by L. L. Muir
She shook her head and water sprayed around them. “I will not be content in yer tower, Gaspar.”
He nodded and turned to face the water. It was not an easy thing to hear, but he could not blame her.
She sighed. “But at your side would not be such a bad place, I suppose.”
His heart tried to rouse his hopes but he bid it to settle. He dared not hope she could forgive him in truth, and told her so.
“I can try.” Her eyes lit up and her gaze fell to his mouth, then she looked away, embarrassed.
Though he would like nothing better than to take her into his arms and beg her forgiveness in a dozen different ways, he would forbear. He would not risk her mistaking passion for love. And love, like trust, must be earned.
He was finished lying to himself. And he knew that remaining on the beach with her, both of them dripping beneath the starry drapes of a warm sky, weakened their wills. So he got to his feet and brushed half-dried sand from his legs.
“I am going inside, Isobelle. I will change into dry clothes and start a fire in the kitchens. You come inside only if you wish. I will understand if you do not. I can find you a dry tunic. I do not suppose you wish to wear the white gown again?”
She shook her head sharply.
“When you are ready then.”
She swallowed awkwardly.
He grimaced, then offered a hopeful smile. “We can leave the doors open…”
The woman wrapped her arms around her knees and turned away from him, showing the awkward outline of her hair—another reminder of the damage he had done to her.
No. She would never truly be able to forgive him. Nor did he hold out hope of ever forgiving himself. The morning would bring with it a small Greek man and the vessel that would take her away from him forever.
But he would not waste this final night in mourning. He’d have plenty of time for that after she was gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Deep into the night, Isobelle lay across Gaspar’s chest watching their small fire die. She was back to wearing the luxurious white gown because Gaspar’s clothes were little better than blankets on her.
“Do ye sleep, Dragon?” she whispered.
“No.”
She grinned into his clean tunic. “What does it mean, this thing you say in Italian—say agga po poli?”
He laughed, and she savored the sound rumbling through the side of her face and into her fingertips. He repeated the phrase, time and again, to show her the intricacies of the words, but she still failed to say it correctly. She wearied of being laughed at, so she stopped trying.
“It is not Italian,” he said. “It is Greek. It means...”
“Yes?”
“It means...I love you too much.”
The words, and knowing he’d been saying them for nearly the whole of their time together, took her breath away. But now that she knew their meaning, she couldn’t resist attempting the phrase one more time.
This time, he didn’t laugh. His breathing had stopped, his chest went quite still beneath her fingers. Then suddenly, he rolled her onto her back. For a long moment, he gazed into her eyes in wonder. Then slowly, his head lowered, closer with each heartbeat, until his lips touched hers.
A long, lovely moment later, she was allowed a breath and she whispered, “Troppo perfetto,”
~ ~ ~
Isobelle woke with a sudden pain in her mouth. Then her hair was pulled as a gag was tied around her head! When she tried to remove it, she found that her hands were tied to either side of her bed. She was back inside her cell!
Her heart burst inside her chest and she waited for death to claim her, but it would not!
The ceiling confused her until she realized she was lying with her head nearest the gate, not the way she usually slept. Gaspar stood over her. Thankfully, his face showed no trace of satisfaction.
He put a finger to his lips. “Shhh. Isobelle, you must stay silent. I had to act quickly. His Beatitude, The Patriarch of Venice comes with Icarus. Even now, they are at the dock. I would have asked you to hide, but I could not trust that you would believe me. And if the man demands to see you, you have to be here, in your cell. You cannot tell me you would have willingly come back inside, that you would trust last night was not a trick.”
She tried to argue as clearly as possible, but he pushed another scrap of cloth into her mouth. She could hardly hear the thoughts in her head clearly after that.
“I must go. Please, lie still. Be patient. Say your rosary and I shall kiss you once for every bead. After you forgive me, of course.” He left her side, closed the gate, and turned the key. He gave her one last desperate look. “I will do whatever I can to make him leave quickly. Trust me, I beg you. Either I or Icarus will be up to release you when it is safe. The dragon is dead, Isobelle. I swear it.”
Isobelle screamed, but the sound never made it beyond the room.
Gaspar pressed his face between the bars. “You have seen the island, Isobelle. There is nowhere to hide. If he insists on seeing the tower, the only safe place for you is here. I must go! Keep still and pray he will not have energy enough for the steps!”
And then he was gone.
Isobelle lay on her back in amazement. Fully awake now, she wondered if the night before had been real at all. The cold sea, her dress slowing her progress, the panic of the darkness. And then his voice, calling her back to the lights. Promising her freedom. Promising life away from the tower.
Something had happened to him between the nooning meal and the moment he’d come to open the gate, to release her. She might have saved herself a hard swim if she’d have comprehended sooner. He was no longer God’s Dragon, the sword-arm of the church. He was just a man, offering his open arms in exchange for a prison.
Or was he?
The alarm had been sounded. God’s Dragon had been called back to his duty. And the first thing he’d done was to tie her up and place her back in that prison.
For her safety? Truly? Why not introduce her to the patriarch as his servant, his cousin, his...anything. Why allow the man to see her as a prisoner, guilty of some sin?
If Gaspar was right and she was lucky, the man would go away and never know.
If Gaspar was wrong, and the man came looking, he would not take kindly to Gaspar keeping her alive. What was he thinking? To find her here would mean her death! He should have sent her out into the sea. At least she would have a chance.
Nonsense. It was all nonsense. She needed to calm herself and think clearly. She took a few deep breaths and it helped instantly.
Can it truly be the patriarch he cannot trust?
Voices floated in through the bars of the window. Italian. She could understand nothing but the fact they were moving closer. Then she heard Gaspar’s deep voice booming out in greeting.
She refused to lie still and wait for luck to determine her destiny, so she tugged at the ties that bound her hands. Not painfully tight. She pulled firmly on her right wrist, closest to the wall. The knot tightened, but it allowed for more room between that knot and her wrist! She lifted her elbow and pulled against the restraint. Halfway up her hand, it ceased sliding. She tried folding her hand in on itself. It slid a little more. If she continued to pull, she might pull her bones apart! She relaxed, rested. Then she tested the slack on her left wrist. It was much tighter. And if she pulled on it, the knot might prove too hard to open if she managed to get the right hand free.
What other option did she have? She’d tucked her skean duh inside her boot in the kitchen!
Oh, Gaspar! Gaspar!
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 knuckle
s, 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.”
