A Tapestry of Dreams (31 page)

He also felt an enormous desire to ride directly to Jernaeve to pour his excitement and his newfound love and grief for his mother into Audris’s sympathetic ears. Hugh wished, too, to tell Sir Oliver that he was not a nameless brat raised up beyond his station by Thurstan’s indulgence but rightfully a gentleman’s son. He was on his feet before he remembered the weaving in which the unicorn’s horn pointed at Jernaeve. Hugh’s lips tightened. He would have to write to Audris instead, but he would send her the cloak, the veils, and the abbess’s report for safekeeping.

Hugh then wondered whether he should go back to York and tell Thurstan, but decided he would write to him also. So much business had piled up while the archbishop was in Scotland that it would be his rest periods he would give up to see Hugh, which would do more harm than good, even though his news would assuage Thurstan’s guilt about keeping him instead of trying to discover his family and giving him into their care. Likely he would have been killed by his grandfather if Thurstan had brought him to Ruthsson. Nor, Hugh thought, would it be wise to tell Sir Walter yet. His master would probably want to obtain a “daughter’s portion” for Hugh by force—and Hugh did not want that.

Having thought of Ruthsson, Hugh wondered whether there was still someone there who had known his mother and could tell him about her. In fact, it was not impossible that his grandfather should still be alive. If he were recognized as Kenorn’s son, that might be dangerous—or it might not. His grandfather might have mellowed with age. He might even welcome Margaret’s son once he was assured that Hugh would make no demands on him. And it was at Ruthsson, Hugh thought, that he might be able to obtain a hint about his father’s family. Yes, he would start for Ruthsson the next day.

In the end, Hugh did not send off his letter to Audris immediately. Before he left the convent, he asked and received permission to thank Sister Agatha personally for her care of his mother, and the old woman, delighted to see him, had more tales to tell. Hugh listened gladly, for Agatha confirmed his opinion of Margaret’s steadfastness and mentioned that the man who had brought her had—Then she paused and peered more closely at Hugh.

“He had your face,” the old woman said. “I could not forget his face, with the eyes too far apart and the chin too long—and that nose! So
he
was the husband. Poor lady, she did not tell us that.”

“Did he come back?” Hugh asked, wondering if Kenorn had some reason for not wanting to identify himself and had found a way to hear the news about Margaret without asking directly. If so, Agatha might have caught a glimpse of him without knowing, then, who he was.

But Sister Agatha shook her head. “I never saw him if he did, and I had asked the abbess’s permission to speak with the husband if he came—to tell him I grieved with him, for she was a fine, brave lady.”

Actually, Hugh heard most of the stories twice, for the old nun was beyond work and had little to do, and Hugh did not want to deny her the pleasure of talking herself out. So it was too late to send Morel to Jernaeve by the time he had left Sister Agatha and thanked the abbess, who rejoiced at the successful outcome of his search and, when he had made his donations, assured him that she and her daughters would pray for him and for his reconciliation with both his mother’s family and his father’s when he found them.

He did write to Audris that evening, partly because it was now natural to him to share everything with her. At first he thought he would send Morel to Jernaeve the next day and arrange to meet the man at some well-known keep or market town on the way to Ruthsson. But the letter was somehow incomplete without knowing whether he would be kindly received by his mother’s relatives, and he decided to wait until he could add that information.

It was an easy ride the next day to Morpeth, where Hugh decided to spend the night, since he did not wish to arrive at Ruthsson near dark only to discover that he was not welcome. He was surprised to find the town buzzing with excitement and seemingly girding itself for both good business and trouble. Telling Morel to go ahead to Morpeth keep and discover whether he would be welcome that night, Hugh himself dismounted at the alehouse nearest the keep. It was necessary to duck his head and bend his back to clear the lintel of the door, and he stood just inside it for a minute, blinking while his eyes adjusted to the dark room. There was the usual, comfortable odor of such places: smoke, musty wood, and stale beer and food, overlaid by the redolence of some kind of stew and roasting meat.

By then the man of the alehouse had hurried over, but he had greeted Hugh with profuse apologies. The rooms were all bespoke for the tourney, the man said in slow, careful English, looking anxiously at Hugh’s face to see if he understood. He could not promise a place… But as he looked up along Hugh’s big body and into his eyes, the man’s voice faltered.

Hugh smiled and answered in his awkward English, “I come not for that, goodman, only for a draught of your ale. My servant seeks lodging for one night in the castle. Then I go on.”

With a heartfelt sigh of relief, the man gestured Hugh toward a massive, rough-hewn table that stood in front of a strong shelf, seat high, which appeared to be part of the wall. Hugh grinned. That was one way to keep guests from using the benches as weapons or from destroying the furnishings if they felt they had been cheated or insulted. The table, too, seemed indestructible. It was made of a huge log, split in half and fastened together, and was far too heavy to lift or damage, except with a good ax. Even so, Hugh thought, as the landlord hurried away to bring him his drink, that table had taken considerable punishment. There were advantages and disadvantages to being near the keep. Noble guests could afford to pay more… but some of them objected to paying at all.

There was a second, similar arrangement on the other wall of the room, and before Hugh had seated himself, a man sitting behind that table called out in French, “Will you join me here?”

“I thank you,” Hugh replied, walking over and sliding behind the massive table. “My name is Hugh Licorne, and I have been in service with Archbishop Thurstan until a few days ago. What is this about a tourney?”

“I am Sir John of Belsay. It is possible de Merley up at the keep will have a bone to pick with you.” He laughed as he said it. “Your archbishop has deprived him of his favorite sport—therefore, the tourney. Having prepared and armed against the Scots and heartened us all to fight, he was disappointed that there would be no war after all.”

“I can comfort him on that account,” Hugh said dryly. “He will not lack a chance to fight the Scots.” He went on to give a brief summary of what he had seen and heard in Roxburgh, refreshing himself from time to time with swallows from the leather jack the alewife had brought to the table.

Sir John shrugged. “There is little profit in a war fought on one’s own land. Had King Stephen pursued the Scots last year instead of compounding with them and rewarding them with Carlisle and Doncaster for attacking us, we would have been the richer and not needed to send an old man to plead for peace.”

Although he was essentially in agreement with what Sir John said, Hugh was not about to voice his sentiments. For one thing, he could not help wondering whether Sir John was not one of those who had yielded tamely to the Scots when they came in 1136; Morpeth had yielded and now had a new castellan. In the second place, Hugh was not one to cry over spilt milk (not one to tumble milkmaids and spill milk either, but he used the phrase like everyone else), so what Stephen had done or left undone in the past was over, unless a lesson could be learned from it. Most important of all at this moment was that Hugh did not want to speak out against the king, whose service he hoped to join.

“We would not have been
much
richer,” Hugh said, laughing and knowing he had chosen the right bad scent. “There is not much worth looting in Scotland.”

“You are right about that,” Sir John agreed, also laughing. “And do you find a single trinket worth bringing back—like as not your neighbor will cry that it is his, stolen from him in the last Scottish raid! Ah, well, there is more profit in a tourney. Not that de Merley will profit, except so far as the artisans will pay extra taxes, which comes to nothing.” Then Sir John’s expression, which had been merry all the while he was complaining, changed and became solemn and uneasy. “There is another reason, too, a quarrel
à outrance
.”

“De Merley could not settle the quarrel without a trial by combat?” Hugh asked.

“It is not de Merley’s right to settle it,” Sir John replied. “He is castellan of Morpeth, no more. It is King David’s son Henry who should mediate, but Henry of Huntington would probably not mind seeing a private war going on in Northumbria, and even if he wished to help rather than harm, he does not dare come into England just now. De Merley was glad enough to sanction a judicial combat. Better to have one man dead—or even two if they are closely matched—than let a war start that might draw in others and set the whole province aflame.”

Hugh nodded but made a neutral reply. What Sir John said about de Merley’s desire to avoid any chance of war was reasonable, but Hugh was uncertain of his feelings on the subject of trial by combat. He knew the archbishop opposed such battles, regarding as blasphemous the notion that God would judge the right by the shedding of one Christian’s blood by another.

In fact, Hugh knew of several cases of judicial combat in which might, rather than right, had triumphed. On the other hand, he had also seen a few in which the obviously weaker party had been victorious—and it was part of his faith that no man, no matter how insignificant, and no act or thought of any man, was unknown to God.

That God was aware of the battle was certain in Hugh’s opinion; that God was obligated to give victory to the righteous was, on the other hand, not certain at all. Men had free will; if they wished, they could engage in actions that were foolish and destructive… or even evil. If God intervened to prevent sin, there would be no purpose to free will. It was possible, on the other hand, that faith in being right could add to a man’s strength and endurance, and that fear of guilt could drain a man’s strength and dull his ability.

Meanwhile, Hugh’s cheerful and friendly companion was urging him to return for the tournament, which was to be held on the day after All Hallows, and remarking that Hugh looked to be a strong fighter.

“I might come back,” Hugh temporized, “but I have some private affairs to attend to first. I am not sure how long that will take, and All Hallows is only a little more than a fortnight hence. But if— Ah, here is my man. Well, Morel?”

“You be welcome in the keep, my lord, and be asked to come so soon as you be able.”

Hugh drained his jack, felt for a silver farthing in his purse, and tossed that to the alewife, who had come in from the back when she heard Morel’s voice. He lifted a hand in farewell to Sir John, who nodded, then smiled and said, “If you come for the tourney, ask for me. We will find a way to cram you into our lodging. All Hallows is a poor eve to be cold and alone.” Hugh thanked him warmly and promised he would find him if he came to the tourney. Then he made his way up the rise to the keep, which overlooked the town.

He was welcome, indeed, both for his firsthand account of the events in Scotland and for the news from Normandy conveyed in Bruno’s letter. There had been rumors of a grave disaster, the worst of which reported a counterambush to avenge Robert of Gloucester in which the king was killed. Fortunately Bruno’s letter was dated after that news had come, so Hugh could deny it with authority.

His host, who had been appointed by Stephen to replace a castellan with waverings toward Matilda, was relieved of his worries, at least temporarily, and could hardly do enough for Hugh, urging him to come to the tourney and assuring him of a place in the castle. Hugh repeated his plea of private business and asked directions to Ruthsson. He was surprised by the shadow that crossed his host’s face, but the directions were freely given, and a guide was even offered, since the distance was only about six leagues. Out of courtesy, Hugh asked no more questions and assured de Merley that he would find the place.

The next day, Hugh doubted the wisdom of refusing the guide. He and Morel had ridden northwest on a road that very soon became little more than a rough track and led into increasingly thick forest. One could see areas where the trees were smaller and thinner, indicating that once—before the ravaging of William the Bastard some fifty years earlier—there had been cultivation. But no effort had been made to resettle the land. Perhaps William had not had enough loyal friends—or did not want to send his friends to so barbarous a place where the Scots threatened to descend to rape and burn. After about two hours Hugh began to wonder whether he had mistaken the direction, but the track did go on, and then he detected a few signs of life. There were animal droppings on the road, and in the forest, a thin column of smoke rose.

Pointing to that, Hugh told Morel to take heart. “At worst,” he remarked, “the smoke marks an outlaw camp, and, after all, outlaws must prey on something.”

Morel laughed. “If so, they be more stupid than most outlaws, who be stupid enough. This be a place to starve better than to steal.” He looked at the column of smoke. “Charcoal burners more like, my lord.”

“Well, then,” Hugh said, “we must be coming to some place where people burn charcoal.”

And, in fact, it was not long after that they saw some wild-looking hogs rooting near the edge of the track, which then opened out into rough fields where sheep and goats grazed, and finally, when they could see the river glinting in the distance, they came to a miserable village. Hugh’s heart sank when he saw the dreadful hovels and the filthy clothing made of patches of rag over rag. Whoever ruled at Ruthsson, for this was surely Ruthsson land by now, must be a monster, he thought. But then he realized that the women and children had all come out to the road to gape at him, rather than run away to hide. Usually the extreme poverty that was evident here was caused by a cruel or rapacious landlord, but since the people were not afraid, there must be some other reason.