My Lord, the Hermit

by Veronica Heley

  ‘Will you go with them, when they leave?’

  ‘No.’ The two men were silent for a while. Father Ambrose was waiting for Keren to speak, and he did not seem to know how to broach the subject that was uppermost on his mind. Presently the hermit said, ‘Father, I have sinned. I have done no work on the church for fourteen days, and while these people come to me for help, I cannot refuse it. Can I?’

  ‘No, Keren. I don’t think you can. But when Sir Bevil returns … I wish I knew how to advise you. …’

  ‘One step at a time,’ said Keren. ‘That’s all I can manage. I’ve got to hold on to the church here, or I’m lost. I was going to kill myself. Then I realized I couldn’t, because I’d already taken one life unlawfully, and it seemed to me that if only I could hang on, the hunger might abate somewhat. Then I was going to run away. I had no strength left. I cried out for help, and at first it seemed that my cry went unanswered. Then the woman came with the sick child, and though I had no strength of my own, none to help myself, I could help them. And then the others came, and each night I was so tired … too tired to break away … and when I slept, I had the nightmare … I haven’t had it for years. I realized that these people had been sent to me in answer to my prayer. So I decided to stay, but the torment did not leave me, because I had not made the sacrifice willingly, but out of weakness.

  ‘I could not work on the church. It seemed to me – it still seems to me – that I will never lay another stone on the church walls. Her stone … the stone she laid … I touched it a dozen times an hour, and it seemed to hold a faint scent of her … the years I have lived here seem but a day, and the days since I saw her, seem a year. I did not fight Sir Bevil only to protect these poor people, but also – chiefly – to protect her. If he had gone down into the plain, her life would have been endangered. I was going to kill Sir Bevil. I knew I could, from the moment I saw how ponderous his movements were. I could feel the bite of my sword, clawing down through his shoulders. I knew I could do it. I had done it before. Then, when I had him at my feet, I could not do it.’

  ‘You were merciful.’

  ‘It was not that. And I think I probably was foolish to let him live, for he hates me now, and will never rest until he has fought me again. No, I remembered something, and it puzzled me, and my sense of purpose left me. I remembered how easy it was to kill, striking down through armour and bone. My sword before was a better blade than this, and cut through my enemies in battle with ease. Yet the wound I made on Mariana was so slight. She was a small woman, pregnant and at rest on her bed, wearing no clothing at all. I must have raised my sword high to kill her, and yet there could have been no force in the blow when it landed, for the wound was shallow, and although it bled much, and broke some of her ribs, yet it did not cleave her arm from her body, which was what you might have expected from a blow of mine.’

  ‘I have often wondered whether it might have been an accident.’

  ‘How can it be an accident, if you strike your pregnant wife in the back with a sword?’ Keren laughed, and his laughter was bitter. ‘Nay, I am glad I remembered, for the memory will preserve me from thinking of … absurdities.’

  ‘There is no mention of chastity in your vow,’ ventured Father Ambrose.

  ‘An oversight on the part of Father Hilarion. I have occasionally dreamed of taking a woman, but have not dared. How could I? I could not risk it. Suppose I were to kill her, too? As it happens, I have never really wanted to take a woman, until now. You said she wept, when you met her. I do not think she is the kind to weep easily, or often.’

  ‘She is to marry her cousin Julian in six weeks’ time.’

  ‘She must be something of an heiress, then. I did wonder. But then, I thought that if she had been a maid without much of a dowry … and her eyes so steadfast … I felt I had known her always. I wanted to tell her … everything … as if she would understand, and present me with the solution to all the mysteries of the world. But I did not speak.’ He sighed, and then straightened his shoulders. ‘Well, I have broken my oath now, in thought and word and deed. What penances will you impose on me?’

  ‘One Hail Mary and one Our Father for every man, woman and child whose life you have saved today.’

  ‘Nonsense, Father. A half ration of bread and water for a month, at the very least. Moreover, if you choose to flog me, I will go and get you a rope, now.’

  ‘Now you listen to me, my boy. I know you would fast, and take stripes, too, but I can’t allow it. You have twenty people to look after here, and if you grow dizzy and weak for lack of proper food, and from a flogging, who will suffer? You, or they?’

  ‘But Father Hilarion gave me long periods of fasting, and scourged me, when he learned of my previous lapses, and my sins were not as great, then.’

  ‘That’s as may be. You didn’t save Father Hilarion’s life, and you did save mine. Maybe that colours my thinking unduly; but I don’t want you falling sick while I’ve got so many of my flock at your mercy. Denying yourself in this case would be against the will of God. There is a pattern in these things; you were saved from committing a mortal sin by the advent of these people, and you can’t turn your back on them, now. You will eat and drink sensibly, and for a month, or as long as the meat lasts, you must eat meat at least once a day. You’ve got to be in the best of health in case Sir Bevil returns – and may the dear Lord arrange it so that I’m there to see it happen.’

  Keren laughed again, but this time his laughter was merry. He ate some of the meat Father Ambrose pressed on him, put the stone back in his mouth, and went up the hill to see to his patients.

  Father Ambrose chewed on a bone, with a sense of satisfaction. He felt he had said the right thing to Keren, but what was he going to do about burying the dead? The ground around the church had not been consecrated, and these people expected him to bury bodies in it, as if it had been. It was one thing to say Mass in an uncompleted church, for priests could say Mass anywhere. Father Ambrose had never been at a service of consecration. He thought bishops were involved, but his memory was hazy on that point, as on many others. He thought Father Hilarion would have known what to do, if he had been there. Father Ambrose thought it was a very good thing that Father Hilarion had not been there, for he would surely have ordered Keren to be flogged, and if there was one thing that Keren did not need, it was to be flogged. In Father Ambrose’s view, Keren was far too apt – like a number of other conscientious men he had known – to magnify his faults. And when he came to think that Keren had actually stayed at his post, when he, Father Ambrose, had deserted his flock. … Ay di me! Father Ambrose shook his head at himself. Mea culpa! How can the hermit still respect me?

  There was one remaining cutlet of meat. Father Ambrose was tempted, but he wrapped it in a leaf, and put it in his wallet to eat later. Then he brushed his hands together, and rose to his feet. There was no help for it; he would just have to muddle through as usual. He could throw holy water around the church, inside the fence, and say a few prayers. Then he could get Keren to help him … the poor folk would like that, for they thought Keren next door to a saint, as it was. Not surprising, not at all. Not a saint, of course; but maybe he was going on that way. It was lucky, thought Father Ambrose, that he knew the burial service off by heart.

  All work had stopped on the convent church, and the workmen had refused to do any more work at the quarry until they were provided with a guard of men-at-arms. The reason why no one had gone up the hill to help Keren against Sir Bevil was that there had not been anyone at the quarry that day. Keren’s messenger had had to go nearly to the castle gates before he could find anyone, and it had not been until late in the afternoon that a small force of mounted men made their way out of the castle and across the plain. Herkom, who led them, had spoken for all, when he declared that he expected to find a charnel house on the ridge. Joanna and Midge watched from the ramparts, and vied with each other to make punning jokes about death and folly. Then Joanna went into the chapel in the shado
w of the great keep, and knelt down in the darkest corner to pray. It did not really surprise her that Midge followed her soon after, though neither acknowledged the other’s presence.

  By night-fall Herkom was back, bearing Sir Bevil’s armour on the back of the great bay horse. The tale he had to tell caused a gale of laughter to sweep through the hall as the Count and his court sat at meat. The story of how one lonely hermit had defied and defeated the puissant Sir Bevil lifted their hearts, and only a few muttered that it ought not to have been necessary to rely on a holy man for protection. Midge said he would make a song of the story. Herkom grinned as Julian tried on Sir Bevil’s armour, and found it dwarfed him. The Countess said something ought to be done for those poor people, but not, of course, if they belonged to the abbot. The Count frowned and bit his lip, and Father Hilarion brushed aside the page who was offering him a roasted pigeon on a spit, and declared that the news had made him lose his appetite.

  There was a constant coming and going at the castle during the next few days; messengers rode out over the plain to distant manor houses. The Count called in those of his vassals who had not already gone to support the King, for a conference. Mere women were not supposed to take part in such deliberations, but it was noticed that the Countess was frequently missing from her solar, and though she urged Midge to continue with rehearsals for the pageant, yet she did not often attend them herself. Neither did the Lady Elizabeth, who had received permission from the bishop to take vows, and was more often to be seen walking or praying with Father Hilarion than supervising her daughters. The elder of these, Anne, had begged for the part of the Saracen Lady in the pageant. The Saracen Lady had a dance to perform, wearing little but a light shift and a lot of bangles. The Lady Floria said it would do no harm for Anne to think of something besides ogling the squires, but in fact it seemed likely that the opposite effect would be achieved. Joanna looked, and wondered, and sighed.

  The Count called his daughter Joyeuse into the council chamber, and announced that he had arranged for her to be given in marriage, not to the son of one of the King’s Justiciars, as formerly agreed, but to one of his own vassals. Sir Walter was a middle-aged widower of dour aspect with grown-up children, but he was willing to lend the Count a substantial sum of money and to help garrison the castle. Joyeuse stammered an acknowledgment, but could not smile. She confided to Joanna that she knew it was silly of her, but she had always been a little afraid of Sir Walter. However, there it was; her father needed men and money, and she was to be his means of paying for it. No longer did her hair hang loose around her shoulders, and she ceased to bind flowers into wreaths to set on her head at night.

  Joanna was distressed for Joyeuse, but there was nothing either of them could do about the situation. Were they not both victims of the law which said they must be given in marriage where their parents or guardians willed?

  Joanna’s status as future Countess, together with the girl’s own resilience and courage, had caused her to become the focus for the activities of the young people in the castle. It was she who now forced the pace at rehearsals, and urged Midge on with his foolery. She was changing. A loveless childhood, allied to the knowledge that she was an heiress, had bred a careless courage in her. But the realization that she loved, and that her love was hopeless, had destroyed this self-sufficiency. When she rehearsed with Julian, she saw Keren standing in his place. When she prayed in the chapel, she prayed not for herself, but for the hermit. When a fresh face appeared in the castle, she scanned it eagerly, hoping to find somewhere a man who might erase Keren’s image from her mind. And all this for a man she had met but once, and might never see again, save in the distance. And even if she did see him again, she would be wed by then, and in duty bound not to look at another man. …

  She would not give the world the satisfaction of seeing that she had been humbled, but she could not help feeling contempt for the other young women of the castle, who talked of dress and flirted, when it was obvious that they were in danger.

  Yes, the castle and all of the valley itself was endangered. There was no doubt about it, for those who had eyes to see – and Joanna was no fool. She knew what it meant when the only vassals the Count could summon to council were elderly, infirm, or weak in the head. She paced the ramparts with Midge, and looked south to the hills, and sighed.

  ‘I would I were riding in the hills.’

  ‘So do I, lady.’

  She pressed his shoulder, which was lower than hers. ‘You are sad, Midge. Come, this will never do.’

  ‘I but match your mood, lady.’

  ‘Have I any real cause to be sad? Am I not favoured above all the maidens in the castle?’ She sighed. ‘And yet I wish I were a beggar maid to go where I would, and wed where I would.’

  ‘But not to the hills, lady?’ She turned from him, and would not answer, so he plucked at his viol, and tried out a bar or two of a tune. ‘Are we not a pair of melancholy fools, indeed? Shall we compete for the prize in melancholy? Yet I think I would win, for though the Count my master says that he prizes me above rubies, yet am I worth little in my own eyes. I meant well, but this is a fool’s excuse, and it does not mend my folly to say that I grieve for what I did.’

  ‘And what precisely did you do?’

  ‘I joined the hands of a man and a maid, forgetting that there was a sword set between them – and so they grieve – and so I grieve, who wrought the mischief.’

  ‘Does the man grieve, indeed?’ She turned from him, colour rising in her face. ‘Nay, do not tell me. It is best not to know.’

  ‘Herkom says he is much altered. I do not know, myself, for I have been unable to visit him. And there again I fail, for he is my friend, and he is in danger, while I sit and strum in safety down here in the castle.’

  ‘We will not be in safety long, I think, unless my uncle manages to raise more money and find more men from somewhere. He has sent too many men away to the King’s army, so that only the old and very young are left.’

  ‘While we rehearse a pageant!’

  She threw her arms wide. ‘What can I do, Midge? If I refuse to marry Julian, will there not be some other, perhaps less pleasant marriage arranged for me? Come, there are enough long faces in the castle these days, without our adding to their number. The jeweller is bringing me a replica of the brooch Keren gave me. Will you not come to see it? The other ladies will be in the garden.’

  She went down into the garden with Midge treading close behind her, and no one but Midge guessed that she was hiding grief, for she smiled on everyone, and had a pleasant word for most.

  The jeweller was waiting for her. He bowed low, and perspired, for the day was hot, and he had not followed her instructions to the letter.

  ‘My lady, gracious lady … instructions so welcome … trifling affair, this old brooch, not worthy of such beauty, if I may make so bold …’

  ‘What, man?’ said Joanna. ‘Did you not make a copy of it?’

  ‘Nay, lady,’ said the jeweller, bowing even lower. ‘Pray, allow me to … the brooch was but a poor copy of my lord Amory’s badge, a most suitable gesture in him to present you with such a bauble … no doubt in recognition of your saving his life? Ah, yes, we hear all such things, you know, and there is many a man. …’

  ‘What is this?’ asked the boy Amory, thrusting forward. ‘He has my badge?’

  ‘The flying swan, my lord,’ said the jeweller, smirking. ‘But a poor copy of the original device, if I may say so, and of course not made of gold. …’

  ‘Let me see!’

  ‘Gently, Amory,’ said the Lady Floria. ‘It will not run away.’

  The boy took no notice. He was rarely checked, and had grown conceited and boastful. Joanna had never liked him particularly, and had wondered much at the licence he was allowed, for the pages and other young men were usually kept on a tight rein. She had heard it said, by way of excuse for him, that he was a favourite of Father Hilarion’s, and supposed to be weakly, and that it was for the
se reasons that he was indulged where others were whipped for insolence.

  ‘It is something like,’ said Amory, taking the brooch in his hands, and turning it over. ‘But I have never seen it before.’

  ‘The flying swan is a device much used by jewellers,’ said Midge. ‘Especially at fairs in the Midland towns where there are plenty of swans on the rivers.’

  ‘To be accurate,’ said the jeweller, ‘this is not a fairing. I do not care for it, myself, but it is well-wrought, even if old-fashioned. It was not a gift from my lord Amory?’ Joanna shook her head. ‘Ah, from the time before you came to the castle, perhaps? Then I have mistaken the matter, and I beg pardon. I thought that since this brooch was but a trifling affair, and not a good copy of the badge, it would be more suitable to make you another pair of brooches for your sleeves, using the same device, of course, but making it more accurate. I have laboured over my brooches for many days, and set emeralds in the eyes of the swans, as you can see.’

  He held out a box, with two clasps of gold therein. They were of flying swans as before, but they were much nearer in design to Amory’s badge than to the brooch which Keren had given her. Joanna sighed, and then recollected herself, and smiled on the jeweller.

  ‘The workmanship is admirable.’

  ‘My lady is not displeased? She understands how the mistake arose?’

  She did not like the gold clasps as much as the original, but they were undeniably beautiful. She set one against the ribbon which held up her sleeve, and all the ladies voiced their approval.

  The boy Amory, however, frowned. ‘I do not see why she should wear my badge.’

  ‘Come, now!’ said Floria. ‘Did she not save your life?’

  ‘I was in no real danger. She dragged me along the ground as if I had been a peasant’s child.’

  ‘Shame on you, Amory,’ cried Julian. ‘I was there, and I saw it all. Jeweller, I will buy these clasps for the lady Joanna, in memory of her courage.’