Conquests: Hearts Rule Kingdoms (20 page)

Avis looked out at their faces – the faces that she had grown to recognise and to love during her time at Ulleskelf. Every eye was on her, waiting for the news, and she could almost hear their silent prayers that it would not be as serious as the situation seemed to suggest. The children weaved between the legs of the waiting adults, and Avis took a deep breath. She would not frighten them unduly. Not yet.

After sending the children to play and promising to join them as soon as she had finished talking to the adults, Avis briefly explained the danger that was to befall them all.

“The King is coming,” she said, no smile on her face. “He comes to destroy us all.”

“Why must we Anglo-Saxons suffer?” cried the priest, an elderly man who had lost his brother and nephews in the last battles. Many people around him nodded, and a woman began sniffing, trying to hold back tears.

“It is not only the Anglo-Saxons,” Avis said quietly. “William plans to destroy all. Anglo-Saxon and Norman, rich and poor. There are no privileges, and no exemption.”

This stunned the crowd. Never before had such brutality been heard of. To kill one’s own, as well as one’s foe? To destroy an area because of one rebellion?

Cries and panic began to fill the air, but Avis quickly described her plan.

“If we are condemned together, we must stay together.” People were already shaking their heads, but she persevered. “All at the castle have been organising everything for your arrival throughout the day – yes, Hilde, the Normans too,” as a woman about her age wrinkled her nose in disbelief. “You are all to come with me, into safety.”

“How safe?”

The question rang out from a small voice from behind the crowd, and it parted to reveal – the children. They had stopped their game, and crept towards the sounds of fear, only too used to such a terrible situation. All of the children had sombre faces, but none of them were crying. Fear pushed people to panic. This was not fear. This was acceptance, and it tore at Avis’ heart.

“Everything is prepared,” she concluded. “All you need to do is come with me.”

Avis gazed around the terrified faces, and with a sinking feeling realised that many of them were not convinced.

“And leave our homes?” said one man. “Everything that I own is in that place.”

“Will they be there when we return?” asked the woman to his right, pushing a baby up from her hips. Her child had been born after the last war, but she had lost two daughters to the marauders who had followed. The distress in her eyes was evident for all to see.

“I know that you have seen your belongings taken once before. All the keepsakes and memories of your lost ones, stolen – just as your families have been.” Avis looked around the small group, huddled together, and remembered her home village. There had been gaps in the faces there, and if she had known these people before 1066, she would be looking for people that no longer lived. “But you have to be strong. The most important thing is that we survive. For them.”

She pointed towards the little group of children. Mothers smiled, and the few fathers that lived looked proudly upon their sons and daughters.

“For them,” Avis repeated. “You must come with me for them.”

Slowly, all of the villagers nodded. They would do anything, just as Avis would, to protect the innocent. Within an hour every person had a bundle of belongings, down to the smallest babe who clutched theirs in podgy fingers. In a wretched but determined line, they walked towards the manor.

The atmosphere at the gate was abysmal. All of the servants, Anglo-Saxon and Norman, had come outside to welcome the villagers, but the sight of such a large group of Norman men had caused many of the village children despite their courage to cry, hiding behind their parents. Even the adults were wary. But Bronson stepped forward.

“Welcome,” he said, in his deep and comforting Anglo-Saxon tones. “You will be safe here. We will all be safe here.”

Hands reached out. Loads were taken, and arms were placed around those who were weary. A slow trickle of people moved inside, until Avis was the only one left.

Avis looked out. She could still see the bridge, and the village, though the dark night was threatening to obscure them. She could not make out the oak tree, nor the two roads beyond it. Which road had Melville taken? Where was he now?

“My lady,” said a voice behind her. She turned to see Edith.

“My lady,” Edith repeated. “You must shut the gates now.”

Avis nodded, and Edith hurried away to settle her mother down into a large room that had been set aside for the Anglo-Saxon women.

Avis turned back towards the huge gates, and sighed. As soon as they were shut, there would be no turning back. No one would be able to get out – and no one could be let in.

With a loud screech, she pulled the gates to, and barred them with large wooden boards.

“There,” she whispered. “Safe.”

But not everyone. As Avis turned to follow her people inside, she knew that Melville would not be able to enter now. He was on his own. Just as she was. And she ached for him.

Chapter Twenty Six

Melville had been riding for two days now, and with every gallop of his horse his heart was wrenched further from Avis. He could feel it. Every mile was agony, and every time they stopped he was tempted to turn around and return even faster than he had left.

But he could not. He had to keep going.

Robert rode up beside him, and shouted in the pouring rain. Even when the sun had risen, the rain had not abated. They were all tired and soaked to the skin, but Melville had refused to stop all night.

“My lord!” Robert yelled. “We must rest. The horses must take time to recover, or we shall never arrive!”

But Melville had no such intentions.

“We continue,” he returned. “We are almost there.”

“We shall arrive in no fit state to see him!” Robert tried to talk sense into his lord, but Melville’s eyes had glazed over with tiredness, and his hands kept slipping from the saturated reins. “He will not see us, I say!”

There was no reply, and with a sound of disgust, Robert dropped behind to give the message to the other waterlogged men.

Melville knew that he was not making himself a popular man. His decision not to take extra supplies at their last stopping place was another grievance he knew his men held against him. Their loyalty had always been the one constant in his life, and now he was gambling on that loyalty for the speed they were going to reach their destination. But with every second that he was away from Avis, he became more and more anxious to return to her, and if that meant travelling in discomfort, so be it.

The shy sun had risen despite the sheeting rain, but it had disappeared hours ago behind some cloud and had not been seen again. Melville and his men rode across wide open fields where harvest had been taken, and dense woodland where deer ran from them, never stopping and only briefly talking. They all knew where they were going, and none feared their destination more than Melville. He had sworn to himself that he would never return there unless he had no other choice. He had never thought that sort of circumstance would occur so soon.

Midday would have broken if the sun was visible, and still they did not stop. Every man’s legs ached from hips to toes, but still they did not demand a respite. They knew the answer that they would receive. Melville was so tired that he began to dwell once more on Avis, even though he was trying to avoid that mental subject. He cursed himself for not leaving a message for her, but he could not have entrusted any servant that remained with her with the secret of where they were going, and he could not read or write. He was ashamed of this fact and had never admitted it to Avis, but there was never a second when he regretted not learning more than that quick departure. She must think I am a fool, he thought. Or a coward. Or a traitor.

He thought about her long blonde hair, and the way that she snapped at him without fear. Her love of her people, and her obvious care for others. He groaned into the wind and the rain, and wished more than anything that he could be with her at that very moment.

But instead at that very moment he saw a dim light ahead of him. It was the outskirts lantern of the place that they had been riding so hard and so fast for so long to reach. He gave a shout, and Robert was once more at his side.

“My lord?”

“Stop the men.” Melville’s voice dripped with tiredness as his dark hair dripped with rain. “We shall ready ourselves together before we approach.”

Robert nodded. The fear that had been playing underneath the surface of his face now deepened, but he obeyed. Within seconds, Melville’s small retinue of six men had come to a halt. They grouped together, and waited for their lord to dismount.

Melville slowly came down from his horse, leaned against it, willing his bones to feel strong. After a moment, he walked stiffly towards his men who had also dismounted. They stood rigidly. They knew what they had agreed to, but none of them had been truly prepared to see the periphery of their journey's end, which had so consumed them. They looked to Melville for orders and guidance, and as he looked at them he knew he had nothing of worth to say.

“Men,” he began awkwardly. “You know why we are here, you know what we face, you know the consequences of our actions. There is no more to say.”

Some of the men were shocked by Melville’s lack of conversation, but those that knew him best were not surprised. They knew his feelings about where they were going, and all of them could guess at his emotions about the person that he had left behind. It had not been an easy decision, and now they would all pay the price.

Forming a line behind Melville, they all walked forward, towards the light. After a mile, the person standing by the light came into view, and he shouted out in Norman.

“Who goes there?”

“Melville of Ulleskelf, lord of Copmanthorpe.”

There was silence. Melville and his companions continued walking forward, but more than one trembled in anticipation.

“Follow me, Melville of Ulleskelf,” replied the voice, which belonged to a thin man who came into view as he stepped into the light. “You are expected.”

Turning his back, the thin man began walking towards the huge building that came into view around the corner. Melville gasped. He had never seen such a thing, even in Normandy. The castle was enormous, and light streamed from the entrance which was already open. Many men in dark red robes lined the way inside, and as the group passed them, several of them sniggered at the sopping motley group.

Melville and his men came into an entrance hall which had a large fire in it. Desperate as they were to warm themselves at its side, they dared not without Melville’s command – and he was urgently looking around the room. The man that he looked for could not be seen.

A servant walked up to Melville insolently.

“And?” He asked, with a sneer on his wide face.

“I would see your lord,” Melville asked quietly. “If convenient.”

“It is not convenient,” the servant replied rudely. “What makes you think that he will see you?”

Melville smiled, and his men leisurely formed a semi-circle, almost enclosing the discourteous but now nervous servant.

“Because I have travelled far to see him. Because I am a lord of this realm. And because I’m asking nicely.”

Melville smiled broadly, but his harsh eyes never left the servant’s face. The servant swallowed, and backed away. Once out of the reach of Melville’s men, he muttered.

“I will speak to my lord.”

He turned to leave the hall, but shouted over his shoulder.

“Though don’t hold your breath!”

The servant scampered out of the hall before Melville or his men could do or say anything in retaliation to his insolence.

“I’ve been holding my breath ever since I left home,” murmured Melville to himself. “I’ve been holding my breath for the last three years.”

But his breath had been stolen when he had seen Avis. Avis. Even here, in the midst of all this danger, he could not rid her from his mind. Perhaps it was because he was in so much danger that he dwelled on her face. He did not want to consider that he may never see that beautiful face again.

Robert grabbed Melville’s arm, and nodded towards a door. The same servant had returned, and he did not look happy.

“My lord will see you now,” he said sullenly. He was evidently disappointed that he had not managed to persuade his lord to send Melville away.

“Thank you,” Melville attempted to remain polite, but it was gall to his throat. Gesturing to his men that they were to follow him, he walked towards the servant.

“No,” the servant held up a hand. “Just you, my lord Melville. Your men may remain here and warm their hands. They are not to come.”

“I take this as an insult,” Melville shouted. He was tired, and he had had enough. “An insult against my name!”

“Take it as such.” The servant shrugged his shoulders. “It was meant to be.”

Melville pulled his hands into fists, but calmed his ragged breathing. There was plenty of time to shout later. It would not do to antagonise his host before he even saw him.

“My men shall remain here,” he conceded with difficulty. “I follow you.”

The smirk returned to the servant’s face, and as much as Melville wanted to punch him, he refrained.

The servant led him out of the entrance hall, through corridors lined with tapestries, candles at every corner, and gold threaded embroideries. The display of wealth was not subtle. Many servants passed them as they walked through, many of them carrying ornate bowls and plates covered with food or jugs spilling over with wine. Melville’s mouth watered. He had forgotten how many hours it was since he had eaten.

Eventually the servant led him into a small room, with red and gold coverings on the chairs. One chair was slightly larger than the others, and beside it was a small table with a bowl of apples upon it. The large roaring fire had a marble hearth, which in turn was covered in gold and silver ornaments. This room was just as richly decorated as the corridors, but Melville could not help but feel uncomfortable, surrounded by such abundance.