“I will never understand why you chose me,” he continued, half in earnest, half jesting. “Still, I submit gladly to God’s will—and yours—in this matter. You know that much of my impatience has been because I am so eager to win some land. Have you thought, as I asked you, of whether you could leave this country, Audris?”
“I answered that without need of thought,” she said softly, laying her hand on his. “I would be willing to live anywhere that we could be together—but there can be no question of going to Normandy.”
Hugh’s red brows drew together in an angry scowl. “Why? If I am willing to forgo such a place as Jernaeve, what complaint can your uncle—”
Audris took her lover’s face between her hands, kissed him on the nose, and laughed at him. “If he saw that scowl, he might fear you would murder me the first time I crossed your will.” She laughed again as Hugh drew an outraged breath and, before he could speak, went on, “No, dearling, it is nothing to do with my uncle. I thought perhaps you had heard the news from Normandy. There is nothing to be won there.”
“I have heard nothing,” Hugh said. “I sent word to York that no business was to be forwarded to Thurstan—not even if the cathedral burnt down—and my messenger must have frightened the wits out of Thurstan’s secretary, who then sent no news at all. That meant I have been cut off also. Is the king dead?”
“Oh, no, but he has been accused of plotting to kill or capture Robert of Gloucester by an ambush, and this enraged the Norman barons—although there is another side to the story—”
“Wait,” Hugh interrupted. “Tell it from the beginning. From whom did you have this news?”
“From Bruno. You remember that he was taken into the king’s service.”
Hugh looked at her. “Of course I remember. Did I not tell you that Stephen offered me service at the same time?”
“Perhaps it is as well you did not take it,” Audris said, frowning, “for either the king is not as honorable as he should be or—and I do not know which is worse—he is not so strong-minded as he should be. Bruno, who is loyal to a fault, excuses Stephen for everything, but whichever way I look at the story, I find the king to blame.”
“If you would tell me what happened,” Hugh urged, with just a note of impatience creeping into his voice, “perhaps I might judge for myself.”
A strong masculine laugh made both Audris and Hugh start with surprise and turn to where the left-hand path around the rose bed entered the grass plot. Hugh’s heart leapt into his throat. Sir Oliver was staring at them, still half hidden behind the rosebushes. How long had he been there?
Chapter 16
In the next moment, Hugh realized it was only his own guilt that made him think Audris’s uncle was suspicious. Sir Oliver seemed to have paused only to listen to his niece’s last remark and Hugh’s reply, for he came forward, smiling and uttering a warm welcome.
“My man came down to the fields to tell me you had come, Sir Hugh, and I wished to thank you for sending us news of the meetings with the Scots.”
Although his worst fears were set at rest by the friendly words, Hugh was still so shocked at seeing Audris’s uncle that he could not speak and only nodded while he offered up wordless but desperately sincere thanks to Mary. It could only have been the gentle Mother’s well-known indulgence to the foolish that had shielded them and kept Sir Oliver from arriving a few minutes sooner.
“Will you stay a few days?” Oliver continued, adding with a wry smile, “I promise I will not leave you to Audris’s tender mercies again. She is a good girl, but to converse with her might sometimes drive a man mad.”
“I must be back in Jarrow abbey tomorrow,” Hugh replied, fortunately still too unnerved by their narrow escape to take offense at Oliver’s dry criticism of Audris.
“I am not so bad as that, uncle,” Audris cried, laughing and pouting deliciously at the same time.
“I have never been able to get a straight tale out of you in my life,” Oliver growled. “If Sir Hugh can, I would like to know how he does it.”
“He listens more attentively,” Audris teased, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
“What is the straight tale, Sir Oliver?” Hugh asked quickly, appalled by the expression on Audris’s face and by her remark, which he felt hinted at their relationship.
As he spoke, Audris rose from the bench and settled on the grass, gesturing for her uncle to take her place. He nodded at her and sat, and Audris casually leaned a shoulder against Hugh’s legs, ostensibly so that she could look at Oliver while he answered Hugh’s question. Hugh stiffened nervously, torn between the delight he felt whenever she touched him and a strong desire to strangle her for her mischief. Sir Oliver looked at her and frowned.
“Audris, you are making Sir Hugh uncomfortable,” Oliver remonstrated, gesturing her away.
“No, no,” Hugh assured him. “She is light. If you permit, I am happy to serve as the Demoiselle’s prop and make her comfortable. But what is this new trouble with Robert of Gloucester of which Bruno writes?” he asked hastily to change the subject, for Audris had uttered a choked chuckle and he feared what she might say next.
“You know that Robert of Gloucester was given Caen to hold by King Henry?” Sir Oliver asked. Hugh nodded and Sir Oliver continued, “Bruno thinks that Matilda’s husband, Geoffrey of Anjou, chose to attack Mézidon mostly because it is no more than three leagues from Caen, and he expected Gloucester to open Caen to him. In that, Geoffrey was disappointed, for Gloucester seemed to hold by his oath to Stephen and even sent aid to Stephen, which enabled the king to take back Mézidon.”
“But that—”
“Wait,” Sir Oliver interrupted. “That was not the end of the matter. Up until then, Stephen had accomplished everything he had set out to do. He had induced Louis of France to recognize him as duke of Normandy as well as king of England, and he had also made peace with his brother, who felt he had an equal claim to the English crown—or a better one, since he was the elder—and resented Stephen’s quick taking of it. Resolving then to complete his work, Stephen called out his vassals in Normandy and assembled a large army at Lisieux, intending to drive Geoffrey out of Normandy altogether.”
“That was when everything went wrong,” Audris said, seeing the eagerness that had come into Hugh’s face.
Oliver frowned at her, but nodded agreement. “Bruno said the real cause of the trouble was the jealousy and suspicion the Norman barons felt for Stephen’s Flemish mercenaries and their leader, William of Ypres.”
“I can understand that,” Hugh remarked. “There was feeling against Ypres at Exeter, too. Ypres has been given more than one estate as prize and reward, yet he and his Flemings are paid for their service, while the barons must not only serve for nothing but pay their own and their men’s expenses.”
“Well,” Oliver went on, “when men are angry to begin with, a small thing can set them off. What happened was that the barons fell on the mercenaries. There was, Bruno says, considerable slaughter on both sides because the mercenaries were not overwhelmed and fought back, and the barons—either because they knew they were in the wrong or because they feared they would get no fair judgment from the king—gathered their men and left the royal camp without warning or asking Stephen’s leave.”
“That is rebellion!” Hugh exclaimed.
“It is only worthwhile to call it rebellion if a king is strong enough to defeat the rebels and profit by taking their lands,” Oliver commented dryly. “And it is only truly rebellion if the cause is petty and dishonorable—but it is about the cause that I have my doubts. Bruno says it was, indeed, petty—no more than a pipe of wine wrested from a Norman knight by a companion of Ypres. The knight flew to arms and called his comrades to his aid, and the fight soon spread into a general battle. Then, because they disdained explanation or restitution and feared the king’s wrath, the Norman barons fled.”
Hugh shrugged. “I have seen men fall on each other for no greater a cause.”
“So have I,” Oliver agreed, “but Bruno adds to the letter that another tale is current and that he feels he must tell me what is said so that I will not be surprised or believe he wished to hide it. The other tale is not of petty spite. It is said, Bruno writes, that the barons attacked the mercenaries to destroy an ambush set to kill Robert of Gloucester when he came into the camp. And the reason given for the barons’ withdrawing without permission was that they had learned the king had agreed to the ambush, conspiring with William of Ypres against Gloucester, despite Gloucester’s loyalty in supporting the king against Matilda’s husband.”
“If this is true, it paints no pretty picture of Stephen,” Hugh said. “There were many things the late king did I thought were wrong, but I do not remember that Henry ever connived at murder.”
Oliver knew different, but it was Audris who said, “It is weakness, not deliberate evil. By the end of his reign, Henry could give an order and know it would be obeyed—or the man who disobeyed broken. Stephen must win his way to that position.” Then she shook her head and half closed her eyes, remembering the king as she had seen him. “But I do not think Stephen will ever be like Henry. I could see in Stephen that he will be pulled this way and that, ever shifting with the strongest will and the last to speak to him—”
“Audris!” Oliver cut her off sharply. “Girls know nothing of such matters. Hold your tongue.”
“Yes, uncle,” she said meekly, and bowed her head as if contrite. She was contrite, in a sense, because she knew her uncle did not like her to speak about what she saw in people before strangers. She had forgotten that Oliver did not know Hugh and she were one.
Hugh frowned at the reprimand, but Audris squeezed his ankle, and he recalled that he had no right to interfere between Oliver and his niece, so he said, “The mercenaries alone cannot be sufficient to drive Geoffrey of Anjou out of Normandy, and I do not think Robert of Gloucester will help bring the barons back under control.”
“Nor does Bruno think so,” Oliver agreed. “Bruno says, in fact, that the whole tale of the ambush was made up by Gloucester, who saw a way to give more help to his half sister Matilda than by yielding Caen and exposing himself as a traitor. This way he could blacken Stephen’s name and reputation while keeping his own honor clean.”
“I cannot believe that,” Hugh said slowly. “I mean that Robert of Gloucester made up the whole tale. I have met him, and I know Sir Walter has a deep respect for him. He is, to my knowledge, an honorable man.” Hugh’s brows lifted. “Of course, Gloucester is not stupid either. I would guess that the truth lies between—that there was an ambush plotted by William of Ypres; he is a man who thinks of results without troubling overmuch about honor. Whether the king did connive in the plan, I am less sure—but once the plot was exposed, Gloucester might well believe Stephen did. And Gloucester would gladly seize on it as an excuse to ruin the king’s plan to win back Normandy.”
Oliver grimaced. “If that is true, Gloucester will soon break into open rebellion.”
“That is what the Scots expect,” Hugh reminded his host. “I heard nothing from them of what you have told me, but I think they had the news. Their intention is to wait until Stephen is embroiled with rebellion in the south or in Wales, and then come down on us.”
“Well, at least we are forewarned.” Oliver sighed. “I do not fear for Jernaeve. The Scots never have patience to sit out a siege of years, and the keep can be held for years. But the lands: They will be despoiled if there is no army to protect us.” He rose suddenly. “Bruno’s last word was that the king, with the help of the archbishop of Rouen, was trying to reconcile the barons to him, but I fear he is not likely to be persistent—which means he may give up on Normandy and return here. And that means the Scots may be down upon us sooner than I had thought. If so, I must think again about what to store and what to sell. Once more I thank you for sharing with me what you saw and heard in Roxburgh. You are welcome to Jernaeve, Sir Hugh, to stay as long as you will, now and at all times hence.”
He left abruptly, and Hugh watched him stride away with a worried frown. Audris turned to rest more fully against her lover, dropping her head to his knees. The warm and open invitation her uncle had offered had brought a brief spurt of joy because it would be possible to meet her lover frequently, and then a dreadful sensation of sinking that made her feel all hollow as the image of her last tapestry filled her mind.
Hugh touched her gently. “I wish your uncle had not said that. His unsuspecting welcome casts a still worse light on my stealing your favor.”
Audris lifted her head, and her clear eyes met her lover’s. His assumption that he was the prime mover in their relationship—which was untrue and a typically male revision of actuality—annoyed her enough to deflect her anxiety momentarily.
“You did not steal my favor,” she pointed out. “I gave it freely to you—and my favor is my own to give.” She saw his uncomprehending surprise and sighed. “My marriage and my possessions may be in my uncle’s ward, but my feelings are in mine, and no man may order what they should be.” Then she laughed at herself for trying to explain and reached up to touch Hugh’s troubled face. “Never mind, dear heart. It is my physical being and Jernaeve that concern Uncle Oliver. You have taken—or been given—nothing my uncle would think of great value.”
“Not even your maidenhead?”
“Since if I cannot marry you, I will not marry at all, I cannot see any way he would ever become aware of my ‘loss’—if a loss it is,” Audris answered, but the image of the unicorn about to gore Jernaeve and trampling over the ruined lower bailey came into her mind again, and tears came to her eyes.
“Audris!” Hugh exclaimed. “What is it? Heartling, do not weep! I will find a way—”
“No,” she whispered, closing her eyes and fighting the tears. “I am afraid. I am afraid of the picture I made. It is so strange.”
“The picture?” Hugh repeated blankly.
Over the weeks while he waited for Thurstan to regain his strength, a prey to frustration, anxiety, and guilt, Hugh had forgotten what Audris had written about the tapestry she had made. He did remember her telling him about the woven pictures, which seemed to predict natural disasters, but he had done considerable riding and hunting while in Jedburgh and had seen no signs of an especially hard winter or plague, and it was too late in the season for drought to harm the crops. Besides, this must, he thought, have something to do with him particularly, or Audris would have told her uncle. What had she been frightening herself with? He bent forward and kissed her closed eyes, gently broke the grip with which she was clinging to his thighs, then lifted her to the bench to sit beside him again.
“Tell me,” he urged.
Audris wiped away the remains of her tears and opened her eyes, but looked away across the garden to the foxgloves against the wall. She was visualizing the picture, trying to formulate words with which to describe it clearly. Before she spoke, however, she realized that her description could not be accurate. All it would tell Hugh was what she saw, and that was already tainted and distorted by her fears. She had never tried to describe or explain her pictures; she had simply showed them and let those who saw them decide what they meant.
“No.” Audris shook her head. “I cannot tell you. I have said too much already by admitting my fear. You must see the picture and decide for yourself. I—I have fallen victim to some foolish fancies. I fear you will be hurt in your striving to win a place for me, and yet I can see no other way for us to be together. I fear that even if you offer to take me with nothing, my uncle will not agree… for my sake, my heart, not because he does not honor you. You are so dear to me, I fear everything.”
“That is a sweet thing to hear,” Hugh said softly. “No woman has ever feared for me. Still, I wish you would believe that there is no need for it, for it grieves me
that you should have the smallest pain on my account. Of course God may strike down any man—or any woman also—in the full flower of their strength and pride. We both know that. Yet we must have faith. Look you, dearling, how we have been protected from our own foolishness this very day. Shall I come and look at your picture now?”
Audris stood, and Hugh turned to pick up his sword and hauberk. “I have told no one else about the work,” she said as he rose to follow her. “I do not know why, but I need to keep this one and the others by me for a time, so do not speak of them, I beg you.”
“I will do in all things as you desire,” he assured her, smiling fondly—and with a touch of indulgent condescension for her fancifulness.
Hugh could not take seriously any threat displayed in a woven picture. He saw that Audris was worried, and his heart ached to think that she should carry any burden. She was so small and light, flitting down the garden path, needing to take two steps to his one and hardly turning a piece of gravel as she went. He would find a soothing explanation, he told himself, no matter what the tapestry showed.
He did not get to see the picture that afternoon. On their way out of the garden, they met Lady Eadyth coming in. Sir Oliver had sent word to his wife that Sir Hugh had arrived so she could have a room made ready, but Eadyth had not forgotten that Hugh was too much attracted to Audris. Audris had behaved very well after she had been warned not to add to Hugh’s desire, but Eadyth did not trust Audris to remember her warning. So as soon as she had given the necessary orders for a fire to be lit in the chamber and a bench to be brought in and laid with fleeces for a bed, she had come to fetch their guest. It was easy enough to separate him from Audris; she had only to bid Audris go and change her dress, which was all stained from the garden, and suggest to Hugh that she would lend him a gown so he could take off his arming tunic.
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