Avis smiled, in spite of herself, watching this tall solid man consume his food like a starving child. She had her Melville back, after a time when she thought that she would never even see him again.
Without considering her actions, she placed her hand tenderly upon his knee. Melville almost cried out, the reaction to her touch was so strong. He had never known the touch of any other person to have this devastating effect on him. As much as he wanted to lift her bodily and carry her out of the room, he had to control himself. He carefully lifted her hand away from himself and placed it on the table.
“I do not think so,” he said gruffly, before turning away from her and speaking to Bronson who had finally come up from the kitchen to enjoy the feast.
Avis’ eyes filled with humiliation. He did not want her. His speech had seemed to give the impression that he truly cared for her, but this must be out of relief for his people. Of course he could not be in love with her.
Rising suddenly, she strode away from their table, and walked down the room. Settling herself next to a servant girl who Melville thought was called Edith – or something of the sort – the two women began talking away.
Melville watched her go. Avis had given no indication of becoming tired of his company. He must have done something, said something, to upset her. He sighed. Was he ever to understand this complicated woman?
Chapter Thirty
It was many hours before the festivities had come to a conclusion, and only then could Melville in all politeness manage to drag himself and Avis to a more private room. She had wanted to stay, and speak to their people, but Melville eventually could not wait any longer. He had to have her to himself. Grabbing her hand, he pulled her away from a gaggle of Norman and Anglo-Saxon women, and practically dragged her behind him.
“Melville!”
As Avis tried to rush apologies to the people that she was speaking to, they smirked as they watched their lord haul his stunning wife out of the hall. There was no need to guess what was on Melville’s mind.
As they turned around a corner in the corridor out of the eyesight of the feasters, Avis wrenched at her wrist, trying to break free.
“Melville, where are you taking me?”
Without releasing her, Melville stopped and pushed her against the cold stone wall, leaning towards her with deep emotion. Avis gasped at the intensity in his eyes, and revelled in the feeling of his strong body against hers.
“How could I leave you?” He whispered.
Avis’ breathing had become irregular, and she found it difficult to speak. She was extremely aware of his dominating arms keeping her against the wall – not that she would choose to be anywhere else. The coldness from the wall contrasted with the heat from his body, and her head spun.
“I don’t know,” she replied huskily. “You chose to go.”
Melville groaned, and dipped his face closer to hers, but just far enough away for him to look her straight in the eyes. Her clear green eyes were transfixed upon his dark turbulent ones, reaching deeper and deeper into his very soul.
“I was a fool,” he whispered. “I should never have gone.”
“But then who would have saved us?”
“You can save us all.”
“Do not be ridiculous.”
“You saved me.”
Avis was startled at his words, but Melville could no longer keep up any sort of pretence. She stared into his eyes, and leaned towards him. With a sigh of relief Melville moved, closing the distance between them, desperate for her kiss, desperate to end the torture of being so far from her.
A noise caused Avis to stop, and then turn her head. Robert had come around the corner, and frozen, seeing the two of them in such an intimate position. He had obviously tried to retreat without being noticed, but had not managed it.
“Forgive me,” he muttered and fled in the opposite direction.
Melville let out a dry laugh, and rested his head against the wall beside Avis’.
“I was not quick enough,” he breathed, and moved away from her. She remained, as if still pinned, by the wall, breathing deeply. She could not move, she could barely think.
Melville held out a hand to her.
“Come,” he said, raggedly. “Let us talk.”
“Talk?” Avis replied, confused, as he led her towards the outer chamber in which they had had some of their most intimate conversations. The last thing in the world that she wanted to do right now was talk. It was the last thing on her mind – although to be fair, her mind seemed to have little control over her actions at the present.
“Talk.” Melville sat her down in what was becoming her seat of choice, and placed himself beside her. It took every effort in his muscular body not to throw her over his shoulder and carry her into his bed chamber, but now was not the time. Before they became that physically intimate, they had to take down the emotional barriers. Trust was everything.
“What do you want to talk about?”
“Do you not have many questions as to where I have been?”
Avis nodded, slowly.
“Well, yes. But I did not think conversation was at the top of your mind.”
Melville laughed quietly.
“You know me well – or, which is more likely, I am not as subtle as I think I am.” His eyes twinkled as he looked down at her, and she snuggled closer towards him.
Avis sighed, contentedly. He may want to talk, but she was content just feeling his proximity, and knowing that he would never abandon her again.
“Questions…” she pondered.
Melville watched her, determined never to leave her again.
“First question,” she announced. “Why did you not tell me where you were going? Why leave without saying a word?”
Melville nodded.
“And ‘tis a good question.”
“Do you have a good answer?” Avis asked coyly.
He laughed. “I do indeed! There did not seem to be anything to gain by telling you of my plan. I did not expect to be able to return, and so there was little point in worrying you.”
“But I was worried,” Avis countered. “As soon as it was discovered that you had gone, and without leaving a message. If anything, not knowing where you were made me more anxious.”
“I had not considered that.”
“Do not do that again.” Avis commanded, but in a quiet, soft tone.
“I promise.”
Tiredness was catching up with Melville, and he struggled to stay awake – but he was enjoying the feeling of Avis nestled up against him so much that he was loath to send her away so that he could sleep.
“What did William say?” Avis asked quietly.
Melville sighed.
“He was very strange.”
“Have you not spoken much with him before?”
“Goodness, no. I am but a small fish in the large ocean of noblemen that William has under his command. Indeed, I was surprised to find that he knew who I was.”
Avis smiled. “You are more memorable than you think.”
Melville returned her smile, and began to stroke her hair. It still had small clumps of mud in from their embrace earlier that day, but it reminded him of how real she was. How brave, and how delicate.
“He was very abrupt. He confused me with strange riddles about the fate of Jean, and then he tried to insult you.”
Avis wrinkled up her nose and forehead in the way that was becoming most endearing to Melville.
“What do you mean, tried to insult me?”
Melville swallowed, knowing how the next sentence could sound – knowing that he had done the same thing to her that he now reviled in his King.
“He used the ‘term’ Saxon in order to offend. I took it as it was meant, although,” and he really spoke in earnest here, “you have altered my perceptions of your people greatly.”
Avis looked up at her husband, and marvelled at the change that had been wrought, both in him and in herself. Who would have thought that a Nor
man and an Anglo-Saxon could be at such peace with each other, in such intimacy. She herself would never have guessed at such an occurrence, but then here she was. But then she frowned.
“At that point, William’s favour must have felt very distant.”
“It did,” confessed Melville. “I drew my sword against my King, the very man that I had sworn to honour and protect. I thought from that point that I would never escape with my life, but after I had told him about my parentage and my childhood, he looked on me very differently.”
Avis was astonished.
“Your childhood changed the mind of a great King?”
“Yes!” Melville laughed. “He too had fought against discrimination due to his parentage, and so could understand my desire to prove myself. For that reason,” he shrugged his shoulders, “and seemingly for that reason alone, we are safe.”
Melville fell silent, and Avis considered him. This man had borne his very soul to his King, a man who had threatened to destroy him. He had gone, willingly, almost hoping to die if it would protect those that he left behind. Avis swelled with pride for him, and love radiated from her every pore. She could care for this man for the rest of her life.
After several minutes, Melville shifted himself.
“And now,” he said, pulling himself free of Avis’ embraces, “time to retire for the night.”
“No,” began Avis, but he cut across her.
“Yes.” And with that short tone, said in kindness, Avis knew that she would not be able to dissuade him. She wanted to continue talking, but knew that he was covering his exhaustion better than she could imagine. Walking hand in hand with him, they reached the door of her chamber. Before Avis could even consider what she may or may not say to Melville, he had gone.
Chapter Thirty One
In the days that followed, Avis and Melville settled into a routine around the numerous others that they were now sharing their home with. Despite King William’s statement, Melville did not consider it safe for them to return to their homes, and Avis was inclined to agree with him. Although they continued to sleep in different chambers, they spent every evening together, talking and laughing – though neither had been brave enough to try once again for that elusive kiss.
Avis continued to work with and support all of the servants, teaching the different languages and helping in any misunderstandings, but Melville never chastised her for it. He had learnt the value of letting Avis do as she pleased, and he watched as the manor became a place of laughter, and of mingling words.
As he watched Avis teaching some of the smaller Anglo-Saxon girls how to bake bread in the tradition of their ancestors, Melville ruefully regretted the day that he had shouted at her for lowering herself. His servants weren’t below him. Most of them were richer than he had been when he was a child, and he could not blame them for that. They were good, honest people. Melville could see that by keeping these customs alive, they in turn kept alive the memories of those who had originally taught them.
“Melville!” A voice that he did not recognise called him to attention. It was one of the small Anglo-Saxon girls – Sæthryth, that was her name. She was beckoning him to join them, flour smeared across one cheek and a bright smile lighting the room.
Melville gestured, trying to indicate to the child that he was not going to join her, but Avis leapt up and grabbed his arm, covering him in flour, and pulled at him, giggling.
“Come on Melville!” She dragged him over to the others, who chuckled at the sight of the huge man being pulled unwillingly towards the baking.
As Melville followed Avis’ simple instructions with the dough, he could not help but marvel at her. Here she was, born and raised as a high-born lady and now married to the ruling class, a Norman – and she had goose fat in her hair and stains all down the apron that she had donned before starting in the kitchen. No pretended graces prevented her from enjoying the activities that she loved, and she was not self-conscious enough to feel in any way embarrassed by her flamboyant pleasure. He revelled in her delight.
“There!” Avis’ voice broke into his thoughts. “Done.”
She lifted the various breads onto a tray, and carried them off, shouting over her shoulder.
“I shall return shortly!”
Melville was left with the Anglo-Saxon girls, who became less giggly now that they were left with their lord. They looked at him with awe, remembering the words that their parents had spoken to them about respect and honour. Only the small girl who had invited Melville over seemed content with his company. Sæthryth rose and walked around the table to the trestle that he was sitting on, and raised her arms.
Melville knew what she wanted. Reaching down, he lifted her up and sat her on his lap.
“Þancede,” said the girl, who rested her head against Melville’s chest. “Þancede…” Within moments, she was asleep.
Accustomed as Melville was with talking to children, he was not really sure what he was meant to do with a sleeping child. The other girls giggled quietly, and slipping down from their wooden trestle, they scampered out of the kitchen.
“Wait,” called Melville quietly, not wanting to wake the child but not wanting the others to abandon him. The servants around him smiled to see their master helplessly trapped to the trestle.
“Don’t worry,” said Bronson, whose Norman had greatly improved in the week of trying to converse without Avis’ constant translation. “She will return soon.”
“Thank you,” smiled Melville.
“Þancede,” replied Bronson.
It was the same word that the girl had muttered to him before falling asleep.
“What does that mean?” asked Melville.
“It means, ‘thank you’,” Bronson translated. He shook with laughter. “It’s time you learnt your wife’s language.”
And with that, he turned away to yell at the spit boy, Ælfthrup, who was slumbering by the hot fire.
Before Melville could think about Bronson’s chastisement, Avis sauntered back into the kitchen, arms crossed.
“Miss me?” She mocked, and then grinned despite herself when she noticed the child safely sleeping in Melville’s arms.
“Oh Melville. Who do you have there?”
“I am not entirely sure,” Melville confessed. “Sæthryth? She seems to have adopted me.”
“That does not surprise me,” Avis said as she lifted the sleeping girl out of Melville’s arms and balanced her on her left hip.
“Why?”
“Because she has no parents.”
“What, none?”
Avis shook her head. “You have much to learn, Melville. There are many children without mother or father here in this land. After all, you are married to one.”
She turned her back, taking the child with her. Melville cursed under his breath again. He and his stupid questions! Would he never remember that the wounds in this land were still raw?
It was not long before Avis could barely remember not having such a large group of people sharing her home. It felt almost natural, this full and vibrant home, and she could see that Melville was becoming accustomed to it also. Together, they had created a community that broke their fast together sleepily before dawn, toiled hard in the fields to prepare them for the spring – though with many lookouts in case of attack – and shared in the profits of their labour in the evenings, with minstrels serenading them and children darting between people’s legs. It seemed as if life had reached normality. Even if it was a different type of normality than they were used to.
About two weeks after Melville’s return, as the crops in the ground were shooting forth and the snow had finally melted for good, a man was spotted on the horizon. The lookout’s cry brought many to the front gate, and once again fear flooded their hearts. Melville pushed his way to front of the crowd, Avis at his side.
“Could William have renegaded on his promise?” Avis hissed to Melville so that no one else could hear.
“Never,” said Melville, but hi
s heart sank as he looked out at the figure.
“William promised to treat all of his vassals with kindness!” Avis returned with fire in her words. “And see how he is repaying them!”
With one look Melville quieted her.
“This is not the time to frighten our people,” he said calmly. “For all we know, it could be a messenger from the King.”
In a louder voice, he called out.
“Let him in!”
The man that entered the gates was certainly not there to rob them. He was young, but looked as if he had lived a hundred years. He lay on his front over the thin horse that was struggling to carry his meagre weight. The man’s skin was hanging off his body, and dirt covered the little flesh that he had. Avis rushed towards him.
“Are you hurt?”
The man didn’t reply, and Avis tried in Anglo-Saxon.
“Bealusið?”
The man’s eyes flickered open, and his dry chapped lips moved. No sound came out.
“Get this man inside,” ordered Avis. Her heart had stopped, and although she tried to quash the feeling, revulsion had spread through her heart. She had not seen any man in such a terrible condition since…
Hands reached for the man, cautiously helping him down. He was heaved over a strong servant’s back, and hurried inside. Murmuring broke out in the crowd, and Melville pulled Avis towards him.
“Get them inside,” he muttered. “I will see to him.”
That day, the fear that had been lost was found again in everyone. Tension filled the manor, and nothing could abate it until they heard for themselves the story of the strange man on the horse.
It was not until that evening that the entire household heard the man who had arrived in such a dramatic way speak his tale. He sat beside Avis, nervous around the Norman Melville who had tried but failed to speak to him through Robert’s translation. He had refused to say anything, apart from telling them that his name was Tilian.
The man motioned to Avis that he was ready to speak, and stood up on shaking legs. Avis arose to translate for him, and offered him her arm to lean upon, which he gratefully accepted.