For the Love of a Maia

Chapter 16 - When the Heart Hungers

For the Love of a Maia
A story by Sienna Dawn
Pairing: Haldir/OFC Heterosexual
Rating: NC17 for sexuality

Summary: The Valar send Haldir to Arda in order to bring a stranded Maia back to Valinor. When he arrives, the possibility of civil war looms large. Will the Maia forsake Middle Earth and return to Valinor? A period romance set against the backdrop of Norman England.

Disclaimer: Based on characters from The Silmarillion and the Lord of the Rings, by JRR Tolkien, (used here without permission), as well as historical events which occurred in York, England, 1173-1175 AD, during the reign of Henry II. Copyright remains with JRR Tolkien. For entertainment purposes only. No profit is being made from this work. All original characters are the creation of Sienna Dawn.

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Chapter 16 - When the Heart Hungers

November 24, 1179 A.D.....

They met in the large library of Kirkwood Manor, Melissant wondering why she had been called away from her work.  She entered the dark chamber and saw Almeric warming his hands by the large fireplace.  The chamber was icy cold, she could feel the chill of the room in her bones.  She stared at the man who was her husband silently, waiting.  

"Ah, my sweet," Almeric smiled at his wife. "This has just arrived." He handed her a neatly rolled letter.  "I believe this may be of interest to you."

Silently, Melissant accepted the letter, unrolled it and began to read. Scanning the contents quickly, she tried to hide her amazement, though she knew Almeric could read her quite well.  Once she had finished, she stared at him hoping that her expression did not reveal too much.  

"It says here that I am called to Anstig Mote," she began, though Almeric silenced her with a curt wave of his hand.

"Twould seem they have need of you." His eyes studied her.

Melissant read the letter again.  She wasn't certain if she should feel happy or not.  For some reason she mistrusted the letter's true intent.  Though she was secretly elated to know that Anysse still lived and still remembered her.

"'Tis my sister. She sends for me."  She read the letter for a third time, though the words rolled one into the other.  Anysse, she thought, Anysse was sending for her.  She had not been forgotten.  At once a great burden lifted from her spirit and she allowed herself to feel just a small fraction of hope, of happiness. Yet, she thought, why now, why all the long years of silence only to be broken now?

Her blue eyes studied Almeric's sour expression.  "If 'tis your wont, I will go." She said, not realizing she was holding her breath.

Almeric looked down at his hands, taking great pains in examining each nail of his right hand. She noticed the knuckles were scraped.

Melissant watched him, knowing he delayed his answer in order to torment her.  Abruptly a great anger rose in her heart and she would have liked nothing better than to thrash him right there.  But she held her tongue and fought to maintain a passive posture.

"And what of Kirkwood? Shall the manor come to chaos?" Almeric objected. "'Pon the coming of Christmas, as well."

She had anticipated he would use that argument against her going, but she had an answer ready. "The Manor has looked after itself long before I came here, Almeric. Beside, you shan't be here for Christmas, and neither shall your men. Are you not sailing for France the first week of December to petition King Henry for the lands west of the Marches?" She watched him, beginning to feel a deep disappointment.  He was going to deny her. She had to change tactics.

"'Tis your decision, Almeric." She turned away from him. "Six long years and no word from Anysse." She walked to Almeric, returned the letter to him and sat down close to the fire.

"Aye," Almeric answered. "And the why of it I do not understand." He sounded bored.  He always sounded bored, Melissant thought.

"What mean you?" She asked him carefully, keeping all traces of the anxiety she felt out of her voice.

"Only, my sweet," he began, "that after all this time does your sister send for you?" He turned his back to the fire and rubbed his haunches.

Melissant could feel Almeric's heavy gaze on her.  She watched him warm himself.

"Could she be with child, I wonder?" He asked softly.

Melissant did not respond, though that same thought had occurred to her.  She shrugged and tried her best to sound non-chalant, "I hold no debts to any of them."   "Tis your decision, husband.  I shall go if you say or stay if that is your desire. It matters naught to me, either way."

Almeric stared at Melissant for a moment and then laughed.  "Clever little bee, aren't you?"  A light of malice suddenly lit up his eyes.  "Little bees need their honey, do they not?"  His tone was mocking, but he came closer to her and sat down on an opposite chair, quietly studying her face. "Clever little bees need to rest from a hard day's labour, do they not?"  

Melissant looked at him, wondering what he was getting at.  She decided her best response would be silence.  Let him rant away, she thought.  No matter, his reponse would be no, and only because he knew she wanted to go.  She had shown him too much and now he was going to use it against her.

"When shall you go?" Almeric suddenly asked coming to stand closer to her.

Melissant nearly sputtered her response but then caught herself and willed herself to be calm. "As soon as you wont." She dropped her gaze to the flames of the fires.

Almeric chuckled, "Then leave at your will.  Be certain to give our beloved sister our deepest and fondest goodwill."  He leaned toward her and kissed her on the cheek, his lips cold and chapped. Then he straightened and looked down at the top of her head.  The light of the fire cast a warm glow about her hair, illuminating their golden strands as if she wore an aura of pure gold.  He felt no stirrings of desire for her, not in the way a man desires a woman.  Almeric was seduced by power, not by the flesh.  His eyes narrowed and he reached out to lightly caress her hair.

"But remember, good wife, to say or do naught that would bring shame to this house."

His touch had always sickened her but after the long years she had learned to hide her disgust well.  Raising her head to look at him, she said, "What mean you?  What shame could I bring to you?  Do you not do that well enough yourself?" Her tone was gentle, almost kind, but the dagger thrust had been placed well and deep.

At his wife's veiled insult, Almeric's breath caught in his chest.  If he beat her none would chastise him for it for that was his right as husband.  But no, he thought.  To beat her is to bring on defeat and I shall have none of defeat.  Instead he gave her one of his best practiced smiles.  "Ah, you forget, little bee, that I hold the reins of power in York." His brow furrowed into a dark frown, "Do not tempt me, Melissant, for long have I stayed my hand against those stiff necked sluggards."  His eyes bored into hers.  "Do not tempt me, sweet."

Melissant said nothing, already accustomed to his threats and taunts to raze York and its people.  She did not think he would carry out his threat, but she also knew Almeric capable of anything.  Such a hideous deed at his command would not surprise her. Instead she nodded, "I will remember that, husband, and I shall carry your good wishes to all in Anstig Mote." She had kept her voice neutral and calm, hoping that this would end their conversation.  Though she attempted to avoid him at all costs, their conversations had never truly disturbed her for she thought of him as a gutless, witless buffoon, albeit a dangerous one.  Still, of late any words exchanged with Almeric always left her with a great anger in her heart.  She wondered at this change in her but gave it not too much importance.  To raise a hand against Almeric would not only doom her, but her father, York and many more.

Unaware of his wife's thoughts, Almeric smiled thinly, "Then I wish ye godspeed." He turned and walked toward the library door.

Melissant sat, rooted to her spot by the fireplace, watching the flames lick at the sooted stone walls of the large pit and listened for the sounds of Almeric's departing footsteps and then the soft thud of the door as he closed it behind him.  It was then that she finally allowed herself to breathe, to feel, to smile and mayhap, to hope.

She stood and closed her eyes, trying to will her thumping heart to be still, but it would not listen.  She felt happy.  For the first time in a very long time she felt happy.

She did a little dance before the fireplace, a small prayer rising within her.  She asked for good weather to make the trip a short one and she asked for strength to do what she knew had to be done.  Closing her eyes, she warmed her hands against the flames of the fire and then turned to leave.

Quickly she left the library and headed for the kitchens. There was much for her to do and to plan.

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In the ensuing days Melissant had made certain that enough firewood had been collected from the nearby forest west of Kirkwood Manor; those living and working in the house itself would be warm enough, but Melissant also wanted to be assured that the peasants of Kirkwood village would be well supplied throughout the coming weeks when she would be away.  She made certain that enough dried reed and sedge for thatching was available to all.  She spoke to Editha, the house's cook, so that all would run as Melissant had directed.  Melissant also gave Editha the keys to larders and storage rooms with strict instructions to dole out the preserves equally so that they would suffice throughout the long months to come.

Once certain that all had been organized to her will and approval, and only then, did Melissant begin the task of organizing her own travel plans.  In this Almeric left her to own devices, a thing for which Melissant was extremely grateful.  She knew, however, that he was steeped in his own plans and thus saw little of him in the days before her departure.

And so did the time pass quickly for Melissant until at last came the day for her leaving.

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The frosty early days of December were uneventful for the folk of Anstig Mote. The great moat around the floating island fortress had not frozen solid yet, though icy patches reflected the weak winter sun and a slight dust of snow already covered the landscape. Daily chores were carried out routinely; thrushes made fresh and clean; preserves and jams boiled and steeped in honey or Madeiras; meats salted to be kept for the coming months.  The smithies were silent and the barn animals kept indoors, though at times hay was rationed carefully.  It was on one such morning, after breaking fast that Ulric came to his wife.  There, in the Great Hall, huddled in a warm corner that was a few feet from the giant fireplace did he find her.  He studied the delicate profile of her face, the upturned nose, the long dark lashes that gently swept her cheeks as she studiously labored over the intricate stiching of her tapestry.  He hurried toward her and then kneeled before her.

"Anysse" Ulric began though she acknowledged him not and continued working.  "Anysse," he began again.  "I have news of your sister, Melissant."

Anysse's eyes raised to Ulric's face and she frowned, "Melissant?"  Her eyes searched Ulric's face.  "What of her?" She turned back to the tapestry on her lap, taking another delicately small stitch.  

Ulric kneeled before his wife and placed his large hands over her smaller ones, willing her to cease her sewing.  Anysse looked down at his hands and then into his eyes, a questioning look lighting her face.

"Melissant is coming to Anstig Mote, sweetling.  She shall be here for a little over a month, to spend the Christmas with us and then return to her own home and duties there."

Anysse frowned. "But why?" She asked, confusion in her dark eyes.

"To come and see you. 'Tis been too long ere you saw each other. Do you not wish to see your sister again?" Ulric asked her.

Anysse nodded, "Aye, that I would," She answered him, "But," her eyes fell on Ulric's face and they seemed suddenly troubled, "will Almeric come as well?"

Ulric frowned.  Why would Anysse ask about Almeric Atteford? He patted her arm and smiled fondly, "Nay, I do not think so."

Anysse returned to her stitching, "Then all is well."

Ulric studied his wife, frowning.

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Six years before, in 1173, disastrous events began to unfold for King Henry and his queen, Eleanor of the Aquitaine. It was in this year that Eleanor and Henry's three oldest sons, Henry, Geoffrey and Richard had declared open revolt against their father. To add to the fires which were already burning hot, King Henry had allowed the younger Henry to be crowned king in his own lifetime, though he had not allowed the younger man full authority to rule.  The same conditions were then imposed upon the King's other two sons, both of whom had inherited lands and titles.  These frustrating conditions which the King imposed upon his sons eventually led to open hostilities with their father.  Adding to the already dark situation was the rumor that King Henry had had an affair with Richard's betrothed, Alys of France.   Queen Eleanor for her part, was understandably not on good terms with Henry and completely supported her sons. But their plans to usurp the throne were not to be, and through serious errors on Eleanor's and her sons' parts, were they foiled.  While her sons successfully fled to the French court, Eleanor was not so lucky.  Intercepted as she attempted to flee England, she was detained and placed under house arrest. Through the long years of her captivity, Eleanor's detractors had painted many names for her and lain many false accusations at her feet.  Suffering these with her usual composure, Queen Eleanor managed to rise above the maelstrom, save for the one accusation which could have brought her to an early death: witchcraft.  Rumors circulated throughout England and the rest of Europe that the Queen was well versed in the dark arts and though none save Eleanor knew for certain, it was a charge that entangled many in its wide and ever-growing web of deceit, lies and betrayals.  It was within this tangle that many innocents would ultimately find themselves trapped.

This is how the state of English politics stood by the end of 1179. Though the Queen was moved from castle to castle and thus were fifteen years of her life wasted, King Henry's world was completely turned upside down when in that year the French King, Louis VII, died. And the new French king would prove to be much the worse for the English king.

Many of the earls and barons who had long plotted against Henry, siding with his sons for their own purposes, were now adrift without Eleanor's hand to guide them. Most bided their time and pressed not their own interests. Yet, there were the few who continued to plow ahead, mindless of the turn of events in the Continent, and of the shifting sands of alliances that changed at every turn.  Such a man was Almeric Atteford, whose own blind ambition to scale to the highest heights would soon seal his fate.  But of this he knew nothing, and if he had known, he would have simply smiled and remained silent.

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The winter of 1179 was promising to be miserable and unusually cold and bitter. By Martinmas a fine blanket of snow carpeted the north, all the way from Kirkwood village to the Yorkish lands and as far as Anstig itself. In the ensuing days a fine drizzle of rain had steadily fallen, and though the drizzle normally ended by mid-day the weak rays of the sun were no match for the icy fingers of the winter chill that froze the world below it.

And so had she set out on a cold but clear morning, under a grey sky and a wan sun.  Melissant knew that the trip to Anstig, made during summer months in two days' time, would most likely take four or perhaps five days.  And though most usually travelled by land, though difficult it was for the roads were usually either in terrible disrepair or infested by robbers, many still opted to make their journeys by water. The many rivers and waterways of the land could be easily traversed at a faster pace, though the ever-constant threat of storms and drowning hung above the weary traveller like a dark and somber shadow. But no matter the hardship, Melissant was determined to journey to Anstig.  

Just now she walked to the black palfrey that was waiting for her in the great courtyard of Kirkwood Manor.  Melissant's face brightened at the sight of the animal.

"Ooo...Emma," she cooed at the animal, "Tis cold, is not, my girl?" She reached behind the horse's ear and scratched her fondly.  "No matter, we shall soon be warm enough.  Just a few days discomfort, no more." As she caressed the animal, Melissant turned toward the sound of the voices behind her.   

"Sir John!" Melissant called out. She looked around her with a critical and practiced eye; the packhorses were already laden with many of the supplies they would need for the trip; the six men-at-arms which had been granted her waited patiently at the barbican; and the covered wagon containing her clothing, the foodstuff and the few gifts she had pursuaded Almeric to part with for the Mowbrays, as well as tokens for Anysse and Ulric, was already horsed and manned.  She called again, "Sir John!"  A chill wind came toward her and she pulled her furred cape closer about her body.

A stout, though not-overly tall man, ruddy of complexion and with quick brown eyes, detached himself from the small group of men packing the horses in the spacious bailey of Kirkwood Manor.  Servants hurried to and fro from the kitchens, the buttery, the barns and the long-room where the farm animals and supplies were kept during the harshest winter months.

"Aye, my Lady!" Called Sir John, his gait toward her sure and swift.  In the long and lonely years of her confinement at the Manor, Sir John had become Melissant's single ally.  A man of approximately 40, a younger son of a lesser noble family, he had become for her more than a servant and protector, but also a friend and advisor.  Had Almeric known of their bond, he would surely had seen the man banished from Kirkwood.

"Are we ready?" Melissant asked Sir John, eyeing the sky above.  It was now midmorning and the sky above looked clear.  No chance for snow she thought.  A fine day to begin her journey.  

Sir John affectionately patted Emma's side and replied, "Aye, ready as we shall e'er be, my Lady!" He gave her a grin and held out his hand toward her.  Taking the strong and callused hand he offered her, Melissant found herself being hoisted atop Emma.  Riding astride the horse and not side-saddle as many of the ladies of the time preferred, Melissant settled herself comfortably atop Emma and took the reins Sir John held out to her.  "Easy on the left, my Lady; the old gal favors that side of late."

Nodding, Melissant guided the horse around and waited.  In a few moments she saw the last of the horses tacked and she turned toward Sir John who now sat astride a fine black destrier that snorted his impatience at having to wait for his master's approval to begin the journey.

Just then the great doors of Kirkwood Manor heaved open.  Melissant frowned when she saw Almeric stride into the bailey, "Fine day, 'tis, my dear." His eyes quickly looked about the assembly before alighting upon Melissant, "Dost thou not travel overly heavy?" His hands settled upon Emma's reins.

Tugging the horse's reins out of his grasp, Melissant sniffed indifferently, "Nay, overly light I would say," she began, "methough I should add four more palfreys." She fixed Almeric with a cold stare.  "What say you? Can you afford it, husband?"

Almeric gave Melissant a small smile, "No, I cannot, as you know." He looked about him again, seeming to come to a decision; a few moments before he had been half-tempted to overrule himself and cancel her journey to Anstig Mote.  He still was not wholly convinced that Melissant was acting out of sisterly devotion.  Something else urged her to go, but the why of it he did not know.  At least not yet.

Stepping away from Emma, Almeric waved his hand.  "Go then," He looked at her quickly and then turned away. "And see to her safety." He called out to Sir John who nodded gravely, "for ye shall pay with thy head an ill befall her."

Melissant pursed her lips in distate.  She was merely chattel for him, nothing more.  A means to an end, as he had reminded her so often. She saw he turned to her once again, gave her a swift look and then strode back into the great house.  

Breathing a sigh of relief, Melissant gave Sir John a curt nod of the head.  With a hoarse shout, the man waved his arm toward the caravan.  The party began to slowly wound its way out of the bailey, beyond the gatehouse and barbican, across the moat and then toward the open meadows that led to the river Tees.  Here they would follow the banks of the river, across uneven terrain, patchy and made even more treacherous in the winter snows that hid the many gouges in the land.  They would have to proceed with a great caution so that no horse would become injured nor any wheel shatter.  From thence the plan was to follow the Tees southward toward Gilling which boasted somewhat better roads, then south past the outermost of the Yorkish lands and then cross the Wharfe to push toward Anstig Mote.  If the weather held, they could make the trip in five, or perhaps, four days.

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They made good time, grateful that the weather held and no robbers acosted them upon the lonely stretches they followed. They camped only briefly to sleep and allow the horses to rest, never lingering more than five hours at a stretch, nervous that their presence upon the deserted winter roads would draw the attention of brigands and ruffians.   Two days after departing Kirkwood, the caravan came to a halt upon the banks of the river Wharfe.  Here they had lingered for a while as Sir John and his men searched the lowest point in the river for the reputation of the Wharfe was that it was treacherously and swift.  Shards of ice floated upon the surface, glinting against the pale yellow sun.  After several hours, they had a last secured a safe spot and the entire caravan had carefully forded the river and was soon making for the outer borders of Anstig.  

With the Wharfe already half a league behind them and the relative safety of verdant Wharfedale before them, the caravan settled into a comfortable trot.  They knew now that they were on well protected lands and though they could see no archer, spearman or footsoldier, this was no indication that they were not being watched carefully.

It was late afternoon, toward the end of the third day, that Sir John called a halt to the caravan.  Turning his warhorse back toward Melissant, he matched her palfrey's gait and fell in alongside of her. "A chill wind comes from the mountains," he began, turning slightly to look behind him where the outcrops of the Pennioroches which stood silhouetted starkly against the silver sky. "Bodes for snow," He added, sniffing the air.

Melissant grimaced, wriggling her nose in distate.  "Ack," She shook her head, "then we'd best push on and not wait for the storm to slow the animals."  She herself could not see that the sky bode snow, but then again she knew Sir John's instincts in this were to be trusted utterly.

Mocking surprise, he fixed her with a slight smile, "Are ye in such a hurry to reach the Earls of Mowbray, then?"  A slight chuckle rumbled in his chest. "'Tis said that Robert de Mowbray is a bonhomme, of courtly looks and brave countenance."  He studied Melissant's profile though she did not flinch at the baited words.

Melissant clucked her tongue and turned her face away from the knight. "I am in no hurry." She turned to give him a stern glare, "Ladies, Sir John," She began with quiet dignity she truly did not feel, "do not hurry 'pon anyone's leave." She arched an eyebrow and then shifted her eyes straight ahead of her.  She heard Sir John chuckle but gave her no reply.

"We shall see." Was his only comment before he spurred his steed onward and rode away leaving Melissant alone with her thoughts.

Indeed, she began to ponder Sir John's words.  Perhaps coming to Anstig Mote had not been a good idea, after all.  Had not her careless actions precipitated her own catastrophic situation?  She cocked her head to one side, as was her custom when deep in thought.  But was her situation truly that dire?  She had helped avert war and siege, though she felt a hideous guilt over Wyatt's death.  She turned her blue eyes toward the left of the caravan, and gazed at the gentle sloping meadows now covered with a slight dusting of snow.  Did she really believe that this reunion with Anysse would expiate her sins? Would Anysse help her mend the rift between herself and their father? Melissant shifted slightly atop her horse as Emma slowly cantered behind Sir John's steed. She studied the knight's broad back. And what did Sir John intend when he spoke to her about Robert de Mowbray, his reputation as an honest and brave man?  What was that to her, anyway, suddenly becoming vexed with Sir John and his taunts. Mindlessly, she tugged the reins forcefully and pulled toward the left forgetting Sir John's warning about her horse's condition.  At Melissant's pressure, Emma pulled back with a great force, suddenly unhorsing the girl.  Tumbling backward, Melissant fell onto the hard and frozen ground striking her head and landing with her arm pinned behind her back.  She knew a sudden pain in her shoulder and then blackness engulfed her.

And it came to pass that Melissant Fitzwalter d'Atteford was taken unconscious into the ancient house that was Anstig Mote.

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Key:

Martinmas - November 11th

Palfrey - A riding horse.  In the Middle Ages horses were used by designation and bred for specific purposes.  Some were for riding, others for warfare, others for pulling carriages and yet others to carry great and heavy loads.
 
Buttery [Botelerie (Middle English)] - Room for the service of beverages.

Barbican -  An outwork or forward extension of a castle gateway

Destrier - Warhorse

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Disclaimer: All familiar characters are owned by JRR Tolkien and are used without permission. No monies are being made from this work.
Graphics copyrighted Cari Buziak