Chapter 8 Isabeau
eight
Isabeau
Everyone knew what happened to women accused of witchcraft. Especially beautiful women. Especially women who had rejected powerful men. The ducking stool if they were lucky. The pyre if they were not.
And in that moment, with my body still thrumming with unexplainable power and Gaspard’s hateful gaze fixed on me, I knew I had just sealed my fate with magic I didn’t understand and couldn’t control.
“The village will burn thee,” he snarled, taking a unsteady step toward me, his face twisted with rage and something else, fear. “Father Simon will see thee confess before the flames take thee.”
I yanked desperately at the ropes binding my wrists, the rough hemp cutting into my skin. The strange power that had saved me moments ago seemed to have receded, leaving me once again vulnerable and terrified.
Gaspard advanced on me, his face a portrait of righteous fury. “I should have known,” he spat. “The way thou bewitched me all these years. No natural woman could hold such power over a man’s thoughts.”
The irony might have made me laugh if I wasn’t staring death in the face. He had stalked me, assaulted me, murdered my father to possess me, and now he claimed I had bewitched him?
“Witch.” The word hung between us like a death sentence, each syllable dripping with venom.
I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, the remnants of whatever power had erupted from me still buzzing beneath my skin like angry wasps.
Gaspard’s eyes had changed. No longer the cold lust of a man viewing his property, but something far deadlier.
He looked at me now like I was a stag he’d wounded in his failure to execute right with the first blow, something to be finished off and mounted on his wall.
Another trophy, but one that had dared to fight back.
“I knew there was something unnatural about thee,” he snarled, taking a cautious step toward me, as if expecting me to unleash another burst of that strange force. “No woman could be so beautiful without demonic assistance. No girl so resistant to a man’s touch without corruption in her blood.”
My wrists remained bound above my head, the rope cutting deeper as I instinctively pulled against it. Whatever power had coursed through me moments before seemed to have retreated, leaving me defenseless once more.
“I don’t know what happened,” I whispered, the words catching in my throat. “Please, I’m not—”
“Silence!” he roared, his hand striking my face with enough force to snap my head to the side. The taste of blood filled my mouth, metallic and warm. “No more lies from thy cursed lips.”
Gaspard stepped back, tucking himself back into his breeches with hurried movements.
His eyes never left me, watching for any sign of resistance, magical or otherwise.
His fingers fumbled with the fastenings, anxiety making his normally steady hands shake.
He needed to look presentable, the perfect picture of righteousness discovering evil in his midst.
“The village will know what thou art,” he said, his voice eerily calm now. “And they will thank me for exposing thee before thy dark powers could harm them.”
The surreality of the situation struck me then.
Gaspard, the man who had assaulted me repeatedly, who had chained me like a dog and threatened to breed me against my will, now positioning himself as the village’s protector.
And they would believe him. Of course they would.
He was Gaspard Coventry, the hunting hero, the wealthy patron.
And I was just a girl with no father to defend her.
He approached the bed again, and I flinched away instinctively.
But instead of striking me, his hands moved to the torn bodice of my dress, roughly pulling the fabric and ties back into place to cover my exposed breasts.
Not out of any concern for my modesty, but to ensure I looked untouched when he presented me to the village.
He wanted to be seen as the virtuous discoverer of a witch, not a man who had been about to force himself on a helpless girl.
“There,” he muttered, tugging and adjusting until the torn fabric somewhat covered me again. “Can’t have them thinking I’d soil myself with a witch’s flesh.” The lie came easily to his lips, crafting the narrative before we’d even left the room.
He reached for the key hanging around his neck—the same key that had locked and unlocked my collar—and moved to the headboard. For a brief, wild moment, I thought he might be freeing me. But he only unlocked the rope from the bedpost, keeping my hands bound tightly together.
“Come,” he ordered, yanking me to my feet with enough force to send pain shooting through my shoulders. “The village awaits thy judgment.”
I stumbled as he dragged me toward the door, my legs weak from days of limited movement and the shock of what had just occurred.
Whatever strange power had protected me seemed to have vanished as quickly as it had appeared, leaving nothing but a faint warmth in my fingertips and the terrifying knowledge that I’d just been labeled the one thing no woman in Thorndale could survive being called.
A witch.
“Gaspard, please,” I begged as he pulled me down the hallway toward the stairs. “I don’t know what happened. I’m not what thou thinks.”
He turned, his face inches from mine, breath hot and reeking of stale wine from the hunt. “I know exactly what thou art. Just like thy mother before thee.”
My mother? The words hit me with instant grief. What did he know of my mother? She had died of a fever, not burned as a witch. Had she possessed the same strange power that had erupted from me? Had Papa known?
“My mother was not—”
“Thy mother was clever enough to hide her nature,” Gaspard cut me off, dragging me toward the stairs. “But thou hast revealed thyself to the wrong man, witch.”
He forced me down the stairs, my bound hands making it difficult to balance. Twice I nearly fell, saved only by his bruising grip on my arm. Each step jostled the hidden knife at my back, the blade that had been meant as my salvation now useless with my hands tied.
“Perhaps I should simply slit thy throat now,” Gaspard mused as we reached the bottom of the staircase. His free hand moved to the hunting knife at his belt, fingers caressing the hilt with a lover’s touch. “It would be cleaner. Quicker.”
I swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the blade. And how cruel of a joke that I also had a balde but could not reach it.
Death at Gaspard’s hands would be horrible, but perhaps preferable to what awaited me in the village. Father Simon would ensure I suffered before the end came.
“But no,” Gaspard continued, his hand falling away from the knife. “That would be too merciful. I want to watch as they destroy thee. As they tear thee apart piece by piece.” His lips curled into a smile that chilled my blood. “Just as I did to thy father.”
The words hit me like a blow, confirming what Margaret had revealed. Not just suspicion now, but confession from the monster’s own lips.
“Thou killed Papa?” I whispered and played dumb, the words like ash on my tongue.
“I arranged his selection, yes.” Gaspard’s voice carried a note of pride.
“The old fool stood between me and what I wanted. Thou. He refused my offers, said his daughter would never be mine.” His grip tightened painfully on my arm.
“But look how wrong he was. In the end, I got what I wanted anyway.”
“Thou filthy murderer,” I hissed, rage burning away my fear for a moment. “My father was worth a hundred of thee.”
“Thy father was a fool who died for his principles,” Gaspard snapped. “And now thou will die for thy witchcraft.”
We had reached the front door. Margaret stood in the shadows of the kitchen doorway, her face a mask of horror as she watched Gaspard drag me toward the entrance.
Our eyes met briefly, and I saw in hers all the sorrow and regret in the world.
There was nothing she could do to help me now. We both knew it.
Before Gaspard could open the door, I gathered the courage for one final act of defiance. I turned my face toward his and spat directly into his eye.
The glob of saliva mixed with blood from my split lip struck its target perfectly. Gaspard roared with rage, his hand connecting with my face again in a blow that would have knocked me to the floor if he hadn’t been holding me upright with the rope.
“Thou will regret that,” he snarled, wiping his face with his sleeve. “I’ll make sure they keep thee conscious through every moment of thy suffering.”
He threw open the door and dragged me out into the late afternoon light. The sun was beginning its descent toward the horizon, casting long shadows across Gaspard’s perfectly manicured grounds. A beautiful day for an execution.
“Witch!” Gaspard bellowed, his voice carrying across the village square as he dragged me toward the center of town. “Come and see! A witch hath been among us!”
Windows opened. Doors creaked. Faces appeared, curious at first, then horrified as they realized what was happening.
Gaspard Coventry, their beloved hunter and protector, was dragging the village beauty through the street, her hands bound, her dress torn, her face bruised, proclaiming her a practitioner of dark arts.
“A witch?” someone called. “The Dubois girl?”
“I found her performing unholy rituals,” Gaspard shouted, the lie falling easily from his lips. “She tried to enchant me, to bend me to her will with demonic powers!”
People began to follow us, a growing crowd that reminded me sickeningly of the night Papa had been taken. The same faces, the same morbid curiosity, the same willingness to watch another’s destruction for their own entertainment.