Chapter 1 #2
The men laughed, loudly, cruelly. They circled her like feral dogs, their boots grinding the earth into dust, their leering grins made more grotesque by the bruises and grime smeared across their faces.
Isabeau turned in place, her breath shallow, the dirk trembling in her grip.
She held it like she’d seen guards do—blade forward, stance braced—but her hands were too slick with sweat, her limbs too light with panic.
“How much d’ye reckon she’ll fetch?” The first one asked. “If we sell her tae the right hands, she’ll fetch us a handsome price.”
“I’d wager more than a few coins fer a lass like this,” the third man said, stepping closer, his gaze dragging down her front. “If we dinnae get used tae her first.”
Bile rose up Isabeau’s throat, the sharp sting of it making her swallow hard.
She had no doubt that those men meant her harm.
There was nothing empty about their words, nothing that made her think they were too cowardly to deliver on their threats.
These men were thieves—men looking for easy pay.
And now that she had stumbled into their path, they had found just that.
“I am a lady, born o’ noble blood,” she snapped, lifting her chin in defiance despite the tremble in her jaw. “If ye touch me, me faither will have yer heads.”
They paused as if considering it—but only for a moment.
Then the one nearest to her barked a laugh. “A lady, is it? Och, sure, an’ I’m the king.”
“A noble-born, travelin’ all alone, nay carriage, nay guards tae keep an eye on her?” the large man asked. “Isnae that funny, lads?”
“Let us see what kind o’ liar she really is,” said another, the smallest and youngest of the four, who looked at her with a sneer that was as mocking as it was chilling.
And then they lunged.
Isabeau screamed and slashed out blindly, her blade carving a shallow gash across one man’s forearm.
It was the young one, the first one to reach her, and he roared in pain, stumbling back.
It was the opening she needed, and she wasted no time before she sidestepped the man, running deeper into the woods, hoping she would lose them.
There was no going back and there was no going forward. All she could hope for was a place to hide for a while, somewhere that would keep her safe until those brutes decided to leave.
For a brief moment, she tasted freedom. For a brief moment, she held the hope that she could outrun them, snaking through the trees just out of their reach, but the others were on her too fast. The flash of victory was extinguished too quickly, too mercilessly, and she had no time to flee before the rest were upon her.
One caught her wrist mid-swing, another slammed his boot into the back of her knee, and she collapsed with a cry, her cloak tangling around her legs.
Isabeau kicked and clawed, baring her teeth like a wild animal, but the dirk was wrenched from her hand by a hand much stronger than hers, and flung into the brush.
“Nay!” she gasped, but it was gone.
A rough fist seized her by the shoulder and slammed her into the dirt.
Her cheek scraped the ground, a stinging pain coursing through her entire face as her skin was cut by a fallen twig.
The fight burned through her muscles, and she twisted and turned in the men’s grip, desperate to throw them off her, but it wasn’t enough—not against four men, all of them towering over them.
I’m doomed. I cannae fight them an’ I cannae escape them.
“Get the rope,” one snapped. “She’s worth somethin’, aye, but only if she daesnae scratch out our eyes first.”
Within moments, one of them crouched down next to her, quickly tying her wrists behind her back as two others held her still.
Her throat burned with her screams, her voice now hoarse and rough.
The cord dug into her wrists like fire, cutting deep as they bound her, tighter and tighter, until her fingers throbbed with numbness.
Her ankles were tied next, the rope so tight she cried out furiously.
Still she fought—squirming, spitting curses, thrashing like a creature half-mad with rage and terror.
“Let go o’ me, ye brutes! Animals!”
They didn’t care. No matter what insults she hurled at them, they fell upon deaf ears.
They shoved her hard onto her side, but instead of attacking her as she expected, they yanked her satchel away.
The food, her coin, her carefully packed herbs—all dumped into the dirt and picked over like scraps.
She watched with growing dread as they pocketed what little she had left, their hands soon rifling through her cloak and bodice in search of anything else to steal.
I’ll starve without coin. How will I make it tae the Lowlands?
She refused to believe that she wouldn’t make it due to the attack. She refused to believe she would be held their captive, that there was no saving herself. The Lowlands were still the goal; anything else was unthinkable.
Isabeau’s vision blurred with hot, furious tears. Without money, she had nothing—no way to pay her way there, no way to buy food or passage. If she stayed there someone would recognize her. Someone would drag her straight back to her father.
One of the men leaned closer, eyes narrowing as he glanced down her skirts.
“What about under here?” he sneered, reaching for the hem.
Her scream tore through the woods like thunder. She kicked at him with stiff, furious legs, but before he could touch her, another sound cracked through the underbrush.
Another set of footsteps, heavy and deliberate.
The thieves froze, and from the shadows ahead, a figure stepped into the path.
Hood drawn low, obscuring his face in the dying light, Isabeau couldn’t make out his features, but she could see he was tall, broad-shouldered. Something about the way he moved made the air still, as though the very world around them held its breath.
And though he didn’t speak, Isabeau knew his gaze was on her. She felt it like a prickle on the back of her neck, like a shiver that refused to fade.
Who is this man who hides his face?