Chapter 5 Isabeau #2
His fingers pinched my nipple with cruel precision, sending pain shooting through my body. I jerked against him, a muffled cry escaping despite the gag. This seemed to please him. He did it again, harder, watching my reaction with the clinical interest of a scientist observing a specimen.
“So responsive,” he murmured, his free hand working at the fastening of his breeches. “So perfectly made for me.”
Every touch was torture, too harsh against my smaller body. Gaspard was a large man, all hard muscle from years of hunting, and he used that strength without restraint. His hands left bruises wherever they landed, marking me as his property in the most primitive way possible.
When he finally took me, shoving himself inside without care for my readiness, the pain was blinding.
I bit down on the wooden ball, grateful for once that it muffled the scream that tore from my throat.
He rutted against me like the beast he claimed lurked in the forest, his movements jerky and selfish, concerned only with his own end.
Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes despite my determination to deny him that victory. They tracked silently down my cheeks, some catching on the leather straps of the gag, others falling to dampen the torn bodice of the once-beautiful dress.
How much more of this could I endure? The thought floated through the haze of pain and humiliation.
There was the knife I’d hidden in my satchel, Papa’s hunting knife.
I could use it. Not on Gaspard. He was too strong, too alert.
But on myself. A quick slash across the wrists.
A plunge into the soft hollow of my throat. Freedom, of a sort.
The thought terrified and tempted me in equal measure. Was this what my father had sacrificed himself for? So I could live as a chained pet, a thing to be used and discarded according to another’s whims? Surely death would be kinder than this half-life of degradation.
“Live thy life in my honor!”
Papa’s last words to me echoed through my memory, drowning out Gaspard’s grunts of pleasure. Live. Not just survive, but live. There was meaning in the distinction, importance in the difference that I couldn’t fully grasp through the fog of my current misery.
But somewhere deep inside, a tiny spark of defiance refused to be extinguished. I would find a way out. If not for my own sake, then for Papa’s. His sacrifice would not end with my surrender, either to Gaspard or to death by my own hand.
Gaspard’s movements grew more frantic, his breathing harsh in my ear.
Like the night before, he withdrew at the last moment, spilling his seed across my exposed skin rather than inside me.
A small mercy, though I doubted it was motivated by any concern for my well-being.
More likely, he wanted to ensure I was not with child before our wedding.
The only reason I knew the difference was from a working woman in the tavern one evening. I had gone with Colette to enjoy her company, but we overheard the wenches. One just had a customer not remove himself, so she was angry his seed would force a child onto her.
Back then, I didn’t know the seed she spoke of, but after Gaspard’s release at the table, I did.
Though, I wish I hadn’t. I wish her words had been another lie like when they mentioned how large members could be.
Or how long their paying men lasted because Gaspard had barely lasted a few minutes, let alone an hour.
“Perfect,” he gasped as the last shudders of his release passed through him. “Always so perfect.”
He never lasted long. That, at least, was a reprieve. His assault might be brutal, but it was mercifully brief.
Gaspard straightened his clothing with efficient movements, tucking himself away and refastening his breeches as if he’d done nothing more significant than sample a new wine.
He didn’t bother to clean me or cover my nakedness.
Instead, he gazed down at me with the satisfied expression of a man who had just enjoyed a particularly fine meal.
“I’ll send Margaret to clean thee,” he said, already turning toward the door. “Don’t fret about thy dress. I’ve ordered more suitable garments for when I return. Ones that provide easier access to what’s mine without ripping the fabric.”
The door closed behind him with a decisive click, followed by the turning of a key in the lock. I remained where he’d left me, slumped against the wall, my torn dress pooled around my waist, my skin marked with his violence.
The chain around my neck felt heavier than before, the collar tighter. The leather straps of the gag had begun to chafe where they cut into the corners of my mouth.
But I couldn’t summon the energy to move, to try to adjust any of these bonds. What was the point? I was trapped, not just by iron and leather, but by circumstance and law and the twisted desires of men who saw me as nothing more than flesh to be claimed.
I don’t know how long I sat there, lost in the numbing emptiness that follows violation. Time seemed meaningless, measured only by the slow drying of Gaspard’s seed on my skin and the gradual stiffening of my muscles from remaining in one position.
The sound of the key in the lock barely registered until the door swung open, revealing Margaret’s slight form.
She carried a basin of steaming water and clean rags, her eyes downcast as always.
But when she saw me half-naked, chained, gagged like an animal, and her composure cracked.
A small gasp escaped her lips, and the basin trembled in her hands.
“Oh, miss,” she whispered, hastily setting down her burden and rushing to my side. “What has he done to thee?”
Her gentle fingers worked at the buckles of the gag, her touch so different from Gaspard’s that fresh tears sprang to my eyes. When the wooden ball finally slipped from my mouth, I couldn’t suppress a whimper of relief, working my aching jaw to restore feeling.
“Thank you,” I managed, my voice hoarse.
Margaret didn’t speak as she dipped a cloth into the warm water and began to clean Gaspard’s leavings from my skin. Her touch was clinical but kind, her eyes filled with a sorrow that mirrored my own. She had seen this before. Done this before. The knowledge sat between us, unspoken but understood.
“He’s left for his hunting trip,” she said at last, helping me to cover myself with what remained of my dress. “Three days, he said. Perhaps four.”
“Margaret,” I whispered, acutely aware of the chain that still bound me to the wall. “Help me.”
Her hands stilled, her eyes darting to the door as if expecting Gaspard to materialize at any moment. “I cannot,” she said, her voice barely audible. “He would kill my family. And thee as well.”
“He plans to marry me when he returns,” I said, desperate for her to understand the urgency. “Father Simon has arranged it. A private ceremony.”
Margaret nodded, unsurprised. “I know. Master had me prepare the nuptial chamber already.” She resumed her cleaning, her movements mechanical. “I’m sorry, miss. Truly I am. But there’s naught I can do.”
The humiliation of being seen like this, chained, gagged, used. It burned through me with renewed intensity. Not because Margaret saw my nakedness or cleaned Gaspard’s seed from my skin, but because she saw my helplessness. My complete subjugation to a man’s will.
“I understand,” I said, though the words tasted like ash. And I did understand. Margaret was as much Gaspard’s prisoner as I was, though her chains were invisible.
She worked in silence after that, helping me into a clean nightdress she’d brought. It was far too large, clearly meant for a man. Probably one of Gaspard’s castoffs. But it covered me, and for that I was grateful.
“I’ll bring food later,” Margaret said as she gathered her things. “And more water for washing.” Her eyes flickered to the chain around my neck. “I cannot remove that. He keeps the key on him always. I’ll keep the gag off you until we know he’s returned.”
I nodded, my hand rising unconsciously to touch the cold metal. “Thank you for your kindness.”
A sad smile touched her lips. “Kindness costs nothing, miss. It’s the only wealth I have to share.”
With that, she was gone, the lock turning once more behind her. I was alone again, with nothing but my thoughts and the constant, cold pressure of the chain to remind me of my captivity.
Three days. Three days to find a way out, or to resign myself to a life as Gaspard’s possession. I sank onto the bed, drawing my knees to my chest, the chain clinking with every movement.
The Forbidden Forest no longer seemed like a place of terror. Compared to this gilded cage, it looked like freedom. If I could only reach it.