‘… confirm that you have broken …?’
Again Amory nodded.
Had he anything to say in mitigation? Amory shook his head.
Did he admit that the penance set by Father Hilarion was a just penance? Again Amory nodded. It was harsh, but it was just. And it did not matter much one way or the other for he knew, just as Herkom knew and Father Ambrose, and Peterkin, that he would not survive fifty, let alone a hundred lashes in his present condition. Amory did not care.
He decided he would not look for Joanna. It would only hurt to do so. He looked. Midge was kneeling at her feet, and she had laid one hand on his shoulder, while with the other arm she supported a weeping Kate. She held her head high, as a queen does, receiving his homage, his love, his farewell. She did not smile at him, but strength seemed to flow into Amory with her glance, and he drew himself up, and pushed Father Ambrose away from him.
Two monks came forward and stood one on either side of him. Someone was shouting. Julian? It did not matter. The Count appeared distressed, his mother was fussing. Poor man. Weak man. Dead man. Who was dead? Not Amory: or not yet. Soon.
One of the monks touched Amory on the shoulder, and indicated that he should follow them. He did so. It was hard work not to stumble, or bump into walls, but he managed it. They went out through a small door on to one of the staircases that wound up and down through the thick walls of the keep. This time they were going down. There was no daylight here. They went past the door that gave on to the castle granary, and down again, into the dungeons. Torches were alight in sconces in the walls here and there, but in the main it was dark. Amory faltered. One of the monks took his left arm, and propelled him on. The air was not good down here. A turn in the passage, and they came to the underground guard room. Here was Father Hilarion, and a man in a leather apron. A smith. There were chains hanging here and there from the walls, and at one side was a small forge.
Now at last Amory could sink to the ground and rest. A heavy chain was produced, and fastened to his ankles. His fresh linen tunic was taken from him, together with his breeches and his sling. He did not care much about that, but he did that he was thirsty, and when he asked in signs for water, they laughed, and refused him any. Amory saw that Father Hilarion was watching him for a hint of weakness, and smiling. Amory understood then that the priest’s object was to break Amory’s spirit before he died. Filth and thirst, nakedness and chains and lack of daylight could do this as thoroughly, if not as fast, as pain. And of course there was pain, too. His shoulder … the pain was making him feel sick.
Then the bridle had to be fitted to his head. Father Hilarion was angry with the smith because the man had not produced the usual sort of scold’s bridle, but the smith said you could not eat in a scold’s bridle, and that Amory was a brave man to stand up to that unholy terror, Sir Bevil, and if Father Hilarion wanted to take a turn with the hammer, he could do so – and if no one else would get the poor devil some water, then he personally would see to it. And one of the monks brought a bowl of brackish water for Amory to drink, which helped keep faintness away.
The smith was not ungentle as he fitted the bridle on Amory, and shortened it here, and lengthened it there. He had made something that looked like a horse’s bridle, with a ‘bit’ that held the tongue down, linked to a semi-circular band that went round the back of his head, and another which went over his head, before his ears. The whole fastened with a padlock at one side.
‘No padlock,’ said Father Hilarion. ‘He’s to wear it for the rest of his life.’
The smith shrugged, but did as he was bid. He made sure, though, that Amory would be able to move his lower jaw freely up and down, even though the ‘bit’ in his mouth would follow the movement of his tongue. At least he would ensure that Amory could eat. He was something of a craftsman, was this smith, and left no burrs on the metal to chafe Amory’s skin, and for this the prisoner was grateful. When the bridle was finished and riveted on, Amory gagged. He tried to master his revulsion. What did it matter? He could eat after a fashion, he supposed … if he were to live he must force himself to eat.
The smith helped him to stand. Amory’s shoulder protested. He shut his eyes on the pain. Joanna … I can’t. …
One of the monks took his left arm, pulling him forward. Amory opened his eyes.
‘Come!’ said Father Hilarion. Amory tried, but the weight of the new chain was too much for him, and he stumbled, and fell to his knees. Father Hilarion smiled.
Amory looked at the priest, and that smile reminded him of … someone … Amory put his hands to his head, touching the bridle … jerking his mind back to. …
Then he remembered, and in that moment he understood everything. He knew who had been in Mariana’s chamber the day he returned, and he knew who had hit him. He knew whose child she had borne, and the reason for the vow of silence.
It was too late, of course. He was gagged for life, and the other man was safe for life.
And Amory, in that strange state of fatigue when everything becomes unreal, felt that this was the true point of death for him. Bitterness rose in his throat, and he fell against the wall. And falling, he jarred his shoulder again, so that the pain drove out all memory, all reason, all sight.
And he fell into darkness, with his enemy’s laughter in his ears.
He woke slowly. He heard someone groan. There was a rustle, and something scuttered nearby. There was a sharp pain in his shoulder which jarred to agony as he tried to sit up. He could not sit upright. The roof was too low. He opened his eyes and found he was in a Little Ease, a cell so designed as to be too small for its inmate either to sit up, or lie at full length. A grating padlocked him into the cell, and there was very little light. The chains dragged at his ankles. There was some fetid straw under him, and someone had placed a bowl of water and a crust of bread inside the grating. Neither bread nor water looked particularly fresh, but he was so thirsty that he did not care; He drank all the water, and then found he could not chew the crust with the bridle in position. The ‘bit’ rubbed the corners of his mouth. If he had kept back some of the water, he could perhaps have softened the bread. He tore off a small piece and put it in his mouth, but it was no good. His mouth was too dry. His skin was clammy. Presently pain swept through his stomach. He knew what it was.
He had caught the dysentery which had affected so many of the workmen – and Bethany. Well, he supposed it was lucky for everyone in the castle that he had not contracted it earlier. Feverish, and without medication, he would – with any luck – die before he was dragged out to be whipped.
Joanna … he dwelt on the last sight he had had of her, standing so tall and straight … he was glad he would never see her again. Vanity, perhaps, but he would not like to see the love die out of her eyes, as it would if she were to see him as he was now: filthy, in chains, bridled and ill. …
One of the men-at-arms was peering through the grating at him. He was saying something, but Amory could not reply. The man left. Amory’s head sank back on to the straw, and he turned his face from the light.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE abbot sat on the right of Julian, and on his right sat the gracious Lady Joanna. They were acting host and hostess, for the Count and his mother had retired early. Yet though the two young people paid their guest every attention, they would not discuss the subjects on which the abbot wished to dwell. Any mention of the lack of progress on the unfinished church, and of how soon work could recommence on the burned-out convent, fell on deaf ears.
‘You will do nothing with the church until Amory is set free to work with the men there,’ declared Joanna. ‘Did I not have that from the architect’s own lips, and did not the master mason and master carpenter agree with him? Their workmen have suffered too much, and they say it is all because the Count refused to help Amory.’
‘The hermit’s name is Keren,’ said the abbot, an edge to his voice. ‘I think it is time we talked of more important matters, lady. That affair is settled.�
��
Julian twirled wine in his goblet. ‘I asked Father Hilarion if I might see him, but he would not allow it. He said Amory was well lodged, and asleep.’
‘I do not trust that man,’ said Joanna. ‘His deeds are always at variance with his words.’
The abbot raised an eyebrow. ‘As I was saying, this business of Sir Bevil has been most unfortunate. We ourselves have suffered greatly from his depredations, but now that it seems peace is to come on the land, the quicker we can return to normal the better.’
‘Yes, our harvest is saved, thanks to Amory,’ said Julian. ‘I fear he is going to pay heavily for it, though. A hundred lashes! And in his condition!’
‘It must not be!’ Joanna struck the table.
‘Does the lady doubt the Church’s right to punish those who break their vows? Did the hermit himself not admit the justice of the complaint Father Hilarion brought against him? Now, let us talk of the convent. It is most unsatisfactory that the holy nuns should be lodged in one of the towers here. …’
‘I am not talking of justice,’ said Joanna. ‘I know little of such man-made and fallible institutions. I am talking about right and wrong or, if you like, about good and evil. Tell me, my lord abbot: how can a good man work evil deeds, and an evil man work good?’
The abbot’s foot began to tap under the table. He turned his shoulder on Joanna and addressed himself to Julian. ‘This matter of the holy nuns, now. Your aunt and cousins are most emphatic that. …’
‘Well, it’s certain that they don’t do any good deeds,’ said Joanna. ‘I’ve never seen one of them lift a finger to help anyone, in the whole time I’ve been here.’
‘Their prayers,’ said the abbot, ‘have no doubt made a great contribution to the happy outcome of this affair.’
‘Prayers wouldn’t have done much, without Amory. I’ve never known a man so unselfish. Do you know, his last thought was for the men and women he’d befriended? He had no money to give them, or to buy their freedom, so he begged me to. …’ Julian drained his wine at a gulp, and held out his goblet so that the page should pour some more in. ‘I feel so ashamed!’
‘And some more wine for the abbot,’ directed Joanna. ‘My lord, will you have another pasty? Our cook is famous for his pasties. I wonder if Amory had some suitable food taken to him. I am so afraid he will become feverish if he is not looked after properly. That wound of his … and he was wounded before, too.’
The abbot beckoned to Father Hilarion, seated some distance away. ‘Father, will you satisfy these young people here that the hermit is well looked after?’
Father Hilarion bowed. ‘He was a little feverish, but a night’s rest will put him in good shape to face his whipping.’
‘Now,’ said the abbot. ‘This question of the convent. Your father, my lord Julian, has bid me treat with you about this, and. …’
‘I will treat with no one about the convent or anything else,’ declared Julian, ‘until you promise to reconsider Amory’s case.’
‘On what grounds? I know all about the murder, remember. I was prior of the abbey nearby, at that time. I myself went to the house, when the news came in that the young lord had returned and attacked his wife in a fit of madness. I saw him. I questioned the lady Mariana, and the servants. I myself physicked him. The verdict was correct. What more do you want?’
‘I question the verdict,’ said Joanna. ‘Oh, I don’t question the facts, but recently Amory has begun to remember a little more about what happened that day. He was knocked on the back of the head as he went through the door. …’
‘You are mistaken. He was wounded on the brow. You can see the mark, even today. I would have known him anywhere by that mark.’
‘He was hit on the back of the head. There is no reason why he should not have been hit both back and front, is there?’
‘You are making an unjustifiable assumption. Who is supposed to have had a fight with him? His pregnant wife?’
‘No. A man. I don’t know who, but Amory mentioned a name once, which he said might or might not mean something. Henry of Lus … Lus-something. I have it. Henry of Luscombe. Apparently his wife was fond of this Henry of Luscombe, before they married. And … what is the matter, my lord?’
The abbot was drumming on the table with his fingertips. His eyes were fixed on something at the far end of the hall. Joanna looked, but saw nothing to attract his attention. She exchanged glances with Julian.
‘The name means something to you, my lord?’
‘I think … for the moment I cannot quite. … No, this is absurd. Are you accusing this young man of murder?’
‘What “young man”?’ asked Joanna. ‘Is Henry of Luscombe known to you?’
‘No, no. I spoke at random. I know no one of that name. Now, shall we talk of the convent?’
When Julian woke next morning, he remembered Amory telling him that if he ever wanted any information, he should ask Father Ambrose. Joanna had been so insistent that a man called Henry of somewhere or other might have had something to do with Amory’s troubles … annoying girl, Joanna … but perhaps Father Ambrose might know something of the man. Herkom was outside Julian’s chamber door, however, with news that diverted Julian from his original intention.
‘Beg to report,’ said Herkom. ‘Complaint against myself, laid by Father Hilarion. Complaint justified. Overridden the Count, your father’s orders. Ready to submit to judgment.’
‘Good God, what have you done?’
‘Worried about my lord. Peterkin, Midge, Father Ambrose, I. Thought he ought to have some of the sleeping draught he’d left with Peterkin. Peterkin went to Father Hilarion’s room – my lord not there. Went to the monks’ dormitory; not there, either. Sent Kate to nuns’ quarters: not there. Last seen in the hall, going down to dungeons. Searched dungeons, and found him in Little Ease. Key to padlock missing. Forced padlock, carried my lord up to guardroom. Very ill. Hardly knew us. Father Hilarion came and was very angry. Said a lot of things about vermin which I didn’t like. Was short with him. He insisted his monks must watch over my lord. Father Ambrose wouldn’t leave his patient, so locked both into cell off guardroom, and monk took key. Father Hilarion said he’d have me whipped. Beg to report, my lord: ready to take whipping.’
‘And my lord Amory?’
‘Very weak, my lord. Father Hilarion’s been to see him again this morning, and he says my lord is fit to take his whipping. Begging your pardon, my lord Julian, but Father Hilarion doesn’t have my confidence in the matter.’
‘Oh, my God!’ Julian clutched at his hair. ‘I’ll go to my father. You did quite right, Herkom, and you will certainly not be whipped for it.’
But his father would not listen. The previous day’s excitement had been too much for him – or so he said – and he was keeping to his bed. His mother and the Lady Floria hovered over him.
‘We must not forget,’ said the Count, ‘chat the hermit fought for us because it was in his interests to do so. Sir Bevil would have killed him, otherwise. Now he must take his punishment for breaking his vows.’
‘This punishment will kill him,’ shouted Julian.
The Count closed his eyes, and the women drove Julian from the room. He stamped out, and met Joanna. She was very calm, but pale.
‘I have heard,’ she said. ‘What are you going to do about it?’
‘What can I do? The abbot will not listen. My father will not listen. I can’t stand by and see him whipped. I think I’ll go out hunting.’
‘Oh no, you won’t,’ said Joanna. ‘You’ll come to the courtyard with me, as will everyone else who owes Amory something. If we cannot prevent his being whipped, we can at least show him that we are sorry about it. He must not feel that he is being deserted by his friends, as Christ was deserted. Perhaps if we were to kneel and pray while … during the … it might help him. I have sent messages to the tower, and up to the hill-top, and to the workmen and the peasants, for any who love him to come. Joyeuse said she would come, too, altho
ugh the nuns have refused. They seem to hold Amory responsible for the burning of their convent.’
‘He will be the scapegoat for everything, soon.’
Side by side the cousins went down the stairs into the great hall. The abbot and his retinue were there, preparing to ride out to survey the damage done to the ruined convent. The abbot had a fine fur-lined cloak about his shoulders, and was drawing on a pair of embroidered gloves.
‘A pleasant day,’ he cried. ‘Shall we go together to look at the convent?’
‘We go to see something far less pleasant,’ said Joanna. ‘Our very good friend, who has spent the night in chains in Little Ease, is to be whipped this morning. He is gravely ill with dysentery, as well as suffering from his wounds. The guards do not think he will live through his punishment. The smith, whom Father Hilarion bribed to fetter Amory has fled the castle, without his money. The captain of the guard refuses to flog Amory, and says that none of his men will do so, either. It appears that your priest, your charitable, Good Samaritan of a priest, must do it himself. Will you not change your plans and come to watch? St George was rewarded for fighting the dragon with the hand of the princess, but our friend is to be rewarded with martyrdom … unless you see the point of stopping Father Hilarion before he actually kills Amory.’
‘A martyr? The hermit? But the man is a proven murderer, and … no, no: you are quite right. We cannot afford to make a martyr out of him. Very well, I will come, though I do not quite see how I can interfere beyond warning Father Hilarion to be careful. Justice must not only be done, but be seen to be done. I must uphold Father Hilarion in this matter.’
‘Is it justice to kill the man who saved the church for you, and cleared the valley of the rebels?’
‘Ah, but look at the convent. …’
‘That would have been saved, too, if Amory had had his way.’
‘Indeed? Perhaps you will tell me about it, as we go along.’
Amory woke from a drugged sleep. He was no longer in Little Ease, but lying wrapped in warm cloaks in an airy cell off the guardroom. Someone was setting a cup of mulled wine to his lips. Father Ambrose. The little priest’s face was deeply lined, but he was smiling, and murmuring that Amory must drink, and for this once he must drink wine, for it would do him more good than water. There were soppets of bread soaking in the wine. It was not easy to swallow them, but Amory did so, aware that he had eaten nothing the previous day. The chains on his ankles no longer chafed, for Father Ambrose had wound strips of leather round his feet. His stomach cramps had eased a little.
My Lord, the Hermit Page 30
