A Pleasurable Shame

A Pleasurable Shame
Linda Skye

France, 1067 Giselle believes she only has a loveless arranged marriage in her future–until the son of her feudal lord claims droit du seigneur, the right to take her virginity. The young peasant woman feels a scandalous thrill at being wanted by the handsome and virile Eustache de Fiennes.If she is to be ruined, she vows to take pleasure in her fate–and to do everything she can to ensure Eustache is not content with just one night of passion…

France, 1067

Giselle believes she only has a loveless arranged marriage in her future—until the son of her feudal lord claims droit du seigneur, the right to take her virginity. The young peasant woman feels a scandalous thrill at being wanted by the handsome and virile Eustache de Fiennes. If she is to be ruined, she vows to take pleasure in her fate—and to do everything she can to ensure Eustache is not content with just one night of passion…

A Pleasurable Shame

Linda Skye

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Dedication

To my grandfather, who was one of the first storytellers in my life

Author Note

The French countryside has always inspired me—and Normandy is no exception! With miles of sandy coastline, picturesque villages surrounded by windy plains and some of the best food and drink in the world, it’s definitely a place worth visiting and admiring. But to me, Normandy is much more than just a favourite holiday spot-it’s a land that’s been steeped in war history and legend, from the time of the Romans to Operation Overlord near the end of World War II.

The backdrop to our medieval love story is the Norman invasion of England, which was led by William the Conqueror and was supported by many of his vassals in Normandy. These vassals were undoubtedly lords, who held land in one of the most common forms of government in the French middle ages: the manorial system. A lord would have had many peasant serfs, who depended on the lord for land and protection but also had to pay their rent in crops and labour. And then, of course, there is the oft disputed “law of first night”, whereby a lord had the right to take the virginity of any of his serfs’ daughters. In French, it is known as the droit du seigneur or the droit de jambage or cuissage, which is translated as the right of the lord or the right of the leg or thigh. Though there is no concrete proof of the exercise of this right, it is not hard to believe that it existed in some form as the rights of women during that time were very few indeed. This short story explores the possibility that a relationship born of such undesirable conditions could evolve into something deeper and more passionate. After all, wouldn’t it be nice to believe that there were individuals—both lord and peasant—who were able to break free from the limits of their social station?

Contents

Chapter One (#u4ad02a6f-8c58-51eb-9be6-a07f410416a6)

Chapter Two (#uad1c0777-1100-5c23-a591-5e12d28c096c)

Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

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…”