My father nodded in agreement, his expression grim. “Lord Coventry has suggested an appropriate solution. Since she’s escaped, we’ll make her capture the final event of the tournament.”
“A hunt,” Theron added, his eyes gleaming with excitement. “The forest witch as prey. Quite fitting, don’t you think?”
The room tilted slightly beneath my feet as understanding dawned. They intended to hunt Isabeau. Like an animal. Chase her through the forest that had already claimed so much from her, with Gaspard leading the charge, no doubt.
“She won’t get far,” Father continued. “Lord Coventry knows her patterns, her likely destinations. We’ll find her. And when we do...” He left the sentence unfinished, but his meaning was clear.
Fire.The traditional end for those accused of witchcraft in Durand. Isabeau bound to a stake, flames licking at her feet while my father and brother watched. Gaspard finally destroying what he couldn’t possess.
“Unless,” Father turned to me, eyes narrowing, “you helped her escape. Did you, Alain? Did you free the witch that’s clearly bewitched you?”
The question hung in the air between us. One wrong word, one flicker of emotion, and I’d condemn myself in his eyes. Worse, I’d confirm his suspicions about Isabeau.
I let out a short, humorless laugh. “You think I helped her? Father, I’ve been on the competition field since before dawn. I’ve barely had time to piss, let alone orchestrate a prison break.”
“And yet you were quite taken with her,” Theron observed. “Reading to her like a nursemaid. Visiting her chambers at all hours.”
I shrugged, affecting indifference I didn’t feel. “She saved Thibaut. I was grateful. Nothing more.”
“Your men guarded her door,” Father pressed.
“Men who take their orders from you as well,” I countered. “I placed them there to keep her safe, not necessarily to keep her in.” A partial truth, at least. After our argument, my intentions had shifted from protection to confinement, something that shamed me now.
“The maid,” Gaspard said suddenly. “That old woman who left for the castle earlier! She served wine at our luncheon today. Seemed... agitated when we discussed the witch.”
Theron snapped his fingers. “Yes! Left in quite a hurry, too.”
Father turned to the guard by the door. “Find Brigida. Bring her to me immediately.”
“Wait,” I said quickly, my mind racing. “Brigida has been with me all day besides bringing you wine. She aids me between events, has done so for years. Fetches water, tends minor injuries. She’s been with me besides when asked to help fill your cups. Ask any of my squires.”
The lie came easily, surprising even me. But I couldn’t let them focus on the old woman. If Brigida had helped Isabeau escape—and given the timing, it seemed likely—then she was as much at risk as Isabeau herself.
Father studied my face, searching for deception. I met his gaze steadily, years of court politics serving me well.
“Very well,” he said finally. “Though I find it convenient that your personal servant was the one attending the witch.”
“Hardly convenient,” I countered. “Simply efficient. Brigida knows my needs and schedule. Made sense for her to tend to my guest as well.”
Gaspard frowned, clearly displeased by this derailment, but said nothing. Theron seemed to lose interest, his attention already drifting to the wine pitcher one of the guards had brought.
“The hunt proceeds regardless,” Father declared. “Tomorrow at dawn for the winners today. We’ll start at the forest’s edge and work inward.”
“I’ll plan my own capture, seeing to it that I’ve already won two events with one left,” I said, seizing the opportunity before me to play it off. If I couldn’t stop this madness, I could at least be part of it. Could perhaps ensure Isabeau’s safety if I found her first.
Father nodded, apparently satisfied with my show of loyalty. “Good. Now return to the tournament. Your absence probably has already been noted.”
I bowed, the gesture hiding the rage contorting my features. “Of course, Father. I wouldn’t want to disappoint our guests.”
I strode from the room, maintaining a measured pace until I was out of sight. Then I moved with purpose, taking the servants’ stairs down to the kitchens. If Brigida had helped Isabeau escape, she would be trying to appear normal, going about her duties while anxiety ate at her insides.
The kitchen was chaos, as always during tournament days. Cooks shouted orders, scullery maids scurried between steaming pots, and the air hung heavy with the scent of roasting meat and fresh bread. I scanned the room, ignoring the startled looks my presence drew.
There. At a table near the back. Brigida stood with her back to me, hands deep in dough, kneading with more force than the bread required. Even from this distance, I could see the tension in her shoulders, the slight tremor in her flour-covered fingers.
I approached quietly, speaking only when I was directly behind her. “Walk with me, Brigida.”
She started, flour puffing up in a small cloud as her hands froze mid-knead. When she turned, her face was carefully composed, but fear lurked in the depths of her eyes. “Your Highness. I cannot leave the bread—”
