The door closed behind him with a decisive click, followed by the turning of a key in the lock. I remained where he’d left me, slumped against the wall, my torn dress pooled around my waist, my skin marked with his violence.
The chain around my neck felt heavier than before, the collar tighter. The leather straps of the gag had begun to chafe where they cut into the corners of my mouth.
But I couldn’t summon the energy to move, to try to adjust any of these bonds. What was the point? I was trapped, not just by iron and leather, but by circumstance and law and the twisted desires of men who saw me as nothing more than flesh to be claimed.
I don’t know how long I sat there, lost in the numbing emptiness that follows violation. Time seemed meaningless, measured only by the slow drying of Gaspard’s seed on my skin and the gradual stiffening of my muscles from remaining in one position.
The sound of the key in the lock barely registered until the door swung open, revealing Margaret’s slight form. She carried a basin of steaming water and clean rags, her eyes downcast as always. But when she saw me half-naked, chained, gagged like an animal, and her composure cracked. A small gasp escaped her lips, and the basin trembled in her hands.
“Oh, miss,” she whispered, hastily setting down her burden and rushing to my side. “What has he done to thee?”
Her gentle fingers worked at the buckles of the gag, her touch so different from Gaspard’s that fresh tears sprang to my eyes. When the wooden ball finally slipped from my mouth, I couldn’t suppress a whimper of relief, working my aching jaw to restore feeling.
“Thank you,” I managed, my voice hoarse.
Margaret didn’t speak as she dipped a cloth into the warm water and began to clean Gaspard’s leavings from my skin. Her touch was clinical but kind, her eyes filled with a sorrow that mirrored my own. She had seen this before. Done this before. The knowledge sat between us, unspoken but understood.
“He’s left for his hunting trip,” she said at last, helping me to cover myself with what remained of my dress. “Three days, he said. Perhaps four.”
“Margaret,” I whispered, acutely aware of the chain that still bound me to the wall. “Help me.”
Her hands stilled, her eyes darting to the door as if expecting Gaspard to materialize at any moment. “I cannot,” she said, her voice barely audible. “He would kill my family. And thee as well.”
“He plans to marry me when he returns,” I said, desperate for her to understand the urgency. “Father Simon has arranged it. A private ceremony.”
Margaret nodded, unsurprised. “I know. Master had me prepare the nuptial chamber already.” She resumed her cleaning, her movements mechanical. “I’m sorry, miss. Truly I am. But there’s naught I can do.”
The humiliation of being seen like this, chained, gagged, used. It burned through me with renewed intensity. Not because Margaret saw my nakedness or cleaned Gaspard’s seed from my skin, but because she saw my helplessness. My complete subjugation to a man’s will.
“I understand,” I said, though the words tasted like ash. And I did understand. Margaret was as much Gaspard’s prisoner as I was, though her chains were invisible.
She worked in silence after that, helping me into a clean nightdress she’d brought. It was far too large, clearly meant for a man. Probably one of Gaspard’s castoffs. But it covered me, and for that I was grateful.
“I’ll bring food later,” Margaret said as she gathered her things. “And more water for washing.” Her eyes flickered to the chain around my neck. “I cannot remove that. He keeps the key on him always. I’ll keep the gag off you until we know he’s returned.”
I nodded, my hand rising unconsciously to touch the cold metal. “Thank you for your kindness.”
A sad smile touched her lips. “Kindness costs nothing, miss. It’s the only wealth I have to share.”
With that, she was gone, the lock turning once more behind her. I was alone again, with nothing but my thoughts and the constant, cold pressure of the chain to remind me of my captivity.
Three days. Three days to find a way out, or to resign myself to a life as Gaspard’s possession. I sank onto the bed, drawing my knees to my chest, the chain clinking with every movement.
The Forbidden Forest no longer seemed like a place of terror. Compared to this gilded cage, it looked like freedom. If I could only reach it.
six
Isabeau
Time became liquid in that room, flowing like molasses in winter. It was slow, sticky, and impossibly thick. The iron collar bit into my neck with each breath, a constant reminder of my captivity, as if I could somehow forget the chain that tethered me to the wall like a dog. Silence pressed against my ears until I could hear my own heartbeat, a stubborn drumming that refused to surrender even when the rest of me wanted to.
The first few hours after Gaspard’s departure, I sat unmoving on the edge of the bed. The oversized nightdress Margaret had given me puddled around my body like a shroud. My fingers kept returning to the metal encircling my throat, tracing its cold circumference, testing its weight and finding it unyielding.
Light shifted across the floor as the sun continued its journey without me. I watched the patterns change, focusing on the gradual movement to keep my mind from spiraling into the dark pit that yawned beneath my thoughts. If I fell in, I might never climb out again.
When I finally stood to relieve myself in the chamber pot—the only luxury the chain’s length allowed me—the weight of the iron pulled against my neck muscles. Not unbearable yet, but present, insistent. A preview of the suffering to come. I couldn’t straighten fully with the chain hanging from my throat, forcing me into a perpetual half-bow like a supplicant before an uncaring god.
By midday, hunger gnawed at my empty stomach. I couldn’t remember when I’d last eaten. Before church? The memories felt distant, belonging to another girl who hadn’t yet learned the true meaning of captivity.
