‘Well, well,’ said the abbot. ‘It’s all over, now.’
‘I wish it were,’ said Julian, gloomily stirring up one of the dogs with his foot. ‘There’s all the clearing up to be done, and Father is leaving everything to me. I know who would be the ideal man to send to negotiate with Sir Bevil’s family. Are you with me, Joanna? He must be strong yet compassionate, shrewd yet patient.’
‘I’m ahead of you,’ said Joanna, clapping her hands. ‘Julian, you do have good ideas, now and then! There I was, at my wits’ end to know what to do next. Of course Amory must go! My lord abbot. …’
‘Out of the question!’ said the abbot.
‘Really?’ said Julian. ‘Another glass of wine for the abbot. …’
‘Quite impossible,’ said the abbot. They were in the solar after dining, and the argument was still going on. ‘The hermit must return to the hill-top, and complete the church.’
‘Someone shot an arrow at his back on the night of the pageant,’ said Alice, who was all ears. ‘Peterkin told me about it. We think it was Father Hilarion, who was the only one in the castle, almost, who was not watching the pageant, and who wouldn’t, therefore, know that my lord Amory was wearing armour that night.’
‘But why should he …!’ The abbot stood up and strode to the window. ‘I forbid you to talk in this vein any longer. Father Hilarion is out of favour with you. Very well. But do not expect me to join you into hounding him further.’
‘Whether you like it or not,’ said Joanna, ‘I am not to be silenced. I have made up my mind to marry Amory, or no one.’
‘You have no choice,’ said Julian. ‘You’ve got to do as my father tells you in this matter.’
‘Amory is rich.’
‘Not at the moment, he isn’t. He’s got to complete that church before he can do anything else. It might take him years.’
‘Suppose I gave him my money to help him complete the church?’
‘My father would never allow it.’
‘All right,’ said Joanna. ‘But suppose that you ordered the masons and carpenters and everyone to help him finish it. They won’t work on the buildings down here in the valley until Amory helps them, so why not let them help him? How long would it take then?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Julian, comfortably stretching his legs to the fire, and then wincing again at the pain at his back.
‘Suppose I ask the architect?’ said Joanna. ‘Suppose we all helped? I don’t think so very much needs doing to finish the church, now. Why, when we were down by the quarry the other day, I looked up at the hill-top, and it seemed to me that the church was very nearly complete. The walls had apertures for windows, and part of it was thatched over with reeds or hides or something like that. You said yourself that some of Sir Bevil’s men had been living in it.’
‘That’s very true,’ said Julian, sitting upright. ‘I rode up there myself this afternoon, and although it’s very rough and ready … more of a barn than a church. …’
‘It depends on your definition of the word “church”, doesn’t it?’ said Joanna, and now her eyes were soft and shining and bent on the abbot. ‘My lord, that building was a church and Mass was being celebrated in it months ago, when the walls were barely at shoulder height. Amory had to stop building it, in order to defend the people who fled from Sir Bevil’s men. And because it was the only building there with solid walls, the poor folk piled more and more stones on them, building them higher and higher. … Alice and Kate and Elena have told me all about it. And then when people died, they were buried within the ring of stakes Amory had caused to be set about the church, in order to fortify the place. And so a churchyard was created. Later, when Amory was driven from the hill-top, Sir Bevil’s men continued to build up the walls, because they could see the advantage of holding the place. And so the walls rose again, although Amory was not there … but they only rose because of him. If it had not been for him, there would have been no walls on which to build. My lord, will you ride up with us tomorrow, and inspect the church? Will you help us to shorten the term of Amory’s penance?’
On the fifth day after his whipping, Amory was up at dawn, and prodding Father Ambrose awake. The long rest, the absence from worry, and as much food as he could manage to eat had combined to help him make a good recovery. Years of hard living and a healthy body had helped, too. Herkom had replaced the heavy chain about Amory’s ankles with another, much lighter one. His wounds were healing well, he was able to wash whenever he wished, and someone had found him a clean homespun tunic and loin-cloth to wear. A pair of sandals had also appeared at his side one morning. They were new, and Amory thought Joanna had ordered them to be made for him, since they fitted so well. Amory had thought Father Hilarion might object to his possessing a pair of sandals, but Father Hilarion had been conspicuous by his absence of late. Amory was grateful.
At least, he told himself, he ought to be grateful for all the kindnesses he had received. In fact, he was going through a phase in which he hated everything and everybody. He was feeling better in himself, but this simply made his longing for Joanna, and his sense of injustice harder to bear.
Well, today he was to return to the hill-top and the building of his church. When he had been sick and exhausted, he had thought with longing of the peace and quiet up there. Now the idea was repugnant to him. He repeated to himself that he had made a vow, and broken it, and must complete it. It didn’t do much good.
Father Ambrose rubbed his eyes, yawned, and said it was a lovely day for a walk. Amory felt like hitting the little friar, and then he remembered that his old friend was to be detained awaiting the abbot’s judgment, and hugged him instead. He might never see his gallant little hedge-priest again. Another cause for bitterness.
Herkom beckoned Amory out into the courtyard. Herkom was smiling. Amory couldn’t see anything to smile about. The morning air was chill, outside the guardroom. The whipping post stood stark, a few withered garlands still drooping about it. The courtyard was thronged with people, all carefully not looking at Amory. He shrugged. Why should they? They had all done their part, and more than done their part. He was grateful to them. Or rather, he ought to be grateful to them. In reality he felt a spurt of resentment that they would not acknowledge him.
One of the men-at-arms put a stout staff into Amory’s hand, and nodded to him. ‘Off you go. The drawbridge is down.’
Amory scanned the façade of the keep. There was no sign of Joanna at any of the windows, or Julian … Midge … where had Herkom gone? None of his close friends had come to see him off. Well, perhaps that was how it should be. Father Hilarion was not there, either. Now that was odd. Amory thought it most unlike Father Hilarion to miss a chance of crowing over his enemy.
Well, he supposed he must get on with it. One foot before the other. He wouldn’t get to the hill-top by noon if he lingered. He made his way through the busy courtyard and out onto the drawbridge. A smiling group of men, women and children were set in his way. There was Joanna in her blue gown, and Julian and Herkom and … everyone. Waiting and watching him as he passed by them. Perhaps they were going out hunting? And yet only a few were on horseback. There were wagons drawing away from him on the road; no doubt they were going to fetch more stone from the quarry.
The crowd parted in front of him, and stood lining the road on either side, waiting for him to pass between them. They were silent. Not one of them called out a greeting to him as he passed. He looked at their faces, and felt chilled, for they all wore a look of satisfaction or, in some cases, of ill-concealed laughter. Despite himself Amory’s head sank as he passed through their midst. It was a bad way to end, he thought. He went on, grimly putting one foot in front of the other, leaning only a little on his staff. His eyes were fixed on the hill-top. He passed the first of the wagons and was puzzled to see it filled with bags of mortar. Why? Why were they taking mortar to the quarry? Rob was sitting on the wagon, next to the driver. What was he doing there?
Having turned
his head to look at Rob as he passed the wagon, Amory was now aware that someone was following him. A woman in a blue gown, whose sandalled feet kept time with his. Left, and then right. One foot after the other. Then someone stumbled and cursed on his left, and he looked down there, and another pair of feet were marching on his left, but this time the feet were in fine leather boots. He stopped, and Joanna and Julian stepped to his side.
‘We’re coming with you,’ said Joanna. ‘Didn’t you guess?’
Julian took his arm. ‘Don’t stop, or the abbot will fall over you.’
Amory looked back, and there was the abbot trudging along behind him, and beyond the abbot strode the monks, and a long stream of people from the castle, Herkom and Midge, Elena and Dickon … everyone … all his friends except for the architect, the master carpenter and the workmen.
‘Come on,’ said Joanna, setting her arm under his. ‘If you can’t walk that far, we’ve brought a horse for you, but it would be better if you walked. We had to let you prove that you were willing to return to the church, you see. And now we’re all going to help you finish it.’
Amory staggered, and Julian took his other arm. Joanna touched the bridle on Amory’s head, and caressed the unshaven cheek beneath it.
‘Keep calm,’ she said. ‘You are not free yet, and there are those behind us who doubt the wisdom of what we are doing. It is for the abbot to decide at what point the church might be termed “finished”. Only a bishop can consecrate a new church, and it would take months, in the present unsettled state of the kingdom, for the bishop to spare the time to come here. On the other hand, the church might be described as finished when the last slate is on the roof, or the reredos installed, or the windows put in. The workmen are up there, working on the roof. They are waiting for you to guide the king-post into place.’
Amory breathed hard. He wiped sweat from his forehead. So it was not over. He had thought he would have a time of peace, in which to work out how to protect himself from his enemy. One minute of speech with the abbot, and Amory could denounce the priest. Father Hilarion must know that. That arrow sent winging to his back had been despatched in a moment of panic, perhaps. The armour had saved Amory then, but he had no armour now, and he could not speak. …
He put his chin on his shoulder, searching the following throng for that one particular face.
‘Are you looking for Father Hilarion?’ asked Joanna. ‘He has the dysentery, and after exhausting himself at the whipping post, he has had no strength to fight the fever. Actually,’ and here she dimpled, ‘Father Hilarion was going to get up today, but Peterkin suggested that a good night’s sleep might do him good, so Fulk and I made up a draught similar to the one we made for you. I fear it may have proved a little strong.’
‘God grant you haven’t killed him,’ said Julian.
Amory looked up at the hill-top, and saw a building complete to the roof. Workmen were swarming all over it. Some were standing on the edge of the bluff, looking down, watching his progress across the valley. How much was still to be done? How many days’ work was there? How long before Father Hilarion would be fit, and what would he say and do? An arrow in the back, a knife in the dark. …
If only Amory could give the abbot a hint of the truth! But how? He could not speak, and although in childhood he had learned to write his name and titles, he had learned little more, and he certainly could not indite a long letter of accusation, such as was needed in this case. Neither did he have the materials for writing a letter. Finally, would the abbot believe him?
He stumbled, and dropped his staff. He put his hands to the bridle over his head, and wrenched at it. In vain, he could not move it. He felt like a wild beast, caged. If Father Hilarion had been within reach at that moment, Amory would have sprung at him.
‘What is it?’ asked Joanna. She put her arm over his shoulder, urging him on. ‘Patience,’ she said. ‘This is not like you.’
He threw her off. She did not understand. None of them did. On the other hand he understood them very well indeed. They were not doing this for him, but for themselves. Each and every one of them looked for some gain from his release; the workmen wanted his help on their church, the Count no doubt looked for financial help when Amory regained his estates, Julian wanted an adviser, the abbot wanted the convent rebuilt, and Joanna wanted a husband who would be grateful to her.
To the devil with all of them!
Think, man, think! If you don’t find a way out of this, you’ll be dead within the week!
Joanna’s head was up, but turned away from him. He could not bear her to cry because of him. He grasped her hand. She stumbled, and clung to him. They went on together, hands clasped, supporting each other.
He must think!
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE abbot strode into the chapel, and rapped out a holy oath. ‘Who did this? Where is the hermit? Why is he not working on the roof?’ Of the group of black-clad priests in the abbot’s train, only Father Ambrose had the nerve to reply. He edged forward, twisting his stained and torn robe in his hands, looking unhappily around him. It was two days since Amory had returned to the hill-top. Yesterday the abbot had been busy in the convent ruins with his entourage, and in his absence the altar had been restored to its further glory, with gaily embroidered cloth, cross and flowers. More, someone had brought in a pair of candlesticks to replace the rush-light holder.
‘Why,’ said Father Ambrose, ‘the poor people have brought these things. Most of them were already here, before Sir Bevil came. Father Hilarion ordered them taken away, and they were; now they have been brought back. That is all. Oh, and the candlesticks were brought in early this morning by a woman with an abscess on her neck. Keren is treating her now, in the dell.’
A piece of slate fell from the roof into the body of the church, and the abbot moved back, though it had fallen far from him.
‘Have no fear, my lord,’ said Father Ambrose. ‘Nothing and no one will come to harm in this place. They never have, and they never will. Don’t you hear the workmen whistle and sing? There have been no accidents here, and there will be none.’
‘That is mere superstition.’
The hedge-priest bowed his head. He was not in chains, yet he was guarded night and day, awaiting judgment. The abbot beckoned the priest outside the church, and dismissed the rest of his monks. Together they walked along the ridge.
‘I hear strange tales of you, Father Ambrose. Some say you are a saint, and others that you are a great sinner.’
‘Neither the one nor the other, I hope,’ said the friar. ‘A very faulty man, I fear, addicted to food and gossip. My lord, you have heard, maybe, that I deserted my own church years ago. …’
‘At a time of great personal distress. Yes, I knew that. I have been urged to take you to the bishop to have you unfrocked. What say you to that?’
‘I have said I will submit, and I do.’
‘What? Have you nothing to say in your own defence? What of the work you have done in places where no priest ever goes? What of those who have been wed, buried, christened and comforted in the wilderness?’
‘I fear it was all very irregular.’
‘I have it in mind to regularize your position. What would you say to becoming the priest in charge of this church, when it is complete? You could live in one of the cob cottages nearby, with a servant. I believe the Count would be willing to pay you a small stipend. What say you to that?’
A look of incredulous joy came over the friar’s face. ‘This church? Of all the churches in the land … why, it would be like … it is such a holy place already … and there is no need to pay me a stipend, my lord, for the folk hereabouts have always fed me, and Keren, too. There is some talk of setting up a hostelry in the cob cottages, for travellers, and if I could only eat there … no, I do not deserve such comfort.’
‘You will certainly receive a stipend. You require a new robe, and you will need to look after the fabric of the church, to eat regularly and to have fires i
n the winter. I am thinking of giving you a curate to assist you, for there will be a good deal of work if a hostelry is established here. It has been suggested that the hermit Keren act as your curate.’
‘No, my lord. Never. If he were a priest, then I would be happy to serve as his curate, but it would be a shameful thing for me to be set over him, for he is a finer man than I. Besides, he has earned his freedom. If that is a condition of my being given the church, then I do not think I can accept it.’
‘No, it is not,’ said the abbot. ‘The church is yours, and the hermit’s future yet to be decided. Father Hilarion reminds me that Keren’s vow was to build a church in silence and poverty, and that he has done nothing of the kind. I should think that barely half the work done on the church has been done by Keren, and we all know how often he has broken his vow of silence.’
‘That is a very narrow interpretation of the facts,’ said Father Ambrose, greatly daring, for he feared to lose his new position. ‘And I think it would not stand up in the shire courts, if he were to take it that far. We must not forget that he is a wealthy man, if he chooses to reclaim his estates.’
‘It might be best for his soul if he were to devote the rest of his life to God, and leave his wealth to his son, as already arranged.’
‘It might, if he had never seen the Lady Joanna, and she had never seen him. I do not think either of them will rest now till they have bedded each other, and if you continue to deny him his freedom, then they’ll bed without benefit of wedlock.’ He hitched up his robe, and retied the frayed rope around his waist. ‘I had better let them know that I will marry them, before they do anything hasty.’
‘The Lady Joanna cannot marry without her uncle’s permission.’
‘There is money there, remember, and the Count needs money. A timely loan would remove any obstacles there might otherwise be to the marriage.’
‘But not if I refuse him his freedom. It has also been suggested that Keren take vows as a true anchorite, to live enclosed in a cell away from mankind for the rest of his life. There is some sense in this, for he certainly did kill his wife.’
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