Conquests: Hearts Rule Kingdoms (8 page)

“What do you think you’re – ”

Avis turned to find the voice, and saw the face from which it issued: a round man with wild tufts of hair, slightly damp from the sweat of his brow. He started when he realised that he had been shouting at his mistress.

“Erm…sorry, my lady,” he reverted immediately to patchy Norman. “I am sorry…”

He tailed off. The poor man clearly had no more knowledge of the strange sounding language, and Avis immediately reassured him.

“Do not be afraid,” she smiled, in the language that he would understand. “I am Anglo-Saxon. And I do not mind.”

Her bright smile and unworried air calmed the nervous man.

“I sure am glad, my lady.” The man broke into his broad local accent. “I am most sorry about shouting, but you’ll find many of my lord’s men will sneak in here and try to grab some food. Ruddy Normans.”

“I understand.” Avis smiled again at the look of hope on the man’s face.

“May I show you around?” His face brightened at the thought of proving to his superior just how wonderful his skills were. Avis laughed, pleased to see such enthusiasm.

“Only if you would be so kind.”

The cook introduced himself as Bronson, and spent a full hour showing her the new innovations that his lord had brought – his gratitude stifled slightly by his admission that a Norman seemed to have a good idea of how a kitchen should be.

After that day, Avis spent most of her time down in the kitchen. She befriended the women there, hearing tales of dirty men, crying children, and laughing at their stories about managing a home. The men there considered her a daughter, and taught her tricks that improved her bread immensely, and one elderly woman explained herb lore to her that she had never before fully understood.

A week passed, and Avis began to feel that she belonged somewhere. Her mother had always worked with their kitchen staff – she never thought that it was beneath her, and her father had always chuckled that the kitchen was the place that both his wife and daughter would rather be. Here, in this kitchen, even though she was hundreds of miles from home, Avis felt at peace. That she was part of a family.

When not in the kitchen, Avis had begun to transform the cold and uninviting manor into a true home for herself – ignoring the needs or desires of Melville, which she did not know. Each room was individually attended to and cared for, bringing light and laughter into every space. Orders were made to York, where some of the best merchants had gathered, and every day new deliveries brought new joy. The servants identified in her someone who would care for the place, and did everything that they could to aid her. The only real complaints were from Melville’s men, who did not appreciate the almost constant disruption as she re-laid rushes and threw corridors into darkness as the windows were slowly replaced.

But the majority of Avis’ time was spent in the kitchen. She lived in constant fear that Melville would discover that she had sought shelter with people that she knew he considered beneath her, and definitely below him. Being Anglo-Saxon was to be a second class citizen in this new Norman land, and to be Anglo-Saxon and poor was almost a crime. He would not be able to appreciate the kindness that these people had given her. But her happiness radiated through her into the whole manor, and she began to finally treat this place as her home. Her alterations did not go unnoticed.

“This bread.” Melville one night snapped at a servant. “Who made it?”

Avis froze, dripping sauce as her eyes caught Edith’s, the girl that Melville had barked at.

“Me. My lord.” Edith managed to stutter out in Norman. Melville’s eyes narrowed, and with a hand waved her out of the room.

Avis breathed a sigh of relief, but then Melville turned to her.

“Avis.”

“Yes, my lord?” Their interactions had been so few over her first week fully established as his wife that she was surprised at his speaking to her.

“You have been making many changes here.”

Avis braced herself. She knew that this conversation was coming, and she was secretly glad that he had chosen to do it in public.

“And why not indeed?” Avis was not going to be bullied. “This place needed them.”

In this hall, unlike her previous home, the majority of the servants ate with their master, at lower tables than him admittedly, and with less extravagant food. There were chuckles along the table from anyone who could follow the foreign Norman language that Melville and Avis were using. They were proud of their new mistress, and knew that she would not let their Norman lord off lightly.

Melville bristled with anger – and embarrassment.

“Is my home not fit for your ladyship?”

Avis swallowed a mouthful of food, determined not to rise to the bait that Melville dangled in front of her.

“Perfectly,” she declared clearly. “But it is my home now too.”

“You belong to me now!” Melville almost shouted, and his dark eyes met Avis’. He could see her enjoyment of his temper, and it did nothing to lessen it. Muffled laughs up and down the hall caused his temper to deepen, and rage bristled with every moment.

“Yes!” Avis stood up, in order to make her voice carry across the entire room. “And with that ownership comes responsibilities. The duty to keep me warm for example! Did you know there was no system here for ordering firewood? Or to keep me clothed? Half of my belongings were abandoned on the way here – or did you not know that? If you cannot care for me, my lord, I have no choice but to do things myself!”

“Do you think I am ignorant?” Returned Melville. “I know how to care for a lady, but I do not see one when I look at you!”

“Because I am slovenly, or dirty?”

“Because you are Saxon!” Melville spat at her, standing up and staring at his wife. His height did not frighten her. Avis stared at him, shaking in anger, and stared at his blatant anger – but instead she was drawn even more strongly into his orbit, unable to escape how small he made her feel, but also the feminine force that he drew from her with his strong arms and powerful gaze.

“Will you ever look past that, Melville?” The words had escaped her before she realised. Her eyes flickered down. One moment of weakness.

“Will you ever forget that I am Norman, Avis?” Melville countered.

The two of them stood there, a force between them simultaneously pushing them apart and bringing them together. Avis looked up at him, and saw the desire in his eyes – and she matched it. Never had a man drawn such emotion and such feeling from her. There were parts of her that were stirring that she did not previously realise she possessed, and she swayed slightly towards him.

Melville saw the movement, and his heart leapt. He knew that he could tame this timid and yet terrifying beast if he chose to, but he did not know if he could match her passion. She was so young, and precious, and so angry. He could see the movement of her breast, and the desire that overflowed from his eyes was met by a similar lust from Avis. But suddenly he realised: she was Anglo-Saxon. She was probably taught to please – and by God, she would certainly please – but he would not give himself to a woman who would refuse to work with him. It would have to be a partnership, or nothing at all.

Avis took a step backwards. Silence coated the atmosphere in the hall. All of the servants and Melville’s men had stopped eating, forks halfway to mouths, to watch the argument at the top table.

Collecting her blood red robes around her, Avis slowly and gracefully walked its length and left quietly. A murmuring from the servants erupted as soon as she was no longer visible.

“Silence!” Melville demanded. Fearful eyes turned towards him, and then looked quickly down at their food.

Melville sighed. That woman! She knew exactly how to frustrate him, pointing out his faults in front of Anglo-Saxon servants, bringing herself closer and closer to him, taunting him with her very presence. How dare she! He had not realised how susceptible he clearly was to her charms. Pursing his lips, he knew that he would have to conquer her – just as her people had been conquered.

Chapter Twelve

Avis was angry. She was often angry in this new life of hers, but she was learning to channel it. Always a passionate child, she knew that the deep emotions that often stirred her could be used to do great things – and she was determined to do just that, whether Melville approved or not. As she almost ran away from the hall, she could feel her cheeks burning. To start considering this man as a man, as her equal, and not as a Norman, would be a mistake. She must not forget herself. By the time she had reached her bed chamber, she was resolved. She was going to continue to do exactly as she had been doing. Melville and his posturing be damned.

The next morning saw her organising many servants, all busily working to change the hall in which she and Melville had had their last passionate but restrained encounter.

“Higher!” she called to a male servant. “Higher up!”

When she had arrived the high walls of the hall had been bare and unwelcoming – but now they were covered with tapestries and hangings of bright colours and golden silks. The light from the hundreds of candles reflected brightly on the expensive twists of thread, and in turn illuminated Avis’ golden hair, only just visible beneath her veil. She smiled.

“Perfect.” Avis turned on the spot, taking in the beauty and elegance that she had created. She sighed, smiling. This was now a hall worthy of being her home. Already she felt more comfortable, and it showed as she relaxed and flexed her aching shoulders. There was little that women like her could do, but in this small way, her acts of rebellion were mounting.

Shouts of men and barks of dogs heralded the entrance of Melville, who had once again been hunting all day. Avis surreptitiously caught the tangles of hair that had escaped her veil and trapped them once more in its folds, preparing herself for the verbal onslaught that she had come to expect from her tall and brooding husband. She had not seen him since their last, very public argument, and she would be astonished if she survived punishment.

“Out.” Melville ordered the servants, not even looking at his wife. They obeyed him, terrified of his shouting voice, but Avis stood her ground. Once all others had gone, he slowly walked up to her, stopped about a foot from her, and lowered his deep voice.

“What do you think you are doing?”

Avis wanted to hate this man, but found that she could not. Her dislike was still strong, of course, but she could not hate a fair person. He was a just man, and his dark eyes were never happy but always sad. She had known much sadness, but could not comprehend how a Norman could know the pain that she did.

“Making a home, my lord.” Avis spoke softly, hoping not to arouse his anger which – although she had never seen its full extent – she imagined rivalled hers.

“This is my home, Avis.” His voice gently caressed her name, and she shivered. How could this man have such a physical effect on her?

Melville noted the shiver, and strove with himself not to take this luscious woman into his arms. He had been watching her the few weeks that she had entered his life, and had been amazed at the strength and resilience that she had shown. Ever since their encounter at the river, he had observed Avis, and noticed many instances of kindness towards these people, and many times he had caught her smiling.

Many people were afraid of him, and his coarse manner of speaking, and this did not surprise him. But she had matched him – and always with that subtlety and beauty that in his mind was found nowhere else. He watched the flutter of her throat. She was frightened of him. He was almost glad; glad that he seemed to have just such a strong effect on her as she did on him.

“My home also,” she replied. “Whether you enjoy that fact or not, my lord, you are married. I live here too, and I prefer to live in somewhere more…” she savoured the moment of offending him, “refined.”

This cut Melville more than she could know, and the light in which he saw her extinguished. He would not be taken in by her tricks, and her beauty.

He laughed. “You don’t know the meaning of refined,” he spat. Saxon.”

Melville turned and strode out of the room, laughing. Avis sat down suddenly on a nearby chair, and put her head on her hands. Why was what she considered to be a badge of honour suddenly the best insult that any man could throw at her? How much longer could she continue in this tortuous marriage?

But she shook her head, and stood up again. No matter what happened, no matter what this brute threw at her, she was married. Nothing was going to change that, and all she had to do was survive.

The next day was Sunday, a day to go to the local village church. It was built in the new Norman style, a style that Avis was not familiar with but sadly admitted was indeed beautiful. The priest was also Norman, but mass was given in Latin – a language that none but Avis knew. She relished this refinement that Melville lacked, and made sure each time after church to explain the meaning of particular phrases, watching his annoyance rise but unable to act with such distinguished company.

“And of course there’s
spiritus
sancti
. That’s the Holy Spirit.”

Avis flashed a look of mirth across to Melville, but his face was as determinedly blank as ever. She continued.

“Another word you probably didn’t understand was
Deus
. That translates as God.”

Melville did not reply, and she eventually fell into silence also.

Avis could not understand why Melville, as a nobleman, had not been taught the sophisticated language of Latin as she had been, even though as a Norman he was only slightly better than a savage. But Melville had never risen to her bait, and at times she felt childish for constantly forcing him to maintain his calm demeanour when she knew he would rather shout at her.

Having returned from church, Avis was enjoying a lavish and thankfully solitary meal while Melville presumably was dealing with the affairs of the estate. A noise startled her, but turning she could see that it was only a messenger, holding a scroll.