Avis led the messenger to the kitchen, where Tilian was following Bronson around like a puppy.
“…and that is where the oil is kept. Make sure that no one steals it, worth its weight in gold during the winter months. And here we have – ”
“Bronson!”
Avis’ greeting stopped the man’s words in his tracks.
“My lady!” He came towards her with open arms. “I am instructing young Tilian here. He is to be my apprentice.”
Bronson beamed upon his new pupil, and Tilian nervously returned the smile. Unwilling to return to his destroyed home to see whether any others had survived, Tilian had remained with them, and had proved to be a wonderful addition to the household. His life and vigour had returned to him, and he had proved to be an excellent cook. Bronson grew prouder of him with every passing moment.
“I am glad to see so,” Avis replied with a smile. “Could you please feed and water this man, before he leaves for York?”
“It would be my pleasure, my lady,” Tilian stepped in, and ushered the messenger towards a table.
Avis nodded her thanks to Bronson, and then left the hustle and bustle that she loved, back to the entrance hall and her book.
The letter that the messenger had given her was still in her hand. Picking up her discarded book, she pondered. Who could the letter be from? Avis turned the letter over to have another look at the seal. The red wax had imprinted upon it the impression of two crosses, one overlapping over the other. As hard as she thought, she could not recall who used such a seal, although it was a common enough symbol.
At this moment, a terrible thought struck her heart. What if this letter was from King William himself? What if the King had once again changed his mind, or had another duty for Melville that he would not be able to talk himself out of? What if this letter contained vital news about an invasion by the Scots, and they were all once again in danger?
Avis could not wait for Melville to return. For all she knew, it could be hours and hours before he had finished at Ulleskelf – and even after that he may decide to travel on to York. If this letter did indeed carry bad news, there was no time to waste. She would have to open it herself.
But just as she was about to rip open the seal, she stopped herself. Another servant walked passed her, and nodded. She returned the courtesy. She could not open it here. Anyone could enter at any time, and she could not risk revisiting the horror and fear that for so long was the normal emotion here in the manor.
Avis picked up her skirts, and half walked, half ran to her outer chamber. Not until she could be sure that she was alone did she take her small knife, and carefully prise apart the seal from the parchment. With shaking hands, she opened the letter, and began to read.
Her eyes darkened as they moved down the page. The letter was in Latin, and was not from King William after all. It was from a papal legate in Rome. One particular paragraph caught her attention, and she read on, horrified.
We have considered your application to annul your marriage carefully, as marriage is a holy contract, entered into in the sight of God. However, the circumstances of your marriage certainly do speak of a couple who should no longer be forced together. Her inheritance portion, though small, is nothing compared to her inability to support you as her husband and provider, and her resistance to consummating the marriage speaks of a wilfulness unattractive in a spouse. The fact that your wedding has been unconsummated leads us to regretfully accept your request. If you return an answer to this letter requesting that the marriage be ended, we consider it a duty as your spiritual Father to accept your desire, and consider your marriage to have never been formed.
Some of the inked words on the page were melting. Avis could not understand how, until she realised that she was crying.
And so, this was how it ended. Not with an argument for all to hear. Not with hissed bitterness across their plates. Not with one person storming off, and the other letting them go. No. Their marriage had ended with secret letters, and whispered lies to men thousands of miles away, who had never laid eyes on her.
How could he write such awful things? She re-read the last paragraph again, desperately trying to find something within it that did not tear at her soul. Inability to support. Wilfulness unattractive in a spouse. Avis bit her lip, and thought back over her time with Melville. She had certainly been wilful. She had told him on their wedding night that she hated him – had tried to spit at him. She had pushed him into a river, and mocked him about his prayers. Avis raised her eyes to the ceiling and shook her head. The words hit home, and hurt her deeply, because they were just that much too close to the truth.
But then Melville had been no angel either. He had bullied her, taunted her, chased her in the kitchen and berated her, about everything that she was. He had thrown her heritage in her face, tried to keep her from those that would make her happy, and shouted at her when he should have comforted her.
Avis threw herself into a chair. They were as bad as each other.
But as she lay on that chair, she remembered the conversations that they had had in that room over the last few evenings. Dark, and deep, and meaningful, and intimate conversations. Avis had told him things that she had never been brave enough to tell anyone else, and she had assumed that he had done the same. Or maybe he spins the same tale for every girl, she thought bitterly. Perhaps I am one of many who have fallen for his good looks and his charm and his winning manner and his manly physique.
I cannot stay here, she resolved. I cannot just sit here and wait for him to return. She stood up briskly, and stuffing the letter within her bodice, strode out of the room.
Within two minutes Avis was in the kitchen. After a quick word with Bronson, in which she impressed upon him that she wanted to be alone, she set up her work on a lone trestle table and began to pummel some dough. With every push of her knuckles, Avis imagined Melville’s smiling face beneath them. How dare he write of his marital anguish to another. How could he try and be rid of her. Norman.
Chapter Thirty Three
In Ulleskelf, Melville shook hands with the last of the men who had lined up to see their lord, a smile on his face. It had been wonderful to see them again, the people that had become part of his family and his landscape over the winter. A small child had grabbed hold of his leg left, and he had to prise a chubby hand from his knee. She raised her head and beamed at him.
“Melville!” she said, trying out the new word that he had just taught her.
He smiled back at her, and lifting her up, handed her over to a grateful mother.
“Home?” Jean was sitting on his horse, and raised a quizzical eyebrow.
Melville nodded. He was anxious to return to Avis, anxious to discover what had caused her to act so strangely over the last few days. He shook his head. All women were unpredictable, but Avis was unlike any woman he had ever known.
It only took a couple of minutes for Melville and his men to saddle up their horses, and soon the sound of hooves filled their ears. Melville was impatient to arrive home, and pushed Storm, his horse, faster and faster. It was not long before he had entered the stable yard, and Felix came to take the reins from his master.
Melville dismounted hastily, almost catching his heel in the saddle.
“Where is my lady?” he asked the servant. “Where is Avis?”
Felix was unsure and could not say for certain. Few had seen her all morning. And so Melville entered his home in search of his wife. It took him a long hunt before he realised the first place that he should have looked: the kitchens.
As he walked down the steps, he could hear the clattering of platters and the aromas of sizzling meats filled his nostrils. Some of the new Anglo-Saxon dishes were beginning to become normal to his Norman palate, and he looked for them every evening, hoping that Bronson had chosen them to prepare. Melville sighed. This place was finally coming to feel like home.
His entrance was heralded by his booming steps, and as soon as Melville entered Tilian
rushed towards him, looking nervous.
“Tilian!” grinned Melville, happy to see the usually anxious man so at home, but Tilian did not return his smile.
“My lord,” he said, quietly. “Perhaps – ”
But Melville interrupted him.
“Where is my lady?”
Tilian did not reply. His eyes fixed on a point just past Melville’s shoulder, refusing to meet his eye. His fingers fiddled nervously, and he shifted from foot to foot. Melville’s smile faded.
“Tilian?”
But Tilian was working himself into a state of panic, and started to mutter underneath his breath. Melville could not make out his words, but this was characteristic of Tilian. When he became nervous, he returned to the worried and delicate state that he was in when he had first arrived, and muttered to himself quickly, words that Melville did not understand.
“Calm yourself,” Melville reached an arm out, and clasped Tilian’s shoulder. Behind the young man was the head of the kitchen, and Melville beckoned him to approach.
Bronson bustled over, a dead chicken over his shoulder and strings of herbs in his hands.
“My lord?”
“Avis,” Melville was brief. “Where is Avis?”
As Bronson shifted from foot to foot, he opened his mouth – but no sound came out. He could not think what to say.
Melville had not expected his servants to be so unwilling to reveal Avis’ location. His gut clenched. Maybe she had suffered a terrible accident. Why would no one tell him?
Eventually, Bronson pointed nervously over to the other side of the kitchen. Melville craned his neck, and made out a lone figure that was standing past two scullery maids that were flicking pieces of soap at each other: Avis.
Avis was standing at a trestle table, pounding at a mound of dough, full of seeds and flavourings. Her veil had been folded carefully and placed beside her. Long blonde hair trailed down her back and over her shoulders, and it was tangled with oil, flour, and spices.
Melville’s heart sang. She was beautiful, and elegant, and ridiculous, and she was all his own. He picked his way through the crowd of busy servants, and as he passed them they stopped their work. Wiping their hands on aprons or sweat from brows, they exchanged glances. From what they had seen, Avis did not want to be disturbed. They knew better than to stay for the inevitable argument that was to follow. One by one, the servants quietly left the kitchen, hurried along by Bronson, who was anxious to get away. Before long, Melville and Avis were the only two left in the kitchen.
But Avis had not noticed. She was completely transfixed with her work, releasing all of her anger into the unfortunate dough.
Melville reached Avis’ trestle. Standing on the opposite side, he watched her knead the dough with her graceful fingers.
“Avis.”
It was as if she could not hear him, for all of the reaction that Melville received. As if she had lost the power of hearing. Her eyes were down, and she began to form the dough into the baking shape that she had chosen.
“Avis?”
There was no reply from his wife, and Melville was hurt.
“Why do you not speak to me?”
Avis sniffed, and pushed a strand of hair behind her.
Melville laughed harshly, in disbelief.
“What is this? Ignored, by my own wife?”
A flash of anger passed across Avis’ face, but she still refused to speak to him. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing how much she had been hurt by him.
Melville breathed out a long and dejected sigh.
“Avis.” He placed his fists on the table, and tried to remain calm. “Is there anything that I have done to offend you?”
Avis paused at her work, but then continued. She had not spoken a single word, and had given no sign that she had noticed her husband at all.
Melville stepped backwards, frustrated.
“How am I to discover what I have done wrong if you will not speak?” He burst out. “I cannot read your mind, Avis.”
It was Avis’ utter refusal to speak to him that finally pushed Melville to lose his temper. Leaning forward, he swept his arm across the trestle table, pushing everything onto the floor. Pottery cracked and spilt flour across the floor, and the dough that Avis had been working on fell in a heap into the rushes.
Silence filled the kitchen. Avis finally lifted her eyes to look at Melville, and he stepped back. The rage that filled her face alarmed him. There was only one other person whose eyes had been filled with such thunder, and that person that had conquered a country to prove his worth.
Avis slowly wiped her hands on her apron. When she spoke, her voice seemed calm. It was only the slight shake in each word that revealed how deeply she was feeling, how much effort it was to keep a semblance of calm.
“How could you do this to me?”
Melville opened his mouth in surprise. He racked his brains, but could not think of a single thing that he had done that could provoke such a response from Avis. Had he not been doing everything he could to please her?
“What are you talking about?”
Avis pursed her lips.
“What am I talking about?” The rage that she had been supressing began to escape from her control. “Does any word you say mean anything?”
Melville rocked backwards and forwards on the balls of his feet.
“I have no idea where this barrage of anger has come from?” He returned irritably.
“You honestly don’t know?”
“No!”
The two faced each other, both angry, and both hurting.
Avis exhaled. “How can I trust anything that you say?”
“Because you can!” Melville argued. “Because I have given you absolutely no cause to doubt me, or my character.”
Avis laughed bitterly. “You can lie to my face in such a way, with no shadow on your face. I could never have believed it until now, when I see it with my own eyes.”
“I am not lying!”
“I thought we were building something – ”
“We are!”
“We were.” Avis’ deadpan response stopped Melville’s protestations. He stared at her, unable to believe what she was saying.
“I cannot believe this,” he almost whispered. “I cannot believe that you would give up on this so easily.”
“Why have you?” yelled Avis. “I am not the one who decided that this marriage was over. You have betrayed me in the worst way.”
“Betrayed you?”
“In a way that I could never have expected, Melville.” Avis took a deep breath, trying to slow her beating heart. Everything in her wanted to push past the trestle table and enfold herself in his arms, but she knew that was not possible. Melville had ruined any hope of them being happy.
Melville began to reason with her, but Avis had not finished speaking.
“If you had spoken to me but days ago, Melville,” she said sadly, “I would have said that your traitorous streak came from your Norman blood.”
Melville stiffened, but waited for Avis to finish.
“But now…” Avis’ eyes flickered across Melville’s body, and he felt himself reddening. It was as if she was looking straight beneath the linen covering his broad chest. “Now I know you. I know you, Melville. And whatever I understood or thought I understood about the Normans that I have met…you are not the man I thought you were, and as much as I would like to blame it on your heritage, I think this is all you.”
Melville reeled back at her hurtful words.
“I cannot believe that you are saying these things!”
“And I could not believe that you would do this to me!” Avis shot back.
Melville’s frustration burst. “I do not know what you are speaking of!”
“This!” Avis pulled the letter from the papal legate from her bodice, throwing it down onto the trestle table, smeared with dough and flour.
Melville stared down. He saw a large piece of parchment with curling writi
ng in a script that he did not recognise. A large wax seal was attached at one end, and his stomach tightened as he recognised the coat of arms. The seal of the Pope.
“Where did you get that?”
His voice was harsh, but he whispered the words. Ignoring his question, Avis picked up the letter and began reading it aloud.
“My dear son in Christ, Melville, lord of Copmanthorpe…”
“No – ” Melville tried to stop her, but she merely raised her voice.
“In reply to your letter…”
Melville tutted through his teeth, angrily. He turned his back on her, and hung his head. He could not even look at her as she read those awful words out in her clear, but sorrowful voice. He could not believe that this was happening. How could a decision that he had made on the spur of the moment, months ago, destroy something that was becoming so beautiful, so sweet? He cursed himself for not sending another letter, to negate the first – but he had had other, more pressing matters on his mind over the last few weeks. And so his mistake went unchanged, and now he was facing the consequences.
“…we consider it a duty as your spiritual Father to accept your desire, and consider your marriage to have never been formed.” Avis finished. Her voice finally broke, and tears were streaming down her face. She lowered the letter to look at Melville, who had refused to turn around and look at her as she read out the letter.
Avis waited in the silence, but there was no sign that Melville was going to turn around to face her. Silence filled the empty kitchen.
“How could you do this to me?”
Melville finally turned around to face her, and Avis gasped at his face. He was devastated. The words that she had been throwing at him had had more of an impact than she could have had imagined. And finally he spoke.
“That letter,” Melville shouted, “that letter was written months ago – before anything changed, before I really knew you!”
“I cannot understand what possessed you to even write it!” returned Avis, angrily.