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Chapter One

Dusk was quickly approaching, and Giselle was on her hands and knees in the little garden she tended behind her family’s hut. At any minute, her father would return from the fields, and she needed to hurry if she wanted to have the evening pottage ready in time. She rushed to pluck a few herbs from the little garden and hurried into their hut. Inside, her mother was stirring a thick vegetable stew that was already boiling in a blackened pot over a happily crackling fire.

“Sit, maman,” Giselle told her mother, taking the wooden spoon. “I will finish the pottage.”

The woman patted her daughter on the hip and limped to a low wooden bench. She slowly sank into sitting, one hand planted on her aching lower back.

“The sun was too hot on my neck in the fields today,” her mother said with an exhausted smile. “You’re a good girl, Giselle. Merci.”

Giselle smiled as she crushed the herbs in her fist and scattered them into the pot, stirring all the while.

“It is nothing, maman,” she replied. “I am not too tired.”

“Still,” her mother sighed, “to have a small sit before supper is almost heaven.”

She reached for her sewing tools, but Giselle turned and stopped her with a stern wave of the wooden spoon.

“Then have a proper sit-down, maman,” she said. “And don’t mend the clothes now. The light is too dim for you to see, and I will only end up having to do it again tomorrow!”

Her mother chuckled, fondly shaking her head at her daughter—their only child to survive the latest outbreak of sickness after an unseasonably cold winter. Giselle had always been such a dutiful girl, her mother mused as she watched her stir the pottage while humming to herself. When they’d first built the sturdy wooden frame of their cruck house, Giselle had been the first of her siblings to plunge her hands into the pungent mix of mud, straw and manure, plastering their home with her two tiny hands. Then, after burying her younger sisters and brother on a cold March morning earlier in the year, she had taken their duties upon her own shoulders without a word of complaint.

And soon, her mother thought, soon she would lose her last daughter to a loveless marriage.

Giselle glanced over her shoulder at her mother, who had suddenly fallen quiet, her eyes clouded over in thought. Without asking, she knew what troubled her aging mother and turned back to stare into the depths of the stew she was gently stirring. It would do them not good to discuss it, as her fate was already decided.

If the feudal lord gave his blessing, Giselle would be wed by the end of the week.

They had no choice—her father already struggled to farm the land they rented from the lord, and with taxes ever rising he needed to secure a match that would allow him to pool resources with another serf. Unfortunately, the only profitable marriage would be to Henri, a violent brute of a man who lumbered about the village, smelling of drink and manure. But he tended the lands adjacent to theirs and was a widower with sons who could help till their land. Giselle sighed. She would probably never love Henri, but marrying him would ensure her family’s survival.

Just then, her father walked through the door of their hut. Giselle’s hand immediately stilled, the pottage momentarily forgotten. She knew instantly that something had gone terribly wrong, and she watched her father drop tiredly onto a rickety stool.

Her mother rushed to his side, her hands fluttering nervously over his broad shoulders. Her father leaned an elbow on their rustic dinner table and wearily rubbed his brow.

“What is it?”

He let out a long sigh, a sound that only fuelled her mother’s growing panic.

“What?” she pressed, bending to catch his eye. “For goodness’ sake, mon amour, tell me what has happened!”

He sighed again and then straightened. He lifted his head and met his daughter’s eyes. His face was ashen, and his lips were tight. Giselle felt dread knot in her stomach. She had never seen her father so distressed.

“Ma fille.” He stopped and sighed. “My daughter,” he repeated, starting again with a voice gravelly with emotion, “our petition to have you marry Henri has been granted.”

“So?” her mother interrupted worriedly. “What is the problem then?”

“Permission has been given.” Her father swallowed painfully. “But the lord’s son has claimed the droit du seigneur—the law of first night.”

Giselle’s hands flew to her chest, dropping the spoon into the pot. Suddenly, the air in their dank hut felt too thick to breathe, and her chest began to heave with the effort of drawing in breath.

“No,” her mother protested. “No! Henri will certainly abandon us—no man would accept a spoiled bride!”

“It does not matter,” her father said woodenly. “The lord insists that once his permission for the union with Henri was given, the right of his son was secured. He will take our daughter even if Henri chooses not to honour our agreement.”

“Quel horreur!” Her mother looked to her daughter, one hand over her mouth. “Oh, my darling girl…”

Giselle blinked disbelievingly at her parents’ crumbling expressions, and her fingers twisted in the fabric at her chest.

“Papa,” she heard herself ask, her voice sounding muffled to her own ears. “Which of the lord’s sons asked for my body?”

She knew the answer by her father’s long silence. His eyes, heavy with sorrow for her, confirmed it. Giselle felt her knees give out, and she crumpled to the dirt floor in shock.

“Seigneur Eustache, then,” she murmured, cupping her face in her hands.

Eustache de Fiennes.

He was the elder of the lord’s sons, a warrior who had just returned after years of battling the English across the channel—a dark and brooding man with eyes of steel and a countenance as severe. Awed whispers circulated among the peasants about this newly returned son, about how he had vanquished hordes of enemies without even breaking a sweat. Tittering peasant girls exchanged hushed sighs about his masculine allure and hardened physique. But all that Giselle really knew about the mysterious lord was that he was powerful. And ruthless.

And he wanted her.

An unexpected thrill sparked through her limbs. Yes, the young lord wanted her, a nameless peasant. The realisation was terrifying…but scandalously exciting.

But surely such a virile and handsome young lord had dozens of eligible and beautiful noblewomen vying for his hand and a position in his bed. So, why would he so audaciously demand to have her for his pleasure in one night of illicit passion? The droit du seigneur was commonly accepted but rarely invoked for the unrest and scandal it caused, even among the most decadent of nobility. Demanding such a thing was reckless and impulsive.

And, Giselle found herself thinking, reckless and impulsive young men of any calibre might be easily swayed.

Her trembling ceased. Although she didn’t yet know how, Giselle was sure she could turn this unfortunate event to her advantage. But before she could trace that path any further, her thoughts were interrupted by her mother’s cry of dismay.

“Why?” her mother asked with a low wail. “Why is it that monster of a man? He will destroy our girl, Bernard.”

Her father rose tiredly and walked to where Giselle sat in the dust. He squatted down to lift her head with his large, rough hands, brushing away the remnants of her warm tears with his calloused thumbs.

“Ma fille,” he said, his tone pained. “Forgive me, but there is nothing to be done but obey. Our lord’s command is absolute.”

“I understand,” Giselle answered, her voice quiet.

“Then, we will eat,” her father announced. “And this evening you will be presented to your lord after he has supped.”

The small family sat at their tired old table. Giselle ladled out portions of thick pottage, and they ate in silence, minds heavy with what was to come. When they were scraping out the final sips of soup from the bottom of their bowls, a loud voice shouted at her father from outside. Bernard stood and pushed past the door to greet their bellowing guest.

Sounds of a heated argument quickly escalated, and her mother edged closer to the door, perching close to the opening to listen in on the quarrel. Giselle rose just as the crescendo of shouting peaked—and then it immediately died out as her father pushed his way back into their house. Through the square of twilight, Giselle saw a man stomp away angrily, cursing all the way.

“That was Henri,” Bernard said, calmly ignoring his wife and daughter’s twinned expressions of bewilderment.

“What did he say?” her mother asked worriedly.

“Never you mind,” Bernard said with a loud exhalation of breath. “We can only hope that he will have a change of heart once his anger is spent.”

Giselle frowned. If Henri had already decided to abandon her, it could drive her parents to poverty’s door. She needed to find a way to turn her family’s fortunes—and quickly.

“Come now,” her father said, beckoning to her with a wave. “We must go to the chateau. Our lords are expecting to see you.”

Without a word, Giselle rose to follow her father. As they began to weave their way down the beaten path to the manor house, her mother suddenly called out to them. Giselle turned to see her mother jogging toward them. She hooked her arm in her daughter’s and pressed a kiss to her cheek.

“I will go with you,” her mother panted. “So that you know that you do not stand alone.”

Giselle smiled gratefully at both her parents before they resumed their resolute march toward the looming shadow of the chateau. The walk seemed much too short, and soon they stood at the manor house gates. The evening watchmen leered at Giselle as she passed, and she huddled closer to her parents. They stopped at the great wooden doors to the great hall, where an austere older woman stood waiting.

“You are the peasant girl that Seigneur Eustache requested?” she asked, her tone nasal and astringent.

“Yes,” Giselle’s father answered for her.

“Good. I am Madame Lessard.”

The stone-faced woman looked Giselle up and down and then sighed.

“Follow me,” she said, taking her by the arm while gesturing for her parents to stay where they stood. “The lords are almost ready to receive you.”

Giselle shuffled alongside the woman, casting timid glances in every direction. She had never before set foot in the chateau, and its stone and glass grandeur stunned her. She was so amazed that she almost bumped right into her guide’s back when she stopped abruptly.

“Wait here, girl,” Madame Lessard told her curtly as she disappeared into the dining hall.

Giselle could hear the sounds of raucous laughter echoing off the stone walls, and her heart began to race in anticipation. Soon, she would come face-to-face with the man who would take pleasure in her body, a man who held absolute sway over the course of her life.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Madame Lessard returned, her face a blank mask.

“Come,” she instructed firmly.

Giselle followed her obediently into the dining hall, instantly aware of the hush that fell over the diners. Her face grew hot as she felt their curious stares alight on her slight form, and she struggled to concentrate on putting one foot ahead of the other. She stopped when Madame Lessard stopped, her eyes glued to the stone floor.

“Mes seigneurs,” Madame Lessard intoned. “This is the girl requested by Seigneur Eustache.”

Giselle felt herself freeze as silence reigned for a long moment of scrutiny.

“So this is the peasant you demanded to have in your bed, Eustache,” an authoritative voice boomed.

“Yes, father,” Eustache answered in a low, deep voice that rumbled in his chest.

“And why is this commoner worth such pains?”

Giselle heard the creak of a wooden bench as someone stood. Then, there were the echoing sounds of heavy footfalls against the stone floor. Large boots filled her field of vision, and she fought the urge to flinch away. He was so close that she could feel the heat from his body.

“Raise your head, girl,” came the authoritative command.

Giselle slowly lifted her chin, her eyes downcast. A rippling gasp of surprise spread throughout the room.

“Didn’t I tell you, brother?” said Alphonse, the younger of the two brothers, leaning back in his chair. “Isn’t this peasant an uncommon beauty?”

Eustache grunted his approval, his icy blue eyes tracing the exquisite lines of the slender peasant woman’s face as he slowly paced around her in a circle. The rumours about her beauty had not been exaggerated. Indeed, she was the most beautiful creature he had ever laid eyes on. Long, dark curls had escaped her woollen cowl and cascaded over her slim shoulders, framing a perfectly oval face. Her skin was lightly bronzed by the sun, a healthy glow brightened her cheeks and her thick, dark lashes fluttered over delicate cheekbones.

“A fine sight, indeed, my son,” the current lord of the manor admitted. “But also nothing but a peasant beneath your station.”

Eustache turned on his heel to face his father.