A Tapestry of Dreams Read online

  But neither Walter Espec nor Bruno knew of Audris’s tapestry, and it was the weaving that provided King Stephen with the warm welcome Sir Oliver had extended. Although it made him uncomfortable, Oliver had no more doubted the validity of the picture Eadyth described than Fritha did. He had therefore been considering his response to the king’s arrival ever since Eadyth had told him what Audris’s second panel portrayed. Had he truly been surprised by Stephen’s visit, as Stephen had intended, his distaste for becoming involved in the struggle for the crown would certainly have showed—and that, Oliver had decided after considerable thought, was what the tapestry was warning against.

  Oliver would have preferred greatly that Stephen leave him strictly alone; however, he recognized that none but a fool would pass Jernaeve by. It was too great a prize, a strong point blocking one of the main roads between Scotland and the wealth of England. Since Oliver believed he had already burnt his bridge to Matilda’s side by rejecting Summerville’s offer, all that was left was to make Stephen so sure of his support that he would leave him to his own devices. The decision had brought Oliver to the southeast wall to call a welcome rather than suspicious questions, and now made him seem eagerly solicitous to protect Stephen and his entourage from the dangers of the treacherous ford.

  Oliver’s care resulted in so smooth a passage of the ford that his guests were hardly splashed by the low waters of the North Tyne River. Nor was the narrow pass through the west gate and the easy defense of the long, steep road up to the keep lost on the men who entered there. Eadyth was waiting to greet them at the doorway to the great hall, curtsying to the ground before the king.

  “This is my wife, Eadyth,” Oliver said. “You need only tell her what you desire for your comfort, Sire, and it will be provided.”

  Stephen’s acknowledgment was genial, and after he and his companions had been unarmed and attired in warm, dry garments, he returned to the hall to apologize for his unannounced arrival. “I hope it will be no great trouble to you, Lady Eadyth, to provide us with an evening meal?”

  “No, my lord, it is a great pleasure and no trouble at all,” Eadyth replied calmly, for she was secure in the efficiency of her domestic management. As soon as Oliver had come down from the wall, orders had been sent to the cooks for extra dishes and whatever delicacies they could add to the evening meal, and Eadmer had tapped the tun that held the special wine. Eadyth was accustomed to exalted guests and Stephen was not the first king who had guested in Jernaeve. “We are well provided,” she explained with a smile, “for we were under siege until your coming to the north. I assure you that it is with a grateful and glad heart that I will use those provisions for an occasion so much happier and that does us such great honor.”

  “My wife speaks the truth, Sire,” Oliver added as he led the way to his own chair of state.

  The high-backed, elaborately carved chair had been moved to the side of the eating dais closest to the hearth, where a huge fire leapt and roared, a position affording warmth without being in the direct path of the gusts of smoke and cinders that occasionally billowed out. The fireplace was hollowed out of the thick wall of the keep that faced into the bailey, set off-center near the high end of the hall. Below the dais, to the left of Stephen’s chair, was a short bench; to the right was a smaller chair with a low back, which Oliver used when he wanted to be closer to the heat of the fire or wished to dispense with ceremony. Beyond the second chair, facing the hearth, were several benches, and two others beyond them, at right angles to the fire, faced the king’s seat.

  With a lesser but still respectful curtsy, Eadyth led Sir Walter Espec to the smaller chair and gestured with a smile to the benches for the other knights. “We have not had you as a guest for years, Sir Walter,” she said. “I am very sorry about Wark, but for me the loss has been lightened by the pleasure of your company.”

  Since Eadyth and Sir Walter were following close behind Oliver and the king, Stephen heard. “Ah, but there has been no loss,” he said with a pleased smile as he seated himself. “Wark has been returned to Sir Walter, and he has benefited by being rid of a treacherous castellan.”

  “That is good news, my lord,” Oliver said. “We knew you had come north when Sir William de Summerville broke off his siege, and I had heard you were to meet with King David in Durham, but we had no news of the results. I am very glad indeed to hear that a man of Sir Walter’s will still be my neighbor. To speak the truth, I had no lust for a Scottish keep less than three leagues from Jernaeve. I would not have had a sheep left on the hills by the end of the year.”

  Espec and the three northern gentlemen who had come with Stephen from Durham burst into laughter, but the king and the knights of his personal entourage, all from Blois, looked surprised. “The Scots,” Sir Walter boomed, “start their instruction for roasting mutton with, ‘Go out and steal a sheep,’ and those for beef or chicken with the same phrase suitably altered.”

  More laughter greeted Sir Walter’s explanation, this time including hoots from Stephen’s men, but the king himself looked uneasy. Eadyth, who was behind Sir Walter’s chair, stepped closer to Stephen and, with well-trained alacrity to smooth over the slight awkwardness caused by the joke, asked, “Will you have wine, my lord?”

  “Yes, that would be most welcome,” Stephen replied quickly.

  Eadmer poured wine from the flagon he held into a chased silver goblet, which Eadyth presented to the king. From behind the seated knights, several squires moved to help the steward, the younger boys pouring from other flagons set ready beside cups of wood and horn, many carved beautifully. Jernaeve keep held other silver vessels and some of gold and gold-framed glass, equally precious, but Oliver had warned Eadyth not to display them. It might do the king honor, he snapped impatiently in reply to his wife’s faint protest, but it would also give Stephen the idea that Jernaeve was too rich. When the wine had been served to the knights, the squires took their own, but while the others were dispersing to where they could hear, Bruno plucked Hugh familiarly by the sleeve.

  In Oxford, one of Bruno’s first duties as Stephen’s squire had been to bring Hugh his promised token—a shield, azure, painted with a rampant unicorn, argent, above which was a scroll bearing the word incorruptus. Hugh had been appalled, and Sir Walter had been convulsed with laughter. Bruno, who was still in the first throes of gratitude to the king, had showed that he felt indignant on his master’s behalf. His reaction had sobered Sir Walter, who hastily explained that neither he nor Hugh felt the gift to be humorous or inadequate, nor were they laughing at King Stephen.

  “No.” Hugh sighed and then laughed himself. “The jest falls on me, and the king could not know that I was much tormented in my youth for being ‘pure’ like the unicorn. But that is long past. The shield is beautiful, and I will carry it gladly and proudly.”

  This time it was Bruno who recognized the wealth of past misery in the lightly spoken words, and again like called to like. So when Sir Walter suggested that Hugh go back to the castle with Bruno and ask whether Stephen had time to receive his thanks, Bruno had spoken of what being taken into the king’s service meant to him. Hugh had responded eagerly, and during the following weeks, as the army moved north, the two young men had met often, spent a good part of their free time together, and became good friends.

  As they talked, both Hugh and Bruno gave a small part of their attention to their lords, a habit ingrained by long experience of service. Suddenly, there was a check in the easy conversation and occasional laughter among the men surrounding the king. Hugh and Bruno were instantly alert, aware of the uneasy silence, in which the sound of the fire seemed very loud.

  “But you must know, Sire, that I do not have the right to do homage for Jernaeve.” In the tense quiet, Sir Oliver’s voice was just a shade too loud. “I only rule the property in the name of my niece, Demoiselle Audris. Did not Sir Walter tell you that my brother had a child?”

  “Ah, yes,
I remember now,” Stephen replied, not very truthfully, for he had given considerable thought to the heiress of Jernaeve. “But it was Bruno who told me. I suppose Sir Walter did not think it needful to mention it because I have taken your… er… Bruno of Jernaeve into my service.”

  “Into your service?” Sir Oliver echoed. “You are a generous man, Sire. It is not often that the bearer of bad news is so kindly rewarded.”

  Stephen laughed. “Bruno was only the confirmer of the news. My unicorn—” Stephen stopped and looked around, and Hugh and Bruno came forward and bowed. “Ah, there you are. This is Hugh Licorne, Sir Walter’s man. He carried the first word of the Scots’ invasion.”

  Sir Oliver glanced at Hugh and nodded. He had seen him once or twice over the years when he met Sir Walter at gatherings of the northern nobles ordered by King Henry for tax collection or some legal deliberation, but no one ever forgot Hugh’s appearance. Then he smiled at Bruno with real relief and pleasure and turned back to the king.

  “I thank you, Sire, from the heart,” Oliver said to Stephen, “for you have lifted a great weight from me. Bruno is a good man, the best. You will never regret your kindness to him.”

  “I am sure of it,” Stephen replied. “He has been infinitely useful already. You have some odd customs here in the north, and he saved me from giving offense where I intended none. But your niece, how is it she did not come to greet me?”

  Sir Oliver shrugged. “Audris is not just in the common way of women,” he said. “She has little taste for company, except those well known and comfortable to her. She seldom does come down from her tower to greet guests.”

  As Oliver spoke, Hugh’s memory brought forth an image of the girl stepping back from the window of the tower, and a wave of fierce interest and sympathy coursed through him. Here was a poor soul, he thought, in a worse state than he. Was she a prisoner in that tower, afraid even to look out for long? Or, if not truly a prisoner, had she been so cowed that she feared everyone? From the glimpse he had of her, it seemed she was very small and frail. He felt angry and protective—and foolish, too, because whatever Demoiselle Audris had suffered, he was powerless to help her. Then a more effective ally took up cudgels in her defense.

  “Come, come,” Stephen said, smiling but with a note of suspicion in his voice. “I hope I do not appear like a monster who eats young maidens.” He shook his head playfully. “No, no, my good wife would never permit it. If the Demoiselle is my vassal, she must do homage to me, so if she is shy, she had better be fetched down to grow accustomed.”

  “I never said she was shy,” Oliver muttered, but he nodded at Eadyth, who was now seated beside him on the small bench to the left of Stephen’s chair. She beckoned a maidservant to her and ordered that Demoiselle Audris be asked to come down to greet the king.

  Although he seemed a trifle sullen, Oliver was not at all displeased with the way events were moving. He was, in fact, attempting to hide his satisfaction, again blessing both the tapestry that had given him days to think and plan and Audris herself for clinging to her habit of indifference to company, even when that company was the king. Any other maiden would be agape with curiosity, but Audris’s seeming isolation had so fixed the king’s mind on her that Oliver had high hopes Stephen would take Audris’s fealty and forget to ask for his own. That would leave a postern gate for escape if Stephen’s bid for the crown ended in failure. Oliver could truly say he had not given any oath of homage and swear support to Matilda. He hated the twisting of true honor of engaging in such a practice, but he would do it if necessary to save Jernaeve. As for Audris’s oath… well, a woman’s oath was not worth anything.

  Knowing that any woman summoned to a king would spend some time putting on a new gown and recombing her hair, Stephen had expected a delay. He was relieved that Oliver had not persisted in keeping the heiress mewed up and held out his goblet for more wine. He intended now to ask how old Audris was so that he would have an opening to say directly to her that it was time she married. Four of the gentlemen who had accompanied him had been asked specifically because he felt they would make suitable partners—suitable from his standpoint because they were penniless and out of gratitude would be devoted to his cause; suitable from Audris’s, he assumed, because the gentlemen were young, strong, and not of repulsive appearance. But before Eadmer could refill the king’s goblet and return it, the maidservant came running back to Eadyth.

  “Oh, I feared to go in,” she gasped. “The Demoiselle is weaving.”

  “Holy Mary,” Eadyth breathed, “again? So soon?”

  “Eadyth,” Oliver’s voice overrode the last three words his wife said, “go yourself and bring Audris down.”

  “Take her from the loom?” Eadyth whispered.

  “The king has asked to see her,” Oliver snarled. “Just tell her that her presence here is required.”

  A new surprised silence had fallen, and although Oliver also felt a wave of uneasiness, he told himself that Eadyth was only a superstitious fool. No doubt Audris had not realized she would be summoned down, had assumed the guests would be with them for several days, and had merely started an ordinary picture to occupy her time. In any case, he wanted no rumors that Audris was… He checked the thought without finishing it and shrugged casually as he turned toward the king.

  “Women are damned fools,” he growled. “My niece is a weaver of surpassing skill. I sell her pictures for a good price, but she only weaves when she chooses, so I have given orders that she is never to be disturbed when she is at the loom. But women… Even my wife does not seem to understand that a rule may be broken for an exceptional circumstance.”

  “Woven pictures,” Stephen remarked, distracted from his intended question about Audris’s age. “They are not so common. I have seen my grandmother’s great work, which shows the destruction of the usurper Harold and William’s conquest of this country, but that is embroidered. I would like to see Demoiselle Audris’s work.”

  “I have not any to show you,” Oliver replied, trying to subdue his uneasiness. He was worried about what Stephen would think if he saw his own coming pictured. No one could believe Audris had woven the piece in the short time the king had been in Jernaeve. He did not want to be caught in an outright lie either, and went on, “I believe my niece finished weaving a piece a few days ago, but something more must be done to it, I understand, before it is truly complete. I must confess, Sire, that I have never inquired about it. When Audris is finished, she brings the work to me, and I send word to those who are interested in buying.”

  “The Demoiselle Audris seems to have many talents,” Stephen commented.

  Sir Oliver laughed, his hard expression softening for a moment. “Not many, for I suspect she does not know boiling from baking, nor sewing from spinning. Eadyth used to complain that we would all starve and be in tatters if the running of Jernaeve were left in the girl’s hands. She would not learn any other woman’s skill from Eadyth, only weaving, and she will not do plain cloth, only pictures. No, I am wrong, she is also skilled in herb lore, Eadyth says.”

  This answer, which was perfectly truthful, quite unplanned, and actually bred of Oliver’s sometimes exasperated fondness for his niece, only made Stephen more suspicious because it seemed to denigrate Audris as a wife. But the king was saved from needing to make a reply by the unexpectedly swift arrival of Audris and Eadyth. Because she had been the subject of the conversation—and because four of Stephen’s companions had a special interest and the others knew or guessed his plans for her—all the seated men turned to stare at her as she walked toward them.

  Chapter 6

  Hugh had been watching the door ever since the maid had first gone up, and thus was the first to see Audris. Clearly she had not been given time to prepare herself. Her braids, pale as moonlight, showed no glint of pearls or golden threads, not even a bright ribbon to support her spirit and give her some assurance of being fine. Her dark blue tuni
c and pale blue bliaut were of fine wool but unadorned by embroidery or jewelry, and they were speckled with short threads of different-colored yarn from her work. She seemed very small when compared with Eadyth, and it looked as if she were being pushed along by her aunt’s more massive figure behind her. It took all Hugh’s self-control not to go to her and whisper a kind word.

  Catching a glimpse of the king’s face, Hugh felt that Stephen probably regretted demanding that the Demoiselle come down. The king could, Hugh thought resentfully, have gone up to see the shy child and spared her this torment. But then he reminded himself of the king’s purpose in bringing Demoiselle Audris down. Sir Walter had told Hugh he was sure Stephen intended to marry the girl to one of his own men to guarantee that the holder of Jernaeve would remain loyal to him. Hugh felt a twinge of odd and inexplicable anger, but fought it, telling himself he had nothing about which to be angry.

  Demoiselle Audris’s fate had nothing to do with him. The heiress of Jernaeve was far, far beyond his reach. Besides, there was nothing real to arouse the ridiculous protective urge he felt toward her. The king was probably doing the girl a favor. Hugh knew Sir Walter suspected that Oliver had refused all offers for Demoiselle Audris—of which there had been many—and prevented the Demoiselle from marrying because he wanted to keep Jernaeve in his own hands and possibly wanted his son to inherit it from his cousin. In addition, Hugh told himself impatiently, Stephen was being kind in presenting several suitors to the Demoiselle Audris, all of whom were young and pleasant-faced. And not one of them, Hugh thought with a fresh spurt of anger, had any more than he—except the knowledge of who had fathered them.