Once out of sight of the camp, he led his horse down the first part of the slope, mounted, and was away.
His companion, left alone, had marked out a site on which to dig Keren’s grave. He went back into the church to measure Keren’s body, and his mouth dropped open. It did not seem to him that Keren lay as straight as before. He stooped to examine the body, and then sat back on his heels and rubbed his poll. One of his companions strolled up, whistling. The rain had ceased, they had a good fire going, and discipline was relaxed.
‘He lives,’ said the first man, pointing to the hermit. ‘He is not yet conscious, but he is alive.’
‘’Struth, he must have a hard head,’ said the other. ‘But Sir Bevil will be pleased to hear the news. We must guard him well.’
‘So that he may be crucified in due course? I like it not. I saw him fight, and I saw him kneeling in the church at prayer, as Sir Bevil came up behind him. The man was unarmed.’
‘What would you? We serve Sir Bevil, and he has said he wants the man crucified.’
‘Aye, if he lives. His colour is bad. It may be he will not live, for often a blow on the head will kill a man after some days of unconsciousness.’
‘True.’ The second man yawned. ‘Well, if he dies, we will bury him as planned, and if he lives, we will keep him for Sir Bevil’s entertainment.’
He laughed, and went on his way, but the first soldier cut and placed bracken under the altar for the injured man, and laid him on it. At intervals that day he brought water and bathed Keren’s face, but though the hermit murmured now and then, and had periods of restlessness, he did not wake.
At sunset a group of the soldiers came to inspect the prisoner. The tender-hearted soldier was chaffed for spending so much time on a man who would shortly be dead, one way or another. The Good Samaritan succumbed to the opinion of his friends that he was being over-solicitous, and relinquished his post. It was agreed that the others should draw lots to choose which should stay in the church with Keren overnight, lest he should try to escape. Though how he could walk, let alone escape, said the soldiers one to another, with that chain around his legs …! Laughing, they drew lots from their sergeant’s hand. The choice fell on a dour man, somewhat older and greyer and more silent than the rest. Their sergeant made jokes about ghosts in the graveyard. The man selected to stand guard said that to his way of thinking their prisoner would not live through the night, and that it might be as well to dig his grave while the light lasted.
He found tools, and began to dig.
The Countess called Joanna to her, and gave her a piece of her mind. The girl had become quite lost to a sense of her position. It was not for maidens of noble birth to run loose without so much as a single attendant, like a whore or a peasant girl. What did she mean by leaving the castle to ride off with Father Hilarion and the soldiers, without seeking permission? Noble ladies did not herd swine, or carry peasant children in their arms, or get their robes muddied by walking when they had been provided with horses to ride. And then, when the evening meal was ready, where had she been? Not in the castle … oh, no! She had been grovelling in the dirt of the outbuildings at the convent, exposing herself to infections from the filthy creatures that had been brought in yesterday to place an extra burden on the already strained resources of the castle.
Joanna heard the Countess out with an iron patience that caused her great-aunt to reappraise the girl. Here was no pliant maiden, ready to confess fault and sue for forgiveness. Here was a woman, somewhat pale of face, perhaps, but proud and resolute.
Joanna said, inclining her head, that she understood the duty of a noblewoman was to succour those placed in her charge. The nuns at the convent were few, unskilled in medicine, and disinclined to come out from behind their grille to attend to the refugees. There were men and women among the said refugees who, after a little rest, would be perfectly capable of looking after their fellows; and as for provisions, they only required a small allowance of flour, wood and oil, and they would be self-sufficient. They had brought livestock with them.
‘Our sheep, from our hills,’ said the Countess.
‘It is better we have them, than that they were left for Sir Bevil. As for their quarters, the outbuildings are hardly luxurious, and there is no bedding. Could they not be allowed to find lodgings in the peasants’ houses within the castle walls?’
‘Out of the question,’ snapped the Countess. ‘They would being disease among us.’
‘They are free of disease, which is more than can be said of the workmen at the church, or the peasants who are housed without the walls,’ said Joanna. ‘The refugees’ ill-health stems from man’s inhumanity to man, and not from fever. They are sick at heart, but not in body, although some of their older folk are very frail. I will not catch anything when I visit them.’
‘You are forbidden to. …’
‘Have no fear. I will take my tirewoman with me.’
‘You will do nothing of the kind. You shall not monopolize the woman. Why, was it not enough that you deprived my grand-daughters of her services yesterday, when you dragged her off on that insane journey to the hills? The poor creature came to me this morning, crying. …’
‘Then I will appoint a woman of my own. I assume my position here justifies my having my own woman?’ To this the Countess said nothing. It was hard for her to be reminded that very shortly this girl, whom she had thought so tractable, would be her grand-son’s wife, and eventually succeed her. If only the Count’s health were not so problematical … he ought to have taken Father Hilarion with him … if he were to fall into another of his rages, and Father Hilarion not by to bleed him and dose him. …
Joanna dipped a curtesy and prepared to leave.
‘One last thing,’ said the Countess. ‘They say … Father Hilarion says that you and the hermit. …’ Joanna waited. The Countess flushed. ‘They say … Father Hilarion says that you only went up to the hills to see the hermit.’
‘I had several reasons, and that was one of them.’
‘You admit it? Hussy!’
‘I admit it. I think he must be dead by now.’ She gave the Countess a straight, empty look. ‘Have I your leave to depart?’
Joanna went swiftly down through the castle, across the courtyard, through the bailey, and thence across the drawbridge and over the meadow to the convent. Work had resumed on the construction of the abbey church, but there were more curses and blows to be heard than song and laughter, and the men moved slowly, grudging the time they spent there. The architect was standing and looking up at the church as Joanna passed by. He bowed to her, so she stopped to ask how the work progressed.
‘Badly, lady. Father Hilarion may say what he likes, but the men do feel there is a curse on this church. We saw the beacon on the hill last night, and the men fell to praying. When they learned that Keren had been left behind to die, many cursed, and some said they would leave as soon as they were paid next quarter day. A man fell and broke his leg this morning. If Keren had been here … but what would you? One of the men from the hill, whose leg has recently been mended by Keren, tried to straighten and bind up the injured man’s leg, until Father Hilarion came along and bade him desist. The priest asked my poor carpenter whether he would rather live with one leg, or die of gangrene with two. The man said he would wish to live, if it were possible. So the priest sent for a block of wood, and for my lord Julian to bring his sword, and they put the carpenter’s leg on the block of wood, and my lord Julian chopped it off at the third attempt. And the man died.’
‘Oh, if only Keren had been here.’
‘I know, lady. That is what the men say, too. They work now, but fearfully, expecting further tragedies. Always there are some deaths on structures of this nature when we work so high from the ground, but in the last two weeks we have had two die of falling from heights, and three of this new fever that is come amongst us.’
‘I heard something of that. We do not have it in the castle, yet. Of what sort is it?’
‘The fluxions, lady. Father Hilarion does not seem able to arrest its course, and it leaves the men weak; I have ten of them unable to work today.’
Joanna nodded, and went on her way. Her eyes dimmed, and her foot faltered. She said to herself, ‘He cannot still be alive. I must not hope.’
The convent buildings were surrounded by a wall, which was pierced with one large gate, and one postern. Both were now open, but guarded by men-at-arms from the castle. Herkom was seeing to their posting as Joanna came up. He looked grey and drawn. She smiled at him, but did not stop, for she could almost sense the throb of anxiety which went with him wherever he went. Did she not feel the same?
The refugees were housed in what would eventually be the buttery of the convent, with access to water by a channel cut into the wall direct from the river. The great stone fireplace was already glowing with warmth as the women set themselves to the age-old, soothing task of making bread. Dickon and the once dumb man, Peterkin, came up to her, asking if she had any news of Keren. She shook her head.
‘Master all right,’ said Peterkin, nodding and hopping from one foot to the other. ‘Peterkin left Master his pot, which looked after Peterkin when the bad men came. Master all right, you see.’
‘I am sure he is,’ said Joanna, smiling at him. Her eye met Dickon’s, and they raised eyebrows at each other. Peterkin’s wits had evidently suffered from his appalling experiences.
Elena came up, flour to her elbows. ‘Lacy, this is a bad place. I asked Sergeant Herkom if we might not remove to another, but he says he has orders not to let us leave, for fear of spreading infection, or some such nonsense.’
‘What is wrong?’
‘The water tastes of filth. Kate and I are agreed it is dangerous to drink, and we would either have some beer brought to us from the castle, or … one of the guards says there is a fresh-water spring in the meadow above, but he cannot give us leave to go there.’
‘He has his orders. You are safe here. We may be attacked at any minute.’
‘Then let us leave and go up into the hills, as soon as we have baked our bread.’
‘Where would you go, that Sir Bevil and his men would not follow? And how will you transport the sick and elderly?’
‘My mother can go no further,’ said Kate. ‘She is cheerful enough, but her legs and feet are badly swollen.’ The collie pranced at her side, jumping up at Joanna, whom she had evidently recognized.
‘I will speak to Herkom,’ promised Joanna, fondling the dog’s ears, and thinking of Keren. ‘Though I think the water must be all right, for no one else has complained, that I know of.’
They were at meat in the castle, when the deserter rode up and demanded audience with the Countess. After some parley, the drawbridge was lowered, the portcullis raised, and he was allowed – minus his weapons – into the hall where the court were being entertained by Midge.
The countess sat in the high seat, with Julian on her right, and the elderly seneschal on her left. Joanna and Father Hilarion sat beyond them. The soldier stumbled to his knees before the dais, and raised the gold brooch in his hand, that all might see.
‘I bring sad tidings, Countess: the hermit is most foully slain!’
Joanna rose in her place, and stood looking at the brooch in the man’s hand. Her face was like a waxen mask, but she did not speak. Julian touched her arm, but she did not seem to feel his hand.
The deserter glanced at her curiously, and then addressed himself once more to the Countess. ‘I was with Sir Bevil’s men,’ he said, ‘but, hating their evil deeds, was always seeking an opportunity to break away from them. Last night we came to the hill-top, and saw the beacon burning, to give warning of our approach. In the church was a rush candle, alight on the altar, and a man knelt before it, praying. He must have heard us come for there were many of us, and no need of silence. He did not stir. Sir Bevil and his lieutenant went into the church first, while the rest of us stayed outside, for it seemed … we were afraid, I suppose. The hermit did not turn, but he laughed out loud.’ The man’s voice reflected his incredulity; even now he could not believe that the hermit could have laughed under such circumstances. ‘Then Sir Bevil lifted his club, and swung it, and the hermit fell forward over the altar, and the blood ran from under his head and dripped on the floor beneath.’
A sigh rose from his audience. Joanna raised her eyes to the rafters, as if listening to some other, distant voice.
‘Sir Bevil would have crucified the hermit. He had boasted of it. He was angry when he found the man was dead. When we moved the body, I saw a glint of gold, and found this brooch, which must have belonged to the hermit. Sir Bevil and his men left the hill-top at mid-day, intending to take the quarry and live there until reinforcements come from his neighbour, Sir Geoffrey. Only then will he fall on the castle. I watched my chance, and hastened to warn you.’
Unsure of his reception, the man laid the brooch on the high table before the Countess.
‘To light the beacon, and then stay … to kneel and pray … and then to laugh at death. …’ Midge repeated the words into the silence that followed the news. He sobbed aloud, and the sob broke the stillness that held Joanna. She sighed, and bent her head, holding on to the edge of the table for support.
Julian stood also, and for all his youth, in that moment he was very much his father’s heir. ‘It was well done,’ he said. ‘I hope I meet death as bravely, when my time comes. Joanna, you must have dropped your brooch when you were up there the other day. A good omen, that it should be returned to you so strangely.’ He picked up the brooch and put it in her outstretched hand.
‘So,’ said the Countess. ‘He is dead. They tell me he was very holy, and spent his life working for others. Since he also died for others, it were only right that we name his church after him. What say you, Father Hilarion?’
The soldier spoke up eagerly. ‘There were lights in the church, the night after his death, and a scrofula that one of my companions had was much eased by his bathing in the holy spring in the dell where the hermit used to live.’
Now it was Father Hilarion’s turn to speak. ‘God’s will be done, and the man died well, even though his life was full of sin. It would be as well to check talk of mysterious lights and holy springs, for I could not, in all conscience, ask the bishop to consider canonising the hermit. He was a murderer, and even his so-called powers of healing were no more than applications of herbs. The rest is superstition. He died well. Let that be his epitaph.’
‘I disagree,’ said Joanna. ‘And so will all those who, like me profited from his selflessness. He lifted up the hearts of all who knew him, and though he could not speak, yet he comforted all those who went to him in pain of mind or body. Did you not tell us that those who fought against the rebels were entitled to call themselves Crusaders? Is not this man doubly entitled to that honour, for did he not protect the innocent with his sword against the rebels, and did he not then, when the sword was denied him, lay down his life for us all, here in the valley?’
‘That is very true,’ said Julian. ‘You put things so well, Joanna.’
‘Agreed.’
‘It is so.’
‘I will ask my son to write to the bishop about him,’ said the Countess.
‘Then,’ said the priest, ‘I must wash my hands of the matter.’
‘And we must consider how best to protect our men at the quarry,’ said Julian. ‘Only a token guard is left there at night-time.’
‘We cannot take men away from the defence of the castle,’ said the Seneschal. ‘My lord was quite clear on that point, before he left.’
‘If the quarry falls,’ said the priest, ‘then work will have to stop on the church. That must not be.’
‘I do not know what to do,’ said the Countess.
It was too late, in fact, to send anyone to the quarry. Within the hour, five horses galloped in out of the night, bringing news of death and destruction. One horse bore no rider at all, three bore a double bu
rden, and one bore a dead man. In the dawn a sorry crew of masons and stone-cutters were to be seen straggling towards the castle across the valley. Herkom and his men rode out to cover their retreat.
‘Fear nothing,’ said Father Hilarion. ‘Sir Bevil will come no further. You heard that he awaits reinforcements, and by that time we should have the gold from the abbey, with which to buy him off.’
‘A sad day,’ said Julian, grinding his teeth, ‘when we should have to cower within our walls and buy off our foes with a woman’s dowry.’
Joanna was praying in the chapel, and nearby knelt Joyeuse. It was quiet and dim in there, and no one would remark on it if she allowed herself to cry. But she did not. She knelt with one hand cupping her right forearm, and her eyes fixed on the figure of the Rood that hung before the altar. Her eyes were blank and wide. She was remembering the moment when Keren had held her arm to heal her, and then the moment when she had touched him, as he knelt before her. It seemed to her tired mind – for she had not slept – that both moments were the same. In one he had given of his strength to heal her, and in the other she had tried to do the same for him. In this coming and going between them, they had for some moment in time been as one, or part of a greater One, perhaps. She did not know. She only knew that when she held her arm like that, and thought about him, she could feel him beside her. And that was some comfort, if not enough.
Her eyelids flickered. She had made a discovery. It exhausted her to recall the moment when she had given him of her own strength. Now why should that be so? Was she, perhaps, still giving him strength by exercising her will-power? Untaught in prayer as she was, thinking it but a matter of virtue gained by the muttering of phrases made meaningless by repetition, she did not realize that she was praying now. She did it because it was a way of spending her energy for him. When she concentrated, she could almost see and touch his shoulder. Then the moment passed, and she had to rest, to recollect her energy, before she could do it again.
My Lord, the Hermit Page 15