Alice handed him a length of red cloth, which he stowed, with a nod of thanks, in the top of his boot.
‘And we will lay out a blue cloth on the bushes if reinforcements arrive at the quarry,’ said Rob, ‘and a blue with a white one beside it, if more men leave the quarry. Also Alice has another red cloth to lay out, if we need you urgently for some reason.’
Amory was fully armed, except for his helmet. Now he knelt at Father Ambrose’s feet for a blessing. Father Ambrose sketched a cross over Amory’s head and muttered a prayer. Then he spat on his hands, and picked up a notched but still useful sword. ‘I’m coming with you.’
‘No,’ said Amory. ‘I want you to stay with Rob.’
‘I understand you,’ said Father Ambrose, grinning. ‘It is quite likely that Father Hilarion will have me unfrocked if I should fall into his hands. Well, be it so. If you can risk the death of self, then you shame me into doing so, too. Besides,’ and he frowned hideously, ‘my arm still smarts, and it may be I will need some more of your embrocation later today.’
Amory smiled, and touched the friar lightly on his shoulder. Then he leaped, fully armed, into the saddle of his horse, a feat which brought an admiring gasp from some, and a nod of satisfaction from others. He drew his sword, and pointed down the meadow.
The tocsin still sounded its chill note, and mingling with this, and the screams of the trapped peasants, came the jeers of the oncoming soldiers, pikes and swords poised for the kill. Then from out of the convent gates issued a small knot of men led by a girl in a dress the colour of blood. She bore a poker in her right hand, and her men were armed with sledgehammers and pick-axes. And from the meadow came an orderly troop of men-at-arms, led by three armed men on horseback, and these bore swords and axes, and home-made spears. And their oncoming was silent and purposeful.
The peasants scattered and broke, not knowing who these newcomers were, nor which way to turn for safety.
And Joanna raised her voice and called ‘A Moi!’
And the knight who led the descent into the meadow raised his voice and called to his men to hold steady. And the poor people, fearing this new, strange knight and his disciplined troop of men, and seeing him come from the hill to which they had been told to fly for safety, ran down the slope, down to the only place that was open to them, down to the convent. Down, down they came, streaming along, crying and sobbing, dragging their children and the old people, carrying bundles. And Joanna and her men stepped aside to let them pass, and the women, headed by Elena and Dickon, came out to help the poor people within, while the architect himself carried the last of his sick workmen into the convent.
Then Sir Bevil, seeing that at last a force had come out to oppose him, and that his prey was about to escape, spurred his horse, and all his men did the same. Their white flag dropped unheeded to the ground. The tocsin continued to toll. The ramparts of the castle were thronged with onlookers, and now Herkom marshalled his archers and bade them pick their own targets among Sir Bevil’s men, if they should come within range.
‘But who is the knight in the meadow?’ demanded Julian, at Herkom’s elbow. The captain plucked at Julian’s arm, bidding him take cover, and was pushed aside.
Herkom laughed. ‘Hadn’t you guessed? I might have known he would not be so easy to kill. ’Tis the hermit, come down from the hills to save us.’
And so it was, for now a flight of arrows sped down from the bluff, and their targets were Sir Bevil and his men. Three arrows were sped, and two found their mark, sending horses rearing, and riders tumbling.
Then Sir Bevil was rising in his stirrups to aim a blow with his axe at the stranger knight, and the stranger knight was swerving, and with a back-handed cut denting Sir Bevil’s helmet. And the horsemen overwhelmed the newcomers, or so it seemed to those anxiously watching from convent and castle. But it was not so in reality, for the home-made spears now became pikes to be thrust deep into the ground in a semi-circle before the men on foot, and the horses, being driven on to the pikes, refused to advance further, but turned aside, jostling each other and throwing their riders off balance. And from behind this barrier Amory’s men, well-drilled, thrust with more spears at the enemies’ horses, exactly as he had taught them. And they began in silence, and ended in jeering laughter and scorn for Sir Bevil’s men, who could by no means come at them. And all the while Alice and her brother and Rob sent flight after flight of arrows, carefully, into the enemies’ horses, decimating them. Amory and Sir Bevil circled each other in the mead, looking for each other’s weak points, bending their bodies to lessen the impact of blows delivered, their shields cloven in two, their helms dented. Amory had a cut on his thigh, but Sir Bevil’s helm was so badly dented he was unable to see clearly.
The tocsin ceased. Its cessation was so unexpected and so little regarded in the general uproar that at first no one noticed that its oppressive note had gone. Only Joanna, half-carrying an old man along, stopped and lifted her head. And then Dickon and Midge, carrying tools across from the carpenters’ shop, also stopped to listen. One after another men halted, for the ceasing of the bell seemed to presage some alteration in the existing situation. The hope that rose to most hearts was that the castle drawbridge was about to descend and a trained band of mounted men-at-arms issue forth to annihilate the enemy.
Sir Bevil’s arm fell, and he backed his horse away from Amory, glancing to left and right as he did so. His forces were scattered, attacking isolated groups of peasants and workmen as they stumbled and ran to safety. Some were engaged in hand to hand battle with the pikemen up the slope, some were chasing workmen through the unfinished church and around the convent walls. If any men were to issue from the castle at that point, Sir Bevil’s soldiers would be at their mercy.
So thought Amory, too. He also looked around, to see Father Ambrose and John Blackbeard engaged in fending off some horsemen who had circled behind the pikemen and were attacking Alice, her brother, and Rob, who had unwisely come further down into the meadow.
The drawbridge remained high in the air. Sir Bevil took heart, and showed, by a fresh grip on his reins, that he intended to resume the combat. And then out of the convent gates issued a new double file of workmen, armed with bricks to throw, and hammers to heave and smite. They were led by the architect, and if they were ragged in line, their intention was plain. They were out to do murder. Then Amory pulled out his red cloth, and waved it, and down from the hill came his reserve of fresh men, with pikes levelled.
Sir Bevil clapped his horn to his mouth, and sounded the call to retreat.
‘You fight well, Sir Hermit,’ he said, bowing over his horse’s neck to Amory. ‘I trust we will meet again on the field of battle.’
‘An’ God wills,’ replied Amory.
Down the hill came Sir Bevil’s men, and now they were hard pressed by those above, so that three men lost their lives before they reached level ground. Sir Bevil’s lieutenant sent a detachment scurrying to collect those of his men who lingered, searching for loot in the ruins of the burning houses.
Then they withdrew, a strong contingent at the rear, to ward off further attack.
But Amory and his men could not hope to follow. Out of the three horses they had had at the beginning of the action, John Blackbeard’s was dead, and Amory’s wounded. The third, only, remained to them. It fell to Amory, therefore, to husband his men, and while forcing Sir Bevil to retreat as quickly as possible, not to pursue.
‘He will fire the crops, surely,’ said Rob, watching the retreating column.
‘He may not if he fears pursuit from the castle,’ said Amory.
Rob expressed his opinion of those who skulked behind castle walls and left others to do their fighting for them. Amory smiled, but already his mind was passing on to deal with the next problem. He looked at the convent buildings, counted the number of thatched roofs and said that Rob must begin to take the women and children, and all the sick, up the valley to the old tower. They must cut poles to make litters to ca
rry those who could not walk. And at once, he said, for it would not be possible to hold the convent, without cavalry.
John Blackbeard was pointing up the slope, to where a blue cloth had been hung out on a tree. Amory narrowed his eyes. ‘Bad news. Sir Bevil has received reinforcements, and he will be smarting from his defeat this morning. He will be back in strength, either tonight in the hours of darkness, or more likely in the dawn.’
Joanna had come to stand at his stirrup, and though he had started his speech to John Blackbeard and Rob, he finished it to her. She smiled up at him. Her headdress of roses was awry, there was dirt on her face, and she had torn and muddied her gown. She put her hand on his thigh, close to where Sir Bevil’s sword had glanced off the chain mail tunic, and inflicted a deep cut.
‘We have some hours, then. Come, the healer must be healed.’
Julian was very near crying with frustration. In vain he raged at his father. Under no circumstances, said the Count, was his son to risk his precious life in pursuit of Sir Bevil. Why, the enemy’s retreat was probably a feint, for the sole purpose of inveigling Julian out of the castle. Julian stamped out of the hall and sought out Herkom, who was on the ramparts. The sergeant’s usual calm had deserted him.
‘My lord,’ he said to Julian, ‘see how Sir Bevil and his men turn tail and run like rats for safety. With but half our mounted men, I could have wiped him out ere now.’
‘My father will not relent.’ Julian drove his hand against the stone wall, and did not even feel the hurt. ‘I would I knew what to do.’
‘Do, lord? Why, stand by and see your people slaughtered! Let the priest fill your father’s ears with talk of buying off the enemy! If you can buy your safety by giving your hand in marriage to an heiress, then why fight for it? Your peasants die under the sword, their homes are destroyed, and the crops will shortly be burned … but what is that to a knight who can skulk in safety behind high walls while a hermit, a fool and a courageous maid take up arms to protect you? Why, I even saw an ancient ragged friar wield a sword in defence of your people! What reason have we to fight, when we have such doughty champions to do it for us?’
‘Peace!’ cried Julian, and stopped his ears. ‘What can I do?’
‘If you don’t know, then I’m sure I can’t tell you. But I give you warning that the moment my year is up, on Lady Day, I will leave the Count’s service.’
‘Would that I could do likewise!’
Father Hilarion came hurrying to the ramparts. ‘What’s this I hear? They cannot abandon the church and convent! It is unthinkable! You must stop them!’
‘How?’ asked Herkom.
‘I will go down and speak with them. The church must not be left defenceless. Also, the Lady Joanna must return to the castle. It is quite safe now.’
‘I have no orders to let down the drawbridge,’ said Herkom. ‘If you can obtain some, then I will gladly accompany you down to the convent. Midge is there.’
Despite his eloquence, Father Hilarion was not able to gain permission for the drawbridge to be lowered until he had expounded on the importance of bringing the Lady Joanna back into the castle without delay. When Julian said he would go with the priest, the Count turned on his son, accusing him of treachery and ingratitude, and of wishing to bring his father to an early grave. Julian desisted when the priest assured him that he would have no difficulty in carrying out his mission, but neither Julian nor the priest was able to obtain permission for any but Joanna and Midge to return to the castle. The Count would have no one admitted who might bring infection with them.
All this while a stream of refugees were leaving the convent and trudging up through the meadow to disappear into the scrub on the hillside. Each party was led by one of Amory’s men, and the very first party that went up was set in the charge of John Blackbeard and Elena.
The convent gates stood open as Father Hilarion strode down the hill with Herkom at his side, but there were look-outs posted, and those within were aware of the newcomers’ approach before they stepped within the courtyard.
Amory, Midge and Father Ambrose were in the bakehouse of the convent, to which most of the sick women had been brought. Joanna was walking up and down the rows of the sick, her brows contracted in thought. The last of the children had just left, with Dickon in charge of their group. A number of healthy workmen were engaged in making litters for the sick and elderly. Rob was arguing with Alice, who was taking the opportunity to sharpen the two long knives which she wore in her belt.
Amory’s wound was being bathed by Peterkin, who had crept to his side, and refused to leave thereafter. Peterkin had spoken little since he had been put in Elena’s charge, but now he was almost verbose.
‘Did Master find Peterkin’s jug?’ he asked. ‘Peterkin thought it might comfort Master to have it.’
‘Yes, it did,’ said Amory, removing his eyes from Joanna with an effort. ‘It did comfort me. It was good of you to leave it for me, Peterkin. I know what it must have cost you to do so.’
Peterkin glowed. His hands were deft as he wound bandages. ‘Peterkin not leave Master again. Peterkin is barber. Master not shaved today. Peterkin shave him.’
Amory was thirsty. He lifted a cup to his lips, considering Peterkin. The man was ill-proportioned, with large ears and hands, but his desire to belong to someone was as valuable as the actual service which he was offering. Only Amory did not think he had any right to accept such service. He sipped the water, and spat. ‘What water is this?’ he asked.
Peterkin snatched the bowl from him. ‘That’s bad water. Master not drink bad water. Peterkin get fresh water. Best we leave soon. All the water here bad.’
Joanna came up and laid her hand on Amory’s shoulder, smiling down at him. He set one of his own hands over hers. Again their eyes met and clung, and again they found it difficult to recall themselves to a consideration of their plight. Rob shouted something from across the room. They both started, smiled at nothing in particular, and then turned their eyes from each other, that they might not be further tempted to let their attention wander from the matter in hand. Joanna unpinned her cloak which Kate had rescued for her when the babies had been sent up the hill. She laid it around his shoulders, and pinned it into place once more, using the old swan brooch.
She said, ‘When I heard you were dead. …’ She shook her head, unable to express how grief had affected her. ‘Then when I heard you were alive, but about to leave … I think that was worse, although it ought not to have been … you should have gone.’ He shook his head, smiling at her. She touched his neck, the tip of his ear, and withdrew her hand, quickly, as if she had burned herself. ‘When I saw you ride down into the meadow, I knew at once. …’ She pressed both her hands to her breast, and laughed. ‘I shivered, all over.’
He laughed, too. His eyes glowed. ‘Joanna,’ he said. ‘Oh, Joanna.’
‘I never liked my name, till now. My father wanted a boy. I should have been a boy called John.’ Thus she confided in him.
‘You, a boy? Then mine would have been an unnatural love.’ He grasped her hand, looking down on it, and not up at her. ‘I do not know if I killed her or not.’ Thus he told her of his love and his fears.
She put her hand on his shoulder again, absolving him. He pressed her hand hard against him, and released it, turning back to Peterkin.
‘What does Peterkin mean by saying that the water is bad?’ He had no great interest in the matter, but sought distraction from the thoughts that Joanna was putting into his head.
‘The water supply here is not good. I think it may be polluted by the peasants who live on the other side of the castle, and who empty their refuse into the river. So the water here gets sewage not only from the castle, but also from them, and from the workmen at the camp. Elena and the others have been drawing water from the spring in the meadow above, but there is no fresh water here. We have little food now, either, for we had to give the women and children and workmen something before they left.’
Amory looked around the room, crowded with figures lying higgledy-piggledy on the floor, and leaning against the walls. Midge and Father Ambrose went among them, doing what they could to ease their sufferings. Kate, looking sick and scared, crouched in a huddle against a pillar nearby.
‘I have seen this sort of sickness before,’ said Amory. ‘In the army in France. I am sure you are right, and it is due to the water. In which case, the sooner they are moved, the better.’
Peterkin came back with a bowl full of clear water. ‘Peterkin shave master now.’
Amory took the bowl from him. ‘Not yet. Peterkin, you know I am hermit. I cannot take a servant.’
‘Peterkin will turn hermit, too. Peterkin not leave Master again.’
‘I am not your master.’
‘Master,’ repeated Peterkin. ‘Peterkin not leave you.’
‘Say, “I”, Peterkin. “I will not leave you”.’
The man smiled, and his smile was something to catch at one’s heart, so childlike and joyful was it. ‘I,’ he said. ‘I will not leave you.’
‘Nor I,’ said Joanna. ‘I will not leave you, either.’
‘It is not possible,’ said Amory, giving a hand to each of them. ‘But I thank you.’
Peterkin shook his head at Amory, as at a child, and went away to help Father Ambrose. Joanna sank to the seat beside him, and sighed.
‘You are tired,’ he said, noting the thinness of her cheek, and her new look of patience and maturity. ‘You must go back to the castle. They will let you in now.’
My Lord, the Hermit Page 20
