A Tapestry of Dreams (5 page)

Having done everything he could for the dead man, Hugh edged around the body and continued on even more cautiously. He found no other corpses, and soon recognized his goal, the house of the alewife. There Hugh hoped to find the horse of some leader of the Scottish army who was making free with the alewife’s brew, but no animals were tethered in front of the building. Hugh hesitated, then came ahead anyway. He thought he remembered a shed at the back of the house. There was a chance the family owned a horse, and it might still be there.

A structure did protrude from the back of the building, as he remembered. Hugh advanced cautiously, sniffing to determine whether the place smelled of animals or cooking, for such an extension could as easily be a kitchen as a shelter for the family’s animals—or both. The attempt was defeated by an overwhelming smell of woodsmoke and an underlying mixture of stenches from manure, animal and human, vomit, stale beer, and other assorted refuse.

A crash and a scream from inside the house behind him froze Hugh for a moment. He realized then that there were Scots in the house, and he hurried around the corner, where he would not be in sight if a window or door opened. He was feeling for the opening into the shed when he was brought up short by treading on a chain. Hugh froze again, expecting the dog to leap at him barking wildly, but knew, even as he stiffened, that the animal would have given the alarm already if it had been able. To make sure that the beast was not inside the shed, trained to give voice and attack only if someone entered, Hugh crouched and felt for the end of the chain. His hand touched another stiff body, this one covered in fur. Hugh stroked the still form automatically, apologetically. He was very fond of animals, and it saddened him when a beast was killed in a quarrel among men.

The brief pause saved him. As he drew his hand back from the dog’s body, Hugh heard the crunch of a pebble grinding underfoot and a faint clink of metal against metal. He had his knife out as the man came around the side of the building, and he rose and thrust the knife against the throat in one swift motion, grasping for the back of the man’s head with his other hand so that his victim could not jerk away. But the blade did not come to rest against leather or mail as Hugh had expected. To his surprise, it slid in right to the hilt. The body convulsed against his, but Hugh had been prepared for resistance and automatically clutched it against him. In the next instant it sagged bonelessly, and Hugh eased down with the weight.

Only when the man lay alongside the dog did Hugh quickly draw his knife free of the wound it had made, for he did not want to be covered in blood—blood made horses nervous. As he wiped his knife blade and the edge of his hand, where a trickle from the wound had run, on his victim’s tunic, Hugh again muttered absolution and a prayer for the sped soul. He was sorry about having killed when he did not intend to, but the man was an enemy, after all, and it was his own fault for being careless about his armor. Hugh had killed men before, and another death did not trouble him.

Paramount in his mind was the question of whether the man had been a guard sent to watch the shed, and, if so, whether another guard waited inside to be relieved. He did not think so, because no glow of light showed and there was no reason for the guard to wait in the dark. Still, he carried his knife bare in his hand, hidden by the edge of his cloak. Now, however, he walked boldly toward the open side of the shed, as if he were expected. At the entry he stopped, but the only sounds were the breathing and low snorting of resting animals and the stamp of a horse’s shod hoof.

Hugh’s eyes were adjusted to the dark, so he was able to make out the forms of several horses crowded together in the small shed by the very faint light coming through a crack here and there. But none of the horses wore a saddle. Hugh bit back an exclamation of disappointment. Even as he did so, his hopes rose strongly again. He knew that even the alewife could not afford so many horses and would have no use for them. It was cold, and there was a nasty wind. Likely some of the captains had chosen to lodge in the alewife’s house rather than in tents. As the thoughts passed through his mind, Hugh’s eyes roved around the shed and at once caught a faint gleam of metal from a dark heap near the rear wall. There were the saddles!

Relief made him incautious, and his foot again struck a soft body as he hurried toward his goal. The form jerked, proving it was alive, but made no sound other than a faint grunt. Hugh was down beside the man in a moment, his knife pricking the throat. This time he was more careful, and there was no accident. There was no need, either. An intense odor of beer and vomit assaulted Hugh’s nose as he leaned over to command silence, so he saved his warning. It took no more than a moment to cut the man’s crossgarters and tie his hands and feet. Another minute sufficed to use a strip of his tunic to gag him.

Stepping over him, Hugh reached for a saddle. His hand grazed a lantern over on its side, its candle out. He hesitated a moment, then got flint and steel from his belt pouch and lit the candle. If the man on the floor had been the guard and the one he had killed had been his relief, no one else was likely to visit the shed. There was only a small chance, then, that the light would betray him, and it would permit him to saddle so much faster that Hugh was willing to take the chance.

As soon as Hugh held up the lantern, he began to laugh heartily if silently. The saddle he had reached for was bound and bossed in silver, the saddle cloth near it was embroidered in silver and gold. Hugh turned to look at the horses, and the sight of a tall, powerful destrier among the lesser animals made his grin grow wider. It seemed Sir William de Summerville himself was lodged here. Now Hugh was thankful for the castellan’s delay in yielding Wark, for Summerville would surely have lodged in the keep if it had been turned over to him.

A moment later Hugh’s hands were busy gentling the high-bred warhorse. Most men would have thought twice about trying to saddle a strange destrier without help, for the warhorses were taught to be fierce and to attack strangers. But Hugh had a way with animals, and he murmured dulcetly to the horse as he offered a handful of grain from an open sack near the saddles. This form of bribery, combined with Hugh’s lack of fear, worked quickly. Bit and bridle were slipped in place while the horse nuzzled for the last kernels in his hand. Then Hugh led him to the sack, which occupied him happily while cloth and saddle were swung into place and cinched. This done, it was easy enough to take the stallion outside, where sound was less likely to disturb those in the house, and jab him violently in the ribs so the cinch could be properly tightened.

Grinning from ear to ear, Hugh swung up into the saddle and trotted out of the yard and onto the road. He had often been told that virtue and devotion to duty, being good works that smoothed the path to heaven, were their own reward, but this time the reward was tangible. Hugh was now richer by a very fine horse and all its valuable accoutrements—and all taken from a rich enemy, too, so that he would not need to feel guilty about depriving some other poor man of his means of livelihood.

Fate had another twist for Hugh, however. He did not succeed in escaping unnoticed. By chance, one of the men drinking with Sir William de Summerville in the alewife’s house stepped out to piss just as Hugh was disappearing down the road. The man was somewhat fuddled with drink, but not so fuddled that the sight of a mounted man riding south out of the village did not raise doubts in his mind. He shouted a question and then an order to stop, which, needless to say, Hugh did not obey.

In fact, Hugh kicked his horse into a gallop and kept the pace until he was through the armed camp, staying carefully on the road that ran due south. But when he judged that the sound of pounding hooves could no longer carry back to the camp, Hugh checked the horse and turned west. He knew he would be pursued as soon as Summerville discovered whose horse had been taken, but he would be far away by then and, he hoped, the pursuers would believe he had continued south or would turn east to find protection in Prudhoe or Newcastle.

The thought generated a doubt in his mind. Since King David himself had not come to Wark, doubtless he had other, more important castles to subdue. It was impossible for Hugh to guess which places had been attacked, and he decided that safety lay in avoiding all towns and all fortified places until he was well south in England. That made him think of the great wall that crossed England. He would be much safer once he was south of that. It was a ruin except where it had been repaired, but it was a formidable ruin, as much as ten or twelve feet high wherever it had not been deliberately breached. Hugh frowned. He had no idea where the breaches were, and off the road, with the stars hidden by clouds, he was not even certain of his direction.

When Hugh thought back on his escape, he was sure Saint Jude or the Blessed Virgin herself had had a hand on his horse’s bridle all the way. With neither moon nor stars to guide him, all he could do was keep the wind, which he remembered as being from the northeast, at his back. Nonetheless, he did not travel in circles; he came to the great wall before dawn—and without seeing or hearing a sign of pursuit.

By daybreak he had found a breach, where the small river that ran along the wall sent a branch southward. He and the destrier drank, then followed the river valley for only a little way before they came on a road. This ran somewhat westward of south, but Hugh took it gladly, for this part of the country was strange to him, and a road meant people. He had reason to doubt the wisdom of his decision all morning, because the country was desolate, but by afternoon he had come to a crossroad that went east and looked better traveled, and late in the day he came to Brough keep, where there was news of King Stephen.

The king was in Westminster, they told him, and directed him south by way of Richmond and Pontefract, grateful for the warning he brought about the danger from the Scots. Fortunately, Hugh did not need to ride all the way to Westminster. Somewhere on the road—he never remembered where, for after that night at Brough he stopped only when either he or his horse was failing—he heard that the king had come north as far as Oxford. When Hugh came there, in the afternoon of the fifth day, he and his horse were hollow with exhaustion. Still, the quality of his mount could not be mistaken, and the richness of his saddle and armor contributed to the alacrity with which Sir Walter was sought and Hugh brought to him. Hardly able to keep on his feet, Hugh blurted out his news about Wark without noticing anything except his master.

A tall, fair man, who had stepped back a few paces as Hugh approached as if to give Sir Walter privacy to speak to his visitor, came closer again and repeated, “The Scots have taken Wark, you say? Where is Wark? Why should my uncle wish to seize it?”

In turning toward the voice, Hugh staggered and would have fallen if Sir Walter had not put an arm around him to support him. And it was Sir Walter who replied. “Wark is in Northumbria, Sire, north of Jernaeve. As to why King David should desire it, I have no idea. There is no route south from Wark, for Jernaeve guards the valley to the south… unless King David intends to use Wark as a base from which to attack Jernaeve. But before I make more wild guesses, let me ask, Hugh, do you have any other news?”

Hugh had steadied himself and removed his weight from Sir Walter’s arm. His lord was still strong, but he was not young, and Hugh stood equally tall. “The king was not at Wark,” he said slowly, trying to be sure his answer was coherent, “and the army, from what I could judge, was small. One of his men, Sir William de Summerville, called on us to yield in the name of the Empress Matilda to oppose—”

“This,” Espec interrupted hastily, gesturing toward the tall man who had asked the questions about Wark, “is King Stephen, Hugh.”

Hugh blinked blurrily at a broad, good-natured face with kindly gray eyes. There seemed no threat in it, but Sir Walter could only have interrupted him with such information as a warning. To give himself time for his tired brain to work, Hugh undid the laces holding the throat piece of his hood and pushed the mail off his head.

But the king had understood Sir Walter’s warning, and he shook his head. “I will not blame the messenger for ill tidings,” Stephen said. “Did Summerville call me a usurper?” And then he added inconsequentially, “With that flaming hair, you look like a Scot yourself, young man.”

“I do not know,” Hugh said, feeling more confused than ever by Stephen’s personal remark. “My mother died soon after I was born, and I was a ward of Archbishop Thurstan, who gave me for fostering to Sir Walter.” But then his mind reverted to what he had been thinking about all during his long ride. “King David did not come to Wark,” he repeated, “and although I have never been inside Jernaeve, I have passed by that keep. The army with Summerville could never take that place. I think the main army must be with the king, perhaps attacking Newcastle or Prudhoe.”

“But Hugh,” Sir Walter protested, “for the Scots to be as far south as Newcastle would mean—”

“That the whole north of England has fallen,” Stephen interrupted harshly. “Why should you think the king of Scotland so far south?”

Hugh blinked his burning eyes again, but he answered readily because he had thought out the whole subject on the long way south. “First because Wark is no great bastion of the north that must be taken to make holding the land possible. Thus, any leader but a fool would leave that for last, to be swept into the net after the big fish were taken—and my reason must be good because no large force was sent. The manner of the demands made on Wark was another piece of evidence, and the way the army settled in, a third. They were too easy on all counts and too sure. It was as if they knew they had nothing to fear.”

“Nothing to fear, eh?” Stephen growled furiously. “We will see if they have nothing to fear.”

Sir Walter’s hand tightened on his squire’s arm, and Hugh was appalled, realizing suddenly that a meaning he had never intended could be found in his words. “My lord,” he exclaimed, “I did not mean—”

Stephen patted his shoulder. “No, no, I know you meant no insult.”

“Indeed I did not, Sire,” Hugh assured him. “I meant that it was as if they were sure Wark must yield and knew no help would come to Wark from Alnwick or Morpeth or any other keep nearby.”

“I thought you said the north would be safe,” Stephen said, turning on Sir Walter.

Hugh stiffened, but Sir Walter tightened his grip on his squire’s arm to keep him silent and shook his head at the king. “Not safe from the Scots, Sire. I said there was no sympathy for the empress’s cause there, and I think that still to be true. King David is another matter… not that the northern lords wish to do homage to the Scottish king, but that they are uncertain of you.”

“My uncle
did
lean toward me at the end,” Stephen said uneasily, and then more surely, “and I have been crowned and anointed with chrism. I am king.”

“Yes, my lord,” Walter agreed. “I did not mean they doubted your right. What they doubt is your will or your ability to protect them from King David. They are willing to fight the Scots, but not alone. Compared with the south of England, the north is poor. Perhaps they fear you might believe it too costly to bring them help.”

“Rich or poor, all parts of my kingdom are in my care!” Stephen exclaimed.

Sir Walter bowed slightly. “So I believed you would feel when I did homage to you, Sire.”

Listening to this exchange, Hugh felt there was something odd in Sir Walter’s manner and phrasing, but he was too tired to pick out what disturbed him. The brief spurt of energy supplied by his nervousness at being the focus of the new king’s attention was ebbing rapidly. He wavered on his feet, then caught himself steady and upright, but not for long. A sharp order in Sir Walter’s voice made Hugh brace his body again, but the order was not for him, and he began to sag once more. A minute later a firm arm around his waist steadied him. It was not Sir Walter, who had turned back to the king, and Hugh looked down to see that John de Bussey, Sir Walter’s nephew, was supporting him.

“Come along, my sleeping beauty,” John said. “My uncle has given orders that you be bedded down.”

Hugh started off willingly, then hesitated. “My horse—”

“I will see to him also,” John assured him. “Where did you leave him?”

Hugh remembered describing his new mount and accoutrements as well as the area of the bailey in which he had given the reins to a groom, but he did not remember anything after that, until he was wakened by a toe in the ribs to see Sir Walter standing over him, fully dressed. He sat up immediately, apologizing for oversleeping and failing to help his master dress, but Sir Walter laughed at him.

“Wake up”—he chuckled—“you are dreaming of the past. Robert and Philip dressed me as they have these two years agone.” He laughed again as Hugh shook his head as if to free it of dreams and went on, “You have nearly slept the sun around, and I thought you might be more hungry by now than sleepy. But I do not need you, so you may choose for yourself whether you wish to come to dinner or finish your sleep.”

“I will eat, my lord, thank you,” Hugh replied.

He rose to his knees, trying to smooth the worst of the creases out of his tunic. Apparently John had let him tumble down on a straw pallet and had thrown his fur cloak over him for warmth without urging him to undress. His tunic was loose, and he looked around the room in which he had slept for his baggage before he remembered that he had come away without anything. The glance showed a nearly bare chamber of fair size with a steeply sloping roof and a stone fireplace and chimney not far from his pallet at the rear of the room. Closest to the hearth was a cot, farther away another, and by the side wall, a clothes chest. Hugh turned around, absently pulling at his chausses with one hand and gathering his tunic together with the other. At the other end of the room, taking up most of the front gable, was a large window with its shutters folded back and scraped hides keeping out some of the cold.

Clearly they were not in Oxford keep but in the solar of a house in the town. Hugh frowned, wondering if that meant that King Stephen did not value his master highly enough to lodge him, or, more pleasantly, whether Stephen had taken Sir Walter’s measure and felt he did not need to watch him constantly.

His thought was interrupted by Sir Walter saying, “You need not stand there picking at your stockings and holding your tunic together like a modest maiden. I will lend you my clothes, those on the chest there. You would split John’s at the shoulders, and his chausses would probably only reach midthigh on you. But you had better take one of John’s belts. Mine will go around you twice.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Hugh mumbled in a muffled voice as he pulled off his stinking, sweat-soaked garments and donned one of his master’s fine linen shirts. He did not protest, for he and his master stood a head taller than most men and were broader in proportion. It was fortunate that Hugh was redheaded and fair as well as so distinctive in feature, rather than black of eye, hair, and beard as Sir Walter was, or worse would have been said than that he was the lord’s favorite. A pair of woolen stockings with attached feet and underpants was drawn on under the shirt and, over all, one of Sir Walter’s plainest tunics. But Hugh did not go to John’s baggage for a belt.

“I will just unhook the sword from my belt,” Hugh said. “You are not wearing yours in the presence of the king, I see, and my sword will be safe with yours.”

Sir Walter looked at him and raised his brows, but he did not, as Hugh had feared, insist that Hugh make use of John’s belt or ask why Hugh preferred the nuisance of removing his sword from his own belt. Instead he said, “I gather from the fact that you came away from Wark without shield or helmet or saddlebags, not to mention on a horse I have never seen, that you left without my castellan’s blessing.”

“Yes, my lord,” Hugh said. Then he grinned. “The horse and accoutrements were Sir William de Summerville’s. I told you, did I not, that he led the Scottish force. Forgive me, but I do not remember very well what I said yesterday.”

“You came in bawling halfway across the chamber that Wark had fallen to the Scots without a battle,” Sir Walter said dryly, “but you did tell us about Summerville and that you thought all north England was in David’s hands after the king began to ask questions.”

Hugh looked up from tying long cloth strips around his legs to keep his borrowed chausses from sagging. He had lost his grin and paled. “If I have spoken amiss and brought trouble to you, my lord, I beg your pardon. Perhaps—”

“No, no.” Sir Walter shook his head. “In this case you could not have done better than you did, and now that you know the king by sight, I am sure you will speak with more caution in his presence.”

“I hope not to need to speak at all in his presence!” Hugh exclaimed. “Who am I to speak to kings?”

Sir Walter laughed at Hugh’s vehemence, but shook his head. “I am afraid your company has been requested. You have taken King Stephen’s fancy. He was much impressed by the devotion that drove you beyond exhaustion to bring me the news. And since he no longer regards it as bad news…”

Hugh had been about to protest the notion that his ride south had been anything extraordinary, but he was so startled that he echoed “Not bad news?” in amazement. “If I am right and the northern keeps are all taken or yielded, he has lost almost a third of his kingdom to the Scots. How can that be good?”

“Not good, perhaps,” Sir Walter replied, “but an opportunity to convince the northern barons of his intention and his power both to support them against David and to control them. Nor is he wrong in so thinking. He has in hand the treasure amassed by the late king, and an army of Flemish mercenaries to pay with that treasure. Combined with the men I can raise from Yorkshire and Durham, we will easily overmatch King David’s forces, especially if he has left men in the royal castles in Northumbria. But come, we will be late to dinner. And while we go, you had better tell me why you needed to flee Wark without your arms and baggage and how you came by Summerville’s horse—his prize destrier, if I am not mistaken.”

“The answer to the second question is tied into that for the first,” Hugh began, and explained what had happened from the time he arrived in Wark until he stopped at Brough keep.

While he talked, they went down the stair and out into the town. Hugh had been too exhausted to see anything except his goal when he had arrived, but now he looked about curiously. Because he had so often thought over the events that led to his escape from Wark, Hugh was able to describe them without much need for thought, leaving most of his attention free. To his surprise, he found they were heading downhill to the castle, which, in violation of usual practice, was built on the lowest land, near the river. Then Hugh realized that the town had not grown up around the castle; in this case the keep had been built to control the town. Oxford must have been one of those walled burghs that were what the English thought of as defended places before the coming of the first William.