Chapter 4 Isabeau #2
“Indeed, indeed,” the blacksmith nodded sagely, as if Gaspard had spoken some profound truth instead of thinly veiled possession. “Thou art truly a blessing to our community, taking in the orphaned. Not many would show such generosity.”
“The Lord rewards those who do His work,” Gaspard replied smoothly, the piety in his voice making my stomach turn. “We must care for those less fortunate.”
Less fortunate. The words stung more than they should have. Yesterday morning, I had been a daughter with a home and a father. Now I was an object of pity, a charity case to elevate Gaspard’s standing in the village.
We continued our procession through Thorndale, stopping every few paces for similar exchanges. Each time, Gaspard presented himself as the benevolent savior, and each time, the villagers ate it up like hungry dogs thrown scraps from a master’s table.
“Such a beauty thou hast in thy care now,” the baker’s wife remarked, her eyes assessing me like a prize cow at auction. “She’ll make someone a fine wife someday.”
“Indeed she will,” Gaspard agreed, his fingers digging into my back. The threat was clear. That “someone” would be him, and someday would be soon.
I remained silent throughout these exchanges, speaking only when directly addressed and then offering the barest minimum of response. Each step toward the church felt like walking to my own execution.
Master Girard was outside his apothecary handing over a vial of medicine to Berta.
His eyes tracked me, reveling in the shock of the path I walked.
My eyes betrayed me in that simple moment, and he seemed to understand, noting Gaspard’s hand within my cloak.
Sadly, he couldn’t do anything either. So my feet pressed onward.
The church itself loomed ahead, a stone structure rising from the center of the village like an accusation.
Unlike the warm, wooden buildings that surrounded it, the church had always seemed cold to me, forbidding.
Its bell tower cast a shadow that stretched toward us as we approached, as if reaching out to claim me.
Father Simon stood at the entrance, greeting his flock with practiced warmth that never quite reached his eyes. When he spotted Gaspard, his expression shifted subtly. A flash of recognition, of shared purpose that chilled me to the bone.
“Master Coventry,” he called, abandoning his current conversation to hurry toward us. “What a pleasure to see thee this morning.” His gaze shifted to me, a thin smile stretching his lips. “And Isabeau as well. I did not expect to find thee among our congregation today.”
“Times of hardship often lead us to seek spiritual comfort,” Gaspard replied smoothly. “Isn’t that right, Isabeau?”
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
Father Simon’s eyes narrowed slightly as he studied me, lingering on the choker at my throat. Approval flickered in his gaze, and he exchanged a knowing look with Gaspard that made my skin crawl. He knew. Of course he knew. This was a performance for the village, not for him.
“May I have a private word?” Father Simon asked, directing the question to Gaspard rather than me, though I was standing right there.
“Of course,” Gaspard agreed, steering me to the side of the church steps. “Isabeau will wait here.”
I stood motionless as the two men moved a short distance away, their heads bent together in hushed conversation.
Though I couldn’t hear their words, their body language spoke volumes.
The conspiratorial tilt of their heads, the satisfied smiles, the occasional glance in my direction.
They were discussing me as one might discuss a business transaction.
After what seemed an eternity, they returned. Father Simon leaned close, his breath sour against my face. “I have good news, child. I’ve arranged a private ceremony for when Gaspard returns from his hunting trip. Thou wilt be wed proper, with God’s blessing.”
The words hit me like physical hit to the stomach. Wed. To Gaspard. A private ceremony that would legitimize his ownership of me in the eyes of God and the village. No one would hear my denial. They’d stage the witnesses.
“Isn’t that wonderful news?” Gaspard prompted when I remained silent, his fingers pinching the sensitive skin at my back.
“Yes,” I managed, the lie tasting like ash on my tongue. “Wonderful.”
Father Simon smiled, patting my cheek with cold fingers. “Such a blessing for a girl in thy situation. God works in mysterious ways.” He winked at Gaspard, the gesture so brazen, so complicit that I nearly gasped aloud.
“We should take our seats,” Gaspard said, guiding me toward the church doors. “The service will begin soon.”
Inside, the church was dimly lit by candles and narrow windows that allowed thin shafts of sunlight to penetrate the gloom.
Wooden pews lined either side of a central aisle, most already filled with villagers in their Sunday best. Heads turned as we entered, eyes tracking our progress as Gaspard led me not to the front where the wealthy families sat, but to a pew near the back.
The better to hide me. No, to hide what he had done to me.
“Smile,” he reminded me as we settled into the hard wooden seat.
I complied mechanically, my mind racing with dread. I had thought losing my parents was the worst thing that could happen to me. But it wasn’t. It was Gaspard. He was my worst nightmare made flesh, and now the church—the supposed refuge of the righteous—was complicit in binding me to him forever.
The organist began to play, the somber notes echoing through the stone chamber. The congregation rose for the opening hymn. I moved when Gaspard moved, sang when he nudged me to sing, all the while feeling like a puppet whose strings were being pulled by cruel, unseen hands.
It was during the prayer, when heads were bowed and eyes closed, that I felt it.
The weight of a gaze upon me. I glanced up to find Colette staring at me from across the aisle, her blue eyes wide with shock.
Of course she was surprised. She knew how Papa and I had felt about the church, about Father Simon’s sermons that condemned the very herbal knowledge my mother had passed down to me.
Colette tilted her head slightly, a question in her gaze. Are you all right? I could almost hear her asking.
I wasn’t. I would never be all right again.
With Gaspard’s head still bowed in false prayer, I pretended to adjust the high collar of my dress, deliberately pulling it aside just enough for Colette to glimpse the purple bruises peeking out from beneath the choker.
Her hand flew to her mouth, stifling a gasp that would have drawn attention we couldn’t afford.
In that moment, a silent understanding passed between us.
She saw me, truly saw me, and the horror in her eyes mirrored what I felt inside.
For the first time since Papa had been taken, I wasn’t completely alone.
Someone knew. Someone cared. It wasn’t enough to save me, but it was something to hold onto in the darkness.
Gaspard’s hand found mine, squeezing my fingers until I nearly cried out. I hadn’t realized the prayer had ended. He’d caught me in my moment of rebellion. His eyes promised retribution, but not here, not now. Later, when we were alone. I shivered at the thought.
Father Simon began his sermon, his voice ringing with righteous fervor as he preached about obedience and submission to God’s will, and to the men God had placed in authority.
Each word seemed aimed directly at me, a warning disguised as spiritual guidance.
The message was clear: accept thy fate, or face divine punishment.
I let my mind drift as the sermon continued, retreating to memories of happier times. Mama’s gentle hands guiding mine as I learned to wrap poultices. The quiet contentment of our cottage, filled with love rather than fear. She was why I started learning herbal medicine at the apothecary.
But even these memories were now tainted, overlaid with the knowledge that they were gone forever.
Papa was dead, taken by the beast in the forest. Our cottage would be sold, our possessions scattered.
And I was trapped here, soon to be bound to Gaspard in an unholy union blessed by a corrupt priest.
Throughout the service, I caught Colette watching me, her eyes filled with tears she didn’t dare shed. I wondered what she was thinking, what she might do with the knowledge I had shown her. Could she help me somehow? Or would any attempt only bring suffering to her as well?
As the final hymn concluded and the congregation began to file out, Gaspard maintained his iron grip on my arm. We would be among the last to leave, I realized. He wanted to speak with Father Simon again, to finalize their plans for my imprisonment disguised as marriage.
“Wait here,” he instructed, depositing me in our pew. “I’ll only be a moment.”
As soon as he stepped away, Colette was beside me, her movements quick and furtive. “What has he done to thee?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
“Everything,” I breathed back, not daring to look directly at her. “He... he claimed me. Last night.”
Colette’s face crumpled with grief and fury. “Isabeau, we must get thee away from him. My father—”
“No,” I cut her off. “He’ll hurt Margaret if I try to escape. And thy father cannot stand against Gaspard. No one can.”
“But thou cannot marry him,” she insisted, reaching for my hand beneath the cover of her skirts. “There must be a way.”
I squeezed her fingers, drawing strength from the simple human contact. “If thou finds one, tell me. But for now, just knowing thou sees the truth helps more than thou can know.”
“Isabeau,” Gaspard’s voice cut through our whispered exchange. Colette jerked away as if burned, rising quickly to her feet. “I see thou art speaking with thy friend.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, lowering my eyes. “Just offering condolences for my father’s passing.”
“How thoughtful,” he replied, his tone suggesting he believed nothing of the sort. “But we must be going. There is much to discuss before my departure tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. He was leaving. A sliver of hope pierced the darkness. If Gaspard was going hunting, I might have a chance. A small window of opportunity to... to what? Run? Where would I go? The forest that had claimed Papa was no sanctuary. But neither was Gaspard’s house.
“Of course,” I murmured, rising to my feet. I risked one final glance at Colette, trying to communicate everything I couldn’t say aloud. Help me if thou can. Remember me if thou cannot.
She nodded almost imperceptibly, her eyes fierce despite her placid expression. In that moment, I saw in her the same determination that had sustained me through the night. The will to survive, to fight, to somehow escape the fate that men like Gaspard and Father Simon had decreed for me.
Gaspard’s hand found its place at the small of my back, guiding me toward the church doors.
I walked beside him, a perfect picture of docile acceptance.
But inside, in a place he couldn’t reach or control, I made a silent vow.
I would not become his wife. I would not spend the rest of my days as his possession.
I would find a way out, even if that way led straight into the heart of the Forbidden Forest.