Father Ambrose did not know what to do. Keren’s tent was occupied by a boy recovering from a head wound, the boy’s mother, and three orphan children who varied in age from six months to six years old. The priest thought of their sorrows, and without conscious intent his sorrow for them passed into prayer. He began to murmur the Service for the Dead. The rushlight on the altar flickered, and he moved it up between its pincers, that it might not go out. Several times he did this, until he was sure that Keren had dozed off. Only then did the little priest settle himself for sleep as well. His last thought was that Father Hilarion would no doubt have insisted on Keren’s making his confession before he was allowed to sleep. The little priest was not sure, but he rather believed, from what he had heard of him, that Our Lord had been a practical sort of man, not expecting more of his followers than they could perform. Father Ambrose did not believe that a man so accustomed to doing right, as Keren was, would easily succumb to temptation. Of course, he could not be sure about that. He only had a vague idea of what ailed Keren. But if words of his had not helped, then sleep might. A healthy body was surely better able to fight temptation than one sickening for fever.
In the morning panic gripped the little priest when he woke and found himself alone. He jumped to the conclusion that Keren had gone. Then he saw the hermit, walking with the toddler on the hill. Father Ambrose could not think why he had panicked like that. It had never occurred to him before that Keren might break his oath and run away. Now the thought was there, and he could not dismiss it from his mind.
He went down into the camp, and found Keren washing himself. Father Ambrose was glad about that, for though not overfond of water himself, he had grown accustomed to the aroma of cleanliness with which Keren had surrounded himself, and had been made uneasy last night by the slight but distinctive smell which had hung around the hermit. Keren went the rounds of the sick, and though his hands were as deft as usual, his smile was rare and his movements slow. The women wanted Father Ambrose to say Mass for them, and for those of their families who had perished. They had been driven from their homes, most had lost a relative, but the Mass was eternally there, promising relief at some future date from the misery of their present troubles. Everyone who could walk came, the lame being helped up the slope by the others. Some of the men lugged boulders they had dug out of a stream that ran in the woods below. Some of the boys had flints they had scraped from the surface of the chalk hill-top. Each man, woman and child dropped a stone on to the walls of the church as they filed in to hear Mass. Each man, woman, and some of the children, carried arms with them; most had bows and arrows, but there were makeshift spears and stout staves as well.
‘They must have a watchman somewhere,’ thought Father Ambrose, looking about him. And there the watchman was, on a hillock ahead of them, looking out over the countryside. The whole layout smacked of the professional soldier, and the refugees’ demeanour spoke of confidence in their leader.
Father Ambrose was smiling as he began the Mass. His faith in Keren had not been ill-founded. And if Keren had had to speak, in order to obtain this small miracle of organization, then he, Father Ambrose, would absolve the hermit with a Hail Mary or two. Only when he was breaking the unleavened bread and pressing it into eager mouths did Father Ambrose falter. What if Keren refused to take the Host? The priest cursed himself for a fool. He should have insisted on hearing Keren’s confession before he started saying Mass. But no, it was all right. Keren had lifted his head, and was accepting the Host, and he would not have done so if he had broken his oath in any major way. Only, his eyes were now blank and now wild, as if he did not see clearly.
There was much to be done that day, and Keren saw to it that the priest did not have time to converse with him in private. Wicker baskets containing bread, flour and salt were set in one corner of the church, and a large hide sewn up to hold some store of fresh water. A fireplace was constructed against one of the walls of the church, overlooking the valley, and the livestock and their pens were also removed to that spot.
At noon a swineherd stumbled into the camp, saying that a force of Sir Bevil’s men were ranging through the forest, stealing what they could carry away, and burning what they could not move. The boy had a bad gash on his arm, but had managed to bring two of his piglets away with him. Men and women busied themselves for an attack. The three makeshift tents were taken down and re-erected inside the church.
At sunset Keren went to relieve the guard in one of the watch-towers – there were two of these, some fifty feet away from the church, on either side of it. Keren had devised a pouch, that he might carry the toddler, Bethany, on his back. He made his way along the path to the watch-tower, leaning on his staff. After a while Father Ambrose followed him.
‘A beautiful spot,’ said Father Ambrose, looking down the steep hill to where the plain spread out below them. To left and right wandered the Traveller’s Way, deserted in the dusk. Behind them were the steep valleys of the forest, stretching many miles to Sir Bevil’s castle. It was thought that if an attack came, it would be either along the Travellers’ Way, or along the track which joined the road some five yards to the right of this particular watch-post. This track led almost due south through the forest, and would be the most logical way for Sir Bevil to approach the Travellers’ Way, from which he could either turn west to the abbey or descend into the fertile plain below.
‘You must be tired, Keren,’ said Father Ambrose. ‘I will watch for you.’
Keren shook his head, and resettled his cloak more firmly around himself, and the child sleeping in his arms. He had made some attempt to pin it at the shoulder with a thorn.
The priest settled himself with his back to a tree, and his eyes on the forest track.
‘Did I ever tell you,’ he asked, ‘about my wife?’ He knew from Keren’s sudden, startled stillness, that he had not. He could not remember, to tell the truth, when he had last spoken of her, and he only did so now out of some vague feeling that it might comfort Keren to hear of someone else’s love for a woman.
‘It was many years ago, before all this new-fangled nonsense about priests having to be celibate. The priests in the Old Religion were all married, you know, and the duties were often handed down from father to son, to the tenth generation. I myself, it is said, am descended of a hermit who lived in the north somewhere, though I am by no means sure that is true. Surely by now the love of good food would have been bred out of me if that were true.’ Thus reminded of hunger, the little priest sought in his wallet for a piece of bread he had laid by earlier that day, and he began to munch on it.
‘Well,’ he continued, ‘I loved a girl, and she loved me, and we were wed, and there was no one to say us nay. We had a snug little cot, built of bricks taken from a ruined town in the West Country, and I had an old church, very old, built of timber, with a tiled roof. It was a good life, and if we never had much in the way of worldly goods, yet we were comfortable enough. We had a son, and when he died of a fever we grieved, but it only brought us closer together. And then she died. She was only thirty-six, but she seemed to grow paler and paler each day, and so she died. I had spoken of grief before, but had never felt it. Now I knew that I had only paid lip service to my faith, and that I had never known pain or grief myself. I could not stay within the village, and so I took to the wandering life. I often wonder if I did right. I suppose I am of some use now to my fellow men, but was it not cowardice, and fear of pain, that drove me away? If I had stayed, would I not have made a better priest?’
Keren did not speak, but the priest felt him relax. Soon his breathing deepened, and he slept. The priest propped himself higher up against the tree, and prepared to keep watch.
In the dawn the collie barked sharply. Keren jerked awake, and the priest rubbed his eyes. They looked around, but there was nothing alarming to be seen. Only the collie ran to and fro on the forest track, barking.
Keren looked to the south, and then pointed. A flight of birds whirled around the tr
eetops in the valley below. Keren pushed the priest back towards the church, urging him to give the alarm. The child still slept; he wrapped her in his cloak, and laid her on the ground nearby. He picked up his staff, and waited.
There was nothing to be seen through the leaves of the trees. Ah, there! A pinprick of light, striking on armour? Perhaps. Perhaps not.
Father Ambrose came panting back, with half a dozen of the men and boys at his shoulder. Keren held up his hand. They stopped. Then they heard it. The chink betrayed the rider, although he had managed to get almost to the top of the path before they heard him.
A horse walked slowly into sight through the trees, and turned to the left, towards the waiting men. On its back an armed man lay, his head rolling with every step. His body was lax over the crupper. A bolt from a crossbow stuck at an angle out of his back, having pierced through the chain-mail tunic he wore. The horse must have been hard-pressed at some point, for its coat was flecked with foam, and it was manifestly weary. The horse stopped when Keren stepped into its path. The rider did not lift his head, but dug his heels into the horse’s sides, urging it on. The watching men could imagine that this action had been repeated many times the previous night. Keren caught hold of the horse’s bridle, near the bit. The rider swayed in the saddle, and began to slip off. He corrected his balance with an effort, and lifted his head. He was a thick-set man with a broken nose.
A woman cried out, running towards them from the church with a knife in her hand. ‘’Tis the man who killed my husband, and fired our croft. Let me get at. …’
‘Peace, woman,’ said Father Ambrose, stepping between them. ‘The man is nigh death as it is.’
Keren signed to one of the boys to hold the horse, while he pulled the soldier from the saddle, and bent over him. Then he shook his head. He agreed with Father Ambrose in thinking the man would not live.
‘Let me at him,’ pleaded the woman. ‘See, he is alive still. I want him to see me as I plunge my knife into his belly. He thrust his pike into my husband in that way … you can see he’s been up to no good … he and his band of robbers must have caught up with someone who had the nerve to strike back, for a change. Now it is he who shall plead for mercy, and plead in vain.’
Father Ambrose said, unhappily, ‘We must try not to judge him. Perhaps he will live long enough to repent and be shriven.’
‘My husband lived four hours, but there was none to shrive him!’
Keren lifted the man in his arms, and bore him off to the church, while Father Ambrose and some of the men sought to distract the widow. She threw herself again and again at their arms. The nimble swineherd caught her right wrist, and managed to take the knife from her, but some of the others grumbled that she was in the right of it, surely.
The oldest and grimmest of the men strode up to them, stringing his bow.
‘What, fool! Do you wrestle with women, when you should be watching for the enemy? Do you think that was the only soldier at large in the forest last night? He and his horse would normally have made their way home when he was wounded, but he came this way, instead. Now why did he do that? There can only be one answer, his horse came this way because he was driven through the forest by noise behind him. Likely the rest of the band will be on us before we are aware of it. You: to the watch-tower! Quick!’
A tall man came out of the church, and walked towards them. His gait was familiar, but he was not, for he wore the linked mail tunic of the dying man-at-arms, and leather gauntlets reinforced with metal rings were on his hands. He carried himself proudly. In his hands he held a conical helmet and a great sword, still in its scabbard.
Keren knelt before Father Ambrose, and, laying the helmet on the turf beside him, held up the sword.
‘Father, will you bless this weapon, and arm me against the battle?’
CHAPTER FOUR
KEREN wished he had time to shave and cut his hair. Knights always shaved, cut their hair, and bathed before they were invested with their weapons. Of course, he had been made a knight when he was eighteen, and that was many years ago now, but in some ways the moment when Father Ambrose had buckled on the dead man’s sword was of greater significance. Keren drew the great sword from its scabbard, and, wrapping his hands round the hilt, lifted the point to the sky, describing an arc in the air. The balance was not perfect, but it was good enough. The sword was not as well made as the one he had owned before, the one which he now wore as a chain round his legs. He shifted his stance, and took another, slightly different, grip on the hilt. It was a pity he could not be rid of the chain, for it made it difficult to turn quickly. There. That was enough. He had not lost all his old mastery of the weapon, though it had been nine years since he last drew one from its sheath.
He turned to survey the camp. He was standing at one of the openings in the fence of stakes, and on either side of him were two men, armed with bow and arrows. All were nervous. Only one of them, the oldest man, had ever shot at a human target before, and he was one-eyed and practically toothless. Keren did not think the others could be trusted to hold a determined charge from the enemy, unless brought up to the mark.
In the doorway of the church hovered Father Ambrose, whom Keren had set to look after the women and children within. No arrow or crossbolt could pierce those thick walls, except where the doorway gaped. Now the children were cutting turf blocks and laying them in the entry, their voices shrill with panic, tumbling over one another. The child Bethany wailed, but he could not go to her. Someone else must still her cries today.
The women were thrusting the animals into the largest of the temporary pens, which were right up against the church on the side overlooking the valley, where there was no access from the path. With any luck the animals would survive. Some of the women had wanted to take the beasts into the church with them, but Keren had objected. There would be wounded to be cared for, and there was not room enough for wounded men, the women and children, and the animals. The boy who had lost his arm had taken a turn for the worse that morning, and the woman who was pregnant, although silent in her agony, gave every sign of aborting. One of the liveliest of the young lads had been sent down to the quarry in the valley below to warn the men there of the impending attack, but no soldiers had as yet come up to reinforce Keren’s little band.
The hermit looked up at the sky, and then around him once more. This waiting was always the hardest part of the battle. He knew that, and so did the one-eyed man, but the young men were faltering. The old man’s name was Rob. Keren told him to hold his place for a few minutes, while he checked the dispositions on the other side of the church. Rob nodded, spat, and said Keren could rely on him. Rob might only have one eye, but his grim calm was a great comfort to a man dealing with unseasoned troops.
Two of the women called out to Keren as he passed the church. They wanted to know if they could fight beside their menfolk.
‘It should not be necessary,’ said Keren, knowing that a quarrel from a crossbow would go straight through even chain mail. And he was wearing the only piece of armour they had. Once more he glanced up at the sun. ‘We only have to hold them in check for a little while; the guard from the quarry should come up soon. It is only a mile away, after all.’
The women nodded, satisfied for the moment. Father Ambrose was kneeling beside the pregnant woman, who was definitely in labour. The priest looked at Keren and shrugged in despair. Keren shook his head, and passed on. Both men knew there was little they could have done to help the woman, even if they had had time, and the herbs they needed.
It eased Keren’s mind to know that the priest was with him. Perhaps the struggle had not been in vain, perhaps the torment would ease one day.
The animals were all safely penned in, but uneasy. The swineherd was with them, calming them, talking to them. Keren’s collie had been tied up with the other dogs, and resented it. The swineherd tried to smile at Keren. A brave lad, and good with animals.
Keren passed on, to stand looking out over the valley. The
castle rose hazy and blue in the distance. Joanna would be there. What would she be doing? Would she ever know the risk he had taken for her? If Sir Bevil and his men were to be allowed to pass, to howl down the winding path into the valley below, to destroy and burn. … How would Joanna fare then? Would she cringe and cry for mercy when they came upon her? No; rather would she snatch up the nearest weapon and fight! He was sure of it. He smiled. The four men on the far gate saw him smile, and wondered that he could do so at such a time. One man was biting his nails, another was sobbing quietly to himself. All four of these men had seen their homes ruined, and had received wounds in escaping. Two had lost their wives, one had lost everything but an earthenware pitcher, which he insisted on carrying everywhere he went. He was still holding it now, his bow and arrows lying unregarded on the turf beside him. His eyes were blank.
A lad was grooming the horse nearby. His face was white, and his hands shook, but like the swineherd, he was forcing himself to keep going.
‘Good lad,’ said Keren. ‘Do you think you could have him ready for me to ride when they eventually condescend to show their faces here?’
The lad glanced at the chain round Keren’s ankles. It was plain the hermit could not ride astride in the normal way.
‘Put a pad on his back instead of the saddle, and I’ll ride as the ladies do.’
Three out of the four men managed a smile. One laughed aloud. He was a limber, black-haired fellow, who might have made a good fighter, if he had not broken his leg. A friend of his had brought him to Keren, carrying the injured man on his back. Now that had been a giant of a man. He would have been useful today, but he had chosen to return to his burned-out cottage, rather than stay on the hill-top in comparative safety. Keren had set the leg, and now the black-haired man was able to stump about with his limb strapped to a stout pole to keep it straight.
My Lord, the Hermit Page 7
