The Beast Queen

by Felicity Partington

  This pattern went on for days, twice a day she would bring Isabelle a bowl of porridge, a glass of water came with it the next time. But she wouldn’t say a word to Isabelle. It became routine for Isabelle to invent ways to communicate with the other woman, thinking perhaps she was being watched and had been ordered not to speak.

  It was an evening, Isabelle had lost count how many days later when Maggie’s resolve finally shattered. Isabelle was dirty now, desperate for a bath more than she had ever been in her entire life. The cold, the squalor, and the paltry rations had all but broken the back of her anger. Isabelle didn’t think she would ever feel warm again.

  “I thought we were friends,” Isabelle whispered quietly; Maggie already had one foot on the bottom step. She watched Maggie’s shoulders tense before she turned around. What she hadn’t expected was the anger on her face.

  “Friends? You have an odd view of friendship.”

  “What do you mean?” Isabelle asked softly.

  “Do you even know anything about me? Who I am? What I want from life?” The other girl asked, marching back down the steps.

  “Of course I know who you are.” Isabelle was lost. “You’re Maggie.”

  “Am I?” It was then she saw the unbridled emotion in Margaret’s blue eyes. She wasn’t angry, she was devastated. Isabelle held her tongue. “I’ve made you so many allowances, I’ve helped you as much as I could. I’ve defended you over and over again. I knew that you didn’t want to be here. I understood how hard it must have been for you. But you didn’t even try. You treat us all like toys when we’re not toys, we’re people. I’m a person. I have a life, and dreams, and hopes. You think I want to be a servant forever? Stuck here?” Isabelle took a step back, deeper into her cell as if it might save her from Maggie’s assassination of her character.

  “Maggie, we’re friends,” Isabelle said quietly. She had genuinely tried, of all the people here, Maggie was the only one she liked.

  “We were getting married in the summer, saving our wages, waiting, planning on running away from here. I wasn’t going to be a servant.”

  “Who-?”

  “Me and Thomas.” She spat. Isabelle shrunk to her cot in understanding. “But you never asked. You never cared. You’re so obsessed with the Master. You’re so self-involved that you never even stopped to think that other things might be going on, that other people have lives here. All you’ve cared about since you arrived, is you.”

  “You’re engaged to Thomas?” Isabelle felt sick. Maggie scoffed.

  “I am. Or I was at least. You don’t know anything about him either. He hates it here, more than you, he’s more of a prisoner than you ever were. We were going to run away, maybe get a little farm, work hard for ourselves instead of for somebody else. Maybe have some children. He doesn’t want to be his father; he doesn’t want to run this place or have the legacy that he’s expected.”

  “His father?”

  “Mr Hands.” Maggie looked up and Isabelle closed her eyes. “You didn’t know? Of course, you didn’t. Why would you know? Why would you ask if it wasn’t about the Master? Did you even see us, Isabelle?”

  “Maggie I-” Isabelle stumbled over her words. How could she rebuke it when it was all true? She had had no idea that Thomas and Margaret were involved, or that Thomas was Joseph and Charlotte’s son. She hadn’t even considered for a moment that they didn’t want to be here; they’d never said. They’d never seemed anything other than content. She really was a monster “I’m sorry.” Isabelle had no defence, no excuse.

  “It doesn’t matter” Maggie shrugged helplessly, “they’ve all gone now.”

  “All? Gone? Gone where?”

  “Thomas. Mr Hands. The stable boys. Some of the gardeners. The Master has sent them all away, the men are forbidden from setting foot inside the castle, Mrs Hands has to handle everything herself, she’s lost her husband and her son. Erik is so afraid that your witchcraft will infect them.”

  “My what?” Isabelle’s eyes snapped up,

  “Don’t pretend Isabelle, I’m not stupid. The Master. Thomas. At least down in the city they have a chance at sanity, free from your potions and spells.”

  “I’m not a witch.” Isabelle insisted coldly, completely aghast at the fact that they’d shifted all the blame for this onto her. “I didn’t do anything. Erik, well I don’t know what’s going on with him, but Thomas kissed me back willingly. I didn’t trick him or force him.”

  “You’re never to blame are you Isabelle?” She responded archly. Isabelle didn’t like this version of Margaret; Isabelle didn’t like the side of herself that Maggie was showing her.

  “Yes. Plenty of times. You all might be as dull as a box of rocks, but I am not a witch. Witchcraft isn’t real.”

  “I might not be as clever as you.” She shook her head, “but at least I’m not evil.”

  “Evil?”

  “I knew, you know, from the moment you walked in, I didn’t want to believe it, but there’s always been something not right about you. Lingering. I never expected…” she curled her lips in disgust, “enchanting Thomas was one thing… but bestiality?”

  “He is not an animal!” Isabelle roared, grabbing the bars.

  “You’re wrong. And you can rot down here, alone for all I care. Please don’t talk to me again.”

  Maggie turned and walked off, leaving Isabelle watching after her, trying to process it all. They were accusing her of witchcraft, of bestiality. That was entirely different and totally wrong. She and Erik hadn’t even done anything, not really, and he wasn’t some mindless animal. She dropped back down onto the bed with the encompassing realisation that it wasn’t for lack of trying.

  Was she evil, possessed?

  Maybe they were right after all.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “Come on girl.” Charlotte woke her from her fitful sleep on the itchy straw-covered bunk, Isabelle sat bolt upright not expecting the door to be open. “There’s too much work to be done upstairs to have you sitting down here doing nothing.” Charlotte didn’t meet her eyes, just stood there waiting for Isabelle to stand.

  “But Eri-”

  “The Master is the one who said that I could release you. I appealed to him. Half of the housemaids have fled back to the city and the men have gone, I need all the help I can get. Since you’ve gotten us into this fine mess, I intend for you to pull your weight.”

  “The housemaids? Why have they left?”

  “Their reputations.” Charlotte cried, “you’ve brought a scandal upon the castle and shamed us all. Now move, please. I don’t have all day.”

  Isabelle left her cell and walked up the stairs slowly, the light made her squint as she moved through the castle, she had grown unaccustomed to such brightness. How long had she been trapped down there? Had it been weeks, months? It had been hard to keep track and she daren’t ask. “Go and get some clothes,” Charlotte’s voice made her jump, she hadn’t expected her to be so close behind, “and for the Lord's sake, bathe. You smell ripe enough to curdle milk.”

  Isabelle didn’t speak. The castle was silent, there was dust over most of the surfaces, the bannister especially. She walked up to her room and was surprised to find glass all over the bathroom floor. She picked it up carefully and piled it into a basket, then swept the shards away as best she could with a towel. She daren’t spend too long in the bath, especially with the breeze blowing frightfully through the broken window. The hot water made her skin sting and her head spin. Once she was done, she shut the door and dressed. Catching sight of her reflection just before she left, she dropped her eyes.

  Was she truly so different from the girl who had arrived? She was hated and shunned, two things she had never been before, in spite of everything she had done. Isabelle quickly went back downstairs only to have a mop and bucket thrust into her hand.

  “Who’s left?” She asked tentatively, but Charlotte answered with nothing more than a grunt and left Isabelle to scrub the kitchen. There were d
ishes piled high and leftover food everywhere. Isabelle had never seen the place look less than perfect, she turned to watch the old woman go. Charlotte looked exhausted; she had aged since Isabelle had last seen her. Not for the first-time, Isabelle felt the full force of the shame pressed upon her. In a small attempt to assuage it, she worked tirelessly, cleaning. So engrossed in her redemption was she, that the tap on the window made her jump half out of her skin.

  Isabelle span round, and her eyes widening as she saw Peter. She all but ran to the door, the relief at seeing somebody else, palpable. It had been less than a month then? Maybe just short of a week spent locked in that dismal cell. It had felt like so much longer with nothing to do but sleep and listen to the squeaks of those accursed rats.

  “Good afternoon,” he said warmly, “they’ve got you working the kitchens now, have they? You know what’s weird, I’ve never been here and had it be so bright, I thought it was too high up for the snow to ever truly thaw. Yet here I find it almost in full bloom. It’s beautiful like this isn’t it?” He handed her the parchment and she held it for a moment, before stepping outside and shutting the door to, making sure nobody was looking. “Hey,” he touched her shoulder gently, “Is everything alright?” His eyes raked over her.

  “No.” Isabelle shook her head. “No, it isn’t.”

  “What’s going on?” He asked, his demeanour shifting to something more serious.

  “Everything. Everybody here hates me.” She confessed, “Erik, the servants, probably the city. Oh, Peter, it’s all gone wrong, I just want to leave. I don’t want to be here anymore.”

  “Isabelle calm down, it can’t be that bad.”

  “I was locked in the dungeon; they’ve only just let me out.”

  “Wait, what? I thought you were kidding about being a prisoner?” He asked. Isabelle shook her head sadly, gripping her arm he guided her away from the door slightly and lowered his voice. “If you’re being held here against your will, I can get people, the constabulary, they can’t keep you here.”

  “They can.” Isabelle insisted.

  “No, Isabelle, they can’t.” He assured her, ducking his head to look levelly into her eyes.

  “Did you send the reporters?”

  “No.” He shook his head but there was a strange look on his face, Isabelle watched him, and he eventually sighed and began speaking, “I looked into some things after I left. I asked a few questions about the city. About the history, this castle. And of course, your beast.”

  “Then you as good as sent them here.” Isabelle collapsed against a near wall, she hid her face in her hands before dragging her fingers back through her hair.

  “Isabelle there’s so many things about this place that don’t add up. It’s always been odd but now-”

  “It doesn’t matter.” She took a deep breath, “none of it matters. They think I’m evil, they think that I’m possessed.” She hissed, eyeing the door warily. “Maybe it’s better that I’m here. Those reporters are dead now.”

  “Isabelle, you’re not making any sense. Why don’t you come with me?”

  “Now?” Her eyes widened, “I couldn’t… if they saw…” she looked around desperately.

  “Not now then. Tomorrow. I’ll stay in town tonight, if you can meet me in the grounds tomorrow, we’ll go. I’ll take you back with me, we can get this whole mess sorted out.”

  “But-”

  “They cannot keep you here. Monster or no. Look at you, you’re half-starved, have you even been eating?” She looked down herself, appraised her wilting frame but dismissed the question with a wave of her hand.

  “I don’t think he’s the monster.” She said sadly, “I think it’s me. I’m a monster.”

  “You’re not yourself.” Peter insisted, touching her hand “let’s get this cart unloaded and we’ll work on a plan. I’ll not abandon you here like this.” He looked her up and down, before touching her head softly, “you’re burning with fever. How are you still standing? We need to get you to a doctor. I shouldn’t have left you last time. Good lord, Isabelle I thought you were joking. I’ll book a few extra days at the lodge I’m staying at, the farm should be able to spare me until the sixteenth, that’s two more days. We’ll get you out of here. I promise.”

  “The sixteenth?” Isabelle raised her eyes, they were brimming with tears, “that’s my birthday,” she smiled softly.

  “Well then, once we’re gone, I’ll have to make sure I get you one heck of a present.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Isabelle detained Peter for much longer than was necessary, he helped her unload the crates and stash the goods in the pantry and cupboards. He luckily had more of an idea where most of the things went than she did. When he left, Charlotte frightened her half to death, stood in the doorway observing her. Luckily, they hadn’t talked about her daring escape for a long time, Isabelle offered a half-smile before excusing herself and taking an amble through the castle. She hated it here now, but she didn’t much want to go into her room, she had spent enough time locked away. Isabelle wanted to walk, she yearned for freedom.

  Well, that wasn’t exactly true. She yearned for Erik, still, no matter how effectively he had shut down any hope she had that he might feel the same. She even yearned for the gentle companionship she had found with Margaret. If she could just go back, just a week, and do things differently.

  Would she have? With Erik, no. But she did terribly regret kissing Thomas. That had been selfish, she had been so desperate to feel something. To feel wanted in the hopes that it might ease Erik’s rejection. Isabelle had never intended to ruin anybody’s lives; she hadn’t meant to break Margaret’s heart.

  Without Erik, without hope, this place was every bit the prison he originally intended.

  It would all be over soon. By this time tomorrow, she and Peter would be advancing on Killsbridge, this entire castle would be nothing but a stain on her memory. It would feel better if the thought didn’t make her heartbreak afresh. Could she leave him? She had to. What life was there here for her now?

  What life was there for her anywhere?

  The things Peter had suggested, hinted at, wouldn’t leave her. No matter how hard she tried. The nagging suspicions about this place. Isabelle couldn’t leave with so many questions unanswered. With a final surge of bravery, she crept along to Joseph Hands’ office, surprised to find it open. Gone was the organisation. Gone was the neatness, there were papers everywhere, on the table an account book opened with barely legible numbers scrawled in, signed by Charlotte. She really was taking on all the jobs.

  Well soon Isabelle would be gone, and everybody could return to the castle as if she never existed.

  She couldn’t find much, and she cursed herself internally for not looking when everything had made sense. It seemed unlikely that Charlotte would cause such a mess, but a quick pick through the room betrayed the answer. Beneath scattered papers, the desk was upended, and Isabelle ran her fingers tenderly over the deep gouge marks on the table. They were bigger than her hand.

  Why would Erik destroy the room? It seemed a pointless show of temper.

  She tried to organise as best she could, to try and make sense of the room again, but it was hopeless. A glimmer of red caught her eye on the windowsill. Stepping towards it she found the rose, the one that she had found in the library. It was crushed, barely a petal left on it. Isabelle picked up the fragile, dead flower and was about to take it with her until she saw the red from outside. Peering through the glass, she wondered how she had not noticed that this window was surrounded by climbing roses. With a heave, she wrenched it open and breathed in the scent of the fresh flowers. Plucking one from the vine, she was amazed to find that this one was without thorns as well. Turning it over in her fingers gently, she marvelled at its beauty, before tucking it into her loosely tied up hair and preparing to leave the room.

  As she stepped away there was a crunch of glass under her bare feet, Isabelle winced and bent down to see what the damage
was. It was a small framed drawing, Isabelle plucked it from the shattered glass, eyes narrowing as she stared at it. It was a picture of the staff of the castle, she recognised them perfectly. Mrs Hands. Mr Hands. Margaret. Even Thomas. She pulled the ageing miniature painting from its frame. The date written on the back made her stop dead.

  If it was right, then this was painted before Erik had been turned into a beast, three centuries ago. How was that possible?

  The staff had not changed, for three hundred years. Remembering that she had a fever, Isabelle rubbed her eyes and double-checked the elegant script. It didn’t change, but could she really trust her own brain right now?

  She would be eighteen in a matter of days, but she felt closer to fifty, aged and exhausted.

  The brunette slowly headed for her room. It was still afternoon; she had enough time to sleep for a few hours before she packed her things.

  Tomorrow she would leave with Peter, and never look back.

  It wouldn’t be easy; she would have to be quiet. They would have to pick their moment; Isabelle knew she would need to hide. Not to mention that she would need to think of a distraction for the few remaining people in the castle. They couldn’t realise she was gone, at least, not until it was too late. It might be easier than she thought, she had gone most of the day without seeing anybody.

  Nevertheless, Isabelle was sure that Erik was around somewhere, even if she hadn’t seen him.

  At least it was a manageable plan, even with all of its difficulties. Now she was out of that damned cell, there was hope.

  Isabelle was determined she’d never go back there, and she would never stop trying to escape this Lord-forsaken hole.

  This madness, her imprisonment; it was time for it all to end.

  Isabelle would run and run, and never stop running.

  She’d miss Erik, but not until she was far enough away to be safe.