Chapter 6 Isabeau
six
Isabeau
Time became liquid in that room, flowing like molasses in winter.
It was slow, sticky, and impossibly thick.
The iron collar bit into my neck with each breath, a constant reminder of my captivity, as if I could somehow forget the chain that tethered me to the wall like a dog.
Silence pressed against my ears until I could hear my own heartbeat, a stubborn drumming that refused to surrender even when the rest of me wanted to.
The first few hours after Gaspard’s departure, I sat unmoving on the edge of the bed.
The oversized nightdress Margaret had given me puddled around my body like a shroud.
My fingers kept returning to the metal encircling my throat, tracing its cold circumference, testing its weight and finding it unyielding.
Light shifted across the floor as the sun continued its journey without me. I watched the patterns change, focusing on the gradual movement to keep my mind from spiraling into the dark pit that yawned beneath my thoughts. If I fell in, I might never climb out again.
When I finally stood to relieve myself in the chamber pot—the only luxury the chain’s length allowed me—the weight of the iron pulled against my neck muscles.
Not unbearable yet, but present, insistent.
A preview of the suffering to come. I couldn’t straighten fully with the chain hanging from my throat, forcing me into a perpetual half-bow like a supplicant before an uncaring god.
By midday, hunger gnawed at my empty stomach. I couldn’t remember when I’d last eaten. Before church? The memories felt distant, belonging to another girl who hadn’t yet learned the true meaning of captivity.
The lock turned with a sound that made me flinch. Margaret entered carrying a wooden tray with bread, cheese, and a cup of water. Her eyes darted to my neck, then away, unable to bear the sight of what her master had done.
“Thou must eat,” she said, setting the tray on the small table beside the bed. “Keep thy strength.”
For what? I wanted to ask. To endure more abuse? To live long enough to become Gaspard’s wife in truth? But I said nothing, merely nodded and took the bread from the tray. It tasted like dust in my mouth.
Margaret hovered by the door, her fingers twisting in her apron. She wanted to leave. I could see the anxiety etched in the lines around her eyes, but something held her there.
“It will ease,” she finally said, gesturing toward my collar. “The weight. Thy muscles will adjust.”
“Is that supposed to comfort me?” The words came out sharper than I intended.
She flinched but didn’t retreat. “No. But it is truth.”
I softened, remembering this woman was as much a prisoner as I was, though her chains weren’t visible. “Thank you for the food.”
She nodded and left, the lock turning once more.
Alone again, I attempted to find a comfortable position to rest. Lying flat made the collar dig into the back of my neck, forcing my chin up at an awkward angle.
Sitting upright for too long strained my shoulders and back.
Even standing became an exercise in endurance as the chain pulled down, down, always down.
By afternoon, a dull ache had bloomed at the base of my skull, radiating outward in waves that matched my heartbeat. I shifted restlessly, trying to alleviate the pressure, but the pain had taken root and refused to be dislodged.
The silence grew teeth. Each creak of the old house made me jump.
Each shadow that moved across the barred window sent my heart racing.
Was he returning early? Had the hunt been called off?
Would I hear his heavy footsteps on the stairs, the key in the lock, see his hungry eyes devouring me through the doorway?
Then I saw a raven land at the bars. His eyes felt too knowing as he turned his head to look at me. I did the same motion, following his strange behavior. But the rattling of my door scared the cawing creature off.
Margaret had returned with the evening meal, I sitting up, eyes fixed on the door. The chain pooled beside me on the bed like a metal serpent.
“Thy neck,” she said, setting down the fresh tray. “It pains thee.”
It wasn’t a question, but I answered anyway. “Yes.”
She approached cautiously, as if expecting me to lash out. I remained still as her cool fingers probed gently around the collar, testing where metal met skin.
“The skin is rubbed raw here,” she said, touching a spot beneath my ear. “And here. I’ll bring salve after thou hast eaten.”
The simple kindness nearly undid me. Tears threatened, but I blinked them away. They would solve nothing and waste precious water my body needed.
“Why does he do this?” I whispered, not expecting an answer, not even sure I was asking about Gaspard specifically or men like him in general.
Margaret’s hands stilled on my neck. “Some men need to possess. To own. To prove their power by taking another’s away.” She sighed, a sound so weary it seemed to contain years of suffering. “It is not about thee. Thou couldst be anyone.”
“But I’m not anyone,” I said, my voice cracking. “I’m me. I had a life. I had Papa—”
“I know,” she cut me off, her voice gentle but firm. “I know.”
She helped me sit up to eat, adjusting the pillow behind me to take some strain off my neck. The food was the same as earlier but I found I could stomach it better now. Perhaps hunger had finally overcome despair.
“I’ll return shortly,” Margaret said when I’d finished. “Try to rest if thou can.”
Rest seemed impossible with the grinding pain in my neck, but I nodded anyway. Time stretched like taffy after she left, each minute dragging into the next with excruciating slowness. The headache had spread, claiming my entire skull in its vicious grip. Even my teeth ached with it.
When Margaret returned, she carried a small clay pot and a steaming cup. The smell hit me first. Sharp herbs and something sweeter underneath. Lavender, perhaps, and valerian root. I recognized the scent from my own garden, from the remedies I’d prepared for the apothecary.
“For thy neck,” she said, setting down the pot. “And this,” she held up the cup, “for sleep.”
“What is it?” I asked, eyeing the dark liquid suspiciously.
“Chamomile, valerian, a touch of poppy.” She met my gaze steadily. “Not enough to harm. Just enough to ease thee into dreams. The pain won’t let thee rest otherwise.”
I hesitated. Accepting comfort in this place felt dangerous, as if it might weaken my resolve to escape. But the throbbing in my head made thinking difficult, and without sleep, I’d have no strength for whatever came next.
“Thank you,” I said, taking the cup.
Margaret nodded, then began applying the salve to the raw spots where the collar had chafed my skin. Her touch was gentle, practiced. How many wounds had those hands soothed over the years? How much suffering had those eyes witnessed?
The tonic tasted bitter despite the honey she’d mixed in. I drank it quickly, grimacing at the aftertaste.
“It will work fast,” Margaret warned, reclaiming the empty cup. “Lie down.”
I obeyed, finding a position that minimized the pressure of the collar. Already, a heaviness was spreading through my limbs, a fog descending over my thoughts.
“I’m sorry for thy pain, miss,” Margaret said softly, her hand cool against my forehead. “No one deserves this.”
“Call me Isabeau,” I murmured, my tongue growing thick in my mouth. “Just Isabeau.”
She smiled sadly, tucking the blanket around me. “Sleep well, Isabeau.”
As consciousness slipped away, I clung to one final thought: this was only day one.
I had two more before Gaspard’s return. Two days to find a way out, or resign myself to a lifetime of chains and collars and tonics to numb the pain.
But not yet. Not tonight. Tonight, I would let the darkness take me, and pray for dreams of freedom.
Morning broke through the barred window like an unwelcome visitor.
I woke with my muscles screaming, the collar having worked its cruelty while I slept.
My neck felt like it had been wrung, each vertebra grinding against the next when I tried to move.
The relief Margaret’s tonic had brought was long gone, leaving nothing but stiffness and the metallic taste of reality coating my tongue.
Day two in my gilded cage, and already I was forgetting what freedom felt like.
That’s when I noticed the raven again, sitting in the same spot, watching me. It looked too intelligent, but I wondered if he smelled the bread Margaret had left.
“What is it you want?” I asked it.
It bowed it’s head then flew off, making my skin prickle in gooseflesh. My mind wanted to ruin me with beliefs that a bird could be intelligent enough to save me.
I forced myself to stand, stretching as much as the chain would allow.
The metal links clinked with every movement, a sound I was beginning to hate more than Gaspard’s voice.
It followed me to the washing basin where I splashed cold water on my face, wincing as droplets found their way beneath the collar to irritate the raw skin there.
The lock turned just as I was patting my face dry. Margaret entered carrying something draped over her arm. Fabric in a deep emerald green that caught the morning light.
“Good morrow,” she said, her voice hushed as always. “Master Gaspard ordered this made before he left. Thou art to wear it today.”
She shook out the garment, revealing a lady’s gown far finer than anything I’d ever owned.
The bodice was intricately embroidered with gold thread, the neckline cut low enough to display the assets Gaspard considered his property.
The waist was narrow, designed to cinch and emphasize curves.
A prisoner’s uniform disguised as finery.
“I can’t possibly get that over my head,” I said, gesturing to the chain that kept me tethered.
“It’s made to step into,” Margaret explained, laying the dress on the bed. “Come, I’ll help thee.”