Fires of Winter (25 page)

And Audris was already suffering too much for me to add the weight of my sorrow to hers. When she told me, her voice choked with sobs and she wept with a racking bitterness I had never before heard from that happy soul. Later, I learned that seeing me had unloosed the sorrow that she had not permitted herself to feel earlier—at first, because immediately after her uncle's death she needed to show herself confident to enhearten the men in Jernaeve to withstand the Scots, and after the Scots had fled all of her mind and will had been given to nursing Hugh, who had come to break the siege of Jernaeve with fresh wounds received in the Battle of the Standard.

I comforted her as well as I could when each word she said was a twist of the knife in my own heart. My eyes burned with tears I would not let her see when she sobbed of her ingratitude, her failure to show her love, her cruelty to Sir Oliver in running away to Hugh. Yet compared with Audris, I was a monster. She had been a joy to Sir Oliver just for her elfin ways and had, in the end, kissed him and teased him and displayed her love even if she did not speak often of it. She had not gone to Hugh to hurt her uncle but to save him the hurt of losing Jernaeve. And I—even in my own heart—I had not appreciated Sir Oliver's kindness to me. I had
blamed
him for “keeping me back,” and later resented being sent away even though I
wanted
to go.

At last I diverted Audris by telling her that I must leave the next day. I could have taken some days of rest, but I could not bear to stay in Jernaeve until I had grown a little accustomed to my loss. Much as I loved Hugh, a rage rose in me when I saw him sit in Sir Oliver's great chair. In crying out against the briefness of my visit, Audris's self-blame was quenched, and I made her happy again by telling her that I would leave Melusine with her as a guarantee of my return. She lit with joy; however deep Audris's grief, it did not cloud her spirit for long. I know most of the joy was for the assurance that I would return, but some was for Melusine's company. I had seen the approval in Audris's face when I brought Melusine to her and they had almost at once laughed together, I do not remember about what but it was easy, happy laughter that promised a true bond between them.

Somehow I survived the evening meal and a few hours more, for it was important that Hugh know all I could tell him about the court and the outlook for King Stephen's future. I held back nothing, not even my doubts of the king's fixity of purpose—which Hugh knew because he had been at Exeter—or the doubtful wisdom of rejecting Winchester and Ypres in favor of Meulan. There were things I could say in words to Hugh's face that I would never dare tell a scribe to write and might even hesitate to write myself, lest the letter fall into other hands. But when I had passed the essential news, I could bear no more. All the time I had been talking, I was holding back tears because I would never bring such news to Sir Oliver again.

It was fortunate that Hugh was still not strong, and Audris thought it was my consideration for him when I said I was tired and would like to go to bed because I needed to make an early start in the morning. She might also have thought I was eager to lie with Melusine—or used that to silence Hugh when he wanted to draw out the talk—because she made crude and obvious jests as she showed us to the chamber Lady Eadyth had made ready. Audris may have the pale, transparent looks of an angel, but as I have always known, there is nothing else angelic about her.

To save Melusine the need for explanations that might turn Audris against her when I was away, I roused myself to respond to the jests as if all were as usual for wedded folk between Melusine and myself. The effort distracted me from realizing that Audris had led us into the north tower chamber, Sir Oliver's and Lady Eadyth's old place. Before I could protest, Audris assured me that she had not put Lady Eadyth out, that her aunt had preferred to move to a wall chamber. Thus the north tower had become the best place to put guests. It had had several occupants already—Hugh's great-uncle, Ralph Ruthsson, and Walter Espec, who had come for two days to see for himself how Hugh was so he could carry the news to Archbishop Thurstan, who was praying himself sick.

To my surprise, being in that chamber did not trouble me—and I realized that was probably the only place in all Jernaeve that I did not associate with Sir Oliver. I do not think I had ever been there in my life, certainly not in my father's time and not later because a bedchamber is much more a woman's than a man's. Sir Oliver came into the bedchamber only to sleep or get children, both acts that were none of my business. He truly lived in the hall, in the armory, in the stables, and that life I had shared with him; it was that life I mourned, that life I could not bear to see others, even others dearly loved, usurp.

Then Melusine laid a hand gently on my arm; I turned and saw tears in her eyes, and I understood what she had felt when I told her I would take her to Ulle.

“I know now,” I said. “I will not make you go to Ulle. I will not sit in your father's chair, as Hugh sits in Sir Oliver's.”

And she put her arms around my neck and laid her head on my shoulder. “Hush,” she murmured, “you are too hurt to think now. Let me help you undress.”

When we lay together in the dark—it was cool enough so far north to close the bed-curtains against the small light of the night candle—she said softly, “Time heals, at least a little.”

“It cannot heal me.” My voice cracked, but I had to confess to someone. “He was all the father I ever had—only out of the goodness of his heart. I had no claim on him. And I never thanked him, never, not once.”

She slid an arm under my neck and drew me to her. “One does not thank those one loves. They understand without.”

Then I wept, and she wept too, and the pain in my chest and throat grew a little easier so that I began to drift toward sleep. It was not until I woke in the morning and looked down at her and saw the stain of dried tears on her cheeks that I remembered my promise to the queen.

Melusine

Never did a journey begin so ill for me and turn to so great a pleasure. Once Bruno had explained that we were not fleeing for our lives and I had got over wishing to kick him for frightening me out of my wits—I had a little satisfaction in that Vinaigre had nipped him already—I was like a prisoner set free. If Bruno had been married to me to be my gaoler—as he had admitted—he was the strangest gaoler ever set as guard.

A gaoler wishes his prisoner helpless physically and beaten in spirit. Bruno did nothing to curtail my liberty and seemed to delight in making me happy. He did not take back the purse he had given me to pay for cart and guards; he let me wander through the markets in the towns we passed and buy food to replace what we ate on the road; he urged me to buy for myself such small items as caught my eye—a pincushion with pins, which had somehow been left out of my sewing things, a net for my hair because mine had caught on a twig and been torn; from his own purse he paid for a veil that I admired because I shook my head and said I had veils enough when he bade me buy it.

Most important of all, he did not try to keep me in ignorance, which is very strange for a gaoler, who should hope that ignorance will make his prisoner more helpless. Several times I had the odd thought that Papa, who loved me, was more eager to keep me in his power than this man, who had said it was his purpose to control me. Bruno answered any question I asked. I knew that sometimes he held back something from me, but that was because he did not trust me—which I did not like, but it was reasonable enough. He did not demean me by saying that he would protect me and I need not worry my beautiful head about wars and politics.

To me it seemed sensible to explain. After all, Bruno knew we would have to return to court and I was less likely to say the wrong thing to the wrong person if I knew what was going on. What was remarkable was that Bruno apparently agreed that explanation was safe and sensible. Most other men would only have shouted at me, or perhaps beaten me, for what would have been a serious mistake in blabbing all to Winchester and ordered me to keep my mouth shut in the future—regardless of the fact that it is impossible for a lesser lady to keep her mouth shut when she is bidden to speak by some higher noble.

All this kept me so interested that I hardly noticed the miles march by. Not that I would have complained no matter what pace Bruno set. He was so good to me, more considerate than was at all necessary—imagine asking if I wanted to break our journey just because of a little drizzle; I had ridden with Papa in downpours and raging storms if he decided he wished to be at some particular place. Papa might have worried about my being wet and chilled, but he never asked
me
if I minded.

That night Bruno apologized to me for missing the turnoff to Ripon as he hung blankets to keep off the wet and said not a word of blame—yet it was my fault we missed the road as much as his. And, seeing me eye the tiny shelter with doubt—I doubted it would keep us dry, not the small size that would push us into each other's arms—he promised again that he would not force me when he wrapped me and himself together for warmth. I almost wished he had. I often wished he would be harsh and cruel now that we were alone and he need put on no face for others. I was coming to
like
him too much—quite aside from the craving of my body for his.

By the last two days of our journey, I felt in so great danger of my affection being fixed on this man as well as my lust that I could not ride long enough or fast enough to end our being alone together. I am afraid that my eagerness to come to Jernaeve, where I knew there would be others, made Bruno somewhat suspicious. He asked for no explanation however, and I offered none, but I sighed with relief when we came to the top of a rise and Bruno pulled Barbe to a halt and pointed a little northwest.

“Jernaeve,” he said.

Familiarity must have made clear to him what was little more than a distant cliff face above a sparkling river to me. Or a different kind of familiarity blinded me, for God knows Cumbria has more than its share of high cliffs bulging over rivers and lakes and no one would bother to build a fortress there. We build in the valleys, close to the little land we have that is suitable for crops.

Even as we came closer I could see only stone, no sign of palisade or path or hall. It was only when we came right up to the bank of the river that I realized not all of the cliff was natural. Involuntarily I pulled Vinaigre to a halt and sat staring upward, suddenly aware of the two mighty towers and the wall of dressed stone that must have added thirty feet to the height. Now I understood better what Bruno had been telling me of the power and importance of Jernaeve, sitting astride one road that ran from Scotland to England and only a little more than one league from another, more important, highway. I did not like that threatening fist of rock crowned by that mighty bastion.

“Who built it?” I breathed.

“The first Fermain, I suppose,” Bruno replied, but without much interest.

To him Jernaeve was a natural thing, a place he had always known. It did not look to him as it did to me, a lair for giants created by sorcerous arts. Bruno had smiled when he glanced up, a fond affectionate smile, such as one gives an old friend. There was no awe in his face, only a great eagerness—not for the place itself, I guessed, but for what was within.

Until that moment I had given no thought at all during our journey to those who held Jernaeve. I knew Northumbria was more fertile and less mountainous than my own Cumbria, but I also knew it was harsh and desolate compared with the south of England. Thus, I had assumed the people of Jernaeve were much like those I knew at home. Now I recalled the way Bruno had spoken of introducing me to those who had been kind to him and cared for him, not claiming them as family, and I remembered my shame and anger for his lack of pride in desiring to display his new status as the husband of a gentlewoman. I blushed for him, but it was too late to speak. He was already easing Barbe down into a deep and dangerous ford.

It was fortunate that Vinaigre was accustomed to our own rushing streams and sure of foot. We emerged unscathed only wet to the thighs, and I was furious that Bruno rode straight to the gate. I did not wish to be presented to these proud people looking like a beggar maid, stained and muddied. I had a fine gown in my blanket roll. I could have changed in the shelter of the lower wall. But I could not hold on to anger, for awe overmastered me again when we were admitted.

War had taken a toll of the lower grounds. Buildings had been burnt and were being repaired and restored, but I had little time to look about. The gate guard summoned his captain, and that man bowed as he bid Bruno welcome and said we might go up to the keep. I almost forgot my rage and shame in marveling as the horses climbed that road, winding back and forth to the upper gates. The upper bailey was untouched; I was not surprised that this keep had not been taken. Cattle lowed in the pens, dogs barked in the kennels, the sound of hammer on iron came faintly from a smithy I could not see. Before I could place any sound, Bruno was off Barbe, handing his rein to a groom who came running from the stable to our left, and he had turned to lift me down. I was barely on my feet when a small form flew across the bailey and flung itself on Bruno with such force that he staggered backward.

“Bruno! Brother! Dearling!”

The voice was high and sweet. I thought her a girl child before I turned to look, but even from the back the laced bliaut showed her to be a full-formed woman. She hung on Bruno's neck and kissed his cheeks and his lips, then flung back her head to see his face. He crushed her to him, released her, hugged her again, murmuring, “Audris. Audris. I knew you would be safe.” And as he looked into her face, for the first time there was utter content in his. That deep hunger I had first seen when he burst in the door of the hall at Ulle and underlay every other expression was gone.

Wonder was what I felt at first. I had assumed that a whore's bastard would hunger for riches or for power and that no gain of either or both would ever satisfy him, for what is lost at birth can never be fulfilled. But I had been wrong, as far wrong as I could be. What Bruno starved for was love, to be cared for and caring.

When the meaning of that revelation burst on me, I was frozen in place with fear. Perhaps I had been more terrified when the ram burst in the door of Ulle's hall or when I first woke from my long madness and found Bruno mounted and thrusting into me, but that fear was for my body and this was for my everlasting soul. I saw how this man could be bent and broken, made into a puppet to do my will. I need not murder his body to get revenge; I could destroy his soul instead.

Perhaps if the embrace Bruno and his sister were sharing had lasted another moment, jealousy would have been added to the ferment inside me. But I had barely recovered from the shock my revelation had brought when Bruno turned Audris so she saw me.

“Here is the surprise I promised you, dearling,” he said. “This is Melusine, my wife.”

“Oh, how beautiful she is! How lucky you are, Bruno!” Audris exclaimed, and flew to me.

I say flew because I know no other way to describe Audris's movement. It was so quick and so light that her feet hardly seemed to touch the ground. When she was still, as she was in the next moment, having taken my hands to look smiling into my face, she was a tiny creature, not at all beautiful because she was so blond that she seemed altogether faded. Yet there was something about her that called aloud to my heart—was it that her eyes, so pale as to be colorless, sparkled so brightly, that the barely tinted lips curved up at the corners as if laughter always lived in her, or simply the overflowing warmth and natural joy of her greeting to Bruno.

Certainly that last must have had a large part in my response because, as I pressed her hands in mine, I offered no conventional greeting but asked, “Why do you call Bruno brother? He speaks of you always as Lady Audris.”

“Bruno is an idiot!” she exclaimed, glancing over her shoulder with a smile that could have melted the ice cap on a mountain in winter. “He is always mumbling and mowing about his unworthy mother. Who cares a fig for his mother? I cannot even remember her, she died so long ago. He is my father's son, my brother, who cared for me every day of my life—”

“Your father did not recognize me, Audris—”

She let go of me and silenced him with a kiss, crying, “Hush! I will hear no more of it, and if you
once
call me lady, I will—I will pour honey in your hair!”

We all three burst out laughing, but even as I laughed my eyes filled with tears. The threat was so clear an echo of a childhood spent together in perfect security that it not only assured me that Audris had told me the truth about the value she set on Bruno but also brought back to me my squabbles with my younger brothers. Audris had turned back to me, I suppose with an invitation to come within on her lips, but instead she took my hand again and whispered, “Oh, Melusine, I have hurt you.”

“No, no,” I stammered, “not you. Memories, only memories.”

And Bruno was beside me, his arm around my waist. “She has much to grieve for,” he said softly to Audris. “And it cannot be amended.”

“Then I will overlay the hurt a little with a sweet poultice—I will show you my son,” Audris said, glanced at Bruno, and tightened the grip of her small warm hand on mine. “But not at once,” she went on, smiling. “My aunt says I am a featherhead—” Her voice checked and her eyes widened. “Oh bless me, I will be scolded again. I never stayed to listen to the end of the guard's tale and learn that Bruno had brought another guest. As soon as I heard his name, I went running—” She sighed and shrugged. “Well, it will not be the first time.”

Bruno laughed. “Nor the last neither, if I know you. Poor Lady Eadyth, how hard she tried to teach you the skills and duties of a lady.”

“I had rather climb for hawks or weave,” Audris retorted. “What good would come of my knowing Lady Eadyth's skills? I could never practice them without taking from her a great pride and pleasure. Do not be so silly, Bruno. Now come within, you are both all wet. My aunt will have dry clothes for you, and bath water heating, and all measure of guestly greeting.”

My pain had disappeared completely as I listened to this exchange. I suppose that was its purpose but I never thought of that. “You climb for hawks?” I gasped.

Bruno groaned and Audris laughed this time. “He taught me when we were children and he is still blaming himself for it, but Jernaeve has the most and the finest hawks in any shire in the land. Come, love,” she soothed, looking around me at Bruno. “There is no danger for me anymore. Hugh goes with me and I tie a rope to me so I cannot fall.”

“Hugh goes with you?” Bruno repeated in a stunned voice, and I looked with great admiration on that little lady who had so bewitched her husband that he assisted her in doing what would bring on a fit in most husbands.

“Not right now,” she said as we entered the forebuilding, broke our grip on each other, and began to climb the stair to the hall entrance. “And do not begin to scold him about it, for he agrees with you from the heart and is not a whit more able to resist. Besides, he is still weak from his sickness after the battle.”

“Sickness!” Bruno exclaimed, stopping on the stair. “But the priest said he had not been hurt—”

“Go up,” Audris urged. “He is better now, so there is no sense in worrying.”

I had no time then to marvel at the great hall, which was as large as that of Richmond—and might have been even stronger—because near the door was waiting the ugliest man I had ever seen in my life. His hair was so red that it glowed, even in the dim light of the hall; his eyes were so far apart that I wondered if he saw two images; his nose was an eagle's beak; his long, narrow chin jutted too far forward—and then he smiled, and I forgot everything except that his eyes were a beautiful, luminous blue and he was welcoming me with a rare warmth.