A Tapestry of Dreams

by Roberta Gellis

  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 t
he 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.”

  But the next morning, as soon as she woke, before she even got out of bed to relieve her bladder and bowels, Audris reminded Fritha that the loom had to be strung that day, and she ran up to her chamber again after breaking her fast to check that she had enough silver yarn. There would be enough blue, for blue was a color that appeared in almost every picture; but the silver, rare and costly, she used seldom and sparingly, usually to give a glint of life and light to eyes or to simulate moonlight.

  Never before had she expended it so extravagantly as in the unicorn tapestries. Yet, when she opened the chest, she discovered a surprising store of it, pale gray strands of shining silk twisted together with a real metal thread to give the needed glitter. With a troubled frown Audris lifted several hanks from the chest. The silver yarn could not be spun locally; silk came from some unknown land far, far to the east and it traveled all across Europe before it reached England. Why had she bought so much? And when had she bought it?

  The cost did not trouble her. Over the years there had been so much gain in the finished tapestries that her uncle never questioned how she came by the yarn she used, whether she ordered the women of the keep or villages to dye and spin thread for her or even went to market to buy it. He paid what she had promised—grain or cattle or wool or even coined money.

  Then Audris remembered. A few years past, a merchant on his way to the court in Scotland had stopped in Jernaeve. He knew of the hawks in Sir Oliver’s mews and wished to buy one. The silver yarn and other silks had been the price. The memory stilled the chill that had been rising in her. It would have been terrible indeed if she had been driven by a foreseeing she had not even recognized to buy the silver yarn. And then she closed her eyes and hugged herself as gooseflesh raised the hairs all over her body. This seeking out of the silver yarn was proof that the unicorn tapestries were not yet finished.

  Chapter 14

  Hugh watched Audris ride away until she entered the wood and he knew he would see her no more. Then he turned and went back to the little ledge above the valley, sighing softly. The light seemed to fade from his life as he trudged down to his tent. The practical knowledge that the hill cut off what little light was left in the cloudy western sky had no effect at all on his emotional reaction to the increasing dimness. He almost wished the sun had not come out for those few minutes. The ray of light that slipped through the break in the clouds had caught Audris and enclosed her in a brilliant nimbus. That was a memory to treasure, but though it was too far to see Audris clearly, Hugh had seen from her mare’s position that Audris was looking back and that she continued to look back until the sunlight was gone.

  Her longing woke mixed emotions in him, all of them violent: a fierce if puzzled gladness that she, who could have any man she chose, should want him; a wrenching sorrow for her because he could not bear that she should be sad, even for him; and a determination, even fiercer than his gladness and stronger than his sorrow, that he would somehow make himself fit to marry her.

  In the end the determination, and the exhaustion that followed much strong emotion and a full day of almost uninterrupted love play, overcame all other emotions. Since he could do nothing to forward the purpose of his determination, he thought with wry humor, it would be best to satisfy his other need. He would go to sleep. Hugh walked to the very edge of the flat area, turned his back to what wind there was, and urinated, looking contemplatively into the valley. Just below, his horse and mule grazed quietly; better still, at the far end of the valley, deer had come into the open. He shook the last drops free, went into his tent, rolled himself in his blanket, rested his head on his saddle, and was asleep before he had time to realize he had not eaten.

  ***

  Hugh was waiting, armed and ready for the road, at the abbey gate when his men rode up, and once he had determined that they were all there and all properly equipped—an easy task with this troop—he told them to dismount. As he turned Rufus toward the abbey gate, one rider came forward, hailed him respectfully, and introduced himself in soldier’s argot as Morel, his servant. Hugh smiled at him, as much because the man was exactly what he had expected as to make him welcome.

  Keen eyes, an indeterminate gray, but bright with interest, were examining Hugh, and, though Morel’s hair was grizzled and his leather-skinned face lined, his arms, shoulders, and thighs were still rounded with muscles that had none of the stringiness of aging. And when Hugh smiled at him, the joy and enthusiasm of Morel’s answering grin made Hugh glad he had agreed to Audris’s plan. Clearly the man had embraced her order as a gift rather than a duty. Still, there was one doubt in Hugh’s mind. Often Audris said things in a way that led to misunderstanding. Hugh wished to be sure Morel knew his service was likely to be unre
warded, except by gratitude.

  “You are very welcome to me,” Hugh said, “but I hope Demoiselle Audris warned you that I may not be able to pay you for your service.”

  “There be no need,” Morel said, looking surprised. “I be paid already.”

  Hugh thought the man was referring to Audris’s efforts to save his wife. “I understand, but I will give you what I can, and of course, table and bed are mine to supply.” He saw that Morel was about to protest and gestured him to silence, adding, “I have one question more. Would you prefer to ride with the servants or the men-at-arms?”

  “The men-at-arms, my lord,” Morel replied, ducking his head in a kind of bow of thanks. “I be more used to their kind.” He looked at Hugh hopefully. “I brought my arms with me. Be you willing for me to wear them?”

  “Please yourself.” Hugh had to laugh at the new light of pleasure in his servant’s eyes. “I fear you are an old warhorse, Morel, more eager for a fight than for the pasture.”

  “Aye, my lord, it be true. While my wife lived and the young ones be little, I been afeared what would come to them if I died. I burned angry when Sir Oliver called me to arms. But now that fear be gone, and my seeming be that be the only time I lived—when I marched to war with Sir Oliver. It be not so much the fighting, though I minded it not, but seeing of new places and strange sights.”

  “You will see enough of those with me, I think.”

  But Hugh’s grin was rather wry as he raised a hand in dismissal. He was rather the opposite of Morel. He had seen enough strange things and desired nothing so much as to settle in one place with Audris. But for the time being he was sure Audris was right; he and Morel would suit each other very well, and so strong and self-reliant a man would be the perfect messenger.

  As he entered the abbey himself, Hugh was well content and thinking happily about writing Audris to tell her how much he liked her man. It then occurred to him that he could not say too much nor send Morel to Jernaeve too soon lest Oliver’s suspicions be roused, but it was a shame that his first enthusiasm not be transmitted. And then he thought, why not? He could write a little each day—there could be two letters, one inside the other—so that Audris would live each day with him. The decision made him so happy that he was smiling from ear to ear when the lay brother conducted him into Thurstan’s chamber.