A Tapestry of Dreams (30 page)

“Perhaps it does not mean anything,” Audris cried, catching at him. “When I began the work, I only intended to make a pretty picture, a fairy-tale picture.”

Hugh was again staring at the three panels. Audris had said aloud exactly what he wanted to hear—and he had to reject it utterly. Whatever she intended, she had produced more than a fairy tale. But… “It is wrong,” he said. “That third one does not belong—”

“I know. I know,” Audris agreed miserably. “I did not want to do it. The two together—the greeting and the meeting—that should have been the end.”

“No,” Hugh said slowly, “that is beauty and joy, but—but it cannot be the end of the tale, not even of a fairy tale. And the threat cannot be the end of the tale either. See, the maiden is not in the window.”

“There is no longer any maiden,” Audris whispered.

Hugh looked startled, stared at her, and then cupped her face in his hand, lifted it, and kissed her gently. “Light of my life, do you fear that I will turn away from you, wish you harm, because you have given me your body and are no longer a virgin? That is the legend; but beloved, I am
not
a unicorn. It is not even my real name.” He repeated what the archbishop had told him about his mother’s death.

Audris’s tear-drenched eyes stared up into his. “I wish I could believe that what I have woven is a picture of that fear, but I have never thought, never had a single doubt, that you would cease to cherish me.”

“The fear might be in your heart, and you not wish to know it.”

Hugh put his arm around her and held her to him gently. He did not believe it himself, for Audris had no experience of unfaithfulness or rejection, and it is hard to fear what has never been experienced or even threatened. Every person dear to Audris cherished her; even Bruno, who had been away for years at a time, had been faithful, and never forgot to send a message whenever he could. She had not even seen any examples of abandonment, Hugh thought, at least, not among those of her own class. Sir Oliver might not be an affectionate husband, but if he had any woman other than his wife, she was not in Jernaeve. Hugh doubted Sir Oliver had a mistress at all; he did not seem interested in women—and the tone of Jernaeve was wrong for a lascivious master. Still, if he could comfort Audris by the suggestion that she feared he might stop caring for her, he was willing to support the idea.

“One does not always know what is in one’s own heart,” Hugh added. “And anyway, it is a mistake to judge an unfinished—” He stopped abruptly as Audris covered her face and sobbed.

“I do not wish to weave another picture.” She shivered against him, and he tightened his grip on her. “I am afraid.”

“Then do not weave, beloved,” he soothed.

“I cannot help it!” she cried. “I am driven. I cannot help it. You do not know how I struggled against this last weaving.”

“But why?” Hugh asked gently, although his heart was rather heavy. He knew what Audris feared the final panel would show. “Is it not better to know what you fear? Audris, you told me that your weaving shows what you have seen and heard and learned and put together in some way inside yourself. If that is true, must it not be your fears that are portrayed here?”

She had stopped crying and was standing quietly in his arms, her head resting on his breast. “Nonetheless, you will come to Jernaeve no more—is that not true?”

Hugh hesitated, then said, “I will not come again, true. I do not believe I am any threat to Jernaeve, but warnings are granted us from time to time, and it is stupid to be blind apurpose. That does not mean that I will give you up, Audris.” He lifted her face again and smiled at her. “You have made your nose all pink with crying, and that is foolish. We must have been parted in any case while I win the right to offer myself as husband for you.”

“But there is nothing to be won in Normandy!” she exclaimed. “Do not go so far from me.”

“No, beloved, I will not,” he assured her, then frowned. “At least, I will not go unless the king does not return to England—but I think that unlikely. What I will do first is try to discover if I have a right to a name other than Licorne. When I come to your uncle with a proposal of marriage, I would like to have some proof that I am
not
the son of some common churl, which I have always feared might be the reason for my mother’s silence about her husband’s name. But I have not forgotten what you said about the likelihood that my father was regarded as an enemy by Henry, perhaps even imprisoned to his death or executed. It is worth a few weeks’ investigation in any case while I wait for news about what the king will do.”

“You will take Morel and write to me?” she asked, her arms tight around his broad chest, her eyes pleading.

He kissed first the pink nose and then, lingeringly, her lips. “Yes. And though I cannot
come
to
you, we will not be parted long—I swear it.”

Hugh did not realize how much the grim voice in which he uttered those words to Audris frightened her. She “heard” also what he did not say aloud, that he was pledging his life to the purpose of winning her and would die rather than fail. To Hugh there was nothing dreadful in such a pledge, for he had made it in his heart each time he fought beside Sir Walter, and it was an implicit part of his duty in leading Thurstan’s guard.

Sir Walter had never needed so desperate a defense as to endanger Hugh, and the archbishop’s cortege had not been attacked. But had there been the need, Hugh would have fought to the death to protect Sir Walter or Thurstan. In fact, though his voice was grim with determination, Hugh’s statement gave him great pleasure; this time he saw ahead a great prize, a prize far beyond the satisfaction of a duty well done.

What troubled Hugh was the tapestry. He had set himself to comfort Audris that night, burying his own anxieties, but a remnant of the strange fear that had seized him in the dark hall clung to him. Not that Audris had ensorcelled him—beyond the devotion caused by her natural sweetness and charm. He did not think that. A potent sorceress does not weep and tremble with fear at her own work—or have a bright pink nose and sniffle pathetically from crying. But there
was
something different about Audris; she sensed things that others had to learn slowly, like the weakness of the king. So after he left Jernaeve the next day, Hugh vowed he would not so much as speak the name of the keep, lest something he said bring danger to it. The vow was only a sop to Hugh’s real fear, though. He knew the only threat he posed to Jernaeve was the possibility he would rip out its heart by taking Audris away. When that notion slipped into Hugh’s mind, he pushed it out again and buried it. Months, perhaps years, would pass before he could ask for Audris. Until the time came, he told himself, he did not need to worry about Jernaeve.

Yet so swift a solution came to Hugh’s first problem, which was to discover his mother’s identity, that he could not help wondering whether Audris’s warning picture might be more timely than it seemed.

Having brought Thurstan safely into the comfort of his palace in York and under the careful scrutiny and tender care of servants who loved him, Hugh rode back to Durham and requested a meeting with the abbess of the convent. This was granted at once, and, to Hugh’s surprise, a large bundle wrapped in a fine woolen blanket was given to him, in addition to a thick packet of parchment. Hugh had expected to receive the report of the inquisition of the nuns who had been in the convent when his mother was there, since before they parted Thurstan had told Hugh of the letters he had written to the bishop and abbess.

“What is this?” Hugh asked, gazing at the bundle, which was large and heavy.

The abbess smiled. “We were far more successful in carrying out our lord, the archbishop’s, orders than we expected. That is everything your mother brought with her to our convent—except the gown she wore when she carried you away—it was so stained with blood as to be unsavable—and the cloth used for the shroud in which she was buried.”

Hugh was staring at her in amazement, and she smiled again.

“Yes, it is unusual. Naturally we give away the effects of those who die in our care after we are certain that no relative or other person has a claim on them. But in questioning my daughters about your mother, as the archbishop instructed, I learned that the abbess of that time had saved your mother’s belongings in the expectation that the archbishop would send for them or come to collect them. I do not believe she felt any surprise when the archbishop did not do so at once; she must have understood that there were many, many demands on his time in those early months of his tenure. Then the abbess died quite suddenly, and there was a… a period of difficulty.”

Hugh nodded without speaking. Probably there had been a nasty conflict about who should be appointed abbess, either among the sisters themselves or between the sisters and their bishop or, possibly, between the bishop and the king. The problem had been compounded, no doubt, by the growing disagreement between Thurstan and the king, which made it impossible for the archbishop to mediate. But whatever it was, Hugh had little interest in the subject.

“Fortunately,” the abbess said, nodding at the bundle, “that had not been held in the abbess’s house but placed in storage and marked to be kept until Archbishop Thurstan requested it be delivered to him—and so it was kept, shifted from place to place over the years.” She smiled at Hugh once more; this time her eyes shone brilliant with faith. “I am sure it is God’s will that you have your mother’s belongings. I do not believe, even knowing the effects had been kept for a time, we would have found them, except that when I was elected abbess of this community, I had a thorough search and accounting made of all the storerooms. Thus, I was able to put together old Sister Agatha’s memory of storing your mother’s things and the old parcel marked for Thurstan in the storeroom.”

“I thank you, Mother,” Hugh said. “I am beginning to hope it is God’s will that I discover who I am, but I do not wish to deprive your house of the fruits of your kindness. Is there a place where I could look through this bundle? I have no use for women’s garments or even sheets and blankets, and I am sure you have great use for them. If I could separate those personal tokens that might lead me to my family, I will leave the rest in your hands.”

Since the sisters could indeed make good use of the items Hugh had mentioned, the abbess was happy to lend him the chamber set apart for priests who visited them. Hugh was glad he did not have to wait to carry the bundle to his lodging, for beneath his calm exterior, he was shaking with eagerness—and with apprehension. The apprehension had always been there, but the eagerness had come on him suddenly, sparked by the light of faith in the abbess’s eyes when she said it was God’s will that his mother’s possessions come into his hands.

Hugh was glad of the privacy also because his hands were shaking as he untied the ropes that held the bundle together. It was natural to think again of Thurstan’s description of his mother’s struggles to name him. Could Licorne be a clue to something in her belongings? He began to unfold each item carefully, shaking out creases in the hope that he would find among the embroidery some symbol that was repeated frequently enough to be characteristic of her family.

There was nothing helpful in any of her gowns or undergarments or even in the purse he found at the very center of the bundle, which still held a handful of silver coins. He put a tithe of these aside for the sisters and, rather dispiritedly, for his hopes had been raised very high by finding the effects after so many years, lifted and shook out the fine fur-lined winter cloak. It was too small for him, of course, and too valuable to be given to the poor or sold for charity. If the furs had not dried out, he thought, perhaps he could have them remade for Audris. He began to feel and tug—and something crackled. Hugh’s heart leapt up again. He felt frantically around the garment and soon enough his hand found an open seam and a hidden pouch, which held a folded parchment.

The first lines answered one of his questions; he knew at once his mother’s name and family. He read:

“From Sister Ursula to Margaret of Ruthsson, sorrowful greetings. Dear sister, I am writing this letter to you, rather than to our father as you asked, and having it delivered to you secretly because I fear for you so greatly. I beg you to repent your sin and part from Sir Kenorn. You must not think of him as a husband, to whom you must cleave, abandoning all others. You must think of him as a devil who has seduced you. Alas, I fear he is truly of that spawn, so strange is his countenance and with hair like the flames of hell springing from his head and brows. He has seduced you as the devil seduces many women. Sir Kenorn tells you that marriage has absolved you of the sin of lust, but this is not true, my beloved sister. You have married this man against our father’s will because you lust after him. Thus you sin each time you give yourself to him, even as his wife. Moreover, I am certain that marriage will
not
reconcile our father to your husband. Indeed, I fear that such news will drive him to violence, even to
murder.
Nor do I believe that Sir Kenorn’s family will welcome you, especially as you will come dowerless and with curses. Beloved sister, heed me—come to me. Cast yourself into the arms of Christ. Let God save you from the double sin of disobedience and lust. Written this twelfth day of April in the year of our Lord, eleven hundred and fourteen.”

Hugh sat staring at the letter after he had read it, hardly believing its reality. But there could be no doubt. The parchment was old, the ink faded, and the nuns could have no reason to play so foolish and uncertain a trick. He wondered whether his mother had ever actually known the contents of the letter. Possibly not, for it was not likely that she herself could read, and the situation was too dangerous to ask the castle chaplain or anyone local to read it to her. The very fact that the letter had been delivered to her in secret, rather than to her father, must have been a signal that her sister refused to mediate between them. For a moment Hugh felt bitterly angry at Sister Ursula, but then he wondered if the refusal had been to
protect
his mother.
Murder.
Yes, if Margaret had feared her father would pursue and take vengeance, she might well have kept her name secret from the nuns. In any case, Ursula’s letter had come far too late. Hugh had been born on the seventh of September, so his mother had been more than four months gone with child in April.

The unflattering picture of his father as a devil rather amused Hugh. From Sister Ursula’s description, he must resemble his father very closely indeed. And Kenorn had
not
seduced his Margaret—he had married her. Hugh knew that there were churchmen who preached that to take joy in any pleasure of the flesh was one of the deadly sins, but Thurstan was not of that school. He had taught Hugh that any simple pleasure, moderately indulged, that did no harm to anyone was a joy to God, who wished His children to be happy. Then Hugh sighed. He could hardly blame Kenorn, he thought. He himself had done far worse, for he had seduced Audris without marriage. And his father seemed to deserve Margaret’s devotion: he had not abandoned her; Thurstan had been told that the lady came with a male escort and that she said she expected her husband to return soon.
But he had not returned.
Hugh sat staring at the blank wall opposite the cot on which he sat. His father had not returned. Why?

There were so many possible reasons, a number of them ugly and painful, that Hugh shrugged off the question. It was unanswerable at present, and a far more important question was unanswerable also—who was Sir Kenorn? The name was not common, but without some hint of geographical locality, a search was impractical. Hugh would have liked to know, although the answer was no longer of essential importance. Hugh had proof that he was legitimate and that his father had been a knight, which implied noble birth, and that was all he had ever wanted.

Hugh had no expectation of profiting in any way from learning who his parents were. A disobedient daughter could not expect a portion; in fact, he had got more than he should from the coins in her purse. And the probability was very strong that his father had been as penniless as he was, very likely a younger son, selling his sword where he could for his bread, and no doubt desiring a lady whose father, of course, would not accept him as a suitor. Again like father, like son. Hugh’s lips twisted wryly, but then he frowned. If Kenorn was poor, where had Margaret come by the silver in her purse? Hugh sighed and smiled wryly again. Very likely the coins had come from her father’s strongbox. It was very wrong, but Hugh found himself liking and admiring his mother more and more, regretting that he had never known her. She must have been a strong and daring woman.

That raised still another question. Why had Margaret left the protection of the nuns to carry her child to the cathedral? The answer to that, and possibly a hint as to his father’s family, might be in the report the abbess had given him. Perhaps Margaret had said that Kenorn went north or south, which was little, but better than nothing at all. Hugh gathered all the garments—except the fur-lined cloak, the purse, and two very fine silk veils, which he wished to give to Audris to keep for him in memory of his mother—and the sheets and blankets, tied them together again, and left them in a corner of the room. The packet of parchment he took out to read where the light was better, in the tiny separate garden maintained for the priest’s pleasure.

Most of the answers given to the abbess’s questions were very short. Some of the nuns who had been in the convent at the time had never seen Margaret; others could remember little or nothing about her; but Sister Agatha’s response was very long. Sister Agatha had been present when Hugh was born, and the memory of the event was still very clear in her mind, partly because of her exertions to stop Margaret’s bleeding and her fury and frustration when, with success within her grasp, Margaret had seized her child and run away. It was the fault of a nun left to sit with the patient while Sister Agatha caught a few hours of rest. The nun, who had more faith than common sense, had urged Margaret to take last rites—thereby implying she was dying—and had urged her also to have her son baptized at once and to dedicate him to the Church before her husband could carry the child into a life of sin.

It was plain from the result what had happened. Weak and fevered, Margaret had feared that if she died, her son would be hidden from Kenorn and forced to become a priest or a monk. So she had pretended to agree, sent the nun to fetch a priest, pulled on a gown, and struggled out to place her babe in safekeeping. Neither her courage nor her devotion to her husband had faltered, even in the face of death. Hugh found his eyes full of tears. The stupid nun was now dead and beyond his vengeance, but he felt an enormous desire to know his mother better.