A Tapestry of Dreams

by Roberta Gellis

  In fact, it was only when everything was all ready and they were waiting in what shelter the outside stair provided for the grooms to finish loading the horses, that Maud caused a real problem. The men-at-arms brought the saddle horses around; one of the men raised Fritha to the saddle; Hugh mounted Audris and then turned toward Maud.

  “I cannot ride,” she whispered, shrinking back from him. “I will delay you. Leave me to my fate.”

  Hugh’s mouth opened, then jammed shut. He spun on his heel and looked at Audris, who turned her hooded head to him. He could not see her face, but he knew what he would have seen in it had there been light enough, and he sighed audibly.

  “There must be a pillion saddle in the stable,” he growled at a groom, who was holding one of the baggage animals. “Get it and put it on Eadgar’s horse.” He nodded toward the man-at-arms he meant, and then said to him, “We will switch at each rest stop, using the palfrey meant for Lady Maud as a relief animal.”

  Hugh told himself he had no right to be annoyed with Lady Maud. Many women could not ride alone and rode pillion behind a husband or brother. Still, the small check made him feel uneasy, although he could not think why it should, since the start of any journey was always full of delays, gasps and wails over things forgotten, and sometimes even turnings back. All things considered, Lady Maud’s inability to ride was nothing. There was just something about the woman—perhaps it was only her fear of him, if it was fear—that cast a pall like evil over whatever she took part in.

  At first, however, aside from the slow pace made necessary by the rain and darkness, the journey started well. They rode south along a rough track that led to one of the demesne farms, one man well ahead to come back or cry a warning if necessary. The scout was waiting near the edge of what had been planted fields, now a sea of trampled mud that would bear no fruit, to say the way was clear to the river. As they went by, Audris shuddered at the smell of burning that hung in the wet air. She had never gone to look at the remains when raids had passed over Jernaeve lands. When she thought of something that might help or comfort the victims, she ordered it sent to them, but she had no curiosity of that morbid kind that takes a warped pleasure in examining disaster or gazing at grief. In fact, she feared such sights, guessing that they might come out in her weaving.

  At the bank of the river they turned west, following another rough track, which led to another farm, also ruined. They went around it, keeping wide of what had been buildings and sheds. Audris felt ashamed, thinking that Hugh had noticed her distress and was reacting to it. She was mistaken; he simply wished to avoid the chance of one of the horses uncovering and treading on a live coal. He saw nothing in the burnt-out ruins to inspire horror; he had fired farms and villages himself when he followed Sir Walter to war. Actually, what thought he gave the devastation was a brief gladness that his messengers had reached these people in time for them to escape and save their stock. The smell of burning was clean; there was no stench of charred flesh hanging in the air.

  The track, such as it was, ended at the second farm, and they took to the woods themselves, at first following a little path Audris assumed had been made by the children gathering firewood or, perhaps, by the pigs. The river grew narrower and still narrower as they followed it, mostly by sound, but they rode sometimes nearer, sometimes farther from it as the banks were steeper or more shallow.

  They were in wooded land now that showed no sign of cultivation. It was very quiet, for the rain had thinned to a bare drizzle and the horses trod on soft, sodden mulch, which gave back no sound. All one could hear above the very soft gurgle of the river was an occasional snap of a twig and the drip of water from leaf to leaf. Infrequently a horse blew as it cleared its nostrils, and the sound seemed so loud that it made Audris jump each time. The lead man was much nearer, near enough for them to hear when his horse’s hoof struck a stone in the turf, because he was watching for side streams or other dangerous irregularities in the ground rather than enemies.

  Only once did they find him blocking the way, and as they pulled their mounts to a halt Audris smelled smoke again. The scout and Hugh exchanged some whispered words, then one of the other men-at-arms dismounted, went ahead a little way, and disappeared. It seemed very long, but Audris knew it was really a short time before he reappeared and said aloud, in a quite natural voice, “Woodcutters, my lord. They have seen and heard nothing. I warned them about the Scots.”

  Hugh turned in his saddle. “Would you like to dry yourself and rest in the woodcutters’ hut, Audris?”

  “Not now,” she replied. “Eric is asleep. If it is safe to stop when he wakes, I would rather stop then for greater ease in suckling him.”

  “Good, for I would rather stop just before we reach Dere Street. It would be best to rest the horses then, in case there are Scots there and we must go hard and fast to some other breach in the wall.”

  They did not stop near Dere Street, though. From where they met the woodcutters’ trail, the river curved more sharply southward, continuing to narrow as they followed it until it became little more than a wide stream. After about an hour, the woods began to thin and show signs of human use. The rain had stopped completely by then, and the clouds were breaking up, driven by a fickle breeze. In the open areas, their eyes, now accustomed to nearly total blackness, found it light enough to see, which should have raised everyone’s spirits.

  Audris, however, after an initial spurt of relief, began to feel oppressed. Ugly images formed in her mind of burnt buildings—and worse, of bodies so charred and distorted that it was hard to tell human from beast. Fear tightened her throat, not because she expected enemies to leap out at them, but because she thought she might be foreseeing a distant evil. She put away the images, trying to fill her mind with Hugh’s face, with Eric’s comical grimaces—and suddenly the wind veered and strengthened, and a sickening odor of burnt flesh choked her. Almost simultaneously they heard the dull thudding of a horse coming fast, and Audris saw Hugh reach for his sword. A low cry identified their own forerider, and Hugh dropped his hand to his destrier’s neck.

  “A burnt-out farm,” the man said, “but all is quiet there now.” He hesitated and started to speak again, but another gust of wind carrying an even stronger stench made him cough. When he caught his breath, he went on, “The Scots are mad. They did not drive off the stock. They fired the barn and burned the beasts—the yeoman and his sons, too.”

  “When?” Hugh asked.

  “The ashes are cold. Yesterday or last night.”

  “Is it far around?”

  “I am sorry, my lord, I did not look.” The man seemed surprised. “I made sure there was no danger. We can pass.” Then he saw the slight turn of Hugh’s head toward Audris, and he realized his master wished to protect his wife. “We can cross the water here,” he said. “It is not deep, and we will be well away from the farm. It is back from the river.”

  Hugh’s attempt to spare Audris was worse than useless, unfortunately. Although they were less plagued by the foul odor of death after they forded the river, Hugh’s horse suddenly jibbed and snorted, rising a little on his rear legs as he came alongside a thick patch of brush and bracken. Hugh’s sword was halfway out when Audris’s quick eyes made out the cause. She uttered a cry that was strangled by retching. There were four of them—a woman and three little ones—and the many black patches of dried blood showed they had not died swiftly or easily.

  “Ride on,” Hugh said harshly.

  They obeyed, but they could not escape the horrors, which mounted as the farms became more numerous and as the sky lightened. The worst of all was in the tiny village where the source of the river met the Roman road. They should have gone around, but by then Hugh only wished to get by as fast as possible, and there was no way to know how far afield the victims had been pursued. Most seemed to have been caught right in the place, however. The corpses lay scattered all around the perimeter, as if the Scots
had deliberately surrounded the place so that there would be no way for the inhabitants to escape.

  By then Audris had no more tears, although she could not stop the dry sobs that racked her. All she could do was alternately clutch her baby and finger her knife, whispering softly between sobs, “I will cut his throat myself. It will be quick. He will never know. I will cut his throat myself.” That was after they found a babe that had been spitted on a stick and half roasted.

  Outside the alewife’s house, the only building that had not been burnt, there was a little girl, not more than four. She had been so abused that her body had split apart almost to the navel. They galloped past as fast as they could, regardless of the uncertain light and the danger of a fall, so fast that they almost missed the forerider coming back down the far side of the road, half hidden by the trees. He signaled wildly at them, but it was already too late, for as they slowed they could hear the shouts of men who had heard the clatter of their horses’ hooves.

  “How many?” Hugh roared.

  Audris heard the rage, the lust to kill in his voice, and she was nearly racked apart because she desired revenge for what she had seen, and yet she feared for her husband and for her babe and for herself if that rage drove Hugh to attack too many. And deep within her, too, she knew the men who were coming down the road had not committed the atrocities they had seen.

  “Twenty… fifty… I could not tell,” the man-at-arms replied, his first, short answer betraying his own desire to attack, governed by the better judgment of belated caution.

  The shouts were growing nearer. Hugh turned his head to look longingly up the road, but then gestured ahead to the west, growling, “Ride! Ride! We must bring the women safely to Jernaeve first. But we will come back.”

  Chapter 25

  In one way the horrors Audris had seen were a help. She was so drained of emotion by the time they reached Jernaeve, just before the sun rose, that she only clung to Hugh for a little while when he told her he would not enter with her. She tried to beg him to be careful, to remember that he was precious to her—oddly, she never thought “needful,” which was the first thing she would have said a year past—but she never did say any words.

  They had forgotten Eric when they embraced, and he was squeezed between them and woke and began to scream. By then the three great bars that closed the gate had been pulled back. Hugh kissed her one more time, hard and fast, pushed her toward the opening gate, then mounted again and rode away. Audris hurried through the gate, leading her mare, with Lady Maud staggering beside her and Fritha driving in the packhorses.

  Audris went only as far as the shed backed against the wall used to shelter the gate guards in foul weather. The captain of the troop doing sentry duty on the wall jumped to his feet and bowed as she came in. “Demoiselle?” he asked nervously.

  “Demoiselle no longer,” Audris replied, laughing, and then, almost shouting over the shrieks of her son, added, “I am Lady Audris now—and my son, as you may hear, wants to break his fast.”

  As she spoke, she unfastened the wrappings that had shielded Eric, sat down on the bench the captain had vacated, and bared her breast. The captain bowed to her, then, smiling, bowed to the screaming infant also, and left the shed. Lady Maud watched his retreating back, then turned and leaned wearily against the wall, staring at Audris.

  “The maids whispered to each other that you are a witch,” she said. “Are you?”

  “No,” Audris answered firmly. “Although you will hear all the folk hereabout say the same, I am not a witch. I know no spells and can cast no enchantments. All I know are the prayers that Father Anselm taught me to say when I make my potions for healing, and those are prayers to Christ, to Saint Jude, and to the Holy Mother. My weaving… That is too hard to explain.”

  “But all the men bow to you—”

  “Why should they not?” Audris asked impatiently. “Jernaeve is mine, and my uncle is an honest man who has taught the people to respect me.”

  Then she bent her head over Eric in a clear sign that she did not wish to enlarge on the subject. What she had said was true. Every person beholden to Jernaeve knew that Sir Oliver would punish severely anyone who displeased his niece, but the alacrity with which they obeyed her and hung on her slightest word was more than simple respect. Audris had set her mind against acceptance, however, and she certainly would not discuss such matters with Maud, who seemed half mad sometimes.

  There was a silence broken only by Eric’s snuffles and grunts as he suckled. He was more than usually passionate about it, having slept longer than his regular time because of being cradled near his mother’s heart and because, securely supported as he was, the movement of the horse was soothing to him. In about ten minutes, Audris pried him loose and transferred him to her other breast. He protested the transfer loudly. When she had him settled, she became aware, as one does, that someone was staring at her. She thought it was Maud and at first tried to ignore it, but the sensation grew more intense, and she looked up to find her uncle standing in the doorway.

  “Uncle!” Audris gasped.

  “Why are you sitting like a beggar at the gate?” Oliver asked crossly. “Do you think I have changed so much that you should fear to come into your own hall to suckle the heir to Jernaeve?”

  “Oh, uncle, no,” Audris cried, stretching her free hand toward him. Tears started to her eyes, but at the same time she smiled. “You heard Eric. I only stopped to feed him here because I did not wish to be deafened.” Then she began to sob. “I am sorry to have angered you, uncle, so sorry. I beg you to forgive me—not because I fear you but because I love you.”

  “But you trust me so little that you fled your own place rather than tell me you had chosen a man at last.”

  “It is not true!” Audris exclaimed between sobs. “It is not! I explained in my letter—”

  “But you did not explain to my face. How could you think I would deny you the right to marry the father of the child you carried? It was bad enough to let him take you without marriage or betrothal, but once it was done, it was done. And where is your husband? Do you suspect I would do him harm to keep my place as guardian?”

  Oliver’s words were bitter and his voice was harsh, but the bitterness and harshness were bred from pain, not rage, and Audris bowed her head, shaking with pain herself as she realized how much she had hurt him. Her mind spun, trying to find a new reason, a reason that would make what she had done more acceptable, and it steadied on an image—the image of a unicorn threatening Jernaeve.

  “There was more, uncle.” Audris lifted her tear-streaked face to him. “I wove four pictures that I never showed to you—all four of the unicorn—la licorne, Hugh Licorne. The first two were innocent, showing the meeting of the unicorn and the maiden and the ripening of their love. But the third showed the beast trampling this lower part and threatening the keep itself with his horn. When Hugh saw it, he vowed he would never enter Jernaeve again so long as he lived.”

  Oliver’s expression changed, and an odd prickling passed over Audris’s skin as she realized her uncle had accepted the inevitability of her relationship with Hugh the moment she mentioned the tapestries. She had an impulse to protest, but she saw the pain was gone from his face, so she held her tongue. Nothing she said would change Oliver’s mind about her tapestries, and his belief had soothed him, which had been her purpose. In proof, although he did not reply, he stepped forward to take the hand she held out to him. Then he bent forward to kiss her brow, sighed, and bent still lower to look more closely at Eric, who was nearly full and turning his head this way and that as he toyed with the nipple he was still reluctant to relinquish completely.

  “So, here we have the new lord of Jernaeve, do we?” Oliver said quickly, as if he wished to forget or bury what Audris had told him. “I see he takes after his father.”

  “In size and strength and looks, he does,” Audris agreed, “but I hope Jern
aeve will not be Eric’s heritage. I hope to have more sons. Eric will have Ruthsson and—” Audris hesitated. “And perhaps something more.” Then she peered around her uncle and, having found Maud, drew her to Oliver’s attention. “This is Lady Maud of Heugh. She—”

  “Hugh? Is she, too, related to your husband? Did not your letter say there was only a great-uncle living?”

  “Oh, the names are so confusing!” Audris exclaimed. “Heugh is a place, not a person.”

  Oliver frowned, then, as he remembered, his voice rose unbelievingly, “Sir Lionel’s wife?”

  “Yes,” Audris said, relieved that the subject of Maud’s relationship to Hugh had been dropped. “It seems that Sir Lionel spoke the name Kenorn during the trial by combat. It is not so common a name, and it happens that Hugh’s father was named Kenorn—”

  “Hugh’s father?” Oliver repeated. “I did not know Hugh knew who his father was.”

  “Yes, yes. It turns out that Hugh is not a bastard at all. There is proof that Margaret of Ruthsson was duly wed to Sir Kenorn—but Hugh could discover nothing more than the name. So when the quiet time in summer came, he felt he should ask Sir Lionel whether he knew Sir Kenorn. But when we came to Heugh—”

  “We?” Oliver echoed pointedly. “Why did he permit you to travel with a newborn babe?”

  Audris laughed, the laughter catching on a sob. “Because he is as indulgent to me as you, uncle. I said I wanted to go, so he took me. But it was not pure caprice on my part. I thought if I was near, Hugh would not dare begin a brangle with Sir Lionel. But it did not matter, for Sir Lionel was dead. Everything in the keep was very strange, but before Hugh could sift out what was what, the Scots—” Audris’s eyes widened. “Oh, heaven,” she cried. “I have been telling you all these tales and not told—”