My Lord, the Hermit Page 8

  ‘If only we had water here at the church,’ said Keren, ‘we could hold off an army.’ He did not believe it, but he had to hearten these men somehow. The attack would most likely come from the other side, and it was for this reason that he had set the best men there, but you never knew. …

  He took off the helmet, and shook his hair back. Why had he let his appearance go, like that? He had let himself sink to the level of a peasant. He had often been tempted to forgo shaving and washing in recent years, but had never allowed himself to slip so far before.

  ‘Can anyone trim my hair while we’re waiting?’ he asked, seating himself on the ground, and holding up his knife.

  The man who had been clutching the pitcher put it down and came forward, moving sideways. He stopped, went back for his pitcher, and then came to squat beside Keren. He put the pitcher between his knees, where he could feel it against his thigh, and began to trim Keren’s hair. He did not speak, but his eyes grew less wild for a time. Keren talked on, commenting on the prospects for the harvest, and the fact that it looked as if it would be a hot day. …

  A cry from behind him. The lad who had been left in the watch-post at the church end of the track was running back to them, waving his arms.

  Keren stood up, resumed his helmet, and began to run back that way. The boy ostler tugged a cloak over the horse, and secured it with straps before leading it after Keren. The man with the broken leg laughed aloud, inanely. The man with the pitcher began to sob, clutching it to his chest.

  ‘Halt!’ Keren stepped in front of the ring of stakes and out on to the path. A struggling band of some twenty men were riding carelessly along the track, led by a giant of a man on a bay horse. The men rode under the pennant of Sir Bevil of Frierstone. They were all armed, but Keren saw to his relief that only one man had a crossbow, and one other a bow and arrows on his back. Three carried pikes, but the rest were swordsmen. In fact, to a soldier’s eye, although they were reasonably well armed, they were an undisciplined bunch of men. They were strung about with booty; a couple of hens tied by the feet here, a length of cloth wound round a man’s shoulders there. They were unshaven and their eyes were bloodshot. Wherever they had passed the previous night, it had not been in luxury, for their cloaks were dirty and they looked unkempt. Their manner spoke of hard-drinking the night before, and a consequent loss of efficiency and good humour that morning.

  ‘Out of the way, you scurvy knave,’ said the giant, drawing his sword.

  ‘Behind you is the boundary of Sir Bevil’s estate,’ said Keren. ‘Perhaps you have missed the way?’

  The giant roared with laughter. ‘Missed our way? Aye, that’s good. Our way is wherever we choose to go. At present our way lies through your puny ring of stakes, and out the other side.’

  ‘And whither then? This land is the property of the Count, and beyond it lies the abbey and its lands. Do you go to make a pilgrimage?’

  ‘A pilgrimage?’ Again the giant laughed, but his laugh was savage. ‘Aye, I’ll make a pilgrimage of you, messire, if you don’t step out of my way.’

  One of his fellows plucked at his arm. ‘’Tis Keren, the hermit. This church is sacred. We should, perhaps, go around it?’

  ‘The quickest way down into the valley lies beyond the church there. Who dares stop us taking it?’

  ‘I will,’ said Keren.

  ‘And I,’ said Father Ambrose, coming to stand beside Keren, a knife in his hand. ‘Sir Bevil – for I know you by your description – there is no way here through to the valley, if you mean to pillage there. There is no way through here to the abbey, either. Return whence you came, and the peace of God will go with you.’

  ‘Back, friar: lest you be the first to receive a bite from my sword.’ Sir Bevil’s men laughed with their leader. At that moment a squealing and plunging betrayed the presence of livestock beyond the church. The giant cocked his head. ‘Aha! A pig calls for its master. I am hungry. Come, little piglet: come and be killed!’

  ‘That pig is none of yours, Sir Bevil,’ said the priest.

  ‘Women, too,’ said Sir Bevil, pointing to the church, from whence peeped anxious faces. ‘Come, men.’ He eased his position in the saddle. ‘Let us drive this rabble over the edge of the hill, and then we can sit down to a meal of roast pig, and take our ease among the women, before we descend into the plain.’

  Keren leaped for the head of Sir Bevil’s horse, and the giant, caught by surprise, dug his spurs into the flanks of his charger. The horse gathered itself together, and half-pulled by Keren, and half-driven by the pain in its sides, sprang through the opening between the stakes into the enclosure around the church. Keren came with the horse, leaping along, and as he struggled to bring the horse to a halt, so he shouted to Rob to haul the hurdle across the opening. Rob needed no urging. Grinning, he dragged the hurdle across just as the first of Sir Bevil’s men set spurs to his horse. An arrow in that horse’s flank set the animal rearing, and the man was unseated. The man with the crossbow was winding up his weapon to fire it. That was the trouble with crossbows; they took so long to get ready. A good archer could let off three or four arrows in the time one bolt could be fired from a crossbow. Rob made sure of his mark, and the arrow went through the throat of the crossbowman, who slipped from his horse, gargling. The riderless horse plunged into its fellows, causing further confusion.

  ‘Around, and about!’ cried Keren, ducking and letting go of the bay’s reins as Sir Bevil raised his sword to cut at the hermit. The four men from the farther gate ran back, haltingly, their eyes wide. Father Ambrose marshalled them to stand behind Rob, and back up the archer’s offensive. Rob was shooting arrows at Sir Bevil’s men, and he sang as he did so. His song was a curse, and his one eye alight with dreadful glee, as he sang and shot, and men yelped and horses screamed. Five of Sir Bevil’s men charged at the hurdle together, but the horses shied away from the stakes, and would not press through them. In vain the pikemen lunged at the bowmen; the stakes held them back. Now two more of the hermit’s men plucked up courage enough to let off an arrow or two.

  The man with the broken leg cursed joyously, and armed himself with a stout cudgel. His companions shrank back against the wall of the church.

  ‘Sa-ha!’ cried Keren, side-stepping a vicious swipe which, if it had landed, would have cloven him in two. The broad-sword was not lightly lifted except by strong men, and if one man were on horseback, and the other on the ground, the odds were distinctly uneven. Also, Sir Bevil was better armed than Keren.

  The horse! How had he come to forget the horse? It was standing unattended, shifting from foot to foot, a pad on its back, and its reins dangling. Could he leap on to the saddle, with the chain hampering him? He must try. He tried, and failed, for Sir Bevil was riding him down. Keren met the downward sweep of Sir Bevil’s sword with an upward sweep of his own. Sparks flew, and the shock drove the hermit’s heels into the turf. Ah, the feel of the sword, and ache of muscles in his forearms, and the dig of heel into the ground. … Then Sir Bevil had over-ridden him, and was fighting to turn his horse, losing precious seconds. Keren risked a glance at the hurdle, to see Rob shout and throw up his arms with glee. So, they were safe for the moment.

  An awkward, sideways run, and a leap … he had done it, and was safe enough in the saddle … an awkwardly slow horse, unresponsive … but turn him firmly, and … no spurs. No boots, no spurs. Uncontrollable? Heaven help us now, for if he kills me, the way will be open to the valley below, and Joanna … would she kill herself rather than submit to rape?

  Sir Bevil was charging, his sword uplifted. Keren cursed his chain, and watched his enemy, warily, keeping still, waiting until the last possible moment, and then ducking under a tremendous swing of Sir Bevil’s sword … let Sir Bevil wear himself out … he was treating his steed cruelly, the horse would tire, and the man. …

  Riding this horse was useless. Worse than useless, for he could not manoeuvre. He slid off it, and set his back to the church wall. The women inside wer
e wailing, the children crying. The man with the pitcher was curled around his jug, hiding his head. The boy with one arm was lying very still. Asleep? Dead? The pregnant woman was writhing, a twist of cloth between her teeth.

  The collie came leaping from behind the church. She had broken her rope, and now flew at Sir Bevil’s horse, barking. The horse whinnied and sidestepped, not liking such treatment. The dog was in and out, snapping, growling, leaping up at Sir Bevil’s mailed foot. The giant cursed, slashing at the dog. Keren leaped forward, and swung high and accurately. Sir Bevil, hit on the back, swung forward, and was unable to regain his balance. He slipped and fell, arms flailing, onto the sward. Before he could rise, Keren was standing over him, the point of his sword at the join of helmet and mailed hood.

  ‘Do you yield?’ The hermit raised his sword, ready for the downward stroke.

  ‘Kill me, rather.’

  Keren lowered his sword a fraction, and let it drop. ‘No, I will not kill.’ Sir Bevil’s sword lay where it had dropped from the giant’s hand. Keren called Father Ambrose, who came forward to pick it up. The bay had been caught by the man with the broken leg, and was standing, sweating, while the collie crouched and barked, but no longer sprang at it.

  Sir Bevil lifted head and shoulders from the ground, and Keren’s swordpoint pricked at his skin. ‘Fight fair!’

  ‘I do,’ said Keren.

  ‘You? A hermit?’

  ‘I was not always a hermit. Do you yield? If so, we will spare your life, and those of your men who yet remain in this world. Lay down your arms, promise to keep to your own estates in future, and we will let you all go.’

  ‘What …? Let me up! I will promise no such thing. Why, you … spawn of Satan … you bastard son of a. …’

  ‘The courts of the King shall decide what reparation you should make to those you have injured.’

  ‘The King is dead. Long live King Louis.’

  ‘Long live the boy King Henry; England will have none of the foreigner.’

  ‘Louis of France holds London, and will shortly form a new government which will drive your boy king and his advisers into the sea.’

  ‘I doubt it. Do you yield, or shall I let the women in the church deal with you?’

  Sir Bevil licked his lips. He knew what vengeful women could do. ‘I yield,’ he said sullenly, ‘But we shall meet again, hermit.’

  ‘It may be so,’ said Keren. ‘I shall not be running away.’ He stood back, and gestured to Sir Bevil to stand. ‘Tell your men to throw down their arms, dismount, and withdraw ten paces.’

  With a bad grace, Sir Bevil did so.

  ‘Now, tell them to take of their armour. And you must remove yours as well.’

  ‘Spoils of war for a hermit?’ jeered Sir Bevil.

  ‘I do this to ensure that you do not attack us again, before the Count has time to send a guard to relieve us. You will have a walk home; I dare say it will be a long and thirsty journey for you, and possibly even dangerous, if you chanced to offend any of the forest dwellers on your way here.’

  ‘Someone shot and wounded one of my best men last night. That is his armour you are wearing. There stands his horse. It is plain that you are yourself in league with the bandits of the forest,’ Sir Bevil replied.

  ‘Not so. The dying man brought us the gifts of armour and horse, which we have used against you today. We know nothing of bandits of the forest.’

  ‘You cannot deprive us of arms. Why, we would be quite defenceless, if we had to walk back without arms.’

  ‘Then you will be in the same position as the peasants whom you have persecuted,’ said Keren. ‘For they are without horses and armour, are they not?’

  Sir Bevil considered the problem, and then, white with fury, he took off his fine armour and dropped it on the turf. His men, some crying with the pain of their wounds, did likewise.

  Father Ambrose was looking worried. ‘Ought we not to treat the wounded before they return? There are two dead men there, and at least two more have serious wounds. I do not think they will be able to march any great distance, without treatment.’

  Keren hesitated. ‘I dare not lay aside my sword. I dare not grant the wounded men permission to stay and be nursed, for I doubt if we could control the desire for revenge that our people have. You saw what happened when the dying soldier arrived. We will give the men water, and directions as to how to treat their wounds, but they must all depart within the hour.’

  One man proved to be too grievously wounded to move, and he was eventually given permission to stay, but the rest of the band left within the hour. Sir Bevil raised his voice in farewell, when he reached the watch-tower at the head of the track that led to his own lands.

  ‘We will meet again, Sir Hermit. And when we do, you shall pay for what you have done today. I shall see you hanged yet. Nay, I shall see you crucified, hanging above your own church, before I die!’

  No men from the quarry had arrived on the hill-top by the time the last of Sir Bevil’s men had filed out of sight. Rob and two of the nimbler of the men followed the soldiers down the path and a mile along the way, and then left them to return to the church. Keren had laid aside his armour, and was busy with the woman who had brought forth a still-born child. The boy who had lost his arm had died some time during the melee. Two of Sir Bevil’s men lay dead on the sward, and the one who was so badly wounded that he could not be moved moaned every time the women glanced in his direction. The man with the broken leg had been appointed guard to stand over the wounded soldier, that he might not meet his end before the time appointed.

  The women cooked bread and roasted a leg of lamb on a spit. Some of them fetched greens from Keren’s garden, and more water from the spring, but no one wandered far from the church. Two of the able-bodied men, and all of the children, began to dig out hard chalk blocks to make a more permanent shelter from the wind that blew along the hill-top.

  Father Ambrose took meat and bread to Keren, who was tending the sick woman down by the spring. She was little more than a girl. Her body was strong, and it was thought she might recover, if she did not succumb to the fever that so often attended childbirth. Keren knew little of the ailments of women, but he did know that disease followed dirt, and that there was something in the spring, some medicinal property, which usually helped his patients.

  She struck at his hand, as he tried to wash her. ‘Leave me be. I’d sooner die.’

  He shook his head. He had not yet returned the stone to his mouth, but he intended to do so in a moment, when he had said what he had to say to her. He picked her up, and dumped her in the spring. She cried out, more from shock at the chill of the water, than from fear.

  ‘Let him help you,’ said Father Ambrose to the girl.

  ‘Why?’ she asked, and closed her eyes.

  Keren washed her clean, and laid her in his own tent to rest. It was the only tent left in the dell now, but the place no longer looked as beautiful as it had once, for it had been occupied for many days by an assortment of people. Even as Keren looked for herbs in the remains of his vegetable garden, two more women and a boy struggled over the hill, brought along by the man who had been set on watch. Their tale was the usual one of rape and murder. They did not know where they were going, but they had not been able to stay where they were, and so had started walking. One of the women was young and had been raped many times. Her eyes stared. Keren sent them up to the church, and returned to the sick woman, Elena, with a sleeping cordial.

  ‘Why did you not let me be?’ she asked. ‘My man is dead; and now I’ve lost the babe, I’ve nothing left.’

  ‘Those who survive must comfort each other. I will give you another child to look after, in place of the one you have lost. More, I will give you a man to look after, as well.’

  She laughed in his face. ‘Do you think it will be the same?’

  ‘No, indeed. The boy coughs all the time, and the man cannot even tell us his name, but clutches a piece of pottery to him in place of the family
he has lost. It will be far more difficult than bringing up your own children, but I am sure it is intended that you should help them.’

  ‘Why? Give me one good reason why I should help those who are no kin of mine?’

  ‘They will die, if you do not.’

  After a pause she said, ‘Let them die, then.’ But Keren was satisfied that she would think over what he had said.

  He sat back on his heels, and let his hands fall to his sides. He was very tired. Father Ambrose beckoned to him to come and sit by the spring, where a feast of bread and meat had been laid out, against his coming. Keren refused the meat, ate the bread, and drank water.

  ‘They have still not sent from the quarry,’ said the priest. ‘Why do you think they delay?’

  ‘Someone told me they are short of men at the castle, because the Count sent so many away to join the King. I don’t suppose they realize that the whole of the valley is defenceless, if this place falls into Sir Bevil’s hands.’

  ‘Sir Bevil could go the long way round, by the other road.’

  ‘That comes out into the valley by the quarry, and there are always plenty of men working there. I don’t think he would risk that. We have several days’ grace, anyway. Perhaps a week, even. I do not see how Sir Bevil will be able to get back home, re-arm, and come at us, within five or six days, at least.’ Keren laughed, and shook his head. ‘He had no mercenaries, only ill-trained peasants. If he had had half a dozen trained men, like Rob, he could have swept us over the edge of the hill into the valley.’

  ‘What if he comes again? Ought we not to get these poor people down into the valley, and under the Count’s banner?’

  ‘Not many of them are fit to travel yet. In a few days’ time, yes: they must move on. Yet it will not be easy for them to decide what to do, for most of them are from the abbot’s lands, and owe no fealty to the Count. It might be best for them to take the Travellers’ Way westwards, and go back to the abbey … except that we are still getting refugees coming from that direction, which means that Sir Bevil must have more men in the forest than we have seen today.’