“I know that you have seen your belongings taken once before. All the keepsakes and memories of your lost ones, stolen – just as your families have been.” Avis looked around the small group, huddled together, and remembered her home village. There had been gaps in the faces there, and if she had known these people before 1066, she would be looking for people that no longer lived. “But you have to be strong. The most important thing is that we survive. For them.”
She pointed towards the little group of children. Mothers smiled, and the few fathers that lived looked proudly upon their sons and daughters.
“For them,” Avis repeated. “You must come with me for them.”
Slowly, all of the villagers nodded. They would do anything, just as Avis would, to protect the innocent. Within an hour every person had a bundle of belongings, down to the smallest babe who clutched theirs in podgy fingers. In a wretched but determined line, they walked towards the manor.
The atmosphere at the gate was abysmal. All of the servants, Anglo-Saxon and Norman, had come outside to welcome the villagers, but the sight of such a large group of Norman men had caused many of the village children despite their courage to cry, hiding behind their parents. Even the adults were wary. But Bronson stepped forward.
“Welcome,” he said, in his deep and comforting Anglo-Saxon tones. “You will be safe here. We will all be safe here.”
Hands reached out. Loads were taken, and arms were placed around those who were weary. A slow trickle of people moved inside, until Avis was the only one left.
Avis looked out. She could still see the bridge, and the village, though the dark night was threatening to obscure them. She could not make out the oak tree, nor the two roads beyond it. Which road had Melville taken? Where was he now?
“My lady,” said a voice behind her. She turned to see Edith.
“My lady,” Edith repeated. “You must shut the gates now.”
Avis nodded, and Edith hurried away to settle her mother down into a large room that had been set aside for the Anglo-Saxon women.
Avis turned back towards the huge gates, and sighed. As soon as they were shut, there would be no turning back. No one would be able to get out – and no one could be let in.
With a loud screech, she pulled the gates to, and barred them with large wooden boards.
“There,” she whispered. “Safe.”
But not everyone. As Avis turned to follow her people inside, she knew that Melville would not be able to enter now. He was on his own. Just as she was. And she ached for him.
Chapter Twenty Six
Melville had been riding for two days now, and with every gallop of his horse his heart was wrenched further from Avis. He could feel it. Every mile was agony, and every time they stopped he was tempted to turn around and return even faster than he had left.
But he could not. He had to keep going.
Robert rode up beside him, and shouted in the pouring rain. Even when the sun had risen, the rain had not abated. They were all tired and soaked to the skin, but Melville had refused to stop all night.
“My lord!” Robert yelled. “We must rest. The horses must take time to recover, or we shall never arrive!”
But Melville had no such intentions.
“We continue,” he returned. “We are almost there.”
“We shall arrive in no fit state to see him!” Robert tried to talk sense into his lord, but Melville’s eyes had glazed over with tiredness, and his hands kept slipping from the saturated reins. “He will not see us, I say!”
There was no reply, and with a sound of disgust, Robert dropped behind to give the message to the other waterlogged men.
Melville knew that he was not making himself a popular man. His decision not to take extra supplies at their last stopping place was another grievance he knew his men held against him. Their loyalty had always been the one constant in his life, and now he was gambling on that loyalty for the speed they were going to reach their destination. But with every second that he was away from Avis, he became more and more anxious to return to her, and if that meant travelling in discomfort, so be it.
The shy sun had risen despite the sheeting rain, but it had disappeared hours ago behind some cloud and had not been seen again. Melville and his men rode across wide open fields where harvest had been taken, and dense woodland where deer ran from them, never stopping and only briefly talking. They all knew where they were going, and none feared their destination more than Melville. He had sworn to himself that he would never return there unless he had no other choice. He had never thought that sort of circumstance would occur so soon.
Midday would have broken if the sun was visible, and still they did not stop. Every man’s legs ached from hips to toes, but still they did not demand a respite. They knew the answer that they would receive. Melville was so tired that he began to dwell once more on Avis, even though he was trying to avoid that mental subject. He cursed himself for not leaving a message for her, but he could not have entrusted any servant that remained with her with the secret of where they were going, and he could not read or write. He was ashamed of this fact and had never admitted it to Avis, but there was never a second when he regretted not learning more than that quick departure. She must think I am a fool, he thought. Or a coward. Or a traitor.
He thought about her long blonde hair, and the way that she snapped at him without fear. Her love of her people, and her obvious care for others. He groaned into the wind and the rain, and wished more than anything that he could be with her at that very moment.
But instead at that very moment he saw a dim light ahead of him. It was the outskirts lantern of the place that they had been riding so hard and so fast for so long to reach. He gave a shout, and Robert was once more at his side.
“My lord?”
“Stop the men.” Melville’s voice dripped with tiredness as his dark hair dripped with rain. “We shall ready ourselves together before we approach.”
Robert nodded. The fear that had been playing underneath the surface of his face now deepened, but he obeyed. Within seconds, Melville’s small retinue of six men had come to a halt. They grouped together, and waited for their lord to dismount.
Melville slowly came down from his horse, leaned against it, willing his bones to feel strong. After a moment, he walked stiffly towards his men who had also dismounted. They stood rigidly. They knew what they had agreed to, but none of them had been truly prepared to see the periphery of their journey's end, which had so consumed them. They looked to Melville for orders and guidance, and as he looked at them he knew he had nothing of worth to say.
“Men,” he began awkwardly. “You know why we are here, you know what we face, you know the consequences of our actions. There is no more to say.”
Some of the men were shocked by Melville’s lack of conversation, but those that knew him best were not surprised. They knew his feelings about where they were going, and all of them could guess at his emotions about the person that he had left behind. It had not been an easy decision, and now they would all pay the price.
Forming a line behind Melville, they all walked forward, towards the light. After a mile, the person standing by the light came into view, and he shouted out in Norman.
“Who goes there?”
“Melville of Ulleskelf, lord of Copmanthorpe.”
There was silence. Melville and his companions continued walking forward, but more than one trembled in anticipation.
“Follow me, Melville of Ulleskelf,” replied the voice, which belonged to a thin man who came into view as he stepped into the light. “You are expected.”
Turning his back, the thin man began walking towards the huge building that came into view around the corner. Melville gasped. He had never seen such a thing, even in Normandy. The castle was enormous, and light streamed from the entrance which was already open. Many men in dark red robes lined the way inside, and as the group passed them, several of them sniggered at the sopping motley group.
&n
bsp; Melville and his men came into an entrance hall which had a large fire in it. Desperate as they were to warm themselves at its side, they dared not without Melville’s command – and he was urgently looking around the room. The man that he looked for could not be seen.
A servant walked up to Melville insolently.
“And?” He asked, with a sneer on his wide face.
“I would see your lord,” Melville asked quietly. “If convenient.”
“It is not convenient,” the servant replied rudely. “What makes you think that he will see you?”
Melville smiled, and his men leisurely formed a semi-circle, almost enclosing the discourteous but now nervous servant.
“Because I have travelled far to see him. Because I am a lord of this realm. And because I’m asking nicely.”
Melville smiled broadly, but his harsh eyes never left the servant’s face. The servant swallowed, and backed away. Once out of the reach of Melville’s men, he muttered.
“I will speak to my lord.”
He turned to leave the hall, but shouted over his shoulder.
“Though don’t hold your breath!”
The servant scampered out of the hall before Melville or his men could do or say anything in retaliation to his insolence.
“I’ve been holding my breath ever since I left home,” murmured Melville to himself. “I’ve been holding my breath for the last three years.”
But his breath had been stolen when he had seen Avis. Avis. Even here, in the midst of all this danger, he could not rid her from his mind. Perhaps it was because he was in so much danger that he dwelled on her face. He did not want to consider that he may never see that beautiful face again.
Robert grabbed Melville’s arm, and nodded towards a door. The same servant had returned, and he did not look happy.
“My lord will see you now,” he said sullenly. He was evidently disappointed that he had not managed to persuade his lord to send Melville away.
“Thank you,” Melville attempted to remain polite, but it was gall to his throat. Gesturing to his men that they were to follow him, he walked towards the servant.
“No,” the servant held up a hand. “Just you, my lord Melville. Your men may remain here and warm their hands. They are not to come.”
“I take this as an insult,” Melville shouted. He was tired, and he had had enough. “An insult against my name!”
“Take it as such.” The servant shrugged his shoulders. “It was meant to be.”
Melville pulled his hands into fists, but calmed his ragged breathing. There was plenty of time to shout later. It would not do to antagonise his host before he even saw him.
“My men shall remain here,” he conceded with difficulty. “I follow you.”
The smirk returned to the servant’s face, and as much as Melville wanted to punch him, he refrained.
The servant led him out of the entrance hall, through corridors lined with tapestries, candles at every corner, and gold threaded embroideries. The display of wealth was not subtle. Many servants passed them as they walked through, many of them carrying ornate bowls and plates covered with food or jugs spilling over with wine. Melville’s mouth watered. He had forgotten how many hours it was since he had eaten.
Eventually the servant led him into a small room, with red and gold coverings on the chairs. One chair was slightly larger than the others, and beside it was a small table with a bowl of apples upon it. The large roaring fire had a marble hearth, which in turn was covered in gold and silver ornaments. This room was just as richly decorated as the corridors, but Melville could not help but feel uncomfortable, surrounded by such abundance.
“My lord is on his way.”
The servant exited the room, leaving Melville alone. He did not want to sit down before he had been invited to by the man that he had come to see, but tiredness ached along every bone. However, Melville was used to pain. He had fought many battles, and this may be the last he ever fought.
Trumpets sounded outside the door, and there was the sound of footsteps. Melville stood still and upright, ready. His heart pounded and the heat of the fire seemed to increase with every louder step.
The door was flung open, and in walked a burly man, tall and strong. His blonde hair was scattered with red and grey, and several scars crept up from his hands into his sleeves. He threw himself onto the slightly larger chair, and then looked straight at Melville, standing stiffly. He smiled.
“Melville.” The man’s voice was guttural and deep, and it threw Melville into greater fits of terror. But he knew what must be done.
Melville walked forwards and knelt on the floor.
“My King.”
Chapter Twenty Seven
It had been two days. Two days. Avis could not believe that Melville had been gone a mere two days. It felt like an age, and it felt like forever – and it felt like he was never coming back.
Our very lives are in the balance, she reminded herself. This is not the time to think about yourself, and your petty worries. Focus on the here and the now.
The here and now was the Great Hall. Avis was sitting on a wooden trestle, watching the children play and making sure that they did not hurt themselves. The first day in the manor had been a day of fear for the children, trying desperately to avoid the Norman men in the corridors, and prattling Anglo-Saxon to Norman children before they realised they were not being understood – but they had settled quickly into the new routine. Their parents had taken much longer to adjust, and there was still fear and distrust between them and the Normans that surrounded them.
Avis had thought that as each day went by, her longing for Melville to return would decrease, but she was wrong. With each passing second, her desperation to see him only increased. Not an hour went by when she did not think about what he could be doing, and who he was with; but it was difficult to picture him in his new home because she had no idea where he was. Was he hiding in a forest? On a boat travelling to Ireland? Did he make his way to Wales, or to Scotland? Was a Norman lord sheltering him in his manor? She could not even hope to guess which, if any of her guesses were anywhere close to the truth. In all of her thoughts about him, the images had no background, and the faces that surrounded him were hazy. The idea that Melville had left to see King William had not even crossed her mind.
Her fingernails had been bitten right to stubs, and some of them were bleeding. This bad habit had been beaten in childhood, but with the uncertainty of when the attack would begin, she had returned to old ways of dealing with such huge amounts of stress. Avis did not even realise that she was doing it again until a pale female hand reached over her shoulder, and batted her hand away from her mouth.
“I do not think so, my lady,” reproved Edith. “You must keep your beauty, even in this difficult time.”
Avis laughed as Edith clambered over the trestle table to sit beside her mistress.
“And what use will my looks be?”
Their smiles dipped. They knew what happened to attractive women when the soldiers had killed all of the men that would try valiantly to protect them. Edith shook herself.
“No use,” she said firmly. “No use thinking of such things. We do not even know if they are coming yet.”
Avis smiled again. Edith had become a source of strength and encouragement over the last two fraught days, but she could not help but wish Melville had remained to be that support for her. For all of them.
“Thank you,” Avis said simply.
Edith returned her smile.
“My lady.”
The two women sat in silence, watching the children. The small Norman boy was also watching them. He looked nervous, but eager to join in.
“Henri!” called Avis. The boy turned to her. “You can play if you want to.”
The children turned at the sound of Avis speaking such strange words, and looked at where her gaze was. They saw the boy. Henri turned red, and began to run away, but a friendly hand was put out and stopped him.
“Tæfla?” asked the Anglo-Saxon girl, a child called Sæthryth.
Avis translated for Henri. “Game?”
Henri smiled, and took the hand of Sæthryth. He nodded.
Within minutes, the entire assorted crew were screaming and running around the room. Edith smiled.
“See what you are doing?” she said to Avis. “You are creating a new people. Anglo-Saxon and Norman.”
Avis’s stomach lurched against those words. It was too close to what King William was trying to force throughout the land.
“Do not say such things,” she said darkly.
“I am sorry.” Edith was stunned to see such a violent reaction from Avis.
An awkward silence sprung up between the pair of them, until eventually Edith spoke again, more hesitantly this time.
“You miss him.”
Avis could not pretend that she did not know who Edith was talking about, and she could not lie when the truth was written across her face.
“Yes.”
Edith put her arm around Avis, shyly.
“That is not a crime.”
Avis broke into a short laugh.
“No. But it has been two days, Edith! Where on earth could he be?”
“Then,” Edith looked confused, “he is not on an errand?”
Too late, Avis remembered the half-truth that she had told her people. No one else had asked her where their lord had gone – they had simply trusted that he would not have left them unless it was for a reason that outweighed his desire to stay. Edith was the only one that she had felt close enough to accidently reveal the truth.
“No.” Avis had told no one else, but had to confide her fears to someone. “I do not know where he is.”
Edith’s eyes widened as she tried to take in the news that the one man who may have the knowledge and experience to help them…was missing.
“But…”