A Tapestry of Dreams

by Roberta Gellis

  “Sweet Saint Bede, listen to them,” Audris remarked, looking from Hugh to Bruno. “One speaks of starvation, and the other compares me to a chicken or an egg.” Then she swept the half circle of men with a purposeful glance. “I think all of you gentlemen are troubled by empty bellies, but I assure you, you will suffer a violent disturbance of the bowels if you try to satisfy your appetite with me.”

  Hugh burst out laughing. “Indeed, I think so too, Demoiselle, for you are all pepper, vinegar, and sharp spices. But see, gentlemen, the king is sitting down. The evening meal is being served, and I am sure your bellies will be filled there with milder, more digestible dishes.”

  He lifted the hand Audris still held, and she had the presence of mind to relax her grip on his wrist so that only her fingers lay on it. Stephen’s gentlemen had glanced around when Hugh announced the king was ready to eat, and Hugh used their momentary distraction to lead Audris between Henry of Essex and William Chesney. Bruno followed close behind, effectively sealing Audris off from the others.

  Richard de Camville shrugged. “I think trying to win that girl a waste of time unless the king destroys the uncle or removes him by force. Espec’s squire and her bastard brother were not waiting for her by accident. They were surely watchdogs. So, either Demoiselle Audris truly does not wish to marry and asked them to stand by, or her uncle did know of the king’s coming and arranged a pretty scene to which Espec agreed.”

  “Either way, I agree that Demoiselle Audris is probably out of reach,” William Chesney said. “The king will not force the issue. Did you not see how Espec and the others watched him? Sir Oliver is highly respected, known to be a man of honor and narrow interests. Sir Oliver will not mix in affairs of state, and he will have nothing to do with Empress Matilda as long as her cause is allied with the Scots. Thus, Stephen has no excuse to act against Sir Oliver, and if he does, Espec and his friends will assume they, too, will be unjustly treated.” He smiled wryly. “The king may love us, but finding one of us a rich wife is not worth the loss of the whole north.”

  “On the other hand,” Henry of Essex remarked, “if the Demoiselle could be brought to say she wishes to have one of us for a husband, the king would support her—and I think Espec would, too, for he watched her closely also.”

  “Too much trouble,” Richard de Camville repeated. “I am not sure I wish to be isolated here in the north, and, in any case, I do not believe anyone will be allowed to discover what Demoiselle Audris truly feels. We will not be here more than another day at the most, and in that short time she will keep to her chamber or be well guarded.”

  Warner de Lusors had said nothing in the beginning, for he was still choked with fury at Audris’s rejection. As he listened, however, he had a revelation that restored his good humor. Naturally, if she wished to deceive her watchdogs, the girl would attack most viciously the man she favored most. He also realized that neither William Chesney nor Richard de Camville was much interested in the prize, because both seemed to have overlooked the uncle, who would surely be grateful to be allowed to stay in Jernaeve and would gladly pay for his place with the profits of the land and the girl’s weaving. So much the better. They would not even seek to catch her alone. Essex’s interest was more doubtful, and he would have to be watched, but Lusors did not think Henry of Essex prepared to watch the girl’s every move and seize her even on her way to the garderobe if she were alone. No doubt she would be startled, but it would be easy to soothe her and hide her until she could be brought before the king while her uncle was absent.

  The remainder of the evening showed Richard de Camville to have judged correctly. Audris was never alone except for the brief time when she swore fealty to the king. During the meal, she sat on one side of the king with Walter Espec beside her, while her aunt and uncle sat on the king’s left. They did not linger long over eating, for the delay caused by preparation of enough to feed the “unexpected” guests had ensured unusually sharp appetites. Then, too, although plentiful, the meal was simple, consisting of a single course: meat and fish pasties, cold sliced brawn, a hot, spicy fish soup, and the cheese for which Eadyth was famous in the area. No special ceremony was observed, except at the king’s table, and even there it was curtailed, for Stephen bade the knights and squires who served him to leave the dishes and go to their own places.

  Having been dismissed, Bruno joined Hugh at the last table, covered by a cloth and set with trenchers of white bread. Below them and the squires who had come with the northern barons were the servants’ tables, where the food was of a coarser kind and somewhat less plentiful.

  “I told you all would be well,” Bruno remarked between gulps of his cooling soup. “She is telling the king of her early attempts at weaving and her ineptness as a housewife.”

  Hugh glanced at the high table, which he had made an effort to avoid, just as the king, who had been laughing, broke off a particularly succulent piece of pasty and popped it into Audris’s mouth. “She is making a merry tale of it,” he commented dryly.

  “She always does,” Bruno replied, chuckling. “Audris is the most lighthearted little wretch, and by the time you are done laughing, she has flitted away, and you discover that you never said to her what you intended—particularly if you wished to scold her, forbid her to do something, or order her to do anything she did not wish to do.”

  Whether it was Audris’s clever conversation or the king’s own decision not to raise any controversial subjects until Jernaeve had been sworn to him, both Hugh and Bruno could see that those at the high table were at ease and enjoying themselves. And when the meal was over, Audris rose, took a basket from the steward, Eadmer, and began to collect for the poor, who came each day to beg at the gate, those scraps that had not been tossed on the floor. It was a task often left to servants, but equally often a noble lady would perform it as a humble, charitable good work. Stephen did not even think of forbidding Audris to do it, turning his attention to Sir Oliver to discuss setting the scene for taking Audris’s homage and oath of fealty.

  The ceremony was simple, but no less impressive for that simplicity. The chair of ceremony was placed in the center of the dais. Just below it to the right and left, Walter Espec and the northern barons stood as witnesses, the king’s men next, with squires and servants behind them. The thick candles impaled on the spikes of the wrought-iron candelabra that hung from the blackened beams cast an uneven golden light on the dais and down the center of the hall. Torches blazed from holders in the walls, flaring and waning as drafts swept in from the ill-fitting window enclosures and the open doors. Now and again a red or gold gleam flashed from a rivulet of moisture trickling down the stone walls or a glittering spark leapt from a mote of mica or quartz in the stones themselves.

  Similar bright points flickered from the embroidery of Audris’s dress and the gold threads woven into her hair as she came from the side of the room and walked down the aisle formed by the witnesses. Simultaneously, Sir Oliver came across the dais and stood respectfully behind and to the left of the king’s chair, and a priest, hurriedly summoned from Hexam abbey with holy relics to swear upon, moved to Stephen’s right. When Audris reached the dais, she stepped up on it and knelt, and the king stood. Some of the men shifted uneasily; Audris was so small compared with the king who towered over her that an impression of threat and domination was created even though none was intended.

  “You are Demoiselle Audris, rightful heir of Sir William Fermain, holder of Jernaeve keep—” Stephen hesitated, and Sir Oliver prompted him softly, naming the other estates Audris nominally controlled, for Stephen to repeat in a louder voice.

  “I am Demoiselle Audris, heir and holder,” she confirmed. Her voice was strong and clear. Those men who had seemed uncomfortable nodded approvingly.

  “And do you of your free will and without fear or reservation wish to become my man?”

  There was a soft murmur of amused sound, and nearly all of the watchers
smiled.

  “I do so wish,” Audris replied steadily. Now she clasped her hands together and raised them, and Stephen enfolded them in his own. “My lord king,” she continued, “I enter into your homage and faith and become your man, by mouth and hands, and I swear and promise to keep faith to you against all others, and I swear to guard your rights with all my strength.”

  That brought another wave of amusement, one or two chuckles breaking the silence; even the king smiled, but he replied clearly: “We do promise you, vassal Audris, that we and our heirs will guarantee to you the lands held of us, to you and your heirs against every creature with all our power to hold these lands in peace and quiet.”

  He then bent and lifted Audris to her feet and kissed her firmly on the mouth. The priest stepped forward, extending a golden box with jeweled crosses on all four sides and an elaborate representation of Saint Cuthbert on the lid. Audris placed one hand on the box.

  “In the name of the Holy Trinity, and in reverence of these sacred relics, I, Audris, swear that I will truly keep the promise I have made and will always remain faithful to King Stephen, my lord.”

  Sir Oliver now handed a leather gauntlet sewn all over with steel plates to the king, and he passed the glove to Audris, saying, “By this token, you are my man.”

  Audris took the gauntlet and kissed it, curtsied to the king, and stepped down from the dais. She carried the token purposefully back down the aisle, seeming intent on getting somewhere, but as soon as the formal arrangement of men broke up behind her, she veered off toward the huddle of servants who had gathered to watch at the lower end of the room. There, Bruno and Hugh closed in on her. The king’s men, who had been watching in case de Camville had been mistaken and Audris would become available after her fealty was sworn, nodded knowingly to each other and did not bother to pursue, which resulted in a delightful and profitable evening.

  Instead of fleeing to her chamber as soon as possible, Audris was able to talk at length with Walter Espec and each of the other local barons. She left no doubt in any mind that she loved her uncle and was well treated and content with her present condition. Moreover, she made clear to each man that if she should choose to marry, it would be to one of her own kind, a man bred in the northern shires who understood their lands and their ways and, last, that she had no prejudice against those who had already asked and been denied. This stroke was her cleverest, for it gave renewed hope to anyone with a marriageable man among his family or friends and stimulated his desire to prevent her from being given away to one of the king’s needy supporters.

  A few tentative openings in conversation soon showed Stephen the way the wind was blowing, and he abandoned his initial intention—actually without much regret. He liked Audris and did not wish to force a husband on her. She had made him merry enough to forget the worries that seemed to grow more intense and complicated with each day of kingship, even as success followed success. He longed for his wife, who could always soothe and divert him and often take his worries into her own capable hands. Had Maud been with him, Stephen thought, likely enough the little minx would already have been married to whomever he thought most suitable, but the thought was a tender praise of his wife, not an angry blaming of Audris. He was not dissatisfied with the hold he would have on Jernaeve. Stephen believed Sir Oliver would keep his word—and if he did not, it would be easy enough to replace him with Bruno, who owed him as much as the others and who would be welcomed warmly by Audris.

  Stephen’s easy acceptance of Audris’s refusal to take one of his men as a husband pleased Walter Espec and the others. Sir Oliver was enormously relieved at having escaped from swearing his own private fealty to the king. In fact, everyone except Warner de Lusors went to bed in high good humor that night. Sir Warner was in a foul temper because he had decided to wait until everyone else had bedded down and then move his own mattress off the bench that had been provided for his bed and use it as a pallet on the floor, away from the warmth of the banked fire in the hearth, in the icy area near the doorway to the south tower.

  It was only there that he would have a chance to catch Audris before her watchdogs did. Lusors was still determined to obtain Audris as a wife. He knew the other men were counting on new opportunities turning up, but he had suffered enough slips between his expectations and reality that he preferred a bird in the hand. He settled himself, pulling only his furred cloak over him. The cold would make him restless, and he knew he would wake at any sound or movement.

  There was another restless sleeper that night. Hugh was warm enough, although he was farther from the hearth than the knights. He was happy, too, for he had a new friend, one who did not care about his birth or his position. Audris’s loyalty to Bruno and her manner to him showed her warmth of heart and lack of pride. But Hugh was also uneasy, and each time he slept, he dreamed his true desires, so that he woke more than once, cursing his virility.

  It was a sin to have such desires, Hugh thought, and for the first time in his life he was not thinking of sin in religious terms. Even if he accepted Sir Walter’s offer to knight him, he had no right to think of Audris in that way. Sir Hugh Licorne would be as landless and as fatherless as squire Hugh Licorne and as unsuitable as a husband for Demoiselle Audris.

  Hugh wished Audris had not spent most of the evening hinting that she still might agree to marry some northern-bred landholder. Unfortunately, the castellanship that Sir Walter had promised him would not qualify him as a landholder. Sir Walter was not a young man, and when he died his lands would be divided among his sisters, whose husbands or sons might not wish to retain Hugh in his position. In any case, a castellan, except for those great men to whom the king gave many castles to be held by deputies, must live on the lands he governed. Perhaps Audris could leave Jernaeve in her uncle’s care, but for what? To live with him in a little log fortress?

  It was easy enough for Hugh to convince his waking mind and suppress desires he knew to be unobtainable; once asleep, however, the chains he had fastened to his aspirations shattered, and in his dream he climbed the stairs to Audris’s tower to find her waiting for him with open arms. She was warm and soft and naked, and he bent to suck the rosy nipples of her breasts, then sank to his knees to kiss the pale curls of her mound of Venus, to seek with his tongue the little one in her nether mouth. She held his head to her, tickled his ears, stroked his neck, trembled, and cried out… and Hugh woke again, gasping and appalled at his dream’s lewdness. Only it did not feel like lewdness.

  Hugh knew lewdness. While he was still a boy, he had been goaded by the taunts of his fellow squires and the other men with whom he served to lose his virginity to one of the castle whores. He was aware that the act was weak and sinful, and his pleasure had been mixed with horror and disgust. Confession, and a surprisingly light penance, had soothed away the horror, but the disgust remained and, though Hugh used women when his need grew strong, he had never enjoyed his couplings as a clean and unstained act. Nor had he ever caressed a bought woman as he had dreamt of caressing Audris; that knowledge had come from what others had told him, some intending honestly to instruct him and a few teasing, trying to incite him to further violate what they felt was a priggish purity. Yet Hugh felt no lewdness, no disgust, in the dream. His body had responded, yes, but with a pure joy that left no ugly stain.

  Still, it was dangerous to allow himself to feel such desire for Audris. Awake, Hugh felt only a calm sadness and a strong determination that she should never know of or be disturbed by his passion. Not trusting himself to sleep again, he opened his eyes, grateful to discover that the dim grayness of dawn was seeping around the edges of the shutters. Hugh crossed his arms behind his head and wondered whether he would have the pleasure of playing bodyguard to Audris again or whether she would use the simpler defense of staying in her chamber. Involuntarily, his eyes strayed to the entry to the south tower and rested there. He hardly realized where he was looking, his mind dwelling with pleasure and am
usement on various incidents of the previous evening. Slowly, as the light grew stronger, he became aware of the dark hump near the doorway—and then it moved, and Hugh realized someone was sleeping there.

  Bruno, he thought. But Bruno had been beside him, and Hugh did not remember him leaving his place. He turned to look. Bruno was still there. Frowning, Hugh raised himself on his elbow, saw there was an empty bench among the group sleeping nearest the hearth, and uttered a muffled curse. Apparently one of Stephen’s men had not given up and was waiting to catch Audris as she came down. Hugh started to push away the fleece under which he had been sleeping and then changed his mind. Probably Audris would not come down until it was time for Mass, and he did not want to provoke a quarrel with one of Stephen’s men. He could watch from where he was until all woke.

  Hugh had scarcely resettled himself, however, when a cloaked and hooded form came out of the tower doorway and moved silently across the hall to the outer door. This was latched shut but not barred—in fact, as they had been settling to sleep, Hugh had heard one of the squires joke to a neighbor that there was no sense in barring the door when the enemy was already within. The hooded form opened the door and slipped out. Since the person sleeping near the doorway had not moved, Hugh’s eyes had naturally followed the figure in motion, and he had begun to think that either he was mistaken or, more likely, he had misjudged the size of the cloaked person and it was Audris’s maid who had gone out on some errand.

  By the time the door was pushed shut, however, the prone form was up, slinging a cloak over his shoulders, and hurrying to follow. Hugh stood up too, annoyed because he had not thought, as soon as he saw the form near Audris’s door, to pull on his outer tunic and his shoes, which were the only garments he and the other squires—who did not merit the luxury of a bench and flock mattress to protect them from the drafts while they slept—had removed. He was sorry if Audris was harassed, but no longer felt any anxiety about a marriage being forced on her by a false claim, so he did not hurry about adjusting his clothes, and even took the time to comb down his unruly red hair and rinse out his mouth.