A Tapestry of Dreams (24 page)

“This letter writing,” she said, “I have thought how it may be most easily done. You have no servant. I will provide one for you. He will go to Hexham with your men in the morning.”

“I cannot afford a servant,” Hugh said, frowning. “Do not trouble yourself. I can send one of Thurstan’s men with the letters.”

“The servant will cost nothing beyond food for him and fodder for his horse,” Audris replied softly. “Is that too much?” She put her hand on his arm. “I do not wish the letters to stop when you have brought Thurstan back to York. I must know what you discovered about your mother at Durham and how you fare in all things.” She saw he was about to protest and shook her head. “Remember what I said to you about your mother’s kin—that someone who cared for her, not knowing she was at rest, might have feared and wept all these years, either thinking that a fate worse than death might have overtaken her or that she had forgotten the poor, grieving heart left behind.”

“You
cannot
think I would forget you,” Hugh said, pulling her close. “By God and His Holy Mother and by all His saints, you are wife to me and the only woman I will ever desire or touch from this time forward. But it is true that, reasonable or not, if you care for me you will worry about me, and a servant from Jernaeve will best know the way home. But what will you say to your uncle?”

“The man in my mind is not a household serf. Morel is a yeoman who has served several times as a man-at-arms in my uncle’s troop when he was called by the king to war. Now his sons are grown and married, there are too many in the house, and his wife died, leaving him restless. I know him through his wife. She did the finest spinning of any woman near Jernaeve and spun yarn for my weaving. When she sickened, I tried to help her, but I could only ease her pain. It was then I came to know Morel. He is a good man, Hugh. He was patient and gentle with his woman all the months that she was helpless and useless—which is not so common among those where a useless mouth to feed is a burden. But since she is gone and his sons do not need him, he longs for freedom.”

Hugh nodded. The man sounded ideal, for he had enough knowledge of arms that he could care for Hugh’s weapons and armor and would not need protection. Better still, he was not an adventuresome boy who would get into trouble nor, like most older men, did he have a wife and children to whom he was eager to return. He could not be too old, either; when Audris had time to think, she thought very keenly.

“Thank you,” Hugh said simply. “As to pay—”

“Morel believes he owes me a debt, and I am letting him pay by doing something he wishes to do. I will see that he has a good cloak and extra clothes, suitable to a knight’s servant. You will provide food and shelter, and pay what you can when you can. He will be content, I promise you.”

Hugh nodded, stood staring at her for a moment longer, and then abruptly bent and cupped his hands to help her mount. When she was seated, Audris leaned down from the saddle for one last kiss, then loosened her reins and touched the mare with her heel. At the crest of the hill she turned to look back. Hugh was standing where she left him, watching her. Audris’s heart cried out to turn back for one more kiss, one last word, but she had thought that through while dressing and seen that the indulgence would only pile pain on pain. So she went down the hill, crying bitterly now that Hugh could not see her. At the foot of the hill she turned again, only to look at the land that hid her love—but Hugh was there. He had climbed to the crest and now stood there, still watching her.

Feeling her rider’s uncertainty, the mare stopped, and Audris looked longingly at the tall figure on the hill, hoping, despite the knowledge of more pain, that he would call or beckon. He only watched, and at last Audris turned the mare’s head toward Jernaeve again, tasting the salt as tears ran down and wet her lips. One last time she turned before a copse of trees that would hide the hill from her altogether. It was almost too far to make out any distinct feature clearly, but a low-lying bank of clouds in the west opened a rift that showed the sun, and it seemed to Audris there was a flicker of red, bright as a jewel, on the crest of the hill. So Hugh still watched. She waited, looking back at that small fleck of color until the clouds closed in again. Then she rode on.

By the time she came to the village where Morel lived, Audris had composed herself. She had expected him to be out in the fields, since the spring was a busy time for those who tilled the soil, and most men worked until it was too dark to see well. So she called at the door of the house for his daughter-by-marriage to fetch him home. The woman came out and told her Morel was in the shed at the back with his horse, and though she bowed to the ground and could scarcely get out the words for fear of offending Audris, there were bitter lines around her mouth when she said “horse,” and she did not offer to call him herself.

Somewhat surprised, Audris rode her mare around and saw Morel currying his mount, which did not need the attention, for the beast’s coat already gleamed with combing. Audris’s sadness lifted a little as she realized that her need and Morel’s were so well matched. She needed a trusty man with no home ties; Morel needed to leave his home, at least for a time. The horse was Morel’s pride, a prize of the last campaign he had fought in her uncle’s troop. He was the only man in his village to own a horse; that much Audris knew. What she suspected was that Morel refused to put the horse to the plow since they had a cow that could be used, and thus the horse, which was expensive to feed, had become a bone of contention in the family. And when Audris spoke his name, he was so buried in his thoughts that he did not look before he growled, “Let me be,” as he turned around with a hand raised threateningly as if to strike. He saw Audris, and his eyes went wide; then he dropped the comb and went down on his knees.

“Forgive me, Demoiselle.”

“I have taken no hurt,” she answered soothingly, “but I see that all is not well with you.”

Morel looked up at her with frightened eyes. How could she know, he wondered. Because he was a brave man, he did not shiver, and he had seen how kind she could be, troubling to come each day to bring medicine for his wife toward the end. The Demoiselle was good, but it was still a fearful thing that she could see into men’s hearts. But he did not speak, and Audris continued.

“I have a task for you that will solve your trouble, I think.” And though she was still too sad to smile, it did her good to see the fear die out of Morel’s face and the man’s eyes light as she told him who Hugh was and the service Morel would be expected to give.

“I will serve him faithfully, I swear to you,” Morel promised fervently.

“I am sure you will,” Audris said, “but there is one thing you must do for
me.
If Sir Hugh should fall ill or be wounded, you must somehow send me word and a guide to come to him. Only if he is in safe hands may you come yourself. And this you must do even if your master orders you
not
to tell me of his hurt or illness.”

“I understand, Demoiselle.” Morel bowed deeply.

“Come to the keep with what you need before the gates are closed. The soldiers will leave at dawn. Sometime tonight Fritha will bring you clothes suitable to the service of a knight. She will also give you a purse with fifteen shillings. Of this, ten is your pay. The other five must be kept close to use in case
you
need to hire a messenger or provide for your master’s comfort.”

Morel only bowed again, mingled joy and fear making him afraid even to acknowledge his charge. He could have left the village at any time, since he was a free man, not bound to the soil like a serf. But to be a lordless man, a wanderer without purpose, was a blood-chilling prospect. Such a person, harmless or not, was always the scapegoat for any crime or trouble in any place he stopped, and even if there were no trouble, would always be suspect or unwelcome. To be a knight’s servant, on the other hand, was an honorable state. Thus, Morel was filled with joy, being granted what his heart ached for. However, that the knight was so valuable in the Demoiselle’s eyes was frightening. True, she had not charged him with Sir Hugh’s health and safety, but would she blame him all the same if ill befell his master?

Audris saw both joy and fear and was content. She felt that Hugh and Morel would agree well and that Morel would soon serve Hugh as much because of his own fondness for his master as because of her orders, but his devotion would be all the deeper for that little spice of fear. Satisfied that Hugh would not go all alone when he left Thurstan’s company, she rode back to Jernaeve, stabled her mare, and slipped up to her tower.

Fritha greeted her with frantic signals of relief, but Audris hardly attended. She permitted the maid to remove her cloak, then ate the food Fritha had brought for her earlier. Finally, biting her lip, she went to the back of her loom and looked at the finished tapestry that hung there. For one moment she stared before beginning to sob with a combination of sorrow and relief.

There were no ugly surprises in her work. Serene and beautiful, the unicorn walked through a sunlit wood of graceful saplings with the arm of the maiden around his neck. Little white flowers, like stars, showed where the silver hooves had pressed the earth, and brilliantly colored birds perched in the branches of the trees. The maiden’s face was turned toward that of the beast, who was looking at her also; only the curve of the maiden’s cheek showed, but her hair was silver gilt under her veil, and the lambent blue of the unicorn’s eyes was the same as those of his namesake.

Mechanically, Audris went about the task of freeing the tapestry from the loom. She knew the value of the work. It was so lovely that it pulled her eyes to it, but she could not yet pair it with the other picture—that of the unicorn greeting the maiden—and part with them. Audris frowned. It was not the beauty of the pieces or even the fact that in her mind the unicorn represented Hugh that held her back. There were more pictures to come. Audris shivered. There should be no more. There was no maiden to put in the picture. She who had been maiden was a full woman now.

Audris finished eating, quite unaware of the food or her own motions in consuming it. She could not keep her eyes from her empty loom, and the compulsion to bid Fritha string it finally became irresistible. Once she gave the order, Audris felt more at ease, although she was still troubled because she felt the paired panels were complete. She
wanted
the story to be ended with her and the unicorn together and at peace. Something plucked at what Audris thought of as a drawn curtain in her mind, but she did not want to see it, and she pushed away her food and went down to her aunt.

“I need a suit or two of clothes,” Audris said. “I promised them to Sir Hugh for his servant.”

Eadyth nodded; she was not surprised either by the request or that Audris had delayed until almost the last hour to mention it. No doubt something had reminded her niece that the men were about to depart in the morning, and that recalled her promise to her mind. As for making the promise, Eadyth knew Sir Hugh was only recently knighted and had no patrimony, and she was sure that Audris knew it too. It was like her niece to find some small way to help that would not give offense, so she merely asked about the servant’s size.

“I have seen him,” Audris replied. “It will be easier for me to choose the clothes myself.”

That did not surprise Eadyth either. Audris was very erratic in the way her charity was distributed, though she was perfectly consistent in giving only to individuals rather than to the Church. Sometimes she would simply tell her aunt what she wanted done; sometimes she would attend to the giving herself with minute attention. Without asking why—Audris always answered her questions, but Eadyth seldom found herself the wiser and was often made uneasy by her niece’s reply—Eadyth unhooked the keys to the clothes chest from her bunch and handed them over. For all her good nature and seeming carelessness, Audris was neither foolish nor overgenerous in her charities. Father Anselm had trained her carefully not only to judge the worth of the object but to understand that too much was almost worse than none at all.

Candles were alight when Audris returned to her chamber with three pairs of chausses, two of undyed homespun and one of good dark-blue woolen cloth, and two tunics, one homespun and the other a rich maroon, all topped by a heavy, hooded woolen cloak. She saw that Fritha had made a good beginning on the warp, but was now peering close to see in the less adequate light. Stringing the loom could wait, Audris told herself. The weather promised fair for the next day, and she must spend it working in the garden, for she had lost a full week of the busy spring season.

A very faint smile touched her lips as memories of how that week had been lost—no, gained forever, with Hugh—flicked through her mind. But the smile faded as her eyes focused again on her maid. Fritha could finish warping tomorrow. Audris fought down the surge of discomfort the thought of delay roused in her. It was as senseless as the need to finish the second panel. That had shown no imminent tragedy that could be averted by timely action.

“Leave that for daylight, Fritha,” she said, and became aware suddenly that her legs were trembling.

First, she was almost seized by panic, associating the tremors with her order to her maid, but the answering image that came into her mind was not of weaving; she saw herself locked in Hugh’s embrace, coupling. A pang, as if she had been stabbed in the chest, stopped her breath at the vivid picture, but despite that, she was amused. It was no wonder her legs trembled; she was simply tired out. How often had she and Hugh joined their bodies? Was it five times? Six? She could not even remember, but did not doubt it was often enough to tire the sturdiest. Relief swept over her. She would go to sleep. Surely in the morning the strange fancy that she must begin a new tapestry would have departed with her fatigue.

“You may make me ready for bed,” she said to the maid, who was putting away the materials with which she had been working. “Then go down to the lower bailey and look for Morel—you remember, the man whose wife I brought medicines until she died, the spinning woman.” Fritha nodded. “Give him these clothes. I have bidden him go to serve Sir Hugh so that we may have a trusty messenger.”