Conquests: Hearts Rule Kingdoms (11 page)

It was probably the last warm day of the year before winter captured the isle. Melville had not appeared at breakfast, probably taking advantage of the last good conditions for hunting. Avis could not help but smile to herself. She knew that today would be the day that she could escape the manor without his notice.

Grabbing her long blue skirts in her left hand, she crept along the north wall until she was close to the bridge. She took a deep breath, and ran. Sharp air filled her lungs, but she kept running, and as she did a smile broke out onto her face. She had not run so hard since…well, she had not sprinted for pleasure in many years. Her leather shoes bit at the bridge’s wooden slabs, and she was across.

Avis slowed down her pace, catching her breath. She revelled in the freedom of it all – the open grassland, red and golden leaves raining down upon her in the breeze; the cloudless sky beckoning her on further; the swifts looping over her head, ready to begin their long journey across the sea to warmer climes. All cried out with her, the longing to be alive.

Avis wandered to her special oak tree, and dropped down by its trunk, drawing out her billowing skirts over the seat of leaves that had been formed. She sighed, happily. There could be no greater joy than this.

“Good morning.”

Melville’s voice was clear and close. Avis almost tipped over in her fright, but managed to contain herself.

“My lord!” she gasped. “What a pleasant surprise!”

She frantically looked ahead of her, trying to make out where his voice was coming from. Melville chuckled, walking around the wide tree trunk where he had been hiding, and casually sat beside Avis.

“Not by the look of it! I seem to have given you quite a shock.”

Avis collected herself, and sat stiffly upright. “I was not expecting company.”

“Well then, I apologise for disturbing your solitude,” smiled Melville good-naturedly.

Avis pursed her lips. She had hoped that her cool demeanour and pointed wish to be alone would have had greater effect on her husband, but Melville was settling himself down quite comfortably. When could she be rid of this troublesome man?

“How have you been, my lady?” Melville began. “I have not seen you much this last week.”

Avis’ anger finally broke through her determined silence.

“And why do you think that is,
my
lord
?” she said scathingly.

Melville smiled, leaned back and pulled out an apple.

“Hmmm?” he shut his eyes, basking in the newly-returned sun that would soon be disappearing.

“Melville!” Avis shouted, unable to help herself. “Would you do me the courtesy of listening to me?”

Melville’s eyes snapped open, but he turned a lazy head to face Avis, unwilling to sit up.

“I am listening.”

Avis snorted.

“I am, indeed!” Melville rose now, turning to directly face her. His smile fell. “I promise you. I am listening.”

Avis looked at him, anger fading as she saw how earnest he was. This is a man who will truly keep his word, she thought. A man whose word I can trust. His dark eyes met her clear ones, and she looked away, unable to face their intensity.

Melville spoke more gently now.

“What was it that you wanted to say, Avis?”

Avis considered whether pretence may be a more favourable option, but she realised that she was Melville’s wife. Marriage was not a short term venture. There was no escaping from him, and sooner or later he would have to know how she truly felt. But it would be difficult: more difficult than any of their previous conversations, and none of them had been simple.

“Melville,” Avis said awkwardly. “You may not have noticed, but I am not entirely happy with…” she trailed off, realising how ridiculous she was sounding. “With our marriage.”

She glanced at him nervously under her long light lashes. The state of female happiness was never a concern of most menfolk, as she knew, and there was absolutely no reason for Melville to care how she felt.

But it was Melville’s turn to snort.

“May not have noticed? Avis, you don’t stop thrusting that fact into my face!” His voice was incredulous, but without malice. His gentle smile reassured Avis, and prompted her to continue speaking.

“I have been avoiding you.” Avis confessed. Head low, she glanced once more through her fair lashes to see how Melville had responded. She was shocked to see him bowing his head in – was that disappointment dancing across his attractive features?

Avoiding him. Melville had hoped that his cynicism had been misplaced, but he was right: she had been purposefully avoiding him. Melville could not help but feel disappointed – but then he was not in love with her, he argued with himself. There were no expectations between them; they knew that neither of them had chosen this sham of a marriage. Then why did the fact that she would rather spend time alone rather than with him cut him deep, and stung like a scratch in salt water?

Avis’ voice cut through Melville’s deep reflection.

“I mean no disrespect, my lord,” and she was surprised to find that her words were true. “It’s just…”

“Yes?”

“I want to feel free.” Avis stared up at the sky rather than face Melville’s stare. She tucked a wayward curl behind her ear. “I was so used to organising each one of my days on my own behalf. Being kept in like an animal…it is difficult.”

Avis wetted her dry lips, and Melville was drawn to their fullness, and had to deny himself the pleasure of taking her into his arms. Another swift dipped to the ground in front of the couple, and Melville sighed. Who was he to cage such a beautiful creature? In spite of what his time in combat around hardened warriors had taught him, he knew that he did not own Avis – he could not truly own any woman. She was her own person, and should be able to make her own choices.

Melville resolved himself to speak a statement that he knew he may regret.

“Avis?”

She turned her face from the sky to gaze upon his tanned face, and tender smile.

“Avis, this is your home now. You should feel as free here as you want.”

Avis’ eyes widened. “My lord?”

Melville sighed. “I cannot tell you where to go and what to do – or who to be.” He shrugged his shoulders. “That is your choice. Make it.”

Melville rose, and walked away from Avis without giving a backward glance. Avis surprised herself in hoping that he would, but he reached the manor door and entered it without turning. It had been one of the most difficult walks in Melville’s life, and after he had passed through the door he leaned against the cool entrance hall wall, breathing deeply.

It had been torture being there with Avis, unable or reluctant to reach out and touch her. She challenged him in a way that no other woman ever had – but he could not force her. Not only was he unwilling to force her, but he suspected that she was stronger than he thought.

Avis sat underneath the oak, unsure what had just happened. Was she ever to truly understand this husband of hers? Melville seemed to have a respect for her unlike any other Norman – any man she had ever met. His last speech had reminded her so strongly of her father that she had to brush away a few tears. She had cried enough over the life that she had lost – Avis would not let anyone else force her to tears ever again.

Chapter Seventeen

No more did Melville prevent Avis from feeling uncomfortable for leaving the manor. This for Avis was a great improvement. Now she was able to spend more time in the kitchen, with the other Anglo-Saxon residents of the household, and happy afternoons in the village relaying news of their family members scraping a living inside the manor walls. She felt so much more open with them than she could be with Melville, and she developed an unlikely friendship with Edith, the kitchen servant girl. Having lived so long without a true friend, and still unable to be honest in any meaningful way with her husband, it was wonderful for Avis to finally have someone to whom she could open up to. The two of them often chatted as they kept themselves busy, but it was a difficult and at times awkward friendship. Both of them could not lose their awareness that they walked on very different paths, but their shared identity of being Anglo-Saxon held them together as nothing else could.

Winter by this point had settled into the land, and the stable boy came shivering into the kitchen with a request to Bronson to help the spit boy.

“You just want to keep warm!” Scoffed Bronson. “You don’t want to work!”

“I will work,” chattered the teeth of the little boy. “I swear.”

“Let him,” Avis called over, and Bronson turned to look at her. She shrugged. “Poor mite. And Ælfthrup could do with the help.”

Ælfthrup, the spit boy, scowled at the suggestion that he was not strong enough to do his job. He usually guarded his place by the fire aggressively, as only a small boy of eight or nine could. But today, he begrudgingly made way for the little Norman boy to sit beside him by the roaring flames.

The boy smiled. “I’m Felix.”

Ælfthrup threw a glance at Bronson, who frowned at him. The Anglo-Saxon boy sighed.

“Ælfthrup.” The word was spat out, but good natured Felix persevered, and within minutes the two boys were chatting away in a mixture of the two languages.

Smiles were sent around the kitchen as the servants watched the two children, but they were wry smiles and sad smiles. Many parents remembered their children, similar ages to the boys, who were taken. Many remembered brothers that they had lost.

Avis turned back to her work, and Edith with a sigh joined her.

“What did you do before?” Avis asked her, breaking the silence. Edith did not have to ask what Avis meant by ‘before’. They both knew.

“My father was a
ceorl
,” Edith explained, brushing away a fly that was buzzing around her head. Avis knew the word – it was an Anglo-Saxon class of men – fairly wealthy, with responsibility in the community and generally well respected. “But he died when the Vikings invaded.” She bent her head over the bowl of herrings that she was marinating.

Avis shook her head sadly. Living so far south as she had done, she had only heard brief accounts of the Battle of Stamford Bridge. The Viking King, Harald Hardraadar had thought he had a claim to the English throne, and had clashed with King Harold just before the Normans had invaded. Hardraadar was a man feared in many countries, and the fighting had been fierce, bloody, and agonising for the local people. Harold had won, but then had the long march down to the coast to confront the challenge led by William. That southern battle had been brutal, but the Battle of Stamford Bridge had already become a legend. Many good and noble men had died there when Harold’s brother, Tostig, had betrayed him and joined the force of Vikings led by Hardraadar. Widows across the north had let out a wail of distress that day, and it was but days later that Avis had released her own cry, hundreds of miles away.

Avis placed a comforting arm on Edith’s shoulder. A quick hand swept the tears from Edith’s eyes.

The two women kept working together to prepare the meats for that evening’s meal until Edith spoke again.

“It is Æthelfrith that I miss the most,” Edith confided to her mistress.

Avis had heard her friend mention the name before, but had been wise enough not to enquire before. Too many brothers had been lost to the Viking and Norman hordes in that terrible year.

“Who was he?” asked Avis, nervous of the answer she would receive, and worried that she may have overstepped the elusive lines of new friendship.

Edith looked straight at Avis as she said, “my betrothed.”

Avis drew in a horrified breath. Every death was a tragedy, but for each death there was the tragic story of those that had been left behind. It was bad enough that these Normans had forced her into marriage, but by their invasion they had prevented Edith from marrying at all.

“That’s awful,” she murmured. There was nothing else to be said.

Edith nodded matter-of-factly. She had done her grieving, and was now bound by her numbness.

“It was.” She said bleakly. “But I was not the only one.”

Avis knew that she was right. The year 1066 had brought to England two invasions and the loss of not one, but two generations of menfolk. Honoured and respected men such as her father, and Edith’s father – men who had thought to put their fighting days behind them but had been called to arms by their loyalty to their King. And then young, untried and excited youthful men like Edith’s Æthelfrith, ready to prove themselves on the battlefield. Villages once full of laughter and honest labour rang quiet as women wept for the loss of husbands, brothers, fathers, sons.

Avis was forced out of her unhappy reverie by Edith’s warning.

“My lady!”

Avis ducked behind the worktop as the heavy steps of Melville echoed on the stairs. Although Avis had been flattered by his speech the day before underneath the oak tree, she was sure that he would not appreciate the sight of her working, elbows deep in cooking grease and the stench of chicken guts on her hands.

“Bronson!” thundered Melville. The small man rushed up, brushing the cheese gratings from his sleeves and wondering in panic what part of last night’s meal had offended.

“Yes, my lord?”

Robert appeared behind Melville, ready to translate his master’s orders.

“Be aware that I want local and traditional dishes served from today.” Melville muttered quietly to the shaking man, with Robert rapidly making Melville’s order understandable to the terrified cook.

“If possible, some southern dishes as well – though I’m not sure how far your expertise goes. Whatever you can manage. Do you understand?” Melville finished.

The cook looked from his translator, to his master, and back.

“My lord would prefer…Anglo-Saxon food?” he asked incredulously.

After Melville had been told of Bronson’s question, he nodded.

“Primarily Anglo-Saxon food from now on,” he repeated. He turned and had almost exited the kitchens when he paused. “And try to make it palatable,” he said, as if asking the heavens for rain in a drought.