A Tapestry of Dreams (40 page)

“I will certainly stay the week,” Hugh said immediately. “As to your coming with me—well, we will see.”

But Audris laughed and pulled down his head to kiss his nose, and after a moment Hugh laughed also. Why should she not go, Hugh thought. We can ride in slow stages and stop any place that catches our fancy—and I can leave her and Eric in Trewick, which is less than two leagues from Heugh, where they will be perfectly safe if I am wrong in my guesses about Lionel Heugh’s feeling for Kenorn.

The week stretched to a month, Audris devising first one and then another innocent delay, but she saw in the end that Hugh
needed
to learn as much about his father as he could. Still, when they came to Trewick after an easy ride that had taken them first to Morpeth, where they stayed a night, Audris did not want to remain behind. At first she threatened to follow him, alone if necessary—and Hugh knew that the men-at-arms, primed by Morel, were too much in awe of her “powers” to contest any order she gave. But Hugh finally convinced her to stay by pointing out that her presence would increase the danger for him, if there was any, by offering Sir Lionel the temptation of wiping out all of Lord Ruthsson’s heirs in one stroke. He almost gave up the idea entirely, because her eyes were too large and swimming with tears, but she sighed and bade him go, knowing he would never be content until he followed the first real clue he had found concerning his father to its conclusion.

As he rode away, Hugh resolved only to enter the castle, make himself known to Sir Lionel, and say he would come again the next day. He would be able, thus, to judge his erstwhile enemy’s attitude, and it seemed to him that if he were allowed to come and go freely, Audris would be reassured about his safety. He was annoyed both with her and with himself for the uneasiness her fear generated, and when he had ridden across the drawbridge that spanned the deep outer dry moat and passed through the gate, he gave his name, defiantly, as Sir Hugh of Ruthsson, lifting off his helmet and pushing back his hood.

A single voice cried out, “Sir Kenorn—my lord!” and immediately, “No, it cannot be.”

Hugh turned quickly, asking, “Who calls Kenorn?” but there was no answer, and he could not see anyone who might have spoken, although one or two men near him had also turned and looked curiously in the same direction, then turned back to stare at him. Hugh was now certain the answer to his father’s identity lay in this keep. He did not try to find the man right then, because he hoped that Sir Lionel would answer his questions willingly, but he was determined to have an answer.

Looking about as he rode through the outer bailey, across the second drawbridge, and into the inner bailey brought other things to Hugh’s notice. Heugh was a standing testimony to the violent energy and fierce purpose of its holder within the last decade—brutally strong and raw with newness. The stone of the walls was bright and glittering with recent cutting, and the mortar of the top floor of the great, square stone keep in the center of the inner bailey was still oozing in places.

Yet there was a certain impression of disorganization about the activity in the bailey; two smiths seemed to be quarreling about whether they should prepare horseshoes or get on with some other task, and a number of projects—one of them the building of a handsome new mews, the other, even more puzzling, the completion of the forebuilding to shelter the outer stair that rose to the keep entrance—seemed to have been abandoned half done. And it was a careless abandonment at that, with planks left exposed to rain and sun and the piles of sand for mortar disintegrated into wide patches.

When Hugh dismounted, he had to hail a groom to take Rufus’s rein, which no noble guest should need to do; and when he climbed the stair and entered the door to the great hall, the servant he accosted to ask whether Sir Lionel was within looked frightened. Hugh put out a hand to hold him, wondering whether he, too, had mistaken him for his father, but he was not quick enough. The man ran off toward a doorway at the back of the hall, which Hugh thought must be a stairway, and the other servants rapidly began to disappear. Hugh tensed, wondering whether he had walked into a trap after all, but when he went back to the door and looked out, there was no sign of men gathering to prevent his departure or of any suspicious activity or sound. He stood there, undecided, one hand on his sword hilt and the other reaching back to pull his shield forward to defend himself, trying to watch the hall and the bailey at the same time.

But only the lack of normal activity threatened him in the hall, and he swung his head to look outside again. By then, the hall had become so quiet that he heard the rustling of the rushes as someone approached, and he turned with his sword half drawn to find himself confronting a sad-looking middle-aged gentlewoman followed by an elderly maidservant. The gentlewoman swallowed hard and shuddered as they drew close enough to see him clearly, then lowered her eyes, and the maid took one look at him, put her hands to her face, and wailed aloud.

“I beg your pardon,” Hugh exclaimed, flushing with embarrassment as he thrust his sword back into its scabbard. “I mean you no harm. I—”

“So you have come,” the gentlewoman said. “After so many months I began to think Lionel was only raving.”

“Raving?” Hugh repeated. “About seeing Kenorn? I would like to speak to Sir Lionel about that.”

“Lionel is dead.” She sighed, still not looking at him, then shrugged. “He died of the wounds you gave him—or perhaps of fear, or guilt, or even grief.”

Hugh frowned, disappointed, but not as disheartened as he would have been earlier. He was certain that both the lady to whom he was speaking and her maidservant knew his father as well as the man who had called out in the outer bailey, and he suspected that there might be others in the keep or on the nearby estates who also knew Sir Kenorn.

One thing was revealing: the voice of the man in the bailey had held surprise and joy equally before fear had shaded his final sentence; on the other hand, the maidservant, who was weeping softly now, had been terrified—and so had the lady. Hugh was now relatively certain that some wrong had been done his father, possibly right here in Heugh keep, a wrong that the lady and her maid were aware of but the man in the bailey was not. He wondered whether hate, because he had killed Lionel Heugh, or guilt, because of what had happened to his father, was the main reason she would not look at him.

“I am sorry for you, madam,” Hugh said, more coldly than he would have under other circumstances, “but the challenge was Sir Lionel’s, not mine, and I am not to blame for the outcome. I say again that I mean you no harm. All I desire is to discover what I can about Sir Kenorn, who was my father. I wish to know, for example, why he did not return, as he said he would, to my mother.”

“He was dead,” the gentlewoman whispered, and her maid wailed aloud again.

“He was murdered by Sir Lionel?” Hugh’s voice was harsh, only a hint of rise indicating uncertainty.

“No!” the woman cried. “No! Lionel did not kill Kenorn—I swear it! It was the old man, his father.”

Hugh blinked, then roared in incredulous fury, “Sir Kenorn’s father—my grandfather—was here and murdered his son in front of Sir Lionel?”

“And me,” the woman sighed, and crumpled to the floor in a dead faint.

The maid began to scream, and servants’ faces peeped timorously from various entrances into the hall, but not one ran out to help or protect the lady. Hugh stood paralyzed, appalled at having unintentionally frightened the poor woman so much and frightened out of his own wits because he had no idea what to do. She began to stir in a moment, and Hugh knelt down beside her. The maid shrieked even louder, and he turned on her.

“Stop that caterwauling,” he snarled. “I mean your mistress no harm. If you know what to do to help her, do it or fetch someone who can help.” Then he leaned down and spoke as softly as he could, “Madam, forgive me. I was not angry at you. Please do not fear me.”

The maid had clapped her hands over her mouth when Hugh scolded her and then knelt down, too, and lifted her mistress so that she was half sitting, resting against the older woman’s shoulder. This time, once she opened her eyes, the lady had never taken them from Hugh’s face. At first she looked dazed, but when he spoke to her softly and comfortingly, tears filled her eyes and she sighed. “Kenorn, oh, Kenorn.”

Hugh swallowed nervously. The longing in those three words had implications he did not want to consider. “I am not Kenorn, I am his son,” he said gently, watching her nervously, for fear she would faint again. She did not do that, but she began to cry bitterly, and Hugh was torn between pity and exasperation. “I see that you are not well, madam,” he continued quickly, wanting desperately to get away before she became completely hysterical, “so I will not trouble you further now. May I come again on the morrow to learn more about my father’s death? If—”

“Why do you ask me if you can come?” the woman interrupted passionately, the tears still streaming down her face. “You know Heugh is yours! I am nothing.”

Hugh knelt with his mouth open on an exclamation of disbelief, too stunned to speak or try to stop her as she began to struggle to get to her feet. Now the weeping maid called for assistance, and two women came to help support their mistress. Hugh still had not recovered from the shock of what she had said to him, and he watched her go without a move or a question before he climbed numbly to his feet. The servants, who seemed to have been reassured by Hugh’s gentleness to the lady, had been inching back into the hall, all agog to see the new lord—for Sir Lionel’s ravings had swiftly sifted from his deathbed to the inner servants. Hugh’s eyes roved over them blankly for a few minutes, then he took a deep breath and beckoned to the nearest manservant.

“Where is the steward?” he asked.

“The lord was his own steward, my lord,” the man replied submissively, eager to make a good impression.

I should have known that, Hugh thought. When Sir Lionel died, all authority died, too. That is why the building was left unfinished, the smiths are at odds about what is most important, and why the men-at-arms are slack. A steward would have kept them to their work. But that meant there was no one he could ask to confirm what he thought he had heard. He glanced toward the end of the hall where the lady had disappeared. No one would stop him—he had evidence that the servants would not attempt to protect her—but his courage failed when he thought of pursuing her and asking her to repeat what she had said. In fact, when he thought of her expression as she called him Kenorn and of her fainting and tears, he had a strong desire to forget he had ever entered Heugh, to go back to Audris.

“Audris!” he exclaimed, realizing that he did not need to confront the hysterical woman. Audris would know what to do, how to question her; meanwhile, he could find out what the men in the place knew.

The servant, who was still standing near him, cringed when Hugh turned toward him. “I do not know who ‘Audris’ is,” the man gasped. “Please, my lord—”

The small amount of pity Hugh had felt for Sir Lionel disappeared. “Never mind,” he said to the terrified man. “I was not speaking to you. What I want you to do is to make ready a chamber for me, my wife, and a babe. Or, if you are not responsible for such matters, give my word to one who is responsible. Oh, and send a message to the stable for a groom to bring my horse.”

Almost before the words were out, a boy had detached himself from the fringes of a group watching Hugh at a discreet distance and run through the outer door to carry the message. Hugh looked dazedly around the hall. His? To have built such a place meant wealth, power… Hugh remembered that his uncle had not been able to find a champion to fight Lionel Heugh. Perhaps it was not only the man himself but his influence in the area that had been feared. By the moment, Hugh found himself feeling more and more depressed. He had been filled with joy when he learned he was the heir of Ruthsson; he had gone to do battle with Sir Lionel eagerly because that battle would give him the right to call Ruthsson his, to restore it to a productive estate, to bring his beloved to his home. Here, all he wanted was to be out of the place, never to see it again.

He arrived in Trewick in such a state that Fritha, who was the first to notice him when he came into the garden where Audris was playing with her baby, pulled Audris around and pointed urgently. “Hugh!” Audris cried, thrusting Eric into her maid’s arms and running to her husband. “Hugh, are you hurt? What is wrong?”

“I think I am the lord of Heugh,” he said, and shuddered.

Audris put up her hands and cupped his face, drew down his head, and kissed his forehead—but he had no fever. “You are lord of yourself, my heart? I do not understand.”

“Not I, not that Hugh,” he tried to explain. “Heugh—oh, God, they sound alike, do they not? I mean Sir Lionel’s estate.”

“Sir Lionel’s estate?” Audris echoed. “How can you be Sir Lionel’s heir?”

“I do not know,” Hugh said. “Perhaps the lady was mad, but—”

“What lady?” Audris asked. “I thought you went to see Sir Lionel.”

“He is dead—and just as well, too.” Hugh’s voice became brisk over those words; he found to his relief that he did not like Sir Lionel any better dead than alive. But then he frowned and repeated, “What lady? Truly, I do not know. She never said her name, and she spoke so strangely from the first words we exchanged, that I never asked…” He began to look dazed and unhappy again.

“Come,” Audris said, abandoning the topic for the moment. “Let Fritha pull off your hauberk. Then sit down and tell me the whole. Perhaps—”

“No,” he interrupted as Audris turned and put out her arms to take Eric so the maid could attend to Hugh. Audris faced him again, looking troubled. “I do not wish to unarm,” he explained. “I told the servants in Heugh to ready a chamber for us.” He put out a hand. “I am sorry. I did not think that you might be too tired to go farther. I—I
must
know, Audris.”

“I am not tired at all, dear heart,” she assured him, her mind racing. It was impossible for Hugh to be Sir Lionel’s heir as well as Ralph’s. Margaret Ruthsson
had
been his mother, and Lionel Heugh could not be his father. But there were many drugs that could make a man see and hear what was not real—and die of it, too. “Did you eat anything or drink anything there?” she asked, taking Hugh’s hands.

“Eat or drink? No. I did not even sit down. I hardly walked ten feet from the outer door. Why—” Then Hugh’s eyes cleared, and he laughed. “I am not poisoned, beloved, and I am sure there is no threat against us in Heugh. No matter what my need, you cannot think I would take you or Eric into any danger. You did not see the people. There is no man or woman—except the lady, mayhap, and I am not so sure of that—who would avenge Sir Lionel. They feared him, perhaps hated him, yet they are all… lost. They were
eager
to take my orders.”

Audris nodded acceptance, her face clearing. Hugh’s color was good, his hands were warm and dry, his breathing was right, his eyes clear—if vague and troubled. She had only been worried by that vague, distressed look, and that disappeared as he spoke of what he had seen and experienced. It was something about the “lady” that was bothering him, and the news that he was lord of Heugh had come from her. Perhaps the poor creature was mad or had been driven mad by Sir Lionel’s death, Audris thought. In that case, she herself would be best able to deal with her.

“You go and tell the men to make ready,” she said, “and I will see to packing up what little I unpacked.”

But actually she sent Fritha to pack while she summoned the bailiff’s wife, and they went together to where the dried herbs hung. Audris regretted that they were so old, but she took Saint John’s wort, betony, hemlock, willow bark, and several others. As they rode toward Heugh keep, however, and she heard the story in chronological order, Audris began to think there must be more than a madwoman’s raving behind the statement that Heugh belonged to her husband. And when they arrived and Audris took the measure of how the servants looked at and welcomed Hugh, she realized that they, at least, believed him to be the new master.

There was only one unpleasant incident when Audris, in her usual gentle, smiling manner, beckoned a manservant who was passing and told him to bring more wood for the fire. The man turned his shoulder and said, “Later.” Hugh promptly hit him so hard that he knocked him almost the full width of the hall, which was some twenty feet wide.

“My wife is myself!” he roared. “You will all come to kissing her feet, and if she says to put your hand in the fire, you will put it there, or I will do to you what will make that seem a pleasure.”

A soft moan went up from the terrified men and women in the hall, and they literally abased themselves and began to crawl forward to kiss Audris’s feet. She put a hand on Hugh’s arm. He was shaking. She had hardly been more startled by his violence than by the servant’s rudeness—for no one except her male cousins had ever been rude to her—but then she recalled Hugh’s disgust at the servants’ indifference toward the gentlewoman who had greeted him, leaving her to his mercy and not coming forward to help when she fainted. His outburst was a natural result of that disgust and his general uncertainty and unhappiness.

The next minute, Audris knew, he would have said he had not meant them actually to kiss Audris’s feet and gone to help the man he had struck down, but she held him fast and murmured, “Let it be, Hugh. They only understand fear. If they do belong to us, we can teach them better in time.” But she herself recoiled from the notion of them crawling to her and kissing her feet. “Stop,” she said, raising her voice. “You are not worthy yet to touch me,” and they crouched where they were, trembling. “You may rise,” she added, “and see to the man who was hurt. And one of you, bring more wood and mend the fire.”

“Where is the chamber I said should be made ready for my wife?” Hugh growled.

A manservant tottered a little forward, his eyes filled with fear. Hugh recognized him as the servant to whom he had spoken on his first visit. “The lady’s chamber is made ready,” the man faltered.

“Very good,” Audris said calmly. “Where is it?”

The servant gestured to one of the women, who scuttled forward to the stair that went up to the third floor, usually given over to the women’s quarters. When Hugh saw where the maid was going, he balked. Audris smiled at him and patted his hand.

“If you think it safe, dear heart,” she murmured, “get Morel to unarm you. I will see to this strange lady and try to discover why she says these lands are yours.”

“But if she is mad, she might be dangerous,” Hugh protested uncertainly. “She looked at me in such a way when she called me Kenorn that I fear she might attack you for being my wife.”

“Do not concern yourself,” Audris assured him. “Fritha will protect me—and the other women servants, too, I think, out of fear of you.”

Hugh watched Audris walk away, her quick, light step not a whit slower or heavier for the babe she carried, and Eric was no feather, for he was large and strong-boned, growing apace. Hugh felt guilty and uneasy, wondering if he should have so easily accepted her assurances. Audris was afraid of nothing, he thought, because she had never had cause to be afraid. But Fritha was strong, and the maid who scurried ahead would remember what had befallen the man who had only been rude to her and make sure Audris was safe.

Still, he could not bid Morel, who had followed them into the hall carrying changes for the baby and a basket Hugh thought had some clothes for himself and Audris, to unarm him as Audris suggested. His uneasiness made him want to make
something
secure, and he told his man to stay with the baggage in case Audris wanted something from it. He would go out and see to the quartering of the troop.

They had taken a substantial troop—twenty men-at-arms—because Hugh had heard on a trip to Morpeth about a week before they left that King David was besieging Norham Castle and there was news of heavy raiding by the Scots near Chillingham. That was well north and east, and he and Audris were traveling south and west, but Hugh was taking no chances on being caught by a raiding party that had traveled down the Jedwater to the Rede, or, for that matter, on being attacked by the many outlaws who laired in Redesdale.

He did not see his men when he came down into the inner bailey, and a chill passed over him, but the captain of the troop popped out of the stable the moment Hugh shouted for him and hurried over.

“My lord,” he said, “this place is almost empty.”

“Empty?” Hugh repeated, looking around.

There was a great clanging from the smithy now, and men hurried from one end of the bailey to another, entering and leaving the various outbuildings with expressions of great intensity. Hugh suspected that there might not be much purpose to the movement—aside from an attempt to convince him they were busy and industrious—but he was indifferent to that problem at this moment.

“Yes, my lord, empty,” Louis Barbedenoir replied. “There are two fine destriers in the stable—both too fat from lack of exercise—and a pair of handsome palfreys, also in need of exercise, but the stable was built to hold many more horses, and the groom told me that at year-time, all but about fifteen of the old men-at-arms rode away.”

“You mean there are no more than fifteen men-at-arms in the keep!” Hugh exclaimed.

“Aye, so said the groom,” Louis said, nodding emphatically to add conviction to his statement. “And the ones who remained were mostly too old to hope for employment elsewhere.”

“I see.” Hugh’s lips twisted wryly. “Lionel died some time before the men were to be paid, and either they did not like the place or they did not expect the new lord to retain them. They were not local men, I take it?”

“That I cannot tell you, my lord,” Louis answered. “I did not think to ask.”

That was natural enough, Hugh thought, since Louis was a Flemish mercenary himself. For reasons he did not specify, Louis had decided to remain in England and had taken service with Hugh for the customary year and a day. Actually, Hugh was reasonably sure Louis, because he was no longer young, had decided to settle down with a master who did not plan to go to war, but Hugh had found him to be a good swordsman and bowman with a steady temper—ideal for leading a small troop and for teaching raw plowboys to be armsmen.

“No matter,” Hugh said. “I can ask the men who did stay. In any case, there cannot be any problem about housing our men.”

“No, indeed, my lord.” Louis gestured with his head in the direction of a long stone building nestled against the wall of the inner bailey. “A fine new barracks, all empty. I was only waiting for your word to settle the men in.”

“Empty, is it?” Hugh remarked. “Then where are the men who stayed?”

“In the guardroom down near the outer bailey gate.” Louis looked approving. “The headman may be old, but he has some sense. There was plenty of room for the fifteen of them in the lower guardroom, and they’re more needed at the lower gate.”

“True enough,” Hugh agreed. “Very well, tell the men to move into the barracks, but set up a guard on the inner wall with men ready to raise the drawbridge and drop the portcullis. I’ll ride down and speak to the captain, and you might as well tell a groom to saddle one of Sir Lionel’s destriers.”