My Lord, the Hermit Page 25

  ‘I suppose she was not pregnant when I left, or if she was, she must have lost that babe straight away, and conceived again – by him. She was living in one of her own manors. It was not near Luscombe, as I recall … but I know so little of what she did in those nine months. She probably went from one place to another, and when she was near Luscombe, she met him again, and … I don’t know. But he, or someone else … could she have had two lovers? No, it would not have been like her, for she was shy in company, and … I must try to remember. She wrote only the once in the nine months, to say she had parted from my mother, and was pregnant, and would have the child at this manor of hers which was near the abbey. He must have been with her that day of my return. She must have been so afraid, knowing the child would not look like me. Then I ran up the stairs, unannounced, and burst into the room. I think. …’ Amory passed his hand across his eyes. ‘Did he knock me down? I think he must have done so. They would be startled by my bursting in on them like that. Perhaps in falling, my sword may have become loosened in its scabbard, and … no, that will not do. It must have been drawn deliberately by someone, because it used to stick in the scabbard. Perhaps there was a struggle, perhaps she wanted to throw my sword out of the window, that I might not draw it in anger when I had regained my senses. I don’t know. I woke to find blood all over myself and she screaming that I had gone mad, and the women around her, and a great gash at the back of her shoulder. I still can’t think how she came to be struck that way … and it must have been with my sword. …’

  ‘How were you lying?’

  ‘I? On my back, on the floor. That’s odd. I was hit on the back of the head as I came through the door. I woke with blood streaming down from a cut on my brow, and I was flat on my back on the floor. My sword … where was it? I remember, now. On the floor under the window, and the shutters were hanging open. I remember thinking what a beautiful blue sky there was, outside. I don’t remember any more. She was screaming. …’ He put his hand to his ears. ‘She wasn’t wearing any clothes, not even a shift. Her hair was loose, and dabbled with blood. She must have been frantic with fear to stop my mouth before I could denounce her as having been with a man. She would not think, perhaps, of anything more than covering his retreat, and covering herself. Any lie would do for the moment. She swore I had been possessed by an evil spirit. I was in no condition to deny it. I did not know what had happened. She went into labour. The child was born the next day, but they would not let me see it. Apparently she had begged them not to let me see it, in case I harmed it. Perhaps … I wonder what her people thought … could they have told if it was a seven-month babe? I can understand now why she did not want me to see it, for I might have repudiated it at once, and then her story might have been questioned. I don’t suppose she thought she might die. Why should she? The wound was not that deep. But she slid into childbirth fever, and, weakened by the wound, she died. We killed her between us, Henry of Luscombe, and I. Or maybe it was another man. I don’t know. I only know that she did not love me, and the child is not mine.’

  ‘It is less hurtful to think that she loved one man all through, is it not?’

  ‘Yes.’ He sighed, short and sharp. ‘I see now that I would probably have done the same. I would have cuckolded Julian, if you had married him, and you gave me an opportunity to sleep with you, after. Man-made laws would not have held me.’

  Colour flooded her face. ‘I, too. Yes, it would have been the same with me.’

  ‘And I never realized how she must have felt, until now.’

  ‘Does it make a difference?’

  ‘Yes. Understanding brings compassion, and with compassion comes forgiveness. We all sinned, perhaps, all three of us. Someone has to pay for sins. She paid with her life, and if necessary I must pay with mine. At least,’ and here he smiled, ‘death will put me beyond the reach of temptation as far as you are concerned.’

  ‘And what of the other man?’

  ‘I don’t know. A moment ago, if I had had him here, I would have killed him. Now, I can sympathize with the poor devil. How scared he must have been, to have a fully-armed man break in on them like that! He can’t have been armed, himself. He must have slipped out of the window and run like mad, and all the time he would have been fearing for Mariana and for what she might say. Suppose I had seen something? Suppose I remembered something later?’

  ‘This is all supposition. You are building a great deal on the memory of a name.’

  ‘Yes, but it makes sense out of something that never made sense before. This last ten days I have been half out of my mind, because I could not accept that I must suffer for someone else’s sin. The thought that my son lived and would carry on my name was always a comfort to me, before. Father Ambrose said to me once that there was always something more that one must sacrifice. I thought that I had given up everything, once, but I see that I had not. There is always something more. So. I give up my hope of a son, too. I will not say anything which might cast doubt on his birth. If I had any hope of being allowed to marry and have other children, it might be a different matter; but as it is, I suppose he is not to blame for what happened, and I will leave things as they are.’

  ‘I have persuaded Julian to petition the abbot to remit the rest of your penance. Then you would be free to claim your estates once again and – if you so wished – to marry.’

  ‘Julian has a kind heart, but I doubt if the word of an eighteen-year-old boy would weigh with the abbot. As you have already pointed out, there is no proof that I did not mean to murder my wife. It has eased my mind to think things out, but it can have no bearing on the central issue, which is that I am bound to build a church, in silence and poverty, and that I have broken that vow.’

  ‘You are harder on yourself than anyone else – except perhaps Father Hilarion – would be. There is no word in your vow about chastity. I know Peterkin intends to return to the hill-top and continue to serve you in the future. What if a woman also chose to go to live there? What if I did?’

  ‘Lady, how could you? Are you accustomed to poverty, to living in a tent, eating herbs and roots and going barefoot? For a little while love might suffice, but after that you would be miserable. In any case, your uncle would never permit it.’

  ‘I am thinking of signing my lands over to him – or perhaps to Julian – in exchange for freedom to marry where I will.’

  ‘Even if you gained your point – which I do not think you would – such a hard life is not for you.’

  ‘You have survived.’

  ‘So far. Don’t tempt me. If you had been a country wench, like Alice or Elena or even Kate, I would beg you to come with me. …’

  ‘No doubt Alice will. Or Kate.’ There were red spots of anger on her cheeks. He did not reply. She walked away from him, slowly at first, and then hurrying to gain the privacy of her bedroom before she might betray that she was crying.

  The Count sat at the end of the table in the hall. On either side of him, on benches, sat his vassals. Beside him, on a stool, sat his mother, and over by the window stood the two priests who had newly come from the abbey, with Father Hilarion. That fat and elderly knight, Sir Walter, mindful of his status as future son-in-law to the Count, sat opposite Julian. No one moved up to make room for Amory when he entered, so he went to stand at the foot of the table, resting most of his weight on his sound leg.

  The Count’s speech was still slurred, but he had regained some control over his left arm, though he still limped. He leaned forward and addressed Amory, without asking him to be seated.

  ‘They tell me, captain, that you lay claim to an ancient and honourable name, and wide estates. There is a page in my household whose claim to that name and those estates has never before been called into dispute. What say you to that?’

  Now was Amory’s chance to denounce the boy. Yet he could not do so. He said, ‘Let Father Hilarion speak for me. He knows who and what I am.’

  ‘A hermit, surely,’ said Father Hilarion, smoothly coming f
orward. ‘And his name is Keren.’

  The Count nodded, as if pleased with the answer, but his son shifted on the bench. ‘Where did he learn to fight then?’ said Julian. The priest shrugged, as if to say that he neither knew nor cared.

  Amory stared at the priest. ‘Do me justice, Father. You know what name I bore before I became a hermit.’

  The priest moistened his lips. ‘Amory, Count of Ewelme,’ he said.

  ‘Ah,’ said the Count, and frowned. Julian moved up on his bench, indicating to Amory that there was room for him there. Amory sat, stifling a sigh of relief. His leg was healing well, but there were bad days and good, and this was not a good day.

  The Count summed up the situation as he saw it. ‘And in conclusion, we are no further to clearing the enemy from our land today than we were two weeks ago. …’

  ‘We have made several efforts to dislodge him,’ said Julian. ‘And we’ve stopped him breaking out. Not an acre of our lands has been fired. Only while he sits in the quarry, the building of the church is at a standstill.’

  There was a silence. ‘What of the abbot?’ inquired Amory at length. ‘We know that up till the time of the raid on the convent, the abbot had failed to send his half of the indemnity to Sir Bevil. …’

  ‘What? What was that?’ Father Hilarion was flushed.

  ‘Did you not know? Father Ambrose brought us news to that effect. Ask those priests in the window if it is not so, and if the abbot is not using us as a buffer to stand between him and Sir Bevil.’

  ‘It may be so,’ said the taller and more intelligent-looking of the two priests. ‘The abbot was temporarily embarrassed, but we assure you he has the money to pay for the Lady Joanna’s estates whenever the marriage should take place.’

  ‘Or so he says.’ Amory raised his eyebrows. ‘It would seem more likely that he is fishing to get his hands on the rent rolls of the lady’s manors with promises of money which he has not got. Once those rent rolls pass out of your possession, my lord Count, I think you may have difficulty in obtaining the money you need to buy Sir Bevil off.’

  ‘Yet we must find the money to buy him off somehow. We cannot maintain our men in camp throughout the autumn. Come harvest time, they will drift away, no matter what I say. And in the winter … impossible! We have failed to dislodge the man by armed force, and must therefore return to our original plan, and buy him off.’

  ‘There is another way,’ said Amory. ‘I have spoken of this to my lord Julian, but he thought we should explore all the other possibilities first. I agree with him that it is unlikely now that we will dislodge Sir Bevil by force. He is too deeply entrenched. The walls of the church are now some fifteen feet high and as thick as those of any castle. If we could have found a buyer with enough cash to pay for the Lady Joanna’s lands, that would be one thing – though I fear Sir Bevil would merely retreat for the time being, and return in the spring with another demand for money.’ There was a murmur of agreement and otherwise.

  ‘Yes,’ said Amory, raising his voice. ‘History proves it, time and again. Did we not have to pay the Danish pirates a special tax, year after year, to prevent them laying waste our countryside? And did they not still settle in the north and east of our land, and remain there? Do you want to have to raise money to pay off Sir Bevil every year?’

  ‘The political situation,’ began the Count, ‘is. …’

  ‘Is fluid,’ said Amory. ‘As I understand it, the French are in London, the boy King in good hands, and the Pope behind the boy King. If sufficient of us find we have more to gain by standing behind the old Marshal and the King, then there will be a speedy return to law and order. In which case, you can then bring a suit against Sir Bevil in the King’s courts. If he has left you any money to live on until then.’

  ‘That is all very well,’ growled Sir Walter. ‘But if we can’t smoke him out, and we can’t buy him off, what can we do?’

  ‘I can challenge him to single combat,’ said Julian. There was a short silence, while everyone but Amory looked at his neighbour to see how he had received this suggestion.

  ‘No,’ said the Count, breathing heavily. ‘I forbid it.’

  ‘Never fear, my lord,’ said Amory. ‘It shall not be. Your son is valiant enough, but you do have other knights who are equally bold in battle, who can be better spared from your side.’

  ‘That’s all very well,’ said Sir Walter again, patting his neck. ‘But are you suggesting that we draw lots for the privilege of fighting Sir Bevil? The man is a giant, and skilled in the martial arts. On account of advanced age, I. …’

  ‘What makes you think he would accept such a challenge?’ Father Hilarion spoke across Sir Walter, to Amory.

  ‘The man is brave enough,’ said Amory, speaking directly to Father Hilarion, and ignoring the rest. ‘And skilled in the martial arts, as has been said. He has been cooped up in the quarry for days, and he is not used to being hemmed in. He dislikes it. You can hear his roars of anger when you go within earshot of the quarry. He never intended to do more than make a sudden raid on this valley, to collect a ransom, and depart before harvest time. He has no strategy, or he would not have been so easily outwitted when he attacked the convent. He has no woodcraft, or he would have taken to the hill-paths and come upon us from behind, via the old tower. He just sits there and fumes, and dares not withdraw.’

  ‘Why not? Is not the road open behind him?’

  ‘Pride will not let him withdraw. He came here for plunder, and something he must have to take back with him. His pride would be satisfied with the idea of single combat with our champion, but we would have to work out the terms most carefully, or all will go for nothing.’

  ‘You!’ said Father Hilarion. ‘You mean to fight him?’

  ‘Yes, I think that is what it comes down to,’ said Amory. ‘He has met me two or three times in armed combat, and has gained sufficient respect for my skill to make a tourney with me a tempting proposition. Yes, I think he may accept the challenge, if we back it up with a prize of some value.’

  ‘You are not sure that you can overcome him?’

  ‘I cannot be sure,’ said Amory, and it could be seen that he was weary. ‘Even in a good suit of armour, and riding a well-trained horse, I could not be sure of it. The man is skilled, and desperate; moreover, so far as I know, he has never yet been wounded. I think he will accept that if he loses, he must withdraw from the quarry and the hill-top, and once withdrawn you only have to garrison the hill-top to keep him safe in his own lands. But if I were to lose, then you must have something of value to offer him for his withdrawal. I suggest you offer to return to the original agreement whereby my lord Julian was to have married Sir Bevil’s daughter, the Lady Blanche.’

  There was a buzz of discussion, in which neither Father Hilarion nor the Count took part. Julian shouted ‘No’, and scowled at Amory.

  ‘That is not a bad idea,’ ventured Father Hilarion. ‘It would preserve Sir Bevil’s pride, and ensure us peace on our southern borders within our life-time. More, the Lady Blanche is sole heiress to Sir Bevil. …’

  ‘But what of the Lady Joanna?’

  ‘You can seek another suitor, who would be prepared to pay highly for such a well-dowered lady. This way, it seems, you would gain twice over.’

  Julian thumped the table. ‘I say “no”. Joanna is mine. She is promised to me. She would have been wed to me days ago, if it had not been for Sir Bevil. I claim her as my bride, and I also claim the right to fight Sir Bevil.’

  ‘You have no rights in the matter,’ said the Count. ‘Joanna is my ward, to be disposed of in marriage as I think best. You were willing enough to marry Blanche before, and no doubt you will find her a pleasant enough girl, when you meet her. As for your fighting Sir Bevil, that is obviously out of the question, when we have a knight who is experienced in martial combat within our ranks.’

  ‘I also am experienced in martial combat,’ shouted Julian.

  ‘Scuffles beneath castle walls,’ said the C
ount, ‘do not amount to the same thing. You should go down on your knees and thank God that we have such a knight as Count Amory in our ranks.’

  ‘Never!’ cried Julian, and ran out of the hall.

  ‘So,’ said Joanna, ‘I hear that you are to fight Sir Bevil.’ She held her hands tightly folded before her, that he might not see they trembled.

  ‘Yes,’ said Amory. ‘Julian has been generous. He came to me just now, and offered me his own armour and horse. I have a chance with them.’

  ‘You would not have been wounded before, if you had had better armour?’

  ‘And a better horse. Probably not. Though you can never tell.’

  ‘It is stupid of me to ask, though I can’t seem to help myself. Are you not afraid?’

  ‘Yes. But you know that, already. You know when I am afraid and tired and want to run away. There are so many different fears. This time I am afraid not only of what may happen if I win, but also of what may happen if I lose. It would be a lot easier for me to die out there in a tourney than to submit to Father Hilarion, which is what I must do if I win. And if I die out there, Julian will have to marry Blanche, and you will be safe, for a while at least.’

  ‘A subtle temptation,’ she agreed. ‘But you will fight to win?’

  ‘Yes. But if it does happen that way, then you must not grieve, because it will be a good death.’ He put his hand near hers. but not touching it. ‘I can feel your warmth from here. Sometimes I have to come into the room to feel it; sometimes I can feel it round me like a cloak, even when I am up in the hills, or out in the plain.’

  ‘You do feel it? I was not sure I was doing any good. I cannot always pray, or not like that. It needs so much concentration, and I have to be quite still inside myself, first. But you know all about that.’

  ‘I seem to have forgotten how to pray. It is such a little while since I thought I knew everything there was to know about prayer, and now it is all gone. Father Ambrose says I am concentrating on deeds, not prayers, and that deeds can be prayers, if performed for the right reason. Only I’m not sure that what I am doing is for the right reason. I’m not fighting Sir Bevil for the sake of Father Hilarion, or even for my own sake. Or am I?’ He shook his head. ‘I am too tired to think straight. I love you. I don’t want you to marry Julian, though … another suitor might be worse, and … I wish. …’ He touched the back of her hand, and then put his own hands behind him.