For the Love of a Maia

For the Love of a Maia
Chapter 15 - Six Years Later
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 15 - Six Years Later

Far from the gardens of Lorien the Vala time flowed without ceasing upon the Bent World. The plans, schemes and plots of men, hatched and thrust upon enemy and ally alike, brought war to some, anarchy to others and uncertainty to all. As the seasons turned one upon the other, the plans of the Valar matured and ripened though Haldir and Elyen came not to Arda yet.

Six years had passed since Anysse had wed Ulric within the great hall of Anstig Mote in order to thwart the threat that Almeric Atteford posed to her family and her father's lands. Six years since Almeric had taken Anysse's flight in stride and instead had bidden Godfrey Fitzwalter of Rowan Bold a new gauntlet, and that was to claim in matrimony the younger Fitzwalter female, Melissant. Six years since the death of the noble Wyat whose young life had been cut short by an assassin's arrow. An arrow many now suspected had come at the orders of Almeric Atteford.

And it had been exactly six years, two months and nine days since Almeric Atteford had wed the rebellious younger daughter of Rowan Bold.

Melissant studided the satin stitches she was threading for slips to be used in the solar. She clucked her tongue, rested her hands on her lap, the embroidery forgotten, and raised her head letting her brilliant blue eyes fly to the window opposite her.

It was mid September, and the soft afternoon light glinted off the top of the trees outside the large manor house that had been her home for these past six years. She laughed a little laugh. "Home, nay, not a home," she thought, "prison, more like." Melissant sighed and let her eyes wander past the window.

Kirkwood Manor, where she had lived for the past six years, was right at the edge of the South Marches itself; cold and unyielding lands, with even colder and less yielding people. It was to this place that she had come as a child of fourteen, bewildered, frightened and so alone. No one had dared befriend her, for she was the wife of the powerful Almeric Atteford, and to become chatelaine to this house. She had learned the ways of the manor quickly, though she had suffered many cruel jaunts and slights at the hands of the Manor's other ladies, the wives of Almeric's barons. But she had learned and grown, strong, self-willed and intelligent. Thankfully, she reminisced now, Almeric had only claimed his rightful place in her bed but only twice and that had been the night of her 18th birthday and then again following morning. Melissant sighed at the thought of those two incidents and she decided to push it to the back of her mind where she often exiled the worst events of her life. 'Twas obvious Almeric desired no children by her and of that she was both glad and thankful. For as distasteful as her two sexual encounters had been, she also did not wish to birth any Atteford brats.

Melissant tore her gaze away from the window and tried to concentrate on her work. But the thoughts now came unbidden and without restraint. Again she put down the embroidery and let her eyes return to the window.

How had she survived these long years? Since that fateful day she ran off to Almeric, a fire in her heart, believing she was doing the correct and true thing for her family. Thinking little of the terrible consequences her actions would someday bring. How quickly had her Lady Mother and Father accepted Almeric's offer; much too quickly, she thought. How quickly had they sent the Knight Templars back to their monasteries, assuring them that all was well within the Bold now that wedding plans would bring Almeric that which he had long sought.

She closed her eyes once, the memories painful. Yet, it was these consequences that she herself had brought about for the most part. Her gaze returned to the window and beyond. And what of her sister? Six years and naught a word from Anysse. Ulric did indeed maintain an uneasy contact with Almeric, as did the Lords of Anstig Mote, but why had Anysse never come, never sent word? Word of Lady Matilda's passing from the world had arrived the spring before, too late for Melissant to do aught but to pray for her mother's soul.

"Even that," she thought, "even that was kept from me." Bitterness welled up in Melissant's heart. She had given all for her family and naught had ever thought of her.

Melissant sighed and returned to the embroidery. "Enough of feeble-brained musings." She sternly told herself.

She sat in the Great Hall, close to the fireplace, working by the light of its flames. She worked alone these days, for the other ladies of the household had taken to avoiding her. And no wonder, she told herself with an inward chuckle. Detestable, empty women, whose heads were full of malice and gossip. Not a one could read, nor recite the classics, as Melissant had been tutored. They whispered behind her back, Melissant knew. And she knew what they called her too. Witch and sorceress, though she knew not why these names had been afixed to her.

Shrugging off these thoughts, Melissant put the embroidery down for the natural light of day was beginning to yield to the coming twilight of evening. She rose, sighed and ran her hands down her gown. Brother Anselm would soon be in Chapel for evening prayers and after that a light supper. Melissant moved quietly about the room, putting things away, dreading the moment she'd have to come to prayers, not that she disliked praying. In fact, she mused, she prayed quite often. It was Brother Anselm that disconcerted her.

Turning at a sound to her left, Melissant saw Ailis come into the room. "Brother Anselm sent word that he awaits 'pon your grace, My Lady."

Melissant sighed, "Very well, I shan't be long."

Ailis nodded and left the room. Melissant sighed again and knew there was nothing but to yield. To prayers it would be. Noiselessly and gracefully, she exited the Great Hall, followed a short and narrow passageway until a large and intricately carved wooden door appeared before her. This was the main entrance to the Chapel. The Chapel where six years before she had wedded Almeric.

Giving the doors a great shove, she opened them and stepped inside. Immediately the scent of incense assailed her nostrils. It was cold in the Chapel. Never cool in summer, but always cold no matter the time of year. Cold and dark. "A place where God resides?" Thought Melissant, "No God of mine resides here," she thought, looking at the dark and smooty walls. The place reeked of murder and blooshed. Not a holy and sacred place, she thought. Not at all.

At the foot of the small altar a slender and rather fragile looking friar waited. Impatience was stamped over his bland features, the tonsure and black robes secured at the waist by a thick braided rope marked him as a Benedictine. His small brown eyes watched Melissant enter the room, though none of the other ladies turned. He watched the Lady of Kirkwood Manor, watched her with hunger and ill-concealed desire. He looked upon her face, her skin like alabaster, flawless and devoid of blemish or pock marks. He studied her graceful walk, as she approached the family pew. Her gait was measured, as if she thought before she took each step, deciding upon which direction her feet should take her. Her hair, now covered modestly, he knew was a glorious shade of gold. He knew too that when loosened her hair tumbled to the ground in long tresses of gold and shimmering highlights of silver. He knew this from the years of watching her, concealed behind doorways and within shadows. He had watched her grow and ripen from a witless child of fourteen to the beauty before him. He watched her and then saw a flash of her eyes before they lowered themselves, hidden by a thick row of golden lashes. Those eyes, he though, feeling himself grow hard within his priestly robes. Her eyes! It was her eyes, Brother Anselm thought, it was all in her eyes. Eyes that had besotted him and tormented him. Brilliant azure eyes, the color of the skies of summer. Eyes that beguiled and shone with intelligence and determination. Eyes that conveyed an iron will. He knew he loved her and he knew he would never possess her. It was his calvary and his eternal damnation. He loved Melissant Fitzwalter Atteford. But he also feared her.

Innocent of the desire and torment within Brother Anselm's brow, Mellisant took her seat and prepared herself for a long thirty minutes. Usually Brother Anselm began with a small prayer, which was followed by a short discourse, the recitation of more prayers, a psalm and the blessing. Then it was over and she was free to escape to her rooms. If Almeric was not in attendance at the Manor then she was also blessedly free to take her supper in her rooms. If, however, Almeric was home, then she was expected to not only make an appearance at supper but to also entertain his guests, as well as be available for breaking fast the following morning.

"Ugh!" She grunted inwardly, conscious that Brother Anselm's eyes suddenly turned upon her.

Shaking her head imperceptibly, she tried to concentrate on the Pater Noster.

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While Melissant suffered the torment of Brother Anselm's exhortations to holiness and purity, Ulric de Graville watched his wife with a heavy heart.

Such promise they had shown, he thought dejectedly. A love they had shared, so strong that not even the threat of war could taint it or bring them to despair. They had trusted in that love to spare them the world's evils, but it was not to be. No love to protect them. No love to counsel and guide them. No love to enfold them as they aged.

He watched her quietly while she methodically turned the corner of the tapestry she worked on, one small, perfectly-formed stitch after another. She had been working on this, Ulric knew, for over a year. Scenes of battle and chivalric designs decorated the entire tapestry though she never showed it to him. They spoke little these days, and when they did 'twas only because they must.

Wyat's death had been a terrible blow to Anysse. She had lain prostrate at his coffin for days until the stench of the decaying corpse had forced them to bury the boy outside, behind the gardens that lay at the southernmost parts of the Mote. Days turned to weeks and these to months and Anysse's melancholic disposition did not lessen. And they had watched the lovely light of her face dim and fade with the passing of the years.

No children had been given them, though Ulric did not think that Anysse would be able to care or nurture a child in her condition. "Still", he mused, looking at his wife again, "still..." As it was, his line would die with him.

Was this the life that Elyen had held in store for him? He could not abide his own thoughts. Why would she use him thusly and then disappear from the world? Yet, this is where his thoughts took him each time he allowed himself to ponder on the events of the past six years. Fool that he had been. He had listened to Elyen's talk of bloodlines and kingship, letting himself believe that through him and Anysse would a line of kings issue. A great line he would found, a line to last a thousand years. He chuckled bitterly and poured himself more wine. Had he heeded his father's counsel to keep the plans of wizards far from his own life perhaps this tragedy could have been averted.

Anysse shifted in her seat and began to put away her work. She worked quietly and her hands moved slowly, deliberately. Ulric watched her, knowing that in his heart he was still desperately in love with his wife, knowing too that this shell was not the vibrant, passionate woman he had married and bedded all those long years past.

A sudden spiritual pain threatened to overwhelm Ulric but he fought himself for control. Taking another gulp of wine, he swallowed down the liquid and his tears at the same time. He sat the goblet down upon the side table and looked upon Anysse's bent head.

"Soon shall be time for supper, wife." Ulric spoke calmly. He saw Anysse lift her head and look toward him though she did not meet his eyes.

"Aye," She answered and added no more.

"Are you hungry today?" He asked her with concern. Anysse had not eaten the night before and taken little nourishment the night before that. She was growing thinner, her skin duller, her hair and nails brittle. The leeches had been applied and the potions mixed. But what ailed Anysse was not of the body. And no draughts could be given her for the mind sickness she suffered for no such potions were known.

"Yes, Ulric," Anysse replied quietly, "I am hungry to-night." She stood and turned to him, waiting, seeming to study an invisible spot upon the wall at her right.

Ulric stood,"Anysse," he began.

Anysse turned to him then and for the first time that day looked into his eyes, "Husband?" She asked quietly.

Ulric smiled sadly. It was pointless, he knew. "Nay, my sweet. 'Tis of no great import." He saw her nod her head but make no reply. "Come, Anysse, let us to repast."

Taking his wife's arm, Ulric walked slowly toward the great dinning hall of Anstig Mote.

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Ulric led his wife quietly into the large dinning room, where Robert and Edmund already waited, their murmured conversation coming to an abrupt halt as the couple entered.

Ulric nodded toward the men as he led his wife to her accustomed seat.

"My Lords," Ulric greeted the other two men. He sat and looked at the trays of food already served at the table. He turned to Anysse and saw that she had only taken several potatoes and no more. Motioning to a serving girl, pointed to Anysse's goblet.

"Water for the Lady Anysse."

The serving girl nodded and disappeared toward the kitchens.

"News from the Bold have reached us this day," Edmund began.

Ulric frowned, but did not immediately reply, slicing into a large side of pork with the short jewelled dagger he always kept at his side. "News of an ill or good wind?" Ulric chewed and looked at his uncle and cousin.

Robert reached for a slice of bread and dipped it into a trencher filled with hot gravy. "Ill or not, that bodes for you to decide."

"Cousin, your words do intrigue," Ulric answered, truly interested by now. "What news from the Bold then?"

Just then serving girl returned with a silver tankard full of fresh water. Setting this before Anysse, she left as quietly as she had entered.

Edmund poured himself a good measure of wine. "News the the Lord of the Bold has fallen ill and seeks to pass full deed and title of his lands and all possessions to Almeric Atteford." Edmund's intelligent eyes bored into Ulric's face.

"This comes not as a suprise, uncle, though I wonder if events have not conspired against Godfrey since Almeric took Melissant to wife."

Robert shifted in his chair and turned toward Ulric. "As I believe as well." He turned to his father. "I say we approach de Lacy about this turn of events."

Edmund frowned. "And deliver what news? Of what import?"

Robert grunted. "Father," the younger man began, frustration marking his face. " Tis well known that Almeric has long plotted to not only get his hands on the Yorkish lands but to eliminate all traces of the Fitzwalter line." He sat back on his chair. "As it is there is a distant cousin on Matilda's size, one Robert Fitzwalter, he may dispute Godfrey's intentions." He frowned before adding, " Had Melissant been a royal steward then Almeric's hand would have been stayed. "

Edmund nodded. "Tis too late for that, my son. She's his wife and chatelaine to his house."

Robert looked down at his food.

It was Ulric who spoke. "An I ride to the Bold," began Ulric. "What then?"

Edmund shrugged and continued eating. "There is not much for us to do, Ulric. If Godfrey chooses to relinquish all of his earthly possessions to Almeric Atteford then there is naught anyone can do. Save a royal command and I doubt that will come. 'Tis not uncommon for charters and fiefdoms to be passed in this manner."

Robert shifted in his seat. "And what of Anysse and the other Fitzwalters? What does Almeric think the courts will do?"

Edmund shook his head and provided no reply.

Ulric grunted and looked at his wife, a look that Edmund and Robert both caught and whose import they fully understood. "There is the matter of Godfrey's wines and his partnership with Myles of Lewes." Ulric said. "The contract of that arrangement Almeric cannot so simply dissolve."

It was Edmund who answered. "Concerning that matter we know nothing."

Ulric shook his head. "Will it never cease?" He asked of no one in particular.

Anysse, silent throughout the entire discussion, suddenly raised her head and spoke, "Is not my sister, Melissant, alive and well?" Her dark brown eyes turned to her husband. "Ulric? What of Melissant?"

Ulric startled into silence did not know how to respond. Not once, since Wyat's death, had Anysse acknowledged kinship to anyone, much less ask after her family. Reaching out to caress her hand, Ulric smiled, "Melissant is well, sweetling." He noticed then that Anysse slipped her hand away from his as if their contact was distasteful to her.

"Then we must go to her at the Bold, for she surely cannot think I have forgotten her." Anysse spoke quietly, looking down at her hands and then raising her eyes to the men.

The men frowned but said nothing. They watched Anysse break a small piece of bread and place it on her plate.

"I tire, husband." Suddenly Anysse announced, standing. "I will to my chamber." Ulric rose and turned to her, but she was already heading for the door, calling out a soft "Good eve" before exiting the room.

Robert lost no time. "I know what you think, cousin." He looked at Ulric and met his cousin's steady gaze. "You mean to contest Almeric's claim and Godfrey's soundness of mind and body." He shook his head, "Stay your hand and take no action."

Ulric snorted. "Stay my hand?" He exclaimed, "I cannot!"

Ulric pushed his chair away from the table. Suddenly the food no longer seemed appetizing. "Just how far will this bastard be allowed to proceed?" He looked at his cousin and then at his uncle. Both gazed back at him quietly, no thought or emotion on their brows betrayed their true feelings. "Six years we have dealt with his cunning and deceit all the while he declares allegiance to Henry, King. Either de Lacy is a fool or deep in Almeric's pockets!"

Edmund shook his head. "That talk can cause you to lose your head, son."

Robert nodded in agreement. "You cannot contest it. He and his people will drag Anysse through the courts. They will call her feeble, or mayhap worse. Then there is the matter of Matilda's heirs. She was Godfrey's lawful wife and brought lands of her own to the marriage contract. Those lands reverted to Godfrey and now her people may desire them back. Do you see what Almeric faces? Mayhap best to leave things be and not risk Anysse in this matter. For if you press Almeric and he learns of your wife's condition, then what do you, eh?" He stared hard at Ulric. "What do you then?"

Ulric sighed heavily knowing Robert was right. "Indeed, what then?" He looked at them and they saw the pain and bitterness that for so long had lain in his heart. "And what of Elyen of York?" His eyes flashed. "What of her and her intrigues and machinations? Where is she that she may come and counsel us?" Ulric waved a hand over the table. "Why does she not come?"

Edmund cleared his throat, not wishing to discuss Elyen. "That is a matter out of our hands. We needs must attends to our business and leave the business of wizards to their own kind."

Ulric smiled bitterly, "Aye, let us leave her to her own business."

Robert frowned, alarmed by the anger and bitter pain he saw upon his cousin's countenance. "Cousin," he began gently, "mayhap your lady will awaken and all of this will be but a memory and a fog to her. There is always hope while there is still life, Ulric." Robert's rich baritone was gentle. His heart truly ached for Ulric and Anysse. Though he had never known the arrow of love, he hoped that mayhap one day he would be able to ride that wave of sheer pleasure and delight. Wenches aplenty he had had, but the love he had once seen upon the faces of Ulric and Anysse Fitzwalter was a thing unknown to him. "Mayhap one day she will come back to you."

Ulric smiled sadly, "Aye, Robert, perhaps and may it be as you say." Pushing his chair further away from the table, he rose. "I will discreetly inquire in York-town as to the winery and Myles of Lewes."

Edmund looked up at his nephew. "Aye, and discretion must be your vanguard, Ulric."

Ulric nodded in agreement. "Aye, it shall be."

Edmund stretched his long legs and also rose. "Tis late and my bones are cold. I shall to the Great Hall." He walked to the door and left the two younger men alone.

Ulric turned to Robert and nodded. "Good eve, cousin."

Robert nodded casually, "And good eve to you and your Lady wife."

Just as Ulric reached for the door a thought occurred to him. "Robert," he began, slowly turning back to the table where Robert still sat, idly dabbling a piece of pork into the by now cold gravy trencher.

Robert's eyes lifted to Ulric. "Cousin?"

Ulric returned to the table and sat. "Have you news of Kirkwood Manor?"

Robert pursed his lips and lifted his eyebrows. "Nay, none that I know of." He studied Ulric's face carefully. "Why ask you?"

Ulric sat back in his chair and thought for a moment. "Mayhap it is time that my good wife solicit the presence of her good sister, the Lady Melissant."

Robert saw it in an instant and arched his eyebrows in thought. "I see no harm in it, though Almeric may not agree to it."

Ulric smiled, "Oh, he will agree."

"What makes you so certain?" Robert asked, intrigued.

"Because," began Ulric, "as we desire to know what he plots, he must likewise itch to know what we scheme."

Robert shook his head, "Spies aplenty he has for that, Ulric. Your plan is not a sound one."

Ulric looked at his cousin, determination marked upon his brow. "Aye, it is sound. Has not my Lady wife expressed an interest in the welfare and news of her younger sister?"

Robert shook his head, "And how are we to know of that bastard's true intentions? What spy shall we put into our pockets?"

"Melissant," Ulric said. "She will help us."

Robert's eyes widened and his lips pressed into a fine line. "That bitch!?" He saw Ulric's eyes flash. "She is the cause of all of this, Ulric! Or do you forget 'twas she who offered herself to Almeric?" Robert shook his head. "Nay, there is no help from that quarter."

Ulric thought for a moment. "Nay. I know Melissant. Long have a I pondered on her actions on that fateful day six years past. Did not her sacrifice cancel siege upon the Mote and Rowan Bold?" His intelligent eyes studied Robert's angry face. "I think mayhap we can risk it."

Robert snorted. "I do not agree with you. There are many sides to that tale, Ulric. One tells one story and another tells something else entirely differently. She was but fourteen. A chit, marriageable, yes, but a chit. Nay," he said with conviction, "she was sent to Almeric to negotiate or to seduce. Most likely 'twas her Mother's doing." He looked over at Ulric. "I disagree, but I stand at your side."

Ulric smile and rose, "Thank you, cousin. Though you knew Melissant not as well as I. A chit, mayhap to those who knew her not. But of that day I cannot gainsay what and who, yet my heart tells me Melissant acted on her own."

Robert snorted and rose. "I yield to you, though you say true. I knew the child not." He poured wine into their goblets. "Thank me not now, for there may come a time I shall regret my part in this." Handing a goblet to Ulric, he laughed and slapped Ulric's back good-naturedly. "A toast to fair luck and for the blessings of good St. Dunstan, may his angels be ever at our side."

"Aye," replied Ulric.

Silently they drank down their wine.

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Although Ulric had to do much arguing to convince Edmund that his plan was sound, at last it was decided that word would be sent from the Mote soliciting Melissant's presence there, on behalf of Kirkwood Manor and its holdings, and at her older sister's request.

Anysse's condition had been kept a well-guarded secret, though Ulric well knew that if Almeric sent his wife forth to the Mote, the secret would out itself. He was prepared to take this risk, though it would mean that Anysse's rightful portion of lands and other holdings might be forfeit. He might find himself answering before a royal court, but of that he would worry if and when the time came.

At last Edmund gave his approval. It was agreed then that two messengers were to be sent forth from Anstig Mote to Kirkwood Manor. Travel would be slow, Ulric knew, but he was satisfied that he had, at least, set the wheels into motion.

And so it came to pass that on a cool October morning two messengers dispatched from Anstig Mote carried word to the Lord of Kirkwood Manor, requesting that the Lady Melissant be released from her duties as chatalaine of that house to attend to her sister, Anysse, for not more than four weeks, at which time she would be safely returned to her rightful husband.

Edmund and Robert had personally toiled over the letter to Almeric in an attempt to convey a sincere desire on Anysse's part to see her sister while at the same time procuring to sound bland, ineffectual and neutral.

"Tis important we do not seem overly anxious, Ulric." Edmund had admonished. "After all, 'tis been six years and there has been no contact between the sisters. Almeric is bound to question the timing of our request."

Ulric had shrugged. "Let him wonder."

And so the missive had been sent.

Days passed and at last two weeks came and went with still no response. October was yielding to a chilly November and still no response from Almeric. 'Twas at the end of the fifth week that the two messengers at last returned with a response.

They were in the library now, and Ulric read the letter again, written in a neat hand, which he half suspected was most likely penned by Almeric's priest. He read it once more, his brows furrowing in thought and then he handed it to Edmund. Robert leaned closer to his father's shoulder in order to better see.

"Twould seem Almeric has agreed to send his lady wife." Robert said, nodding his head slowly. "Tis strange."

Edmund rolled the parchment and placed it back into its leather case. "Strange?" He asked Robert, half turning to him and then walking to the massive bookcase where he deposited the leather case.

Robert sat on a large chair and stretched his legs. "Too easily done. I had expected some excuse from Atteford, something that would prevent his lady wife from attending to her sister here at the Mote."

Edmund nodded and looked toward Ulric. "I agree, Ulric. 'Twas too easy."

Ulric nodded. "Then we shall have to keep our guard at the ready."

Robert shook his head and smiled. "I've duties that require my attention." He strode toward the door of the library and then turned to Ulric. "Remind me again, cousin, just precisely why is the Lady Melissant coming to the Mote?"

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Key:

St. Dunstan - 10th century saint and Archbishop of Canterbury. Often depicted commanding a troop of angels. One of many stories concerning St. Dunstan explains the possible use of the lucky horseshoe. It seems that once Dunstan was asked to reshod the Devil's horse and instead he nailed a horseshoe to one of the devil's cloven feet. This caused the Devil great pain and he asked Dunstan to remove it. Dunstan agreed to do so only if the Devil agreed never to enter the place of those who hang a horseshoe over the door.

Robert de Lacy - King Henry II's regent in England. Second most powerful person in the kingdom.

Pater Noster - (Latin) Our Father

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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.
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