Conquests
Emily Murdoch
© Emily Murdoch 2013
Emily Murdoch has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published 2013 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
To the loves I have lost – William “Billiam” Murdoch and Graham G. Thomas.
To the loves I have found – Joshua D. Perkins.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty Eight
Chapter Twenty Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty One
Chapter Thirty Two
Chapter Thirty Three
Chapter Thirty Four
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Extract from His Last Mistress by Andrea Zuvich
Prologue
The village burned in the darkness. Anglo-Saxon women crawled in the ashes and blood, crying, but quietly. They did not want to be found. They knew what would happen to them if they were discovered. In the light of the flames only one building could be seen left standing; the great manor house. None dared approach it. They knew that if the men returned, that would be exactly where they would go to. In the courtyard of this house, a shadow wept.
A young girl was crouched in a corner, sobbing. The stone wall behind hid her in its silhouette, and she tried to muffle the sounds of her cries. She did not want to be discovered.
A noise startled her; the sound of hooves on wood. They were coming.
Picking herself up and wrapping her long skirts around her, the girl ran – but she was not fast enough.
“Hie there!”
A whining man’s voice rang out into the darkness and broke through the silence. It was the rider of the horse that she had heard, but now many more horses had joined him. It was a whole host of men. The girl gasped and tried to run faster, but there was nowhere to run to. Nowhere was safe now. Before she could reach the other side of the courtyard, strong rough hands had grabbed her.
“Bring her here!”
The same gruff voice spoke, and the girl struggled. The man holding her had to drag her over to the horse of the speaker. The man had dismounted, and the girl caught sight of his broadsword. She gasped, and pushed backwards trying to stay as far away as possible from the blade. She had seen swords similar to that one. She had seen what they could do.
“Hold her up.”
The man was older than her, probably as old as her father. He stank of sweat, and his mean eyes bore down into her. When he gazed down upon his captive, he was surprised. The lonely figure that he had taken to be a child was much older. The girl must be verging onto womanhood.
He leered at her.
“Do you have a name, my sweet?”
The girl stared back at him. Fear danced in her eyes, but also resentment. She knew why he had come to her home. She knew what he wanted.
“My lord Richard asked you a question!” said the man holding her back, twisting one of her arms so she let out a yelp of pain.
“Avis,” she breathed, her arms searing and tears brimming in her eyes. “My name is Avis.”
Chapter One
Avis leaned against the flint wall and looked up at the magnificent sky, and forced a blonde curl back underneath her veil. The sun was setting, and she could feel the cool of night descending quickly. The long summer was starting to cool into autumn, and soon winter would be on its way. As she sighed, her breath blossomed. A loud voice behind her startled her.
“Avis!”
She turned to see Richard walking aggressively towards her, and instinctively took a step back.
“Are you not coming?” The medieval Norman Richard stared down at her, panting slightly at the exercise. The running was unlike him, a man who spent his life swaggering from meal to meal. Rolls of fat were carefully covered by his tunic, but Avis knew that she could outrun him. A fact that had given her comfort over the long three years since he had first arrived. He sneered down at her, mentally undressing her in a way that was disgustingly apparent.
“I follow you, my lord.” Avis attempted a smile as she spoke in the harsh Norman language that she had come to learn, and Richard seemed appeased. Offering her his arm, she draped her delicate blue velvet sleeve across and allowed herself to be led inside to the Great Hall. A feast had been prepared – in her honour, Richard had told her, but in the three years since the Normans had conquered England that she had been forced to share her ancestral home with Richard, nothing had ever been organised for her own comfort before. She was suspicious, and Richard knew it.
“Come now, relax.” He sniggered, and she sat down gently at her normal place near the head of the table, and the knights and other men that now lived in her home sat down at various points along the trestle tables. Richard took the seat at the head of the table, where her father had once sat. He clapped his hands, and servants immediately began bringing in food. Sizzling meats and sweet aromas soon filled the Great Hall, and the large dogs that had been snoozing by the fire soon jumped up and positioned themselves around the tables, hoping for scraps. Men began pouring ale, and soon the Great Hall was filled with the scraping of metal on plates, swirling goblets and belching. Avis ate silently, and many men’s eyes flickered across to gaze upon her beauty.
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.
Chapter Two
Avis awoke naturally before dawn. As she lay in bed, listening to the house stirring, she smiled. She could not help but hope that as Richard could not, he would not force her to marry him. All she had to do was wait, bide her time. Soon enough Richard would have no other choice but to marry another so that his heirs could inherit this land. Her land. Her smile flickered, and faded.
Forcing herself out of her warm covers and into the coldness of morning, she struggled to force her pale smooth figure into her bodice, and quickly tied the laces which held various garments together. When she was younger she had a servant girl to aid her in this monotonous task, but she had learnt quickly how to take care of herself after she was plummeted into poverty. Avis pulled on her leather shoes, and began the arduous problem of maintaining her hair. Golden blonde and full of curls, it constantly attempted to escape the veil that she placed on her head to protect her modesty. For her Anglo-Saxon people, one’s hair was not seen, and so both she and her mother had always worn veils that covered their hair but left their faces free.
“Your face is important,” her mother had always said, “because that is where people see the truth.”
Even after her mother had gone, Avis always wore her veil. She knew that she was not fashionable – but then being of Anglo-Saxon stock automatically made one lower class in this new England that William had created. She frowned, placing the last wayward curl behind her ear. This ‘new’ England was not one that she particularly liked.
Avis wandered leisurely down the stone slab stairs into the kitchen, firm in the knowledge that none of the servants would be up yet. The blue sky that heralded her lifted her spirits. She had always loved the summer season the most. After passing through the long corridor, Avis entered the kitchen. Checking the fire by the spit was lit, she began to prepare dough for baking. She had loved cooking ever since she had been taught as a girl, but it was not appropriate for a noble woman to be seen doing servants’ work. This was why she always worked in the kitchen in secret. Even the servants did not know who prepared the delicious bread that was seemingly delivered every morning.
It was hot work, and soon Avis had forgotten about Richard, and proposals, and invasions, and family. One could not bake bread and fret. She threw herself into the task, and before she realised it the servants were beginning to appear. Washing her hands briskly in the nearest ceramic bowl of water, she pretended to inspect the wooden tidy surfaces as men and women streamed in, ready for a new day of work.
“Oh!” The cook saw her and attempted a curtsey, almost tripping over her own feet.
Avis laughed. “It’s alright, Æthelfreda, I just wanted to check everything was running smoothly down here.”
“Oh.” The cook attempted a smile, but was clearly terrified. “We’re doing our best in preparation for my lord’s guest, but I haven’t – ”
“Guest?” Avis stopped her, and nonchalantly began walking around the kitchen. “Who?”
“A man from the King, my lady. He brings a message about your marriage.”
Avis stopped. Her eyes widened and she could see bright lights moving around her. “My marriage?”
The cook swallowed, suddenly aware of every other servant looking at her, horrified.
“Maybe my lady should speak to my lord about this.”
Avis nodded, and collected herself. Walking serenely out of the kitchen, she broke into a run towards the Great Hall, the centre of the manor, where she knew Richard would be warming his back by the fire.
Pushing the door violently and neglecting to shut it, she burst out, “Richard!”
The short sweating man turned, surprised, and scowled when he saw her.
“Avis.”
“I have heard tell of my impending marriage!” Avis was incredulous. “Pray do tell.”
Richard opened his mouth to retaliate angrily, but stopped. He thought carefully, and then sat down in a chair by the fire.
“Sit.” He ordered curtly. “I will tell you all.”
Avis rushed to the comfortable wooden seat with several throws covering it that was opposite him, and dropped down, smoothly her skirt around her. Raising her eyes to him, Richard was reminded once again how striking she was.
“I have grown weary of this pretence,” Richard began.
“It is not my choice to – ”
“I know.” Richard had been gazing at his feet, but now he looked up at her, the newly lit fire throwing his wrinkles into sharp relief. “But it must end.”
He waited for her to challenge him, but she knew he was right.
“I received a letter from our King yesterday. William requires further marriages between my people and yours, to cement the nations together. He knows that I have been…unsuccessful with you.”
Avis looked at him. She could not pity him – he was a Norman – but she could understand the pressure that he was under. Part of having noble blood was that certain things were expected of you. Marrying well was one of them. Richard looked tired, and he felt it.
“And so William has chosen a husband for you.”
Avis started. “A husband? He cannot choose me a husband!”
“He has.” Richard was firm. “He presents you with a choice: to marry me, or to marry young Melville.”
Melville. Avis thought hard, and translated the strange Norman word. Bad town. Not a name that suggested a brave, strong man. He was probably short and pale, like Richard, s
he thought miserably.
“Who is this Melville?” She said finally.
“He is a young nobleman of Norman stock. That is all you need know. He will arrive today, and then,” Richard’s gaze moved from her to the fire. “You shall make your choice.”
“And if I choose none?” Avis spoke strongly, and Richard turned to look at her again. “If I choose not to marry at all?”
Richard smiled, bitterly. “That is no choice.”
Avis was confused, and her small nose wrinkled.
“Everyone has a choice!”
“Not you.” Richard stood up and began to walk away. “You are a Saxon.”
He slammed the door behind him, echoing the Great Hall with a hollow note. Avis bit her lip. She did not know what William, Richard or this Melville would do to her if she tried to disobey, but she could imagine. She had lived but sixteen summers when the Normans had arrived in her village, and she could still recall the smell of burning and the screams of the women who had been taken. She shut her eyes, and tried to think.
There could be no harm in viewing this Melville. Perhaps he was old, like Richard, and required a companion in his old age. Maybe he is tired of this country, and could return to Normandy without her. She opened her eyes, and her face looked determined. Richard’s passing insult had only revived in her the spirit of her people: proud, strong, and courageous. Anglo-Saxons did not give up without a fight, and their women were powerful. They had to be. She knew she was brave enough to face down this Melville, whoever he was.
Chapter Three
Melville was tired and disappointed with this weather. Riding for three days towards a town which he had never heard of, to marry some wench that he imagined dirty and petulant, had not improved his mood. He swept his long dark hair out of his eyes as two of his men returned on horseback from a scouting trip on the area. Rain poured down his face, lining his jawline and causing his clothes to cling to his taut body.