Conquests: Hearts Rule Kingdoms

  Avis’ voice cut through Melville’s deep reflection.

  “I mean no disrespect, my lord,” and she was surprised to find that her words were true. “It’s just…”

  “Yes?”

  “I want to feel free.” Avis stared up at the sky rather than face Melville’s stare. She tucked a wayward curl behind her ear. “I was so used to organising each one of my days on my own behalf. Being kept in like an animal…it is difficult.”

  Avis wetted her dry lips, and Melville was drawn to their fullness, and had to deny himself the pleasure of taking her into his arms. Another swift dipped to the ground in front of the couple, and Melville sighed. Who was he to cage such a beautiful creature? In spite of what his time in combat around hardened warriors had taught him, he knew that he did not own Avis – he could not truly own any woman. She was her own person, and should be able to make her own choices.

  Melville resolved himself to speak a statement that he knew he may regret.

  “Avis?”

  She turned her face from the sky to gaze upon his tanned face, and tender smile.

  “Avis, this is your home now. You should feel as free here as you want.”

  Avis’ eyes widened. “My lord?”

  Melville sighed. “I cannot tell you where to go and what to do – or who to be.” He shrugged his shoulders. “That is your choice. Make it.”

  Melville rose, and walked away from Avis without giving a backward glance. Avis surprised herself in hoping that he would, but he reached the manor door and entered it without turning. It had been one of the most difficult walks in Melville’s life, and after he had passed through the door he leaned against the cool entrance hall wall, breathing deeply.

  It had been torture being there with Avis, unable or reluctant to reach out and touch her. She challenged him in a way that no other woman ever had – but he could not force her. Not only was he unwilling to force her, but he suspected that she was stronger than he thought.

  Avis sat underneath the oak, unsure what had just happened. Was she ever to truly understand this husband of hers? Melville seemed to have a respect for her unlike any other Norman – any man she had ever met. His last speech had reminded her so strongly of her father that she had to brush away a few tears. She had cried enough over the life that she had lost – Avis would not let anyone else force her to tears ever again.

  Chapter Seventeen

  No more did Melville prevent Avis from feeling uncomfortable for leaving the manor. This for Avis was a great improvement. Now she was able to spend more time in the kitchen, with the other Anglo-Saxon residents of the household, and happy afternoons in the village relaying news of their family members scraping a living inside the manor walls. She felt so much more open with them than she could be with Melville, and she developed an unlikely friendship with Edith, the kitchen servant girl. Having lived so long without a true friend, and still unable to be honest in any meaningful way with her husband, it was wonderful for Avis to finally have someone to whom she could open up to. The two of them often chatted as they kept themselves busy, but it was a difficult and at times awkward friendship. Both of them could not lose their awareness that they walked on very different paths, but their shared identity of being Anglo-Saxon held them together as nothing else could.

  Winter by this point had settled into the land, and the stable boy came shivering into the kitchen with a request to Bronson to help the spit boy.

  “You just want to keep warm!” Scoffed Bronson. “You don’t want to work!”

  “I will work,” chattered the teeth of the little boy. “I swear.”

  “Let him,” Avis called over, and Bronson turned to look at her. She shrugged. “Poor mite. And Ælfthrup could do with the help.”

  Ælfthrup, the spit boy, scowled at the suggestion that he was not strong enough to do his job. He usually guarded his place by the fire aggressively, as only a small boy of eight or nine could. But today, he begrudgingly made way for the little Norman boy to sit beside him by the roaring flames.

  The boy smiled. “I’m Felix.”

  Ælfthrup threw a glance at Bronson, who frowned at him. The Anglo-Saxon boy sighed.

  “Ælfthrup.” The word was spat out, but good natured Felix persevered, and within minutes the two boys were chatting away in a mixture of the two languages.

  Smiles were sent around the kitchen as the servants watched the two children, but they were wry smiles and sad smiles. Many parents remembered their children, similar ages to the boys, who were taken. Many remembered brothers that they had lost.

  Avis turned back to her work, and Edith with a sigh joined her.

  “What did you do before?” Avis asked her, breaking the silence. Edith did not have to ask what Avis meant by ‘before’. They both knew.

  “My father was a ceorl,” Edith explained, brushing away a fly that was buzzing around her head. Avis knew the word – it was an Anglo-Saxon class of men – fairly wealthy, with responsibility in the community and generally well respected. “But he died when the Vikings invaded.” She bent her head over the bowl of herrings that she was marinating.

  Avis shook her head sadly. Living so far south as she had done, she had only heard brief accounts of the Battle of Stamford Bridge. The Viking King, Harald Hardraadar had thought he had a claim to the English throne, and had clashed with King Harold just before the Normans had invaded. Hardraadar was a man feared in many countries, and the fighting had been fierce, bloody, and agonising for the local people. Harold had won, but then had the long march down to the coast to confront the challenge led by William. That southern battle had been brutal, but the Battle of Stamford Bridge had already become a legend. Many good and noble men had died there when Harold’s brother, Tostig, had betrayed him and joined the force of Vikings led by Hardraadar. Widows across the north had let out a wail of distress that day, and it was but days later that Avis had released her own cry, hundreds of miles away.

  Avis placed a comforting arm on Edith’s shoulder. A quick hand swept the tears from Edith’s eyes.

  The two women kept working together to prepare the meats for that evening’s meal until Edith spoke again.

  “It is Æthelfrith that I miss the most,” Edith confided to her mistress.

  Avis had heard her friend mention the name before, but had been wise enough not to enquire before. Too many brothers had been lost to the Viking and Norman hordes in that terrible year.

  “Who was he?” asked Avis, nervous of the answer she would receive, and worried that she may have overstepped the elusive lines of new friendship.

  Edith looked straight at Avis as she said, “my betrothed.”

  Avis drew in a horrified breath. Every death was a tragedy, but for each death there was the tragic story of those that had been left behind. It was bad enough that these Normans had forced her into marriage, but by their invasion they had prevented Edith from marrying at all.

  “That’s awful,” she murmured. There was nothing else to be said.

  Edith nodded matter-of-factly. She had done her grieving, and was now bound by her numbness.

  “It was.” She said bleakly. “But I was not the only one.”

  Avis knew that she was right. The year 1066 had brought to England two invasions and the loss of not one, but two generations of menfolk. Honoured and respected men such as her father, and Edith’s father – men who had thought to put their fighting days behind them but had been called to arms by their loyalty to their King. And then young, untried and excited youthful men like Edith’s Æthelfrith, ready to prove themselves on the battlefield. Villages once full of laughter and honest labour rang quiet as women wept for the loss of husbands, brothers, fathers, sons.

  Avis was forced out of her unhappy reverie by Edith’s warning.

  “My lady!”

  Avis ducked behind the worktop as the heavy steps of Melville echoed on the stairs. Although Avis had been flattered by his speech the day before underneath the oak tree, she was sure that he
would not appreciate the sight of her working, elbows deep in cooking grease and the stench of chicken guts on her hands.

  “Bronson!” thundered Melville. The small man rushed up, brushing the cheese gratings from his sleeves and wondering in panic what part of last night’s meal had offended.

  “Yes, my lord?”

  Robert appeared behind Melville, ready to translate his master’s orders.

  “Be aware that I want local and traditional dishes served from today.” Melville muttered quietly to the shaking man, with Robert rapidly making Melville’s order understandable to the terrified cook.

  “If possible, some southern dishes as well – though I’m not sure how far your expertise goes. Whatever you can manage. Do you understand?” Melville finished.

  The cook looked from his translator, to his master, and back.

  “My lord would prefer…Anglo-Saxon food?” he asked incredulously.

  After Melville had been told of Bronson’s question, he nodded.

  “Primarily Anglo-Saxon food from now on,” he repeated. He turned and had almost exited the kitchens when he paused. “And try to make it palatable,” he said, as if asking the heavens for rain in a drought.

  He left, causing the silent uproar that he had created to be released – and no one’s voice was as incredulously as Avis’.

  “Anglo-Saxon food?” Avis said in disbelief. “He must be confused. A rock must have hit him on the head – it is the only explanation!”

  Edith grinned at the other servants. They had all been watching Avis and Melville over the month since they had arrived, and although none of the glances that he had sent her way had been noticed by her, they had been seen by the servants. It was hilarious to see the two of them try to avoid the ever deepening tension developing between them.

  “It appears he wishes to sample our food,” stated Bronson, beginning to shout orders to the servants.

  Edith grinned slyly at her mistress.

  “Or, he is trying to please a certain someone.”

  Avis coloured at the suggestion. This change in diet could not be on her behalf, surely. Melville was not that thoughtful. But she remembered the delicate kiss he had pressed into her palm, and his understated passionate speech under the oak tree. She could feel his arms encircling her as he comforted her, and could imagine the heat from those arms if –

  Quashing such thoughts, Avis began to help the preparation of the new menu. She had no time, and no business thinking such thoughts, she chastised herself. No business at all.

  At dinner that night Melville’s hand hovered undecided between several dishes and platters that he did not recognise. He was already beginning to regret his hasty desire to please Avis. Glancing at his wife, he saw her plateful of the food that looked so distasteful to his eyes. Foreign food. He scrunched his nose in disgust, but then reminded himself that to many, he was the foreigner.

  Picking three foods at random, he piled them on his plate and forced himself to try each one of them. His childhood had taught him to never leave good food untasted – a habit which he had struggled and failed to shake off. He gathered some of the stew on his bread, and together with some chicken covered in an unknown glaze, he filled his mouth.

  Unknown textures and flavours burst across his palate, and he was shocked to discover great enjoyment. Melville took another mouthful, suspicious that the first bite had been a fluke. It was delicious.

  Melville turned to Avis.

  “This is incredible!” His face was so openly filled with pleasure that Avis allowed herself to smile in response.

  “I am glad my lord approves.”

  “Approves? To what end do your people hide such delicacies?”

  Melville had meant the statement to be a compliment to her heritage, but Avis turned away.

  “You Normans did not cross the channel for our recipes,” she muttered.

  Melville bit his lip angrily. It seemed that he, a Norman, would never have the skill and finesse to treat Avis as she required – as she deserved.

  Avis chewed on her favourite foods determinedly, refusing to allow Melville’s harsh comments to infringe on her enjoyment. She had missed honest Anglo-Saxon food for the last three years, and she was not going to talk to Melville if he was only ready to mock her.

  Melville racked his brains to find something that he could say to raise Avis’ humour. He would do or say anything to see her smile, but he felt immensely stupid sitting beside her as she gracefully reached out to pour herself another glass of wine. Remembering their bitter and distant first meeting, it seemed ridiculous to him that within the space of a handful of weeks, he was now trying all he could to please this woman.

  “What has occupied you today?” he ventured, hoping to encourage her to speak – but he could not have chosen a worse topic.

  Avis froze, panicking that he had discovered her secret past time. She would not give up her hours in the kitchen for anything. It was the one place where she felt at home. She did not answer, and Melville grew angry.

  “Will you not speak to me?” He barked.

  “I will speak when I choose!” Avis returned. “I am not your servant, to be ordered when to speak and where to go!”

  Suddenly Melville threw back against the table, throwing all a-top it onto the floor. Platters clanged as food splattered against the rushes, sinking into them.

  “Can I do nothing that pleases you?” he thundered, eyes flashing. “Can you never be satisfied?”

  Avis had jumped up to prevent herself from being covered in a particularly gorgeous sauce that had fallen forward. She took steps backwards as she attempted to dodge the food scattered floor.

  “You forget yourself my lord!” she hissed, eyes glancing at the men and servants lining the hall, all who had jumped at the loud clamour. “Attempt to keep your anger to yourself!”

  “Just as you keep your life to yourself!”

  “It is my life!” Avis smiled angrily. “Or so I was told underneath a certain tree. But I suppose I was wrong to have thought that such pleasing words could be trusted.”

  In three short strides Melville had closed the distance between them. He stood as close as he dared to the trembling Avis, who rocked unwillingly towards him. She felt dizzy. His musky presence confused Avis, causing her to forget they were in a crowded hall. Unsure but summoning his bravery, Melville drew her closer slowly by encircling her waist with one hand. Her bodice brushed his chest, and fire burst into his veins. Avis refused to raise her face, but a hand reached to lift her chin. Melville.

  “What can I do?” he whispered softly. “What can I do to please you?”

  Avis could not reply, unable to speak. Her anger dissipated as quickly as it had risen, but the emotion that remained was unknown.

  “Command me,” Melville spoke slowly and quietly, so that only Avis could hear him. Avis could feel his heart beat against her breast, and the hand placed in the small of her back felt comforting – it felt natural. There were many things that she could command, Avis thought wildly. He was at her mercy.

  Melville was at her mercy. Avis gazed into his dark fervent eyes and realised that her husband was completely in her power. This was not lust, but something softer that drenched her from his eyes. Avis knew that she could not be so heartless as to manipulate him when he was making himself so vulnerable to her.

  It was difficult, but she broke free from Melville’s tight embrace.

  “I’m sorry,” Avis looked into his startled face, and felt terrible for the words she was speaking – but knew that she was speaking the truth. “Do not ask me.”

  Avis began to walk away, but Melville took her hand and pulled her back.

  “Command me.” He groaned.

  Avis pulled her hand away, terrified at the rush of emotions that spread from his red-hot touch.

  “Do not tempt me.” Her voice was hoarse, startling her, and she ran from the room.

  Uncomfortable chatter had filled the hall whilst Melville and Avis had b
een speaking, and so Melville stood alone without an embarrassing silence. Her rejection had been clear – but he had seen the desire in her face. Melville smiled wryly. Progress of some sort, at least.

  Avis had retired to a small room which preceded her private chamber. It was intended as a place for her to receive important guests and visitors, but there had been no need for that during her marriage, and she used it more as a place to sit and think. A large fire warmed her shaking hands, and she sunk gratefully into a large chair, snuggling into the furs that draped over her back. She shivered, despite the heat of the room.

  “I cannot explain him!” she muttered to herself.

  And this was the problem. Avis had been quick of thought since her childhood, and there had been no person that she had been unable to understand – even if she disliked them. Avis had been very ready to dislike Melville when she had married him, and indeed his haughty, superior manner had aided her in this feeling. But here, and more frequently now, were glimpses of a different Melville. Avis brought her feet underneath her, curling herself up into a ball. This different Melville was a confusing, vulnerable and yet strong man – a man unlike any she had ever known.

  Avis sat by the fire, and began to doze. She was so unaware of her surroundings that she did not notice a solitary figure leaning against the door frame.

  Melville stood there, contemplating this tantalizing woman that was his wife. She had wrapped herself in the furs like a small child, and a smile danced across her features as she slept by the fire.

  Melville walked silently into the room, and settled in the chair opposite her. He studied her, marvelling in the gracefulness of her features: her clear expressive face, soft skin, and the reams of golden hair that had escaped its veil.