrives, that is for certain. I think it best that he goes east. He cannot go west, for that way lies the abbey, and since the abbot has placed my lord under Father Hilarion’s jurisdiction, it would be to move from one prison to another. He must go to the army in the east, and take service there. And if you will let me have some money for food and fodder for his horse, I am sure he will be able to make good his escape.’

  ‘It will mean breaking his oath.’

  ‘If he stays, Sir Bevil will crucify him. What sort of oath is it that binds a man under such circumstances? To my mind, Father Hilarion relieves my lord of his oath, if he disarms him and bids him stay to meet his death.’

  ‘I agree with you, but I wonder if Keren will also see it that way? Yet I will gladly give you the money. Only he is stubborn, and … I greatly fear. … What does Midge say?’

  ‘He is of your opinion, lady. Yet he bids me do my best, for he can think of no other plan to save my lord.’

  ‘I will come with you when you ride south tomorrow. I am sure I can persuade him … no, I am not sure … but as you say, we must try. I will give it out as a pretext that I must see how many refugees there are, and of what sort. What quarters have been prepared for them?’

  ‘They are mostly from the abbey lands, so the Countess resents having to feed them. They are to go with the rest, in the convent outbuildings for the present. I suppose they will be glad of any shelter, at such a time.’

  Joanna looked over the ramparts to where the convent, its buildings and the half-finished church showed dark against the grey-green of the meadows. Dusk was upon them, the sun sinking behind clouds. Joanna thought of Anne, with her head cropped, and her full woman’s body hid beneath a skimpy black gown, and shivered. She did not think there was much joy in the convent at the moment for Anne, and very little acceptance of her fate.

  Two carts had set out at dawn, but the main party rode out after Mass. Father Hilarion headed the cavalcade, riding a raking black stallion. He had an excellent seat, and obviously relished the chance of a gallop. Herkom rode at his side, grim and self-contained. His men cantered behind him, two by two, for Herkom insisted on discipline, and had a way of exacting it without brutality which made him both loved and respected.

  Joanna and her tirewoman rode near the rear of the column, with the panniers of their horses stuffed with bandages and wine. Father Hilarion had not liked Joanna’s coming, but had been given little opportunity to say her nay, for she had left her arrival till the last moment before the column departed, and he had not wished to delay while he expostulated with her. Now he dropped back down the column to speak with her.

  ‘A cold wind,’ he said, pulling the hood of his robe over his head.

  ‘It will be a long journey for the poor people to walk back to the castle,’ said Joanna, anticipating his curiosity. ‘Do you think they will all be able to ride, or get into the wagons? Perhaps we ought to have brought pillion saddles, so that the women at least might ride back.’

  ‘They are but peasants,’ said Father Hilarion. ‘They are used to walking. The wagons are for the arms – and for the children, possibly, if the men cannot carry them.’

  ‘There is a man with a broken leg, I hear. …’

  ‘I believe the hermit has tried to set it by lashing it to a pole. A waste of time. Everyone knows the only way is to amputate.’

  ‘Herkom tells me that the leg is healing well.’

  ‘Perhaps it was not broken, but merely strained.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ she said, frowning at Father Hilarion’s profile. Was the man jealous of Keren’s power of healing? It might well be so. How difficult it must be, if the jailor was jealous of his prisoner. … Herkom was right, and Keren was as much a prisoner of Father Hilarion’s as if he were in one of the castle dungeons.

  ‘It was not wise of you to venture from the castle, Lady Joanna.’

  ‘But I thought you said it was quite safe, and that no one would dare to attack us.’ She counted the column of soldiers. ‘Twenty men to take arms from a rabble of peasants, and drive them down into the valley. I do not think we will be in any danger.’

  Father Hilarion flushed. ‘You talk as if I were injuring, instead of rescuing these poor people.’

  ‘Have you asked their opinion?’

  ‘Peasants have no opinions.’

  ‘Oh. I see. Well, I still do not like the thought of the road over the hills being left unguarded.’

  ‘Women understand nothing of strategy.’

  She was silent. It would serve no purpose to quarrel with him.

  Keren stood on the brow of the hill, and watched the column approach. He had gone down into the quarry the previous day to get some tools sharpened, and had learned that the Count had gone to visit the abbot, and that there was therefore a shortage of men and
arms in the castle. He counted the men in the column, and from them his eyes went to the toiling oxen which had been pulling the two wagons across the valley since early morning. There was no doubt in his mind what the coming of the wagons meant. They were not on the road which led to the quarry. They were empty. They were come to fetch something, and the only thing they could have come for was the store of arms he had taken from Sir Bevil.

  The black-robed figure of the priest was clearly distinguishable at the head of the column. Now Father Hilarion normally made only two visits a year to the hermit, to admonish his charge, and check that he was keeping his vow in poverty and silence. On those occasions Keren had stripped the church of cross and altar before Father Hilarion could see them. He did not wish to be the means whereby Father Ambrose got into trouble. He must strip the church again, now. …

  But he did not move. He looked down on the column, and struggled to maintain composure. Why? Why was Father Hilarion so hard on him? The answer was not far away; it lay in the blood he had shed. So. He was to be stripped of the means to defend himself, and he must accept his fate.

  Long ago his foster-brother had taught him to overcome fear with laughter. The hermit knew now that fatigue, illness and grief could banish laughter. Acceptance with joy was the answer, but acceptance with joy was not always possible.

  The wind was keen today. The hermit drew his cloak more closely around him, and leaned on his staff. Anger moved deep within him. He had always suspected, but never admitted to himself until now, that Father Hilarion hated him. He did not know why. Perhaps the good in Father Hilarion hated the evil in Keren. Yet he, Keren, did not feel that he was totally evil. Father Ambrose had not seemed to think so. Father Ambrose had taught the hermit never to judge anyone, but always to try to reach them with love.

  The hermit frowned. He had tried to love Father Hilarion, but had achieved only a remote sort of pity for the man. He certainly did not hate him. He did not even hate Sir Bevil, who would undoubtedly kill him slowly and painfully if he could catch him unawares. Sir Bevil was merely doing what a narrow upbringing had taught him to do. Perhaps the same applied to Father Hilarion. Both had jurisdiction over his life and death. Neither knew the meaning of the words mercy and charity.