Chapter 4 Isabeau
four
Isabeau
The lock clicked open at dawn, metal against metal announcing another day in my gilded cage. Margaret’s silhouette filled the doorway, her hunched shoulders and downcast eyes telling me everything I needed to know. There would be no escape today.
After I spent the night calling out to the other girl with no response, I learned it had been my mind playing tricks on me. Nothing replied in the quiet hours of the night. I was alone.
My body ached from places I’d never felt pain before, the ghost of Gaspard’s hands still burning against my skin like brands. I hadn’t slept. Sleep required safety, and that luxury had died with Papa.
“Miss,” Margaret whispered, carrying a steaming basin of water and fresh linens. “We must prepare thee. Master Coventry expects thee downstairs within the hour.”
I remained seated on the floor where I’d spent the night, back against the wall, knees pulled to my chest. The blanket Margaret had draped over my shoulders had become my only armor. I clutched it tighter.
“For what purpose?” My voice was hoarse, barely recognizable. Whether from screaming or silence, I couldn’t say.
Margaret set the basin down beside the bed and moved to draw the curtains. Pale morning light spilled into the room, revealing its barren walls and sparse furnishings. A prison dressed as a bedchamber.
“I’m not at liberty to say, miss.” She spoke the word like a death sentence. “Master requires your company with him in town.”
“I won’t go,” I said, though we both knew it was a lie. I had no choice. Not anymore.
Margaret didn’t argue. She simply approached with the grace of someone accustomed to handling wounded creatures. “Let me help thee wash, miss. It will ease some of the pain.”
I allowed her to guide me to standing, my legs trembling beneath me. The remains of my dress fell away completely as the blanket shifted, leaving me naked and exposed.
I should have felt shame, but that emotion seemed trivial after everything that had happened. Margaret’s eyes flickered to the dried blood on my thighs, the bruises blossoming on my throat, hips, and breasts. Her lips pressed into a thin line.
“He was... particularly rough with thee,” she murmured, dipping a cloth into the warm water. “The first time is often so.”
“The first time,” I repeated hollowly. “There will be others.”
It wasn’t a question. We both knew the answer.
Margaret bathed me with gentle efficiency, washing away the physical evidence of Gaspard’s assault.
If only the memories could be cleansed as easily.
When she’d finished, she brought forth a dress I’d never seen before.
It was deep blue with cream lace at the collar and cuffs.
Too fine for a village girl, too modest for the trophy Gaspard clearly intended me to be.
“This was laid out for thee,” Margaret explained, helping me into the unfamiliar garment. It fit perfectly, which meant Gaspard had been planning this, measuring me with his eyes for years. The thought made bile rise in my throat.
She worked silently after that, brushing and arranging my auburn hair into an elegant style. Practical enough not to draw attention, yet formal enough to mark me as belonging to someone of importance. To him.
“There,” Margaret said, stepping back to assess her work. “Thou art—”
The door crashed open. Gaspard strode in without knocking, the space shrinking with his presence.
He was dressed in his finest clothes like we were attending to a wedding rather than town.
A dark tailored coat over a crisp white shirt, polished leather boots that gleamed in the morning light.
The picture of respectability. No one would guess what those well-manicured hands had done to me in the darkness.
“Leave us,” he commanded Margaret without looking at her.
The maid hesitated, her eyes meeting mine for the briefest moment before she curtseyed and slipped from the room. The door closed behind her with a soft finality.
Gaspard circled me slowly, inspecting Margaret’s work. His gaze lingered on my throat, where his fingers had pressed the night before. A smile spread across his face—not one of pleasure but of ownership confirmed.
“Almost perfect,” he said, reaching into his pocket.
He withdrew a choker of thick black lace and silver, ornate and clearly expensive.
Without asking permission—why would he start now?
—he fastened it around my neck, his fingers brushing against my skin.
I fought the urge to recoil. When I touched the back of it, I realized it wasn’t clasp.
Gaspard had sewn it around my neck to always conceal what he did to me.
“To hide my handiwork,” he explained, turning me toward the small looking glass on the wall. “I was perhaps... overzealous in claiming what’s mine.”
In the glass, I barely recognized myself.
The girl staring back wore a stranger’s clothes, a stranger’s hairstyle, and a collar as binding as any shackle.
The choker camouflaged the ring of bruises Gaspard’s grip had left, transforming evidence of violence into a mark of privilege. Only I would know the truth it hid.
“Thank you,” I whispered, the words bitter on my tongue. What else could I say?
His hand came to rest on my shoulder, heavy and proprietary.
“Now, before we depart, there is something thou must understand.” His fingers tightened, digging into the soft flesh beneath the fabric.
“I expect perfect behavior from thee today. Thou wilt smile. Thou wilt speak only when spoken to. Thou wilt play the role of the grateful ward.”
I nodded mechanically, eyes fixed on my reflection rather than his face.
“If thou fails in this, if thou speaks out of turn, if thou hints at anything improper between us, if thou attempts to flee...” He leaned closer, his breath hot against my ear.
“It will not be thee who suffers for it. Margaret will bear thy punishment. I will whip her until her back is in ribbons, and thou wilt be made to watch. Every stroke. Every scream. Every drop of blood. Dost thou understand?”
My stomach lurched. Not Margaret. Not the woman who had cleaned me with such gentle hands, who had shown me the only kindness I’d known since entering this house. I met Gaspard’s eyes in the mirror and saw nothing there but cold certainty. He would do it. He would hurt her to control me.
“I understand,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt.
“Good girl.” He patted my cheek, the gesture both condescending and threatening. “Now, let us go.”
He draped a cloak around my shoulders. Another new garment, rich and warm despite the season.
He then guided me from the room with his hand knotted into the back of my dress.
To anyone watching, it might have appeared a gentleman escorting his ward.
Only I felt the vise-like grip, the way his knuckles pressed painfully against my spine.
“Where are we going?” I asked as we descended the stairs, though I already knew the answer.
“To church, of course,” Gaspard replied, as if speaking to a particularly slow child. “It is Sunday, after all. A day of worship and community.”
Sunday. Church. Father Simon’s domain. The place Papa and I had avoided, preferring to find our faith in the whispers of wind through leaves and the miracle of seeds becoming medicine. Sunday mornings had been special for Papa and me.
We spent quiet hours in the garden, harvesting herbs that were said to be most potent when collected at week’s beginning. Sometimes, we’d read together from Mama’s books, learning the old ways she had practiced before her passing.
Mama had taught us a few things before she passed. Like the true communion happened with hands in soil, not pressed together in pews. The thought of entering that stone building felt like yet another violation.
In my grief and terror, I had lost track of the days. The realization that it was the Sabbath brought a new wave of sorrow.
Mama would be rolling in her grave if she could see me now, being marched to Father Simon’s church like a lamb to slaughter.
She had never trusted the church, had whispered warnings about men who claimed to speak for God while serving only themselves.
Papa had heeded those warnings after her death, keeping us both away from Sunday services despite the village’s disapproval.
Margaret waited by the front door, holding it open for us. Her eyes met mine briefly as we passed, a silent apology in their depths. I tried to convey my own message that this wasn’t her fault. But I wasn’t sure she understood.
The morning air hit my face with unexpected freshness, a cruel reminder of the world that continued to turn despite my suffering.
Birds sang in nearby trees. Sunlight dappled the cobblestone path leading from Gaspard’s home to the village proper.
For a moment, I considered breaking free, running as fast as my legs would carry me.
But where would I go? And what would happen to Margaret if I tried?
“Smile,” Gaspard hissed as we approached the first cluster of villagers heading toward the church. “Remember what I told thee.”
I forced my lips into a curve that felt like a grimace, but must have passed for acceptable because Gaspard’s grip loosened slightly.
“Gaspard! Good morning to thee!” called the blacksmith, his massive frame blocking our path. His eyes shifted to me, curiosity and something darker swimming in their depths. “And to thee, Isabeau. My condolences for thy loss.”
“Thank you,” I murmured, eyes downcast. The words felt hollow, a script for a play I hadn’t agreed to perform in.
“She’s settling in well,” Gaspard answered for me, his free hand coming to rest on my shoulder in what would appear to onlookers as a comforting gesture. “The poor girl needed structure after such tragedy.”