My Lord, the Hermit Page 13

  Joanna put her hand on his shoulder, and kept it there. She said, low down, ‘How I do love thee!’

  He sank back on his heels, and lifted his head.

  She said, ‘I know your name is not really Keren. Won’t you tell me what it is?’

  He smiled, teasing her. She smiled back. She knew now what his name was.

  ‘Your name, your badge. Both are yours. Amory,’ she said. ‘Amory, my love.’

  The collie barked, sharp and angry. She came loping up from the woods, tongue hanging, ears laid back, grovelling to excuse her absence. Keren fondled the dog, noticing the frayed end of the rope which had been tied around her neck. Someone – probably Rob? – had tied the dog up somewhere, and she had broken free to return to him.

  Father Hilarion was coming along the track towards them, and he was in no easy temper. The sight of the man, the woman, the child and the dog would have softened a man less single-minded, but it seemed to infuriate the priest.

  ‘Lady Joanna, I will speak to you later.’ He stood aside, gesturing her to return to the others. She took the child from Amory, and went past the priest to join Herkom.

  Herkom stroked his chin and watched the priest and his former master. ‘Have you spoken with him, lady? I have hidden a sword, some armour and clothing in a hollow tree in the valley below, but there is no chance of my losing a horse. The priest has eyes everywhere, and I think he suspects something already.’

  ‘My lord Amory will not go,’ she said, and from her tearless smile only someone who knew her well could have guessed that the knowledge was a wound in her breast. ‘He will not break his vow.’

  ‘Damn all priests,’ said Herkom, not quite under his breath. ‘Save Father Ambrose, perhaps.’ Amory’s head was bent as he listened to the tirade, and his hand was on his collie’s head, restraining her. The collie was growling softly, for she did not care to hear her master spoken to in such harsh tones. Father Hilarion used his tongue like a whip, to scourge the sinful. Amory went pale, but he did not release his grip on the collie, nor did he give any overt sign of resentment.

  ‘How can he bear it?’ said Joanna, only half to Herkom.

  ‘Because he must,’ said Herkom. ‘I did not realize the priest hated him, until now.’

  Amory raised his head, and the watchers saw that whereas before he had been pale, there was now a flush on his cheeks. But he did not speak, and presently he bowed his head again. The priest jerked his arm up to reinforce some word of condemnation. The collie leaped at him, only restrained from fastening her teeth in the priest’s arm by Amory’s grip. The priest’s face was now the one to show colour. He spoke once more, sharply. Amory’s head went back, and there was protest on his face.

  ‘Herkom!’ The priest had turned and seen them. ‘Take the dog and kill him. The hermit has no right to own an animal, especially when dangerous.’

  ‘I will take the dog,’ said Joanna, smoothly stepping forward when Herkom hesitated. ‘She is faithful and intelligent, is she not?’

  Herkom muttered something about the dog not leaving Keren, but when Amory brought the collie to Joanna, and Joanna put her hand on the dog’s head, the collie waved her plumy tail, and sat beside her, while still keeping an eye on the priest.

  Elena ran up, to say the meal was ready. Herkom drew Father Hilarian aside, as they walked back to the church. ‘With twenty armed men I could hold this spot against all comers. See how we sit astride the Travellers’ Way, leading to the abbot’s lands, and the only quick way down into the valley. The church is as stoutly built as any castle, the palisades are proof against attack by horses, and all we would need is a supply of provisions weekly from the castle.’

  ‘Do you question my judgment?’ said Father Hilarion, frost in his voice.

  Everyone seated themselves in the churchyard to eat, around a spit on which hung a whole sheep. Dickon, the lame man, carved, and all was merriment. Only then did Joanna realize that these people thought the hermit was going down into the valley with them. Amory sat at her right hand, not looking at her very often, but so conscious of her nearness that when she made an abrupt movement, he looked up to see what was the matter.

  Into this scene of harmony the priest dropped the apple of discord. ‘The hermit stays here. Has he not sworn to devote his life, in silence, to the building of a church? Has he not broken that oath by speech, and shall God not punish him for it? Has he not further strayed from the paths of righteousness by taking up arms, which are strictly forbidden to a hermit? Has he not broken his vow of poverty by owning a dog, and has he not desecrated what should be a holy place, by filling it with a mockery of church furnishings?’

  ‘But that was us,’ said one of the women. ‘We did that.’

  ‘You are sinners truly, but I believe you were led astray by this wicked man.’

  ‘Keren’s not wicked,’ said a child. ‘You’re wicked if you say that.’ The child was hushed, but repeated the slander, more softly, into his mother’s shoulder. Looking around, Joanna saw that both soldiers and people were in agreement with what the child had said. The priest saw it, too. It had, perhaps, been in his mind to say more, but now he did not. He rose to his feet, and reminded them that they must be on their way at once, in order to regain the castle by sundown.

  Elena and Dickon faced the priest together. ‘If you leave Keren here, Sir Bevil will crucify him.’ There was a murmur of agreement from the rest.

  ‘He stays,’ said the priest, unflinching. ‘God protects his own, and he is under oath to God.’

  ‘You wish him dead?’ cried a voice from among the crowd.

  ‘Yea, verily,’ cried another.

  The man they called Keren rose, and set himself between his people and the priest. He was smiling. His purpose was plain. He would defend Father Hilarion’s right to dispose of him to death, if necessary. In the face of this act of obedience, Elena and Dickon could do nothing. She dropped to her knee beside Keren, and kissed his hand. Keren touched her head, making the sign of the cross.

  ‘Bless me, too, Keren,’ urged another woman, thrusting forward with a child in her arms. ‘And my babe.’

  Joanna could see the cords swell in Father Hilarion’s neck as he realized that these people wanted the hermit to bless them. She wondered if he would intervene, but he decided to leave well alone. Keren embraced or blessed all the men, touched the women either on head or cheek, as they came forward in turn, and kissed the children. He was smiling still, and there was such strength of purpose in his smile that although many cried as they came to him, they did not contest his decision to stay.

  Then the men were shouldering their poor remnants of personal possessions, the soldiers were beginning to hump the armour down the hill, and the women to steer children and animals in the same direction.

  Father Hilarion had stalked down into the dell, to where Elena and her family were sadly making a bundle of their bits and pieces.

  ‘Luxury!’ fulminated the priest, pulling a well-tanned ox-hide out into the open, from where it had been laid on Keren’s bed of fern. ‘Two tunics … what does a hermit need with more than one?’

  ‘He washes one and has to wait for it to dry,’ said Elena, trying to be patient.

  ‘On to the fire with it. Or take it for your man.’

  ‘I’ll take it,’ said the lame man. He raised his eyebrows at Keren, but the hermit merely nodded, and smiled a little. It seemed to amuse him that his home should be stripped of all but the bare essentials.

  A shower of pouches came hurtling out of the tent. Keren’s herbs. ‘On to the fire with all this devilry,’ said the priest. ‘And this? What is this? A fine linen shirt?’

  ‘I made it for him,’ said Elena, and her hands twisted a knot in her gown.

  ‘She made it for me,’ said Dickon. ‘And those are my herbs, too. Are they not, Elena?’

  Elena looked at Keren, who nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘They belong to us.’

  The dumb man who nursed the pitcher came to them
. The stripping of the tent upset him. He kept darting in, only to be thrown out again by the priest.

  ‘There!’ said the priest, surveying the bleak interior with satisfaction. ‘A bowl, a spoon, a bed of bracken. That is all he needs.’

  Dickon took Keren’s elbow in his hand, and spoke low in his ear. ‘We have hidden your tools in the watch-tower above here. The priest told us to put them with the armour, but we could not do that. I guarantee he’ll not know they’re missing till we get back.’

  Keren nodded. He would need his tools. Or would he? Would not nightfall find him spreadeagled on a cross, dying?’

  Father Hilarion stood on the prow of the hill, and beside him stood Joanna. She had given the child to her tirewoman to carry, while Bethany was asleep. The collie was at Joanna’s side, secured on a new lead. The dog was whining now, plunging this way and that, aware of the impending departure.

  ‘Kneel, and I will bless you,’ said the priest to Amory.

  Amory looked the priest in the eye for a long moment. Joanna thought he was going to refuse to do the priest’s bidding. Then a quirk of a smile tugged at one corner of his mouth, and he knelt. The priest blessed him in angry, hurried tones. Amory had pulled the hood of his cloak down even further, to hide the brooch. He may have lost everything else he possessed, but he was not going to let the priest see that.

  Joanna met the priest’s cold eye, and felt chilled. He would be able to work it out soon enough, that she had given one of her brooches to Keren. What would he say then? Would he not complain of her conduct to the Countess? Very probably. Joanna’s chin tilted. She did not care. She had done what was right. Father Hilarion was standing beside his horse, his head turned towards her, waiting for her to precede him down the hill. Already the wagons were lumbering across the plain, followed by a ragged string of men, women, and children. Herkom was waiting down there, too, with his men. Now and then he looked back up at the hill-top, scanning its length, because he knew his withdrawal had made it that much easier for Sir Bevil to approach.

  Joanna’s hand reached out for and clung to Amory’s. They stood looking at each other, without words, without a smile. Only their hands moved, clinging, turning one within the other. Then she turned and went down the track, dragging the collie after her to where she had left her horse. She looked back only once. He was still standing there, looking down at her. He was alone, and rain-clouds were gathering in the sky above him.

  The priest rode beside her. He was smiling, although there were lines of exhaustion on his face.

  ‘A good day’s work,’ he said.

  All was desolate. Amory, one-time Count of Ewelme, Lord of the manors of Chirbrook, Tisted, Shoren, and a half-dozen other places, stood watching as the cavalcade dwindled to a frieze of tiny figures moving slowly away from him towards the distant castle. He was so tired that although there was a stout piece of wood suitable for use as a staff on the turf nearby, he made no move to pick it up. He tilted his face to the sky, and felt the first drops of rain fall on him. All was quiet behind him, where once had been the clamour of many voices: children crying, women laughing and scolding, men arguing. In fancy he could imagine they were all there still, standing with bated breaths, waiting for him to turn round, so that they could start living again.

  He turned round, and there was nothing; nothing but the graves of dead men and a dead child; nothing but a rag of someone’s cast-off clothing swinging on a gorse bush nearby. There was no collie, no children, nobody. Above all, no Joanna.

  His throat worked. This was the hardest of all, this abandonment by everyone. Long ago he had told Father Ambrose that he could have been happy if it had not been for his vow of silence, and Father Ambrose had looked distressed, and said that no doubt Father Hilarion had had his reasons for imposing the ban. No doubt he had. It had not been Father Hilarion’s duty to make the conditions of Amory’s penance easy.

  The hermit smiled, and then his face hardened. Truly, he had been happy this last week or so, with other people to think about and care for. Naturally, he had to agree with Father Hilarion that he had broken his oath. It was only right that the priest should strip him of everything that might distract him from building the church: the sword, his dog, the extra clothing and comforts, the herbs, the hide for his bed, and even the cooking utensils. He would not need them now, anyway.

  Once more he looked up at the sky. The wind was rising, and the rain-clouds were being sent scudding over the valley, reaching out after the tiny horsemen and wagons and the toiling line of refugees on the plain below. Amory prayed the train would reach the castle before the rain fell. The sky was dark with clouds, and night would close in on them early.

  He looked around him, sighing. The double row of stakes and the bank of earth that enclosed the churchyard, the strong cob walls and the poles on which the refugees had hung their hides, remained in place. Nearly everything else had gone. There were a few potsherds among the stones, where the fire still glimmered, some bones, some trampled grass; nothing else. A bird cried, high overhead. It was a curlew, wild and grief-stricken, echoing his mood. The birds had ceased to cry on this part of the hill while the refugees had been there, but now that they were gone the curlews had returned, for they did not fear the hermit.

  He went into the church and there was desolation there, too. The cross had gone – who had taken that? – and the altar-cloth, too. The altar was on its side, but in the space where it had stood someone had laid out the holder for the rush-lights, with the tallow dips. Next to them stood a pottery jug. Amory stifled an exclamation, and putting one arm over his eyes, he leaned against the nearest wall. He knew that pot. The dumb man had carried it with him to the church, and had borne it with him wherever he went, until now. He must have crept into the church at the very last, and placed it there for the hermit to find.

  Amory wished he had learned the man’s name.

  He wondered what he should do next. Elena had whispered to him as she left that she had hidden some meat and bread for him under a stone by the spring. If he ate and washed, he might feel better.

  He had worked in the quarries alongside the strongest of the masons and stone cutters, and he had been only pleasantly tired at the end of the day, but the battles of the spirit he had undergone of late had drained him of strength.

  He pushed himself upright, and made his way slowly down into the dell. He told himself that there was a certain logic in his fate. He could never wed Joanna, he could never wed anyone. And in the knowledge of her love for him, and of his for her, he could accept the fact of his death. It was only in the desolation of her departure that he had lost sight of the fact that it was best he should die.

  When he had eaten, he decided he must make what amends he could to the church, not on his own behalf, but for all those who might pass this way, once he was dead. They must not come here and find the place desecrated, with the altar overthrown, and no cross to which they might pray. Let it be his tomb, this church; someone else would have to finish it … or perhaps it would be left as it was, with the walls two-thirds complete, and without a roof … but it would still hold the memory of all the prayers that had been said in it. And perhaps Father Ambrose would hold more services here in days to come, and say a prayer for Keren, the hermit.

  He went to the watch-tower for his tools, where Dickon had left them for him. As he stood there, he glanced out over the woods as was his wont, and saw a circling of birds about a mile off. He thought at first that they might have been disturbed by Rob and Col, and then realized that there were too many birds in the air, rising over too large an area. There were more men than two riding through the woods today.

  The blood leaped in his body for fear. Yes, Sir Bevil was coming. And he could do nothing about it.

  He took levers and hammers and nails back to the church, and rebuilt the altar in its old position. Then he knocked up a rough cross of wood, and filling the pottery jar with water, set it on the altar before the cross, filled with wild flowers. He
arranged the rush-lights to one side, swept the floor with a bunch of ferns, and was satisfied that he had done all he could. He tried to pray, but fear made his breath come unevenly, and the peace of the place seemed to have departed.

  He did not attempt to lay any more stones on the walls of the building. The time for that was past. No, there was one stone he could still put there. He took the pebble from his mouth, and dropped it into a space between two boulders. There, it was done.

  He went down into the dell, washed and shaved. He would go to his maker well-groomed if he might.

  He went to the other watch-tower, and scanned the valley. The clouds of birds had moved nearer. About three-quarters of a mile away there was a small croft, which had been deserted since the troubles began. Smoke was now rising from where it lay, in its fold in the woods.

  ‘They are coming,’ said Amory, and his tongue felt thick in his mouth. He walked to the edge of the ridge, looked over the valley. He could no longer see the horsemen, but he thought he could just distinguish the two wagons vanishing into the dusk. ‘How to warn them?’

  A beacon. He could build and fire a beacon, to warn the guards on the castle ramparts that Sir Bevil had come. Fire to fight fire, and little time to do it in. Yet why should he waste his last hours on earth building a beacon to warn those who wished him dead? Ah, but there was Joanna, and Elena, and the child Bethany … and so many others; Dickon and Herkom and Midge … he filled his mind with love of them, and closing his eyes, tried to visualize each one, as if they were standing before him. Now and again when he was praying, he experienced a moment of ecstasy which was always followed by exhaustion. It happened now. He had prayed with love, and virtue had gone from him, and he was empty.