Conquests: Hearts Rule Kingdoms (29 page)

“So,” Melville said hesitantly, “what is your real name?”

“It’s Annis,” she said shyly.

“Annis.” Melville rolled the name around on his tongue. “It is a beautiful name. It suits you.”

Avis laughed.

“So it should! It is my name.”

“Does it have a meaning?”

Avis smiled at her husband. Her glorious, Norman husband.

“It means unity.”

“Unity. It’s perfect. Which would you prefer?”

After a short momentary instant of consideration, she replied.

“Annis. I think it better suits me.”

Melville drew his wife closer.

“You know,” he whispered affectionately. “I may have conquered your country. But you have conquered my heart.”

Epilogue

The sun was shining, and no cloud blemished the blue sky. As a gentle breeze rustled the trees, the flags rippled from their posts and rope surrounding the village.

Ulleskelf was decorated from the top of each house to the grass beneath the feet of the villagers. Branches of blossom adorned walls, and flowers were intertwined with luscious leaves around each doorway. The smith of the village had wrought small silver bells that jingled merrily in the lilting breeze. All of the villagers were wearing their best clothes, and the children ran round in small packs, tripping up the servants that were trying to set a delectable feast on the trestle tables brought from the house.

It was a little over two years since the terrible winter that had become known as the Harrying of the North. Melville had declared that there was to be a feast held, and the guest of honour was currently toppling towards him.

Melville laughed, and continued to give out the food and gifts to the villagers that had become his friends. Although they respected him, none feared him because his fairness and his love of the land had endeared him to each that he met.

As he moved through the village, Melville found the musicians that were wandering about nibbling on sweet pastries and spilling ale from the tankards in their other hands.

“Enjoying yourselves?” Melville smiled at them.

The musicians hastily bowed, spilling even more of their beverages.

“Yes, my lord!” One spluttered. “And we are but now to play for you!”

Melville roared with laughter.

“Be at peace, my friends,” he said good-naturedly. “There is no rush. This is a festival, is it not?”

They returned his smile, and made their way rather more quickly to the centre of the village where the festivities were to begin.

Melville followed them at a leisurely pace, and within moments the melody of a popular dance reached his ears, followed by cheers. As he turned the corner, the sight of a crowd dancing with smiles and laughter met his eyes. Children tried to imitate the adults, but were distracted by a man with dolls and puppets who led them to the side of the dancers. Felix and Sæthryth pulled Ælfthrup along with them, chattering away. Soon all could hear the children’s roars of laughter.

Melville espied Annis in the group of female dancers, linking hands with two girls from the village. They fell about giggling as one of them tripped, pulling the other two down with her. A contented warmth spread through Melville as he watched with a smile as his beautiful wife picked herself up, dusted herself down, and re-joined the merriment with no sign of embarrassment. They had truly built a wonderful life.

He continued to walk around the gaggle of spectators, greeting them as friends and equals. Melville shook hands with a young couple that had recently become betrothed: Edith and Jean.

“We had long seen it coming,” said Melville in a mock hushed tone, “but you must not tell anyone that I told you so!”

Jean laughed, joy lighting up his eyes as he took Edith’s hand in his own.

“And we are grateful to you,” he replied. “Without you, I do not know if we would have lived to see this beautiful day.”

Melville pulled his friend into a tight embrace, and Jean returned it. Over the two years of safety they had worked together to rebuild the land that had been destroyed, and it was a wrench for them both to see Jean leave and build his own life.

Their clasp only loosened when the sound of horse’s hooves startled them. Melville turned to see a rider in a livery that he recognised with horror. Running towards the man so that no one else would hear the message, Melville hoped beyond hope that it was not bad news.

“Word from the King?” He asked abruptly, before the messenger could even dismount.

“Indeed.” The man hauled himself down from his horse, and looked at Melville warily. “You were expecting such news?”

Melville gave a short grunt.

“I was not anticipating a message from the King until this autumn,” he confessed.

The messenger smiled uneasily. “Then you will be surprised by this letter.”

Reaching into the pack on his horse, he pulled out a small piece of parchment that he handed over. Melville took it gingerly, afraid of what it may contain.

The messenger watched Melville with interest.

“Will you not open it?” he asked.

Melville shook himself, and brought himself back to his senses. Whether this was good news or bad, it would not alter for the waiting of it. But he did not want to open it before this unknown man.

“I thank you,” Melville said. “If you would but follow the music, you shall find food and ale awaiting you.”

“My lord,” bowed the messenger, recognising the dismissal for what it was, but taking no offence from it. He went where Melville had pointed, leaving the letter to be opened.

A shaking hand broke the seal and unfolded the meagre amount of parchment. The Latin script was now something familiar to Melville. Annis had taken great pains to teach him his letters, and although it would never be something that he excelled in, he certainly had enough skill to decipher this short note.

The letter was from King William. It spoke of respect, and trust, and faithfulness. It declared his intention to give Melville the earldom of Northumbria – a fantastic honour. Northumbria was a large and rich land, giving a huge amount of power and prestige to the man that controlled it. And now that man was Melville.

His eyes narrowed in disbelief, and he went over the words again, his lips silently moving as he made sure that he got every word right. But his first reading had been correct. William wanted to reward him for his bravery and faithfulness. The letter did not bring bad news, but the best news that there could be.

Annis. He must tell Annis. Melville returned to the crowd of villagers, but the dancers had finished their gaiety and had now progressed to sample the many dishes lovingly prepared. There was no sign of Annis.

Robert wandered past him, talking with Bronson and Tilian.

“Annis,” said Melville in a rush, “have you seen Annis?”

Robert and Bronson shook their heads, but Tilian smiled knowingly.

“Under yonder tree, my lord,” he said, pointing at the large oak just outside the village boundary. “I reckon that would be the first place I would look.”

Melville nodded his thanks, and proceeded to make his way between the houses towards the great tree that Tilian had pointed at. As he turned a corner, the loveliest sight in the world heralded his eyes.

Annis. She was wearing her gown of blood red silk, which had become her trademark, and her long hair was braided with flowers. The sunlight glistened on a familiar gold ring that she now wore on the fourth finger of her left hand. Her back was rested against the wide trunk of the tree, and she smiled lazily at the vision before her that Melville had been unable to draw his eyes from.

A small boy, of only a year, played under the soft shadow of the leaves. Dark brown curls softly fell across his ears, and he smiled to see his father walking towards him.

“Good morrow my love,” Melville leaned down to kiss his wife, who met his embrace with love. “How does my boy?”

Annis gestured, amused. “How does he look to you, Melville?”

Melville sat himself down beside Annis, and looked at his son with pride. Myneas’ face broke into a gorgeous smile as he beheld his parents.

“You know,” mused Melville, “I still can’t believe that we managed to create such a wonderful child.”

“Can you not?” replied Annis. “It does not surprise me at all. He has two rather wonderful parents.”

Melville nudged her with a laugh.

“Ever the modest one.”

Annis watched her son pull at the grass with a look of discovery, and Melville looked at his wife. At his family.

“Myneas,” he said, and his son looked up, confused at being disturbed.

“It is a good name,” said Annis.

“It is the best,” agreed Melville. “Myneas. Tell me the exact meaning again. It is a long one, and complex.”

Annis nodded. “Our words have many layers. Myneas…it is the affection one has for a memory of what you love. Not the desire to return to it, but the wish never to forget it.”

Annis’ voice dropped, and Melville pulled her close.

“I know that some wounds always leave scars,” he said quietly. “But I intend to keep you whole and healthy for as long as I live.”

Annis snuggled into Melville, feeling his strength.

“I know,” she said softly. “We shall protect each other. We shall build a world in which everyone is cared for.”

Melville breathed in the heady scent of Annis’ perfume, and inaudibly groaned at his overwhelming love for her.

Annis smiled at him, and whispered the beginning of the now familiar phrase that they both loved so much.

“You may have conquered my country…”

“…but you have conquered my heart.”

Acknowledgements

Thank you to Endeavour Press, who have taken a chance on me, and Richard Foreman who has been beyond helpful in the process to get this book from on my computer to you. Many thanks must go to my family, Gordon and Mary Murdoch, and Haydon Murdoch, who have always supported my writing, and with whom I had a lot of fun talking about titles. Georgia Bird was my early editor, and supported me when I was convinced I was in a rut. But without Joshua D. Perkins’ encouragement to start writing seriously, this book would never have been written. To him I owe a ridiculous debt of gratitude.

If you enjoyed reading
Conquests
by Emily Murdoch you may also be interested in
His Last Mistress
by Andrea Zuvich, also published by Endeavour Press.

Extract from
His Last Mistress
by Andrea Zuvich

Prologue - January, 1675

He looked emotionless upon his reflection in the cracked, dirty looking-glass before him. His eyes were dark deep pools of blue, which sometimes seemed to take on the purplish colour of wild bluebells in the woodland, his short hair a rich chestnut brown, which he now covered with his elaborately curled auburn periwig. With a little more pride in his looks than is tasteful, he knew his was a face that could captivate any woman: he was blessed with exquisite features, a strongly-defined jaw, a well-shaped nose, a cleft in his chin, good teeth, inherited from his beautiful, deceased mother, Lucy. With his tallness of height and his unquestionable virility, he was truly his father’s son. His father was none other than King Charles the Second of England, Scotland, and Ireland.

He was James Scott, the Duke of Monmouth and Buccleuch, Earl of Doncaster, Baron Tynedale, Knight of the Garter and the Master of the Horse. His head was pounding with his latest hangover, his mind a scattered mess of graphic images of debauchery that he couldn’t make sense of. A tangled riot of red hair, gyrating breasts, and rutting dogs came to mind. Lost in these salacious thoughts, he began to fasten his lace cravat around his neck; the stubble on his throat prickled the elegant fabric as he did so. His shirtsleeves were creased and stained with wine and ale, but he shrugged, knowing he would soon be back at home where he would wash and then get some much-needed sustenance. His stomach grumbled with hunger.

His eyes caught sight of movement behind him. It was the woman he had slept with the night before. He felt a shudder of repulsion as he suddenly remembered her - a plump, ugly lass of about sixteen with greasy red hair and possibly the largest tits he had seen on a whore. By God, he could smell her stench anew as she spread her graceless limbs across the crumpled sheets, sleeping. Her skin had bruises and teeth marks from her more savage clients and his skin crawled at the thought of having so much as touched her. He was so drunk last night that he hadn’t cared what he was thrusting energetically into.

He had to stifle the bile rising in his gorge at the thought of what he had done with the wench as he finally tugged on his long brown leather boots.

The repulsion hit him anew. He had to leave before the wretch awakened. He quietly placed some coins – coins that bore his father’s noble profile – onto the small table by the bed where the prostitute lay snoring now, saliva dribbling from the side of her open mouth. He left the room in haste, wrenching his thick green coat onto his arms as he stepped down the creaking stairs of the insalubrious Southwark brothel.

“There must be more to life than this, and war,” he said to himself as he rode back upon his black horse through the snow-dusted streets towards Whitehall Palace, where there was to be a masque that evening. He was only twenty-six, yet he had seen more than his fair share of battles and lechery, and he was tiring of it all. Spoiled since he was a child, he had indulged every whim, every fantasy, satiated almost every human urge to the point where nothing now brought him joy; the endless parties with nihilistic wits and vain fops were beginning to bore him senseless.

“There must be more.”

Chapter 1 - Whitehall Palace

The masque had been a massive enterprise – a feat of management of costumes and sets, with well over a hundred people involved in its preparations. Dozens of candles would light the stage and cast a warm, complimentary light upon the set. The designers had attempted to emulate something of the sumptuousness of masques from Inigo Jones’s time, hearkening back to the reigns of James I and his son Charles I.