Richard leaned over her, breathing in her scent as he poured her wine. He lingered just a little too close for comfort, forcing her to lean back in her seat to avoid him.
“The question is,” Richard began speaking as if continuing an earlier conversation, “When are you going to realise that you must marry me?”
A few of the men nearest to Avis leered and chuckled, and she could feel her pale skin darkening red. How dare he!
“You have offended me enough with your constant disdain for my wishes.” She managed to contain her anger. “Please do me the courtesy of never asking me again.”
“No.” Richard was forceful. “You have no land, no property, no wealth, no family. You lost all that three years ago.”
Several men cheered, and one man yelled, “God bless King William!”
Richard chuckled. He had good memories of the Norman invasion three years ago in 1066, and gave no thought as to how Avis may feel. She gripped her knife hard, and tried not to speak. She had born the indignity of being taunted by her people’s defeat for the last three years. She could do it again.
“The Normans rule here now!” Food and saliva leapt from Richard’s mouth as he shouted. Goblets were lifted in the air and men began giving speeches, praising themselves for the great deeds they had performed during the invasion. The Battle of Hastings, the Battle of London, the subduing of the Anglo-Saxon people, the ransacking of churches…
Avis felt hot and angry. Her father had been the Anglo-Saxon ealdorman of these parts – the local lord, a just, honest, kind man who had not wanted to go to war but had obeyed out of love for his King. And he had paid the price with his life. Now she, an Anglo-Saxon noblewoman, had nothing. No one to protect her, no one to care for her, and no options.
Richard cut across his men to once again speak to Avis.
“Avis, I am getting tired – ”
“As am I! Tired of your constant requests for a promise that I will not make!” Avis cut across him. She would not allow herself to be bullied.
Richard grinned at her. “And I am not getting any younger.”
“We can all see that.” Avis muttered under her breath. Richard’s weight had only increased after William the King gave him her father’s home, and the skin around his eyes had sagged and creased. He was losing time, and he knew that if he was to have an heir, it would have to be now.
“Quiet!”
Richard’s shout had silenced the entire hall, and Avis blushed again. She knew that the whole household would hear his next words.
“You will marry me,” Richard spoke with a hardness and finality. “William has ordered his Norman nobles to marry native women. He is going to create a new people, of both sides. You and I.”
“Never.” Avis stood up. “You may live in my home, Richard, sleep in my father’s bed and give orders to my people, but you do not order me.”
Sweeping her long green skirt behind her, she walked out of the Great Hall. As she pushed the wooden door shut behind her, she could hear the beginnings of chatter – led by Richard, in an attempt to cover up the embarrassment of his ward once again defying him. She slowly breathed out, releasing the tension from her lungs and slowly calming her shaking hands. Avis knew that after three long years, Richard would not be taking no for an answer much longer. The trouble was she didn’t have any other choices.
Seated at the top of the Great Hall, Richard stroked his greying beard as his men soaked themselves in ale and wine. He had never thought that forcing a lonely and unprotected girl to marry him would be so difficult. William had been insistent when he had given Richard this land that he must marry a local girl to secure it, and his time was running out. He leered at the thought of getting his greasy hands under those flowing dresses that he permitted Avis to wear, and his loins tightened – but then sighed. He called a servant to him, who quickly retrieved a letter that had been delivered to him by a King’s messenger that morning. Scanning its contents, he sighed again. But William’s word was law, and if he decreed something, it was to be done.
He would tell Avis in the morning.
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Emily Murdoch, Love Letters
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