‘I hate her!’ cried the boy, and fled from among them.
Joanna went to walk in the herb garden, and sent a page to fetch Midge to her. She had put the new clasps on her dress, but she was holding Keren’s brooch in her hand.
‘How did the hermit come by this brooch?’ she asked Midge.
‘Lady, how should I know?’
She looked at him, and shook her head. Her eyes were deeply shadowed as if she had not slept well. She said, ‘I think you do know, Midge. Father Ambrose knew. He told me it had belonged to Keren’s mother. Is that true?’
‘Lady, shall we not talk of some other folly? It is folly to pursue this subject.’
‘We all laughed at Amory, when he said I had no right to wear his badge. You did not laugh, Midge. Will you tell me why you did not laugh, or shall I make a guess?’
‘We are all free to use our imaginations, lady, but it is best to remember that imagination can lead us astray.’
‘Amory and the jeweller thought Keren’s brooch was a copy of Amory’s family badge. You did not laugh. Therefore the brooch of the flying swan came from Amory’s family. This brooch belonged to Keren, and to his mother before him. Of what family is Keren?’
‘Lady, I beg of you. …’
‘Keren is Amory’s father, is he not?’
CHAPTER FIVE
THE hermit woke with a jerk. He had fallen face forward on to the altar; one leg had gone to sleep, the chain was biting into his right ankle, and he had nipped his tongue betwixt his teeth and stone in his mouth. These small discomforts eased, he stood and went out into the night, moving as silently as he might, lest he disturb those who slept around the church. Two long low walls of chalk blocks had been built outside the ring of stakes, between the church and the dell. Three rude crosses marked three fresh mounds of turf within the stakes, and these were the graves of the men-at-arms, and of the one-armed boy.
Hides had been stretched out on poles within the cob walls, and under these improvised shelters slept twenty-eight souls. More people had come in to join them over the last few days. A few had tried to return to the abbey lands, but had been turned back by bands of Sir Bevil’s men who were roaming through the woods. It was said that a group of men driven from their homes had formed themselves into a force dedicated to avenging themselves on Sir Bevil and his men. It was also said that this group of men was led by the giant who had brought the man with the broken leg to Keren.
Keren stooped to examine a man who lay by himself under a lean-to. This was the man-at-arms who had been too badly wounded to return with Sir Bevil. There was something about the man’s breathing – or lack of breathing – that Keren did not like. He listened awhile, touched the man’s face, and moved on. They would have to dig another grave in the morning.
He went down into the dell, washed, and drank some of the fresh spring water. His shelter was not deserted, for the woman who had lost her child – Elena – now slept in it with her new family of two men and two children. She stirred and looked out as he passed by. He lifted his hand to her, and she lifted her hand back. The moon was bright tonight, but nothing stirred in the woods around, save night birds a-hunting. His collie had woken, and was now pushing her muzzle at his bare leg. She walked beside him, feathery tail waving. Keren rubbed behind her ears, and she sneezed.
He checked that all was well in the watch-tower of chalk blocks which they had built on top of the hill on this side, and then returned to the church.
The moonlight had turned the walls to a patchwork of silver and black, and taken the light out of the bright blue cloth that now lay on the altar. He knelt, and tried to remember how far he had got with his prayers before he had fallen asleep. He had meant to continue his penance of extra prayers for a month, but barely a week had passed since Father Ambrose had left, and already he was grudging the time taken from sleep. …
He jerked himself upright. This would never do. The sword he had wielded in his fight with Sir Bevil lay under the altar. Oh, the power of the sword … hands clasped one over the other, shoulders flexing, taking the weight … down to the heels. …
He brought his mind back to prayer. Having that sword around was yet another temptation. It was necessary, if he were to safeguard his people, but it did bring back memories which were better forgotten.
He dozed again, and in his half-sleep the dream returned once more. He was riding through the woods, calling back to his half-brother Keren that he was going to ride ahead, and Keren was lifting his hand … the hens squawking as he jumped off his horse and ran through the welcoming arms of the servants … running up the stairs, unbuckling his sword belt … opening the door and. …
He jerked awake. He was trembling. Why? Whatever had made him do it?
Joanna. …
But I would never dare to … not even if she, by some miracle, wanted to. … What sort of life would it be for a woman to live with me, here? Ah, but she is strong and would not care … but would it be right?
Enough! This is folly, as Midge would say. Beloved Midge. Herkom says you grieve that you were the occasion of bringing fresh grief to me. But it is not so, Midge. I would not be without this pain, though it cleaves me in two.
The valley, so unprotected. The Count, trying to raise more troops. Father Ambrose said Sir Walter would prove a broken reed. The abbey and church, unfinished. The masons, superstitious and fearful. We are all afraid, friends. Especially this fool called Keren.
I could never ask a woman to share my life, not even when the church is built and I am free of my oath. I do not think the church will ever be finished, anyway. I could not sleep beside a woman, for fear I might once again kill the thing I love best.
He opened his eyes and looked up at the waning moon. He remembered now that when he had been running up the stairs to the bedroom, he had been unbuckling his swordbelt. It was a heavy leather belt, fairly new, and the scabbard was also new. Sometimes the sword caught as it was drawn out of the scabbard. He could remember the very feel of the sword as he drew it out, and it checked on that hidden obstruction.
So, he had been unbuckling his sword. He had had sword and scabbard in his right hand as he thrust open the bedroom door with his left. He had stepped into the chamber, and then. …
Again he jolted forward, and only saved himself from falling by clutching at the altar. This would never do. He must sleep, or he would be in trouble with Father Ambrose for neglecting his duties.
It was keeping the sword nearby that reminded him: he must have drawn the sword out of the scabbard with his left hand, and cut at Mariana with that same left hand. This would no doubt explain why the cut was so slight, in comparison with what he knew he could do.
He must finish his prayers, and sleep.
Joanna called the page Amory to her, and asked him if he would like to accompany her on a ride through the meadows. The boy refused. She sighed. He was a page, and might not refuse to attend her, if she so wished. She repeated her request, putting enough coldness into her voice to remind him of his duties. He obeyed her, sulkily.
Midge had denied the imputation that Amory was Keren’s son, but Joanna felt the jester had been lying. There was definitely some link between the two. And now that she came to think of it, there was also a link between the hermit and those two ill-assorted friends, Midge and Herkom. She studied Amory’s face and figure as he rode beside her, and doubt crept into her mind. Here was a haughty little boy, very conscious of his high birth. He had neat features, a well-made body that promised to be big-boned in maturity, and a cold blue eye. His hair was smooth and though he had probably been very fair in babyhood, it was growing darker. He had none of Keren’s black mop of hair, nor had his skin that hint of olive that characterized Keren’s. Perhaps he took after his murdered mother? Joanna shivered. It always hurt her to think of Keren as a murderer.
She set herself to get the boy to talk. She had told herself that she would learn to love Keren’s son. Her position in the family meant that she could do
much to smooth his path in life, if she so wished. Yet at the end of an hour’s ride and much chatter, she liked him no better than when they had started out.
He was a self-centred little chap, who seemed to have affection for no one, except perhaps his old nurse. He had been brought up by his grandmother – Keren’s mother? – until she had died some two years previously, and then he had been brought to the castle by Father Hilarion. Did he like Father Hilarion? Not especially. Father Hilarion was always fussing about his health, but he was very strong really. Did he remember his father and mother? No, they had both died when he was born, but his father had been a perfect knight, and very handsome – but Keren is not handsome, thought Joanna – and his mother? She had been a great beauty, and a great heiress, and hundreds of men had sought her hand in marrige.
Joanna asked if Amory liked the lessons he and the other pages were having with Father Hilarion. Oh yes, they were well enough, and very easy, said Amory, for someone who was as quick as he was. But of course it was a clerkish pastime and when he grew up he would not concern himself with such things, but be a knight, like his father, and take a great many other knights captive at tournaments and in the wars, and be very rich, and famous.
Joanna sought out Joyeuse, who was sitting in a corner of the herb-garden with her sewing.
‘You are pensive, ma chère?’ said Joanna, slipping her arm round Joyeuse’s waist. ‘I fear you are not looking forward to the day you will marry and leave us.’
‘I ought to be happy,’ said Joyeuse, and straightway sighed.
‘We women don’t have much say in the matter, do we? I suppose we must be thankful that our marriages make the men happy. Sir Walter will be happy to be allied with your father, and my uncle will be happy that my estates will not pass out of his control.’
‘Julian has a fondness for you. I don’t think Sir Walter could distinguish me from Anne, or any of the other young ladies of the castle, if we were all in a row before him.’
‘Julian is young. Heigho! I would he were older and wiser than I, and then I would think more fondly of him. Am I not absurd?’
‘Sir Walter is so very large and noisy. I quake whenever he comes near me. He has so many large dogs about him, and they will jump up at me … he says I will get used to it, and I suppose I shall. If only. …’
‘Ah. If only. And what is your “If only?”’
‘Nothing.’ She smiled at her cousin. ‘Tell me what you have been doing.’
‘I have been pondering the gulf between a self-satisfied little toad of a boy, whom I cannot find it in me to like, and a man who serves God and his fellows with joy.’
‘To serve God with joy must be a wonderful thing. I wish … sometimes I wonder whether God didn’t make a mistake when he gave Anne to God, and me to a different sort of husband. I cannot think she has much of a vocation, if any, and the idea of retiring from the world appeals to me. Oh, I am not serious, of course. Only, the peace of it, and being able to pray without interruption, and to be silent. …’
‘Which you are not!’ Joanna kissed her cousin, and Joyeuse laughed, but brushed her hand across her eyes. ‘Why, darling! You are serious about it?’
‘No. Oh, no. How can I be, when I am to wed Sir Walter? And besides, I have always been so vain of my hair. I could never part with it, could I?’
‘I know I couldn’t,’ said Joanna, and clamped her hands over her plaits, as if afraid that they would fly away. Joyeuse laughed, but was as quickly grave again.
Father Hilarion’s voice filled the castle chapel with echoes. He stood in the pulpit, leaning forward, one arm raised, dominating them all. Most of his congregation sat with their mouths slightly open; few shifted, even to ease cramped muscles. The Count, his mother, and some of the other gentry sat on stools at the front, while their retainers, servants and the men-at-arms herded in behind, sitting where they could on the floor, on cushions or cloaks. Some, like Herkom and Midge, had managed to find a perch on the stone base of one of the stout pillars that held up the chapel roof.
Father Hilarion spoke well. He had no great histrionic sense, but he had a burning passion for Christ which now and then caused his sermons to catch fire, and then he would carry everyone with him. Today he had a great piece of news to impart: the Pope had excommunicated the rebellious barons, and henceforth every man who took up arms against the rebels might wear the blazon of the Crusader’s cross on his clothing, to proclaim the justice of his cause.
Father Hilarion did not lose momentum when he had urged his congregation to fight for Christ. The fight, he said, must not only be carried into the enemy’s territory, but start here in their hearts. There was too much wickedness within the castle walls, too much sloth, and lechery, and very little of the single-mindedness of the Crusader. Examine your hearts, he said, and tear out of them all that is not worthy of the service of the Lord. Evil had entered in little by little, side by side with superstition. The two combined had brought all work on the abbey church to a halt. Was this not evidence of the devil at work in their midst? The good women who should be flocking to enter the new convent were held imprisoned in their homes, afraid to travel. And was not this also the work of the devil? Why, even the hermit on the hill had ceased to labour for Christ, but had broken his vow of silence and taken up arms at the prompting of the devil. …
Father Hilarion’s voice rose to a scream. Someone moaned aloud. A woman began to cry. Father Hilarion’s face was white with passion. The Count grew red and muttered something to his mother. Joanna felt Joyeuse’s weight thrown against her side, and had to support the fainting girl. Joanna’s attention did not wander from the priest, but one part of her mind was occupied with a question which was often in her mind nowadays. There was no joy in Father Hilarion’s religion, which was all of death and damnation and sin. Keren’s whole way of life, his giving of himself for others, was bound up with joy. Both spent their lives in the service of Christ … and so did Father Ambrose, come to think of it … and she knew which of them she would prefer to have as Father Confessor. Keren was a good man, and yet he had done an evil thing. How had he been transformed?
The priest was inspired today. Usually his sermons left his hearers feeling that there was no hope for man unless he abandoned himself totally and without question to the hard and cheerless doctrines preached by Father Hilarion. But today he ended on a note of hope. Sir Walter and the Count would be leaving the castle tomorrow for the distant abbey, and there they would consult with the abbot as to the best method of dealing with Sir Bevil.
‘Does that mean they are going to arm and fight Sir Bevil at last?’ Joanna inquired of the Countess that evening. ‘Or does it mean that they are going to buy Sir Bevil off?’
‘Such matters are no concern of yours,’ said the Countess.
‘I think they are,’ said Joanna. ‘We have often heard that my uncle beggared himself in sending a large force to King John’s aid. No doubt he thought he would gain by doing so, but it is obvious even to a newcomer like myself that the valley is drained of men, and there is little in the way of arms left in the castle. Sir Walter has brought twenty men with him, but they are neither well-equipped nor well-horsed. We have some twenty men-at-arms of our own at the castle, and some twenty more have been sent to guard the quarry: but of these, most are villeins taken from work on the fields hereabouts. What happens at harvest-time, when they will be needed on the land?’
‘This is a purely temporary embarrassment. …’
‘To be relieved by calling in the Jews?’
‘I am sure they would be quite happy to accommodate us, if required.’
‘Especially with an heiress about to marry into the family?’
‘You are impertinent, girl.’
Joanna was not the only one to be perturbed at the news that the Count and Sir Walter were about to leave the castle. Men and women began to fall into the habit of walking on the ramparts, turning now and then to stare at the line of hills to the south, watching for sign
s of Sir Bevil’s coming. Refugees began to arrive at the castle with tales of rape, arson and murder, piteous to hear. Joanna made it her business to welcome these poor creatures, most of whom went to lodge in the nearly completed convent by the river. Work on the abbey church resumed in desultory fashion after Father Hilarion’s sermon, but the quarrymen would only agree to return to stone-breaking once they had been assured of a guard, and of horses on which to make a quick retreat, if necessary. The Count had not enough horses to spare, so Herkom made a trip to the hills, to transfer fifteen of Keren’s captured horses to the quarry.
‘I hope your wits are well-honed today,’ said Joanna to Midge. She began to count on her fingers. ‘I add it up, and get three different answers, none of them good. Twenty men to go with Sir Walter and the Count: and of those twenty, ten are our men, and ten are Sir Walter’s. This means a divided allegiance, does it not? Then fifteen men go daily to the quarry, mounted on horses provided by our warrior hermit. How many does that leave to guard the castle?’
‘Thirty-two,’ said Midge. ‘I don’t need to add it up. Herkom told me.’
‘And of those, half are very young and the rest ancient or feeble. What does Herkom say?’
‘He sharpens his sword, lady. He sees that our horses are well-shod, and his men well-drilled … in so far as he is able.’
‘Ah. A pity he does not command. I am only a woman, and of course quite unable to form a judgment on these matters, but it seems to me that the captain of the men-at-arms is over-young for such responsibility, and drinks too much to bolster up his courage. As for the Seneschal. … Pooh! A dotard.’
‘Very true, lady. Sir Stripling and my lord Senility will divide the command between them when the Count is gone. However, the Countess remains, and she is more of a man than either of them. Herkom says he is content enough, if the Countess stays, and is not over-ridden by Father Hilarion.’
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