A Tapestry of Dreams

by Roberta Gellis

  Chapter 18

  For a moment after Hugh said he might be his grandson, Lord Ruthsson gaped at him. Then he shook his head and laughed aloud. “Not my grandson, Sir Hugh, unless you are older than you look.”

  “I am three and twenty years of age, born seventh of September in the year eleven hundred and fourteen to Lady Margaret of Ruthsson.”

  “Margaret!” Lord Ruthsson exclaimed. “But Eric—who was your grandfather—wrote she died…” He got up suddenly and embraced Hugh, then stepped back to look at him, as if seeking some resemblance to his niece. And, though he shook his head at finding nothing of his family in Hugh’s face, he kept a hand on the young man’s shoulder, almost as if he feared Hugh would disappear, and said in a voice that trembled, “You are my grandnephew, not my grandson, but my dear Hugh, why did you imply when you rode in that I might regret my welcome to you. Why would I not welcome you?”

  “I think this will best explain,” Hugh said, reaching under his tunic and his shirt to pull out the letter Sister Ursula had written, which he was carrying tucked into his chausses, protected by wrappings of oiled silk.

  Lord Ruthsson took the parchment and went back to his chair. He read it quickly, then looked up at Hugh and gestured again for him to sit. This time, Hugh did so gladly. “They were two of a kind, Eric and Margaret,” he said. “Both as stubborn and hotheaded as old Hrolf, who defied his king and came to settle here. And Eric might have killed her for defying him—he almost killed me when I would not agree to his plans for me. But who the devil is this Sir Kenorn that Margaret married?”

  “I hoped you would know,” Hugh said. “I have no doubt he was a younger son and penniless, which would be reason enough for your brother to object to the marriage, of course. But the name is not common, and I hoped he might be remembered, even though it was more than twenty years ago. He must have been a guest, and for some time, to have won my mother’s trust and affection.”

  “As to that, I am not so sure,” Ruthsson replied. “I mentioned that Margaret was hotheaded. It is all too possible that she conceived a desire for Kenorn all of a sudden and, having conceived it, clung like a limpet to her opinion for pure stubbornness. As to Eric’s objection, I will tell you plainly that I do not understand why Ursula was so certain and so frantic. You see, if Kenorn brought nothing, Eric would not need to find a dowry.”

  “But my grandfather might have had some alliance in mind—” Hugh stopped when Lord Ruthsson shook his head.

  “For that, he had sons—and then the dowries came to him. But if you resemble your father in body as well as in looks, I do not believe Eric would have objected. You see, he would have obtained a prime fighting man for nothing but his daughter’s favors, which to him would have been nothing at all. Well, perhaps Margaret did not approach him right, or he had quarreled with Kenorn—Eric did not forgive—or taken a dislike to him for some reason. In any case, I have no objections. I am very, very glad you came here. I thought I was the last of the family.”

  “The last?” Hugh echoed.

  But Ruthsson had looked back at the letter he was still holding and frowned. “I cannot see why Ursula would not even agree to write to Eric about the marriage. It is strange, for it would have cost her nothing, and I know she was fond of Margaret. Nor do I understand why she was so violent against your father—or how she could have seen him. Unless… Once Margaret spoke to me of ending the long-standing quarrel we had with Sir Lionel of Heugh by making a bond of blood with them, but she could not have been so mad. I told her that even I would not accept that solution.”

  Hugh, however, had lost interest for the moment in his father’s family. If Lord Ruthsson was the last male, the property would pass to heirs general—which would make him, as daughter’s son, the heir! “My lord,” he said, “do not, I beg you, take what I ask amiss. I assure you I mean no offense, but—but am I your heir? What of my cousins, the children of my grandfather’s sons? I think they come before me, even if they are only daughters.”

  “No children survived. Four strong sons Eric had, and three daughters—and not one grandchild lived, except you, of whom he knew nothing.” As he spoke, Lord Ruthsson had been again examining Hugh’s face feature by feature. At last he sighed and shook his head. “You are big enough,” he said. “The men of Heugh are giants, but you have no look of them. I have never seen this Sir Lionel, but his father was a small-eyed, mean-mouthed man with a face like a pudding. I cannot believe you are Heugh get.”

  “But am I—”

  “My heir?” He laughed bitterly. “Yes, you are. Heir to nothing.”

  “Ruthsson is not nothing,” Hugh said. “I do not know what has happened here—”

  “Despair and neglect.” Lord Ruthsson sighed. “Eric and I share the blame for it. Eric lost heart when the last of the boys died, for he did not think I deserved to inherit Ruthsson. He was right about that, for I never cared for Ruthsson or any land. I cared only for my liege lord and my books. I was ten years older than King Henry. I never dreamed that he would die before me. I thought the lands would go back to the crown, and I was glad to be able to bring such a gift to my lord and my friend.” Tears rose in his eyes, “Now it will all go to Lionel Heugh! To Lionel Heugh!”

  “Why should Ruthsson go to Sir Lionel?” Hugh asked, utterly amazed. “Did you not say I was your heir?”

  “It goes to Sir Lionel because he claims it by judicial combat, and—”

  “At Morpeth?” Hugh asked, thinking it was no wonder de Merley had looked at him strangely when he said he had personal business to attend to and then asked directions to Ruthsson.

  “Yes, in two weeks’ time,” Lord Ruthsson replied dully, almost as if he had lost interest in the subject.

  “What claim has Sir Lionel to Ruthsson?” Hugh prodded.

  His great-uncle sighed. “Oh, the claim goes back to my grandfather’s time. It rests on the old Danelaw claim of sister’s son’s rights. My father was a second son’s second son. His eldest sister had married Lionel’s grandfather. Heugh’s daughter—who brought the manor and farms of Trewick with her—married my uncle, the eldest son. But when he died, they were still childless. My grandfather put his daughter-by-marriage into a convent—it was her wish—and because he paid her dowry to the Church, he kept Trewick. Heugh demanded Trewick back; my grandfather refused. But when he died, Heugh claimed Ruthsson by sister’s son’s rights for his son, according to Danelaw.”

  “But that is ridiculous!” Hugh exclaimed. “I mean, it is ridiculous now. I know nothing about Danelaw, but once William became king, Danelaw could not have any force. The Heugh family might have a claim on Trewick—the land of a childless widow should go back with her to her family—but if she joined the Church instead of returning to Heugh… I am not sure about that, but I am sure the claim against Ruthsson is nonsense.”

  “Of course it is,” Lord Ruthsson agreed, but his voice was still dull. “Sister’s son’s rights had long been abandoned by Danelaw. Then they tried force, but we beat them, so Heugh brought the case before the new king—I mean William the First—and lost. But they never give up, and old Heugh’s son renewed the plea when William Rufus became king. Fortunately, Rufus died before giving judgment, and when Henry came to the throne, I was already his close friend, and even Heugh was not stupid enough to threaten us.”

  “But then Sir Lionel has no claim,” Hugh pointed out, “not even to Trewick, if judgment went against him in William the Bastard’s time.”

  Lord Ruthsson uttered a bark of bitter laughter. “No, he has no claim, but who is there to dispute him in a trial by combat?”

  “I!” Hugh exclaimed, struggling to keep himself from trembling with joy. “Lord Ruthsson, I will dispute him.”

  Ruthsson, who had been sitting slumped in his chair looking at nothing, sat up and stared at Hugh, then slumped again and shook his head. “No, no, do not. He will only kill you, and the end will be
the same, except I will have your death on my soul.”

  “I have not yet met a man who could best me,” Hugh remarked softly, but his lips drew back from his teeth. “My master Sir Walter could in his prime, but I was a stripling then. Have you seen Sir Lionel fight?”

  “I saw his father—and I could not find a champion to fight for me against him.”

  “You have one now,” Hugh insisted. “Should I ride back to Morpeth and tell de Merley?”

  “Hotheaded and stubborn.” Ruthsson sighed, looking troubled. “You are surely Margaret’s son.”

  Hugh laughed at that, and though the old man had not yet completely accepted Hugh’s offer, Hugh knew the further protests Ruthsson made were for the sake of his conscience. By the time the newfound relatives sat down to dinner together, Hugh had been ordered to call his great-uncle Uncle Ralph, and they had exchanged much information on both sides, particularly any item that might affect the attitude of Sir Lionel.

  Hugh had explained that he was not friendless and would have the support of Sir Walter Espec and Archbishop Thurstan if he needed it. In return, Hugh had been told more about Heugh than about his own family, except that two of his mother’s brothers had died in battle, and the other two, with their whole families and his youngest aunt—as well as more than half the village—had been swept away by the pox. Only his grandfather had lived. He learned, too, that the ennoblement of the family, which unfortunately was not matched by its wealth or power, was very new. Because Ralph had never been knighted, King Henry had given his friend a patent as baron so he would have some title after his brother died.

  When they were finished eating, they settled down beside the hearth again and progressed to discussing the details of the challenge. One item of information was very welcome to Hugh: his uncle had taken the top floor of one of the merchant’s houses in the town for the entire period of the tourney. Since Hugh had no idea how either Sir John of Belsay or de Merley felt about Lionel Heugh, he had felt reluctant to accept either invitation for lodging. He remarked with satisfaction on this fact, only to discover that his uncle was not listening.

  “I shall go to Morpeth tomorrow and announce that my nephew, who was knighted by King Stephen, has come to do battle for me,” Ralph said, his eyes brightening. “And I will say nothing of poor Margaret’s dying in childbirth, so everyone will think it likely you have brothers and come from an influential family. If Heugh thinks you have relations who will try to avenge you and complain to the king about this ridiculous challenge, he may withdraw it.”

  “But I do not want the challenge withdrawn,” Hugh protested vehemently. “Did you not tell me before that Sir Lionel has no children and that the property will go to a female cousin?”

  “Yes, but I do not see—”

  “I doubt the guardian of this girl-child would push Heugh’s claim once Sir Lionel is dead,” Hugh pointed out. “On the other hand, if he withdraws the challenge, acknowledging that his point of law is worthless, there is not a thing to prevent him from bringing an army against us. Just now, there is no overlord at all in Northumbria to say him nay, and the king is in Normandy. Nor can Ruthsson be defended in its present state. Forgive me, uncle, but this is a time for the truth. It would be overwhelmed in the first assault. I can fight one man, but not an army, so both of us would be dead, and Heugh would own Ruthsson by right of conquest with no one to contest him. In fact, I cannot understand why he did not march on Ruthsson as soon as he knew of Henry’s death.”

  “I think he feared my influence with Matilda, for she knows and loves me well. And when Stephen was made king, I suppose Sir Lionel waited to see whether I would find favor with him.” Lord Ruthsson laughed. “I did not even try. Stephen is a good man, but he has no more use for a book than to set it afire to keep himself warm. Sir Lionel’s head is just as thick, or he would have known that. Besides, the challenge was cheaper than bringing an army, and perhaps he expected to win by default. He is well known in these parts for his ferocity and may have assumed I could not pay high enough to get a champion—which was true. Not that he is afraid to fight.”

  “Good,” Hugh said, “I am glad to hear it, for his death will rid us not only of a single enemy but of the entire quarrel. I would like to keep our relationship a secret entirely. I am afraid Sir Lionel might try to void the challenge or perhaps spoil the effect of my victory by claiming that you bribed me to fight for you with a false name of nephew. In fact, let Sir Lionel believe that he will win by default. Then my entry in the lists will be an unpleasant surprise.”

  Lord Ruthsson looked doubtful, but after a moment he nodded. “I will do as you say. It is your risk, and you must do as you think best in all things. Once Heugh is gone, no one will wish to contest your claim to be my heir.” Then he smiled wryly. “Not that there is much to contest about. Tomorrow I will ask the bailiff to take you over the farms, and mayhap you will change your mind about fighting over this scrap heap.”

  Hugh made no direct reply to his uncle’s remark, only saying mildly that he would be glad to do anything his uncle wished him to do. He was fighting desperately to conceal his real feelings, afraid the wild joy that filled him at being heir to anything at all would alarm the old man. After all, Lord Ruthsson did not know him. He seemed to think that Hugh had large expectations from Thurstan and Sir Walter and that the property meant little to him. If he realized that it was all and everything, that it was not only a livelihood but the path to the woman Hugh desired more than he desired to live, might not the old man begin to fear that Hugh would do away with him to have immediate access to his lands? He would be wrong; a living uncle to acknowledge him, to name him nephew and heir, was far more valuable to Hugh, who had never had a relative, than the immediate possession of anything. Heir was good enough.

  Hugh would have liked to excuse himself so he could write to Audris of the wonder that had dropped into his hand, but he could not deny his uncle the pleasure of having someone with whom to talk. In a way it was interesting, especially since Hugh kept having rosy visions of Audris listening, replying, and arguing. Hugh was not so caught up in games of the mind as she, but he had received the best education available while he was in Thurstan’s care and was therefore not completely ignorant of the subjects his uncle touched. Much that had lain dormant in his retentive memory stirred under Lord Ruthsson’s prodding, and though Hugh made no pretense of being a scholar, he had enough learning to ask sensible questions.

  It was very late by the time he convinced his uncle to go to bed, but Hugh could not resist writing to Audris. He told himself it was because he might find difficulty getting away from Uncle Ralph the next day, but it was really because he was too excited to sleep. He was bursting with joy and needed to “talk” to his “wife” so that she could rejoice with him. Fortunately, he had already written about the information he had obtained at the convent, so he was free to pour out his joy at having found a welcome, a family—even if it consisted of one old man—and an inheritance, all at once. Without thinking that Audris could feel differently on any subject than he felt, Hugh continued to describe his pleasure at having arrived in time to fight Lionel Heugh:

  Wishing to make conditions as easy as he could for his champion, my uncle took lodgings in the town as soon as the challenge was issued. Thus, I will be in Morpeth town at the house of Uhtred the Mercer from All Hallows Eve. I do not know which day of the tourney de Merley has set for this trial by combat, but I look forward to killing so inveterate an enemy of my family. I am surprised at my rage toward him and my thirst for his blood, for although I have killed men, I cannot remember ever desiring to kill a man. My desire to rid the world of Lionel Heugh is not only for my own sake, because to be heir to Ruthsson and Trewick without any contest or threat marring my claim will make it possible for me to ask for you in marriage. You know that is a prize greater than any other could be to me. But I think, truly, my rage and hatred toward Sir Lionel are because he has acted
with such cruelty toward my uncle, who is an old man and—as far as Heugh knows—the last of Ruthsson blood. Could he not have let the old man die in peace and end the quarrel thus? Not that my uncle seems like to die. He is hale and spry and a man of such an inquiring nature that you, light of my life, would find him perfect company. Although he is worldly and cynical and not in the least holy, in other ways he reminds me of what you have told me of your Father Anselm.

  I should hate to think of such a man cast out to starve, for he does not seem to have asked for or received anything from King Henry except the wherewithal to live from day to day at the court. If he were deprived of Ruthsson, I do not believe he would have anywhere to go for a roof over his head. Each time I think you would never have met my uncle had I not come in time to take up arms in his behalf, a great hunger wakes anew in me to cut down the fool that would destroy a man worth ten of any other. Beloved, I could write and write, but I am come to the end of this sheet, my candle is guttering, and I must end this letter so that Morel can carry it to you tomorrow. I am so filled with joy that I can hardly contain myself.

  ***

  Morel arrived in Jernaeve on 23 October, not much more than a month after Hugh had departed. It had been a very long month for Audris. The promise Hugh had made to her that they would not be parted long hung over her like a threat. She had been frozen by fear of the grim purpose in his face and voice, and when he let her go and moved away, her arms slid along his body, powerless to clutch at him to hold him near. She stood where he had left her long after he was gone, until Fritha, who had led Hugh back to his chamber, returned and found her and took her to her bed. Fritha wept in sympathy, gently patting and stroking her mistress and regretting her muteness because it prevented her from offering more comfort.

  The maid was so distressed by Audris’s frozen silence that she did not go to her own bed but sat on the floor beside Audris’s, listening. Fritha hoped to hear the slow rhythm of breathing and the small shiftings of a sleeper; she feared to hear weeping; worse, however, was that she heard nothing at all for a long time, until at last a tired voice urged, “Go to bed, Fritha. You can do nothing for me now. Tomorrow… tomorrow you must set a new warp on my loom.”