‘Tomorrow?’ She let her hand lie in Julian’s, but she frowned. ‘That is – very soon.’
‘Tomorrow.’ The Count pulled her towards him, and kissed her forehead. Then he propelled her into Julian’s arms. Julian was nothing loth. She did not object when he kissed her on the brow, but when he would have attempted to kiss her mouth, she drew back.
‘I do not understand the reason for this haste,’ she said. ‘I am not prepared, spiritually.’
‘I will absolve you,’ said Father Hilarion promptly.
‘Stupid girl,’ said the Countess, in an undertone. ‘Just do as your uncle says, and leave the rest to him.’
‘I do not wish to be married so quickly – so furtively, almost.’
‘There is a reason,’ said the Count. ‘And a good one, too, as you will find out if Sir Bevil comes down or us.’
‘What – are we not safe within the castle?’
‘Oh, yes. There is no question of his entering the plain, provided we supply him with enough money to … in short, the man is not unreasonable, I suppose, and if only the abbot. …’
‘The abbot,’ said Father Hilarion, ‘has aleady sent his portion of tribute to Sir Bevil direct, on the basis agreed.’
‘Or so he says.’ The Count gave the two friars and Father Hilarion a sideways distrustful glare.’
‘Tribute,’ said Joanna. ‘I begin to understand. You need ownership of my estates to pass into your hands before you can raise money on them, in order to pay off Sir Bevil?’
‘Not to raise money,’ said the Count. ‘The abbot has made me a fair offer for them, and under the circumstances it would be foolish to refuse.’
Joanna’s cheeks, hitherto so pale, became tinged with red. ‘May I inquire how much I am worth?’
‘It is not like that at all,’ said Julian, who, to give him his due, appeared embarrassed by the turn of events. ‘You know that I wanted to marry you, in any case. …’
‘You wanted to marry Blanche, Sir Bevil’s daughter, before.’
‘Silence, girl,’ said the Count. ‘Remember that you are my ward, and bound to obey me in this matter. Go to your room. My mother will follow, and contrive some sort of dress for the occasion of your wedding. Joyeuse shall help to arrange what festivities we may have at short notice. And after the ceremony, you and Julian will move into the two rooms next mine in the keep. Go, now.’
Joanna hesitated, her eyes on the rushes that covered the floor. Then she shrugged, bent her head, and left the hall.
Kate was helping to alter one of the Countess’s robes for Joanna to wear at her wedding. It was of a rich crimson, embroidered with gold thread around the neckline, and it had a heavy underdress of cream silk. The hanging sleeves were so long they had to be looped and tied up with gold tassels. Joanna stood and let Kate pin it on her, and stared absently at the window. Joyeuse bustled in with some white roses in a basket, but decided that they did not go with the cream of the underdress. Maid turned somersaults over the beds and upset the tirewoman’s pins. The Countess came into the room to say that she was sure she had some shoes to match the dress, if only her stupid woman could find them. She stayed to criticize the way Kate was pinning up the skirt, and brought in her own tirewoman to help.
Father Hilarion begged the favour of a few minutes to hear Joanna’s confession. Joanna turned her back on him, saying that she was prepared to do her duty, if he was prepared to do his, but she didn’t think confession would be good for her soul at the moment.
Then suddenly the room was empty, except for Kate. Joanna pushed her hair back from her temples and rubbed her eyes. She wondered how it was that she could not cry.
‘Mistress.’ Kate’s head was still bent over her work, and she spoke low. ‘The swineherd Col came down to the meadow above the river today with a strange story. He met Elena there, and sent a message through her to his aunt, who works as head laundress here in the castle. He wanted to tell her that he was still alive, and not slain by Sir Bevil’s people.’
‘Perhaps my prayers helped someone, then.’
‘Perhaps they did, mistress.’ Kate looked up with a beaming smile. Joanna caught her breath. She could say no more, for back came Maid, followed by her tirewoman, and Joyeuse, and several other of the young girls who lived in the castle, and there was much talk, and no time for private conversation.
But Joanna was alert now. When the dress had been taken off her, to be sewn, she drew Kate to the window-sill, under pretext of admiring the red roses which Joyeuse had just brought in.
‘Tell me quickly,’ she said, her lips barely moving. ‘I cannot bear it. Is he alive? Is that what you meant by saying that prayers were answered?’
‘Yes, mistress. Col said he was stunned, only, and left for dead. He has a band of men up in the old hill fort nearby, and they plan to go east in a few days’ time, to join the King’s army.’
Joanna’s face twisted. She clasped her hands to her breast, crushing the red rose she held. ‘Good news and bad,’ she said. She sounded as if she were in pain. ‘It must be good. I can bear it. It is what I urged him to do, after all. I wanted him to take some money, I remember, but he would not. He will need money now. Kate, could you get some money to him?’
And then the babel of women’s voices was all about them, and there was no more time for talk of that kind. The Lady Floria was here, there and everywhere, and never for a minute was Joanna left alone, or Kate free to leave her mistress. Joanna’s head ached.
Father Ambrose was brought into the hill fort that evening at sundown, by one of the shepherds who grazed their sheep thereabouts. The friar was more ragged than ever: a result, he said, from having been so stupid as to fall into a bramble bush while reaching for some particularly succulent blackberries. He had raked his arm, too, and this was swollen and needed attention. Amory treated the friar, and made him welcome, but there was little warmth in his manner. The friar did not seem upset by this coldness, but chatted to the other men, and to the girl Alice until they had eaten their evening meal, and Amory had gone apart to sit with his back to the wall of the tower.
The fort lay in a cleft of the hills, with a stream meandering through it. The sward had been cropped clean by the sheep that grazed nearby, and though in ancient times this place had seen much violence, yet now it was peaceful, and full of the laughter of the men Amory had gathered around him. They sat round a huge fire now, all of them with glowing faces as they swopped tall stories. They squabbled good-naturedly over the small amount of home-brewed ale they had been able to barter for a wild boar which Amory had killed for them a few days previously.
‘A goodly sight,’ said Father Ambrose, collapsing on to the turf at Amory’s side. ‘And they call you “Master” I hear.’
‘My name is Amory.’
‘And next week they will call you “my lord”? And yet I cannot get my tongue around the name “Amory”. I am an old man and set in my ways, I fear. You will not object if I call you “Keren” still.’ Amory’s shoulders moved under his tunic, but he said nothing. His eyes went to the cross which hung around the friar’s neck on a frayed cord. ‘There is no chapel here,’ said Father Ambrose. ‘I feel restless, being a creature of habit, as I said. I am accustomed to going into a church to pray when I am with you.’
‘What would you? I was prepared to die for the church. I gave everything I had, even down to … to something which I prized greatly. But God decided otherwise, and so I must make a new life for myself.’
‘I wonder. …’
‘Am I not free at last? I will tell you another thing. I was not alone in that room when Mariana was struck down. I was hit on the back of the head as I entered the door. I do not believe that I murdered her in cold blood.’
‘Neither do I, my son.’
‘So that absolves me from my vow, doesn’t it?’
‘I’m not sure. Neither are you, or you would not be here, guarding the castle, when you could have been miles away by now.’
‘If
I go down into the valley, if it is known that I escaped death, then Father Hilarion will have me in irons again, and I shall be forced back to a life that … no, I cannot do it.’
‘It would be very hard, I can see that. You are wearing good clothes for the first time for years, and you have boots on your feet, and men to command. The sword at your side is an insidious temptation, too, is it not?’
‘I can overcome that,’ said Amory, holding his head high. ‘I could have killed Sir Bevil, but I did not. I could have killed Blackbeard, that big man over there, and yet I spared him. I could have taken Elena or Alice or … I could have committed other sins, if I had had a mind to it.’
‘Yes, it all comes back to the lady Joanna, doesn’t it? I wonder why you have been so cruelly put to the test? I wish I understood. Don’t think I blame you. Who am I to blame anyone for succumbing to temptation, when I cannot even control my own gluttony? As witness this scratch on my arm. What right have I to talk to you of sin, when I know that if I am tempted in the same way, I shall probably fall again?’
There was a long silence. Amory’s head was sunk on his breast. Some of his men began to roll themselves in their cloaks, and lie down around the fire to sleep. They preferred to sleep in the open, rather than in the tower, although the ground floor there was still weatherproof. Four men came in from the look-out posts, and received their portion of food and ale. Four more went off to stand guard at various chosen points on the paths that led to the fort. Father Ambrose noted every pointer to the high quality of Amory’s leadership. He also noted that the cup of horn from which Amory had drunk contained only water, and not ale.
‘You think, then,’ said Amory at last, ‘that I ought to submit myself to Father Hilarion tomorrow?’
The direct question disconcerted the friar. ‘How should I know? I am not your father confessor. I know nothing of the indissolubility of vows and such.’
‘You have meant more to me than him, always. If you tell me I ought to go back, I do not say that I will do so, but I will think about it.’
‘My dear boy … my very dear boy … I wish I knew. I’ve been wondering what you ought to do, all the way here, ever since I heard of your miraculous escape.’
‘That’s another thing. They think I was very saintly, kneeling down and praying, and laughing, when Sir Bevil arrived. I wasn’t. I couldn’t pray, or hardly at all. I laughed because I suddenly thought what a joke it would be if Father Hilarion had to recommend that I were canonized.’
The friar chuckled. ‘Yes, that was in my mind too. I’d have given something to see his face when he heard.’
‘Then you won’t advise me?’
‘It is times like this which make me realize how inadequate I am. One moment I could happily cheer you on your way east, and the next … I’m getting old. It has seemed to me over the years that there was a pattern in all this; your patience in adversity, and the church being built so quickly, and Father Hilarion being so hard on himself.’
‘If he had been set in my place, the church would have been finished by now, for he wouldn’t have stopped to help others.’
‘You are bitter. With reason, maybe. But try to remember that he is weaker than you. It is always easier to forgive people like that.’
‘Father Hilarion, weak?’
‘Sometimes – have I drunk too much of this excellent ale? … I am getting fanciful, and yet … why not? I have thought, now and then, that instead of him trying to save your soul, it was the other way round.’
‘Me, trying to save his soul? But that’s nonsense.’
‘Yes, isn’t it?’ said the little friar, thankful to be brought down to earth. ‘It’s the ale speaking in me. I haven’t drunk ale like this for months. Besides, the church is still being built, even in your absence, just as it was before. Or even faster, maybe. Sir Bevil’s men are taking blocks of stone up there – up the road round the back, not the steep way you used to take them. They’re building a porch on the side nearest the Traveller’s Way, and blocking up the old doorway. I saw them when I passed that way a couple of days ago, but I didn’t stop for longer than to say a couple of prayers in the church, for the soldiers were kind enough to warn me that their sergeant wouldn’t approve of my staying. But they gave me some excellent lamb chops, and some bread, and told me all the lastest news about Sir Bevil expecting reinforcements any day now, and their waiting for some money to come along the Travellers’ Way from the abbey. They are to prepare quarters for another twenty or so men on the ridge, so that they can stay the winter there. That’s why they want to make a proper job of the church, although they’ve been ordered to refer to it as the new “castle”. One of them told me, privately, that you were still alive. I think it was an open secret among them, if you know what I mean.’
‘There is no reason for Sir Bevil to bring up reinforcements, unless he means to attack the castle, or at least, to invest the plain.’
The friar nodded. ‘That’s what the men said he was going to do, or rather, threaten to do. If Sir Bevil goes down into the valley, and prevents the peasants from gathering in the harvest, that will be enough to ruin the Count, for he is in dire straights financially. It is lucky for him that he has a wealthy ward, in the person of the Lady Joanna, to wed his son. Forgive me, for a moment, I forgot … but you must face the facts, my boy. Now I think I ought to go and say my office. I seem to have forgotten to do it today, what with the brambles and so on. At my age, to fall into a bramble brake … thinking too much about other things. My dear boy, how very glad I am that you are not dead. …’
Amory and his men were stirring at dawn. While two men went to relieve their fellows in the look-out posts, the rest gathered around the fire to grumble half-heartedly about Amory’s insistence on their training every morning. Soon Father Ambrose would perform Mass for them. Alice was doing her best to render his aged cassock more presentable while two of the men set up a table nearby to serve as altar, and Blackbeard sharpened his sword.
‘Master!’ One of the look-outs came panting up the path, pointing back in the direction of the vantage point which overlooked the quarry. ‘They are stirring, bringing out horses, saddling up.’
‘Can it be true? Are they moving at last?’
‘He hasn’t been reinforced around the back road, has he?’
‘Quiet!’ Amory hardly raised his voice, but every man held his tongue and looked towards him. ‘Arm yourselves. John Blackbeard, send one man from each of your sections to stand beside the look-outs, to act as runners. I will go to the quarry look-out myself. Bring me my armour there. Catch and saddle up the horses. Alice, take what men you need to bake a good provision of bread. John Blackbeard, we must be ready to move at ten minutes’ notice. Col, Father Ambrose, come with me.’
Once in the look-out point, Col wriggled to the top of a tree nearby, and craned his head through the branches. From there he could see over the tops of the trees and into the castle. He reported that all the sentries on the ramparts were rushing around, shouting.
‘Then we shall shortly see the poor people moved into the castle from the shacks under the walls,’ said Amory. ‘There may be no need for us to act at all. If Herkom is given his head, and has enough men, he could sweep Sir Bevil’s band of blackguards off the plain in half an hour. I wonder much that Sir Bevil risks an attack, unless he has been reinforced from the south.’
‘What will be our part?’ asked Father Ambrose, standing on tiptoe to see.
‘To stand by. If Herkom is hard-pressed, we will go to his aid, but since we only have three horses between us, we cannot ride out in support.’
From their vantage point they could see the south-western aspect of the castle, with the river beyond curling down from the hill to ride smoothly through meadows to the north and east of the castle, before making its way across the valley to the west. The shacks of the peasants under the castle walls stood out clearly in the early morning sun. Smoke rose through the roofs; only here and there did the houses boast
chimney-pots. Below the shacks the neat rows of cultivated land stretched for nearly a mile to south and west. There were men and women, and children too, working in these fields or trudging towards them, all unconscious of the menace gathering in the south.
‘Has no one sent to warn them?’ asked the friar.
Col said, ‘There’s a man, an officer, come to the ramparts. A big man like Blackbeard, only neater.’
‘Herkom,’ said Amory. ‘Come to see for himself. Your eyes are better than mine, Col. What is that in the quarry mouth? Is it a white flag?’
‘Christ Jesus!’ said Col. ‘You guessed right. He’s coming out with a white flag of truce at the head of his column. Now what does that mean?’
‘Knowing something of the man, I guess he means no good by it. But surely the Count will see through his manoeuvre.’ Amory fondled his chin, and looked dark. The friar crossed himself, and began to pray silently.
Two men came up bearing Amory’s armour, a tunic of mail links, leather leg-guards, elbow-length gloves of linked mail, a caped hood of the same, and a helmet with a nose-piece. Col scrambled down from his tree to let another man take his place. ‘What news from the other look-out?’ asked Amory.
‘None, master. All must be proceeding as usual on the other side of the castle.’
‘Have they no sense?’ said Col. ‘There are all our old friends down in the convent buildings, and half a dozen holy women, and the workmen, stone-cutters, sculptors, craftsmen by the hundred. …’
‘Is that so?’ said Amory. ‘You speak as one who has intimate knowledge of the site.’
Col hung his head. ‘I went down to give a message to Elena for my aunt. I know it was forbidden. …’ Amory struck him such a buffet as felled him. Col lay on his back, gasping.
‘My orders are to be obeyed,’ said Amory. ‘I had a good reason for keeping our presence secret.’
My Lord, the Hermit Page 18