“Smile,” Gaspard hissed as we approached the first cluster of villagers heading toward the church. “Remember what I told thee.”
I forced my lips into a curve that felt like a grimace, but must have passed for acceptable because Gaspard’s grip loosened slightly.
“Gaspard! Good morning to thee!” called the blacksmith, his massive frame blocking our path. His eyes shifted to me, curiosity and something darker swimming in their depths. “And to thee, Isabeau. My condolences for thy loss.”
“Thank you,” I murmured, eyes downcast. The words felt hollow, a script for a play I hadn’t agreed to perform in.
“She’s settling in well,” Gaspard answered for me, his free hand coming to rest on my shoulder in what would appear to onlookers as a comforting gesture. “The poor girl needed structure after such tragedy.”
“Indeed, indeed,” the blacksmith nodded sagely, as if Gaspard had spoken some profound truth instead of thinly veiled possession. “Thou art truly a blessing to our community, taking in the orphaned. Not many would show such generosity.”
“The Lord rewards those who do His work,” Gaspard replied smoothly, the piety in his voice making my stomach turn. “We must care for those less fortunate.”
Less fortunate.The words stung more than they should have. Yesterday morning, I had been a daughter with a home and a father. Now I was an object of pity, a charity case to elevate Gaspard’s standing in the village.
We continued our procession through Thorndale, stopping every few paces for similar exchanges. Each time, Gaspard presented himself as the benevolent savior, and each time, the villagers ate it up like hungry dogs thrown scraps from a master’s table.
“Such a beauty thou hast in thy care now,” the baker’s wife remarked, her eyes assessing me like a prize cow at auction. “She’ll make someone a fine wife someday.”
“Indeed she will,” Gaspard agreed, his fingers digging into my back. The threat was clear. That “someone” would be him, and someday would be soon.
I remained silent throughout these exchanges, speaking only when directly addressed and then offering the barest minimum of response. Each step toward the church felt like walking to my own execution.
Master Girard was outside his apothecary handing over a vial of medicine to Berta. His eyes tracked me, reveling in the shock of the path I walked. My eyes betrayed me in that simplemoment, and he seemed to understand, noting Gaspard’s hand within my cloak. Sadly, he couldn’t do anything either. So my feet pressed onward.
The church itself loomed ahead, a stone structure rising from the center of the village like an accusation. Unlike the warm, wooden buildings that surrounded it, the church had always seemed cold to me, forbidding. Its bell tower cast a shadow that stretched toward us as we approached, as if reaching out to claim me.
Father Simon stood at the entrance, greeting his flock with practiced warmth that never quite reached his eyes. When he spotted Gaspard, his expression shifted subtly. A flash of recognition, of shared purpose that chilled me to the bone.
“Master Coventry,” he called, abandoning his current conversation to hurry toward us. “What a pleasure to see thee this morning.” His gaze shifted to me, a thin smile stretching his lips. “And Isabeau as well. I did not expect to find thee among our congregation today.”
“Times of hardship often lead us to seek spiritual comfort,” Gaspard replied smoothly. “Isn’t that right, Isabeau?”
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
Father Simon’s eyes narrowed slightly as he studied me, lingering on the choker at my throat. Approval flickered in his gaze, and he exchanged a knowing look with Gaspard that made my skin crawl. He knew. Of course he knew. This was a performance for the village, not for him.
“May I have a private word?” Father Simon asked, directing the question to Gaspard rather than me, though I was standing right there.
“Of course,” Gaspard agreed, steering me to the side of the church steps. “Isabeau will wait here.”
I stood motionless as the two men moved a short distance away, their heads bent together in hushed conversation. ThoughI couldn’t hear their words, their body language spoke volumes. The conspiratorial tilt of their heads, the satisfied smiles, the occasional glance in my direction. They were discussing me as one might discuss a business transaction.
After what seemed an eternity, they returned. Father Simon leaned close, his breath sour against my face. “I have good news, child. I’ve arranged a private ceremony for when Gaspard returns from his hunting trip. Thou wilt be wed proper, with God’s blessing.”
The words hit me like physical hit to the stomach. Wed. To Gaspard. A private ceremony that would legitimize his ownership of me in the eyes of God and the village. No one would hear my denial. They’d stage the witnesses.
“Isn’t that wonderful news?” Gaspard prompted when I remained silent, his fingers pinching the sensitive skin at my back.
“Yes,” I managed, the lie tasting like ash on my tongue. “Wonderful.”
Father Simon smiled, patting my cheek with cold fingers. “Such a blessing for a girl in thy situation. God works in mysterious ways.” He winked at Gaspard, the gesture so brazen, so complicit that I nearly gasped aloud.
“We should take our seats,” Gaspard said, guiding me toward the church doors. “The service will begin soon.”
Inside, the church was dimly lit by candles and narrow windows that allowed thin shafts of sunlight to penetrate the gloom. Wooden pews lined either side of a central aisle, most already filled with villagers in their Sunday best. Heads turned as we entered, eyes tracking our progress as Gaspard led me not to the front where the wealthy families sat, but to a pew near the back. The better to hide me. No, to hide what he had done to me.
“Smile,” he reminded me as we settled into the hard wooden seat.
