A Tapestry of Dreams (7 page)

“That is no idle boast,” Hugh said. “I have never been in Jernaeve, but I have seen it. It is very strong, and my lord will testify to Sir Oliver’s tenacity in holding his lands.”

“They are not his,” Bruno pointed out. “Jernaeve belongs to Sir Oliver’s niece, Demoiselle Audris.”

“His niece?” Stephen repeated, interested. “Is the lady free to wed? Has she an heir—other than her uncle?”

“She is a maiden,” Bruno answered.

Hugh cared nothing about the lordship of Jernaeve, and he saw that Stephen’s interest had made Bruno uneasy. “If Jernaeve holds until you arrive, Sire,” he put in, trying to bring Stephen back to the Scottish invasion, “King David will be in evil case. His army must be smaller than yours. He will have to retreat from Jernaeve and any other keeps that are under attack to protect what he has already taken. Yet, if he puts his men into the keeps yielded to him, he will have no army with which to oppose yours and will himself be in danger of being taken prisoner. If he musters his men into an army, the keeps will fall back into your hands easily, either through being undermanned or by a change of heart of the garrison when they see your power. And all will be more fixed in their loyalty to you, seeing that you came so swiftly in strength to their support.”

Stephen nodded. “So I think also. And I have not forgotten your part—or Bruno’s—in adding to my chances of success. I can use men of proven loyalty and hardiness of body. Will you both come into my household?”

“No!”

“Yes, my lord.”

The voices mingled, but there was no doubt about who had agreed and who had denied the invitation. Bruno’s dark eyes shone with relief and pleasure; Hugh’s had widened in shocked dismay. Before Stephen could add anything, Bruno had dropped to one knee before the king’s chair.

“Thank you, my lord!” he exclaimed. “I will serve you faithfully, I swear. When Alnwick yielded, those of us who were unwilling to accept the terms were given leave to go, and I lost my place. Thus, I am free to give my service where I will.”

“You owe no fealty to Sir Oliver?” Stephen asked.

Bruno shook his head. “I was born in Jernaeve and trained there by Sir Oliver’s kindness, for which I am grateful, so I rode to warn him of the coming of the Scots. But I have no place in Jernaeve.”

Bruno’s quality, age, and lack of position had not escaped Stephen’s notice any more than it had escaped Hugh’s. “Are you Sir Oliver’s son?” the king asked.

“No, I am not,” Bruno replied flatly and without hesitation, but then he flushed and an expression of anxiety crossed his face. “I swear I am not Sir Oliver’s get,” he added, “although we are said to look much alike.”

Stephen nodded kindly. “I will not press you, and honor you for making no claim to what you cannot prove. Nor will your parents’ sin be held against you in my service.” Stephen turned in his chair and gestured to a clerk seated at a table by the back wall. “Enroll Bruno of
Jernaeve
among my squires of the body,” he said, emphasizing the place name to give Bruno the status he had not claimed, and smiled when he heard Bruno gasp. Then he turned to look at Hugh and raised his brows.

Hugh was prepared, since Bruno’s intervention in accepting Stephen’s offer had given him time to think, and he also dropped to one knee, answering without hesitation, “I am not free, Sire. I know my lord would free me to serve you, but I beg you will not ask him. His squires are both young, he has no son, and he has just offered his nephew, who also was in his service, the castellanship of Wark when it is retaken. Without me, there will be no squire strong enough to stand by him in battle or to do those errands that a man rather than a boy must do.”

Stephen stared at him, and Hugh held his breath. It was no light thing to refuse service to a king. He had gambled on the good nature and generosity that Stephen had displayed at their previous meetings, but it
was
a gamble, for kings seemed always to be suspicious. Old King Henry would have taken such a refusal as a sure sign of intended treachery, but Stephen finally smiled and shook his head.

“You are very loyal, Hugh Licorne, for I am sure you know there is much to be gained by serving a king. But you should have understood that I have already spoken to Sir Walter. I would not cozen away his man without permission. Does this knowledge change you answer?”

Hugh swallowed, knowing he was treading dangerous ground, but he muttered, “No, my lord.”

The king shrugged. “Ah, well, it is true that Sir Walter deserves your loyalty, for he said nothing of his own need. He spoke only of your good qualities and how I would never regret advancing you, so I thought I had found a reward that would benefit us both. Now you must name your own reward, for good service must be rewarded.”

Since Hugh had never given a thought to Stephen’s good or ill when he had decided to escape from Wark, he did not feel especially deserving of any reward; however, he was well aware how unwise it would be to utter another refusal or to admit how indifferent he had been to the effect of the Scottish invasion on the holder of the English throne.

“If I may have my choice,” Hugh said, “I would beg of you only a token that I could bring you at some future time to ask for service with you then. I cannot leave Sir Walter’s service while war threatens, Sire, but when there is peace and his squires are older so that my master no longer needs me, I would like to come to you.”

“Fiat!”
Stephen exclaimed, his reserved expression melting into a beaming smile. He was a kind and generous man and honored Hugh for his self-sacrificing loyalty; nonetheless, he had felt some pique at being rejected. Now that pique was soothed. His offer was not refused; it was not that Hugh preferred Sir Walter, but that duty and honor delayed acceptance.

“But what token shall I give?” Stephen mused. His fingers toyed with a ring, and he began to draw it off, but then pushed it back on, threw back his head, and began to laugh. “No,” he said. “One ring is much like another. Such purity must be marked by a special token. Before we ride tomorrow, your token will be brought to you.”

More than a week before Bruno had arrived at Oxford and been taken into Stephen’s service, Sir Oliver had tried to determine how serious Jernaeve’s situation was by questioning him. When Sir Oliver returned from speaking with Summerville, Bruno was rested and able to give many details that had previously escaped his tired mind, but everything he remembered only confirmed that the parties he had avoided with such trouble had not been raiding but hunting a thief. Unfortunately Bruno had been driven too far north and east of Wark to be able to judge the number of campfires or even how far these had extended around the keep. Thus, there was now no way to determine the size of Summerville’s army or whether he would be able to come down on Jernaeve with a host large enough to attack the outer walls all along their extensive east-west fronts.

Such an attack could not be long withstood and would mean retreat into Jernaeve keep. The keep itself was nearly impregnable and was stocked for a siege of weeks or months, depending on how many of the serfs were taken in. But Oliver knew that if he were penned up inside Jernaeve, the Scots would be free to raid southward. Although sheep grazed on the lower hills to the east and west and pigs rooted in the forests that crowned those hills, the wealth of Jernaeve came from the farms of the fertile river valleys to the south—and from his niece’s loom in the south tower.

Since he could learn no more from Bruno, Oliver sent messages with what information he had to his sons: Sir Oliver, the younger, held the wooden motte and bailey keep above Devil’s Water, and Sir Alain, the elder, was building a strong castle in stone about three leagues southwest of Jernaeve. They were not to come, Sir Oliver said, unless he sent further word, but they were to be alert to drive off any parties of Scots that might wish to raid for supplies. A third man was dispatched to Prudhoe keep but warned to be sure it was not in Scottish hands before he entered. Prudhoe would warn Newcastle if it were not yet taken.

Then Sir Oliver sat staring at his bastard nephew. After a moment he sighed and said, “A pox on these kings with their lands on both sides of the narrow sea.”

The remark was such a non sequitur and so unexpected that Bruno simply gaped.

“If Henry’s son had not drowned,” Oliver went on bitterly, “we would not be in this coil.”

Relieved that his uncle had not gone mad, Bruno laughed. “It was doubtless God’s will that the prince perish. If it had not been drowning, there are plenty of other ways to die.”

Oliver shrugged dyspeptically and looked away into the fire. Bruno was a sore spot in his mind and heart. He had never doubted that the young man was his brother’s son, and he felt he had treated him fairly in the past. Now matters were not so simple. He knew Bruno had lost his place by coming to warn them of the Scottish invasion, yet he could not allow him to stay in Jernaeve, particularly if there were to be an attack on the keep. Oliver knew Bruno’s strength and skill as a fighter—he had trained his nephew and nearly been overmastered before Bruno had gained his full power—and Bruno loved Jernaeve. He would surely distinguish himself in its defense… and that would be dangerous. A strong impression of Bruno’s prowess plus Audris’s obvious preference for her half brother would make him a strong contender to rule Jernaeve instead of his own son. But Alain would never accept that, and the situation could erupt into war.

“The news must go south,” Oliver said heavily. “I did not wish to take sides between the new king and Henry’s daughter, but I will not yield Jernaeve to the Scots. It will be best for you to go.”

Bruno’s expression froze, and he dropped his eyes to his hands, which had clenched suddenly into fists.

“I do not know where the king is just now,” Oliver continued, still staring into the fire rather than at his nephew. “He was crowned at Westminster more than two weeks ago and will have left there, I believe, but there should be word either there or in London of where he went.”

There was another short silence before Bruno could completely control his voice. When he could, he said, “I will go.”

There was no other reply he could have made, and though it wrenched his heart to leave the only place he loved and Audris, the only person who loved him, Bruno knew Oliver was right. Had he not himself said to Audris only the day before that he was a danger to her? He had known from the beginning that he could not stay long, but he had hoped to be warmed by his sister’s affection for a few weeks and to be there to protect her if the Scots chose to fight. It hurt to be driven away so soon. What could he tell her? He was aware, too, that those who brought ill tidings to kings were often the innocent victims of the royal wrath.

As if he heard the last thought in Bruno’s mind, Oliver said quickly, “The king may not be pleased to hear the truth, but he is said to be a kind, good-humored man. In any case, Sir Walter Espec is with him. If you are in need of any kind, go to Sir Walter and tell him any help he can give you will be a favor to me.” His lips twisted wryly. “You need no letter or token to warrant your word. You carry that in your face.”

***

The next day and the next, all was quiet. Each day Sir Oliver was out by dawn seeing to the defenses of the lower wall and to the moving of all supplies from sheds and storehouses to the keep itself. There was no sign of the Scots, neither army nor raiding parties, but before supper of the second day Sir Oliver’s messenger returned from Prudhoe to say that Newcastle was in King David’s hands. Sir Oliver waved the messenger away with a nod of acknowledgment. Prudhoe was not a royal castle where a new king might change the castellan, so Prudhoe was likely to resist the Scots. But after supper he sat by the fire considering the situation, and one uncomfortable thought recurred to his mind until he sat chewing his lower lip in unaccustomed indecision. At last he turned his head to his wife, who was sewing on a low bench near the fire.

“Eadyth, when did you last see Audris?”

His wife raised her head, and the firelight touched her gray braids under their dark veil, giving them a gleam of their original bronze. That thick bronze hair had been Eadyth’s one claim to beauty, for her features were undistinguished—rather dull gray eyes, a round snub nose, and a small pursed mouth, fallen in somewhat now with loss of teeth. The generalized anxiety on her face changed to a sharper fear as Oliver spoke.

“Not since Bruno left,” she replied. “Audris insisted on going to the gate with him, but I warned her strictly not to go out and reminded her of the danger from raiding parties. And her maid has been taking food…” Her voice faded, and her shoulders hunched just a little. “Do you think she is weaving… something special… again?”

There was a hesitation. Sir Oliver would not have admitted under torture that his niece was a witch; he would not admit it to himself. And Father Anselm, a very holy man, had said there was no harm in her or in the pictures she wove. And, mostly, there was not; in fact, there was much good in the glowing scenes of hunting, of work in field and forest, of men and women at play, and of birds and beasts. The tapestries were eagerly sought by traveling merchants, and some noblemen who discovered their source came themselves to buy or pledge for anything new Audris wove. The weavings brought good coins of silver and gold into the coffers of Jernaeve, and fresh news also came with the visitors, so Oliver was more aware of events than most masters of northern keeps.

But sometimes the pictures were not bright and lovely. The spring two years past, Audris had woven a terrible pair: one showed dry fields and dead cattle near the well of a house; in the doorway was Death kissing one child with his fleshless lips and tucking another into his black robe. The other panel had been of the countryside buried in snow and ice, even the river frozen, with skeletal animals scattered dead in the icy fields and skeletal people trying to climb the walls of Jernaeve while Death stood atop, reaping them with his scythe.

Sir Oliver restrained a shudder thinking of those panels and then shook his head when he remembered the price they had brought. He had been sure no one would want them, but the pair had been exchanged for a heavy purse of gold from a visiting Cistercian abbot with a taste for memento mori. Nor had the scenes come to pass exactly as depicted—but only, Oliver knew, because he had learned to take warning when Death showed himself in Audris’s weaving.

The drought had come, but Oliver had culled the herds so there was water and forage for all the beasts that remained. And heat and sickness had killed many children—about that Sir Oliver could do nothing—but no one starved during the famine of the bitter winter that followed, for Oliver had been prepared and had fed those who had need, thereby profiting greatly by gaining new tenants and new lands with blessings and gratitude rather than with hate and fear.

That was what Father Anselm had said—that only good would come of Audris’s weaving. Still, foretelling made Oliver uneasy, and he felt a fool now to look to a girl who could know nothing of war or politics for answers in a time of crisis. Nonetheless, he nodded his head to his wife’s question, and because he was aware of Eadyth’s increasing nervousness, spoke sharply.

“You did not question her maid?” he asked suddenly and harshly.

“My lord,” Eadyth protested, “you know Fritha is mute. Audris insisted—”

“Then you go up and try to see what she has on that loom,” he interrupted, annoyed with himself.

Oliver remembered now that Eadyth had objected to Audris’s choice of the mute serf girl when her old nurse had died, and he had called his wife a fool, thinking it an excellent idea that Audris’s maid should not be able to blab anything she saw in her mistress’s chamber. It had slipped his mind because he so seldom saw the maid.

Without complaint, although she felt faintly sick, Eadyth laid aside her work and picked up the oil lamp that stood on the bench beside her. The hall was dim, with only a few torches blazing in the holders on the walls. The candles in the iron candelabra had been extinguished soon after the evening meal was eaten, for Oliver did not believe in waste and most of the household went to bed soon after dark. She should have known, she told herself, when her husband continued to sit by the fire and think, that there was immediate danger, but she had assumed Oliver was only disturbed about Bruno or about Audris’s distress at her brother’s leaving so soon.

On the stair leading to Audris’s tower, Eadyth lifted the lamp high, for the curving narrow stair was blacker than she expected. Usually it was faintly lit by the illumination spilling through the open door of Audris’s room. Was Audris asleep already, or was the door closed? Eadyth shivered when she reached the landing, telling herself it was only the cold of the icy stone passage that made her shake, but knowing it was fear. She did not want to see what Audris was weaving, but she did not blame Oliver for sending her. It was not any lack of courage on his part. He had never set foot in Audris’s tower lest it be said by those who had asked for her in marriage and been refused that there was evil between himself and his niece.

A soft, repeated thudding came to Eadyth’s ears, and she shivered again and bit her lip. Audris was not asleep, and the door was open. That was the sound of the comb beating down the new-woven threads. Audris was weaving in the dark! Eadyth stood a moment longer, fighting the desire to turn and run back down the stair. But Eadyth knew that running away could not help, and most often the evil that Audris pictured could be averted by care. Her panic passed, and she forced herself to step into the room.

“Why are you in the dark?” Eadyth asked.

There was the sound of something falling, and then Audris’s merry laugh. As Eadyth came closer, the feeble lamplight showed Audris blinking like an owl and smiling.

“Oh, aunt, how you startled me!” she cried. “I had no idea it had got so dark. Fritha must have fallen asleep waiting for me to make ready for bed.” She turned her head and called, “Fritha! Fritha, light the candles.”

Above the sound of the maidservant’s sharply drawn breath and the rustle of her stirring, Eadyth asked, “But how can you weave in the dark?”

“I was only doing the border,” Audris replied, “and anyway, with the tall loom one cannot see the pattern. A good weaver does not need to see, aunt. Surely you know that the women often talk to each other or even close their eyes when they weave. It is not like embroidering.”

“They weave plain cloth,” Eadyth protested, though her mind was not on her words.

The fear that Audris’s laugh had diminished had returned in full. She had forgotten for the moment that Audris herself might not know what was depicted in her work. When the first of the scenes with Death had been woven—Audris had only been a child then, and the work was crude, barely recognizable—she had screamed with terror when she saw it and had run weeping with it to Father Anselm. The priest had talked with her a very long time, and she had come from his cell soothed and showed the panel to her uncle.

Oliver had called the tapestry a child’s nonsense, although Father Anselm had talked with him about the work also—but the river
had
flooded in the spring and drowned the winter wheat, and the sodden fields could not be replanted until too late in the season for a good second crop. Sickness had followed the flooding, too. Eadyth felt tears rise to her eyes; two of her own children had died in that sickness, and Oliver himself had nearly died, babbling in his fever of paying no mind to the serfs who had warned him of damage to the lower reaches of the river.

In the seconds it took for the memories to flit through Eadyth’s mind, the maid had lighted the candles. Audris had stooped to retrieve the spindle she had dropped, but when she rose and saw her aunt’s face, she cried, “What is wrong, aunt? Why do you weep?”

“Your uncle desired me to look at your weaving, Audris,” she replied.

Audris looked puzzled. “But why do you weep?”

“I am not weeping. It was only the brighter light that brought tears to my eyes.”

Since it was not only the tears in her aunt’s eyes but the expression on her face that had startled Audris, she did not believe the excuse. It was strange, too, that her uncle should ask about her work. Although her tapestries brought wealth, he never urged her to weave, as a greedy man would have done. But sometimes he did tell her that a particular scene had been requested, and usually she would weave a picture to fit the request the next time the desire to work took hold of her. That could be the answer. If her uncle had bade her aunt tell her of a demand for a special design and Eadyth had forgotten, Eadyth might be beaten.