A Tapestry of Dreams

by Roberta Gellis

  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.

  Beyond the village were more fields, in which the stubble looked somewhat richer, and beyond the fields… Hugh pulled his horse to a stop and stared. The track itself went almost straight down to the river, where it divided right and left, there seeming to be no ford. It was not possible to see where the left fork went, but the right climbed up a steep hill to a plateau a hundred feet or more above the river, ending at a formidable gate in a massive stone wall that ran for about thirty feet and culminated, ridiculously, in a log palisade that curved away beyond Hugh’s sight. Hugh frowned. The condition of the wall implied that Ruthsson had changed hands during Hugh’s lifetime and that the present holder was either a fool or indifferent to the current political situation.

  The gate and about twenty feet of the wall, the part Hugh could see at least, was older than he was; the stones showed growth of lichen and moss, and the end of the wall was obvious. Attached to the old wall was an additional section of ten feet or so that had been built within the last five years. The new section could not be older than that, for the stone was rough from fresh cuts and marked with streaks from the mortar. But this new section also ended in a cross wall, and there was no sign that further construction was intended.

  Hugh had, of course, seen other cases of unfinished walls, where the cost had outrun the builder’s ability to continue or the king had grown suspicious and interfered by imprisoning, executing, or exiling the builder—or, in less extreme cases, by simply ordering that construction stop. But then there were signs of the interruption: blocks of stone lying ready and piles of earth and stones for filling. In any case, the normal way to build was to raise the entire wall inside the palisade so that it served as an extra defense while it was being built. This system weakened the defenses.

  It was a discouraging prospect, but having come so far, Hugh decided that he would at least ask about the family that had held Ruthsson when he was born. Sometimes the documents relating to a property passed with it to the new holder, and if he was not curious, such writings might lie undisturbed for many years. Hugh was assured of a glad welcome the moment he and Morel turned on the upward track. He heard a call from the tower that flanked the open gate, but no portcullis shrieked its way down, nor did the huge doors begin to swing shut; and by the time he rode through the gate and into a large bailey containing many buildings, the master of the keep was striding forward to greet him.

  “You are well come,” the elderly man called. “What brings you so far from the beaten track? Are you lost?”

  Hugh dismounted, and a groom came forward to lead Rufus away, but he shook his head at the man. “No, I am not lost. If this is Ruthsson keep, I have come here apurpose. I thank you for your welcome, too, but I think I had better answer your first question before I accept it.”

  The smile disappeared, and the man stiffened. “You are from Heugh?”

  “Hugh?” Hugh echoed. “That is my name—Sir Hugh Licorne, but I do not know what you mean by ‘from Hugh.’ If I am from anywhere—”

  “You are not a messenger from Sir Lionel of Heugh?”

  Hugh shook his head. “No, I never heard of the man or of the place either.”

  The smile returned. “If you are not from Heugh, then whatever your reason for coming to Ruthsson, you are welcome. I am Lord Ruthsson, baron of all you survey.” He laughed and waved a hand meant to encompass the untilled, forested hills and miserable village. “Come within and let my servants make you comfortable.”

  Hugh accepted that. He had issued a warning, but apparently Lord Ruthsson was so glad of company that he was not prepared to listen to it. Besides, Hugh doubted Lord Ruthsson would be affected by his purpose. He did not seem the kind of man to murder his daughter for marrying without his approval, so Hugh nodded permission to the groom to take Rufus, signaled Morel to dismount, and followed his host toward the main hall.

  The building was a surprise, too. It was large and high, and Hugh could see that the sharply peaked roof had recently been repaired, but the style was very old. Actually, Hugh could not remember seeing a whole building of the same type, only ruins left from the days when the Norsemen had come into Northumbria and some had settled there.

  “Are you newly seisened of this land?” Hugh asked.

  Lord Ruthsson looked astonished. “Newly seisened? No! I am, in fact, in direct male line from that Hrolf Ruth’s son who carved the holding out of the forest. What made you think I was new blood here?”

  “Forgive me.” Hugh felt awkward and confused. This must be his grandfather, and yet he could not conceive of this man being the “father” of Sister Ursula’s letter. “You spoke as if you were not accustomed to the isolation of this keep, so I thought—”

  “You thought aright,” Lord Ruthsson interrupted. “I am not accustomed to these barbaric surroundings, nor do I enjoy them,” he added bitterly. “Until he died, I was a friend of the heart to King Henry—truly a friend to the man, not a courtier to the king. I asked nothing and desired nothing, only to share my thoughts, my wonderment, my learning… The late king was not called Beauclerk for nothing. Henry loved learning. He… But I forget myself and become a barbarian, too. First you must be made comfortable—at least as comfortable as one can be in Ruthsson. Then we can talk.”

  Hugh felt even more confused and said nothing as his host raised his voice in a shout, and a manservant came from the shadows at the side of the hall. He led Hugh to a stair that went up to a gallery where wide benches fixed to the wall and covered with mattresses were designed to serve as beds. Hugh’s hauberk, with the sleeves folded in, went into the space under the bench, which also provided room for his sword and helmet. Morel came up the stairs with the saddlebags as the servant took the shield Hugh had laid on the bed and hung it from a peg in the wall so that its point rested on a narrow ledge. The shield, Hugh realized, marked the head of his bed and identified him, and that thought made him notice that the unicorn was growing very battered.

  Jealous of his prerogatives, Morel had sent the servant away and helped Hugh out of his padded arming tunic and into a fine, dark red garment that, surprisingly, did not clash with Hugh’s flaming hair. Hugh murmured his thanks absently. He was still looking at the worn device on his shield, hoping that Stephen would return to England before he had to have the shield repainted to remind the king of who he was. Once he was established, Hugh’s thoughts continued, perhaps he could abandon
the unicorn device. And he could not help wondering whether it would be safe to go back to Jernaeve—to Audris—if he found a new name for himself and a new device for his shield.

  Hugh put that enticing thought aside for consideration when he had found a name and device to which he might lay claim. The first step in that direction, he hoped, was below, and he went down to the main floor of the hall. The shutters of the large windows stood wide open, and the sunlight of a bright October day poured in so that Hugh did not have to peer through the dimness. He found Lord Ruthsson seated in the traditional place, with his back to the north wall, facing the large, open, central firepit, where cheerful flames leapt and crackled and the smoke rose up to the high peaked roof to blacken further beams thick with the soot of centuries and finally to escape through hidden openings.

  Lord Ruthsson was not so traditional, however, as to place his guest on the other side of the firepit, with his back to the south wall. In the old, wild days, perhaps, that was a necessary safety device, giving the host time to leap back to the wall and seize his sword and shield, which hung there, to protect himself. Actually, although there were a sword and shield hung on the wall, they were obviously relics of time past, and a bench was drawn up close to Lord Ruthsson’s chair with a handsome cup and a pitcher of wine already standing on it.

  Gesturing for Hugh to sit, he said, “As I told you, we are an old family, and we have always kept the old customs. You are welcome here, to food and to fire, for three days, though you be my worst enemy.”

  “I am not that, my lord,” Hugh replied, remaining uneasily on his feet, “but I might be your grandson.”