‘You know, I have never been sure of that. It’s so very unlike the lad.’
‘In the heat of the moment, if he discovered her with another man?’
‘Ah, perhaps. But the blow was inefficient, if designed to kill. And as far as I know, Amory has always done everything he undertakes efficiently. If he had had a mind to kill her, he would have done so. Anyway, the Lady Joanna has a theory about lady Mariana’s death which you may like to hear. It makes sense of something which has always puzzled me: of how he came by that mark on his brow.’
Joanna and Julian were helping Amory to dig out the floor of the basin in which the spring rose, to make it larger. They were watched from Amory’s rebuilt tent by the woman he had treated that morning, Elena and her child, and Rob. Rob had his bow at his side, and his one watchful eye scanned the hill above them every few minutes. It had not been at all difficult for Amory to ask Rob to guard his back, for Peterkin had made no secret of the attack on his master. Peterkin and Alice were cooking a meal nearby. All three of them slept in the tent with Amory.
Father Ambrose explained to Joanna that the abbot would like to hear her theory about the lady Mariana’s death. Joanna brushed water from her hands, and nodded.
‘We will re-enact the scene for you, my lord,’ she said. ‘I will take the part of the lady, and Julian will be the man who was with her that day. Yes, there was someone there. We are sure of it, although we do not know his name. But at least, if I can prove to you that it was not Amory who struck at her with his sword, then it will help, will it not?’
Amory was fingering his chin, and looking dark. Joanna smiled at him. ‘My lord abbot, neither Julian nor Amory knows what I plan. The only person I have spoken to about this is Father Ambrose. Julian, give Amory your sword, and then come and sit down here beside me.’
Amory put the sword-belt on.
‘Now,’ said Joanna, kneeling down beside Julian. ‘I am the lady Mariana. I am eight or nine months pregnant – maybe only seven months, but we will come to that later. I know that the child I am carrying is not my husband’s. This man here,’ and she indicated Julian, ‘is my lover. He may be an old friend, from the days before I was married, or someone I have met recently, who lives in the neighbourhood. We are sitting in my chamber, and I think we are doing something more than talk, for I have taken off my clothes. Now, Amory: run up the stairs, taking off your sword-belt, as you did before.’
Amory frowned at her, and then decided to co-operate. He mimed running up some stairs, and as he did so, his hands were busy taking off the sword, which he left in its scabbard. Holding the sword-belt in his right hand, he mimed opening a door with his left.
‘The lovers were startled to hear someone run up the stairs,’ said Joanna. ‘Amory’s return was unheralded, you remember. The man who was sitting with Mariana sprang to his feet. He dreaded discovery. He did not know who was about to come through that door, but whatever happened, they must not see him. So he picked up something heavy … a joint-stool, maybe? … and swung at Amory from behind as the door opened.’ Julian mimed a blow at the back of Amory’s head, and Amory fell forward, arms wide. The sword-belt fell from his hand, and tumbled to the ground at Julian’s feet.
‘Now a woman would normally scream at that point,’ said Joanna. ‘But Mariana dare not scream, for fear of discovery. The newcomer has fallen face down. I guess that it is my husband, but I cannot be sure. I rush to him. I turn him over to lie on his back. …’ She turned Amory over. ‘I am distracted. I tell my lover to go, quickly, before Amory recovers consciousness. My lover has taken Amory’s sword from the scabbard. He bids me stand aside. He raises the sword in the air. I love my husband; not perhaps as I love my dear friend here, but nevertheless, I do not want Amory to die, so I throw myself forward over Amory to prevent my lover hurting him. Like this. …’
Joanna covered Amory with her own body, as he lay on his back. Julian lowered the sword until it lay across Joanna’s left shoulder, and the point of it touched Amory’s brow where that one lock of hair showed white. Joanna sat up, touching the back of her shoulder.
‘My lover could not prevent the sword falling, once it had started. Swords are heavy, and he was not, perhaps, used to handling them. The sword cut open my shoulder, and opened up a wound on Amory’s forehead. The shock started me in labour. My lover dropped the sword and ran to me. If he had been distracted before, he was half out of his mind now. I kept my head. I bade him depart. I said I would concoct some tale of temporary insanity on Amory’s part to account for my wound. There was his sword, bloodied. I smeared some of my blood on his face and hands. I had to protect my lover, and my own reputation. My lover left either by another door, or by the window. Then I screamed for my women. When they came, I said Amory had been overtaken by madness, was possessed of the devil. He was stirring by then. I was panic-stricken, afraid he would remember something, but he did not. He was dazed. They took him away and bound him with chains for fear of his madness. My babe came, and I could see at once that he was not Amory’s child. My lover was fair of skin and hair, as was this baby. One look, and Amory’s suspicions would be aroused. I had to keep them apart. I had saved Amory’s life, but I could not allow him to endanger my reputation, or my lover. So I kept up the fiction that he was mad. They told me Amory was feverish, and like to die. That would be best, I thought. If only he would die. My child must be accepted without question as Amory’s heir, and then we would all be safe. But it was not Amory who died, but I, his wife … and he was left with a legacy of madness and guilt which he could not explain away.’
Amory picked up the sword, and looked at it as if he had never seen such a weapon before. He lifted it high above his head, in both hands, and then brought it down with a swoop. The point was buried deep in the turf. The abbot shuddered. Such a blow would cleave an unarmed man or woman in half.
‘Again,’ said Joanna. Again Amory lifted the sword, and began his swoop. But Joanna, unnoticed, had taken off her sandal. She threw it on the ground before Amory as the sword began to drop. Disturbed in his swing, Amory staggered to one side, the blade’s point checked in mid-air.
‘You see what I mean?’ said Joanna. ‘If Amory had wished to kill her, he would have done so. If their positions had been reversed, and his wife had been protecting her lover with her body, Amory would have been able to stop the sword in its course. Only a soldier has such command over his sword. Therefore, he did not inflict the wound on her shoulder.’
The abbot looked from one to another, his eyes narrowed. Joanna went to Amory, and touched the white lock of hair on his brow. ‘I knew what had happened when I realized that Amory had been cut with the tip of Father Hilarion’s whip, even though I had covered his back with my body.’
‘The lady Mariana,’ said the abbot, ‘swore that she had been lying face down on the bed when Amory strode in and made at her.’
‘Pregnant women lie on their sides. Have you taken a good look at the boy who passes for Amory’s son?’
The abbot sighed. ‘Very well, you have placed sufficient doubt in my mind to justify a verdict of not guilty. But the vow is another matter. The church must be pronounced complete before I will release the hermit.’
‘But you will not wait for the bishop to consecrate it?’
‘I … no. The roof must be completed, the outer walls faced with flints, and the inner walls covered with their skin of mortar. Then, I will reconsider the matter.’
A piece of chalk rolled down the hill into the dell. Amory lifted his head. The black-clad figure of Father Hilarion stood above them. For a long moment priest and hermit stared at each other. Amory was still leaning on the sword. Now he lifted it, and pointed with it to the priest. Then he looked at the abbot.
‘Have no fear,’ said the abbot. ‘Father Hilarion has had his say in the matter, and has been overruled. Now, what say you to our calling the church after the Blessed Virgin Mary?’
Amory turned away, letting the sword fall. Rob stood up, and
fitted an arrow to his bow. Alice came down the path into the dell, saw Rob looking at the priest, and paused. She put her hand to her belt, wherein hung her knife, and she also looked at the priest.
Joanna did not see, for she was looking at Amory, and he had gone back to enlarging the pool.
An excited carpenter ran down the hill to greet the abbot and his party with the news. The abbot almost ran into the church. A knot of puzzled workmen were looking at one of the walls. An area of stonework about a yard square had been covered with a skin of mortar, and someone had scratched symbols on it. This must have been done late the previous night, said the workmen, for it had not been done when they left for the day, and yet the mortar was now dry.
‘It’s a pattern of sorts,’ said a mason. ‘It’s what we’re meant to copy on the other walls.’
‘It’s a message from God,’ said another, crossing himself. ‘This place has always been strange.’
‘If it’s a message,’ said a carpenter, ‘then what does it mean?’
Everyone except the master carpenter and the architect looked at the abbot. The architect finished his inspection of the mortar, and reported to the abbot. ‘This is the mortar we mix for the outer walls, to make the flint facing, but it’s been laid on by an inexperienced hand. It wasn’t one of my workmen who did this.’
‘No,’ said the abbot. ‘I believe you.’ He stared at the inscription for as long as one might count ten, and then swung on his heel, searching for one particular face in the crowd. Amory was leaning against the wall at the back, looking on with folded arms.
‘You did this?’ said the abbot. Amory nodded. The abbot looked at the inscription on the wall again. ‘What an indictment!’ he said. ‘Can you prove any of this?’ Amory shook his head. ‘Well,’ said the abbot, ‘Let us see whether you are right or no. I want the church cleared of workmen. Master architect, will you arrange it? And if Father Hilarion is here …?’
Several voices were raised to inform the abbot that the priest was just coming up the hill. Joanna traced over the symbols with her forefinger. There was a row of deeply incised ‘c’s, some of which had had crude crosses marked above them. At the beginning and end of the row was a symbol which might be decoration, or possibly, the letter ‘H’.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Joanna. ‘Amory …?’
But Amory was pointing at the door of the church. Father Hilarion was standing there, looking puzzled.
‘Ah, Father,’ said the abbot. ‘Come in. Take a look at this. The hermit has set a riddle for us to read on the walls of his church. Can you interpret it for us?’
Father Hilarion looked, and shook his head. He seemed annoyed rather than worried. He shrugged. He turned away, and then, on a sudden thought, turned back to the message. His breath became hurried, and his cheek flushed. He swung round and went for Amory with outstretched hands, reaching for the hermit’s throat. Amory was ready for him, and grasped those murderous hands with his own. With a twist of his wrists, Amory bore the priest to the earth, and stood over him. Father Hilarion was panting, his eyes wild. Amory looked for instructions to the abbot. He did not release the priest, but held him pinned to the ground.
‘It meant something to you did it not, Father? Pray expound to us.’
Father Hilarion shook his head. He cleared his throat. His fury was now under control. He tried to throw back his shoulders, but Amory held him down.
‘This madman is hurting me. Tell him to let me go.’
‘What of the message on the wall?’
‘There is none. The ravings of a lunatic. Everyone knows his brain is affected.’
Some of the pages had crowded into the church after the priest, and several of the workmen were gazing through the small gap that was still open in the roof. Several more had scrambled around the church to peer in through the windows that overlooked the valley. The abbot beckoned to the boy Amory, who as usual had shouldered his way to the forefront. ‘You, boy. Can you interpret this message for me?’
‘How could he?’ asked Father Hilarion. ‘If I cannot, how can a mere boy make sense of a madman’s nonsense?’
But the boy was pleased to be singled out for attention. He stepped up to the wall and looked at it long and hard. ‘That’s an “H” here, and at the end, with ten “c”s inside. Some of the letters have crosses above them, but not in any special order.’
‘And what do ten “c”s stand for, in the context of the Church? Does anyone else think they know?’
‘I do, my lord.’ Fulk stepped forward. ‘The ten “c”s are for the ten commandments, and some of them are marked with crosses to show … I don’t know what the crosses mean, but they must mean something.’
‘I think so, too,’ said the abbot. He pointed to the boy Amory. ‘You know the commandments, do you not? Reading from left to right, tell me which commandments are indicated in this message.’
‘No!’ cried Father Hilarion. He tried to scramble to his feet, but Amory twisted his arms up behind his back, so that he could not move.
‘Number … four, five … number six: thou shalt do no murder. Number seven: thou shalt not commit adultery. Number nine: thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour. Number ten: thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s house, thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s wife, nor his servant, nor his maid, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor any thing, that is his.’
‘Are we on the right path so far?’ the abbot asked Amory, and Amory nodded.
‘Let us then consider these letters at either end. As the boy so rightly said, they look like two Hs. There are a lot of names which begin with the letter “H”, are there not? Harold and Hengist and Horsa and Hardicanute; Hilarion and Henry. I think perhaps Hilarion and Henry would make a good pair, for we know that these names have appeared over and over again in my lord Amory’s story.’
‘Two men – or one?’ asked Joanna. ‘My lord abbot, I challenge you to speak the truth. The name Henry of Luscombe meant something to you, did it not?’
‘Yes, lady. I admit it with shame. I did remember, but I thought you must be mistaken and that to tell you what I knew would only confuse the issue. I was absolutely certain at that time that Henry of Luscombe could have had nothing to do with these events. Now I believe I was wrong, and I will tell you what I know.
‘Henry of Luscombe was Father Hilarion’s name before he entered the church. He was a novice in the abbey of which I was prior, at the time of the lady Mariana’s death. He was the younger son of a knight whose manor lay near the abbey, and another of our neighbouring estates was part of the lady Mariana’s dowry when she married my lord Amory. Henry of Luscombe was ordained priest some ten years ago, or thereabouts. At that time he used to leave the abbey twice a month to conduct services in a chapel of ease which was some distance away. From the chapel of ease he would go on to say Mass in the private chapel of the lady Mariana’s house, and then return, after an overnight stay, to the abbey. He was a most promising young priest, and of course, the fact that he had been a childhood acquaintance of the lady Mariana’s made him very acceptable in that household. No one suspected anything. Even I suspected nothing, when he ran to the abbey to say that there had been a terrible accident. He told me then that he had arrived at the manor just as the women raised the alarm, that he had rushed upstairs, seen the blood, inspected the wounds, ordered Lord Amory to be taken away and confined, and then run for me. I believe now that he must have been in the room with the lady when her husband returned so unexpectedly, and thus precipitated the tragedy.’
‘I have nothing to say.’ Father Hilarion no longer writhed under Amory’s hands, but knelt before him, pale and cold. ‘You are mistaken. I was not there. This man is hurting me. Tell him to let me go.’
‘Let him go, you beast!’ the boy Amory kicked at the hermit’s shins. Amory released the priest, who got to his feet, and brushed himself down. His face was without expression, but his eyes burned.
‘Yes,’ said the abbot. ‘It really is quite
clear now what happened. My lord Amory, may I ask you not to make the matter public? The Church can deal with her own. I greatly regret now that when I was elected abbot here, I chose to recommend Father Hilarion as chaplain to the Count, and to place you in his care. When the last slate is fastened on the roof above, you are freed from your vow, and I myself will file the chains from your ankles and clothe you in more appropriate garments. Father Hilarion, you will come with me.’
Amory did not leave the church, but stood there, gazing up at the small area of daylight which the workmen were fast covering in. Several people came in to speak with him, but he did not seem to hear them. Joanna crept to his side, and put her hand on his arm. She was deeply concerned about him, for he did not wear the look of a man who is about to enter into a time of joy. Rather, he looked as one on the rack.
‘Amory, I have a file here. Will you allow me to take off that bridle? Amory, do you still want me? I will go, if you. …’
He pulled her into his arms, and held her there. She began to cry, partly from relief, and partly because she could feel that he was still distressed about something, and she did not know why, nor what to do about it. Presently he sat on the floor, and she began to file away at the iron band which held the bridle in place around his head. When she was nearly through, he put up his hand to stop her from completing her task.
They waited together, he with his eyes on the roof, and she looking only at him. At last the final slate was placed upon the roof. The abbot came in with his retinue. As many people as possible crammed into the tiny church to see the hermit freed of his fetters, and released from his vow of silence and poverty. Amory raised his head high as the abbot pronounced the words of quittance, and when the abbot bent to strike off the fetters around his ankles, Amory himself snapped the weakened band that held the bridle in place around his head.
My Lord, the Hermit Page 33
