My Lord, the Hermit Page 6

  The Lady Joanna rose, too, and while the Fool made his way back to the castle, she walked through the meadows as if at random. But it was noticeable that her course took her past where the hedge-priest was sitting, eating some bread and mat. He was a round little man, red of cheek and blue of eye. His figure was sack-like, and his brown legs, thrust out from beneath his frayed robe, were scratched. Yet his eye was merry, and his greeting friendly.

  ‘Well met, mistress. Will you share my nuncheon with me? I have yet to sit down with food enough for two meals, but someone comes along to break his fast with me.’

  Without waiting for a reply he divided his food, and set half on the grass for her. She sat beside him, and started to eat. As Midge had said, Father Ambrose had a restful presence. He was glancing at her inquisitively, taking in the details of her appearance.

  ‘I think you must be the Lady Joanna. Your arm has healed well.’

  ‘Now how did you learn of that?’

  ‘People tell me things. I’m an incurable gossip, and people pander to my weakness. That bit of news came to me through one of the bondwomen at the castle, whose brother works in the quarries. He told a shepherd of my acquaintance, and though I dare say the story lost nothing in the telling, yet I see that some of it must be true. I heard of a lady of surpassing courage and beauty, who laughed as she plucked the little lordling from under the tusks of the boar.’

  ‘I was young then, and knew no fear.’

  ‘Ten days ago? Twelve? Yet it is true that sometimes we grow to maturity overnight. What ails you, daughter?’ He held up his hand, his mouth full. ‘Nay, tell me not. I was inquisitive. Alas, it is a great affliction to me. Other men are visited with the sins of envy and pride, but I am afflicted with the sins of gluttony and curiosity. Forget that I asked you anything.’

  ‘You shared your bread with me.’ She smiled at him, liking him. ‘Father, you were quite right. I am much troubled in mind. Midge said you might be able to help me, and I think perhaps he was right.’

  ‘No, no. I doubt if anything I could say or do would help you. Only consider, lady, that I am an unlettered man, a peasant. I know nothing of the life of court or castle. If Father Hilarion were to see me talking with you now, he would be indignant, and rightly so. I only came here to gather herbs for a friend. Forgive my impertinence.’

  ‘Father.’ She laid her hand on his arm. ‘Will you not let me tell you my trouble?’

  ‘You’re not going to ask my advice? You realize I would not be competent to advise you?’

  ‘Are you not a priest?’

  ‘A very poor one, I fear. I cannot dispute learnedly on theological matters. When I was a young man I could read and write a little, but now I have forgot most of what I once knew. I can only go from place to place where the misery is greatest, and let the people talk to me, and perform the sacraments where required.’ He sighed. ‘I used to know all the psalms by heart once, but my memory is not what it was, and most of those have gone, now. Only the favourites remain, you see. I can remember all the ones about joy and golden clothing and angels and food, and it does seem to help my flock that I can still chant of such pleasant things, even when they have neither shelter nor food nor warm clothing for themselves. But I have forgotten all the ones about destruction and doom and terror. It seems to me there is enough of that sort of thing in the world, without my adding to it. But if it will help you to talk then I will listen, and try not to ask too many questions.’

  Joanna laughed. ‘Father, I begin to understand why so many people love you. I will tell you what ails me. Nothing here at the castle is what it seems to be at first sight. The Count my uncle keeps great state, but he cannot keep his temper; my lady his mother talks much of loving her grandchildren, but allows them to be disposed of in marriage without thought of their happiness. My cousin Julian acts like a heedless page, and one of the pages acts like a haughty prince. Two young girls, destined for the nunnery, turn their eyes on men whenever opportunity arises.’

  ‘Human nature, surely.’

  ‘Perhaps. What of my aunt, the Lady Elizabeth? She is to be abbess of the convent here. A man falls from the scaffolding and she never thinks to comfort him in his last moments, only to sink to her knees at a safe distance, and pray for him. Are prayers enough at such a time? I think not. And then Father Hilarion, who is the official doctor here, refuses to shrive the dying man because – or so it seems to me – he was angry with the man for thinking too much of Keren, and not enough of his work. The Lady Elizabeth and Father Hilarion are accounted good, in the eyes of the world. How is it that the good can do evil things, and the evil, good?’

  ‘He cannot, lady. Not in the sense you mean it. You are talking of day by day behaviour, are you not? If a man performs evil deeds, then is he not evil? If a man does good, day by day, then is he not good?’

  ‘How if he is a man of God, and performs evil?’

  ‘You make too much of a small thing, surely. Father Hilarion is a man who yearns to perfect himself in the love of God. He finds the road hard, that is all.’

  ‘I am not talking of love. I do not think he knows the meaning of the word. There is a sort of cold fury within him.’

  Father Ambrose looked troubled. ‘I hardly know the man. I will have to do some praying for him. Ah me, poor creature, to suffer so. If he is angry, it is probably with himself. Perhaps God will send him a bout of rheumatism, to make him more tolerant of us poor mortals.’

  She laughed aloud. ‘Are not his scourge, his hair-shirt and breeches enough?’

  ‘Is he driven so hardly? Eh, who would have believed it!’ His eyes were bright. He savoured the knowledge, even while it distressed him.

  ‘Would you excuse him everything, because he does not suffer from rheumatism? Then what of the evil man?’

  Father Ambrose looked hard at her, and then said, slowly and with emphasis, ‘Keren is not evil.’

  ‘Yet he murdered his wife.’

  Father Ambrose sighed. Every line of his face was accentuated, and all his former glee had vanished. ‘He was only a boy, grief-stricken and bewildered, when I first made his acquaintance. Now he is a man, deliberately spending himself for others, with humour, and joy, and with all his strength. During the nine years I have known him, he has never once, to my knowledge, committed a mean or petty act. I count it as one of the greatest blessings of my life that I have him in my parish. He is no saint, but he is not evil.’

  ‘Yet he murdered his wife.’

  Father Ambrose lifted his hands, and let them fall. ‘I know. No one knows why. He loved her, that is certain. It is also certain that he killed her, and that there is no trace of the killing in his memory. Perhaps a sudden quarrel …? He does not know. He has agonized over her death, and perhaps more than anything, he agonizes because he cannot understand why he did it. Perhaps it was God’s kindness, to remove all memory of the act from his mind. I do not know. Sometimes it is hard to see the pattern. Yet however it was that he came to do it, and for whatever reason, the good he is doing now surely outweighs the evil he did in the past. Besides, he might never have discovered that he had the power to heal, if it had not been for this. All the men and women of my parish bless his name, and the Wayfarers’ church rises stone on stone, day by day, whether he is there or not. Is that not some sort of miracle?’

  ‘Out of evil comes forth good?’

  ‘I cannot imagine Keren being so full of hate as to commit murder. He is not a man of sudden, violent passions. I can understand that he could have killed, quickly and efficiently, too, in the service of the King. But I cannot understand him lifting a heavy sword and bringing it down on his wife’s back within minutes of returning home from a long absence. There is a theory which might account for it, though. I have seen men overtaken by fits, who jerk and thrash their limbs about, and sometimes endanger themselves and others in their fury. And of this fury they know nothing when they return to themselves once more.’

  She laid her finger on the flaw in
the argument. ‘Is he often subject to such fits?’

  ‘Never before or since, lady. Or not to my knowledge, anyway.’

  ‘Then he is evil.’

  Father Ambrose sighed. He made a ball of the crumbs which were all that remained of his bread, and popped it into his mouth. Then he made sure his pouch was fastened, and rose to his feet, shaking out the folds of his robe. ‘Well, I must be on my way to see this so-called evil man. He sent me a message by a shepherd some days ago that he wished for some of the marshmallow and lady’s-smock that grow hereabouts.’

  ‘He has broken his oath of silence to ask for these things?’

  ‘Nay, lady. He has a slate, and draws on it. The shepherds pass the word one to another, till it reaches someone who can help him. In fact, I should have gone to him days ago, for he has been much on my mind of late. But Sir Bevil and his men burned a hamlet in the hills yonder, the property of the abbot, and I stayed to bury the dead and rebuild a hut or two.’

  ‘Will you tell him that it was not my fault that he did not receive some food days ago? The messenger miscarried, and is now dead. No, tell him nothing. It is better not.’

  ‘I will tell him that you were asking after him.’

  ‘No.’ Then, more quietly, ‘No. You see, I am to marry my cousin Julian in six weeks’ time.’

  ‘Ah, I see. At least, I think I see. You poor child.’

  ‘You see nothing,’ she said, rising to her feet, and shaking out her own skirts. ‘He healed my arm, that is all. It was nothing. Oh yes, and he gave me a worthless brooch.’

  ‘His brooch? It was his mother’s, and his greatest treasure, as I recall.’

  She pressed her fingers over her eyes. ‘I said I would repay. He shook his head. There is nothing I can do.’

  ‘That’s what Pilate said. Or so I seem to remember.’

  ‘What would you have me do?’

  ‘Indeed and indeed, I do not know. I must go to him at once. I am afraid, sore afraid. Ten days, you say? I ought to have been with him a week ago, at least, but … the evil ways of men … now Sir Bevil is evil, I think; although I ought not to say that, for I have never met the man. But Keren is not evil, lady. He is as a son to me. The ways of God are past understanding, sometimes. They said you were not afraid of anything.’

  ‘I am! I am! I have been, ever since I saw him!’

  ‘And he, lady? What of him?’

  ‘I do not know.’ She began to weep, but when he sought to comfort her, she ran from him towards the castle, where he might not follow for fear of Father Hilarion. Sighing, Father Ambrose picked up a heavy wooden staff, and plodded off in the opposite direction.

  The little priest breasted the last rise, and heard the collie bark. Then he saw Keren, and waved to him. The hermit did not wave back. Father Ambrose leaned on his staff, feeling weak and breathless. For the first time Keren had not run to greet him. For the first time there was no welcome for him in the snug tent under the bluff. Foreboding, which had been with him since he had spoken with the maid Joanna, deepened in Father Ambrose’s anxious heart. He loved Keren, and until now had thought Keren loved him.

  ‘Pater noster,’ he began, under his breath, using the time-worn phrases as a buffer to hold off the pain of Keren’s rejection of him. Then he thought of how often he had marvelled at Keren’s strength, and had felt that he himself could not have withstood what Keren had withstood, and remained sane. And the little priest blenched, for how could he help a man who was stronger than he?

  ‘Kyrie eleison. … Christ have mercy. … And did I hasten to comfort him, when we both know how weak a man I am, myself? If only I had fought gluttony and gossip, perhaps I would have been strong enough to have helped him. It is all my fault. Mea culpa. …’

  It was sunset. As he went down into the dell, the little priest noticed further changes in Keren. The hermit had lost his pride in his appearance. He was unshaven, and his hair hung over his brow. His eyes were sunken, and fever bright, and every movement proclaimed weariness.

  There were other changes, too. Where there had been but one tent two months ago, on Father Ambrose’s last visit, there were now four. The new tents were constructed efficiently but unbeautifully of rags and hides and rushes, in a hotchpotch which reminded the priest of the hotchpotch of the church; ungainly, but practicable. There were also pens for sheep and goats, and three dogs apart from Keren’s collie. There were also men, women, and children. The little priest peered here and there as they came out of their tents with hands outstretched, and knelt for his blessing. Why, here was a family of shepherds from over beyond the abbey boundary, and there was the thatcher from two valleys away, from the hamlet which had recently been burned by Sir Bevil and his men. There was a pregnant woman, and three children – surely not all from the same family? And several others, whom he did not know.

  ‘Father. … Father. …’ They crowded round him, telling him their story all at once, over and over again. They were shocked, and grieved. Most were bruised and bandaged. One man limped, with his leg tied to a stake; a child lacked an arm, and was pale from loss of blood. Their faces were strained but their eyes were bright. They were recovering from the shock of having been driven from their homes, but were not yet fit to travel on. Father Ambrose touched them all, speaking soothingly, even while his ears picked up the news from this one and that, learning much, the tears coming to his eyes, hands blessing.

  Only Keren stood apart, pushing softened crusts into a toddler’s mouth. When he had finished, and laid the child down, he went aside to pound the leaves of All Heal into a poultice. Presently Father Ambrose had enough information to satisfy even his curiosity, although he had known before anyone had spoken that this was a gathering of refugees from Sir Bevil’s maraudings. The hedge-priest was grieved, but not shocked by the news. There was very little that shocked him, because he had been interesting himself in the doings of his fellow men since he was a child. What shocked him now was the despair in Keren’s eyes.

  It was nightfall before the two men could be alone, and Father Ambrose had to insist that Keren walk apart with him, to obtain even so much privacy as that. They went up the hill together, and into the church.

  Father Ambrose had been meaning to ask what precautions the little community had made against an attack by Sir Bevil, but when he reached the church, he saw that he need not have worried. No precautions against attack had been taken down in the dell, for it was not defensible, surrounded as it was by the hills. But around the church, at a distance of some ten yards or so, a ring of stakes had been driven into the ground, pointing outwards and upwards. Neither horse nor man would get through that ring easily. The only gaps in the ring were on the path as it wandered by the half-built church, and hurdles had been drawn up against the fence at those two points, ready to block it if necessary.

  The church had grown yet again, although Father Ambrose doubted whether Keren had had anything to do with it. The walls were uneven, this one higher than that. The priest knew that Keren had intended to leave a space for a window above a massive stone which he had been keeping back to place on the north wall, overlooking the valley. Now that stone was built into the wall, without a break. The space inside the church was clear of rubble, the beaten floor swept clean, and a length of bright blue cloth laid on the altar. Before the cross some tallow dips had been laid, next to an iron holder.

  Keren stood with hanging head and hands, while the priest lit one of the rush lights, and sank on to the floor with a sigh of relief.

  ‘Sit, man,’ said Father Ambrose. ‘Take that stone out of your mouth, and let us talk.’

  Keren sank to his knees, his head resting on a projecting stone, the first that he had brought up from the valley which was of any size. Father Ambrose knew that it had cost Keren untold hours of effort, and had nearly killed him when the rope had broken, and the stone had gone tumbling down the road with Keren on top of it. The priest knew that this stone symbolized both the effort Keren had put into the making of t
he church, and his achievement in mastering temptation. He had noticed that Keren usually touched it when he prayed, as if it gave him strength to remember the strength he had expended on the building.

  This time Keren touched it, but did not lift his head, nor take the stone from his mouth.

  Father Ambrose opened his pouch, and laid herbs on the altar. ‘Lady’s-smock for nerves, marshmallow roots for healing ulcers, dandelion for cleansing the blood, and cowslips for sleeplessness. It seems to me I brought you them just in time. It has been in my mind to come to you for some days. I was worried about you. But the activities of Sir Bevil prevented me.’ Still Keren did not speak. Father Ambrose had always thought the vow of silence cruel and, in the case of Keren, almost impossible to maintain. Every time the little priest passed the church, he had taken Keren to one side and heard his confession. And if the ‘confession’ sometimes took two days to say in full, and if their conversation wandered over many other subjects during that time, yet Father Ambrose considered that they were committing but a venial sin. For he enjoyed these talks as much, almost, as Keren, to whom they had been an enormous relief.

  Now, for the first time, Keren would not speak. Father Ambrose was miserable. He had often felt inadequate, but never more so than now.

  ‘I saw the Lady Joanna this afternoon,’ he said, although but a few minutes before he had resolved not to mention her name. ‘She wept.’

  Keren’s hands went over his face, and he bowed his head. Father Ambrose scrambled over to him, and then did not know what to say or do. He was crouched on all fours, aware of his lack of dignity, with one part of his mind finding himself subject for laughter, and with the other mourning that he did not possess the personality of Father Hilarion, who would no doubt have been able to deal with this situation without crawling on the ground.

  A woman came up the path to the church, carying a wailing child in her arms. Keren sat up, and took the child himself; the woman departed, the child wailed a few more times, and then settled to sleep. The handing-over of the child had been accomplished without words. Evidently this was not the first time that Keren had acted as foster-mother.