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.
“But then Richard was given my father’s land and home,” Avis was forcing herself to keep speaking, knowing that if she stopped she would cry. She never wanted to revisit this part of her life again, and so she had to tell the complete story now. “I could see that he was meant to be my husband. The King had sent him to take my father’s land so that he could breed heirs with me. He said so, many times. But I refused. I had to learn Norman quickly, but every word was bitter wrath on my tongue. And I was alone, so alone. My father dead, my brother killed, none of my friends had survived the attack on our village. And my mother. My mother…”
Avis finally turned her eyes onto Melville. “I never saw her again.”
Chapter Nineteen
Melville swallowed. He knew exactly what would have happened to Avis’ mother – to many of the widows of Anglo-Saxon noblemen after the invasion. But how to tell Avis, who was only just hanging on to her self-control?
“I cannot say for certain,” he began, in a quiet voice. “But I know that many Anglo-Saxon women were taken back to Normandy.”
Avis’ eyes widened. “Normandy?”
“Yes.”
Avis sighed. “At least the chances of her being dead are lower. I could not imagine…I was not sure what could have happened to her.”
Melville was glad to see her wipe away some of her tears, but he wished that the rest of the information that he could give was happier news.
“My understanding is that they will be by now the wives of many Norman lords.”
Avis trembled, and she finally released the nails that were drawing blood from her pale hands.
“Like mother, like daughter.”
In a swift movement, Melville rose and knelt on the cold floor by Avis.
“If I could have done anything to prevent it – if I had known!”
He gabbled nervously. Avis smiled wryly.
“I do not believe you to be a dishonest man, Melville,” she said gently. “Do not remove that belief from me by claiming intentions that you could not have kept.”
Melville fell into silence. He knew that Avis was right – there would have been no way in which to prevent these events, and he could still not promise himself that he would have made a different decision. Acts of war such as those were expected, and it would not have been in his power to disobey his King.
“I have never defied my lord before.” Melville admitted with a sad smile, looking full into Avis’ face. “I was raised to believe that any man put above me was put there by God, and to disobey him would bring disrepute upon my household.”
Avis smiled. “I too. But then, these matters are easier for us to say, being the ones above the people in question. There are but a few that we must obey.”
Melville stood up, and lightly lifted Avis’ legs up so that he could sit on the seat with her, with her legs resting over his lap.
“You have a great lineage.” He stated, looking at Avis.
She had been shocked at his moving so close to her, and could feel the muscles of his thighs tense as she spoke.
“Indeed. A long, noble, and honourable one. But I am the last.”
Melville took one of her cold and bleeding hands into his. He examined it, and saw that it was the wrist that she had burnt in the kitchen. It was beginning to blister now, and Avis winced as he skilfully put slight amounts of pressure on the flesh around it, to check for poison in the blood.
“Perhaps not the last.”
Avis tried to pull her hand away from him, but he gently restrained her, and she quickly gave in, too exhausted to fight him.
“Perhaps.” She said, sadly, but ignoring the pointed reference that he made to the possibility of their children. “I have not received word from my cousin since the Normans came here, but I live in the hope that he escaped to Ireland. Perhaps he has married and had children that will continue the nobility of my family.”
Melville looked deep into her eyes. “You take much pride in your family.”
Avis smiled. “I am at the bottom of a long line of proud people.”
“And I am the first.” Melville said bluntly.
Avis was puzzled by this peculiar pronouncement.
“My lord?”
Melville wrenched his gaze from her injury, and looked shamefully into her open face.
“I am not of noble blood, Avis.”
She pulled her hand from his.
“Another lie?” she said erratically. “Another pretence?”
The distrust in her tones tore Melville apart. All he wanted to be was open with her, to be honest. And now was the time to finally be truthful.
Chapter Twenty
“You have given me such honour,” Melville said, “in speaking of your life to me. I wish to share part of my personal history with you.”
Avis glanced again at the fire, avoiding his intense gaze. She could never be sure of Melville’s intentions, but he had seemed truly shocked to discover how the Norman invasion had been perceived and felt by the Anglo-Saxon inhabitants. Despite her tiredness, she knew that she owed it to him to hear what he wanted to say. Even if it caused her more pain, which it undoubtedly would.
She could not understand how he could offer her an explanation for what had happened – it would be offensive to try and pretend that the pain that she and countless others had experienced could be explained away. But he had listened to her. She would not be so discourteous. And part of her was indeed most curious to know more about this brooding and usually so silent husband of hers.
She smiled at Melville through her tiredness.
“It would be my honour, my lord.” She replied formally, and then added, “if you don’t mind.”
Melville returned her smile. He drew in a long breath, preparing for the long and difficult conversation he knew that he was entering into. Whatever her reaction, at least he was finally being honest with her.
“With your skill at languages, you have probably ascertained the meaning of my name.” He began.
“Bad town.”
“Indeed. In fact, it was a name given to me by my father – a man I cannot exactly remember. He…he was a…he seduced my mother and then abandoned her. She was a lowly peasant near
Calais.”
Avis almost drew her legs away from him, but desperately prevented the instinctive movement. This she had not expected. The idea that this man was of peasant origin, and an illegitimate son astounded her. To think that her noble line was now irrevocably linked with his! But then she recalled her most recent and most passionate statements. Her nose unconsciously scrunched as she tried to think quickly. She could not disapprove of Melville due to his blood and then challenge his assumptions of the Anglo-Saxon peasants in their village.
Melville continued.
“Every word is difficult for me to say,” he said awkwardly. “I have never spoken to anyone about this – indeed, I had promised myself that I would never recount such painful things. Even those who became like brothers to me on the battlefield do not know about my troublesome past.”
About his past, and sad and lonely childhood. Melville tried once more to explain to this noblewoman just what it was like to live as he did.
“To be illegitimate to the Normans was to be born half-dead.”
“I know,” whispered Avis. “At least, I understand. It is the same with my people.”
“Then you comprehend,” replied Melville. “You know then, the sort of life that I have lived – that all people of my birth will live.”
He fell into silence, and Avis did not know what to do. There was no point in trying to comfort him – what could she say? She could not alter the circumstances of his birth. She wanted to reach out a consoling hand, but did not know how, and after a moment he continued speaking.
“I was raised in what I know you would call poverty, and I must admit I still retain the traits of one used to daily hunger. Lack of food was not unusual, it was the norm. The town that was closest to my village was one not unlike some I have seen here, but my home village is not alike to the village here. It was set upon a mountain side, with tall pines lining the way and each house a different shade due to the oils we used to paint them. Ours was a deep red, a burnt red that glinted in the autumn sun.”
He smiled down at Avis, and she returned his smile. It was evidently helping Melville speak about his childhood, despite the effort that he was undergoing to tell it. Avis could not help but be intrigued. Melville continued speaking, his voice low and soft, and Avis was once more calmed by his tones.
“The birds are not of your kind, and the songs I think are sweeter. The air there is clearer, and the rain that falls is cleaner and grows the land faster than in this soggy country. The traders that came on the second Sunday of each month brought news of the outside world, a world which I could not imagine, having never travelled more than a day from my place of birth. And – ”
Melville turned to see Avis’ eyelids drooping, and chuckled.
“I weary you. Forgive me.”
Avis forced her eyes open, and returned his laugh.
“My apologies, my lord. Your story is most interesting, truly. Tell me: what did the traders sell to you?”
Pleased to see that Avis had indeed been listening to his words, Melville continued. He painted her a bright and yet menacing picture of his childhood and early youth, full of misadventure and cruelty – but also of freedom and laughter with his mother, who he evidently cared for a great deal. Avis tried to picture a younger Melville, to see him as a young child, but was shocked to find that her imagination offered her a smaller version Melville with a shock of golden curly hair – just like her own. She shook her head as to push the disturbingly attractive image out of her mind, and paid closer attention to what Melville was saying.
“Being of my low and relatively unknown birth, I was restricted from many ways of earning food and shelter.” Melville had not noticed the momentary lapse in Avis’ attention. “There were certain social rules about what one could and could not do – and for me, it was more what I could not do. It was difficult to support my mother on the small amount that I could earn. And when this man William arrived, whose enemies called him the Bastard just as I was called every day, declaring that he was travelling to a land of riches and that all may join him…”
He trailed off, realising how offensive his words may appear. This land that he talked of, this wealthy land of riches, was her home – and the riches taken were stolen from the innocent. But Avis’ eyes had not left his, and there was no resentment in her face, simply openness and a willingness to listen. His gratitude to her was strong, and he shuffled his legs closer towards her, so that he could feel the slight weight of her legs on his.
He had been this close to many people before, but never before this moment had he felt so vulnerable, and yet at the same time so safe. Melville slowly pushed a strand of hair behind his ear, and was surprised to find that his hand was shaking. It was difficult, being so open with another person. He had always considered it weak, a weakness that was not permissible for a man of battle. But Avis drew him out of himself in a way that no other person ever had. He felt safe with her.
“My mother did not want me to leave her.” Melville said sadly. “I am her only child, and I had often to protect her from the slander and gossip of our town. Defending and guarding her had been the one constant in my life, aside poverty, and it was darkness in my soul and bitterness in my heart to abandon her.”
Avis’ heart softened, despite herself. He too understood the love that dwelt between a mother and her child. This explained his almost violent protection of herself and her status – being so accustomed to doing so for his mother, the other most important woman in his life. As unwelcome as it had been, she now understood it for what it was: his masculine desire to protect those that could not protect themselves.
Melville confessed, “I wanted to earn my fortune in the invasion – ”
Avis could not help her retort.
“A fortune from my people!”
The words sang out in the air, cutting through the atmosphere of calm and creating jagged edges in the silence. Avis looked away, mortified that she had been so rude – and when Melville had been so polite to her when she had bared her past to him. She looked over to him, and saw sadness in his eyes.
“I am sorry,” she said quietly. “Please continue.”
Melville took her hand, and squeezed it.
“I wanted to be able to return to her, and make sure that she would be cared for, just as she deserved.” A strong anger coloured his face as he said, almost in a shout, “but no! My King has forbidden me from returning to Normandy. He says that my place is here now, where my land is.”
Avis said nothing for moment, and then lifted herself up from languishing in the comfort of the seat. She drew herself close to Melville, and leaned on him between his neck and shoulder, and spoke in a voice which was timid.
“A love of the land is something that you Normans and we Anglo-Saxons share then.”
Melville dared not move, lest he shake Avis from him. He could never have hoped that being so brutally honest with his wife would have drawn her so close to him – but here she was, slowly falling asleep resting against him.
He had expected anger, and shouting, even in her tired state. But instead she had accepted his words. He could not believe that Avis, in her gentleness and power, had not risen against him, now that she knew what he was, who he was. Melville drew his arm around her, bringing her weight entirely on himself, but she was so light that it barely registered. Avis placed a fluttering hand around his stomach, and it lurched. Hers was a touch like none other: a source of warmth and comfort, but also of a heat which he now recognised as one only stimulated by her touch.
“Do you still desire to return home?” Avis asked, awkwardly. She was unsure what answer she wanted him to give, but she must know.
Melville hesitated. When he did speak, each word was carefully considered and given much weight.
“I am a Norman.” He said wearily. “Normandy was where I was born, it was where I first drew breath. I learnt to walk on its soil, and its grain nourished me. I trust that my mother still lives, and that she calls Normandy ho
me. In these ways, it will always have a pull on my heart.”
Melville hesitated once more.
“But my heart is learning about this old country, and although it is not the same, its differences are certainly…alluring.”
Avis smiled slowly at him. She did not really understand what he was trying to tell her, but she trusted him. She knew that it was a kind message, and a message meant definitely for her, and she was grateful to him.
But panic started to rise from her stomach. Trusting a Norman! By their very nature they were untrustworthy. They could not be entrusted with anything, let alone one’s safety, one’s memories, one’s heart. But as she looked at Melville, gazing into the fire with the light of sparks leaping across his masculine features, she was reassured. The feeling of nausea lessened, and she could once again breathe easy. Melville was not like that. This man could indeed be relied upon.
Melville hummed under his breath. It was the same song that she had heard him singing during what felt like a different life – that day by the river bed where she had demanded that he kept his promise to her. It was the best medicine and comfort that he was able to give Avis.
She stirred, exhausted but still trying to listen to him.
“What’s that?” she murmured.
“It is a song that I love,” Melville replied softly. “It is a song that my mother sung to me when I had returned home, clothes torn from another beating and mud clotting in my scruffy hair. She sang it to me every day that I returned home with blood pouring from a new wound, and every night that I cried myself to sleep. It soothed and relaxed me then, and I hope it gives you rest now.”
“It is beautiful,” Avis breathed. “What is it about?”
“It speaks of a young man, tired of the world and unable to escape it. He decides to leave home to seek his fortune, and climbs a high mountain up into the clouds. But then an enchanter appears, and grants him the ability to alter the emotions of the people around him…”
As Melville spoke, Avis gave up in the attempt to force down the sense of safety. She could not run from Melville, and she found that now she did not want to. As much as she hated to admit it, he was not the man that she had thought he was. Avis was ashamed about the assumptions that she had made about him, about all Normans. In fact, her willingness to coat all Normans with the same tar only made her as bad as she assumed they were. How could she state that she despised all Normans when she had such a limited experience of them? In her mind she compared the three Norman men that she knew the most: Richard, Hugh le Blanc and Melville. Avis knew that if she were honest with herself, she would have to accept that the majority of Norman men she knew were indeed honourable men. Despite her sleepiness, she knew that she had been wrong.