Conquests: Hearts Rule Kingdoms (13 page)

“You – here!” Melville shot out. “What did you think you were doing?”

“Cooking. Baking today, actually.” Avis said coolly.

Melville barked out a sad laugh.

“Cooking? You don’t know how to cook.”

Avis’ cheeks burned, and she moved to face Melville, keeping the wooden trestle worktop between them as a shield.

“Don’t know how? Don’t know how to cook? Who do you think has been baking your bread every morning? Who was it that organised your wedding feast? Who ordered the betrothal menu? Who taught the servants in her own home – a home stolen from her?”

Melville’s face drew back in horror.

“It was I! I am not as talentless as you would assume, my lord!”

Avis’ hair had been flung back in her anger, and despite Melville’s wish to tangle his long fingers in her tresses, he tried to think. Avis – a cook? Where he came from, it was a servant’s role. A derogatory role. The role of a slave.

“You lower yourself in this manner?” Melville confronted her, walking around the table to stand beside her. Avis backed away from him, moving towards the spit which had been left untended by Felix and Ælfthrup.

“I see no such lowering of my status because I have more knowledge!” she cried. “Beside the fact that I love it, is it not my place? It is my duty as a woman, as your wife to make your house – ”

“Do you know nothing?” Melville shouted, following Avis as she backed away from him. “Can you not comprehend that to work with your hands is to immediately align yourself away from your noble blood?”

“What you mean is, to ally myself with the servants!” challenged Avis.

Melville’s frustration grew. “Yes!”

“I am them!” declared Avis angrily. “What difference is there between them and I save wealth?”

Melville had no answer, and instead increased his pace, forcing Avis to increase her pace. She was now running backwards to avoid him. She hit her wrist on the hot metal spit, bringing it to her tongue to sooth the dreadful pain. Avis began to run around the side of the kitchen in panic, the agony of her arm and the shouting of Melville combining to create a haze in her mind.

“Run not from me!” thundered Melville.

He followed her across the room and caught up with her quickly. With his broad shoulders and strong hands he pinned her against the wall, and although Avis struggled he was careful not to hurt her. Her eyes darted around the room, looking for a way to escape him, but the weight of his body prevented her from moving.

A small whimper – partly from the pain in her wrist, partly in her vexation at being prevented from escaping the argument with Melville – was uttered by Avis. Both of them panted slightly at the effort, one of trapping and the other of being entrapped. Melville gazed at Avis, and at the radiance that illuminated her beauty when passion fuelled her, even when it was passionate anger against him.

A hand rose to slap him, but he captured it and brought it close to him as Avis struggled to strike him. He dipped his face down to her, but only to whisper quietly into her left ear.

“I am your husband, and with no father to keep you in order that task sadly falls to me!”

Melville felt Avis’ face drop also, and turned his to the right to meet hers in the kiss that he was sure would follow. But he tasted salty water. Straightening up, he saw that his brave Avis had finally succumbed to tears.

The mention of her father from that callous mouth had almost stopped Avis’ heart from beating. The show of weakness that she considered her tears to be were not checked as she gave in to the weariness and fatigue that had been her constant companion since her unwanted marriage.

Avis spoke softly, and it was difficult for Melville to catch her words.

“If you had known my father,” she said shakily, “you would not…you could not have spoken about him in such a way.”

Melville wanted to interrupt her, to prevent her from making herself more vulnerable to him when she clearly did not want to, but no words appeared.

“My father,” Avis’ eyes glazed over as she remembered the most important man in her life, “
wuldorfæder
…”

Melville caught Avis as she collapsed. Frantically checking her breathing, he was relieved to see that she had merely fallen into a deep faint. He gathered her many skirts around her, and lifted the delicate and slight weight into his arms. Melville left the kitchen, and pretended not to notice the line of servants lying underneath the windows of the kitchen, hoping to catch a glimpse of what was happening inside, unable as they were to follow the rapid speech in the strange language.

Melville took the unconscious Avis to his outer chamber; the room in which he entertained. Or at least, the room in which he would have entertained if he had intimates that he could invite to the manor. In a strikingly similar way to Avis – although neither of them were aware of this – Melville had little use for such a room. His friends that had accompanied him to his sham of a wedding had departed to their own land and families, and he could not feel more isolated – but Avis had to be taken care of. In the room there was a soft chair stuffed with down that he had recently bought himself, and as he laid her gently down onto it, he chastised himself for not having it placed in Avis’ quarters instead. But then, thought Melville as he covered her with a soft rug and sat by the roaring fire, there was much that he could chastise himself about tonight.

Melville sighed and shook his head. Was he ever to understand this woman, this delicate and elusive creature? It seemed that no matter what course he took, he could have no part in her life – she refused him entry at every point. But what did she think she was doing, working down in the kitchens with the other servants? If any of his peers had heard of such things, their respect for him would not diminish but decease! He considered whether any of the peasants that lived in his village knew what their mistress had being doing in her leisure time. Melville remembered their mocking smiles and laughs, and kicked forcefully at the leg of the chair. Of course they knew.

The sound of the kick had roused Avis. She stirred, and upon opening her eyes, frantically looked around the unknown room until they rested on Melville. The frantic look did not leave her.

“Be calm.” Melville tried to reassure her quietly. “You are in my outer chamber. Rest.”

Avis tried to sit herself up, but did not seem to have the strength. The pain by her wrist was a dull stabbing ache now, and she tried to ignore it. She would not admit to the weakness. She dropped back into the luxurious seat, and fixed her eyes on her husband, glaring angrily. She had clearly not forgotten the argument in the kitchen.

“My lord, I would prefer to be in my own chamber.”

Melville smiled wanly. “I have ordered food to be brought here. Once you have eaten you may of course retire to sleep.” He had done no such thing, but wanted any excuse to keep her quietly. He was desperate to talk to her.

Avis glared at him. He seemed to control her in a way that she did not like, and did not understand. He continued his smile, but it wavered as he spoke. As he spoke words that he was sure he would regret.

“Avis. Tell me about your father.”

Avis desperately did not want to cry again, but she could feel the heat of tears behind her eyes. She dug her nails into her palms as she spoke.

“My father was a very good man.”

Melville said nothing, and she felt obliged to fill the silence.

“He was the
ealdorman
of our area. Similar to your
dux
,” she explained to a confused Melville. “He was the overlord of many noblemen, and all who knew him cared for him and respected him. My father was of mild manner, and gentle spirit.”

She smiled, unwillingly, at the memory of her caring father.

“Where is he now?” Melville asked, hoping that the answer that he foresaw was the not the right one. But how could it be anything else? He had heard no word of him, seen nothing of him. Surely, if it had been possible, he would have come to his daughter’s betrothal, her wedding. But Avis’ words affirmed his fears.

“Father died.” Avis knew that she had not been the only daughter orphaned that day, but the pain did not lessen with that knowledge. “He had fought as a young man and his debt to the King – our King, Harold – had been paid. But then…”

Her soothing voice trailed off, and Melville swallowed.

“The Normans.”

“You Normans,” Avis agreed, bitterly. “We always knew that you were going to come, you know.” She finally looked up at Melville. “But the war-season was over.”

Melville knew what she meant, although the way Avis spoke of it was strange to him. Wars and battles in most places were only fought at certain times of the year, according to the seasons. No sane man would fight after September had arrived, for the harvest had to be brought in and the winter prepared for. The Anglo-Saxons had prepared for the invasion, and waited for the Normans to come all of the summer, but had then begun to return home at the beginning of autumn. Only then had the Normans finally invaded.

Avis was speaking again.

“Father was one of the last to remain. He wanted to be sure, and so was closest when you Normans landed on our shores.”

Melville remembered that landing well. Onto a beach of a foreign land, with unfamiliar smells and a coastline he did not know. Panic filled him as he paced with the other men, waiting for the glory of battle or the emptiness of death.

“I am told that he died well,” Avis drew her lips together, forcing her face into a frown. “We never received his body, but I am sure that he received a Christian burial. But he died in battle, as a man defending his people. Honour and glory is everything to my people, and when we received the news of his death, my mother was comforted. For a time.”

Melville was listening, but another part of him was also on the battlefield. He could remember the cut and thrust of battle. Jump to the left – parry. The sense of a blade, just out of sight. Turn and stab and duck an arrow. And run, run, run for your life. The exhilaration had been mingled with fear and sweat, but now he wondered with a sickening thought whether he had been the man to destroy the bond between an unknown man and this beautiful woman. The realisation that every man he had killed that day probably had mother, father, wife, child hit him with a force that caused him to jolt in his chair.

“Melville?” Avis had noticed the yellow pallor of his skin.

“Continue,” Melville managed to say, wading through his memories to the present.

Avis nodded.

“Father’s death left my family isolated and unprotected, but as we waited for the men of our village to return…” her voice trailed off. “No one came back. Suddenly every child had lost its father. Every wife a widow. Sons and brothers that you had thought you had valued when alive became priceless and unreachable now that they had been taken from you. Arguments that had been left were bitterly wailed, and discussions not finished were never mentioned again.”

Melville looked at Avis, and cursed himself silently. How could he be so unfeeling. She had known real pain and real loss, and here he was, lecturing her about cooking! But she had more to say, and now she had started to speak, she found that she could not stop.

“We had thought that you Normans would be happy with the spoils of war!” Avis laughed drily. “The claims of William for the throne had never been taken seriously by my father, and so I watched and waited for the ships to leave our land. But…”

Her eyes moved from Melville to the fire. The large, destructive fire.

“You Normans came to the village. To my village.” Avis whispered as her eyes drank in the sight of the flames, but saw other fiercer flames. “Every home was burned. Every child over the age of five, slaughtered. Blood pooled in houses and covered the grass. And the young women were all taken – they were taken and they were…”

Avis stared at the fire, unable to blink. Melville knew with revulsion what the Normans had done to those innocent Anglo-Saxon girls. He had heard talks of such occurrences, and had been disgusted then – but to hear it from an onlooker. It was more than he could bear.

“You weren’t – ” Melville spoke hoarsely. “They didn’t – ”

“No.” Avis answered without looking around at him and without blinking. “I had been in the village but had run with the others. I was one of the eldest. I had run the fastest. I and a few children had climbed a tree unseen, but we had to wait up there for hours. I was there for hours and hours.”

The smell of burning filled her lungs as she recalled the devastation that had swept through everything she had known.

“The church was burnt. And the fields, full of life, that should have been harvested by those that now nourished far off fields. Everything that I knew and loved was gone. The altar in our village was destroyed, and I cannot tell even to this day whether the women wept more for the death of our church than the death of their children.”

Melville was horrified, but he could see that Avis had never spoken of such things before. Fain would he prevent her from speaking what must be purged from her heart.

“And then,” Avis spoke so pragmatically that it tore at Melville’s soul. “They went to my home. And they killed my brother, and dragged my mother out into the remains of the village. I could see her. They were right underneath my tree. They tied her atop a horse, and they rode off with her.”

Avis breathed out a great sigh. “And then the King arrived. William the Bastard, he was then, on account of his illegitimacy. He looked at me, and I felt hatred like I had never experienced before. I did not believe that such hatred was possible against one man, but I surprised myself. I loathed him. He had begun a
cyninggeníðla
– a great feud. He had wronged my people, and I swore that I would have my revenge. He looked at me, and he laughed, and he rode away with my mother amongst his men. And one day I will have my revenge.”

Avis spoke herself into silence.

Melville finally understood why to be married to him was to curse her. Why, she had vowed to punish King William, but instead she was forced by him to marry one of the people that had destroyed her life. To be allied in marriage to one of the men that had caused her such pain – that had caused her entire country such pain – must be a daily burden that she must bear alone.