Conquests: Hearts Rule Kingdoms (10 page)

Melville leant forwards against the wall, fists above his head. That girl! She tried and tested him more than anyone he had ever met, and yet still she got the better of him. He could not understand her dislike of him – she hardly knew him. Raising himself, he looked outside. The sun was still up; he had time to go down to the village and check on these people that were now apparently his.

Ordering his horse, Melville and several of his men rode across the river to the village of his people. They spoke loudly in their strange words which he had not bothered to learn. Norman was so simple, he reasoned. They could learn it themselves, and then counteract the problems of translation. Only one man in his retinue spoke the local dialect, making him invaluable.

“Robert!”

A young man rode to Melville’s side. “My lord?”

“Enquire about the rents and taxes due me. I want it all collected. No excuses. And remind them of my orders about the fallow land – it must be part of the harvest this year.”

“They will not like it,” Robert, a young man whose potential Melville had realised early, spoke earnestly. “The tradition of fallow land is a good one, it protects the land – ”

“I am lord here,” Melville cut across him, and Robert shut his mouth with a red face. “When they are lord, they may decide how they feed their people. But today, the decision lies with me. And it has been made.”

Robert nodded and dismounted, searching for the local priest who was the man that the Normans spoke to when dealing with the Anglo-Saxons. Melville’s eyes scanned the crowd: and stopped dead at one. A woman, with long flowing blonde hair flying about in the wind. Curls were tugged by the breeze around her, creating a natural halo, and she laughed as she played with some of the local children. The tallest one threw a rough leather ball towards her, which she caught, fingertips outstretch, to the sound of cheers.

It was Avis.

“Avis!” he called out, startling her and causing her to drop the ball that she was carrying.

“Melville!” She was clearly horrified, and turned to run. Melville urged his horse forward, and caught up with her behind a small dwelling.

“What on earth are you doing here?” Melville dismounted hurriedly and didn’t bother keeping his voice down, reasoning that none close by would be able to understand the clipped Norman tones. “Among these people? You dishonour me!”

“It is you who dishonours me,” Avis did not try to avoid Melville now, but took a step towards him, her face close to his. “These people know how to tend the land, and you ignore them! These people know the way the land breaths and lives, and yet you in your arrogance dictate to them their own harvest!”

“This is not about harvest!” Melville argued. “This is about you – you fraternising with these people!”

“Fraternising?” Avis moved closer to Melville, and reached out her hands to place them on his chest. “Fraternising?” Encircling his waist with her arms she gently rocked towards and away from him, turning him around to face the other way, her back to his horse. “Fraternising?” Slowly she lifted her lips to his, and he unwillingly looked down into her face, and her red, inviting lips.

Before he could lean down and take what was rightfully his, she leapt backwards, mounted his horse, and laughed.

“It’s difficult to fraternise with your own kind, my lord,” she giggled. Forcing the horse into a gallop, she left Melville standing in the middle of the village.

Chapter Fifteen

The next week was cluttered with visits from varying Norman nobles, and although they were unwelcome, it thankfully left Avis and Melville with very little time in which they had to bear each other’s company. Each visitor was given the show of a happily married Anglo-Norman couple, but behind closed doors they had nothing to do with each other. Not a word was spoken – though Melville sent more than one sneaky glance her way.

It was not until the following Sunday that they really spoke at all, and once again it was an argument. They had just returned from church, and were as was their custom having a small meal alone. As according to church custom, Sunday was a day of fasting – not completely from food, but from rich nourishment such as meats and wine. As they ate their meagre portions, Avis was painfully aware of Melville’s gaze upon her. Eventually she raised her eyes, and spoke.

“Do I displease you, my lord?”

Far from it, thought Melville. He replied, “I am curious.”

“And where does your curiosity lie?”

“In your prayers.”

Avis had not been expecting such a personal statement, but resolved herself. She had known that her mocking over his lack of Latin knowledge would eventually be countered. A servant entered to light the candles. Their afternoon church service had been long, and now the early evening was casting shadows across the room. Avis blushed. She just had not expected so private an enquiry. She put her bread down.

“My…my prayers?” She faltered.

“Indeed.” Melville poured another goblet of ale, and smiled at her. “Your prayers.”

Avis had no idea how his plan of attack was to progress, but braced herself. Waiting for the servant to leave, she did not speak again until the door had closed after him.

“I do not know what you are referring to, my lord.”

Melville smiled again. “You do not pray in Norman.”

“I pray in Latin! You remember, that language of culture that I have in charity been trying to teach you – but then, you Normans cannot bring yourselves to learn!” She laughed, confused but relieved his comments were not any worse. “After all, my lord, I am not Norman.”

“Melville.”

“What?”

“Call me Melville.”

“Why?”

His smile broadened. “It is my name.”

Avis swallowed. Her husband was playing some sort of game, and she did not like it.

“Melville. I am not Norman.”

“But I am Norman.”

“I had noticed.” She said, drily, picking up the bread again and starting to eat.

Melville continued. “And now we are married, you too are Norman.”

Avis choked, and in trying to reach some wine, accidently knocked over a goblet in her large gesture. A dog leaped forward to lick up the spilt liquor.

“Never. I am Anglo-Saxon.”

“With a Norman husband.” Melville reminded her. “In the eyes of God that makes you Norman. I wonder,” he smiled maliciously, “if God understands your prayers, when He is expecting the pure Norman tongue.”

Melville leant back, obviously pleased with himself that he had dealt her a blow that she could not recover from. And indeed, this was not a progression that she had expected. But that did not console Avis; it enraged her. Did he know nothing? How can he know so little? Could he really be so stupid?

“What language do I speak, Melville?”

He blinked, perplexed. “Norman.”

“Wrong.”

“Avis,” Melville tried to stay in the realms of reality. She has drunk too much wine, he thought to himself. “We are speaking Norman now.”

“
Eallwealda
!” Avis’ eyes were lifted to the heavens in her appeal to God in her native tongue, and Melville raised his eyebrows in shock at the strange term. It was definitely not Norman.

“What was that?”

Avis sighed, and looked at him with eyes that glowed as the candlelight reflected on her welling pupils. She was not going to cry, but it was an effort to contain the tears that were at every moment threatening to escape. All anger had rushed out of her, and she was full of nothing but sadness. Her shoulders slumped down, and she looked utterly defeated.

Melville immediately felt regret; he wanted to rush over and comfort her, pressing her small body to his mighty strength, but knew that this was not the time. She was not ready – and neither was he.

“Melville.” Avis began gently. “Think about where I was born.”

Melville could do nothing but look at her.

“I was born here – here in England, of noble Anglo-Saxon stock. I grew up in the downs of the south, gathering harvest with my people and taming the seagulls on the beach. I saw the sun go down, and I saw it go up, and for almost sixteen summers I spoke only the language of my people.”

There was a pause as Melville took this information in.

“You…you can speak as they do?” Melville was amazed.

“I am one of them.” Avis reminded him. “And until the Normans, you, arrived in my country, I had no need of any other tongue. But then…”

Avis’ voice trailed off. She could still hear the screams, smell the scent of burning wood, of burning flesh. Her mother’s cries were right behind her, and she couldn’t look round, she must not look round…

“Avis?”

Her eyes were blank, and she began to slip sideways as the tears overcame her self-control.

“Avis! Avis!” Melville rose and came towards her, pulling her into him, hoping to shield her from whatever it was attacking her in her memories. “I’m here, Avis.”

At first she struggled against him, unwilling to be confined, but as her hands reached tentatively out, she discovered a strength more potent than anything she had ever known. She grabbed the folds of his shirt, and buried herself in his intensity, knowing that nothing could reach her or harm her when she was enwrapped in his powerful arms.

Melville tried to sooth her, stroking her face and keeping her close to him. He had never known fragility and force combined in such small a frame. He cursed himself for not thinking more about how his taunting would touch her at her core. He could not believe that he had just assumed that Norman was the only language that she spoke – he was so stupid! An idiot, not worthy to be called a lord, if that was the height of his intelligence. It had only been three years since he and his countrymen had conquered this land, and still only babes in Norman families were blessed in being taught his great language.

“Avis,” Melville murmured gently by Avis’ ear. “Avis.”

Deep in that quiet, safe place, Avis heard her name being called – and with a jolt of recognition, she realised that it was Melville that was calling her. She was in his arms. He was comforting her. She must get away, she thought. I cannot stay here with him.

Eventually Avis calmed herself, and tried to escape from the strong arms of her husband.

“Please, do excuse me,” she murmured.

“No,” Melville countered, speaking softly. “Excuse me.”

Avis looked up at him, aware of how close they were – closer than they had ever been before. She could not help but trust this man that held her close and comforted her in her time of weakness. Part of her – a small part of her – wanted to stay. But she could not forget that this man had contributed directly to her father’s death.

“No,” she said, half to herself, pushing away from him and standing up. “I am sorry, my lord.”

Melville rose also, moving towards her, but she pushed him away. She could not accept this man, this Norman man, any closer.

“I am Anglo-Saxon.” She stated bleakly, gazing at him with dead and tired eyes. “You are Norman. And there it is.”

Avis walked purposefully out of the hall, leaving Melville alone. Once again she was angry, but this time she was angry with herself. She must not let her guard down, she must not let him see her true self. Without her emotional armour, she would not be safe – and not being safe around the heady masculinity of Melville could only end in tears.

Melville sank to his seat, and brought a goblet of wine to his lips, wishing it was more intoxicating. He was beginning to understand this complication, this paradox of a woman. Or at least, he was beginning to see just how much he did not understand. He had always seen himself as a warrior, as a brave man, as a man seeking his fortune – but he had never really noticed that by seeking his fortune, he must necessarily take it from another. Melville shook his head. Try as he might to avoid the truth, he could not help but admit to himself that he was beginning to fall in love with this girl, and he knew that she would never be able to see past his Norman beginnings. If she knew his entire history…well, maybe then she would see him in a different light.

But Melville knew that was not good enough for her. Avis deserved the best, and she needed the best that life – that he could offer her. And he knew what the best he could offer her was.

He called for his scribe, and began to dictate a letter: a letter to the pope, requesting the annulment of his marriage.

As he spoke, he clenched his fists. He didn’t want to lose her, but he knew that unless he let her go, she could never choose to stay.

Chapter Sixteen

For the first time since she had arrived in his life, Melville began to seek Avis out. She drew him to her, in a way that he could not describe. All Melville knew was that he felt safer in her presence. Avis calmed him like no other, and he craved her, as a man craves a soft embrace after a long day at war.

As Avis thought, she frowned, unconsciously crinkling that perfect forehead in her intense concentration. She was finding it more and more difficult to go down into the kitchens, because Melville kept appearing at her side just as she was about to walk down her preferred corridor, requesting her opinion of the next harvest, or asking her what her plans for the day were. Despite her brief and occasionally rude replies, Avis could not shake him. Day after day she was obliged to answer his questions, and to change her direction in case he suspected her destination. Her frustration deepened as she received only titbits of gossip from the kitchen whenever she pretended to complain about the food to Edith during a meal – but with Melville’s close eye on her, there was little that she could do.

Avis altered her tactic. She longed to spend some more time with the villagers of Ulleskelf; to speak her native language, tell the old stories, and laugh at the same jokes. It would almost be like being back home, although she knew that she could never truly go back. But again, Melville seemed determined to prevent her from doing anything. As Avis walked into the entrance chamber with her fire and chair, she began to move towards the door that would release her: but there he was. He smiled at her, and she returned the smile with a haughty look, changing her direction towards her chamber. As Melville watched her go, he smiled wryly. Neither of them was winning this battle of wits.