A Tapestry of Dreams (25 page)

But the next morning, as soon as she woke, before she even got out of bed to relieve her bladder and bowels, Audris reminded Fritha that the loom had to be strung that day, and she ran up to her chamber again after breaking her fast to check that she had enough silver yarn. There would be enough blue, for blue was a color that appeared in almost every picture; but the silver, rare and costly, she used seldom and sparingly, usually to give a glint of life and light to eyes or to simulate moonlight.

Never before had she expended it so extravagantly as in the unicorn tapestries. Yet, when she opened the chest, she discovered a surprising store of it, pale gray strands of shining silk twisted together with a real metal thread to give the needed glitter. With a troubled frown Audris lifted several hanks from the chest. The silver yarn could not be spun locally; silk came from some unknown land far, far to the east and it traveled all across Europe before it reached England. Why had she bought so much? And when had she bought it?

The cost did not trouble her. Over the years there had been so much gain in the finished tapestries that her uncle never questioned how she came by the yarn she used, whether she ordered the women of the keep or villages to dye and spin thread for her or even went to market to buy it. He paid what she had promised—grain or cattle or wool or even coined money.

Then Audris remembered. A few years past, a merchant on his way to the court in Scotland had stopped in Jernaeve. He knew of the hawks in Sir Oliver’s mews and wished to buy one. The silver yarn and other silks had been the price. The memory stilled the chill that had been rising in her. It would have been terrible indeed if she had been driven by a foreseeing she had not even recognized to buy the silver yarn. And then she closed her eyes and hugged herself as gooseflesh raised the hairs all over her body. This seeking out of the silver yarn was proof that the unicorn tapestries were not yet finished.

Hugh watched Audris ride away until she entered the wood and he knew he would see her no more. Then he turned and went back to the little ledge above the valley, sighing softly. The light seemed to fade from his life as he trudged down to his tent. The practical knowledge that the hill cut off what little light was left in the cloudy western sky had no effect at all on his emotional reaction to the increasing dimness. He almost wished the sun had not come out for those few minutes. The ray of light that slipped through the break in the clouds had caught Audris and enclosed her in a brilliant nimbus. That was a memory to treasure, but though it was too far to see Audris clearly, Hugh had seen from her mare’s position that Audris was looking back and that she continued to look back until the sunlight was gone.

Her longing woke mixed emotions in him, all of them violent: a fierce if puzzled gladness that she, who could have any man she chose, should want him; a wrenching sorrow for her because he could not bear that she should be sad, even for him; and a determination, even fiercer than his gladness and stronger than his sorrow, that he would somehow make himself fit to marry her.

In the end the determination, and the exhaustion that followed much strong emotion and a full day of almost uninterrupted love play, overcame all other emotions. Since he could do nothing to forward the purpose of his determination, he thought with wry humor, it would be best to satisfy his other need. He would go to sleep. Hugh walked to the very edge of the flat area, turned his back to what wind there was, and urinated, looking contemplatively into the valley. Just below, his horse and mule grazed quietly; better still, at the far end of the valley, deer had come into the open. He shook the last drops free, went into his tent, rolled himself in his blanket, rested his head on his saddle, and was asleep before he had time to realize he had not eaten.

***

Hugh was waiting, armed and ready for the road, at the abbey gate when his men rode up, and once he had determined that they were all there and all properly equipped—an easy task with this troop—he told them to dismount. As he turned Rufus toward the abbey gate, one rider came forward, hailed him respectfully, and introduced himself in soldier’s argot as Morel, his servant. Hugh smiled at him, as much because the man was exactly what he had expected as to make him welcome.

Keen eyes, an indeterminate gray, but bright with interest, were examining Hugh, and, though Morel’s hair was grizzled and his leather-skinned face lined, his arms, shoulders, and thighs were still rounded with muscles that had none of the stringiness of aging. And when Hugh smiled at him, the joy and enthusiasm of Morel’s answering grin made Hugh glad he had agreed to Audris’s plan. Clearly the man had embraced her order as a gift rather than a duty. Still, there was one doubt in Hugh’s mind. Often Audris said things in a way that led to misunderstanding. Hugh wished to be sure Morel knew his service was likely to be unrewarded, except by gratitude.

“You are very welcome to me,” Hugh said, “but I hope Demoiselle Audris warned you that I may not be able to pay you for your service.”

“There be no need,” Morel said, looking surprised. “I be paid already.”

Hugh thought the man was referring to Audris’s efforts to save his wife. “I understand, but I will give you what I can, and of course, table and bed are mine to supply.” He saw that Morel was about to protest and gestured him to silence, adding, “I have one question more. Would you prefer to ride with the servants or the men-at-arms?”

“The men-at-arms, my lord,” Morel replied, ducking his head in a kind of bow of thanks. “I be more used to their kind.” He looked at Hugh hopefully. “I brought my arms with me. Be you willing for me to wear them?”

“Please yourself.” Hugh had to laugh at the new light of pleasure in his servant’s eyes. “I fear you are an old warhorse, Morel, more eager for a fight than for the pasture.”

“Aye, my lord, it be true. While my wife lived and the young ones be little, I been afeared what would come to them if I died. I burned angry when Sir Oliver called me to arms. But now that fear be gone, and my seeming be that be the only time I
lived
—when I marched to war with Sir Oliver. It be not so much the fighting, though I minded it not, but seeing of new places and strange sights.”

“You will see enough of those with me, I think.”

But Hugh’s grin was rather wry as he raised a hand in dismissal. He was rather the opposite of Morel. He had seen enough strange things and desired nothing so much as to settle in one place with Audris. But for the time being he was sure Audris was right; he and Morel would suit each other very well, and so strong and self-reliant a man would be the perfect messenger.

As he entered the abbey himself, Hugh was well content and thinking happily about writing Audris to tell her how much he liked her man. It then occurred to him that he could not say too much nor send Morel to Jernaeve too soon lest Oliver’s suspicions be roused, but it was a shame that his first enthusiasm not be transmitted. And then he thought, why not? He could write a little each day—there could be two letters, one inside the other—so that Audris would live each day with him. The decision made him so happy that he was smiling from ear to ear when the lay brother conducted him into Thurstan’s chamber.

“You look well, my son, and happy,” Thurstan said.

“And I thank God that you look well and rested,” Hugh replied, not actually responding to his foster father’s remark.

Since Thurstan was accustomed to Hugh’s constant concern about his health, he did not see anything unusual in his answer and merely asked if Hugh wished to eat.

“I thank you, Father, no. I have eaten already,” Hugh replied.

He lowered his eyes as he spoke, the innocent question having sent a wave of longing for Audris through him, for he had broken his fast on the basket of food she had brought with her and which they had barely touched. The emotion, though brief, was so powerful that Hugh did not hear his own voice nor realize how his expression had changed. Thurstan looked at his foster son and then away, not wanting Hugh to know he had betrayed himself. He remembered that Hugh had said he had set his desire on a woman far above him. And because Thurstan had not wished to be thought prying—was that not a sin of pride?—he had not questioned Hugh further.

Although he made no sound, Thurstan groaned in spirit. The girl in question must live close—perhaps even in Jernaeve! And he had brought Hugh here, and… The self-accusatory thoughts hesitated. He had sinned, true, Thurstan thought, but that all things should fall together in such a way must be a God-guided event. Did He not know the fall of every sparrow? There was a reason, there must be! The guilt Thurstan felt magnified an earlier guilt. He was sure now that he had not
really
tried to discover who Hugh’s mother was. He had not wanted to give Hugh up. And now it was too late—or was it? Could he feel God’s purpose so strongly if there
was
no purpose?

Hugh’s own emotion made him less aware that Thurstan had not replied, but as the silence stretched, he asked, “Are you ready to leave, my lord?”

“I have a short letter to write,” the archbishop answered. “I will be ready by the time the wagons are loaded, but I will need a man to ride with the message.”

Hugh nodded and went out, and Thurstan followed him but turned to the scriptorium, where he could borrow a quill and ink and some parchment. He did not want to waste time to order his own equipment unpacked. A desk was quickly vacated for his use, and Thurstan wrote to the abbess of the convent where Hugh had been born. He described the date and events of Hugh’s birth and ordered that every nun who was alive and had been in the convent during the week that preceded Hugh’s birth and the week that followed it be questioned and requestioned until every fact, no matter how minute, was uncovered.

The mother abbess, he added, was not to stop with her own convent but to write to any nun who had been there and who had moved to a daughter house or even to another convent and request a careful recounting. Restraining tears with difficulty, he now remembered that he had not asked what had happened to the woman’s clothing and other possessions. How
could
he have failed to follow so obvious a clue?
Mea culpa,
he thought with a sigh as he added that a careful search should be made for any article of hers that might have been saved.

He wrote to the bishop of Durham, too, not explaining in such detail, but requesting his efforts to spur on the mother abbess’s investigation. And oddly, once he had handed the letters over to the messenger, he found his guilt sat lightly on him. He recognized his sin intellectually, but “his heart knew it not.” He would not scant confession nor expiation, but there was a growing conviction inside Thurstan that the sin was already forgiven because he had been meant to commit it.

In the courtyard, Hugh had no more time to regret his lost love. After the quiet days with Audris, the bedlam of packing was a strident call to duty. He stood for a moment, half stunned by the noise and rush, watching the servants run to and fro, picking and choosing from the piles of bags, bundles, and odd bits of furniture. The archbishop’s great bed was already disassembled and in the lead cart, with his tall, exquisitely carven chair. Around the wooden pieces were the mattress, the cushions, and the featherbeds and, buffered by those, the chests of plate and other valuables.

Hugh saw a servant, mounted on the tail of the cart, ram a three-legged stool down and scream at a boy, who was trying to hand him another, to bring some of the lesser bundles instead. The boy shouted some reply that Hugh could not make out since it was in English, but it must have been impertinent because the man seized the second stool by one leg and flourished it threateningly. Thereupon the boy ran off and picked up a number of untidy blanket rolls and scurried back, but he was laughing, and though the man shook the stool at him, he took good care not to strike the boy with it.

Because it was expected of him, Hugh walked to the cart and prodded the larger pieces within reach, testing how much free movement they had. None shifted at all, and he spoke a few halting English words of praise for work well done. Unless the cart overturned, Hugh was sure that nothing would be shaken loose and fall by the wayside. The screeching and scolding and darting from one pile of stuff to another made the loading seem haphazard, but the archbishop’s servants were experienced and efficient. Some had been with Thurstan for many years and had loaded and unloaded his goods thousands of times.

When Thurstan came out and was assisted into his saddle, Hugh led the baggage train out of the abbey gates and back toward Newcastle. They would meet the Roman road south of Corbridge. That road crossed the Tyne over a bridge, and Hugh estimated that the time lost in retracing their path would be more than compensated by the ease of passing the river and the superiority of the Roman road.

It was true that if they went due north from Hexham, they would save some three leagues, half a day’s travel, but the archbishop and the baggage wains would have to cross the dangerous ford under Jernaeve. It was too likely there would be an accident—that was no ford for heavy carts, and Thurstan would be soaked—and Hugh did not think he could bear to pass Jernaeve. Audris, too, would suffer if she looked out from her tower when he went by. Or would she be watching for him and worry when she did not see the cortege?

In his mind, Hugh began to explain, as if he were writing to her, why he had to take the Roman road. He found comfort in it and recalled Audris’s strange concept of talking together while they were parted. Perhaps it was not so strange after all. When he thought in terms of what he would write, he did not feel so far from her. It was then that he realized he had not the wherewithal to write. He had no reason to carry a supply of parchment and ink. If he wished to send a note to Sir Walter, he needed only to ask Thurstan for materials, but to need more parchment every few days would call for explanations Hugh did not wish to make.

He told Thurstan, who was riding silently beside him, that he had forgotten to ask about something and had to go back to Hexham and was away before his foster father could ask a question. Before the cortege had traveled a mile, Hugh was back with a thick roll of parchment and a dozen quills rolled in his blanket and a stoppered horn of ink in one saddlebag. He had also asked whether the monks had any news of traveling conditions or outlaws on the northern road. Thus, when Thurstan wanted to know what had sent Hugh galloping back, he repeated what he had been told—that the Roman road called Dere Street was sound as far as Byrness and a little beyond. Farther north, the road grew worse, but it was certainly passable as far as Jedburgh. And as for outlaws, they were fewer than usual, by report, because of the rumors that the Scottish army would be sweeping through that area.

Thurstan looked at him and asked dryly, “Do you think I am growing addled in my old age?”

“Of course not,” Hugh replied.

“Then why did you ride back to ask questions that, unless I was in my dotage, I must have asked already?”

Hugh had the grace to drop his eyes, but he only said, “Father, it is my responsibility to know these things, and… ah… sometimes your attention is directed to more important matters than the condition of the roads—”

“There are certainly matters more important than the condition of the roads—but not when one is about to travel them,” Thurstan interrupted, laughing. But he said no more. Whether Hugh had been trying to save him from embarrassment, as he had implied, or whether he had some private purpose he did not wish to divulge, Thurstan felt no need to pry. There could be nothing evil in anything Hugh did; and if he had a secret he wished to keep, Thurstan judged from Hugh’s expression that it was a happy one.

They made a good distance that day, halting to eat just south of where the road breached the Roman wall, then going another eight miles, despite the rising ground, before the sun set and Hugh felt it was necessary to stop. The whole area seemed uninhabited, although one could see sheep on the hillsides and, when the woods grew close to the road, sometimes hear the gruntings of hogs in the shelter of the trees. Sheep and pigs notwithstanding, there was not a village or manor house anywhere close enough to seek shelter for the night. Thurstan brushed away Hugh’s concern.