Droit De Seigneur (3 page)

“That’s about what he said. He complimented you on your work, and asked why I’d been punished.”

Lawson’s eyes bulged. “And what’d you tell him?”

“Well, I couldn’t tell him the truth, now could I? I told him you’d given me a licking because I’d been wandering out in the woods by myself, and he said he guessed it didn’t take, and he set about rectifying the situation.”

Her father was now about apoplectic. “What happened then?” he wheezed out, barely, grabbing a gulp of the wine he’d swore he wouldn’t touch.

“Well, I was reaching for my knife – “

The other three gasped yet again. “Reaching for your knife?!” Amber nodded. “Yes, the one I pulled on him when he came up on me on the woods all of a sudden. Remember, I said I hadn’t noticed him, so I had no idea he was behind me – he could have been anyone, and I always carry a knife.”

“Mother Mary and Joseph!” her father exclaimed, crossing himself.

It was at that moment that the man himself burst into the small room, filling it with his presence. Three of the people that had been sitting with her at their table, such as it was, dropped immediately to their knees in front of him, but Amber simply rose and curtsied instead.

Piers took the two steps necessary to grab a fistful of her hair and yank her head back, saying, “Hoyden, what have you done with Fitzwilliam?”

“Nothing, Sir. He left as soon as we arrived here,” Amber answered truthfully, afraid for one of the first times in her life, but trying desperately not to show it.

“He has not arrived back at camp, and no one has seen him. Are you sure he came to no harm?” In truth, Piers had come to the end of his rope. The woods were thick with under brush, tiny sheep trails, half broken down and ancient rock walls, and paths, and he had half a mind that he knew what had happened to the man had nothing to do with his bad sense of direction, so he came right to who he thought might have been the source of the problem, intending that she would be the one to clean it up for him.

Her father piped up, his voice several octaves higher than usual. “I beg you, my Lord, no one here would hurt your man. He was fine when he left us.”

“I’m not sure that no one here would wish him harm,” Piers responded, looking directly at Amber. He shoved her ahead of him, out the door. “You’re going to help us find him, and you’d better pray, for your sake, that he’s alive.” He, for one, didn’t want to have to explain to the lad’s father that he had died while under his care.

There had been very few times in Amber’s life that she’d regretted anything she’d done, but this was one of them. Perhaps taking Fitzwilliam straight to her home, since this was obviously unfamiliar territory to him, might have been the more judicious thing to do. But she squared her shoulders, laced on a pair of knee length boots, grabbed a belt packed with useful items that she laced about her waist, as well as a satchel full of other medicinal items, just in case, and set out well ahead of the man who had commanded her and the small cadre of men who had followed him there, leading the way into the woods from whence they had come.

She tracked him easily, spotting the times he’d turned around and back tracked on himself, fallen into the stream, grasped a rash inducing plant, had an encounter with a badger –

which the badger had apparently won – and discovered him, shivering, exhausted and bleeding, huddled in a hollow near a small bog she often went to to collect its soothing mud, which she immediately used to help his itchy rash.

Amber ordered his men around like she was the commander instead of him. They looked to him at first, and after his initial nod, they obeyed her without question. She had several of the larger ones set up a perimeter guard, just in case, putting the smaller ones, with torches, close to her so that she could treat the unfortunate Fitz, which she did so with compassion and alacrity, pronouncing him fit, if not the best of woods scouts.

Piers’d been amused to notice that she’d kept him in the middle of it all, well guarded and close to her. He’d wondered if that had been by accident, but he was beginning to think that little this maid did was by accident.

Piers clapped Fitz on the shoulder. “Take him home, lads.” Home was relative – a small camp nearby, until they moved into their temporary quarters while the castle was built.

“Wait!” She knelt by the bog and filled a small skin with a generous amount of the muck, handing it to him with what he thought was a small smile, but it was so fleeting it might not have been. “Apply this as often as you need to to control the itching. But don’t wash it off until all of the itching has gone.”

Fitz smiled shyly down at her, gawky, awkward boy that he was. He’d taken a shine to her, Piers could see. And she needn’t have any worries that he was going to wash anything off himself, much less something that was there to help him. That boy probably hadn’t seen a bath since he’d left his mother’s apron strings to come to court when he was six.

They were off, and she was alone with him. Again.

“It’s a good thing you’re a good tracker and you’ve an excellent hand with potions, Amber. It wouldn’t have gone well if we hadn’t been able to find Mr. Fitzwilliam.” Amber shrugged. It was of little consequence to her whether or not a Norman soldier was lost, and she told him as much.

The look on his face, as well as his tone, was sobering to the bone. “I realize that fact, my dear. But what you don’t realize is who that man’s father is. Think of it now, you’re obviously a smart wench. Fitzwilliam. Fitz. Son of. William. He’s the King’s by blow. You just found King William’s bastard son.”

Amber sat down, right where she was, not caring that her best tunic was getting filthy.

She had deliberately gotten the King’s son hopelessly lost in the forest.

“Tell me something, Mademoiselle Cooper. What would you have done this afternoon, if I had allowed you to reach your little knife this afternoon, while I was spanking you?” She tried not to let the surprise show on her face, but knew she had lost that battle. “I would have done something that I would have hoped would have stopped you from beating me further.” She didn’t always do the right thing, but she tried to tell the truth, as best she could.

Piers was impressed. If he had been in her place, he would probably have made exactly the same move, not that that was to be encouraged in a female. She certainly was an unusual one.

“My men told me that someone had raided their camp last night and caused some general mischief – nothing too serious. Stolen some wine and let loose the horses, things like that.” As he spoke, he wandered around her, like he was inspecting a slave at the market. “Might you know anything about such things, Miss Amber Cooper?”

“Why ever might you think something like that of me?” she asked, proud of the fact that her nervousness wasn’t betrayed in her voice.

“Because some of the stirrups were cut with what was a small, short blade,” he answered, easily wresting hers from where he remembered she kept it tucked in her belt, “one just such as this.”

“There are thousands like this all over the British Isles, Sir. If you fancy mine, however, you may keep it with my compliments.” She curtsied low to him, again.

When she rose, he was smiling down at her, in a way that set her teeth on edge. Like a wolf who had spotted a particularly tasty dinner.

“I like you, Amber. You’ve a good head on your shoulders, for a woman, and an English one at that.”

“I like you, too, Sir,” she answered, “for a man and a Norman.” Amber figured her words were pretty much sealing her fate, as she said the word Norman in a way that there was no doubt that she still considered him to be her enemy, regardless of the outcome of the war, but that was all right. She wasn’t at all sure she wanted to live in a world full of Normans, anyway.

To her surprise, he merely threw back that big, lion’s head of his and roared with laughter, then his hand shot out and he grabbed her by her upper arm. “You’re coming with me.” They tramped through the woods for a long time, much longer than she knew – although she could never admit that she knew – it would take them to get to the place where his soldiers had made camp.

“Where are we going?”

Piers didn’t deign to answer her, but continued to walk. He was so much taller than she was, that one of his strides equaled nearly three of hers. Amber was in superb shape, but he was tiring her out without even trying. Eventually, though, he saw how knackered she was becoming and relented, placing two fingers to his lips and emitting an ear piercing whistle that had his huge stallion racing to him through the trees.

Amber hadn’t had a chance to admire the beastie before, but she was thoroughly entranced now. He was a fine piece of horseflesh, and she wished he was her own. She never dreamed she’d have a chance to ride him, but soon found herself atop the thing, if at a terribly awkward angle – he’d lifted her so that she wasn’t astride or even side saddle in front of him or behind – she was lying horizontal over the horse like he was going to wallop her as they rode, with her bottom facing south and her head facing north across the saddle!

Luckily, he kept his mount at a slow pace, or she would have lost what little contents she’d had of her evening meal, but that wasn’t the worst of it by far, because she was naturally presenting him with a perfect target, which he was not wont to resist in any way. So as the horse picked his way delicately through the English countryside, she could hear the echoes of her own punishment, for what she wasn’t quite sure, ringing loud and true back to her own ears.

She only kicked her legs once. Piers stopped the horse and took the very ends of the reins, hauled her tunic up and flailed her bottom mercilessly with them. “Do not kick this horse, Amber. The next time you do it, I’ll let my soldiers each have a turn at spanking you themselves.”

Amber was stunned into instant obedience at that threat.

She recognized the direction they were going, but kept hoping they weren’t going to end up where she thought they were going to. When he finally pulled the horse up short, and a stable boy came out to cool him off and put him away, they were where she’d feared: Fordwick Castle.

It wasn’t much of a castle any more, which was why there was a new one being built, but this was the closest thing they had, so they were making do with it for now. His men would be joining him by the morning, and they would be at least a thousand strong to protect this area for King William.

He helped her down from his big charger and she looked around hesitantly. It was the first time she’d been out of her little village, and it made her feel much smaller than she liked.

Even though it was the middle of the night, the place bustled with activity.

“I want you to work in the gardens here, Amber. We have need of a woman who is good with medicines to see to the needs of the soldiers and others who work here. You shall have a room in the castle, and in the new castle when it’s built. You’ll be working for Mrs. Tulane, who will show you around in the morning.” He had an idea that giving her something productive to do might keep her from stealing wineskins and slashing stirrups, too, as well as wandering the forest against her father’s wishes. That poor man must’ve had his hands full with her. He’d seen two other girls at their table. All Piers could wish for him was that his other two daughters were more docile than his first.

Amber didn’t know what to say, and then she imagined she didn’t have much choice about what to say. She was here, and he was her Lord. He wasn’t going to just let her say no and go home.

He took her to the kitchen and introduced her to Mrs. Tulane, who seemed a nice woman, and then he disappeared. Amber wondered if she’d ever see him again, to say nothing of her father and her family.

It was a strange thing to have been plucked from one’s home and transported far away, but her love of plants was strong enough that she settled in all right to her new surroundings, although life here was certainly different from what living with her family had been. She and Mrs. Tulane got along all right, although the woman could be a bit bossy, and she was already getting to be well known as the person to come to with wounds and medical problems. Piers’

men had arrived, and Fitzwilliam had come to thank her for treating him, which she felt very awkward about, since she’d been the cause of his misery in the first place.

Troy had taken to tagging along with Fitz when he came to see her. Amber did not like Troy at all, but Troy made it very clear that he was quite interested in her. She was doing her best to fend him off, and trying to do it politely, instead of just pushing him into the broken down fountain he was sitting in front of, which was full of stagnant water and was her first instinct. He had a tendency to be very free with his hands, which she detested. She hated being manhandled, especially by him. He reeked of alcohol most of the time, and his breath smelled of sick, and worse.

When he reached up to touch her breast for the twentieth time, that was it. She had had enough of him and his forward ways, and she did what she’d wanted to do: she pushed him backwards, into the fountain. Like Sir Piers had said about Fitz, it was probably the first time he’d met with water in a long time, brackish or not.

Funny, Amber couldn’t say that about Sir Piers. He always smelled good enough, like a man should, usually of horses and leather, but not offensively so. Like he wasn’t afraid of a bath or a bar of soap. She didn’t know why he popped into her head at such a strange moment, except perhaps because of the way he was laughing from atop Tygan at the sight of Troy standing there, sopping wet, weeds on his head and trying to wring the muck and water out of his clothes.

Troy started to run after Amber, with a deadly glint in his eye, until Piers got down and stood in front of her, who, annoyingly, kept moving away from him, that ever present little knife in her hand, daring Troy to come at her, and balancing her weight from the balls of one foot to the other in a practiced fighting stance. “Stay put behind me, Miss, or I’ll punch you myself!” he roared, and she obeyed, however reluctantly.

“I’m going to whip her good!” Troy screamed, looking around for something with which to accomplish the task. “Pushing her betters into the muck and mire! She needs to be taught a lesson, that wench! She has thoughts above her station!”