Chapter 3 Isabeau #2
By the time we reached his house at the northern edge of the village, the sun was beginning its descent toward the horizon.
Gaspard’s home was the largest in Thorndale, save for the church.
Two full stories of timber and stone, with glass windows imported from The Noble City and a slate roof that never leaked.
It spoke of wealth, of power, of a man who always got what he wanted.
And now he had me.
A sick feeling swept through me as he led me up the steps to the front door. This was to be my prison, my cage, gilded though it might be. Gaspard pushed the door open with a flourish, gesturing for me to enter ahead of him.
“Welcome to thy new home, Isabeau,” he said, his voice low and intimate in a way that made my skin crawl.
The interior was exactly as I’d imagined it would be.
A monument to Gaspard’s hunting prowess.
Animal heads adorned the walls, their glass eyes following me as I stepped into the main hall.
Bearskin rugs covered the floor, and antler chandeliers hung from the ceiling. Everything spoke of death, of conquest.
A small, middle-aged woman appeared from what I assumed was the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. “Master Coventry,” she said, dipping into a quick curtsy. “I’ve prepared supper as instructed.”
“Excellent, Margaret,” Gaspard replied, not bothering to look at her. “Take Mistress Dubois’s bags to the room I had prepared. And prepare a bath for her after we dine.”
The maid—Margaret—approached me with outstretched hands. I reluctantly surrendered my satchel, praying she wouldn’t notice the knife hidden within. She took it with another curtsy and disappeared up a narrow staircase.
“Come,” Gaspard said, his hand once again finding the small of my back. “Thou must be famished.”
He led me to a dining room dominated by a massive table that could easily seat twelve. Unlike Papa’s lovingly crafted oak table, this one was dark and imposing, designed to intimidate rather than welcome. Only two places had been set, one at the head and one to its immediate right.
“Sit,” Gaspard instructed, pulling out the chair to the right of the head.
I complied, having little choice. Margaret reappeared almost immediately, bearing platters of roasted meat, bread, and vegetables. The smell would normally have made my mouth water, but now it only turned my stomach.
Gaspard took his seat at the head of the table, surveying the food with satisfaction. “Eat,” he commanded. “Thou art too thin.”
I picked at the food, forcing myself to take small bites. Gaspard, meanwhile, tore into his meal with gusto, grease shining on his chin as he spoke between mouthfuls.
“Thy dresses will not do,” he said abruptly. “Now that thou art under my care, thou must look the part.”
The sting of his words was sharp, but not unexpected. I’d seen how he looked at my simple garments, disdain plain on his face.
“My clothes are perfectly serviceable,” I replied, keeping my voice even.
“They are the clothes of a peasant,” he countered. “I will have the seamstress come tomorrow to fit thee for proper attire. Dresses that match thy beauty.”
His eyes raked over me as he spoke, lingering on the swell of my breasts beneath my bodice. A low groan escaped him, animalistic and hungry.
Before I could react, his hand shot across the space between us, cupping my breast through the fabric of my dress. His touch was rough, possessive, violating.
“Perfect to fill my large hands,” he murmured, squeezing painfully. “I knew thou would be.”
I jerked backward, nearly toppling my chair in my haste to escape his touch. “Don’t,” I gasped, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Please, Gaspard. I am in thy care as a ward, not—”
“Not what?” he demanded, rising from his chair. “Not mine to touch? Not mine to claim?” He stalked toward me, backing me against the wall. “Everything in this house belongs to me. Including thee.”
My eyes darted to Margaret, who had returned with a pitcher of wine. Surely she would help, would say something? But the maid kept her gaze fixed on the floor, carefully setting down the pitcher before turning to leave.
“Please,” I called to her. “Don’t go.”
She paused, her back to me, shoulders hunched as if bearing a great weight. “I’ll... I’ll just be preparing thy bath, miss,” she said, her voice barely audible. Then she was gone, the door closing softly behind her.
In that moment, I understood with terrible clarity that I was not the first woman Gaspard had forced himself upon in this house. And that Margaret had learned, likely through painful experience, not to interfere.
“My virtue must remain intact until marriage,” I said desperately, searching for any argument that might sway him. “The village would talk—”
Gaspard laughed, the sound devoid of humor.
“Marriage? Is that what concerns thee?” His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around my throat.
“That will not be a problem, Isabeau. Thou wilt be my wife. I have waited years for thee to come of age, watching as thou blossomed into the beauty I knew thou would become.”
“No,” I choked out, clawing at his hand. “I refuse thee.”
His face darkened, eyes narrowing to slits. “Thou dost not get to refuse me,” he snarled. Then his open palm connected with my cheek, the force of the blow snapping my head to the side.
Stars exploded behind my eyes, pain radiating across my face. Before I could recover, his hand tightened around my throat, cutting off my air.
“I am done with thy teasing,” he growled, his face inches from mine. “Done pretending I don’t see the way thou sways thy hips when thou walks past me. Done waiting.”
His other hand grabbed the front of my dress, wrenching downward with such force that the fabric tore. Cool air hit my exposed skin as my bodice gave way, revealing my breasts to his hungry gaze.
“Beautiful,” he breathed, releasing my throat to paw at me. Each touch hurt, his fingers pinching and twisting without care for my pain. “Thou hast bewitched me, Isabeau. Made me mad with wanting thee.”
“Please stop,” I begged, tears streaming down my face. “Gaspard, please. Not like this.”
But my pleas fell on deaf ears. He was beyond reason now, consumed by his lust. His hands roamed my body, tearing at the remains of my dress, exposing more of me to his greedy eyes.
“I’ll be gentle with thee after we wed,” he said, as if offering a great kindness. “But tonight, I claim what’s mine.”
He spun me around, bending me over the dining table. Dishes clattered to the floor as he swept them aside with one arm. I heard the rustle of fabric, the sound of him unfastening his breeches. I squeezed my eyes shut, my mind screaming for escape even as my body remained trapped.
“Look at me,” he demanded, grabbing my hair and yanking my head back painfully. “I want thee to see what pleasures await thee as my wife.”
Forced to obey, I opened my eyes. Gaspard stood before me, his manhood freed from his breeches, clutched in his fist like a weapon.
I had never seen a man thus exposed before, had only heard whispers from the girls who worked at the village tavern.
It was smaller than I had expected, given his boasting nature and how the working women talked about the sizing.
His entire length disappeared within his grip as he stroked himself, a cruel smile playing on his lips.
“Thy prize,” he said, his voice thick with desire. “Soon to be inside thee.”
I tried once more to break free, but he shoved me back down against the table, his weight pinning me in place. Then he was behind me, forcing my legs apart with his knee.
The pain when he entered me was sharp and tearing. A strangled cry escaped my lips as he buried himself to the short hilt. But it was enough to spear the barrier of my virtue, taking my maidenhood with brutal efficiency.
“Virgin,” he grunted, sounding pleased with himself. “As I knew thou would be.”
My mind went silent then, retreating to some distant place where Gaspard’s grunts and the slap of his body against mine couldn’t reach. I stared at the wall across the room, focusing on a small crack in the plaster, tracing its path from ceiling to floor as he used my body for his pleasure.
I was dimly aware that I was crying, that tears slid silently down my cheeks to pool on the polished wood beneath me. But they seemed to belong to someone else, some other girl whose life had been torn apart in the space of a day.
Gaspard’s rhythm grew erratic, his breathing harsh in my ear. With a final, violent thrust, he pulled out of me. I felt something warm and sticky splatter across my naked back and buttocks as he groaned, his seed spilling onto my skin rather than inside me.
“Perfect,” he panted, his voice thick with satisfaction. “Thou wilt learn to enjoy it, Isabeau. All my women do, eventually.”
All his women. The words echoed in my mind, confirming what I had already suspected. How many others had he forced himself upon? How many had he broken with his cruel hands and harsher words?
I remained motionless on the table, my body aching, my spirit numb. Gaspard tucked himself away, adjusting his clothing as if nothing untoward had occurred. As if he hadn’t just shattered something irreparable within me.
“Margaret!” he called, his voice casual, almost cheerful. “Come clean up this mess.”
The door opened almost immediately, suggesting the maid had been waiting just outside. She entered with downcast eyes, a basin of water and cloths in her hands.
“Clean her,” Gaspard instructed, gesturing to me as if I were a spill to be mopped up. “Then lock her in her room for the night. I’ll not have her wandering about.”
He strode from the dining room without a backward glance, whistling tunelessly as he went.
Margaret approached me slowly, her eyes finally meeting mine. The pity there was unbearable, as was the resignation. This was routine for her. A duty she had performed before and would likely perform again.
“Come, miss,” she said softly, helping me to stand on shaking legs. “Let me tend to thee.”
I allowed her to clean Gaspard’s seed from my skin, too numb to feel shame or embarrassment. My torn dress hung in tatters around my waist, beyond repair just like my former life.
“It gets easier,” Margaret whispered as she worked, her voice so low I barely caught the words. “Not better. But easier to bear.”
I didn’t respond. Couldn’t. My voice seemed to have fled along with my dignity, leaving nothing but an empty shell where Isabeau Dubois had once been.
When she was finished, Margaret wrapped a blanket around my shoulders and led me up the narrow stairs to a small bedroom at the end of the hall.
It was sparsely furnished considering the rest of the house.
A bed, a chest for clothing, and a small table with a basin for washing.
The window was narrow and, I noted with detached interest, fitted with iron bars on the outside.
“I’ll bring thy things up,” Margaret said, still avoiding my gaze. “And water for washing properly.”
I nodded mechanically, standing in the center of the room like a forgotten doll.
“I’m sorry,” she added as she backed toward the door. “Truly, I am.”
Then she was gone, the lock clicking into place behind her from the outside.
Alone at last, I sank to the floor, the blanket pooling around me like spilled ink. The tears I had been holding back came in a flood, silent and burning. I curled into myself, making my body as small as possible, as if I could disappear entirely if I just folded up tight enough.
I clutched at the locket around my throat, the only piece of my mother I had left. “Protect me,” I whispered to it, as I had the night before. But no protection had come. No salvation had arrived.
The lock on the door and the bars on the window told me all I needed to know about my future in this house. I was not a ward. I was not a future wife. I was a possession, to be used and locked away as Gaspard saw fit.
Unless I found a way out.
My hand slipped into the hidden pocket of my ruined dress, fingers closing around the small wooden rose I had cut from Papa’s table. Its edges were sharp where my knife had severed it from its home. Sharp enough, perhaps, to draw blood.
The thought came unbidden, dark and desperate: If I couldn’t escape this house, perhaps I could escape this life.
But as quickly as the thought formed, I pushed it away. Papa hadn’t sacrificed himself for me to surrender so easily. There had to be another way. There had to be.
I crawled to the window, peering out at the deepening twilight. In the distance, just visible above the rooftops of the village, loomed the dark line of the Forbidden Forest. The same forest that had claimed my father just last night.
The same forest that might yet claim me, if I found the courage to seek it out.
Before I could sulk any more than I had, a soft whine reached me. It made me wonder if it was an echo of my hollowing soul, but it wasn’t my voice, and it came through the wall. “Help… help me…”
It was so faint, I wondered if I truly heard it. Did Gaspard have more girls here? Were we all being raped and tortured?
“Who art thou?” I whispered back.
A cry rippled through, a breath of relief. “You can hear me?”
“Yes?” I worried. What harm befell her.
“Please, please help me!” she grew more panicked, isolation hurting her too.
“Where is your room? Is he hurting you too?”
“I-I’m not in a room…”
She went silent. I fretted over the other woman’s condition.
“Hello?” I reached out. “Are you there?”
Nothing. Just silence. I blinked, wondering if I heard anything at all.
Maybe my mind was giving me something else to focus on to not dwell on what just happened to my no longer innocent body.
Gaspard had ruined me for most future husbands by stripping me of my virtue.
And as much as I hadn’t been ready to wed, having my prospects limited left a heavy weight.
Without my virtue, I wasn’t worth more than a common whore when it came to the marriage market.
And just like that, I forgot about the hallucination. My ruining crushed me into more tears.