Chapter 46 Isabeau
forty-six
Isabeau
Itraced my finger over the faded words on the page, Sir Roland’s brave speech to the dragon blurring as my eyes unfocused.
Strange how stories always made facing monsters seem noble, straightforward.
The hero draws his sword but then offers friendship in this one, and by the end, everything is resolved.
My reality was messier. No clear heroes, no obvious villains, just people making terrible choices and calling them necessary.
I’d been reading the same paragraph for an hour, my mind elsewhere.
It was caught between the claiming mark throbbing on my shoulder and the memory of Alain’s voice declaring I belonged to him and the dream I’d had of his wicked ownership of me last night that left me in tears, even as I shattered intimately.
Two different kinds of possession, neither one my choice.
Though, I didn’t mind belonging to the beasts’ mate.
“We need not be enemies,” I read aloud, my voice sounding hollow in the ornate prison Alain called my chamber.
My legs pressed more firmly together, hiding how I cowered after the betrayal of my subconscious thoughts.
I battled with the dream last night and the man who stayed at my side.
This very book had been a comfort during my fever dreams, his deep yet caring voice carrying me through darkness when poison coursed through my veins. Now the words felt like mockery.
I closed the leather-bound volume, setting it on my lap as I gazed out the window toward the tournament grounds.
Even from here, I could see the colorful banners fluttering in the afternoon breeze, hear the distant roar of the crowd as they celebrated whatever spectacle of masculinity was being performed now.
Somewhere down there, Gaspard walked free, respected, honored while I sat trapped in this gilded cage.
The amber stone the raven had given me last night rested heavy in my pocket. I’d sewn a small hiding place into the seam of my borrowed dress, keeping it close at all times. Its warmth pulsed against my thigh, a reminder of magic and connections that transcended stone walls and royal decrees.
The door flew open without warning. I jumped, the book tumbling from my lap as Brigida burst in, her face flushed, breath coming in short gasps. She slammed the door behind her, leaning against it as if to barricade it with her body.
“You need to leave,” she panted, eyes wild as they darted toward the window. “Now. This minute.”
I rose slowly, wariness coursing through me. “What’s happened?”
“That man—that devil from your village—Lord Coventry.” Brigida crossed the room in quick strides, gathering items from around the chamber and stuffing them into a small sack she had already mostly filled.
“He told the king you’re a witch. Said he drowned you once for it, and you survived by your magic. ”
Ice slid down my spine, pooling in my stomach. “He what?”
“I was serving them wine at the midday meal.” Her weathered hands trembled as she yanked open a drawer, pulling out the spare chemise she’d washed for me yesterday. “He told them everything. How you have powers. How your eyes glow. Said you threw him across a room without touching him.”
Half-truths twisted with lies. Yes, I’d used magic against Gaspard, but only after his abuse, only when he’d come at me with that sick promise to breed me, promising to force our marriage the next day.
“And the king believed him,” I said flatly, not a question because I already knew the answer.
Brigida’s eyes met mine, filled with pity and fear. “He did more than believe him. He’s planning to make you the final hunt of the tournament.”
“The final hunt?” The words didn’t make sense at first, my mind refusing to assemble them into meaning.
“A witch hunt.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, though we were alone in the room.
“Literally. They’ll release you into the forest tomorrow, give you a head start, then hunt you down like an animal.
Lord Coventry knows he’ll be one of the contenders who’ll make it that far. He seemed... pleased by the idea.”
Of course he was. Hunting me twice would cement his reputation.
The great witch hunter, delivering justice to the magical abomination who had escaped him once before.
I could picture his face, that perfect smile stretched across perfect teeth, eyes gleaming with the prospect of finally reclaiming what he believed was his.
“Is Alain involved?” The question tore from my throat before I could stop it, raw and painful as a fresh wound.
Brigida hesitated, her hands stilling on the bundle she was packing. “I don’t know. Prince Alain wasn’t at the luncheon. But after last night...”
After last night. After he’d caught me trying to escape. After he’d torn down my pathetic rope of bedsheets and declared me his, as if I were a possession rather than a person. After he’d doubled the guards and promised I’d never leave him.
Could this be his revenge? His way of punishing me for trying to flee back to my beasts? The thought made bile rise in my throat. I’d believed him different from Gaspard, but perhaps power and entitlement left the same mark on all men’s souls in the end.
“The guards?” I asked, forcing myself to think practically despite the panic clawing at my chest.
“Drugged.” A flash of grim satisfaction crossed Brigida’s lined face. “I brought them wine laced with sleeping herbs. Said it was a gift from the prince for their diligence. They’re snoring in the hallway as we speak.”
I stared at her, disbelief warring with desperate hope. “Why would you risk this for me? If they catch you helping me escape—”
“I saw what you did for Thibaut,” she said simply, tying off the bundle with practiced hands. “Witch or not, you could have let him die. Instead, you drew poison into your own body to save him. I’ve lived long enough to know that kind of heart deserves protection, not persecution.”
She tossed the bundle to me, and I caught it automatically. Inside, I found bread, cheese, a skin of water, and a change of clothes. Simple fabrics, servant’s garb rather than the fine dresses Alain had provided. Practical. Forgettable. The sort of clothing that wouldn’t draw attention on the road.
“There are boots by the door,” Brigida continued, moving to the wardrobe and pulling out a thick, woolen cloak in a dull brown color. “Not as fine as what you’re used to, but they’ll keep your feet from bleeding. The cape will hide your face and that hair—narrowing its distinctiveness by half.”
My fingers closed around the bundle, tears burning behind my eyes. This woman owed me nothing. Had known me for weeks at most. Yet she risked everything to save me from a fate she clearly believed I didn’t deserve.
“I’ll never forget this,” I whispered, my voice cracking. “If I survive, if I find a way to—”
“None of that,” she cut me off, pressing the cloak into my hands. “Just live, girl. That’s all the thanks I need.”
I changed quickly, shedding the fine golden gown for the simple linen dress Brigida had provided.
The fabric was coarse against my skin after weeks of silk and satin, but it felt right somehow.
More honest. As I pulled on the boots—slightly too large but serviceable with an extra pair of stockings—a memory surfaced of Margaret, Gaspard’s cook, whispering to me as she tended my wounds after one of his rages.
“Eldagh. Women can make their own way there. Plenty of work for those willing to do it, and not so many questions about what you’re running from.”
Eldagh. The village that sat on the border of the Forbidden Forest, separated only by a river. Close enough to the beasts’ castle that I might still find a way to fulfill my promise to them. Far enough from Thorndale that Gaspard’s immediate influence wouldn’t reach.
It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was something. A direction. A hope.
“Ready?” Brigida asked, her head cocked toward the door, listening for any sign the guards might be stirring.
I nodded, pulling the cloak around my shoulders and lifting the hood to shadow my too-distinctive eyes and hair. The amber stone in my pocket seemed to pulse with greater warmth, as if approving my decision.
“I can get you as far as the stables,” Brigida said, easing the door open and peering into the hallway. “After that, you’re on your own to get out of the city.”
The guards slumped against the wall, their chins resting on their chests, soft snores escaping parted lips. I felt a momentary pang of guilt. They would likely be punished for my escape, but I pushed it aside. Better their pride wounded than my life ended.
We moved silently through the hallway, Brigida leading me through servants’ passages I hadn’t known existed.
Narrow corridors hidden behind tapestries, cramped staircases that spiraled between the castle’s public faces.
The smell of tallow candles and overcooked cabbage filled these secret spaces.
They were so different from the perfumed air of the royal apartments.
At one point, we flattened ourselves against a wall as a group of kitchen maids passed, laughing about some castle gossip. My heart hammered so loudly I was certain they would hear it, but they continued on, oblivious to our presence in the shadows.
“Almost there,” Brigida whispered as we descended a final set of stairs that opened onto a small courtyard. “The stables are just across. Wait until I tell you it’s clear.”
She slipped out first, her gray dress and weathered appearance raising no alarms among the few servants crossing between buildings. I watched her make her way to the stable entrance, exchange words with someone inside, then gesture casually back toward me.
“Now,” she mouthed.