Collecting Isobelle

by L. L. Muir

  Then he was gone.

  Isobelle stood bemused. What a strange creature her captor was.

  Indeed, her gown was crusted with salt. She’d been worrying at the cloth scratching her neck only moments ago. And now, she could nearly feel the cool softness of the white gown as it moved down the stairs, away from her.

  “Wait!” she called. “Come back!”

  She strained to hear. Were his footsteps returning?

  He appeared again, the gown balled in his fist, his breathing slightly labored. He said nothing.

  “Do you mean this gown to be my death shroud?” Her fingers were itching to see if it felt nearly as glorious as it looked, like a bed of fresh white heather, like a cloth made of breeze and misty breath on a chilly Highland morning.

  His brows dipped in earnest before he thought to school his expression. Then he shook his head once, then again.

  “Then I’d be pleased to have it, while my other things might be washed, aye?”

  He stepped forward and offered her the ball of white. His smile was a grimace, an apology.

  “A fine gown. I thank ye.” She took it and laid it across the bed. Then she turned back to the gate. “Would ye be willing to tell me, milord, why ye’ve brought me here? Ye doona seem prepared to burn me at the stake today. But tomorrow perhaps?”

  That rage still simmered within his eyes, but it no longer made her nervous.

  “No,” he said and walked away before she could determine which question he’d answered.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Gaspar’s chest was a riot of warring emotions. He was offended she still did not trust him, though he’d done nothing, truly, to earn it. She continued to worry she’d be burned at the stake? Impossible!

  One day, she would understand him better and trust him completely. He vowed it!

  He was also pleased. Too pleased in fact. Her appreciation for the gown should not be so gratifying, and yet it was. Perhaps it was the relief he’d experienced at finding his gift was not as loathsome an offering as it first appeared. She need not know it was a gift, of course. She could not know how much consideration had gone into the purchase, but she did seem to appreciate the fine material.

  There was no doubt she was a noblewoman, even though her forthrightness proved a lack of proper instruction. But Scottish lasses were a stubborn, willful bunch. No wonder so many red-headed women were accused of witchcraft.

  Bah! The word, even unspoken, left a foul taste in his mouth. He was disgusted with himself for ever considering this woman might be the first real proof of witchcraft, but she’d spoken so confidently of spells…

  “Bah!” There were no such creatures. And there never had been. But his employer could not know he felt the way he did. Out of necessity, Gaspar had been forced to play along with superstitious clergymen for the most part, so they would never suspect that God’s Dragon was determined to save the very women they had already condemned. He had to be clever. He had to be creative. And sometimes, he had to allow a woman to perish—in as painless a manner as possible—so he might keep his powerful position, to save another woman on another day.

  And now, that day was upon him. Every role he’d played had brought him to this point. And now he was untouchable. He would save this woman from her own loose tongue, and no one could stop him from doing so. When he stood before God for judgment, he would have this one act of compassion to prove he was not an evil man.

  Isobella Ross was going to be his salvation. And he would be her earthly savior.

  ~ ~ ~

  The smell of bread reached Isobelle before she ever heard footsteps. Her stomach complained loudly and she pressed her hands to her middle to try and muffle the noise. It would do her no good to remind the man of her dependency upon him, so she would show no weakness if she could help it. Until she understood his intentions clearly, any information about her, even something as human as hunger, would be a weapon he could use against her. Even now, she regretted taking the luxurious gown from him.

  There was more than one set of steps. He was not alone. Was Icarus with him? Or would there be others?

  She sat calmly on the end of the bed so he might not remember how she’d clung to the window before.

  Save her from herself? She had heard that before, a dozen times at least, from Ossian’s mouth, and earlier still, from her brother’s. They implied that Isobelle, being Isobelle, speaking and living and breathing like Isobelle, was somehow unwise. That she would suffer if she did not change.

  Well, be damned with them all. She would not crawl along the walls like a titmouse, hoping to draw no notice. She would not cut her hair and disappear beneath a covering, as if it were her own fault that weak men were drawn to her. She bared no skin to tempt them. She was no seductress. And wasn’t their advice the very type of thing a harlot would hear—a wish that she could be saved from herself?

  But this man should be concerned more with his own welfare—if he did not release her soon, he would be wishing to be saved from her.

  Her captor entered along with his servant, but there were no others. She released the breath she’d been holding in anticipation.

  “Stand at the window, if you please,” the tyrant said. “Icarus, here, will place the tray on your table while you hold to the bars. I will not have him fearing an attack.”

  She folded her arms and remained seated even though she feared to do so might cost her a meal. “Who are you?”

  He took a deep breath and released it slowly. “Hold to the bars.”

  “Who are you?” She had to make this stand. Now. She had no choice. To crumble now in order to simply fill her stomach would be his first step toward victory over her.

  “My name is Dragotti.” He smiled. “Hold to the bars, please. I will give no quarter where Icarus is concerned.”

  A compromise. Surprising. Appreciated. She stood and walked to the window and placed her hands high on the bars so both men might be able to see them clearly.

  The gate opened with no complaint. Fabric rustled. The air shifted behind her, grew instantly warmer, and she realized with surprise that Dragotti stood at her back. She squeezed the bars, refusing to panic. Hairs rose at the nape of her neck and on the backs of her arms, but those were hidden by the generous white sleeves. She realized her skean duh, her small Scottish dagger, was hidden beneath her pallet while she waited for her boots and hose to be returned to her. Her feet were bare. She was defenseless but for the hard bones of her elbows she might use to strike out with.

  He came no closer, made no move to touch her while the little man shuffled into the cell and shuffled out once again. And still, Dragotti lingered.

  “Dragotti?” She released the bars and began to turn. The man stepped quickly back, then rounded the gate as if he were as wary of her touch as she’d been of his. She pretended not to notice. “Meaning, dragon?”

  He frowned. “Gaspar Dragotti,” he said with an Italian lilt.

  It was her turn to frown. “But you’re English.”

  He stared into her eyes for a moment, as if he wished her to pay close attention. “I was English. Now I am Dragotti, Special Investigator to The Patriarch of Venice.”

  “A priest?”

  “No. But I have substantial authority.” It was a statement, not a boast.

  Not a priest, but powerful. An investigator for the patriarch? He might as well be the right hand of The Pope. As an investigator, an inquisitor, he likely held the power of life and death in the palm of his hand. The murderer of witches—most of them wrongly accused.

  While he’d been eavesdropping in the abbey, she’d all but confessed to being one, admitted that she’d already been found guilty. He’d heard her ask Ossian if she might need to cast a spell to keep Sophia and Trucchio together.

  She looked up to find his face twisted with fury and she realized she’d spoken at least one word aloud...

  Murderer.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Gaspar sucked in a breath to cool th
e fire in his breast. With one soft word, she’d ruined everything he’d wished to do this first day. Destroyed it.

  “One hour,” he growled. “When we return for the tray, you will stand at the window.”

  He cleared his mind of all thoughts as he made his way down the darkening stairwell, thinking of nothing, nothing, nothing. But once he was outside, he could not contain his frustration and howled like a wounded, angry animal. When the sound settled back to the ground, he allowed himself the perverse wish that she’d heard it—that she’d heard it and worried.

  He took a deep breath. Then another. Then a bright and shining emotion washed ashore before his very eyes and he recognized it instantly.

  He was alive again!

  The waves roared, “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

  He laughed, and it felt like absolution. He was suddenly Lazarus, raised from the dead.

  And it hadn’t happened all of a moment, either. It had started when God urged him to hide behind a rood screen and then reminded him what it had once been like to have a beating heart. And since then, how his heart had pounded.

  How long had it been since he’d been swamped by some emotion other than fear? For a decade at least, he’d known only fear on behalf of those wrongly condemned, and disgust for those guilty ones who were wrongly exonerated. Of course, he’d also been fearful for his own soul and well-motivated to tend to it. But the highest emotion he’d enjoyed, for as long as he’d labored in The Republic, had been an abeyance of that fear. No joy. No peace. Just fear, or lack of fear. Disgust and lack of disgust.

  But no more. His spirits tumbled and laughed in the waves, no longer afraid of drowning. And he would not bid them cease.

  She is already my salvation!

  The least he could do in return, was to be hers. And the first step toward that end was to win her trust. He was able to do good things with trust. His superiors trusted him to go out among the people and judge them, trusting that his judgment reflected their own. But he was able to see guilt where it truly lay. His superiors were not always given a clear view of such things.

  She’d condemned him for his office, but she did not understand it. Not yet. But so be it. It had no bearing. He would still save her, whether or not she wished to be saved.

  He composed himself, hid his giddy heart under a familiar sober façade, and headed back inside.

  ~ ~ ~

  The hour refused to pass by more than one minute at a time, which was just as well, for it allowed Gaspar’s excitement to quiet. He was unable to calm his breathing when they entered her chamber, but he hoped she would attribute his breathlessness to the climb of so many steps.

  For a moment, she rebelliously sat upon the bed. He simply waited for her to move to the window, neither chiding her nor urging her to comply before she was ready. He was the picture of patience.

  Finally, she huffed out a breath and did as she was expected. He tried not to breathe too heavily in her ear as he stood behind her and waited for Icarus to remove the tray. But the servant was forgotten while the sunset caressed the left side of her hair bringing the dark red to life in a brilliant show of orange and yellow. And his heart pounded like the heavy tail of a contented puppy when he realized the event would repeat itself each evening while she remained in his care. He would make note of the sunset before coming to collect her tray.

  Impatient feet shuffled near the door, drawing his attention from the woman standing before him. Icarus would be anxious to head for home, and it was hardly fair to make the little man wait while he stood listening to the woman breathe in and out and watched the orange light fade.

  He wrenched himself away and locked the gate behind him, and without a word, he followed Icarus down the steps. At the bottom, the man turned.

  “Mio signore, am I still to take the key home with me?”

  Gaspar frowned. “You suppose I have changed my mind simply because the woman is beautiful?”

  Icarus blushed and shook his head nervously. “No, signore. I… I…”

  Gaspar smiled, which made the little man even more nervous than before. “Be at ease, Icarus. My plans are the same. The woman tries my patience, but I expected as much.” He took the key from his pocket and put the string around Icarus’ neck. “This key must never be left on the island at night. I will not leave such destructive power lying about for Satan’s use. Is that understood?”

  Icarus relaxed. “Si, mio signore. Si.”

  Gaspar waited another hour before he took a candle up the stairs, stopping to light other candles placed in small alcoves that were once meant to store weapons. As he climbed, he looked out the small arrow slits and glimpsed the first of the night’s stars taking up their places in the sky. He was glad he’d allowed the woman an aperture, especially after he’d come to believe she had, indeed, been sealed in a tomb for twelve days. It was cruel to lock her up now, with or without a window, but he feared it was too dangerous not to do so. Once she understood, perhaps she would forgive him.

  He knocked on the open door, not wanting to interrupt her ablutions.

  She made him wait, but that was no surprise. Eventually, she bid him come.

  He’d already spent far too much time gazing upon her that day, so after he handed her the candle, he sat on the bench, content to sit in the near darkness. He watched the little fleur de lis dance along with the flame on her side of the wall.

  “You wish to know what will happen while you are here,” he said softly. “I’ve come three times to explain. Perhaps this time I can do so before I…” He shrugged.

  “Before I provoke you again?”

  He smiled. “Precisely.”

  “Weel, dinna let me stop ye then. I’ll just bite my tongue, shall I?”

  “It may help.” He cleared his throat and made an attempt to sound more sober. “As you know, I overheard your conversation with your cousin in the abbey.”

  She made no comment. Perhaps she truly was biting her tongue.

  “And in my office, as you can imagine, I have investigated many a headstrong woman who could not manage to watch her words.”

  “So. You dinna believe I’m a witch, then?”

  “I do not. But I believe you will burn as a witch in any case.” He paused, waiting for his words to be not only heard, but believed. “Unless you learn how to tread carefully, how to school your thoughts, and thereby school your tongue.”

  The sound she made could have been deemed a growl, and it worried him.

  “Please. Heed me,” he cautioned. “Have you been told of Joan of Arc?”

  “Aye.”

  “Joan failed to consider before she spoke. She insulted powerful men. She frightened the simple of mind. She gave her critics the very stake on which to burn her. And I cannot stand by and allow you to do the same. I have smelt the burning flesh of too many a woman who might have been saved if they’d only known, and understood—”

  “Their place? If they’d understood their place? Beneath all men’s boots?” She began pacing from wall to gate and back again. It would not surprise him to learn that someone in her life had already tried to help her. But whomever it was, they’d failed.

  He kept a soothing voice. “There is more than learning your place, Isobella.”

  She laughed, but continued to pace.

  He watched her shadow grow and fade on the ceiling in relation to her distance from the candle. “You need not believe your place is beneath a man’s boot, but you must make men believe you believe.”

  She stopped pacing and stepped up onto the bed. The little holes looked like a mask across her eyes as she stared at him. “But in order for a man to believe that I believe my place is beneath his boot, I must crawl beneath his boot!”

  He stared into her eyes and leaned forward slightly. “Yes.”

  Her fingers curled around the top of the wall. She shook it, but the wall didn’t so much as rattle. “So either way, I find myself beneath boots. Nothing is different between me and the woman who submits and cowers.”r />
  Gaspar couldn’t help but be pleased with her reasoning, even if they disagreed. It had been far too long since he’d had a spirited conversation with a woman who didn’t fear him.

  “There is a difference,” he said. “You will know the truth, just as Joan of Arc would have known the truth and lived, had she been more clever. I believe you to be clever enough, Isobella. But are you too proud to confine your rebellion to your heart?”

  “Truth be told, I am proud.”

  He smiled. “The truth is a fine place to start.”

  “Start?”

  “It is getting late. But if you care to, we can practice for a moment.”

  Her breathing quickened. “And just what is it we’ll be practicin’?”

  His blood jumped at the image of his body pressing her against the wall and tasting her lips, over and over again, until he kissed her perfectly.

  He took a deep breath and cleared his throat, but there were no words at the ready. After a few more such breaths, he’d chased the image away.

  She was ready to begin, which was encouraging. He’d all but given up hope that he’d accomplish any change in her this first day. But the idea of her improving quickly also brought a ring of sadness. Having her near made him feel alive, but if she were ready to leave him too soon, would that feeling depart with her?

  “A short practice, then. We’ll begin in earnest in the morning.” He frowned up at her. “We’ll carry out a harmless conversation. You will attempt to remain submissive, do you understand? Remember your place. And if you cannot remember your place, at least try to remember where I, as a man, believe your place to be.”

  She snorted and rolled her eyes. “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer a quick game of chess?”

  He shook his head, frowned harder, then took on a harsh tone. “God would have you submissive.”

  She bit her lip, trying not to laugh, no doubt. “No. Men would have me submissive. Surely, if God Himself wished a woman to hold her tongue, he’d have never given her one.”