Chapter 19 Gaspard
nineteen
Gaspard
Two days of hunting through this godforsaken forest, and all I had to show for it was mud-caked boots and the growing ache of rage in my chest. Isabeau’s trail had gone from promising to pathetic to nonexistent, like she’d evaporated into the fetid air of this dying woodland.
I kicked at a rotting log, sending splinters of decayed wood flying as Alf flinched behind me. She couldn’t have simply disappeared.
The witch—yes, the water test had proven what I’d suspected when she threw me across the room with unnatural strength—had help, or luck, or both. But neither would save her from me forever. Nothing could, especially with my own dablings in the dark arts.
“Master Gaspard, perhaps we should turn back,” Alf wheezed behind me, his short legs struggling to keep pace. “These trees... they aren’t right. Everyone knows this part of the forest is the turning back point. Thou art worth more than the horror stories finding us. No one returns”
I didn’t bother looking back at him. Alf’s fear was as constant as his devotion, both equally pathetic and useful.
“If thou art afraid, go back alone,” I said, knowing full well he wouldn’t. He never did. The fat little fool would follow me into hell itself if I asked, all because his eyes lingered too long on my form when he thought I wasn’t watching. “I’m not returning without what’s mine.”
Mine.
The word tasted right on my tongue. Isabeau had been mine since the moment I first saw her blossoming into womanhood, those curves filling out her simple dresses in ways that made my mouth water and my cock stiffen.
Her ample breasts were unlike all the others I’ve touched.
The fact that her father had dared refuse my offer still burned like acid in my gut.
Old man Arnaud, with his tinkering and his books and his ridiculous notion that his daughter deserved better than the most accomplished hunter in the village.
Better than me. As if such a man existed.
“The maiden can’t have gone much farther,” Alf offered, his words punctuated by labored breaths. “A woman alone in these woods... the beasts would have—”
“She’s not dead,” I snapped, certainty hardening my voice. “I would know if thy bride were dead.”
The trees around us had grown more twisted, more wrong with each step deeper into this part of the forest. Their bark peeled away like diseased flesh, revealing pale wood beneath that resembled exposed bone.
No birds sang here. No squirrels darted between branches.
Even the insects seemed to have abandoned this place, leaving nothing but silence and decay.
I’d been warned about this section of the forest my entire life.
“Never go beyond the lightning-struck oak,” my father had told me.
“Nothing good lives there. Nothing worth hunting.” But he’d been wrong about that, as he was wrong about so many things.
Isabeau was worth hunting, no matter where she fled.
Alf stumbled over a root, cursing softly as he regained his footing.
His round face was flushed with exertion, sweat soaking through his shirt despite the autumn chill.
He wasn’t built for this kind of tracking, but I needed someone to carry supplies, to make camp while I scouted ahead, to attend to the thousand small tasks beneath a hunter’s dignity.
And I needed someone who would never question my methods. Someone whose loyalty was absolute.
“You’re falling behind,” I observed coldly, pausing to let him catch up and not calling him by a proper pronoun. “Perhaps I overestimated your usefulness.”
Fear flashed across his features, quickly masked by determination as he hurried forward. “No, Master Gaspard. I’m fine. Just a small stumble.”
I watched him approach, this man who had been my shadow since boyhood.
Alf was four years my senior but had never married, never shown interest in the village girls who giggled and preened whenever I passed.
I’d known the truth about him since we were teenagers, when I caught him watching me bathe in the river, his eyes hungry in a way that should have disgusted me but instead revealed his weakness.
A weakness I’d exploited ever since.
“Good.” I clapped his shoulder, feeling him lean into the touch before catching himself. “I need thee eyes. The witch is clever, but not clever enough to cover every trace.”
His chest puffed with pride at being needed, pathetically eager to please. Like a dog seeking scraps from its master’s table. “Of course. Anything thou needs.”
Anything. He meant it too. He’d helped me drag Isabeau’s cage to the river for her trial without a word of protest. Had held the cage steady while the other villagers lowered her into the water. Had even helped secure her father for the sacrifice, though he’d gone pale when she went under.
Weak stomach, but useful hands.
A flicker of movement caught my eye. Something pale against the dark decay of the forest. I raised my hand, silencing Alf’s labored breathing as I focused on the object dancing in the noxious breeze. High in the branches of a gnarled oak, something fabric-like fluttered.
“There,” I pointed upward. “Get it.”
Alf squinted into the gloom, his mouth dropping open when he spotted it. “Is that...?”
“Fabric. Clothing. Now climb.”
He hesitated, eyeing the tree’s skeletal branches dubiously. “Master Gaspard, I’m not sure it will hold my weight. Perhaps thy nimble master could—”
“Climb. The. Tree.” Each word fell like a stone between us. “Unless you’d prefer I found someone more capable to accompany me next time.”
The threat worked, as it always did. Alf moved to the tree trunk, testing lower branches before hauling his bulk upward with surprising determination. The wood creaked ominously beneath him, but held as he inched higher toward the fluttering cloth.
While he climbed, I replayed my time with Isabeau in my mind.
Those precious days after her father’s sacrifice, when she’d been mine.
Locked safely in my spare room where her beauty couldn’t torment other men.
I’d been patient, allowing her time to adjust to her new position in life.
I’d fed her, clothed her, even spoke kindly to her, let her feel my cock.
And how had she repaid my generosity? By attacking me when I finally came to claim what was rightfully mine. Her womb for my young.
The memory made my fingers curl into fists.
Her body beneath mine, soft and perfect until that strange light had erupted from her, throwing me across the room like a ragdoll.
The bruises had faded, but the humiliation hadn’t.
Nor had the want. If anything, her resistance had only made me hunger for her more intensely.
My hunt for her captured every waking thought as my slumbering ones dreamed of having her.
“I’ve got it!” Alf called down, triumphant despite his obvious discomfort. He clutched something green in his pudgy fist, carefully navigating his descent.
When his feet touched ground again, he held out his prize with trembling fingers. “It’s a dress, Master Gaspard. And look—it’s torn to shreds at the back.”
I snatched it from his grasp, running my fingers over the familiar fabric.
Yes, this was one of the dresses I’d provided for her during her stay in my home.
Simple but well-made, designed to enhance her natural beauty without drawing too much attention from other men.
And Alf was right. The back was completely shredded, as if by massive claws.
“She must be dead,” Alf whispered, a mix of horror and relief in his voice. “No one could survive an attack that would tear clothing like that. Some beast must have dragged her off and—”
“No.” I held the fabric to my nose, inhaling deeply. Beneath the mustiness of forest decay lingered Isabeau’s scent—clean skin and something floral, like the wildflowers she used to gather. But no blood. Not a drop. “There’s no blood on it.”
“Perhaps it washed away in the rain two nights ago?”
I shook my head, examining the tears more closely. They were deliberate, precise, not the random shredding of an animal attack. “This wasn’t done by a beast. Not the kind you’re thinking of, anyway.”
Something else had claimed her. Something that had removed her clothing without spilling her precious blood. The possibilities darkened my thoughts, stoking the ember of rage in my gut into a roaring flame. Someone or something had taken what belonged to me.
“Then thy maiden could still be alive?” Alf asked, his eyes darting nervously around the decaying forest.
“Oh, she’s alive.” I folded the torn dress carefully, tucking it inside my hunting vest. “I’d know if she wasn’t.”
The certainty in my voice wasn’t just bravado.
I’d felt connected to Isabeau since the first moment I saw her, a pull that transcended mere desire.
Every night while she was locked in my home, I’d dreamt of her—vivid dreams where she yielded to me completely, body and soul.
Sometimes I’d wake to find myself standing outside the her door, with no memory of having left my bed.
On my hunting trip, I had to come back early because I kept waking up, walking back toward the village.
It was fate. Destiny. A bond that couldn’t be severed by distance or magic or whatever man now kept her from me.
My gaze drifted upward, beyond the torn dress’s resting place to the canopy above.
The trees grew thicker here, older, their skeletal branches interlacing to form a barrier against the sky.
We were deep in the forbidden part of the forest now—far deeper than I had ever ventured.
Only I entered because of the shield of darkness that shrouded me.
My protection the villagers never questioned.
“Do you remember Thomas Beaufort?” I asked suddenly, still staring upward.
Alf frowned at the abrupt change of subject. “The miller’s son? The boy who drowned two years back?”