My Lord, the Hermit

by Veronica Heley

  Then, without looking at anyone, he passed out of the church and went down into the dell that Peterkin might minister to him. And he said no word to those that crowded around to congratulate him, and little did he smile.

  An hour later he sent to the abbot, to Julian and to Joanna, to bid them meet him in the church. When he came up from the dell, he was wearing a tunic and cloak of his favourite blue, with the swan brooch at his shoulder. His boots were of fine leather, and so were his gloves. But he wore no sword.

  Once within the church he looked around to assure himself that all those whom he needed were present. The abbot was there, with his train. Julian stood by Joanna, with the pages Fulk and Amory beside them. Father Ambrose was trying to make himself look inconspicuous. Father Hilarion stood straight and stiff between two other monks.

  Then Amory spoke. ‘My lord abbot, I demand redress for the wrong done me and mine.’

  ‘You cannot have Father Hilarion,’ said the abbot. ‘You know very well that the Church reserves the right to deal with her own. If you require compensation, I do not think. …’

  ‘For compensation, I will merely ask you to assist me in obtaining the Count’s permission to marry his ward. No, I have asked you all here to discuss the matter of the boy Amory. As matters stand now, he is my heir and even though I marry and have children, he will still inherit my name and titles. Father Hilarion has stolen more than nine years of my life, he has stolen my children’s birthright.’

  ‘I do not see that anything can be done about that,’ said the abbot. ‘The evidence is too flimsy for you to take to court.’

  ‘He would not take it to court, and risk being called a cuckold,’ said Father Hilarion, looking down his nose.

  ‘Agreed,’ said Amory between his teeth. ‘But neither can I ask for the Lady Joanna’s hand in marriage until that boy is out of my sight. I will not have him displace her children. I would sooner remain unwed, and leave everything I have to Fulk, who at least is of my kin.’

  ‘In such a case, your legal heir would contest the will,’ said Father Hilarion. ‘You cannot prevent his succeeding you.’

  ‘You are wrong. I can, and I will. My lord abbot, I would like you to take the boy Amory as a novice, to be ordained priest as soon as may be. I believe in sons following in their father’s footsteps, don’t you?’

  There was a moment’s silence, and then the boy Amory cried out. ‘What? You would make a monk out of me? Me, a scribbling cleric? Me, take the tonsure? Never!’

  ‘Never!’ cried Father Hilarion. ‘I will never agree.’

  ‘If he is yours, then you do indeed have a say in the matter. But if, as you insist, he is mine, then I can dispose of him as I think best. My lord abbot, I ask you once again to take this boy as a novice.’

  The abbot’s hand was at his chin. ‘With a suitable dowry, of course?’

  ‘Without any dowry at all. He is no kin of mine, and I owe him nothing. Rather, he owes me nine years of soft living. He will probably make a bad priest. I doubt if he has any vocation for the life, and he seems to dislike the idea; but then, I did not like the idea of being a hermit and I was given no choice in the matter.’

  Father Hilarion made a hasty movement, and checked himself. ‘What harm has the boy done you?’

  ‘What harm did I do you?’

  ‘You stole Mariana from me.’

  ‘Yes, that is true. It was unwitting, but even if I had known that she loved you, I doubt if our parents would have abandoned the match and given her to you. Besides, you were a priest by the time we married.’

  ‘I only took my final vows after I heard that you and she were wed. But this is beside the point, which is that you cannot prove the boy is a bastard.’

  ‘If I could, I would not be able to give him to the Church, for no bastard can take Holy Orders. Is that not so, my lord abbot?’

  ‘That is so,’ said the abbot, glancing from priest to hermit and back again.

  ‘You cannot force me to inculpate myself,’ said the priest.

  ‘Then the boy shall be cast adrift upon the world, for I will have no more of him. The abbot must take him and feed him, or he will have to beg for his bread.’

  ‘You will not do that,’ said the priest. He spoke calmly enough, but his cheek was flushed. ‘What would people say?’

  ‘What should they say, but that he is a bastard?’

  ‘I am not a bastard!’ cried the boy. ‘I am Count Amory, and very rich, and you are a liar!’

  ‘You are none of my seed,’ said Amory. ‘And I will neither feed you nor house you nor clothe you any longer. If you had been made from a different mould, if you had been a likeable child, even, I might have found some corner for you in my household. …’

  ‘It’s not your household! I am the Count, and you are an impostor! You can’t take it all away from me!’

  ‘Oh yes, I can. And I will, too. You have no right to the clothes you wear, and you certainly have no right to flaunt the swan badge on your breast. Take off those things. No doubt some charitable person will give you a homespun tunic to wear, and throw you a crust. Elena has burned my old clothes, or you could have had them.’

  ‘I will complain to the Count. He knows who I am.’

  ‘How will you get back there? You have no pony to ride now, and you are about to lose your shoes. I assure you that two miles on foot will take you a long time, until you are used to going without boots. And when you get to the castle, you will find yourself classed with the beggars at the gate, for my lord Julian will have given orders that you be not admitted again.’

  ‘That’s a bit hard, isn’t it?’ said Julian, but he said it low down, to Joanna. She pressed his arm and put her finger to her lips.

  ‘It’s not fair,’ said the boy, and now there were tears mingling with rage in his voice. ‘You can’t take everything away from me like that. My lord abbot. …’

  But the abbot would not look at the boy.

  ‘It may not be fair,’ said Amory, ‘but it is certainly justice. You were born with nothing, and your father schemed for you to take – not what was due to you – but what was mine. There he stands. It is because his schemes have gone awry that you are penniless and outcast. Your only hope of a reasonably easy life is in the cloister.’

  ‘That man is not my father. He is a priest.’

  ‘Look at him, and look at yourself in a glass. He is the mirror image of you, when you are both enraged. Your temperaments match, and your voices. Only your eyes remind me of your mother. Otherwise you are all his; ambitious, merciless, cold.’

  The words died in the chill air of the church. Joanna shivered. It was late in the afternoon, and the air was cooling and darkening around them. The apertures which would one day hold stained glass, were as yet empty eyes looking on to the twilight.

  ‘Come,’ said the abbot to the boy. He held out his hand. ‘You have no alternative, you see.’

  ‘No!’ It was a wail of terror. The boy stumbled to Father Hilarion’s feet, and clutched at his robe. ‘Don’t let them take me! If you are my father, help me! Don’t let them make a priest of me! I can’t bear it!’

  ‘Very well,’ said the priest, and his smile was bitter. ‘I will say it. He is a bastard. He is mine. It would have meant everything to see him succeed Count Amory, but if that is impossible then at least I will save him from a life in the cloister, which would be purgatory for him. My lord abbot, I am ready to testify when and where you will, that this boy is my son, and therefore a bastard and unfit for Holy Church.’ Father Hilarion put his hand on the boy’s head. The boy shrank from his touch. The priest stepped back, his mouth thin. He looked at Amory. ‘Well, my lord? You have achieved your purpose, have you not? I have studied you well. The Lady Joanna said I had never understood you, but I think I understand you very well indeed, and I know that you would never have carried out your threat to turn the boy on the world without a penny. You have no streak of ruthlessness in you. You have ruined me, but you will not ruin him.
Tell me, now, what you intend to do for him.’

  ‘You are right. Provided he will accept his new status without question, I will make over to him and his heirs in perpetuity, the manor where he was conceived and born, the manor which was part of his mother’s dowry. More than that it would not be right to give him. As for his upbringing, he will have to leave the castle here, for too many people now know his secret, and as he is not popular, he would suffer greatly from his reversal of fortunes if he were to stay. I will find another household for him, where he may make a fresh start in life, and perhaps learn a few manners.’

  ‘You are generous.’ Father Hilarion bit his lip, realizing that he would not have been capable of the same magnanimity under similar circumstances.

  ‘You have suffered enough,’ said Amory. ‘Of the two of us, perhaps I have been luckier than you, for I have had periods of content even when my life was hardest, and I have been granted the gift of healing which gives as much satisfaction to the giver as to those whom he heals. More, I am going to a great joy,’ and here he moved to Joanna’s side, and put his arm around her. ‘I fear your life has been arid, and this affair must mean the end of your ambitions for yourself and for your son.’

  ‘You will not see me beg for mercy, as the boy did. I loved and lost; I sinned and I have paid for it. Mother Church will not be severe on one who has worked so hard for her sake.’

  ‘Now that I can’t tell,’ said the abbot. ‘I have no idea what the bishop will recommend, but I cannot conceive that he will allow you to remain a priest.’

  Father Hilarion blanched.

  Amory said, ‘Does being a priest mean more to you than your pride?’

  ‘I … cannot tell.’

  ‘My lord abbot, if a mere layman may make a suggestion …? Father Hilarion thought a curate should assist Father Ambrose here in his new parish. I believe Father Hilarion has a vocation, and that if he can tear out the canker that has eaten into him for so long, he may one day make a good priest. Could you not suggest to the bishop that, when suitable penances have been performed, Father Hilarion is sent back here to help Father Ambrose?’

  ‘Dear Lord above,’ said Father Ambrose, crossing himself. ‘That’s a heavy burden you would place on me.’

  ‘I, to come here? To serve as curate under a hedge-priest? To take your place? Never!’ The priest turned, and with an abrupt movement sank to his knees before the abbot. ‘My lord, I submit to you, and you alone. I will bear whatever penance the bishop lays on me – a pilgrimage to Rome, scourgings, fastings of any and all duration. These I will gladly bear, for it is true that I have sinned. But it would be a waste of my talents to serve a simple-minded old man in a chapel of ease. Why I would be surprised if there were ever more than five people at a service. And the place is so ill-made, so badly constructed; it is an offence to the eye. There are no fixed seats for the clergy, no hangings behind the altar, nothing to glorify God. It would be like burying me alive.’

  Amory said, ‘I believe that is a fate which sometimes attends adulterers in the Church. Would you prefer to be walled up in a convent somewhere?’

  ‘Yes, I would.’

  Father Ambrose put a hand on the priest’s shoulder. ‘Once – God forgive me – I prayed the Lord might send you a bout of rheumatism, to help you understand the way poor people live. I am sorry about that. I did not mean to wish evil on you.’

  ‘I doubt,’ said the abbot, ‘that he will be allowed to stay a priest.’

  ‘Then when you are unfrocked, Henry of Luscombe,’ said Father Ambrose, ‘you must come back here to me, and I will find you work. We will serve God together, you and I. Perhaps we could build a little bell-tower, or you could help me look after the travellers.’

  The priest burst out laughing. ‘I, to replace Keren as hewer of stone? I, to turn ostler?’

  ‘Why not?’ said Amory. ‘At least you would be serving your fellow men.’

  ‘My lord abbot, I appeal to you … do not waste my talents. …’

  ‘Although you are on your knees to me, I am not sure that your heart is humble, or that you truly repent your sins. If you truly mean to submit yourself to the Church, then your first act of submission must be to exchange robes with Father Ambrose. His is old and patched, as you can see. Yours, on the other hand, is made of fine wool, and has many years of wear in it. Yours would serve him well, and for you to go to the bishop wearing an old robe would show that you are in earnest.’

  ‘I am so much taller than him … my robe would look ridiculous on him, and his would be far too short for me.’

  ‘His servant would be happy to shorten it for him, and no doubt the pieces that are cut off will do to patch it in the years to come, for I doubt he will think to spend money on clothes for himself. As for your looking ridiculous, we will regard that as your first lesson in humility.’

  The priest stared around him, and his eyes met with smiles of derision and contempt. Only Amory and Joanna looked sorrowfully at him, understanding his anguish. Father Ambrose touched the priest’s shoulder. Father Hilarion closed his eyes and bowed his head, his hands twisting. Then he rose and went outside with Father Ambrose.

  Julian let out a sigh of relief. ‘I’m glad that’s over. Come, to horse, or they will be wondering what has become of us. Did I tell you, Amory, that Sir Bevil’s family are sending a deputation to us, to discuss the question of my marriage and suitable recompense for those injured in the recent troubles? It’s a good thing the rebels are submitting to the King’s new council because after peace is formally signed next month. …’

  Joanna led Fulk and the boy Amory out into the open. Amory was crying, knuckling his eyes. Joanna pressed Fulk’s shoulder. He looked up at her, grimaced, and then sighed. He put his hand on Amory’s arm, and led him away to where their ponies awaited.

  ‘A fine boy, Fulk,’ said Amory, coming behind Joanna, and putting his own arm round her shoulders. ‘I hope we do as well with our own.’

  She leaned against him. She said, ‘I was so afraid. I thought you had decided to turn your back on the world.’ His arm tightened around her shoulder, and he bent his head to set against hers. She caressed his cheek. He had not been able to shave yet, for the chain had chafed his jaws. Julian called out to them to hurry, for the sun was setting.

  A dumpy figure came out of the first of the cob cottages, and waddled up to them, holding ample black skirts high. He was laughing. ‘I can barely walk,’ said Father Ambrose. ‘Elena has her needle and scissors out, ready to cut it down to size for me, but I wanted to see you off first.’

  Amory said, ‘That was a selfish thing I did just now. Will you be able to carry such a heavy burden?’

  ‘Knowing the ways of Holy Church, they will not release him back into the world, either as layman or curate, until he is ready for it. By that time I’ll be such a forgetful old man that I won’t even remember what it was he was supposed to have done. I suppose I’d better leave that inscription in the church, to remind me … and him.’

  ‘I can’t say I’m sorry for him,’ said Joanna, shivering in the chill of the early evening. ‘When I think what he would have done to you, Amory …!’

  A gaunt, ragged creature stalked past them and went down the path, followed by two monks. Father Hilarion’s robe came barely below his knees, and flapped about as he walked to show bare white legs beneath. The priest looked neither to right nor left, but went on down the hill to his fate. The abbot was mounting his horse, and beside him Julian was chatting away. The two pages were beginning to to make the descent.

  ‘We must go,’ said Amory, turning towards where their horses and servants waited for them. Rob and John Blackbeard were to enter Julian’s service; Herkom, Midge and Peterkin – with Alice – would go with Amory wherever he went. Amory threw Joanna up into the saddle, and then looked around him for the last time. Father Ambrose smiled up at him, and behind him Elena and Dickon came hurrying, with their child between them.

  ‘It will all seem so strange,
’ said Amory, more to himself than to anyone in particular. ‘For a long time I thought I would never leave here. …’

  ‘The church remains,’ said Father Ambrose. ‘And there was a pattern to it, as I thought. You and him, and the church. I never thought I’d be part of the pattern, though.’

  ‘My heart misgives me. Have I made the right choice? I thought I had a vocation. The church still pulls me. Suppose I am doing the wrong thing by returning to the world, and marrying Joanna? Will my gift of healing be withdrawn, when I no longer serve?’

  ‘Do I have to remind you of all the duties that are about to descend upon your shoulders? Your estates are scattered; many of your people will have suffered during the rebellion, even as we have, here. You are needed – and then, there is the Lady Joanna.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I can serve there, as well as here. But what of the priest? He is the other half of me.’

  ‘He will return, in six months, or six years. He has passed out of your hands now. Go with God.’

  There was a touch on Amory’s shoulder. Joanna was leaning down from her horse, her eyes anxious. He clasped her hand in his, and kissed the soft skin inside her wrist. Their eyes gleamed with unspoken promises. Presently both began to smile. Amory sprang to the saddle of the horse Julian had left for him, and looked around. Everyone had gone now but him and Joanna. The little friar was hopping from one foot to another, bundling himself round with his new robe.

  Amory said, ‘I know what you’re going to do now. Say a prayer for me?’

  Father Ambrose grinned. ‘If the bishop consecrates the church in time, I’ll marry you here. I’ll even perform the ceremony down in the castle, if I have to.’

  Joanna called to Amory. He waved to the friar, and went on down the track after her. Father Ambrose waited till they had gone, and then went into the church.

  The building was a raw shell. Presently it would be plastered inside – though Amory’s inscription would be left untouched – and glaziers would fit segments of coloured glass into the windows that overlooked the valley. A reredos would be brought up from the workshops below and fitted, together with carved seats, and an aumbry. A font would arrive, carved with twining patterns of leaves, and hangings disguise the stonework behind the altar. Some of these things would be paid for by Amory, and some would be brought there by travellers. It was, and always would be, a travellers’ church. The abbot’s desire to call it after the Virgin Mary was not to be granted, for by the time the bishop came to consecrate it, it was already widely known as the church of Christ the Healer, and so it remained.