A Tapestry of Dreams (6 page)

The town looked prosperous, too. Hugh and Sir Walter had come out of the house onto a busy street. Most of the people were hurrying in the direction opposite to theirs, toward the lively market not far up the road from Sir Walter’s house. Hugh cast a longing glance toward the noisy confusion of beasts and men and women.

Banners flapped invitingly before open storefronts; peddlers threaded their way through the crowd crying aloud of hot pies, roasted chestnuts, and other tasty tidbits; merchants held their wares aloft to draw notice to them, bellowing praises of their beauty and fine craftsmanship; buyers poked inquiring fingers through the feathers of squawking chickens and the fleece of placid sheep and examined hogs, cows, and asses. Trade was brisk if judged by the people’s voices, shrill with the excitement of chaffering.

If only, Hugh thought resentfully, he had had the sense to say he was still sleepy, he could have bought himself some hot pies to eat in the market and spent a delightful day. Now, instead of enjoying himself, he would have to mind·his manners and his tongue every minute.

They had come by then through the town and past the hundred or so yards of wasteland on the far side of the moat. Hugh noticed fleetingly certain regular lines breaking the even ground cover of dry grass and dead weeds, which showed that houses had been pulled down to clear the area and remove anything that might shelter attacking troops. Most passersby in the street were now well behind at the market or had turned off onto side lanes, but Hugh and Sir Walter were not alone. Well-dressed men, singly and in pairs and small groups, were converging with them toward the bridge that spanned the moat. Hugh and Sir Walter crossed in silence, although Sir Walter nodded to some men and raised his hand to others as their long legs carried them past smaller mortals who walked more slowly.

Sir Walter’s brow was furrowed in thought, and he rasped his beard up and down ferociously, occasionally giving it a good tug. Hugh watched him in sidelong glances, wondering what was troubling him. Sir Walter often fingered his beard when thoughtful or puzzled, but he only did violence to it when deeply distressed. Even odder, several times Sir Walter turned his head and seemed about to speak, only to grunt, growl, or hawk and spit—but never a word followed. Hugh would have said that his lord was showing typical signs of embarrassment, if it had not been impossible that Sir Walter should feel that emotion with regard to him.

Inside the castle, the great hall was a scene of chaos. Some servants were scurrying about setting up trestle tables, others were bringing in sacks of day-old bread to serve as trenchers, still others dragging wooden cups, bowls, and spoons from where they were stored. At the head of the room, one table on the dais was draped with bleached linen and laid with several silver plates and one gold one.

A blond squire with curled hair and a lavishly embroidered tunic was placing precious glass goblets near each plate. The butler, even more richly dressed than the squire—which was not surprising since he was an earl and one of the great men of the kingdom—kept one eye on the elegant squire and the other on the flagons of wine being readied to fill the cups. His shouted orders sometimes overrode, sometimes conflicted with, those of the chief steward, the sewer, and the pantler, creating a cacophony of sound and a swirl of bodies dropping one task to rush off in a new direction.

Getting ready for dinner was always a busy time in any household, but this was like nothing Hugh had ever seen, and he paused on the threshold of the hall, startled by the chaos. Sir Walter thrust him forward with a hand between his shoulder blades and then passed him to weave a purposeful path toward a doorway at the rear. This led to a much smaller chamber with its own hearth, near which stood a canopied chair of state. The king was not seated there but was standing near the middle of the room within a loose half circle of men, flanked on one side by his brother, Henry of Blois, bishop of Winchester, and on the other by William Pont de l’Arche. Hugh knew neither of the men, but Sir Walter rumbled their names and the fact that they had been instrumental in getting Stephen crowned. Curiously, Hugh studied the expressions of the men as well as their faces with his bright, wide-set eyes, noting that neither man looked very cheerful.

His intense scrutiny, although brief, did not go unnoticed. First the bishop’s head turned in his direction and then that of Pont de l’Arche. Both heads promptly turned back to Stephen, and both spoke eagerly, almost as if they did not want the king to notice who had caught their attention. It was too late to divert Stephen; he had already looked the same way, but his face broke into a pleased smile of recognition, and he beckoned Hugh and Sir Walter toward him.

“You are well come, on the very moment I need you,” the king said genially. “Here, gentlemen, is the young man I mentioned, Hugh Licorne. And Sir Walter, you know.”

Hugh bowed; Sir Walter nodded, receiving nods of recognition in return.

“We are concerned—” Winchester began.

Before he could say more, he was cut off by a peevish voice from one of the men who had been forced to move by their entry into the circle near the king. “Licorne?” the man cried. “Licorne? What sort of name is that? I do not believe it is real. The man is a Scot himself. Just look at him.”

“Pembroke, do not talk nonsense,” Sir Walter growled. “Whatever his looks, Hugh has been in my household since he was eight, and his name is a name like any other. I have never known anyone but Sir William here to be called ‘bridge of arches,’ either, but I do not claim his name is false.”

Gilbert de Clare, earl of Pembroke, a head shorter than Sir Walter and round as a barrel, glared up at him with red-veined, malevolent eyes. “So, he is
your
servant. And he rode all alone from the north to cry of King David’s trespasses and makes claim that all Northumbria has fallen—although the only place he has been is
your
keep at Wark, where he admits the attackers were only a small force. They could have been a band of outlaws, hoping by a clever ruse to find easy pickings. You are asking us to believe that in the entire north of England there is not one other who would come to warn the king of a Scottish invasion. Is not one young man’s word a frail thread on which to hang the rush northward of a whole army?”

“It is not so frail a thread,” Hugh answered calmly before Sir Walter, who had stiffened with anger, could speak. “The force was made up of Scots and was no band of outlaws. I walked among them and heard them talking. The force was led by Sir William de Summerville, who is known to be a liege man of King David. I took his horse during my escape, and you may look at the destrier and accoutrements and tell me how an outlaw would come by such.”

“Usually the outlaws in those hills are reduced to eating horses by this time of year,” Sir Walter put in dryly. “And Hugh came first because he rode harder and faster.”

Stephen nodded and smiled. “He was certainly all but asleep on his feet when he arrived.”

Hugh bowed acknowledgment of the king’s support, but his eyes were still on Pembroke. “As to my guesses about the invasion, my lord, if you can find causes other than those I offered for the attack on Wark, those causes must certainly be judged against mine. But if”—Hugh’s voice suddenly lost its tone of calm reason and hardened with naked threat—“you are suggesting that this is some plot of my own or my lord’s to deceive the king, I will meet”—he hesitated, ran his eyes with open contempt over Pembroke’s rather flabby rotundity, then went on—“I will meet your champion and prove on his body that I have spoken the truth.”

Stephen laughed. “So, Licorne’s temper does grow out atop his head. I wondered at so calm a reply from one of that color hair. I like a man who will pledge his body to support his word. But it will not do. Those who love me must not fight among themselves.”

“Certainly not,” Winchester agreed. “Nor do I wish to cast doubt on this young man’s veracity, for I believe he spoke what he believed to be the truth. Still, it does trouble me that no other message has come from the north. Does not Summerville have lands in Roxburgh? Is it not possible that the attack on Wark is some private act? And if that is so, will not it seem an offense or a threat to King David to bring a large army north?”

“I must agree,” Pont de l’Arche said, shrugging. “A guess, no matter how good the will behind it, is still a guess. Sir Walter may be right that Licorne is only the first to bring this news, but it seems to me also that we should wait until we have some confirmation.”

“Which might not come for another week,” Sir Walter protested. “Then more time will be lost in readying the army to march. By then, King David will have his own men in all the royal keeps, and it will be said throughout the north that King Stephen would not defend the land against the Scots. Delay, and you could lose a third of your kingdom, Sire.”

“Run north on a false scent,” Pembroke, whose lands were in Wales, snarled, “and you will lose Wales.”

“The Welsh,” Sir Walter pointed out, “are not one nation. There may be a rising here and there, but no king like David can draw all the Welsh together. A king must oppose a king. You, Lord Pembroke, and the other Marcher lords can hold down the petty princes of Wales.”

Hugh’s face was expressionless as he listened, but he had to clasp his hands behind his back to keep them from trembling, and he was cold with fear inside. What if his reasoning were wrong? What if the taking of Wark were an act of collusion between Summerville and Wark’s castellan and had nothing to do with King David? He had jumped to
a conclusion because Sir Walter had discussed with him his concern that David might try to use the disputed succession as an opportunity to annex Northumbria and Cumbria. Hugh wished passionately that Sir Walter had not espoused his harebrained idea with such enthusiasm, but he dared not now say he was mistaken. Others in the circle, who had been listening, now joined the argument, and all seemed to oppose an expedition to the north. The only advantages were that in their eagerness to speak they pressed in front of Hugh and their vociferous remarks occupied the king’s attention until all were summoned to dinner.

Since he sat at one of the lowest tables, Hugh contrived to escape without further notice. He spent an uneasy afternoon, unable to divert himself at the market, which he had previously wished to visit, and a restless night. Although he did not want Stephen’s attention, he was worried all the next day because he had not been summoned to the king again; worse yet, Sir Walter seemed to be avoiding him.

Not that Hugh lacked companionship. John de Bussey insisted on Hugh’s company to celebrate his appointment as castellan of Wark. Hugh was truly glad for John’s sake; Sir Walter had offered the place to Hugh himself first, and he had refused it and recommended it be given to John. To spare John’s feelings at being second best, Hugh knew, Sir Walter would not have mentioned his refusal, although he would certainly have told John that Hugh had suggested his name. Thus Hugh could not refuse to join the merrymaking lest he be thought sullen at losing to a rival a prize he desired, but he was worried sick about the position in which he had placed his master.

Relief of one kind came the next morning. John was on the watch for Hugh when he came out of Saint Frideswide after hearing a second Mass—at the moment, Hugh felt he needed all the help he could get, and Frideswide was a notoriously gentle and sympathetic saint. The summons from Stephen had come. But Hugh’s heart sank right down into his shoes, making him feel hollow and empty inside because John brought no advice to him from Sir Walter on how to act or what to say. John had been sent to fetch Hugh to the king’s page because the boy did not know him—and that was all.

He was halfway through the great hall before he realized what a fool he was. Sir Walter had never failed to support any loyal man who made an honest mistake; had he guessed wrong, Hugh was certain, Sir Walter would have been walking beside him into the king’s presence. On the other hand, if praise were due his man, Sir Walter would absent himself so that the honor need not be shared with him. Stephen’s smile as Hugh crossed the smaller chamber in which the king did business was the final proof that confirmation of the invasion of the Scots had come.

“Sir Walter was not mistaken in his trust of you,” Stephen said. “You judged aright. My uncle has taken all the royal castles north of the Tyne.” He gestured to a broad-shouldered, dark-haired man in mud-splashed clothes who stood to the left of his chair. “This is Bruno, who came late last night with a message from Sir Oliver Fermain of Jernaeve to say that Summerville had ordered him in King David’s name to yield his keep, and when he refused, threatened to bring an army to assault that place.”

Hugh nodded at Bruno and bowed to the king. “I am sorry to be right,” he said. “I would I had been wrong and that there would be peace between England and Scotland.”

“We may still have peace,” Stephen said. “I am not lacking in the ability to judge a man any more than Sir Walter. I was so sure you had not mistaken the case, I ordered my army to gather near Leicester soon after you brought the news. Tomorrow I will join them, and we will march for the north. David may have taken the royal keeps, but Sir Walter has assured me that his vassals and the men of Durham and Northumbria will rise to support me.”

“That is true, my lord,” Hugh agreed eagerly. “They do not love the Scots and will be quick to join you if they are able. So, if your army comes before the lesser keeps are taken, David will have little hold on the land.”

“And if King David starts with Jernaeve,” Bruno put in, smiling grimly, “he will need his whole army, and it will be long before he is free to turn elsewhere.”

Stephen looked at Bruno with surprise and doubt, and the man flushed slightly. Hugh had a sudden feeling of recognition—not that he knew Bruno personally, but the signs he had noted subconsciously had suddenly fallen into place. Although he was well beyond the age for knighting, no “Sir” had preceded Bruno’s name, and not even a place name, like “Bruno of Jernaeve,” had followed it. Yet Bruno’s speech was the language of the nobility, fluent French, pure of accent, and his clothing, like Hugh’s own, was far better than that of any ordinary man-at-arms. What Hugh recognized was a condition similar to his own: a man who was a part of the ruling class and yet had no recognized place in it. A wave of fellow feeling made Hugh want to offer support.