Conquests: Hearts Rule Kingdoms (2 page)

Avis wandered leisurely down the stone slab stairs into the kitchen, firm in the knowledge that none of the servants would be up yet. The blue sky that heralded her lifted her spirits. She had always loved the summer season the most. After passing through the long corridor, Avis entered the kitchen. Checking the fire by the spit was lit, she began to prepare dough for baking. She had loved cooking ever since she had been taught as a girl, but it was not appropriate for a noble woman to be seen doing servants’ work. This was why she always worked in the kitchen in secret. Even the servants did not know who prepared the delicious bread that was seemingly delivered every morning.

It was hot work, and soon Avis had forgotten about Richard, and proposals, and invasions, and family. One could not bake bread and fret. She threw herself into the task, and before she realised it the servants were beginning to appear. Washing her hands briskly in the nearest ceramic bowl of water, she pretended to inspect the wooden tidy surfaces as men and women streamed in, ready for a new day of work.

“Oh!” The cook saw her and attempted a curtsey, almost tripping over her own feet.

Avis laughed. “It’s alright, Æthelfreda, I just wanted to check everything was running smoothly down here.”

“Oh.” The cook attempted a smile, but was clearly terrified. “We’re doing our best in preparation for my lord’s guest, but I haven’t – ”

“Guest?” Avis stopped her, and nonchalantly began walking around the kitchen. “Who?”

“A man from the King, my lady. He brings a message about your marriage.”

Avis stopped. Her eyes widened and she could see bright lights moving around her. “My marriage?”

The cook swallowed, suddenly aware of every other servant looking at her, horrified.

“Maybe my lady should speak to my lord about this.”

Avis nodded, and collected herself. Walking serenely out of the kitchen, she broke into a run towards the Great Hall, the centre of the manor, where she knew Richard would be warming his back by the fire.

Pushing the door violently and neglecting to shut it, she burst out, “Richard!”

The short sweating man turned, surprised, and scowled when he saw her.

“Avis.”

“I have heard tell of my impending marriage!” Avis was incredulous. “Pray do tell.”

Richard opened his mouth to retaliate angrily, but stopped. He thought carefully, and then sat down in a chair by the fire.

“Sit.” He ordered curtly. “I will tell you all.”

Avis rushed to the comfortable wooden seat with several throws covering it that was opposite him, and dropped down, smoothly her skirt around her. Raising her eyes to him, Richard was reminded once again how striking she was.

“I have grown weary of this pretence,” Richard began.

“It is not my choice to – ”

“I know.” Richard had been gazing at his feet, but now he looked up at her, the newly lit fire throwing his wrinkles into sharp relief. “But it must end.”

He waited for her to challenge him, but she knew he was right.

“I received a letter from our King yesterday. William requires further marriages between my people and yours, to cement the nations together. He knows that I have been…unsuccessful with you.”

Avis looked at him. She could not pity him – he was a Norman – but she could understand the pressure that he was under. Part of having noble blood was that certain things were expected of you. Marrying well was one of them. Richard looked tired, and he felt it.

“And so William has chosen a husband for you.”

Avis started. “A husband? He cannot choose me a husband!”

“He has.” Richard was firm. “He presents you with a choice: to marry me, or to marry young Melville.”

Melville. Avis thought hard, and translated the strange Norman word. Bad town. Not a name that suggested a brave, strong man. He was probably short and pale, like Richard, she thought miserably.

“Who is this Melville?” She said finally.

“He is a young nobleman of Norman stock. That is all you need know. He will arrive today, and then,” Richard’s gaze moved from her to the fire. “You shall make your choice.”

“And if I choose none?” Avis spoke strongly, and Richard turned to look at her again. “If I choose not to marry at all?”

Richard smiled, bitterly. “That is no choice.”

Avis was confused, and her small nose wrinkled.

“Everyone has a choice!”

“Not you.” Richard stood up and began to walk away. “You are a Saxon.”

He slammed the door behind him, echoing the Great Hall with a hollow note. Avis bit her lip. She did not know what William, Richard or this Melville would do to her if she tried to disobey, but she could imagine. She had lived but sixteen summers when the Normans had arrived in her village, and she could still recall the smell of burning and the screams of the women who had been taken. She shut her eyes, and tried to think.

There could be no harm in viewing this Melville. Perhaps he was old, like Richard, and required a companion in his old age. Maybe he is tired of this country, and could return to Normandy without her. She opened her eyes, and her face looked determined. Richard’s passing insult had only revived in her the spirit of her people: proud, strong, and courageous. Anglo-Saxons did not give up without a fight, and their women were powerful. They had to be. She knew she was brave enough to face down this Melville, whoever he was.

Chapter Three

Melville was tired and disappointed with this weather. Riding for three days towards a town which he had never heard of, to marry some wench that he imagined dirty and petulant, had not improved his mood. He swept his long dark hair out of his eyes as two of his men returned on horseback from a scouting trip on the area. Rain poured down his face, lining his jawline and causing his clothes to cling to his taut body.

“Nothing to report, my lord.”

A curt nod from Melville was enough to prevent the man from speaking any longer. He was not in a temper to hear someone rattle on about pastures and woodland – not until he’d dried off and changed into clean clothes. This country, England. He was sick of it. He had been here three years too long.

Melville could feel his horse tiring underneath him, and patted his mane encouragingly. Melville’s strong body was highlighted by the rain dripping down along the leather chaps and onto the ground. His horse twitched unhappily, and Melville reached down to calm him.

“Nearly there,” he murmured – but the platitude to his horse grated on his very soul. The horse could not understand why he was riding so hard and so fast towards a destiny that he did not want.

But William was the King, and William must be obeyed. The vows a man took when he became a knight were until death, and obedience was not required, but expected. Melville had known that when he agreed to come across from Normandy, to go over to the land where the savages roamed, but he had not believed that he would remain there for very long. Now he had been given English land, and land needed heirs.

A man near the front of the party hallooed, and Melville started from his reverie, enjoying the time spent with his own thoughts. Looking up, he saw a large manor house. He had arrived.

A short balding man was waiting outside the building to greet him. As Melville pulled up and dismounted, the man came towards him.

“Richard, at your service.”

“Melville, at yours.”

The two men briefly embraced, and then began to talk about the weather. Anything to pretend that they weren’t two men at a meeting, forced to be there against their will and better judgement. Richard looked over this youth. He was tall, and had clearly fought in many battles. You could tell by the way that he held himself that until he knew he was safe, he would never truly relax. Melville’s dark features gave him the appearance of distrust – but then, Richard thought, Normans did not expect trust in this foreign land.

“Come inside. We have warmth, and food, and cheer.” Richard gave the offer with a watery smile, and Melville matched it with almost less enthusiasm. They walked into the Great Hall, their men and servants following them at a respectful distance.

As Richard indicated where Melville was to sit, he called out, “bring in Avis.”

Avis? thought Melville. It was a Norman name, but an uncommon one. Was Avis a servant girl? But the young lady that gracefully walked into the Great Hall was no servant girl. Her face was frightened, but determined, and it was obvious from her luxurious and tasteful clothes that she was a woman of high standing. A strange veil covered her hair in a manner that Melville had never seen before, but it was not unattractive. He wondered why she covered what was such a beautiful part of a woman, but was pulled back into the moment by Richard’s booming voice.

“Avis!”

The girl increased her speed, arriving at a brisk walk in front of Richard. He lowered his voice to speak to her, and she began replying with hurried tones, both of them glancing nervously at Melville. He began to feel uncomfortable, especially when her frosty eyes landed on him. Her frantic but quiet words were spoken in a manner devoid of panic – but her calm words were clearly not being well-received by his host.

Avis could not believe that this man – this tall, dark man standing but paces away from her already viewing her home as if he owned it – was her intended husband. How dare this William, this King, dictate her life to her! How dare idiotic Richard agree to this pathetic charade! As Richard tried to placate her, and remind her that she always had another option, she repeatedly glared at this strange outsider. At least Richard over the years had come to appreciate and almost love the surrounding area. This man was an outsider. He could never understand the beauty of her country, and the nobility of her people. The strange man stood there, stock still and straight having refused the seat offered to him, and his muscular thighs strained at the leather hosen, and under the soft white linen shirt, muscles rippled. He must be a great deal taller than her, Avis surmised, glaring at him under her blonde lashes.

Eventually Richard grew tired.

“Food!” He shouted, gesticulating that nourishment should be brought up from the kitchen to the trestle tables. His men and the men that Melville had in his service gave a cry of appreciation, and Avis was forced to sit down on the left hand side of Richard, with Melville on his right.

The conversation in the hall was so loud and the men so enthusiastic in their eating and drinking that Avis could not hear what the two lords spoke of. She ate her chicken meekly, trying to ignore the occasional glances that the newcomer kept shooting her way. The man called Melville seemed uncomfortable, and Richard appeared to be attempting to convince him over something.

But Melville would not be convinced.

“I refuse to marry a woman at the order of my King!”

Richard’s eyes narrowed.

“Then that is treason, my lord.”

“Sir,” Melville took a deep breath, trying to quell the anger rising up inside him. He was a long way from his land and the men that were loyal to him, and he could not afford to start a real argument here. “I love the King as much as any of his true and honest followers. But I love not his desire to design my marriage!”

“Marriage is not an individual matter.” Richard said curtly. “It is a matter of state when a nobleman decides to wed. When I marry, I shall be at my King’s disposal.”

Melville looked at the older man, and pitied him. It was plain that Richard would never marry. He had run to fat, whereas Melville was nothing but lean hunger and fierce power.

Choosing his words carefully, Melville began again.

“It is not that I would not lay down my life for my King. I just don’t want to have to lay down my life for my King every night!”

He threw a glance at this girl who the King had chosen for him. She had taken a brief peek at him, and he looked away quickly, furious with himself that she had caught him. Even with that quick glance, it was difficult not to notice her supple figure, and the rigid way that she held herself allowed his gaze to see all of her. She had scrunched up her nose when she caught him gazing at her, clearly unimpressed but nervous. Even in her shyness, she was beautiful.

“Do you not want success?” asked Richard. “Do you not want land, and fortune, and children?”

“I want to go home,” said Melville shortly. He stood up. “Forgive me, my lord, but I am tired and require rest. I will see you on the morrow.”

He strode rudely out of the hall, aware of two pairs of eyes following him out – one much clearer and more dazzling than the other.

After Richard had watched him go, he turned to Avis.

“Well?” He said abruptly. “What do you think?”

Avis hesitated. All of her assumptions about Melville – old, haggard, ugly – had been destroyed when the young man walked into her home. Why, he could not be that much older than she. His dark long hair often covered his moody expressions, but she could not help but feel that he was just as uncomfortable with the situation as she was. If he had been Anglo-Saxon, he would probably have been a family friend, someone that she could have trusted and relied on – as it was, he was a Norman. A man that she could never trust.

“You ask me to try and make a very sudden decision,” she murmured, unwilling to commit herself to a decision so quickly. Richard nodded.

“Our King does not wait, he acts. And so must you. Who is your choice?”

Panic flooded through her veins: but not a cold panic. A hot panic filled her as she considered the curt, sturdy man that had just left the hall. Melville, her husband? She could ignore the fact that she physically warmed to him – wanted to know just how strong he was. He was her natural enemy, but in a country devoid of friends, that was not unusual. Her isolation forced her to make the only choice that she could.

Avis looked up at Richard boldly, determined to meet her fate in the decisive style of her heritage, afraid of nothing and no man.

“I shall marry my lord Melville when it suits the King.”

Richard looked disappointed, but not surprised.