Claiming the Maiden

By Hedon Press

A maiden is no match for a Norman knight.

The Maid
Orphaned at Lancaut Castle as a young child and put to work as a chambermaid, Brenna learns at a tender age that life for a female peasant in a medieval fortress is anything but safe. But when the Lord and Lady of the castle both pass away without an heir, Brenna's life may be changed irrevocably by the arrival of a dark and enigmatic knight claiming to be their successor.

The Man
After losing both his cousin and his king in battle, the haunted and brooding Norman knight, Williame le Mareschal returns to England to fulfill his family obligations and claim his inheritance at Lancaut Castle. But when he arrives, he finds himself inextricably attracted to the one woman he cannot touch and forced to choose between his honor and his heart.

Their Love
Brenna struggles to keep the castle running and the other servants fed as the ancient fortress falls into ruin around her.
Is the nebulous Williame le Mareschal just another sinister marauder like all the rest, bent on possessing her body against her volition? Or can she trust the dangerous stranger to find pleasure in his arms and discover a love to last?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steamy eReads
• Release date: Oct 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005672669

Book preview

Chapter One

August, 1189 A.D.

Ayoung peasant woman finished mopping up the last reeking puddle of spilt mead from the ancient, scarred highboard of the Great Hall. Impatiently, she brushed away a single stray strand of hair that had escaped her mobcap and skittered infuriatingly across her creased brow. She was restless to complete her work and take leave of this forlorn place.

All of Lancaut Castle was dark and eerily quiet. It was well past midnight, perhaps closer to morning tide, as she labored over her task with a furtive glance out of the corner of her eye. A solitary oil sconce sputtered on the far wall across the vast hall, but the rest of the cavernous room was black. The remains of a wild boar roasting over a spit in the hearth left an acrid smell in the air. Nearby, two lone sentinels snoozed over the last dying embers of the fire, their braying snores the only sound that broke the oppressive silence. Another young women brushed past them to tend to the coals and remove the spent ash, taking care not to wake the slumbering men.

In times past, the gatehouse of the massive fortress would have been protected by at least a dozen skilled guards, rather than young, untrained crofters. The ramparts and battlements would have held scores more men, vigilant archers, and skillful pikemen looking out between the crenels and merlons to defend the curtain walls and the bailey. Tonight, though, there was no one left, save the small band of knights who had arrived yester eve with the mysterious Williame le Mareschal, Earl of Lancaster, and Cumbria.

Ah, the handsome Lord Williame, the woman thought. He had ridden in on a lofty destrier in full armor, both man and steed armed to the teeth. The new lord had looked more like a barbarian than a hero, his prominent and unmistakable musculature exacerbated by the delineating curves of his chainmail. She had noted his immense hands gripping the reins of his mount like the mighty branches of an oak tree and his strapping thighs posting easily in unison with the thunderous movements of the formidable beast beneath him. The hard, masculine planes of his face, along with his black mane and rough goatee, had made the girl shiver fear.

And with inexplicable yearning. 

Lord Williame had not fortified the night guard, either, she fretted, pushing the unwanted sensual thoughts of him out of her mind. It would have been the first thing she would have done, had she been the lord and master of the place. Well, perhaps he was right, the woman conceded, there was simply nothing worth guarding left to take. The rocky, fallow cliffs and the crumbling keep were the only remnants of the glorious fiefdom that had once stood proudly over the River Wye, courageously warding off Welsh invaders and Viking marauders in the days of yore.

When Lord Edward and Lady Eleanor were alive, the Great Hall of Lancaut Castle had hosted scores of people every night. It was strategically located near Tidenham, on the far western edge of England bordering the wild and untamed kingdoms of Wales. The castle had welcomed companies of soldiers, fanatical friars, traveling nobles and their teams of servants, along with troubadours, mimes, jesters and jugglers, sometimes for weeks at a time. It had entailed over a hundred people just to run the everyday operations of the household. There had been a constant stream of visitors in and out of the manor for all of the young woman’s life.

Now, however, the vast, dilapidated castle had been left all but abandoned, unattended for months since Lord Edward of Tidenham had passed away. His wife, Lady Eleanor, had died five or six years ago of a mysterious fever. Their only living son, James, was killed in Le Mans, France, this past summer. Occupied defending King Henry Plantagenet from his warring heirs, he never received the news of his father’s death before his own valiant fall in battle.

Most of the servants and crofters had deserted the place, for no provisions had been made for the upkeep of the land and buildings, nor for the villagers who lived there. Some went to stay with relatives in the neighboring hamlets at Chepstow Castle, while others plead charity from the nearby Cistercian monks in the Lann Ceuid and Tintern abbeys.

Anyone who had somewhere else to go already had done so.

The castle had literally fallen into shambles during this time. Gone were the days of lively comings and goings of guests from all parts of England. After his wife died, Lord Edward had still offered lodging and hospitality to knights and nobles passing through on their way to other destinations such as Abergavenny, Monmouth and Gloucester, but traffic had slowed to a halt, especially as Edward aged.

Bringing herself back to the present, the young woman gave the floor one last scrub then came to her feet, brushing her knees. While it was nice to have human activity in the castle again, Lord Williame had, unfortunately, only brought along his combatants and their servants to accompany him. If he planned to stay very long, he had forgotten one key element that a successful household required.

Women.

Chambermaids, scullery maids, milkmaids, washerwomen, cooks, saucers, spicers, choppers, distillers, brewsters, herbalists—just to name a few. All were essential if he planned to restore the fief to its former glory. Unfortunately, only squires, pages, stable boys, and a blacksmith or two had accompanied Lord Williame’s entourage of knights. By the looks of it, they didn’t appear to be staying very long, she thought, disappointed.

However, while anyone in their right mind wanted order and harmony restored to the castle, she did not relish the thought of falling victim to the robust appetites of the callous cavalrymen who called themselves chivalrous.

She knew the merciless horsemen frequently seemed to forget all vestiges of gallantry out of earshot of their noble, highborn ladies. In the back of the stables, or in a lonely, forsaken corridor, the knights and their lords were just as coarse and as crude as the lowliest tenant farmer. Perhaps, they were worse, because they believed themselves entitled to slake their aberrant and degenerate lusts upon any peasant woman they chose—at any time and in any place. Consent was not a prerequisite for their gratification.

Going to the head of the table, the girl gave the decorative, wooden