“I asked ye a question,” her father barked, his face inches from hers now, breath sour with wine and anger. “Have ye been slinkin’ about the dungeons again?”
“I—” she began, the words catching. She saw the fury in his eyes, but worse, the suspicion, the threat it meant for anyone else.
If she lied, the blame would only fall on someone else—one of the kitchen maids, perhaps, or one of the servant boys. Maybe her father would even blame Maisie, since she had been the one to be seen near the kitchens last.
Isabeau couldn’t do that to them. It was one thing for her to face her father’s wrath and another to direct it towards someone else. She could take the abuse; she had been doing so for years, and she was used to it by now. But she could never bring herself to doom anyone else to it.
“I brought food,” she whispered, spine stiffening despite the tremor in her hands. “Fer the prisoner. I used the old cellar passage.”
There… now he kens.
There was a moment of complete silence, and Isabeau felt as though the very world had gone quiet, holding its breath in anticipation. She could hear nothing but the rush of blood to her ears, her panic rising inside her like a wave as she waited to see what her father would do.
Then his hand struck her across the face.
Isabeau reeled, catching herself against the edge of the mattress. Her cheek burned instantly, pain radiating sharply through the rest of her skull, but she didn’t cry out. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
It would bruise, she knew. It was one of those rare times when her father lost his temper and struck her in places where others could see, instead of keeping the marks he wanted to leave where they would be covered by her clothing. It was far from the first time she would be sporting a bruise on the face, but it was not a common sight—not common enough to draw no attention from the guards and the servants.
But even so, what could they do? Most of them didn’t bother with her, and those who did could say nothing to her father. He was their laird; he was the one who decided what was right and what was wrong in Castle Inveraray.
“Ye will never go near that cell again,” her father snapped, his voice cold now, dangerous in its precision. “Guards.”
The two men stepped forward.
“Station men at the old passage entrance. Board it if ye must. I want it sealed. An’ double the watch at the dungeons.”
Isabeau’s heart plummeted. A pit opened up in her stomach, in which all hope disappeared. This was all her fault. She had been reckless, she had been caught, and now there would be no way of reaching Alyson again. She would spend the rest of her days locked up in the keep, surviving off slop and what little, dirty water they gave her until she perished in the cold and the dark.
Nay. Nay, nay… what have I done?
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Her father turned on her again, sneering. “Ye’re sorry? Fer what? Helpin’ the enemy in me own home? Fer sneakin’ like a common thief, draggin’ me name through the mud with every breath ye take?”
She didn’t answer. There was nothing she could say to him that wouldn’t simply enrage him even more and perhaps even push him to do something far worse to her—or to Alyson.
“I gave ye one task,” he continued, looming over her, voice growing colder. “Tae behave. Tae keep yerself presentable until the ceremony… an’ ye cannae even manage that. Ye’ll nae appear at breakfast today or on the morrow, dae ye hear me?”
Once again, Isabeau remained silent, but her gaze didn’t waver from his. She couldn’t bring herself to say anything; she couldn’tbring herself to risk it, even if it would give her the satisfaction of knowing she had stood up to him. But she could keep her gaze steady, unflinching, unafraid. She could show him that she still had some fight left in her.
When she didn’t speak, her father turned toward the guards. “She’s tae remain here under watch. I dinnae want tae see her face out o’ this room.”
With that, he stormed out, the guards falling in behind him. The door slammed shut again, and the heavy bolt scraped into place from the outside.
The silence after her father’s departure was deafening. Isabeau stood frozen for a moment, breathing heavily through her nose, one hand pressed to her burning cheek. Then, as the echo of his boots faded, she slowly sank onto the edge of the bed.
Her hands shook, but not from the blow. She had survived far worse from him. Her body could withstand pain, it had been trained to do so by the very same man who dealt it.
But her soul was a different story. She buried her face in her hands, the first tears finally falling, burning hot against her skin.
The great hall was thick with smoke and stale wine. Michael sat at the long table near the hearth, a goblet untouched in front of him, the heavy weight of the Campbell keep pressing downaround him. Morning light filtered in through the high, narrow windows, illuminating the dust in the air—floating, spinning, slow as ash.
A fire cracked in the hearth, its glow casting flickers over faces both bored and brutish. Servants moved quietly, bringing bread and boiled oats, smoked fish and cups of watered ale. Guards lounged nearby, half-alert, their laughter low and bitter.
But one seat was empty.
Michael leaned slightly toward the girl serving at his end of the table. Her eyes were watchful, too quick to flinch, too cautious for someone her age. Maisie, Isabeau had called her once in front of him.
