Melville roared with laughter.
“Be at peace, my friends,” he said good-naturedly. “There is no rush. This is a festival, is it not?”
They returned his smile, and made their way rather more quickly to the centre of the village where the festivities were to begin.
Melville followed them at a leisurely pace, and within moments the melody of a popular dance reached his ears, followed by cheers. As he turned the corner, the sight of a crowd dancing with smiles and laughter met his eyes. Children tried to imitate the adults, but were distracted by a man with dolls and puppets who led them to the side of the dancers. Felix and Sæthryth pulled Ælfthrup along with them, chattering away. Soon all could hear the children’s roars of laughter.
Melville espied Annis in the group of female dancers, linking hands with two girls from the village. They fell about giggling as one of them tripped, pulling the other two down with her. A contented warmth spread through Melville as he watched with a smile as his beautiful wife picked herself up, dusted herself down, and re-joined the merriment with no sign of embarrassment. They had truly built a wonderful life.
He continued to walk around the gaggle of spectators, greeting them as friends and equals. Melville shook hands with a young couple that had recently become betrothed: Edith and Jean.
“We had long seen it coming,” said Melville in a mock hushed tone, “but you must not tell anyone that I told you so!”
Jean laughed, joy lighting up his eyes as he took Edith’s hand in his own.
“And we are grateful to you,” he replied. “Without you, I do not know if we would have lived to see this beautiful day.”
Melville pulled his friend into a tight embrace, and Jean returned it. Over the two years of safety they had worked together to rebuild the land that had been destroyed, and it was a wrench for them both to see Jean leave and build his own life.
Their clasp only loosened when the sound of horse’s hooves startled them. Melville turned to see a rider in a livery that he recognised with horror. Running towards the man so that no one else would hear the message, Melville hoped beyond hope that it was not bad news.
“Word from the King?” He asked abruptly, before the messenger could even dismount.
“Indeed.” The man hauled himself down from his horse, and looked at Melville warily. “You were expecting such news?”
Melville gave a short grunt.
“I was not anticipating a message from the King until this autumn,” he confessed.
The messenger smiled uneasily. “Then you will be surprised by this letter.”
Reaching into the pack on his horse, he pulled out a small piece of parchment that he handed over. Melville took it gingerly, afraid of what it may contain.
The messenger watched Melville with interest.
“Will you not open it?” he asked.
Melville shook himself, and brought himself back to his senses. Whether this was good news or bad, it would not alter for the waiting of it. But he did not want to open it before this unknown man.
“I thank you,” Melville said. “If you would but follow the music, you shall find food and ale awaiting you.”
“My lord,” bowed the messenger, recognising the dismissal for what it was, but taking no offence from it. He went where Melville had pointed, leaving the letter to be opened.
A shaking hand broke the seal and unfolded the meagre amount of parchment. The Latin script was now something familiar to Melville. Annis had taken great pains to teach him his letters, and although it would never be something that he excelled in, he certainly had enough skill to decipher this short note.
The letter was from King William. It spoke of respect, and trust, and faithfulness. It declared his intention to give Melville the earldom of Northumbria – a fantastic honour. Northumbria was a large and rich land, giving a huge amount of power and prestige to the man that controlled it. And now that man was Melville.
His eyes narrowed in disbelief, and he went over the words again, his lips silently moving as he made sure that he got every word right. But his first reading had been correct. William wanted to reward him for his bravery and faithfulness. The letter did not bring bad news, but the best news that there could be.
Annis. He must tell Annis. Melville returned to the crowd of villagers, but the dancers had finished their gaiety and had now progressed to sample the many dishes lovingly prepared. There was no sign of Annis.
Robert wandered past him, talking with Bronson and Tilian.
“Annis,” said Melville in a rush, “have you seen Annis?”
Robert and Bronson shook their heads, but Tilian smiled knowingly.
“Under yonder tree, my lord,” he said, pointing at the large oak just outside the village boundary. “I reckon that would be the first place I would look.”
Melville nodded his thanks, and proceeded to make his way between the houses towards the great tree that Tilian had pointed at. As he turned a corner, the loveliest sight in the world heralded his eyes.
Annis. She was wearing her gown of blood red silk, which had become her trademark, and her long hair was braided with flowers. The sunlight glistened on a familiar gold ring that she now wore on the fourth finger of her left hand. Her back was rested against the wide trunk of the tree, and she smiled lazily at the vision before her that Melville had been unable to draw his eyes from.
A small boy, of only a year, played under the soft shadow of the leaves. Dark brown curls softly fell across his ears, and he smiled to see his father walking towards him.
“Good morrow my love,” Melville leaned down to kiss his wife, who met his embrace with love. “How does my boy?”
Annis gestured, amused. “How does he look to you, Melville?”
Melville sat himself down beside Annis, and looked at his son with pride. Myneas’ face broke into a gorgeous smile as he beheld his parents.
“You know,” mused Melville, “I still can’t believe that we managed to create such a wonderful child.”
“Can you not?” replied Annis. “It does not surprise me at all. He has two rather wonderful parents.”
Melville nudged her with a laugh.
“Ever the modest one.”
Annis watched her son pull at the grass with a look of discovery, and Melville looked at his wife. At his family.
“Myneas,” he said, and his son looked up, confused at being disturbed.
“It is a good name,” said Annis.
“It is the best,” agreed Melville. “Myneas. Tell me the exact meaning again. It is a long one, and complex.”
Annis nodded. “Our words have many layers. Myneas…it is the affection one has for a memory of what you love. Not the desire to return to it, but the wish never to forget it.”
Annis’ voice dropped, and Melville pulled her close.
“I know that some wounds always leave scars,” he said quietly. “But I intend to keep you whole and healthy for as long as I live.”
Annis snuggled into Melville, feeling his strength.
“I know,” she said softly. “We shall protect each other. We shall build a world in which everyone is cared for.”
Melville breathed in the heady scent of Annis’ perfume, and inaudibly groaned at his overwhelming love for her.
Annis smiled at him, and whispered the beginning of the now familiar phrase that they both loved so much.
“You may have conquered my country…”
“…but you have conquered my heart.”
Acknowledgements
Thank you to Endeavour Press, who have taken a chance on me, and Richard Foreman who has been beyond helpful in the process to get this book from on my computer to you. Many thanks must go to my family, Gordon and Mary Murdoch, and Haydon Murdoch, who have always supported my writing, and with whom I had a lot of fun talking about titles. Georgia Bird was my early editor, and supported me when I was convinced I was in a rut. But without Joshua D. Perkins’ encouragement to start writing seriously, this book wou
ld never have been written. To him I owe a ridiculous debt of gratitude.
If you enjoyed reading Conquests by Emily Murdoch you may also be interested in His Last Mistress by Andrea Zuvich, also published by Endeavour Press.
Extract from His Last Mistress by Andrea Zuvich
Prologue - January, 1675
He looked emotionless upon his reflection in the cracked, dirty looking-glass before him. His eyes were dark deep pools of blue, which sometimes seemed to take on the purplish colour of wild bluebells in the woodland, his short hair a rich chestnut brown, which he now covered with his elaborately curled auburn periwig. With a little more pride in his looks than is tasteful, he knew his was a face that could captivate any woman: he was blessed with exquisite features, a strongly-defined jaw, a well-shaped nose, a cleft in his chin, good teeth, inherited from his beautiful, deceased mother, Lucy. With his tallness of height and his unquestionable virility, he was truly his father’s son. His father was none other than King Charles the Second of England, Scotland, and Ireland.
He was James Scott, the Duke of Monmouth and Buccleuch, Earl of Doncaster, Baron Tynedale, Knight of the Garter and the Master of the Horse. His head was pounding with his latest hangover, his mind a scattered mess of graphic images of debauchery that he couldn’t make sense of. A tangled riot of red hair, gyrating breasts, and rutting dogs came to mind. Lost in these salacious thoughts, he began to fasten his lace cravat around his neck; the stubble on his throat prickled the elegant fabric as he did so. His shirtsleeves were creased and stained with wine and ale, but he shrugged, knowing he would soon be back at home where he would wash and then get some much-needed sustenance. His stomach grumbled with hunger.
His eyes caught sight of movement behind him. It was the woman he had slept with the night before. He felt a shudder of repulsion as he suddenly remembered her - a plump, ugly lass of about sixteen with greasy red hair and possibly the largest tits he had seen on a whore. By God, he could smell her stench anew as she spread her graceless limbs across the crumpled sheets, sleeping. Her skin had bruises and teeth marks from her more savage clients and his skin crawled at the thought of having so much as touched her. He was so drunk last night that he hadn’t cared what he was thrusting energetically into.
He had to stifle the bile rising in his gorge at the thought of what he had done with the wench as he finally tugged on his long brown leather boots.
The repulsion hit him anew. He had to leave before the wretch awakened. He quietly placed some coins – coins that bore his father’s noble profile – onto the small table by the bed where the prostitute lay snoring now, saliva dribbling from the side of her open mouth. He left the room in haste, wrenching his thick green coat onto his arms as he stepped down the creaking stairs of the insalubrious Southwark brothel.
“There must be more to life than this, and war,” he said to himself as he rode back upon his black horse through the snow-dusted streets towards Whitehall Palace, where there was to be a masque that evening. He was only twenty-six, yet he had seen more than his fair share of battles and lechery, and he was tiring of it all. Spoiled since he was a child, he had indulged every whim, every fantasy, satiated almost every human urge to the point where nothing now brought him joy; the endless parties with nihilistic wits and vain fops were beginning to bore him senseless.
“There must be more.”
Chapter 1 - Whitehall Palace
The masque had been a massive enterprise – a feat of management of costumes and sets, with well over a hundred people involved in its preparations. Dozens of candles would light the stage and cast a warm, complimentary light upon the set. The designers had attempted to emulate something of the sumptuousness of masques from Inigo Jones’s time, hearkening back to the reigns of James I and his son Charles I.
The parts were played by the cream of the court – James; the Duke of York’s daughters, the beautiful Mary, in whose honour the masque was held, was the lead role of Calisto, with her painfully shy little sister, Anne, as a secondary nymph, Nyphe; Margaret Blagge, festooned in costly loaned jewels, continually complained the masque was morally offensive - since it was about a rape - even though she played the role of the virgin goddess Diana; the Duchess of York’s lady-in-waiting, Sarah Jennings, with her icy blonde beauty was the god Mercury, and finally, Henrietta, Baroness Wentworth, another of the Duchess of York’s ladies, portrayed Jupiter, the king of the gods, who was in love with Calisto.
At fourteen years old, Henrietta was a pretty girl - with her ash blonde hair fashioned into bouncy curls and she wore a blue silk robe like that worn by the Greeks of old. Her heart-shaped face was as pink as the roses that decorated the front of the stage. Like most of the girls her age, she was ready to fall in love, though she was determined not to let her heart rule her head.
The Duke was one of the principal dancers, and was dressed as a shepherd from the ancient world, in sheepskins, and holding a long staff with a hook on the top – a shepherd’s crook. He was excited, for dancing was one of the chief pleasures in his life, where he could use his athletic energy and grace of limb to greatest effect. He had been very pleased to return to his rooms, where he had washed away the filth from the night before, the large-breasted redhead now one of hundreds of such memories.
The dramatist, John Crowne, who had written the masque (and who, having obtained the honour of writing the masque by his influential and libertine patron, the Earl of Rochester, was unhappy both with so smut-free a work and also with the short time he had to complete the play) addressed the audience: “Your Majesties, my lords and ladies, we welcome you to our masque. Let our assortment of court beauties escort you as we travel back in time to the savour the sights and sounds of the Ancient world. So without further ado, I give you Calisto – the Chaste Nymph!”
King Charles II, sitting next to his wife, Queen Catherine of Braganza, applauded and laughed merrily as the courtly players took their positions. Charles’s brother, James, Duke of York, sat beside him and had a rare smile upon his usually glum face as he awaited his favourite daughter, Mary. Beside him was his young Italian wife, Maria, Duchess of York, Mary’s step-mother.
At length the red curtains were raised for the prologue, revealing Charles’s mistress, the beautiful Cockney actress Nell Gwynn, as the River Thames. The King gave a whistle and Nell gave her royal lover a little wink in return. The long-suffering queen sat nobly, ignoring her husband’s blatant flirtation with his mistress.
With the introduction complete, the opening of the First Act fell to Henrietta and Sarah Jennings, who were the only ladies dressed as men. She took her position upon the glittering stage, and recited her lines:
How am I tired thus vainly to pursue
A Nymph, I cannot keep in view!
I daily through Arcadia rove
O’er every hill, through every grove,
But in her ears to sigh my love;
No sooner had Henrietta begun to speak, than the Duke’s eyes fell upon her, and something within his soul stirred as her melodious voice reached his ears. She made elegant gesticulations as she spoke, her hands waving around her, emphasising Crowne’s words.
“Good God!” he thought, “How could I not have noticed her before? She is like an angel amongst mortals.” There had been many rehearsals, but he hadn’t paid any notice to her, but tonight, at least in his eyes, she was afire with passion in her voice, unlike the others.
“…And may as well the shades and echoes chase;
The shades I easier can embrace,
Which grieves me too, whilst I this maze have trod,
There’s none to pity a despairing god.”
Henrietta happened at this moment to look in his direction, and she paused for a moment, yet his intense gaze never shifted from her. She continued on, relieved finally when she could stand in the wings.
“Sarah,” she said to her friend, “that dancer in the shepherd’s costume has been staring at me the whole time. I felt as though I was standing there n
aked before him.”
Sarah peered out behind the curtains, saw the man, and laughed.
“Why, that’s the King’s eldest son, the Duke of Monmouth,” replied Sarah, “How could you not have known? He is one of best dancers I have ever seen. He is also the best soldier in whole of the army.”
“He is the most handsome man I have ever seen,” noted Henrietta, as she also peered through the gap and looked at him spin and jump. The ancient Greek garments he wore suited his athletic build, his long, strong legs, his muscular torso.
“Monmouth?” asked Margaret Blagge, who had overheard their conversation as she waited to go back on stage, “Yes, he is handsome. Princess Mary is already besotted by him, as most foolish women are at court.”
“But not you, of course,” Sarah teased, rolling her eyes, knowing Margaret’s rather prudish nature.
“Certainly not,” she haughtily scoffed in reply, “The man is a libertine.” Sensing that Henrietta was in danger of becoming infatuated with such a man, she took her to one side, “Be warned if he looks at you in that manner, for he shall desire only to have you in his bed. Monmouth has a terrible reputation – he has a perfectly good wife in Anna Scott, and he left her with several children…”
“’Tis common enough amongst married men here at court, though it is sinful,” replied Henrietta.
“Aye, but he left her for a string of conquests, including our Eleanor Needham,” added Margaret, “she is but a little older than we, and yet she gave in to his seductions. Sure, she is living in one of the Duke’s houses, but she has disgraced herself and her entire family, I daresay.”
“He doesn’t look like a bad man,” Henrietta said, trying to find some good in him to support the feeling towards him in her chest. “He seems exceedingly amiable, how could he be as wicked as you say?”
“Eleanor’s not the only one, either,” Margaret continued, “he even goes to see ladies of the night, you know, courtesans, though why I cannot say. Any woman he wants, he has. There are few court ladies that he has not had. You must guard yourself against such a man.”