by L. L. Muir
She continued to pull her right hand. The skin began to give, then burn, then bleed. Tears sprang to her eyes, not from the pain, but from the hopelessness she felt. So cruel, the twist her life had taken in a matter of hours.
At the sound of voices in the stairwell, dread rested on her chest with the delicacy of an anvil. In a fit of defiance, she gave one last, desperate pull and the tie, now wet with blood, slid up to her knuckles, then over! One hand was free!
She reached up and wrenched off her gag, pulling hair, ripping the thing away. She tossed it aside.
But the footsteps were halfway up the stairs at least!
She sat up and began working furiously at the knot on her left hand. She’d pulled too much. The knot was seated. She dug with her fingernails, but she only managed to free a few strands. She could slide beneath the bed, cover the remaining hand with a blanket, but it was too late, they were at the door!
“Preparati,” came Gaspar’s voice from the landing. Then footsteps. Prepare yourself. He’d said the same thing to her often enough, before prayers.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Gaspar fought to remain dignified as he led his employer up the tower steps. His instinct was to send His Beatitude from his home, resign his position, and let the consequences be damned. Perhaps he and Isobelle could be far away by the time those consequences were called due. But he could not. He would act as he had always acted—with confidence. Surely the patriarch would think twice before questioning Gaspar’s actions. He was God’s Dragon, after all. A man to be trusted by church leaders, trusted especially by the patriarch who knew him best.
His mistake had been hiring the metal workers. They’d bragged about their creation. Word had spread during the Regatta, and as soon as the event had ended, the patriarch came to look at the work himself. No doubt a secret cell piqued his interest much more than the workmanship, but it was excuse enough to come.
A consequence he would be paying for in but a few moments.
It was just as well the man demanded to see it immediately, not accepting an offer for tea or refreshment first. This way, Isobelle need not be tied up any longer than necessary.
Why couldn’t he have taken her out the rear door and tried to bury the better part of her in the sand? For surely there was no other hiding place on the whole of the island.
So many things he might have done. He’d thought of half a dozen since he’d left her in the cell—the cell he’d vowed never to use again. There had simply been no time. If it weren’t for his need for a drink and a glance out the window, His Beatitude might have walked into his open home and caught them sleeping in each other’s arms! But thankfully, there had been time enough for Gaspar to lift her unconscious body and take her where he always felt her to be safest.
Carrying a torch, since the stairway was dim even in daylight, Gaspar reached the small landing with the patriarch at his back, followed by two of his guards. The door stood wide, as always, but shutting it would have done no good, not when the screen was the object of the older man’s visit.
A thought occurred to him and he turned to look at Icarus. The man had been acting odd of late, which Gaspar had chosen to ignore—thinking the servant simply guessed too much about his master and the lovely prisoner. But Icarus met his eyes and showed only worry, not guilt. On the boat ride to the island, his servant had not betrayed him.
The patriarch, then, was not expecting a woman to be inside.
“Prepare yourself,” he said, to warn both the elderly man and Isobelle. He took a deep breath and stepped inside, then stepped to the right and slid the torch in the loop. For a moment, his hands lingered on the torch, wishing he could have just a moment’s peace more before he had to explain.
“Yes, yes. It is an extraordinary piece,” said His Beatitude. “And what is this?”
“Your Beatitude.” Gaspar turned and joined the man now standing before the gate. But Isobelle was not where he’d left her.
“Please tell me, Gaspar, that you have not been alone on this island with this woman. Tell me!”
Icarus hurried to Gaspar’s side. “Forgive me, Master,” he whispered. “I forgot the key. I left it at home today. I beg your forgiveness.”
Gaspar wondered at the little man’s quick thinking, but wasted no time taking advantage.
“Icarus, I will deal with you later.” He waved the servant away. “I assure you, sir, Icarus alone carries the key to this cell. Though I sleep below and have no wish to spend more time than is necessary with this woman, I could not open the gate had I wanted to. An unnecessary precaution, but all precautions against the devil are wise. Do you not agree?”
Poor Isobelle. She would understand none of their conversation. And he feared what her imagination might do. Already she had freed one of her hands and removed her gag. But what truly frightened him was the awareness that Isobelle knew only one phrase understandable to The Patriarch of Venice.
I love you too much.
At the moment, she had her hands together at the edge of the bed, her head bent forward, and the rosary spilling over her wrist. Gaspar had to ignore outright the blood smeared across that hand.
Isobelle had learned how to pretend meekness. He suspected, however, her whispered prayers were not all for their guest’s benefit. She was also terrified as he was, for he noticed the minute shaking of the rosary beads.
“Who is she?” The older man had trouble taking his eyes off her, but in his voice was disgust. It was the same tone he’d heard from many a man when confronted with a beautiful woman. Men who hated what they could never have.
“The daughter of a dear friend.” He’d had time enough to prepare that answer. “She was accused of being a witch, but I have concluded that accusation was inspired by the color of her hair alone. I promised her father I would make certain she would be meek and subservient before I returned her. Although she was a meek child to begin with.”
The patriarch finally turned and frowned at him. “She is clearly no child, Gaspar. You were right to cut her hair, but you should have shaved it all.”
Gaspar shuddered as if revolted by the thought. “You know of my wish to remain as far away from women as possible, Your Beatitude.”
“Then have someone else do it.”
“Yes, Patriarch.”
“And tell the father his daughter could not be saved.”
Gaspar could feel the outrage of a hundred such declarations paling in comparison the fury he felt now, over the life of one. May God forgive him, he would not obey this blind man.
“But she can be saved, Patriarch. She has been saved.”
The old man’s nostrils stretched and contracted. “Absolution? From you?”
Gaspar knew he needed to speak quickly before his employer’s imagination took over. “I believe this young woman would be a great example to others of her age, that they might see how she has been humbled.”
The man’s brow lowered over stern eyes. “Or she could rally them together in pity. I am sorry, Gaspar. My decision has been made. Besides, we must not allow the seeds of that red hair to perpetuate.”
Swallow. He needed to swallow. How could he argue if his words could not pass the ball of rage in his throat?
“It is a pity your slave did not bring the key. We could have disposed of this problem today. But I suppose, since she is the daughter of a friend, you would not wish to execute her yourself. I shall send another.” And with that, the old man turned for the door.
Gaspar knew the man would not respond well to begging, but he had little choice. He needed time if he was going to get Isobelle away from the island before this executioner arrived.
“Your Beatitude, I would ask a favor.”
The man turned back with an impatient grunt. “A favor, Gaspar? When this private exorcism has cost you any favors you might have earned from me?”
“Yes, Patriarch, for I am certain there will be an opportunity, soon, to earn another. I would ask this favor before it is earned.”
The man took a deep breath and expelled it in exasperation. “What is this favor?”
It required all Gaspar’s years of discipline to keep the desperation out of his voice. “I would ask that you allow me a sennight to help the child prepare to meet God.”
The patriarch shook his head. “She will not meet God, Gaspar, without a body. She must burn after she is dead.”
“No, sir,” he said calmly. “She must not.” Oh, but he was in such danger to speak to the man so. “As certain as you are that she is a witch, I am just as certain she is not. Therefore, I beg you, do not put either of our salvations in jeopardy by robbing this woman of the chance to see God. You do believe in the salvation of the souls of men, and therefore women…”
The man’s nostrils flared and he lowered his chin. “You are no priest, Gaspar. Do not presume to discuss salvation with me.” His narrowed eyes told Gaspar he would never again have the patriarch’s trust. His time in Venice would not last. That was, if he stayed…
And suddenly, he was grateful to the blind old man for opening the gate of Venice and allowing him to leave. His penance was over. It was time to leave this prison, and he would not look back.
“Beheaded then.” The old man narrowed his eyes to mere slits and moved back to the gate, and Gaspar’s heart jumped. The man grabbed the bars at each edge and shook them. They made no sound. The lock held as tight as if it had been melted into place. He worked his way around the enclosure, shaking and testing each joint. He even lifted his robes, climbed onto the bench and pulled at the bit of screening hanging from the ceiling, but the rings to which it was attached were thick and deeply embedded in the wood beams. He then pushed and pulled at them, noting the space between the screen above and the one below.
Gaspar worried the man might find a weakness in the iron that would allow them to remove Isobelle, so she might be murdered immediately. But in each test, the screen held, and he blessed the artisans he’d so recently been cursing. Their work was not nearly as loose as their tongues. Praise be.
Finally, the patriarch ceased his testing and allowed his guards to help him off the bench.
“If the only key is in the city, I will take your man and collect it. Then I shall return with an executioner…in five days. I would return tomorrow, but I must preside over a few more Regatta celebrations in spite of that fool that calls himself the King of Napoli. Five days, Gaspar. I trust you will both be prepared for her to part this world.”
“Yes, Your Beatitude. And I thank you for your…” He could not use the words mercy, wisdom, nor generosity. “Thank you for your patience.”
The old man glared, but eventually nodded and left the room.
Gaspar’s heart jumped again when he remembered the patriarch was determined to collect the key from Icarus, when the key was currently in Gaspar’s pocket!
He turned back to the cell and found Isobelle’s eyes wide with worry. Perhaps she had understood enough. But there was no time to explain. He dug in his pocket, fumbled with the string, but finally wrapped his fingers around the key. Then he hurried to the door and listened. They were only halfway down.
He returned to the gate. “I will cut your binds in a moment, sweet Isobelle, but I must slip Icarus the key first.”
He slid the dangerous thing into the lock and turned it as slowly as possible. Thankfully, the mechanism turned silently. Again, he blessed the artisans. He swung the gate wide, then used the stool to block it open. He would not trust it to remain that way, and the patriarch had already proven the cell could not be compromised if the gate were locked.
“I will return before you finish your prayers.” He smiled and gave her a wink.
She rolled her eyes and returned his smile. It was forgiveness enough to lighten his heart. He needed only to remove the holy man from his island and he could return to her and hear her forgiveness from her own sweet lips.
The patriarch was sufficiently irritated to move twice as quickly back to his boat as he had when he’d arrived. Even so, it was not fast enough to ease Gaspar’s mind, but it was his turn to practice patience. He held the key behind him and felt Icarus take it from his fingers before hurrying to the large boat.
Success! His pounding heart slowed a bit.
Once on board and seated, the old man smiled. “Your man. We will take him with us.”
Had he not noticed Icarus was already seated on his boat? And that his boat was well away from the dock?
The patriarch motioned for the rowers to begin. “We will keep him with us, and we will take his boat along as well.” He smiled slyly. “We shall all see you in five days, Gaspar. Be ready.”
Only then did Gaspar notice the small boat moving to join the larger one. A guard at the rear finished tying the knot that would ensure Gaspar and Isobelle would have no way off the island before the patriarch returned with the executioner.
If it weren’t for the fact that she was tied up, fearful, and bleeding, he might have postponed telling the woman he loved that her life was still very much in danger.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Isobelle escaped her other binding and walked carefully down the steps alone. Gaspar met her at the bottom of the stairs, his face as pale as the moon the night before. He fell to his knees and wrapped his arms around her middle. With his ear pressed against her and her fingers running through his hair, he apologized once more for not thinking of a better way to have hidden her from the patriarch.
“There wasna time.” She lifted his chin and smiled into his eyes. “I understand. I do.”
Gaspar took a shaky breath, and pressed his forehead to her middle. “He took my boat, Isobelle. Our way off the island. I thought he would only take Icarus, but he took the boat as well.”
Dread tried to settle on her chest again, but she would not have it. “We will think of some other way off the island. If we swim out into the lagoon, to the busy channel, a boat will surely stop for us.” Then a sickening thought presented itself. “Or do ye not mean to leave with me?”
He stood and led her into the solar. He took a seat and pulled her onto his lap. “Listen, my love.” He wove his fingers through hers and held their hands to his chest. “I do not wish to keep anything from you. The patriarch is going to return in five days…with an executioner. But I vow to you, I will see us safely off the island long before then. Together.”
She smiled, the news of an executioner paling in importance when the man she loved planned to stay by her side.
“We’ve five days then,” she said cheerfully. “Dinna fash. I canna speak Italian, but I understood the disagreement. And I know the number cinque, aye? It was either five days or five journeys.”
Some of the worry smoothed from his brow and he sighed in relief. “You stayed so still, I assumed you understood nothing.”
She pushed a bit of his hair from his face and tucked it behind his ear. She laughed when he shivered. “Weel, I’ve been taught, lately mind ye, that it is best to remain quiet when men of the church are about.”
He laughed. It was a rare, but glorious sound.
“The rosary was a nice touch.”
“Oh, aye. I thought so meself, just as ye were coming through the door. Almost hung meself with them.”
He turned their hands and worried over her bloody wrist. “I am so sorry,” he whispered, then kissed the bruised flesh. It was as exquisite a touch from his warm lips as any other had been. And far too brief.
“No need. If we’ve five days to find a way off the island, let us not waste them with more apologies, aye? And will ye be coming with me, not because ye fear the patriarch’s wrath, but because…” She bit her lip and looked down, unable to finish. Releasing her was one thing. Loving her was quite another. “Because…”
“Because I love you.” It was not a question. “I wish to leave with you, Isobella, and remain with you, if you’ll have me.” He shook his head. “I meant to say, Isobelle.”
“Auch, now. Did I say I mind?” She couldn’t
help but smile wide with the sudden rightness settling in her chest. “Though Isobella sounds too pretty a name for someone with questionable hair.”
He sighed. His brows knit together while he touched the odd locks on her head. “Your hair makes no matter to me. But I do love to see your eyes so easily. How long will it take to grow again? A year? Two?”
She frowned. “I dinna ken. Me head feels a bit lighter. I may need a pillow now, like I’ve ne’er needed one before. But I doona mind the cool air blowin’ on me neck now and again. Though, in Scotland I would freeze.”
“With the whole of the world to choose from, where shall we go?”
She considered it a moment. She’d been so desperate to go home, to where she was dearly loved, she could think of nothing else. But that desperation was gone. Did she long for the sights and sounds and smells of the Highlands? She did. But now she had a longing of another sort. She’d been alone in the world—excepting a cousin who had been unable to stay with her much. But she was no longer alone, if the look in her dragon’s eyes was to be believed.
“How far must we go to be beyond the patriarch’s reach? I doona expect the man will be overly pleased when he finds us gone.”
His brow lowered like that of a pensive dragon and she could not resist the impulse to kiss him there.
He looked up and gave her a wink. “We would be safe in France. Word will spread throughout the Church States, but with Charles VI trying to steal Naples, the patriarch will not be reaching beyond Milan.”
He freed his fingers from hers, kissed her hands, and released them. Then he braced his arms behind him, allowing her to leave his lap if she wished. But she kept her seat.
“It is likely I will be a hunted man, Isobelle. There will be a price on my head and many a man will try to search me out. Are you certain you’d like to spend your life with a dragon who was once capable of locking you in his tower and demanding your submission? It is a frightening tale for any woman to have endured.”
She thought he might go on, but he left it at that. She’d told him she wanted no more apologies, but that was what he was giving her. One last plea for forgiveness.
