Amory’s room was on a small landing off a broad but shallow flight of steps, in one of the round towers. He ran lightly up the steps, and heard his shadow’s sandalled feet slap on the stone behind him. Then there was the whirr of an arrow, shot straight and true. Amory threw up his arms with a cry, and fell, the torch dropping from his hand. The brand flared briefly, and died. And as it died, Peterkin looked out of the chamber, and saw Amory lying at his feet, with an arrow sticking out of the folds of the mantle he wore.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
‘IT is only a bruise.’ Peterkin bathed the purple weal on Amory’s back. ‘It is as well that you had to wear chain mail for the pageant. Otherwise you would be dead by now. Was it one of the monks? I thought I saw a cowled head disappear round the stairs. Or maybe it was one of Sir Bevil’s men, escaped from the dungeons, and daring all to protect his master. Shall I raise the alarm?’
‘No, I think not. Tomorrow I’ll go armed to the chapel, and after that it will not matter.’
Amory stretched and winced. The arrow had driven the mail into his flesh, making its mark even though he had worn a leather hauberk beneath the armour. Yet the tunic had saved his life. Amory picked it up, and moved the candle nearer to inspect the damage. The chain mail he had worn on the hill-top and in the fight around the convent had been of antiquated make; merely a series of largish iron rings sewn with thread on to a leather base, in rows. It had been short in the leg for him, and thereby he had come by his wound in the thigh. It had also been extremely heavy.
This mail of Julian’s was much lighter, of smaller rings overlapping one another. One row of rings had been laid one way, and the next in the opposite direction. The material on to which the rings had been sewn was gathered into tucks which enclosed a cord, and this cord, when drawn up, separated the rows and kept the rings flat, giving a much stronger, more flexible garment. Two of the rings at the back were bent, but not broken through.
‘There is no time to have them repaired,’ said Amory. ‘Yet I think it does not matter, for I do not intend to offer my back as a target tomorrow.’
‘And I will mend the rents in the surcoat, and in my lord count’s mantle, too.’
Amory looked around him, at the cheerful fire, the water and towels laid ready for him, the fur on the bed, the curtains, and above all, at Peterkin’s friendly face. ‘Peterkin, I do not know how I would have managed these last few days, if it had not been for you. My Lord Julian will look after you in the future. I shall miss you.’
‘I think not, my lord. I will accompany you to the hillside, as I said I would. Shall I trim your hair and shave you now, or in the morning?’
‘In the morning. Peterkin, you are not listening. I can have no servant now. I cannot even pay you for the services you have rendered me of late.’
‘I have had food and clothing and a place to lay my head. I shall not want in the future, either. We have been taking counsel together, Elena and Dickon, Kate and Alice and I. And Father Ambrose, of course. We have decided that Elena and Dickon, Alice and I, will set up a hostelry for travellers in one of the cob houses the soldiers have built beside the church. We shall earn our keep by that means, and be able to serve you still. Even Father Hilarion cannot object to that.’ Little Peterkin looked so fierce that Amory laughed, and laughing, clasped his servant to him. This show of affection both embarrassed and pleased Peterkin, who shook his head and smiled and set himself out of reach.
Amory cleared his throat. ‘It is a good idea, Peterkin, and I am sure my lord Julian will help you. But does Alice agree?’
‘Not to marry me, no. But I live in hope.’ He put a small phial in his master’s hand. ‘The boy Fulk brought it for you. He prepared the draught with some help from the Lady Joanna. They thought you might care to use some tonight. It is a sleeping potion, made to your own recipe from cowslip flowers.’
‘I never use such things.’
‘I remember you gave me some one night, when I could not sleep. My lord, you told me then that it had no ill effects, and indeed it had not. That was the first night I slept, after the soldiers … I will pour some out for you.’
Amory stripped the oiled silk from the neck of the phial, and took a sip. He pulled a face. ‘Far too strong. A third of this will suffice. You must warn Fulk that he has made it too strong.’
‘Very well. I will keep the rest for you to drink tomorrow night.’
Tomorrow night. Would there be a tomorrow night for him? Amory wondered if it would find him lying in a hillside grave, or in this chamber, or … where? He sat, gazing into the fire, thinking of Joanna.
He was surprised to hear himself yawn. Was he that sleepy? Ah, the potion, of course. Joanna and Fulk … may the blessing of God. …
He stumbled to the bed, and fell asleep.
The sun pierced the gloom of the castle chapel, sending a broad beam through the window. The ray struck the shoulder of Father Hilarion, and lit up the white surcoat of the man who knelt before him. Amory lifted his face to the sun, and it was warm on his skin, like a caress from the woman he loved. He smiled as the priest buckled on his sword and knelt to fasten the spurs on mailed feet. Now Amory was fully armed, save for helmet and gloves. The red crosses on his back and breast glowed in the sunlight.
The service was over. Amory turned and walked out of the chapel, down the steps and into the courtyard. To his left the whipping post stood ready. A cluster of men had stationed themselves before it, thinking perhaps that it might upset his concentration if he saw it clearly. He saw it, but though he felt the usual pang of fear, today fear was overlaid with so much else that he could continue to smile.
Herkom was leading the Count’s own horse forward; Amory checked the girths, and ran his hands over the horse’s legs. He had ridden this horse every day for three days and there was an understanding between man and beast already. This was a war-horse, trained to withstand the shock of the tourney. It was a valuable animal, and Amory hoped it would come to no harm. Midge was at his elbow, silent for once, and behind him hovered Peterkin and Father Ambrose. All three smiled at him, but found they had no words to say. Their ponies waited beside them.
The women were mounting their horses, and leaving the courtyard. Joanna was passing under the gatehouse, looking back at him. He would probably not speak with her again. She was smiling, and waving to him. He lifted his hand to her, and made sure that his own smile did not fade. The Count was being hauled into the saddle of a gentle-paced mare, and beside him the Countess, already mounted, was fussing over him. She did not normally leave the castle, but today she would not have dreamed of remaining there.
‘Three lances,’ said Julian, checking them. ‘I am glad you allowed me the privilege of acting as your squire. I don’t know how you can be so calm.’
‘I’m not,’ said Amory, and swung himself up into the saddle. He pulled the hood of his chain mail tunic up over his head. His helmet and gloves swung at his saddlebow, together with a mace. Herkom handed him up a shield which Amory slung on his back. There was a slight breeze which would be welcome on what promised to be a hot day. Amory’s hair had been trimmed that morning, and he had had a bath in which Peterkin had thrown some refreshing herbs. He had slept well for the first time for weeks, and if only he could banish fear, he thought he might not acquit himself too badly.
Three of the pages were jumping up behind men-at-arms, riding behind them to see the fight. Three more were mounting their own ponies to do the same. The Lady Floria stood at the head of the stairs with the nuns, waiting to see him off. They would not come to watch the fight, but were staying to prepare rooms for the abbot and his retinue, who had been due to arrive yesterday, but who had no doubt been delayed by having to go the long way around to avoid Sir Bevil and his men.
It was time for him to be off. Herkom and Julian rode on either side of him. Herkom was studying the sky. Amory, too, looked up at the flying clouds.
‘A pity we couldn’t arrange to run the lists from south to north, i
nstead of from east to west,’ said Herkom. ‘You are going to have the sun in your eyes, I fear.’
Amory shrugged. They were to run three lengths of the list with lances, then fight on horseback with whatever weapon they chose, and finish, if necessary, on foot with sword or mace.
‘I wish you had not insisted on fighting to the death,’ said Julian.
‘Sir Bevil would not have taken the challenge seriously if he had not,’ said Herkom, answering for Amory. ‘But I daresay that if the villain cries for quarter, he will be given it.’
‘And you?’ Julian asked Amory. ‘Will you cry for quarter if you are down?’
Amory looked amused. ‘It’s not likely that he would give it.’
The lists lay at the foot of the hills that ran from east to west across the end of the valley, between the quarry and the encampment which had been manned by the castle since the attack on the convent. Temporary stands had been set up on the castle side for the Count and his household. Stakes had been driven into the ground at intervals around the oblong which comprised the actual ground on which the tourney was to take place, and these had been linked with ropes to keep spectators back. At the west end a small pavilion had been set up for Amory, Herkom and Julian. No man of the Count’s was to cross behind this pavilion, and that went for Sir Bevil’s men on the east side, too, where a similar pavilion had been erected for Sir Bevil. Thus the two sides were kept apart.
The sergeant of the men-at-arms from the castle galloped up to Amory and Julian to report that all was quiet. John Blackbeard, who was still stationed up in the hills, had just sent word down that there had been no movement out of the quarry or along the hill-top, save for Sir Bevil’s men coming and going between their camps and the lists. However, a detachment of Sir Bevil’s men had brought newly-felled tree trunks in from the woods on the previous day, and they were preparing some sort of machine with them.
‘You remember that tourney at York, when you nearly lost your horse and armour?’ Herkom asked Amory.
‘The man fought foul. Yes, I remember. You think Sir Bevil will fight foul, too! I agree. He might. I will be on my guard.’
All was ready against their coming. The stands were full of castle folk craning to watch Amory arrive. The Count’s horses had been tethered under strong guard, and a detachment of archers waited at either end of the lists, in case Sir Bevil’s men staged a surprise attack.
‘I don’t like the sound of this machine they are making,’ said Herkom.
‘They are mounting it – whatever it is – on a wagon. It’s some kind of framework. The lad who brought the message from Blackbeard said it looked like a gallows to him. But that’s nonsense.’
‘Which lad was it?’ asked Amory.
‘His name was Col, or some such.’
‘He’d be right.’ Amory’s hand checked the reins of his horse. The others, perforce, also drew to a halt. ‘I know what he’s done,’ said Amory. ‘There was a man of his on the hill-top, who was kind to me. He helped me escape. When Sir Bevil discovered I was still alive, he would have questioned the men he left at the church, and found out who set me free. I suppose he means to hang that man on the gallows just as we start to joust, hoping that the sight will unnerve me.’
‘Or torture him the while,’ said Herkom. ‘I will send Rob to the hillside, to work his way near them. Rob will put the poor devil out of his misery, if he screams. You cannot afford to be distracted.’
‘Can I afford to slay a man who might otherwise survive? I owe him a life, and promised I would not kill him if we met in battle. No, I will stop my ears, rather than have his death on my conscience.’
‘One man’s life cannot be weighed against the lives of all those who depend on you, my lord.’
‘Nevertheless, I will not kill him. If Sir Bevil does so, that is one thing; but I will not.’
Herkom met Julian’s eye. Julian nodded. Herkom jerked his head at the sergeant, who nodded his understanding. Amory did not see this exchange, nor think anything of it when the sergeant presently rode away to speak with Rob.
Amory was concentrating on the ground before him. It was reasonably level, with only an occasional tuft of coarse grass and puddle to stand as reminder that the valley had once been a marsh. The breeze had brought some light clouds up from the south, and these would minimise the effect of his having to charge into the sun. Pages were running to open up the flaps of his pavilion for him, and two squires were waiting to take his horse. He dismounted, and went inside the tent.
Across the length of the lists he could see activity in Sir Bevil’s pavilion, although the giant himself had not yet appeared. Some of Sir Bevil’s men had come out and were lining the ropes on their side of the lists, jeering and pulling noses at the Count and his household. They seemed in high spirits, assured of victory. Amory noted their confidence, and he did not smile.
Behind Sir Bevil’s men lay the quarry, and out of the quarry a wagon was being drawn, with a framework of poles lashed to it. It was being drawn by Sir Bevil’s men, and not by horses, over the grass to a space in the middle of their side of the lists. A man was tied to one of the uprights: he was bearded and filthy, and his torso, which was all that Amory could see above the heads of the soldiers, was naked. As Amory had guessed, it was the man who had helped him escape.
Amory looked down at his hands. They had clenched into fists. He sat down on the stool provided for him, and waved away the cup of wine which Julian was holding.
He wished he could pray. He tried to. The familiar words slipped through his mind and away, melting into fear. This was the worst time, and no one could help him through it. He must sit and wait. It was past the hour which had been set for the start, but Sir Bevil might well have guessed that waiting would be hard for Amory. The pavilion opposite was still empty.
‘Where the devil is he?’ demanded Julian.
Amory did not reply. He was trying to recall the peace of his little church, and the feel of the rough stones under his hands. He could not do it. Then, like a hand laid on his shoulder, arresting his panic, came the thought of Joanna. He could not see her from where he sat, but he knew that she was in the stand, and praying for him. Her warmth was with him, and all about him … and Father Ambrose, and Midge and all the others. … All he had to do was allow them to encompass him in that warmth, and he would be safe.
Julian touched him on the shoulder. Amory started. Some time must have passed, and he unaware of it. Sir Bevil was coming out of the pavilion opposite, his bulk towering over the figure of his esquire. The wagon had been brought to the middle of the lists, directly opposite the Count’s chair. The man who had helped Amory escape was standing on it, with his arms bound to his sides. His torso showed that he had been flogged recently. A man at-arms was throwing a rope over the gallows, and dropping the looped end round the captive’s neck. Another loop already dangled from the cross-beam. Amory frowned, and then shook his head. What did it matter who else died? Would not many more innocent men – aye, women and children too – die, if he did not kill Sir Bevil today?
They were holding his horse for him. He mounted, and settled his flat-topped helm over the close-fitting mail hood. He drew on his mailed gloves, and put his left forearm through the loops inside his shield. Now it only remained to get into position, and accept the first of his lances from Julian.
Sir Bevil was on his horse, but had not yet put on his helm. His squire was holding it up for him. Amory’s eyes narrowed. He had not thought Sir Bevil would be such a fool as to wear an old-fashioned helmet for a tourney. The helmets worn by the Normans when they came over with William a hundred and fifty years before had been conical, with a projecting nose-piece. Over the years this style had gradually gone out of fashion, being replaced by helms with heavier, flattened tops which had no nose-pieces. There had been a very good reason for the loss of the nose-piece, but it seemed that Sir Bevil relied on his height to keep his head out of range of his adversary. Nevertheless, it was a weak point: possib
ly the only one.
‘Sir Anchorite!’ Thus Sir Bevil, making a trumpet of his hands. ‘What! Sir Hermit, ho! We meet again for the last time, I think. Have you said your prayers today?’
Amory’s eyes flicked to the wagon, and he shivered. He had a premonition of what was about to happen.
‘You see that wagon? There are two nooses there, but a noose is too good for a traitor. Those loops will hold my prisoners fast, with their legs beating the air, but they will not choke the life out of them. You hear me? Death is slow in coming to those who disobey me.’
And now Amory’s shield drooped on his arm, for Sir Bevil’s men were hoisting something to hang from that second rope … and that something wriggled and yelped and was black and white … his collie, his faithful dog, that had gone unwillingly with Joanna and escaped to follow her master, only to run back into the arms of her master’s enemies.
‘They will roast over slow fires, do you hear?’ shouted Sir Bevil. ‘The dog and the traitor who set you free shall hang over braziers before your eyes. You shall hear their screams, and strive as you may, your arm will falter.’ And Sir Bevil laughed.
‘God preserve them,’ whispered Amory. Horror held him motionless. And then Julian was beside him, urging something or other, and Amory could hear that Julian was speaking, but could make no sense of the words. And there was a buzzing in his ears that might have been the noise of people shouting, or might not.
Then a lance was thrust into his right hand, and out of habit he levelled it, and brought up his shield, pulling the horse round into position as he did so. And looking up he saw that Sir Bevil had not waited for his adversary to prepare himself as he ought to have done, but was already cantering towards him … a threatening mountain of a man. …
But Amory’s horse responded, bearing him towards his opponent, and Amory himself crouched on his horse’s neck behind his shield, noting the speed of the other’s advance, and the angle at which the reins were held, and how the other’s lance was no more than a splinter of darkness … there was a howl in the distance that set Amory’s hair on end, and then a crash as the two lances splintered on shields, and the force of the impact knocked both riders and horses back on their haunches.
My Lord, the Hermit Page 28
