Conquests: Hearts Rule Kingdoms

  “Nothing to report, my lord.”

  A curt nod from Melville was enough to prevent the man from speaking any longer. He was not in a temper to hear someone rattle on about pastures and woodland – not until he’d dried off and changed into clean clothes. This country, England. He was sick of it. He had been here three years too long.

  Melville could feel his horse tiring underneath him, and patted his mane encouragingly. Melville’s strong body was highlighted by the rain dripping down along the leather chaps and onto the ground. His horse twitched unhappily, and Melville reached down to calm him.

  “Nearly there,” he murmured – but the platitude to his horse grated on his very soul. The horse could not understand why he was riding so hard and so fast towards a destiny that he did not want.

  But William was the King, and William must be obeyed. The vows a man took when he became a knight were until death, and obedience was not required, but expected. Melville had known that when he agreed to come across from Normandy, to go over to the land where the savages roamed, but he had not believed that he would remain there for very long. Now he had been given English land, and land needed heirs.

  A man near the front of the party hallooed, and Melville started from his reverie, enjoying the time spent with his own thoughts. Looking up, he saw a large manor house. He had arrived.

  A short balding man was waiting outside the building to greet him. As Melville pulled up and dismounted, the man came towards him.

  “Richard, at your service.”

  “Melville, at yours.”

  The two men briefly embraced, and then began to talk about the weather. Anything to pretend that they weren’t two men at a meeting, forced to be there against their will and better judgement. Richard looked over this youth. He was tall, and had clearly fought in many battles. You could tell by the way that he held himself that until he knew he was safe, he would never truly relax. Melville’s dark features gave him the appearance of distrust – but then, Richard thought, Normans did not expect trust in this foreign land.

  “Come inside. We have warmth, and food, and cheer.” Richard gave the offer with a watery smile, and Melville matched it with almost less enthusiasm. They walked into the Great Hall, their men and servants following them at a respectful distance.

  As Richard indicated where Melville was to sit, he called out, “bring in Avis.”

  Avis? thought Melville. It was a Norman name, but an uncommon one. Was Avis a servant girl? But the young lady that gracefully walked into the Great Hall was no servant girl. Her face was frightened, but determined, and it was obvious from her luxurious and tasteful clothes that she was a woman of high standing. A strange veil covered her hair in a manner that Melville had never seen before, but it was not unattractive. He wondered why she covered what was such a beautiful part of a woman, but was pulled back into the moment by Richard’s booming voice.

  “Avis!”

  The girl increased her speed, arriving at a brisk walk in front of Richard. He lowered his voice to speak to her, and she began replying with hurried tones, both of them glancing nervously at Melville. He began to feel uncomfortable, especially when her frosty eyes landed on him. Her frantic but quiet words were spoken in a manner devoid of panic – but her calm words were clearly not being well-received by his host.

  Avis could not believe that this man – this tall, dark man standing but paces away from her already viewing her home as if he owned it – was her intended husband. How dare this William, this King, dictate her life to her! How dare idiotic Richard agree to this pathetic charade! As Richard tried to placate her, and remind her that she always had another option, she repeatedly glared at this strange outsider. At least Richard over the years had come to appreciate and almost love the surrounding area. This man was an outsider. He could never understand the beauty of her country, and the nobility of her people. The strange man stood there, stock still and straight having refused the seat offered to him, and his muscular thighs strained at the leather hosen, and under the soft white linen shirt, muscles rippled. He must be a great deal taller than her, Avis surmised, glaring at him under her blonde lashes.

  Eventually Richard grew tired.

  “Food!” He shouted, gesticulating that nourishment should be brought up from the kitchen to the trestle tables. His men and the men that Melville had in his service gave a cry of appreciation, and Avis was forced to sit down on the left hand side of Richard, with Melville on his right.

  The conversation in the hall was so loud and the men so enthusiastic in their eating and drinking that Avis could not hear what the two lords spoke of. She ate her chicken meekly, trying to ignore the occasional glances that the newcomer kept shooting her way. The man called Melville seemed uncomfortable, and Richard appeared to be attempting to convince him over something.

  But Melville would not be convinced.

  “I refuse to marry a woman at the order of my King!”

  Richard’s eyes narrowed.

  “Then that is treason, my lord.”

  “Sir,” Melville took a deep breath, trying to quell the anger rising up inside him. He was a long way from his land and the men that were loyal to him, and he could not afford to start a real argument here. “I love the King as much as any of his true and honest followers. But I love not his desire to design my marriage!”

  “Marriage is not an individual matter.” Richard said curtly. “It is a matter of state when a nobleman decides to wed. When I marry, I shall be at my King’s disposal.”

  Melville looked at the older man, and pitied him. It was plain that Richard would never marry. He had run to fat, whereas Melville was nothing but lean hunger and fierce power.

  Choosing his words carefully, Melville began again.

  “It is not that I would not lay down my life for my King. I just don’t want to have to lay down my life for my King every night!”

  He threw a glance at this girl who the King had chosen for him. She had taken a brief peek at him, and he looked away quickly, furious with himself that she had caught him. Even with that quick glance, it was difficult not to notice her supple figure, and the rigid way that she held herself allowed his gaze to see all of her. She had scrunched up her nose when she caught him gazing at her, clearly unimpressed but nervous. Even in her shyness, she was beautiful.

  “Do you not want success?” asked Richard. “Do you not want land, and fortune, and children?”

  “I want to go home,” said Melville shortly. He stood up. “Forgive me, my lord, but I am tired and require rest. I will see you on the morrow.”

  He strode rudely out of the hall, aware of two pairs of eyes following him out – one much clearer and more dazzling than the other.

  After Richard had watched him go, he turned to Avis.

  “Well?” He said abruptly. “What do you think?”

  Avis hesitated. All of her assumptions about Melville – old, haggard, ugly – had been destroyed when the young man walked into her home. Why, he could not be that much older than she. His dark long hair often covered his moody expressions, but she could not help but feel that he was just as uncomfortable with the situation as she was. If he had been Anglo-Saxon, he would probably have been a family friend, someone that she could have trusted and relied on – as it was, he was a Norman. A man that she could never trust.

  “You ask me to try and make a very sudden decision,” she murmured, unwilling to commit herself to a decision so quickly. Richard nodded.

  “Our King does not wait, he acts. And so must you. Who is your choice?”

  Panic flooded through her veins: but not a cold panic. A hot panic filled her as she considered the curt, sturdy man that had just left the hall. Melville, her husband? She could ignore the fact that she physically warmed to him – wanted to know just how strong he was. He was her natural enemy, but in a country devoid of friends, that was not unusual. Her isolation forced her to make the only choice that she could.

  Avis looked up at Richard boldly, d
etermined to meet her fate in the decisive style of her heritage, afraid of nothing and no man.

  “I shall marry my lord Melville when it suits the King.”

  Richard looked disappointed, but not surprised.

  “And so be it. I shall send word to Melville and the King, and you shall be wedded.”

  He made a movement away from the table, suggesting that he was leaving, but Avis swiftly put a hand on his arm.

  “My lord?”

  Richard lowered himself back down, startled at the fear and discomposure in her voice. He had never seen her so unsure of herself, not since he had first ridden towards the gates of this place to take residence after the invasion.

  “My lord, I wondered…I wondered if we may have a betrothal, in the style…in the style of my people.”

  Avis’ eyes looked up at his, clear and stunning but full of tears. He remembered that for the people who had once lived in this land, it was not merely the wedding but the betrothal that held great power and hope over people’s lives. It was a time when the families of each of the couple came to celebrate their joining together, with much feasting and joy. The Normans had spoken about it with both awe and derision. Richard was curious, and he knew that this would be the last step in Avis’ Anglo-Saxon path. When she married, she would be leaving that behind and become Norman.

  He smiled. “Make your arrangements.”

  Avis nodded. She was so grateful to Richard for allowing her this last rite of passage that she almost regretted not choosing him to be her husband. But she recalled the constant groping, the sweat that poured off his nose on a summer day, and shuddered. She would never have been able to keep her marriage vows to Richard, and for her a failed marriage was worse than death – even a marriage without love was kept. Melville looked a man that understood the power of an oath. He would be a more apt partner for her.

  Richard continued speaking.

  “Let this mark your entry into our society. Let no expense be spared, and arrange it for three nights hence. A week today you shall be married.”

  Chapter Four

  A flurry of busyness and organisation overtook the manor house as preparations were made for the wedding between Melville and Avis. Avis managed to avoid seeing her future husband by spending the majority of her time in the kitchen, supposedly watching others prepare food but also helping by baking and roasting along with the other servants. She threw herself into the work, hoping to forget that it was all for her wedding. Robes were ordered, candles delivered, foods that Avis had never seen brought from far and wide. As she decorated the Great Hall, she remembered the betrothal of her friends and family, back before the Normans had conquered in 1066. They had been such glorious affairs, full of laughing and merriment. The old days, those days that Avis ached and longed for every waking moment. The characters that filled these happy thoughts were no longer around her, and she ached for them. These recollections of her old Anglo-Saxon life made her all the more determined to avoid Melville. The only time that the two had to face each other was at meal times, but Richard carefully placed himself between them. He knew that for Anglo-Saxon nobility, prolonged dialogue between a couple intended for wedlock was not only frowned upon, but actively discouraged. He did not want to put Avis in the difficult position of having to ignore Melville’s conversation – though, he thought drily, she may even enjoy the chance to insult him.

  Melville was not enjoying himself either. Stuck in the middle of nowhere with nothing to do, he had taken to riding all day with a select group of friends. They did not stop teasing him about his marriage, but he was more inclined to allow them their mockery than to seriously consider the consequences of his actions. While he was riding, seeing the rolling downs of southern England burst slowly into reds and scarlet, it was as if nothing else existed. This part of the country held nothing of beauty for him: the land that William had given him here in England reminded him of his Normandy home, and Melville was surprised how much he missed his English manor. He knew that once he consummated his marriage with Avis, he was as tied to this country England as he would be with a chain. His greatest wish was to return to his homeland, back to Normandy, back to where he belonged. And he would take no wife with him, and allow no wife to prevent him from seeing his birthplace.

  Before either of them realised, the day of their betrothal came. Haughty Melville sat at the head of the table for the first time during his visit, and looked out over the Great Hall. He had not really noticed the changes that had been made over the last few days, but was in awe of how warm and inviting it had been made. He was the guest of honour tonight, and was afforded every consideration, with spices and salts surrounding his plate, and each dish offered to him before all others. Musicians were carefully placed at regular intervals behind the revellers, and exotic incense was burning along the tables giving an air of mystery and suspense. He could smell lavender, and expensive frankincense. Melville inhaled slowly, drinking in the atmosphere: but his breathe caught in his throat as he remembered that this was to celebrate his betrothal to a woman that he had barely spoken to. Despite his irritation at the whole farce his appetite was not diminished, which meant that when Avis entered the Great Hall he had his mouth full of salted chicken and a handful of bread mopping his lips. The room fell silent, and Melville looked up.

  Avis was standing there, in a cream gown that floated over her subtle curves. Long sleeves hid her hands, and her hair was loose. Gentle streams of blonde curls showered her back and her shoulders. The men and servants closest to her stepped back in awe. Melville realised that he was dripping chicken back onto his plate, and quickly snapped his mouth shut. He had not expected this. This woman was not the child he had seen on the night of his arrival. This was a lady: of noble or even royal birth. She exuded power and elegance, and Melville was intoxicated.

  Richard walked forward to meet her with a smile on his face that made it clear to Avis that he had completely ignored the carefully chosen dress she was wearing and was seeing her naked. Avis begrudgingly gave him her arm as the highest ranking lord in the room. He walked her slowly towards the table at which Melville was eating. Melville stood up so quickly that he knocked his plate to the floor, drawing muffled guffaws from the men. Ignoring them, eyes transfixed on Avis, he walked around the table towards her, unable to remove his eyes from her, though she would not look at him. The three met in the centre of the room, and according to the Anglo-Saxon custom that Avis had explained to them all the day before, all of the others in the room formed a ring around them.

  “I, Richard, offer this woman for marriage to my lord Melville.” Richard began in what he considered to be his booming voice, which always sounded weak and timid to Avis’ ears.

  She sighed. It was not as she remembered her cousin’s betrothal; but then, how could the Normans understand? Their idea of a wedding and a marriage was one of convenience, and the bringing together of wealth and property. Love did not enter into their minds. For her family, marriage had always been a matter of the heart. She was the first in her line to agree to wed a man she had no compassion for, and she felt the dishonour strongly.

  “…agree to give your consent to this man?” Richard finished, and turned to look at her. Avis had been so lost in her thoughts that she had not realised that he had finished his first portion of the ceremony. She met his eyes, and saw the hardness there, and the lust. Her soul recoiled at the thought of him becoming so important to her. She would do anything, anything to rid herself of this man who had taken everyone from her. Even if it meant marrying this stranger Melville.

  “I agree to give my consent to this man.” Avis spoke clearly, but with no emotion. Richard now began to recite the male counterpart of the betrothal ritual, a ritual that Melville could not understand – and did not particularly want to. This old fashioned nonsense! It belonged to the Anglo-Saxon past: something that was dead and gone. No wonder William, his King, was discouraging the whole culture. It was enough to drive a man insane.


  “…and protect her honour and her name?” Richard looked to Melville. He looked at his future bride, who was slightly perspiring under the gaze of so many people. Her full red lips were slightly open in expectation, and her clear eyes glanced up at him, waiting for his reply. Melville’s lip curled. This Saxon girl had no honour. She had no family name of repute. She had a Norman name anyway – chosen to convince this Richard to take her in as his mistress, no doubt. He shook his head, and looked down at the floor. He heard an intake of breath from around the Great Hall, and saw that Avis had almost stepped towards him, hand raised to strike him.

  Richard moved violently towards him, shielding him from Avis’ menace.

  “Goddammit man!” he uttered through clenched teeth. “You dishonour me by refusing her now, here, in this manner!”

  All in the hall murmured, astonished at Melville’s response. Several heads were shaking, and he could hear tutting and clicking of tongues.

  “I have not spoken.” Melville’s voice rose clear over the hubbub of sound, which died away instantly. He fixed his eyes on the person in front of him: his bride.

  “I swear to take, marry, and protect this woman. To keep her as my bride, and tend to her as my wife.” He spoke clearly and loudly, and although the words that he had spoken were not the usual response, all could hear the power and determination in each word.

  Melville stared at Avis with penetrating eyes, and Avis knew that he was speaking directly to her and to her only. She tried to look away, but could not. Those dark eyes swallowed her clear ones as a peat bog refuses to release its victims. She could hear that Richard was speaking, but it was a long way off.

  Melville broke the moment between them when Richard congratulated him, and he looked away from her. When he turned back to look at and speak to Avis, she had gone. He swung around, looking at the crowds in the busy Great Hall to find her, but he could not see her.

  “Custom.” Richard said matter of factly, slapping him on the back. “The woman doesn’t speak to her betrothed until after they are married. Anglo-Saxons. It’s their funny odd way of doing things.”