The Lord's Right by Carolyn Faulkner Page A

Piers, which was no mean feat, and
brought Amber, who had been trying to remain as anonymous as
possible during their exchange, up to stand beside
Piers.
    Sir Piers cleared his throat, but
stood his ground, squaring his shoulders and answering in a clear
voice. “Troy, like many of men, was intrigued by her charms.
However, the maid disliked him, and even went so far as to push him
into a fountain when he took liberties.”
    “ But why did he speak
about her virginity, and you not having it?”
    “ Because I claimed droit
de seigneur, Your Highness. I told the men that, if any of them
were going to marry Amber, that I would deflower her on their
wedding night.”
    King William gave Piers a questioning
look. He’d never known this man—above all men—to have his head
turned by a woman. Most thought him quite monkish, although those
were the types who didn’t know him very well. Selective was a
better word.
    But was this a politically expedient
thing to do, to stake such a claim on an English girl, to prevent
her from marrying a Norman soldier that would obviously be
advantageous to herself and her family in the coming
years?
    King William was a man of action. “Sir
Piers, I believe that this situation needs to be rectified
immediately. I said before you should take an English wife, and
you’ve already claimed a right to this one’s virginity. I believe
that the best way to address it would be to see the two of you
married as soon as possible.”
    The hall, which had already begun to
bustle with activity, despite the remainder of the drama that was
playing out, ground to a halt. Every foot on the rushes, every
cough, every breath could be heard as all eyes fell on Sir
Piers.
    To his credit, he didn’t look quite as
thunderstruck as he might have, and all he said was, “Yes, my
liege,” as King William sauntered away, and it came out in only a
slightly strangled manner.
    This time, when he turned to Amber,
the look on his face was entirely different from what it had been,
and she knew that the tender feelings she’d thought he might
possibly be harboring for her had truly never been. It was as if he
wished it was her head that was going to be decorating the entrance
to the castle instead of Troy’s.
    But she didn’t have much time to
consider the disposition of the man who would very shortly become
her husband, because before she could say anything to him at all,
she was whisked away to her room by a group of chattering women,
who didn’t seem to have any interest in her opinions or thoughts
about what they were doing. They were going to do it regardless.
There would be no betrothal with its traditional forty-day wait.
This was something King William apparently expected them to pull
off in a matter of hours.
    And they did.
    The few women who worked in the castle
had descended on her like a herd of locusts with their own
contributions of clothing and jewelry, and once that was
settled—with absolutely no input from Amber whatsoever—another set
of prattling females took charge of her hair and skin, making sure
to cover up the small divot caused by the tip of Seville’s
knife.
    When they were finally finished with
her, Amber stood before them on a small pedestal, wearing a long
azure blue tunic with an embroidered blue ribbon veil. Matching
small flowers had been woven into her hair, and her cheeks, hands
and feet had been massaged and rubbed until they were satin
soft.
    She’d never owned such finery in all
her life, and wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. She was afraid
to move, lest some harm come to the beautiful fabrics.
    And she smelled like Mrs. Tulane’s
gardens looked, and all she could think was how angry the woman was
going to be at the loss of her precious flowers. But just then the
object of her thoughts stepped in front of her and handed her a
small vial, as the other women were filing out and heading towards
the great hall, to continue decorating there.
    “ What’s this?” Amber
examined