My Lord, the Hermit Read online

  Presently Joanna went back to Amory. The hermit was standing with eyes and hands tightly closed. He seemed to be in great pain.

  ‘Your leg … sit down! Foolish man! I knew the boy would be a disappointment to you, but I could not think how to avoid. … I know he is brash and stupid, but surely he will improve in time.’

  ‘That boy.’ Amory shook his head. ‘Not mine.’

  ‘What?’ she half-laughed, thinking she had heard incorrectly.

  Amory opened his eyes, and looked around him, and there was despair in the gesture with which he threw out his hands, and then let them hang at his sides. ‘There is a little of his mother in him, around the eyes and mouth, perhaps. But there is nothing of me in him. Nothing. All our family are like Fulk. Mariana was small and dainty in every way, and her voice was light and pretty. All her people were the same; small and light-boned, all dark of hair and complexion, even as I am. We were related, in fact, though not closely enough to require a dispensation. Mariana was not stupid or insensitive, as that boy is – as I hope I never will be. The first child she bore, the little girl who died in infancy, she was also of our kind. That boy is not flesh of my flesh. It is not possible.’

  ‘You are mistaken. I know he is your son. He has been brought here from his grandmother’s because when she died, there was no other person save Fulk’s father to take care of him. Only Fulk’s father is a widower, and that is why Fulk was sent here. It was only logical that your son should be sent here as well. You see, the Count my uncle is a distant connection of my lord Fitzstephen. There can be no doubt about the boy’s birth.’

  Amory stared at her. Had he heard her? He did not seem to have done so. He looked around him, at the herbs at his feet, and at the high hedges that enclosed them.

  He said, ‘If that boy is not my son, then whose son is he?’

  The cloth had been drawn from the table, and the family, with their body-servants, had retired to the solar. The trenchers of bread from which they had eaten their meats had been collected into baskets and taken down to the castle gates to distribute to the peasants who had returned to live on the slopes outside. A detachment of soldiers was returning from the camp in the valley for the night, and up in the hills Dickon was walking with the aid of a stick, but without the splint on his leg.

  It was a week after Sir Bevil’s attack on the convent. The rebels were still in the quarry, although they had tried three separate times to break out during the past week. The Count was now up, and seated in the best chair by the fire. Outside the wind and rain was tearing at the frail shacks which had sprung up where once the peasants had had their homes. Over in the meadow around the spring the foundations had been dug for the new huts for the workmen, who were now clustered in the lee of the hill, sheltering in tents. The convent walls stood stark and black and ruined by the river, but the unfinished arches of the church glimmered with an unearthly beauty when the moon gleamed through the clouds now and again.

  Not all the windows of the keep were glazed, but the great hall was, and so were the windows of the solar, and of the sleeping rooms of the Count’s family. There was a great fire burning in the hearth of the solar, fat candles shed light nearby, where Floria, Joyeuse and Joanna were working on the arras for the hall, and Julian’s favourite dogs had curled themselves into balls and slept at his feet.

  Midge was entertaining the company. He beckoned Alice to place a fur over the Count’s knees. Midge was gentle with his master nowadays, and it seemed that with the fire gone out of him for ever, the Count had need of him. Suddenly he had become an old man; his hair was turning white, and although his powers of speech and thought were only slightly impaired, he limped, had little use of his left arm, and there was a stiffness on the left side of his face. Alice had elected herself one of Joanna’s waiting-women, and since she proved to have a talent with a needle, and Joanna was too tired to say her nay, no one else had questioned the appointment. Alice’s hair was still cropped short, but she wore a linen bonnet upon it, and her gown was of grey wool. The aged Countess seemed to have shrunk since her son’s illness, and was now no larger than a child. But she smiled at Alice as the girl placed the fur around the Count’s knees.

  ‘Ay di me,’ said Midge. ‘What a melancholy set of fools we are!’

  ‘Am I such a fool, Midge?’ asked the Count, smiling in his twisted way.

  ‘Less so than most, master, for to fight against the tide is the mark of a fool, and you have resigned that folly to your son.’

  ‘Am I a fool, then?’ asked Julian. ‘Do I not fight to protect my own?’

  ‘Surely, lord. But is it not the mark of a fool to take the long way round, when a short-cut is indicated?’

  Julian bit his lip. How had the fool come to guess what Amory had planned to do? It was out of the question, of course.

  But Midge had passed on to the priest.

  ‘And in what way am I a fool?’ asked Father Hilarion, not smiling at all.

  ‘In fighting a battle you cannot win. If your enemy dies a martyr’s death, then will he not live for ever?’

  Father Hilarion’s scowl deepened. ‘I wish for no man’s death. But I am pledged to raise two churches to the glory of God, and to this end my life is dedicated.’

  ‘But while Sir Bevil sits in the quarry and on the hill-top, neither aim can be achieved, and therefore you should support instead of hinder the only man who can help you. Talk of flogging and other punishments will not help your cause.’

  ‘Who talks of flogging?’ said Father Hilarion, reddening. He turned away, with assumed carelessness, to play with one of the dogs.

  The page Fulk made a sudden movement, which caught Midge’s eye. ‘Aye,’ said Midge, touching the boy’s head. ‘Here is another fool, to have nightmares of a man being flogged to death, and thereby lose your sleep and your health.’

  The boy flushed, but stood his ground. ‘He is my cousin, after all. And he understands how it is.’

  ‘Yes, boy. And for this folly I do love thee, as he does. But as for you, my young lord Amory,’ and here the fair-haired boy looked up arrogantly from the game of chess he was playing, ‘it is a wise boy that knows his own father.’

  ‘That is a stupid lie,’ said the little lordling. ‘My father is dead. And if he were not, he ought to be considered dead, after what he did to my mother.’

  ‘That subject is closed,’ said Father Hilarion, frowning.

  ‘Very well,’ said Midge, moving on to where Alice was sorting out some skeins of wool. ‘Then here is another fool, and this time a fool for love. This Amazon, this Alice, this slayer of men, this thing of fire, loves … but in her folly she has chosen a man she cannot admire, and therefore she rails at him night and day, and makes his life a misery. Now is that not a folly?’

  Alice’s cheeks were burning. She would have slapped Midge, but the fool was beyond her reach with an easy leap of his scarlet legs. Everyone laughed, for it was the talk of the castle that Peterkin, Amory’s diffident valet, had conceived a tender passion for Alice, that he followed her everywhere with his eyes, but never dared to speak with her.

  In the general talk that covered Midge’s last jest, Joanna leaned towards him. ‘And am I not a fool, too?’ she asked.

  ‘Nay, lady. You have the wisdom to wait, and that is surely the hardest thing of all to do, when someone you love is in torment. You grow in stature day by day, and he loves you for it, though he dare not say so.’

  ‘Now I would have thought,’ said Joanna, her eyes on her work, ‘that you might have called him the biggest fool of all, who avoids the company of the woman whom he loves, when he knows she loves him.’

  For Amory was not with them, but out riding in the hills with his men, seeking a vantage point from which the quarry or the church might be attacked.

  ‘Nay, lady. He knows you love him, and he knows it cannot be, and therefore he seeks to minimize the hurt by being less in your company.’

  ‘He is greatly troubled in mind. Twice have
I asked him to confide in me, and yet he would not. Does he think I would love him less, if he confessed fear of what Father Hilarion has in store for him?’

  ‘Father Hilarion thinks he is God, but every now and then God contests the premise.’

  ‘It is common knowledge that Father Hilarion intends to sentence Amory to a hundred lashes at the whipping post, for breaking his vow. My uncle will not interfere, though I have asked him to do so. He says it is church business, and that he cannot interfere – especially since it seems Amory has no intention of objecting to the punishment. Julian, too, thinks it an unfair punishment, but he will not act, either.’

  ‘Would you expect him to?’ asked Midge, with meaning.

  Joanna coloured. ‘Perhaps not. Midge, is there nothing we can do?’

  ‘A hundred lashes will not kill a strong man, and though I think my lord would avoid the whipping post if he could, it is not fear of that which troubles his mind of late.’

  ‘Then it is the child.’ She struck her hands together. ‘I was afraid of it. Why cannot he accept that the child is his?’

  Midge stared. ‘Is that it? But … the boy is certainly the lady Mariana’s child, born to her within hours of our return. We were absent just under nine months. I arrived in my lady the Countess’s train, two days after, and I saw the child. No, it is not possible. Yet … he has an instinct. …’

  ‘He picked out Fulk at once, and there is an understanding between them already. Anyone can see they are related. If only Fulk were his son!’

  ‘Fulk is nearly two years older, and … lady, if he is right! Think what this must mean to him!’

  ‘It seems I must fall to praying again,’ said the Lady Joanna.

  Amory rode into the castle, thinking how much had changed there for the better since he had first entered its walls some ten days previously. And yet his own case was worse now than it had been then. He was tired. Peterkin looked anxious as he helped his master off with his armour, assisted him into a bath, and thereafter shaved him. Amory fell asleep for a few minutes before the fire. He was lodged in one of the rooms of the round tower, with Sir Walter and the squires. His own room was not large, but Peterkin had contrived to acquire certain luxuries which made it comfortable. There were new, close-fitting shutters for the unglazed windows, furs for the bed, and curtains dependent on rods hung from the ceiling around the bed space. There were even fresh rushes on the floor.

  A chest at the foot of the bed held no less than three fine linen shirts and two tunics of good cloth. The leather tunic which Amory wore under his armour had been acquired through Herkom’s graces, and had been altered by Alice to fit its new owner.

  Peterkin’s own tunic was now of blue wool, and though his brow was permanently furrowed with anxiety, he looked very little like the dumb scarecrow Amory had sheltered on the hill-top.

  Kate scratched on the door with a message to the effect that the Count would receive all his vassals to hear my lord Amory’s report at noon. Kate had been weeping, for her mother had died in the assault on the convent, and she was still prone to tears. Amory spoke a few words to her, and she went on her way with a smile.

  Then Amory himself went out, soft-footed, with hands clasped behind his back and eyes on the ground. He sought solitude, but did not find it in the chapel, for there Father Hilarion was hearing Joyeuse’s confession, and four black-clad nuns were kneeling in prayer at the back. Amory had been thinking much of his old church. It irked him that nowhere could he pray in peace. The noise of the large castle, and the constant company of men and women around him, were making him irritable. He longed for quiet, and he knew he would not find it unless he sought Joanna’s company. That blessed woman, out of all the people in the castle, seemed to know that he needed to be quiet, and when he was in the same room with her, or near her, he could feel the warmth of her around him as if she were, perhaps, supporting him the while in prayer.

  That was a fanciful thought, perhaps. And in any case, he could not seek her company. He did not think she would marry Julian now. A pleasant lad, Julian, and growing up fast. But not Joanna’s equal. Besides, Joanna did not wish for the marriage. He, Amory, might be able to render her one last service by preventing that marriage. Yes, it could be done, perhaps. If only he did not feel so tired. …

  It was raining, so he could not seek out the solitude of the herb garden. He liked that place, except when Father Hilarion was there. Amory grimaced. A hundred lashes! Would he survive? Probably. His leg troubled him a little, but otherwise he was in good health. It would be unpleasant, to say the least of it, and he doubted if he would be in any shape to drag blocks of stone about for some time after. And the chain would no doubt be replaced on his ankles. …

  Odd how the peace of his little church kept recurring to his mind, and yet the actual mechanics of building it had ceased to trouble him. He supposed it was because he had had so much else to think about. He could not believe he would ever put another stone on the walls.

  He found himself on the ramparts, and drew his cloak around him against the rain. Where had Peterkin found this fine blue cloak? It was of a darker blue than Joanna’s robe, and it lacked a hood, but it was ample in its folds, and a great comfort on a day such as this. His boots were of untanned leather, and matched the belt which carried his dagger and wallet. His tunic was of blue cloth, over a fine linen shirt and breeches.

  A sentry came up, anxious to engage him in conversation. Amory spoke to him for a few minutes, and then passed on down the stairs again. He would have to return to his room, if he wanted to think in peace … he could not move about there, it was too small. …

  How had it happened? The more he thought about Mariana and the boy Amory, the less he understood, and without understanding he could not reach acceptance. He knew he had lost his sense of proportion over this business of the boy, but struggle as he might, he could not accept that he was not even going to leave a son of his own loins behind him.

  Behind the great hall was a series of store rooms, and beyond that the corridor which led to the garden. He leaned against the wall of the archway, and looked out onto the rain, which was now falling heavily over the garden. One thing – at least Sir Bevil would not try to break out in this weather, for the mud would mire his horses to their fetlocks.

  By his feet lay a wickerwork contraption, covered with linen, and painted to resemble a dragon’s head. He picked it up, smiling. He remembered that Midge and Herkom had made a similar dragon’s head on the occasion of his own marriage so many years ago. Mariana had been the princess, and he the great St George.

  There was a whisper of cloth on the flags behind him. He did not need to turn to know that it was Joanna. As always when in her presence, he was conscious of her warmth.

  ‘It is a very fine dragon,’ he said.

  ‘I have often wondered: were you and your wife the originals in Midge’s pageant?’

  He nodded. ‘Is Julian a good St George?’

  ‘Not really. He would rather play the dragon. Nor am I a good princess. I always said Joyeuse should have had the part.’

  They were silent. He was absorbed in the dream of playing St George to Joanna’s princess. His pulses quickened, and so did his breathing. He dropped the wicker basket, and it tumbled against Joanna’s dress. She bent to pick it, as he did. They found themselves holding the head between them, and now at last he looked at her.

  ‘“Come my heart,”’ she quoted. ‘“Ere death divide us.”’

  ‘“Come, death,”’ he replied, remembering the line, and altering it. ‘“For love and life have betrayed me.”’

  Joanna coloured. ‘That is not so. I have not betrayed you.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I realize that, now.’ He let go of the head, and leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes. She was worried. She let the head drop, and glanced over her shoulder. Someone might see Amory was unwell, and come to inquire. She tried to shield him with her body from passers-by.

  Presently he o
pened his eyes. ‘Why is memory so treacherous? Why do we deceive ourselves? Why have I had to endure nine years of slavery, before I could begin to understand?’ He turned his head from her, looking out into the rain. ‘Why do the innocent always have to suffer for the guilty?’

  ‘Not always,’ she said.

  He did not seem to hear her. ‘Perhaps I was not so innocent, after all. I knew that she had loved someone else once, but in my pride I thought nothing of it. I had even forgotten his name, until now. You will say that that is not surprising, since I probably only heard it the once, and then in a conversation not meant for my ears. Henry. Henry of … Lusport? Luscombe. Henry of Luscombe. Or something like that. He was the younger son of a knight whose manor lay near one of those owned by Mariana’s father. I don’t remember anything else about him. I don’t think I ever heard more than that, and she certainly never mentioned him to me. I wish she had, now. Perhaps I would have been able to comfort her.’ He shook his head. ‘No, I would not have understood. I was like Julian is now. I did not know, then, how it could be.’

  ‘What was it you did not know?’

  He looked at her then, and there was such a tender joy in his face that her own lit up in response. ‘I did not know how deeply you could feel for someone, even when you could not marry them. I did not realize how it was with Mariana until this very moment, when I tried to imagine you as the princess, and remembered how she had played the part. I saw nothing wrong, then, in the way she did it. I had been told she was shy, and so, perhaps, she was. I think now that she was perhaps a little frightened of me, although God knows I thought her the prettiest little thing … they told me it was a woman’s way to withdraw and tease the man, but somehow … I doubt it now. I see that I hardly knew her.

  ‘After we were married, I was away on the King’s service for six months of the first year. Then we had the little girl in the following winter, but she only lived three months. That was my child, I am sure. Then I went away again, and I was away for the whole nine months of her next pregnancy. It was then, I suppose, that she met him again. I wonder how much her old servants knew. The child must have been his, of course.