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
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
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