‘Amory,’ she said, but he had turned his head away from her, and would not look.
‘Father Ambrose is another problem,’ he said. ‘Can you not persuade him to be on his way, now that the immediate danger is past? Father Hilarion looks black whenever he sees my poor old friend, and threatens to cast him into prison against the abbot’s coming, and to unfrock him, and God alone knows what else. I tell Father Ambrose to go, and he says he likes it here, spending his time in the kitchens, eating and drinking and gossiping, or wandering up to the tower to perform Mass and see to the sick. He says it’s the ideal life for him. Yet I know he is afraid, too.’
‘Amory,’ she said again.
He shook his head, and walked away. She stayed where she was, looking after him.
CHAPTER TWELVE
FATHER HILARION sent for Amory to come to him in the chapel. It was the morning before the day appointed for Amory to meet Sir Bevil in fight. Amory had been absent from the castle since dawn, and Father Hilarion’s frown had grown ever deeper while he waited. Soon after ten Amory stepped into the chapel. His head was up and he was smiling at some pleasant memory. Though a careful scrutiny would have revealed that he was short of sleep, yet he had taken care with his apperance, and there was a nosegay of wild flowers tucked within the flap of his wallet.
‘You sent for me?’
‘Where have you been?’
‘Did you think I had run away? I was up at the tower. Bethany, a little girl I nursed once, was ailing. She had dysentery, but I think she will be all right. They have promised to send for me again today, if she takes a turn for the worse.’
‘The Count was asking for you. He wishes everyone in the household to attend Mass tomorrow. He wants me to bless your sword and to arm you for the tourney. He wishes me to give you a surcoat with a red cross on it, a Crusader’s cross.’
Amory’s smile deepened in appreciation of the annoyance these commands must have caused Father Hilarion. ‘I sympathize with you.’
‘I suppose you would far rather have the hedge-priest arm you?’
‘If he could remember the words of the ceremony, yes. I doubt if he could. Besides, it is your right to perform the ceremonies in this chapel.’
‘Be prepared, then, to spend the night in vigil before the altar.’ Father Hilarion gestured to the chair he had placed in front of the screen. ‘I will hear your confession now.’
‘No vigil,’ said Amory, and it was his turn to frown now. ‘That is only for those about to be dubbed knight, and I will not waste what strength I have in a sleepless night.’
‘You dare to defy me?’
‘For one more day I am a knight, and bound to protect the people of this valley against their oppressor. As a soldier, I tell you that a night of prayer and fasting before a battle may sharpen some men’s faculties; others it dulls. Would you send me into battle with a rusty sword?’
‘Prayer and mortification are good for a man’s soul.’ Amory said nothing to that. The priest gestured to the chair once more. ‘Well, I will hear your confession, anyway.’
Amory made no move. ‘I confessed yesterday to Father Ambrose, and today took communion from his hands, up at the tower.’
‘What? Has he the impudence to say Mass here, in this valley?’
‘He was asked to do so. You have never once been near the poor creatures who have taken refuge in the tower, but he has been there nearly every day. Is it any wonder that they ask him to say Mass for them?’
‘My duties do not lie outside the castle. …’
‘Your duties are narrowly defined. His duties cover all those who suffer.’
‘And you count yourself among those who suffer?’ Amory held his tongue again. The priest clenched his fist. ‘I swear I will have him unfrocked … when the abbot comes … he comes soon, did you know? The bishop too, maybe. I am surrounded by sin; there is laxity everywhere. The nuns in our convents become whores, the monks turn glutton and dress in silks and furs. Adultery climbs into every bed, no maiden is safe on the roads, and murder and arson strike every parish. Do you not understand that I must make a personal stand against the tide of iniquity? Shall I refrain from speech when I see a man disgrace his habit? Is a man a saint because his head is tonsured? Assuredly not. Where I see sin in those set under my charge, then am I to hold my tongue because, forsooth, my charge sets himself up as a quack, and heals hysterical women?’
‘You have a point, certainly. And that there is much wrong in the Church today, I do not deny. It is also true that you are set in authority over me, and that to this authority I must submit. I do not doubt your devotion to God, nor that you make unceasing efforts to spread His Word, yet surely you can see that Father Ambrose – and I, too – are also humble followers of Christ? It is true that we have many faults, and here and there we encounter temptations which are too much for us, yet on the whole everything we do, we do for our fellow men, and in the name of God.’
‘You admit you are full of sin, that you give way to temptation?’
Amory sighed. ‘I wish we could understand one another. What is it you want of me? For the first few years I was set under you, I spoke to no one, I healed no one … and yet you were no easier on me then than now. I submitted to the penances you laid on me when I had spoken, even as I shall submit to you if I succeed in killing Sir Bevil tomorrow. And will that satisfy you?’ He looked searchingly at the priest. Father Hilarion’s eyes slid away to one side. Amory bowed his head, as if he had read something in the priest’s face which saddened him. Then he turned and made for the door.
‘Stay!’ Father Hilarion came after him. ‘You saved my life, when the convent was attacked. I wanted to thank you. …’ His tone did not speak of gratitude, but of pride. ‘You may think that in return I should soften the penance I must lay on you, but my conscience will not permit me to vary my judgment. It was, after all, only your duty to defend me.’ Yet his manner showed that he suffered.
‘You could do one thing for me, if you will. Sir Bevil’s men dug a grave for me up on the hill-top. If I should fall tomorrow, will you see that I am buried there?’ The priest did not answer, but seemed in the grip of some severe emotion. Amory turned away with tightening of the lips. ‘Very well. I understand you. You believe that if my body were buried there, the country folk might come to regard me as a martyr, and you cannot tolerate the idea that I might have even so much fame as that. Well, you had best start praying that I do not fall tomorrow, but live and submit myself to you. That way at least you will have no martyr’s death on your hands.’
‘Naturally you have my prayers. One thing more. Have you made your will? You made over your lands to your son, Amory, I presume, but it is as well to make all legally binding. What do you think of the boy?’
‘I think of him as little as possible. Why?’
‘You are the boy’s father, after all. There is some question of a betrothal between him and the sister of Fulk Fitzstephen. They are connected by marriage, but a dispensation could be obtained.’
‘Have I any rights in the matter? But since you ask, I would judge the match a bad one. There is ill-feeling between Fulk and Amory already, and if the girl is anything like her brother, she will dislike the boy, too.’
‘I see no reason why she should. The boy is handsome, courageous, and has a good understanding. He is of noble stock, and has great possessions.’
‘He is cruel. He bullies the other pages, and relies on your patronage to preserve him from retribution. In this you do him no service. Moreover, he is self-indulgent, and if I mistake not, will be sleeping in other beds than his own before very long.’
‘Everyone knows you favour Fulk above your own son. Why, you spend hours talking to him!’
‘He wants to learn something of healing, and herbs. He is a pleasant, well-intentioned lad, who does his father credit.’
‘And your son does you no credit?’
‘As I said – have I any right to criticize?’
Now it was th
e priest’s turn to move away, and Amory’s to stop him.
‘One word more. I would not have said anything, but in your own way I suppose you have tried to be fair to me, and I would not have it on my conscience that I did not warn you of the danger. The Count sees nothing wrong in the lady Joyeuse spending so much of her time in your company, but he is old and ailing, and sees perhaps only what he wants to see. Having made the match between his daughter and Sir Walter, there is an end of the matter for him. But I believe Julian is beginning to suspect.’
‘She has a vocation. …’
‘I doubt it very much. She is afraid of Sir Walter, and temporarily enamoured of your fine presence and handsome face. Her nature is sweet, but there is no depth to her. I agree she might have found her way into a convent if the Count could afford to dower her, but I do not see him allowing yet another member of his family to take more money out of his impoverished treasure-chest for the Church. No, you had better work for her marriage to someone who will pay the Count for the privilege of marrying into his family, without troubling about a dowry. Fulk’s mother is dead, and my cousin has not remarried. He is older than Joyeuse, but his manners are good, and he would not frighten the girl. He is rich enough not to have to insist on a dowry if he liked Joyeuse, and why should he not?’
‘My only consolation,’ said the priest between his teeth, ‘is that after tomorrow you will be unable to offer advice to anyone, on any subject whatever.’
There was only one thought in Amory’s mind, and that was to find Joanna and spend some time with her. Tomorrow he would be able to see her – if at all – only as he rode out to give battle to Sir Bevil. He could not in all honesty congratulate himself on his dealings with her. He had known for some time what it was that he ought to suggest to her, and to the Count on her behalf. But he had not been able to bring himself to do so. He could not quite give up his dream of her visiting him when he returned to the hill-top.
He sought for her in the great hall, and the withdrawing room above it, but she was not there. Neither were any of the ladies there, nor the pages. She must be outside in the garden. It was not raining today, for a wonder. Of course she would be there, and if he were quick and discreet, they might be able to slip away into the herb garden for a few minutes. Surely it would be no great sin if he did kiss her once or twice? He knew that if he were to give her up, he ought not to do so, for his self-control was wearing thin.
He passed through the courtyard. A shiver crawled up his back, and he set his teeth. A group of workmen were taking out the old whipping-post, and setting up a new one, with stronger metal cuffs swinging from the pole. The men glanced at him and glanced away, and they did not return his smile or his greeting, but tried to pretend that they had not seen him. He understood that they did not like the job they had been set to do, and that it made them uncomfortable to see him stride through their midst when tomorrow, or the day after, they would have to give him a hundred lashes. There was bile at the back of his mouth. Try as he might, he could not entirely force away the thought of what was in store for him. Now, more than ever before, he was convinced he was going to die in battle. It was unthinkable that he should tamely submit to being flogged, after all that had passed.
He paused at the head of the stair and looked back at the men. They had been looking at him, thinking he was well on his way. Now they could not meet his eye. All except one man, and he raised his hand in salute. ‘Friend!’ thought Amory, and smiled back at that brave man before he went on his way.
In the corridor that led to the gardens there was the sound of strife. Some of the pages were fighting amongst themselves. Amory came upon them too quickly for them to scatter before him. The boy with the merry face was on the ground, with young Amory on his head. Fulk was trying to pull them apart, and not succeeding too well. A long arm plucked the bully away, and held him in the air, kicking, while his victim scrambled to his feet and ran off.
‘Put me down!’ shouted the boy Amory, trying to kick his captor.
‘A taste of your own medicine would do you a power of good, and I’m thinking this would be a good time and place to administer it.’
‘You wouldn’t dare. I’d tell Father Hilarion.’
‘Father Hilarion would be the first to admit I had some rights in the matter.’
The boy eyed him with resentment, and then went limp. Warily, his captor set him on the ground. The bully took a couple of steps away from his namesake, calculated that he was now safely out of range, and delivered a Parthian shot.
‘I shall laugh fit to burst when Father Hilarion fits your mouth with a scold’s bridle!’
Then he took to his heels. Amory staggered. For a moment he could not breathe. He knew what a scold’s bridle was, of course. He had even seen one in use, stilling the tongue of a harridan who had given her family no peace until her son-in-law hauled her before the lord of the manor and obtained judgment against her. The bridle was not made of leather, as for a horse, but of iron, and a metal tongue was inserted into the offender’s mouth before the cage was padlocked into place around the head. It was, or so Amory believed, extremely uncomfortable, and only used as a last resort to put the fear of God into contumacious women. He had never heard of it being used on a man before, but it was exactly the sort of horrifyingly apt instrument of punishment which would appeal to Father Hilarion.
Well, if he could bear a hundred lashes, he could surely endure to wear a scold’s bridle for a few hours … or could he?
He felt faint. His fingers flattened out against the wall behind him, and he leaned back with his eyes closed, feeling the chill of the stone strike through his clothes. Joanna. It would distress her unbearably to see him locked into such a hideous contraption, and to know that his tongue was stilled by mechanical means. He tried to summon up his sense of humour. The thought of it only hurt so much because he was vain. He had never been handsome, but he had never repelled. Well, he must accept it. He had no choice. For a few hours, it could be borne. Anything could be borne for a few hours.
Only now that he came to think about it, Amory was not sure that Father Hilarion meant the punishment to be for a mere few hours. Amory had broken his vow of silence once too often; he had been warned, and persisted. Father Hilarion had talked of stilling his tongue for ever, and he probably meant just that. The bridle was to be worn for the remainder of the time it took to build the church. It was only logical. Father Hilarion was always logical; that was one of the few things that one could say for him.
Joanna would not – must not – try to see him again, if he was condemned to wear a bridle. He would not be able to kiss her, or speak, or smile. It would hurt her to see him like that, a creature caged, set apart from mankind. The poor people, too, they would fear him again, and would shun him. He would be left quite alone, and his gift of healing, that had brought him so much comfort, must be given up, too. How shrewdly Father Hilarion had struck, and how defenceless was his victim. Amory thought: if only I could die now … and knew that he was being hysterical, and self-pitying. He had not slept enough these last few nights.
A touch on his thigh. Amory opened his eyes. The boy Fulk was at his side, looking up with great dark eyes.
‘I am so sorry, my lord. Would you mind … that is, if I can obtain permission, and I do not think my lord Julian would forbid it … would you mind if I came to visit you on the hill now and then?’
Would he mind? The boy was in the right of it. Could Amory bear it, to be seen and pitied? Yet this boy not only pitied, but actually loved him. Amory could feel the warmth flooding out of the boy, as it did from Joanna, and from Peterkin and Elena, and Father Ambrose and Midge and Herkom … and so many others. Little Bethany. How lucky he was to be loved; but even so, he could not bear to be an object of pity … and yet would it not hurt the boy to be denied? But how could he, Amory, bear it? He could not. He did not answer.
Then he remembered that there had been a night on the hill when he had thought he could not go on,
and yet he had done so. ‘Give me strength, Lord!’ he prayed. ‘I can do nothing of myself.’ There was no answer, but the boy was looking up at him still, and perhaps if he acted as if everything was all right, strength might follow.
‘Fulk, I wish you were my son.’
Fulk smiled, and the brilliance of his smile called forth a smile from Amory, too. ‘Sir, I will not come if you do not like it. I know you will be poor, and have to live in a peasant’s hut and have no good clothes or food to offer visitors. I know you won’t have much time to spend with me, but I could bring you herbs that I find in the meadows, couldn’t I? And you could teach me how to set broken bones?’
Amory touched the boy’s forehead, under the dark curls that were so like his own. ‘Yes, come. And you and I will set a stone into the walls together, and that will be “Fulk’s Stone”, and always there as a reminder of you. Tell me, does everyone in the castle know about this?’
‘Not the ladies, perhaps, but everyone else knows. The castle blacksmith refused to make the bridle for you, so Father Hilarion was given permission to go down into the dungeons to see if any of Sir Bevil’s men would make it, in exchange for his liberty.’
‘The Lady Joanna does not know?’
‘My lord Julian said it would be best not to speak of it to the ladies.”
The boy Amory had fled into the gardens. No doubt he had gone to tell Joanna. There! A girl had cried out. Amory strode out into the sunshine. The garden was full of men and women and children, and Joanna was running towards him with outstretched arms, calling his name. The moment before she reached him, Amory caught sight of Julian’s shocked face, and then Joanna was clinging to him, her arms going around him, her fingers ever moving, trying to assure herself that he was safe for the moment.
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