My Lord, the Hermit

by Veronica Heley

  ‘Yes, master.’ Col struggled to his feet, shaken, but grinning. The matter was closed.

  ‘Herkom has gone down from the ramparts,’ reported Father Ambrose.

  ‘Now we will see the peasants recalled from the fields, and hear that the workmen are pulled in from the convent,’ said Amory.

  ‘What of our old friends?’ asked Col. ‘Elena and Kate, and the rest? Did you know Kate had been appointed tirewoman to the Lady Joanna? She will be in the castle already, but what of the rest? Shall we bring them up here?’

  ‘No, there are children, and old folk who cannot walk far. The path up here is steep. They would be better off going to the castle.’

  The sun rose higher as they looked out over the valley. The troop of horse moved slowly over the valley floor towards them, under the flag of truce. The men rode in orderly fashion, without hurry. One by one the peasants saw the soldiers approach, and stopped to stare, and consider what their coming might portend. One or two began to return to the castle, looking back over their shoulders. Blackbeard came to the look-out, to report that all was quiet on the other side and that everyone seemed to be going about their work as usual. Even the work on the abbey church had been resumed that morning. Blackbeard looked flustered, but was calmed by Amory’s unhurried manner.

  ‘I don’t understand what the Count is playing at,’ said Blackbeard. ‘Why doesn’t he let his soldiers ride out? Why hasn’t he sounded any alarm? And above all, why hasn’t he stopped work on the church, and drawn his people back within the castle walls? Surely he can’t be fooled by that white rag they are carrying out there?’

  ‘I don’t know if it helps,’ said Col, ‘but Elena told me there is fever among the peasants who live in the shacks, and also among the workmen. The Countess does not want any of them to enter the castle for fear of infection.’

  ‘God have mercy on them, then,’ said the priest.

  ‘And on us, too,’ said Amory. ‘Yet let us hope that charity will prevail, and there will be no reason for us to interfere. Hark!’ A bell began to sound within the depths of the castle. The cries of the peasants began to drift up to them as they ran, stumbling, back to their homes. Children were dragged along, screaming. Tools were cast aside, and oxen left between the shafts. Smoke still drifted up from the shacks beneath the walls, and pigs and hens scratched and grunted around the doors.

  And yet no horsemen rode out over the drawbridge.

  Instead. …

  ‘Why, the son of a whore!’ cried Blackbeard, pointing to the castle.

  The drawbridge was being raised, and the portcullis lowered. The castle was sealing itself off from attack, leaving the terrified peasants, and the workmen who were as yet unconscious of danger, outside.

  Amory threw back his head, as if bracing himself to carry a weight.

  ‘Our time has come,’ he said. ‘Let us go.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  AT last the women stood back from Joanna, and Lady Floria and the Countess pronounced themselves satisfied. The bride’s cream underdress came down to the tips of crimson brocade shoes, the glowing red of the gown was burnished with gold embroidery to set off her clear skin, and her hair, coaxed to fall in waves, was crowned with a coronet of deep red roses. Joanna surveyed herself in the mirror which Kate held up for her, and sighed. She asked if anyone had seen the collie. No one had. The dog had slipped away some time on the previous day, and though no one had seen her leaving the castle, yet she did not seem to be anywhere within the walls.

  ‘Don’t you care how you look?’ demanded the Lady Floria, whose busy fingers had done most to ensure that the dress was ready in time.

  ‘Not much, no,’ said Joanna. ‘But thank you for all your trouble, everyone.’

  ‘You look beautiful,’ said Kate, as she pinned the old swan brooch to her mistress’s sleeve.

  There was a stir outside the door, and the page Amory came in with a message requesting that the Lady Floria and the Countess attend the Count in the hall straight away. Joyeuse left also, anxious about the garlands which she was hanging in hall and chapel against the feast. Soon Joanna and Kate were alone. Kate busied herself folding Joanna’s ordinary clothes and putting them away into an oak chest. Joanna went to the window, and looked out at the sky. She was on the second floor of the great keep, adjoining the garde-robe, and the room in which the Lady Floria slept. If she had looked up or down, she might have observed that there was unusual activity in the courtyard below, or high up on the ramparts opposite. But she did not.

  Presently she said, ‘It is past the hour of ten, is it not?’

  Certainly the chapel bell had chimed some time ago, but as yet no one had come to fetch Joanna. She began to pace the room, biting her lip. She had sworn not to cry, not to give them the satisfaction of seeing her weep like any other maid married against her will. …

  One of the Countess’s women passed the door, and Kate called out to ask the reason for the delay. The answer was unintelligible. Joanna went to the door, hesitated, and then went out. Kate did not see her go.

  Down the stairs went Joanna, and out into the courtyard. The place was deserted. There had been a lot of people in the great hall as Joanna passed the door, but she had no wish to join them. She had only one thought in her mind, and that was to get some money to Amory before she was forced to marry Julian and become his property. Kate had been unable to leave the castle the previous night before the drawbridge had been lifted. Joanna did not know the reason for the delay in celebrating her marriage, but she had no doubt that it provided her with a good opportunity to visit Elena.

  Midge accosted her as she walked across the garth to the gate-house.

  ‘A merry day, mistress.’

  ‘A melancholy day?’ She did not pause, but went swiftly on. He fell in beside her, skipping now and then to keep pace with her stride.

  ‘That, too. I was rehearsing the pages in an anthem for your marriage when I heard the news of Sir Bevil’s approach. What think you of his coming under a flag of truce?’

  ‘I have heard nothing of it.’ She was not interested, either. She passed under the arch of the gate-house and across the drawbridge. The men-at arms did nothing to stop her, for they had not as yet received any orders to prevent people entering or leaving the castle. Herkom was in the great hall, listening to his captain, who was begging – in vain – for permission to ride out to give battle.

  ‘Sir Bevil rides up to us under a flag of truce, and the Count rubs his hands and counts his chickens before they are hatched … a foolish undertaking, comparable to the folly of the man who sold a bearskin before he had parted the bear from his skin. Whither are we going so fast?’

  ‘I want a word with Elena.’

  ‘You had heard he was alive, still?’ She nodded. Midge said, ‘I had thought you might be running away to join him, and such is my folly, I might have accompanied you.’

  She stopped – they were standing in the meadow – and looked at him searchingly. Then she shook her head, and continued on her way. Only this time her feet seemed less certain of their path, and Midge offered her his shoulder to lean on. Kate came panting up with a cloak to throw over her mistress’s finery. There were two men drawing water from the spring in the meadow. On this side of the castle they were unable to see the approach of the enemy, or to hear the cries of the peasants who were even now running back to the castle, but they could see small figures running towards them from the westerly pastures.

  ‘What is the matter with them?’ asked Kate, pointing.

  ‘Come,’ said Joanna. ‘We must hurry, or we will be missed.’

  As they reached the outbuildings of the convent, Joanna pulled her companions to hide behind a convenient wall. Three figures in black, and two in the dark blue of the postulant nun, hurried out of the convent and after looking around them, hastened up the hill towards the castle. One of the Countess’s women was with them, and she, too, looked anxious.

  ‘Now what is all that about?’ asked Midg
e.

  ‘They are to attend my wedding, I suppose,’ said Joanna. ‘What a fuss they would have made if they had caught me on my way to see Elena, when I ought to be in the castle, awaiting their pleasure.’

  Midge rubbed his chin. ‘And at that, maybe they are going in the right direction. If Sir Bevil is indeed come to parley with the Count, then I’d sooner be within the castle walls. I mistrust a man who breaks truce one day, and claims its privileges the next.’

  ‘Mistress,’ said Kate, turning her head to look back at the castle, ‘do you not think Midge may be right?’

  ‘Go back, if you are afraid,’ said Joanna.

  ‘I am afraid, but I will not leave you unattended.’

  ‘I have Midge.’

  ‘A foolish maid, and a melancholy fool to guard one who is thrice a fool. Look, lady.’ He pointed back up the slope. The drawbridge was rising, and the teeth of the portcullis sinking down. Within the castle the tocsin began to toll its knell. Joanna laughed, a wild sound. She put her arm round Kate’s shoulders, and drew her on down the path away from the castle. They were skirting the convent walls now. They came to the main entrance, and found it open and unguarded. The two men who had been drawing water from the spring were hurrying down towards them, carrying a great jar of the precious liquid between them. They were looking now back over their shoulders to the castle, and now out over the valley.

  Elena ran into the courtyard, and behind her came several older women. They had been disturbed in their daily tasks. The tocsin clanged over the valley, sending a chill through its listeners, causing them to speak in hushed tones.

  ‘Sir Bevil and his men are coming across the plain,’ said Joanna. ‘They are coming under a flag of truce, but it would be as well, I think, not to trust too much to that. We must run to warn the men at work on the church. Elena, Dickon – send someone quickly to warn them, and to close the gates here. The workmen had better all come in here, because there are only the two gates, are there not? The workpeople’s huts are not defensible against armed men.’

  ‘The countryfolk, lady,’ said Midge. ‘What of them? They also are shut out of the castle.’

  ‘We must send our fastest runners to bid them come here also.’ She began to wring her hands. ‘Dickon, Midge! We have no weapons. …’

  Elena started as if from sleep. Her fear showed in wide eyes and trembling hands, but she had herself under control. ‘I will ask the masons and carpenters to bring their tools with them.’ She ran out of the convent gate, and Dickon found a lad and sent him towards the peasants.

  ‘If it were not for my leg. …’ Dickon had tears of impotence on his cheeks. ‘They burned my croft … my brother and mother were hanged, and I left to die with a broken leg … if Blackbeard had not chanced along. … Lady, they may use fire arrows to set the thatched roofs here alight. We cannot defend this place against fire. Lady, the Count will let us up into the castle, if we are attacked, will he not?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Joanna. She was pale, but resolute. ‘Kate, we must. …’ But Kate had sunk to the ground and was sobbing. Joanna touched her on the shoulder, gently, and then turned to the other women. ‘We must not blame her. She was harshly treated. We must draw water from the river, and have it ready to dowse any fires that may start. The children must be put in the safest building – the chapel, I think – that is built of stone, and has a crypt. And the old people, too. I am sure they will send down from the castle to help us, if we are attacked.’

  ‘So am not I,’ said the stout dame who nursed Bethany and another babe at her breast. ‘There is pestilence in the workmen’s shacks, and the Count has forbidden any contact between castle and workmen. Or with us, although the Lord knows, we are free of it so far.’

  ‘We must not bring the workmen in here,’ said another woman. ‘They may infect my little boy.’

  ‘We will nurse those who are sick separately,’ said Joanna. ‘We will keep our children away from them. But we cannot let them stay where they are. Also, they have strong arms and tools with which to defend us. The sick workmen can go in the buttery.’

  ‘And not a sword among us,’ said Midge. ‘God send my lord the hermit is keeping a good look-out from the hills.’

  ‘Amen,’ said Joanna. ‘And now to work.’

  She set Dickon in charge of appointing watchers – older children – on the walls to give them warning of any approach by armed men. She took a poker, and kilted up her skirts, so as to run more easily. Her cloak was wrapped round two small children, who were then laid to sleep in the convent chapel. She kissed the little girl Bethany, and gave her one of the roses from her headdress to play with. By this time the first of the masons were straggling into the convent, led by the architect, whose furrowed brow revealed his fear. She discussed what preparations she had made for the reception of his men, and he set the master carpenter to dispose of them, while he himself returned to the site to organize the garnering of whatever makeshift weapons they might have, and to hasten the removal of the sick.

  The first of the peasants were by now gathered at the side of the river, shouting to the guards to let down the drawbridge. In vain. The drawbridge remained up, and the soldiers shouted back that the peasants should scatter and make for safety in the hills. The soldiers were as distraught as the peasants, for most were of similar stock themselves, with kin beyond the walls, and it went against the grain for them to deny entrance to their own folk.

  Sir Bevil and his men were now close enough to be distinguished individually. A peasant woman, trying to hurry out of their way, was ridden down. Her screams mingled with the insistent toll of the bell from the castle.

  The peasants had no leader. They fell on their knees at the river’s edge, terrified of the oncoming soldiery, yet unwilling to leave the vicinity of the castle. Flames shot into the sky as a detachment of Sir Bevil’s men wheeled off to the right, and set fire to the thatched roofs of the hovels on that side of the castle. More screams filled the air. Men and women ran back and forwards, carrying aged relatives, babies and livestock, and all their pitiful array of worldly goods … and were caught by the soldiers, and slaughtered.

  ‘Let us go,’ said Joanna.

  Within the castle the Count chewed on his fingers, while his mother sat with vacant eyes, plucking at the rich stuff of her gown.

  Julian, in full armour, strode up and down the hall. He had grown hoarse urging that he should ride out to challenge Sir Bevil. All the Count would say was that Sir Bevil could not be attacked, since he had come under a flag of truce. All the Seneschal would say, in his reedy voice, was that they had not enough men to fight Sir Bevil. The young captain waited for orders, and gulped wine. The squires fingered the hilts of their daggers, and watched Julian. Herkom stood by the door, his face haggard, and his knuckles white as he gripped and released the hilt of his sword, over and over again. He, too, was in full armour. If Julian had but given him a sign, he would have disobeyed the Count’s orders, over-ridden his captain, and gone out to fight. But Julian was too young and inexperienced to defy his father, especially when Father Hilarion and Sir Walterwere also of the opinion that nothing could be done.

  ‘They cannot attack the castle,’ said the Count, for the twentieth time that morning. ‘And we have my sister and her nuns within our walls. The peasants can make for the hills. The workmen likewise – or they can fend for themselves – there are enough of them to band together … in any event, Sir Bevil would never dare to attack them or the new church, for fear of excommunication.’

  ‘He has already been excommunicated, Father,’ said Julian, ‘and it doesn’t seem to have had any effect on him.’

  ‘Patience,’ counselled Father Hilarion. ‘You young people are always so anxious to fight, when all you have to do is sit back and let Sir Bevil exhaust himself. This is a temporary set-back, remember. The money for the Lady Joanna’s lands will arrive from the abbey any day now, and then Sir Bevil will withdraw, without bloodshed.’

  ‘Excep
t for the poor devils outside the castle,’ said Julian.

  Father Hilarion’s hand made a gesture to indicate that the fate of mere peasants was of no importance.

  A man-at-arms came panting into the hall. He caught his breath at the third attempt. ‘My lord, the houses under the walls have been fired, and the … peasants are being cut down … livestock running loose … flames … and my lord, the Lady Joanna? Is she within? We thought we saw … someone said … red gown? At the convent gate?’

  ‘What?’ The Count rose, and his face suffused with colour. The Countess caught his arm, and begged him to be calm. The Lady Floria came running into the hall, and her face was white.

  ‘The Lady Joanna,’ she cried. ‘Is she with you?’

  ‘No,’ said the Countess. ‘She is … heaven help her!’

  ‘Amen,’ said Father Hilarion.

  Julian could not believe that Joanna could be abandoned to her fate without any effort being made to save her. He laughed, as if at a joke.

  ‘We must lower the drawbridge,’ he said. ‘If any will come with me, then so be it. If not, I will go alone.’

  ‘And I with you,’ said Herkom.

  ‘I forbid it,’ said the Count. He spoke in a strangled whisper, but he meant what he said. ‘Under no circumstances must the drawbridge be lowered, or Sir Bevil will be able to ride in, and we are all lost.’

  ‘Father, you cannot mean it!’

  But his father did mean it.

  Amory mustered his little band at the edge of the scrub that fringed the hill. Below lay the meadow in which the spring rose, and then came the river, with the cluster of buildings, some unfinished, some nearly complete, around the skeleton of the new church. To the immediate left lay the bulk of the castle, with a pall of smoke rising from the burning buildings on its far side.

  John Blackbeard was grumbling that Amory was only taking two-thirds of his force with him.

  ‘You will never make a commander of men, John,’ said Amory, ‘unless you learn that it is best to cover your flank and keep a good reserve when going into battle. Alice, her brother and Rob, all excellent archers, will stay here on the bluff, from which they could easily repulse an armed attack. They will cover our advance down the hill. We will try to bring the peasants and workmen back up here; in which case Rob is set in command of our reserve force, and they will fight a rearguard action for us while we withdraw to the fort. If, on the other hand, we are forced to take refuge in the convent, then we have a force of fresh fighting men to come to our rescue as and when I give the signal.’