A Tapestry of Dreams

by Roberta Gellis

  He kissed first the pink nose and then, lingeringly, her lips. “Yes. And though I cannot come to you, we will not be parted long—I swear it.”

  Chapter 17

  Hugh did not realize how much the grim voice in which he uttered those words to Audris frightened her. She “heard” also what he did not say aloud, that he was pledging his life to the purpose of winning her and would die rather than fail. To Hugh there was nothing dreadful in such a pledge, for he had made it in his heart each time he fought beside Sir Walter, and it was an implicit part of his duty in leading Thurstan’s guard.

  Sir Walter had never needed so desperate a defense as to endanger Hugh, and the archbishop’s cortege had not been attacked. But had there been the need, Hugh would have fought to the death to protect Sir Walter or Thurstan. In fact, though his voice was grim with determination, Hugh’s statement gave him great pleasure; this time he saw ahead a great prize, a prize far beyond the satisfaction of a duty well done.

  What troubled Hugh was the tapestry. He had set himself to comfort Audris that night, burying his own anxieties, but a remnant of the strange fear that had seized him in the dark hall clung to him. Not that Audris had ensorcelled him—beyond the devotion caused by her natural sweetness and charm. He did not think that. A potent sorceress does not weep and tremble with fear at her own work—or have a bright pink nose and sniffle pathetically from crying. But there was something different about Audris; she sensed things that others had to learn slowly, like the weakness of the king. So after he left Jernaeve the next day, Hugh vowed he would not so much as speak the name of the keep, lest something he said bring danger to it. The vow was only a sop to Hugh’s real fear, though. He knew the only threat he posed to Jernaeve was the possibility he would rip out its heart by taking Audris away. When that notion slipped into Hugh’s mind, he pushed it out again and buried it. Months, perhaps years, would pass before he could ask for Audris. Until the time came, he told himself, he did not need to worry about Jernaeve.

  Yet so swift a solution came to Hugh’s first problem, which was to discover his mother’s identity, that he could not help wondering whether Audris’s warning picture might be more timely than it seemed.

  Having brought Thurstan safely into the comfort of his palace in York and under the careful scrutiny and tender care of servants who loved him, Hugh rode back to Durham and requested a meeting with the abbess of the convent. This was granted at once, and, to Hugh’s surprise, a large bundle wrapped in a fine woolen blanket was given to him, in addition to a thick packet of parchment. Hugh had expected to receive the report of the inquisition of the nuns who had been in the convent when his mother was there, since before they parted Thurstan had told Hugh of the letters he had written to the bishop and abbess.

  “What is this?” Hugh asked, gazing at the bundle, which was large and heavy.

  The abbess smiled. “We were far more successful in carrying out our lord, the archbishop’s, orders than we expected. That is everything your mother brought with her to our convent—except the gown she wore when she carried you away—it was so stained with blood as to be unsavable—and the cloth used for the shroud in which she was buried.”

  Hugh was staring at her in amazement, and she smiled again.

  “Yes, it is unusual. Naturally we give away the effects of those who die in our care after we are certain that no relative or other person has a claim on them. But in questioning my daughters about your mother, as the archbishop instructed, I learned that the abbess of that time had saved your mother’s belongings in the expectation that the archbishop would send for them or come to collect them. I do not believe she felt any surprise when the archbishop did not do so at once; she must have understood that there were many, many demands on his time in those early months of his tenure. Then the abbess died quite suddenly, and there was a… a period of difficulty.”

  Hugh nodded without speaking. Probably there had been a nasty conflict about who should be appointed abbess, either among the sisters themselves or between the sisters and their bishop or, possibly, between the bishop and the king. The problem had been compounded, no doubt, by the growing disagreement between Thurstan and the king, which made it impossible for the archbishop to mediate. But whatever it was, Hugh had little interest in the subject.

  “Fortunately,” the abbess said, nodding at the bundle, “that had not been held in the abbess’s house but placed in storage and marked to be kept until Archbishop Thurstan requested it be delivered to him—and so it was kept, shifted from place to place over the years.” She smiled at Hugh once more; this time her eyes shone brilliant with faith. “I am sure it is God’s will that you have your mother’s belongings. I do not believe, even knowing the effects had been kept for a time, we would have found them, except that when I was elected abbess of this community, I had a thorough search and accounting made of all the storerooms. Thus, I was able to put together old Sister Agatha’s memory of storing your mother’s things and the old parcel marked for Thurstan in the storeroom.”

  “I thank you, Mother,” Hugh said. “I am beginning to hope it is God’s will that I discover who I am, but I do not wish to deprive your house of the fruits of your kindness. Is there a place where I could look through this bundle? I have no use for women’s garments or even sheets and blankets, and I am sure you have great use for them. If I could separate those personal tokens that might lead me to my family, I will leave the rest in your hands.”

  Since the sisters could indeed make good use of the items Hugh had mentioned, the abbess was happy to lend him the chamber set apart for priests who visited them. Hugh was glad he did not have to wait to carry the bundle to his lodging, for beneath his calm exterior, he was shaking with eagerness—and with apprehension. The apprehension had always been there, but the eagerness had come on him suddenly, sparked by the light of faith in the abbess’s eyes when she said it was God’s will that his mother’s possessions come into his hands.

  Hugh was glad of the privacy also because his hands were shaking as he untied the ropes that held the bundle together. It was natural to think again of Thurstan’s description of his mother’s struggles to name him. Could Licorne be a clue to something in her belongings? He began to unfold each item carefully, shaking out creases in the hope that he would find among the embroidery some symbol that was repeated frequently enough to be characteristic of her family.

  There was nothing helpful in any of her gowns or undergarments or even in the purse he found at the very center of the bundle, which still held a handful of silver coins. He put a tithe of these aside for the sisters and, rather dispiritedly, for his hopes had been raised very high by finding the effects after so many years, lifted and shook out the fine fur-lined winter cloak. It was too small for him, of course, and too valuable to be given to the poor or sold for charity. If the furs had not dried out, he thought, perhaps he could have them remade for Audris. He began to feel and tug—and something crackled. Hugh’s heart leapt up again. He felt frantically around the garment and soon enough his hand found an open seam and a hidden pouch, which held a folded parchment.

  The first lines answered one of his questions; he knew at once his mother’s name and family. He read:

  “From Sister Ursula to Margaret of Ruthsson, sorrowful greetings. Dear sister, I am writing this letter to you, rather than to our father as you asked, and having it delivered to you secretly because I fear for you so greatly. I beg you to repent your sin and part from Sir Kenorn. You must not think of him as a husband, to whom you must cleave, abandoning all others. You must think of him as a devil who has seduced you. Alas, I fear he is truly of that spawn, so strange is his countenance and with hair like the flames of hell springing from his head and brows. He has seduced you as the devil seduces many women. Sir Kenorn tells you that marriage has absolved you of the sin of lust, but this is not true, my beloved sister. You have married this man against our father’s will because you lust after h
im. Thus you sin each time you give yourself to him, even as his wife. Moreover, I am certain that marriage will not reconcile our father to your husband. Indeed, I fear that such news will drive him to violence, even to murder. Nor do I believe that Sir Kenorn’s family will welcome you, especially as you will come dowerless and with curses. Beloved sister, heed me—come to me. Cast yourself into the arms of Christ. Let God save you from the double sin of disobedience and lust. Written this twelfth day of April in the year of our Lord, eleven hundred and fourteen.”

  Hugh sat staring at the letter after he had read it, hardly believing its reality. But there could be no doubt. The parchment was old, the ink faded, and the nuns could have no reason to play so foolish and uncertain a trick. He wondered whether his mother had ever actually known the contents of the letter. Possibly not, for it was not likely that she herself could read, and the situation was too dangerous to ask the castle chaplain or anyone local to read it to her. The very fact that the letter had been delivered to her in secret, rather than to her father, must have been a signal that her sister refused to mediate between them. For a moment Hugh felt bitterly angry at Sister Ursula, but then he wondered if the refusal had been to protect his mother. Murder. Yes, if Margaret had feared her father would pursue and take vengeance, she might well have kept her name secret from the nuns. In any case, Ursula’s letter had come far too late. Hugh had been born on the seventh of September, so his mother had been more than four months gone with child in April.

  The unflattering picture of his father as a devil rather amused Hugh. From Sister Ursula’s description, he must resemble his father very closely indeed. And Kenorn had not seduced his Margaret—he had married her. Hugh knew that there were churchmen who preached that to take joy in any pleasure of the flesh was one of the deadly sins, but Thurstan was not of that school. He had taught Hugh that any simple pleasure, moderately indulged, that did no harm to anyone was a joy to God, who wished His children to be happy. Then Hugh sighed. He could hardly blame Kenorn, he thought. He himself had done far worse, for he had seduced Audris without marriage. And his father seemed to deserve Margaret’s devotion: he had not abandoned her; Thurstan had been told that the lady came with a male escort and that she said she expected her husband to return soon. But he had not returned. Hugh sat staring at the blank wall opposite the cot on which he sat. His father had not returned. Why?

  There were so many possible reasons, a number of them ugly and painful, that Hugh shrugged off the question. It was unanswerable at present, and a far more important question was unanswerable also—who was Sir Kenorn? The name was not common, but without some hint of geographical locality, a search was impractical. Hugh would have liked to know, although the answer was no longer of essential importance. Hugh had proof that he was legitimate and that his father had been a knight, which implied noble birth, and that was all he had ever wanted.

  Hugh had no expectation of profiting in any way from learning who his parents were. A disobedient daughter could not expect a portion; in fact, he had got more than he should from the coins in her purse. And the probability was very strong that his father had been as penniless as he was, very likely a younger son, selling his sword where he could for his bread, and no doubt desiring a lady whose father, of course, would not accept him as a suitor. Again like father, like son. Hugh’s lips twisted wryly, but then he frowned. If Kenorn was poor, where had Margaret come by the silver in her purse? Hugh sighed and smiled wryly again. Very likely the coins had come from her father’s strongbox. It was very wrong, but Hugh found himself liking and admiring his mother more and more, regretting that he had never known her. She must have been a strong and daring woman.

  That raised still another question. Why had Margaret left the protection of the nuns to carry her child to the cathedral? The answer to that, and possibly a hint as to his father’s family, might be in the report the abbess had given him. Perhaps Margaret had said that Kenorn went north or south, which was little, but better than nothing at all. Hugh gathered all the garments—except the fur-lined cloak, the purse, and two very fine silk veils, which he wished to give to Audris to keep for him in memory of his mother—and the sheets and blankets, tied them together again, and left them in a corner of the room. The packet of parchment he took out to read where the light was better, in the tiny separate garden maintained for the priest’s pleasure.

  Most of the answers given to the abbess’s questions were very short. Some of the nuns who had been in the convent at the time had never seen Margaret; others could remember little or nothing about her; but Sister Agatha’s response was very long. Sister Agatha had been present when Hugh was born, and the memory of the event was still very clear in her mind, partly because of her exertions to stop Margaret’s bleeding and her fury and frustration when, with success within her grasp, Margaret had seized her child and run away. It was the fault of a nun left to sit with the patient while Sister Agatha caught a few hours of rest. The nun, who had more faith than common sense, had urged Margaret to take last rites—thereby implying she was dying—and had urged her also to have her son baptized at once and to dedicate him to the Church before her husband could carry the child into a life of sin.

  It was plain from the result what had happened. Weak and fevered, Margaret had feared that if she died, her son would be hidden from Kenorn and forced to become a priest or a monk. So she had pretended to agree, sent the nun to fetch a priest, pulled on a gown, and struggled out to place her babe in safekeeping. Neither her courage nor her devotion to her husband had faltered, even in the face of death. Hugh found his eyes full of tears. The stupid nun was now dead and beyond his vengeance, but he felt an enormous desire to know his mother better.

  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.