Chapter 6 Isabeau #3
Her fingers were gentle as they positioned the wooden ball in front of my mouth.
I opened obediently, fighting every instinct that screamed at me to keep my jaws clamped shut.
The smooth, lacquered wood slid between my teeth, larger than I remembered, forcing my jaw wide.
The leather straps followed, tightening around my head with practiced efficiency.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, checking that the buckles were secure without being cruel. “So sorry.”
I couldn’t respond, could only make a muffled sound of acknowledgment. The weight of the collar, the pressure of the gag, I felt like a beast being prepared for slaughter. Perhaps I was.
Margaret stepped back, assessing her work with sorrowful eyes. “Do as he asks when he returns,” she said, voice urgent. “Don’t fight him. Bad things befall the good people in this town who tried to change things.” Her voice dropped lower. “Like thy father.”
My whole body went rigid. What did she mean? What did she know about Papa?
She must have seen the question in my eyes because she hesitated, glancing nervously at the door before leaning closer. “He never had a chance, thy father. Not at that drawing.” Her eyes held mine, making sure I understood. “Not when he stood between Master Gaspard and what he wanted.”
The revelation hit me hard. Not random chance. Not fate. Not the forest’s choice. My father had been deliberately selected. Murdered.
I made a desperate sound behind the gag, my eyes wide with horror and dawning comprehension.
Memories flashed through my mind. Papa’s late arrival at the sacrifice, his resigned expression when our family crest was drawn, the meaningful final words he’d spoken to me before the draw happened.
He’d known. Somehow, he’d known what was coming.
Margaret nodded, reading the understanding in my face.
“I’ve said too much already, but thou deserves to know the truth.
” She glanced again toward the door, listening for approaching footsteps.
“Master Gaspard has wanted thee for years. Thy father refused to give permission for courtship, knowing the kind of man Master is.”
My hands flew to the gag, fingers scrabbling at the buckles, desperate to ask how, to demand answers. Margaret gently pulled my hands away, holding them between her own.
“They made a false crest,” she whispered hurriedly, eyes never leaving mine.
“Painted it to match thine, coated the back with honey to make Father Simon’s fingers stick to it when he reached into the bag.
” Her voice broke slightly. “This isn’t the first time they’ve done this.
Not the first family to lose someone who stood in Master Gaspard’s way. ”
My tears came hot and fast now, streaming down my cheeks and soaking into the leather straps.
Papa hadn’t been taken by chance. He’d been murdered by Gaspard and Father Simon, sacrificed not to the forest but to a man’s obsessive desire.
The beast hadn’t chosen him. Vile men had, men with power and no conscience to temper it.
A noise from downstairs made Margaret jump. “He’s nearly here. I must go.” She squeezed my hands once more. “Remember, do as he says. Live. Find thy moment when it comes.”
Then she was gone, the door locking behind her with that terrible finality I’d come to dread.
I collapsed onto the bed, the chain clanking loudly against the frame.
The gag muffled my sobs, turning them into pathetic whimpers that couldn’t possibly express the magnitude of my grief and rage.
My father, my kind, gentle Papa who had taught me to read and educate myself, to find my mama’s magic in herbs and wisdom in books, had been murdered so Gaspard could possess me.
And now I was chained in the murderer’s house, waiting for him to return and claim his prize.
The thought crystallized something inside me. A cold, hard resolve that cut through my tears and silenced my sobs. I would not be a victim. I would not spend my life chained to the man who had orchestrated my father’s death. I would escape or die trying.
But first, I needed a weapon. I wiped my tears with the back of my hand and forced myself to think clearly despite the gag in my mouth.
Papa’s hunting knife.
I’d hidden it in my satchel when I first arrived. Margaret had taken the satchel that first night, but I’d seen her place it in the bottom drawer of the dresser, apparently forgotten in the horror of what followed. Or she left it to me on purpose, knowing what I tucked inside.
Moving as quietly as the chain would allow, I slid from the bed and crossed to the dresser. The drawer opened silently, revealing my small, pitiful collection of possessions. There, wrapped in a scrap of cloth at the bottom, was the knife.
I clutched it to my chest for a moment, feeling closer to Papa than I had since watching him cross that bridge. Then I moved with renewed purpose to the bed, where I began methodically tearing a strip from the bottom sheet. The fabric was strong but thin, perfect for my needs.
Working quickly, I tore several long strips, then braided them together to create a makeshift belt.
The knife I secured to this belt with more torn fabric, testing it carefully to ensure it wouldn’t slip free.
When finished, I tied the belt around my waist, positioning the knife at the small of my back where it would be hidden by the fullness of my skirts.
The spot my dress often remained after he ripped them.
I wasn’t naive enough to believe I could overpower Gaspard in a fair fight. He was twice my size and trained in combat. But I didn’t need to overpower him. I just needed one opportunity, one unguarded moment when he wasn’t expecting resistance from his docile prize.
The distant sound of hoofbeats reached me through the open window. Voices called out greetings. Dogs barked excitedly. Gaspard had returned.
I smoothed my skirts, making sure the knife was completely hidden, then sat on the edge of the bed to wait.
My hands trembled, but my resolve didn’t waver.
I was no longer just Isabeau Dubois, the inventor’s daughter.
I was now also the daughter of a murdered man, and I carried his weapon at my back.
Let Gaspard come with his hungry eyes and grasping hands. Let him think me tamed by his chains and gags. Let him believe I’d accepted my fate as his possession.
I would wait. I would watch. I would find my moment.
And when I did, I would make him pay for what he’d done to Papa, to Margaret, to Margaret’s daughter, and to countless others who had suffered under his cruelty.
That’s when the raven landed and cawed again. My eyes couldn’t handle looking at him as I waited for Gaspard. When I didn’t give him my attention, he cawed again, moving inside the bars to be in my room.
I grunted at the creature from the gag being in.
The raven hopped down, gliding to my shoulder. His eyes bore into mine, and I felt like he was seeing more than just my flesh. He found my soul. I was slightly mesmerized by the beautiful bird.
Until he bit my neck. And flew off before I could even clutch the tender flesh. Why did he bite me? I didn’t get much time to ponder that.
The front door slammed open below. Heavy footsteps crossed the entrance hall. A man’s voice, his voice, called out for Margaret. Called out for news of his prize.
The bite forgotten. My fingers traced the outline of the knife through my dress. I closed my eyes and whispered a promise to Papa in my heart.
A damsel in distress I was not.