by Siobhan Muir
Now Isabelle had to face the world as a ruined woman. At least she’d no longer be sent to the dragon as a meal. She’d have to be satisfied with that. Despite all she’d been brought up to believe, she didn’t think her mother would condemn her for what she’d done, and she prayed her sister wouldn’t, either. She’d done what she needed to survive, and she wouldn’t regret it.
Isabelle scrubbed her hands over her face and halfheartedly combed the tangles from her hair.
And where did you get those tangles, eh?
Her mind filled with images of Jon riding her, and her core creamed while her heartbeat increased.
Enough!
She glanced out her window at the meager daylight and picked her warmest skirt. It may be spring, but ’tis not warm. Isabelle resolutely left her room and tried to focus on her morning chores, but her traitorous memories served up all the images of Master Swift’s lovely body and what he’d been able to do with it. Isabelle shivered with excitement. What would she give for another night in his arms?
You’ll do nothing of the sort! This was a one-time thing. Keep the memory close to your heart and don’t ask for more.
She forced her mind back onto her usual list of chores and trudged down the stairs, trying to remember why they were so important to start so damned early. Memory only kindled as she filled a bucket full of water for cleaning the trestle tables. Cripes, I still need to get the bread. She did it every morning, but she’d woken up late and didn’t feel like traipsing across the windswept village. She sighed and stretched her back before bending to her task once more.
Isabelle had swept the floors, washed the tables, and set the chairs to rights when Joseph came in from the kitchen with a tight expression on his face. Isabelle opened the shutters to the outside air and hoped they’d see a little sun that day, if for no other reason than to lighten her father’s expression. She didn’t pay too close attention to him, but she kept a careful eye on him.
“Isabelle.” She heard his usual displeasure riding close to the surface.
Here comes the lecture for disappearing for a time last night.
“Aye, Father?”
“Come here, lass.”
Dark foreboding slid down her back as she turned to look him more closely. Joseph stood by the bar, his jaw tight and his expression closed. She dropped her rag and approached him warily, her heart racing. Isabelle didn’t seat herself, but stood to one side of the stools, trying to determine what he wanted from the way he held his body.
“Aye, Father? What is it?”
“You should sit, Isabelle.”
“Nay, I think I shall stand.”
Frustration creased his face for a moment before he took a deep breath to say what was on his mind.
“I spoke with the elders last night, and we have decided,” he said in a voice heavy with feigned regret. “You’re to be sent as the next Virgin Sacrifice.”
Chilling fury swept through her, and she tightened her hands in her skirts as it rose to the forefront of her mind. The selfish bastard! His only concern is for himself and his village standing. It didn’t matter that she’d been born of his first wife, only that she wasn’t his get. If ’tis true at all or just an excuse.
“Nay, I will not.” She held her temper by sheer willpower. “You will just have to find another for your sacrifice.”
Joseph’s brows came down in a heavy frown. “You will. The decision has been made.”
“You didn’t ask me.” Her voice sounded calm, though she wanted to throw her bucket of water at him. “I won’t go.”
“I don’t have to ask you. I’m your father and I say you’re going!”
“Are you? Are you my father?” She scoffed. “My father wouldn’t trade me for sheep and crops. My father wouldn’t think meanly of me. If you were my father, you would have told the elders to look elsewhere!”
“You’re going and that’s final.”
“Nay, I won’t. Besides, I can’t be the sacrifice. I’m no longer a virgin.”
“You—” Joseph stopped as her words sunk in and stared at her in horrified surprise. “What did you say?”
“I said I can’t be the sacrifice because I’m no longer a virgin.” She crossed her arms over her chest defiantly.
“You ungrateful little whore!” Her father reached out to grab her, but she darted away. “Who was the whoreson who took your innocence? Tell me, you harlot!”
“Nay, I won’t!” Isabelle bared her teeth at him in fury. “You don’t need to ken who, only that my innocence is gone. I chose this, father. I won’t be sacrificed for a village that treats me and my mum like chattel and freaks. Find some other stupid lass to make you safe from a dragon that cares not for you!”
Joseph turned red in his rage. “You’re just like your whore of a mother! I knew you weren’t mine even though the harlot claimed she never bedded another. You have none o’ my looks, and you have them witchy eyes. I took care o’ you, and you dishonor my name like this!”
“The only one who dishonored your name was you!” Isabelle shouted, her rage as strong as his. “You treated me mum as a slave, even as you got her with child again! You called her a whore, but you’d still use her for your carnal pleasure. And what about all the other wenches you took to your bed when you thought we weren’t looking? Didya think we wouldn’t notice when some harlot let herself out o’ your chamber in the early morn?” She scoffed with an ugly grimace. “You say I dishonored you, but I couldn’t do worse than you. If I’m not your daughter anyway, I can’t dishonor to whom I don’t belong. You’re a disgrace, to me, to my mum, to your real daughters!”
“You brazen hussy!” Joseph picked up a mug to hurl it at her. She ducked his throw, and the mug smashed against the wall behind her. As she rose to her feet, she caught her sister’s form behind him, wide-eyed with dismay. Isabelle narrowed her eyes at the tavern keeper to keep him from seeing Sarah. “Get you gone! Never come back to me house, you loose whore. Take whatever poor fool fucked you and get out! I won’t have whores beneath my roof, and the whole village will know of your dishonor by the nooning. You’re nothing but a worthless light skirt, and you won’t be welcome here ever again.”
“I wouldn’t want to stay even if I were! You’re a bastard and a prick, and God help Elizabeth if she ever finds out what a rake you have been!”
With that parting shot, Isabelle raced for the stairs to her room. Joseph hollered something in incoherent fury behind her, but she didn’t pause to see where he stood before she dashed up the staircase. Her flight took her past Master Swift’s room and into her own, locking the door behind her. Tears streamed down her face while her anger and hurt combined. She sobbed brokenly as she tried to decide what to do now.
Despite Joseph’s angry remarks about her carelessness and dishonor, Isabelle didn’t regret her actions with Jon.
Master Swift!
She panted and tried to stop her sobs, but they pushed through to the surface.
“Nay, nay, nay. Stop this caterwauling.” She fisted her eyes in an attempt to stop the tears. Courage now, Isabelle. He thought naught of you. It wasn’t hard for him to dismiss you. Now you can find your own way.
But where would she go? What would she do?
No one in the village would want her now, even if she hadn’t gotten pregnant. Joseph would see to that. Bloody prick. He’s only cross because he didn’t get the regard of the elders for his contribution. He’d made it abundantly clear he’d considered her an inconvenience and a burden. If he thought of me as his daughter, he wouldn’t have thrown me to the dragon!
Wiping her tears on the edge of her skirt, Isabelle dragged her gaze around her room and catalogued what she’d leave behind and what would be unnecessary for survival. Stuffing her uncertainty down, she strode over to a coarse canvas bag Hamish had made for her to carry extra loaves and held it up to her nose. It still carried the scents of Marie’s pastries and Hamish’s rosemary bread. She almost started to cry again, but she took a deep
breath, bit her lip to hold in the tears, and packed her things.
Isabelle folded the quilt off her bed and stuffed it in the bag. Next came her few clothes and a pewter pendant of a complex Celtic knot that had belonged to her mother. Isabelle tightened her hand around the pendant and closed her eyes. She held it to her breast and tried to picture her mother’s face. Would she be smiling and proud of her daughter? Isabelle squeezed the pendant, and a sensation of calm seeped through her clasped hands.
Her sobs faded, and her heartbeat steadied. She could make it. She could find a new path. Life wouldn’t be impossible.
Isabelle opened her eyes and stared down at the pendant. It seemed to shimmer in the dim light of the stormy window, but she shook her head at such nonsense. She wrapped it in a lacy handkerchief her mother had bought for her at one of the faires and packed it with her clothes. She paused and surveyed the room. Would she miss it?
Nay, I won’t. ’Tis not home, not anymore.
Shaking her head, Isabelle retrieved her mother’s extra heavy shawl and an old cloak to keep her warm, swinging them both over her shoulders. She left her room with the door hanging open. She no longer needed to keep anyone out.
As she descended to the kitchens, she listened for sounds of her sister and Joseph, but none came to her ears. She scrounged for a small knife, Joseph’s old hatchet, a candle and a tinderbox, and an old, battered pot for cooking. She had no coin with which to buy anything, but stealing from the miserly bastard who raised her seemed wrong in the extreme.
Taking one last look at the kitchens where she’d grown up, she threw the bulging canvas bag over her shoulder and left the Careless Wench behind for good.
Dread trickled down her back along with the wet fingers of wind, but she lifted her chin and strode away from the tavern. Isabelle had no idea where she’d go, but her feet took her in the direction of the bakery, a well-worn path she’d treaded over the years. Her gaze dropped to study the cobbles edged with mud and water, knowing each rut and puddle. I wish such knowledge could give me solace. She had her head down, unaware anyone else braved the deteriorating weather until someone called her name.
“Isabelle!”
She jerked her head up, and Marie MacClanahan ran up to her to grasp her arms.
“Oh, holy God in heaven, Isabelle! Something awful has happened!”
Isabelle just stared at her friend dully.
“Do you hear me, Isabelle? The elders just told Hamish. You have been chosen for the Sacrifice!” Marie shouted, shaking her a little.
“Aye, I ken it,” Isabelle agreed woodenly. “But it won’t do any good. I have lost my innocence and can’t be sent to the dragon.”
“Truly?” Her friend gasped, a smile curling her lips. “But this is wonderful! Was it with Master Swift?”
“Aye, he did me the honor of ridding me of me maidenhood.”
“Why are you not more happy? And why are you out here? Let’s go back to the tavern for some tea.”
“Nay!” Her vehement bark made her friend take a step back in surprise. “Nay, I can’t go back there. I’m no longer welcome, as I am a whore and have dishonored the stupid prick who owns the place.”
“Bah!” Marie scowled and her voice dripped with disdain. “Yet another idiot. Come, we will go to the bakery, and you will stay with Hamish and me until something is decided.”
Marie drew her along the street toward the bakery, and Isabelle’s sorrow eased a little. They ducked down the alley between houses, hunching their shoulders against the wind. Isabelle grimaced. Joseph would be spreading the news about her. The fewer folk who knew her whereabouts, the better. Marie led her to their little plot of land behind their home and took her in through the kitchen door. Hamish stood there, kneading bread as usual, but he wore a fierce scowl and he muttered darkly under his breath.
“Hamish, mon ami, I have brought Isabelle here,” Marie announced as they entered. “Her father has kicked her out in the street, and she has nowhere to go.”
Hamish turned around, and his expression filled with a combination of anger, disgust, and relief.
“Good.” His mouth tightened into a flat line. “Have you broken your fast, yet, Isabelle? Nay? Well, sit yourself down and let us take care of you for once.”
“I don’t mean to trouble you.”
“Nay, nay, no trouble.” Hamish turned away and swung the kettle onto the fire. “We’ll have tea in a trice.” Marie gestured to their kitchen table and made Isabelle set aside her things.
“Have a cinnamon bun, Belle.” Marie pushed Isabelle gently into a chair and handed her a large sticky bun. Isabelle never bought herself such luxuries, but she’d always loved Marie’s sweet rolls. Marie sat in another chair and her face became expectant. “Now, tell us what happened this morning.”
Isabelle reluctantly told the story of her morning, leaving out only that she’d briefly hoped Master Swift truly wanted her more than to do right by her honor. Marie’s face settled into angry lines as the story unfolded, and Hamish’s actions around their kitchen became more forceful.
“That bloody, stupid fool!” he roared. Isabelle couldn’t remember a time when she’d seen Hamish so furious. “Your mum was no whore, Isabelle. Don’t ever believe that.”
“I never have, Hamish.” Isabelle rubbed her face wearily. “But Joseph is right. I look nothing like him, and he has never let me forget it. I don’t even look like Sarah or Mary. I ken my mum wasn’t a whore, but how can I look so different from my own sisters? We must have different fathers.”
His shoulders tightened, and he looked away from her, concentrating on the dough he kneaded. Her eyes narrowed. What was he holding back? He was barely older than her, maybe three or four years. What could he know that she didn’t?
“What are you not telling me, Hamish MacClanahan?”
Hamish said nothing for a few moments more, and even Marie arched a brow at her recalcitrant husband.
“Hamish?” Marie prompted.
“I was just a boy when I saw your mum out by the Loch one night,” he grumbled without looking at them. “I didn’t understand why she was there, but I’d seen enough trysts to ken they happened. She didn’t see the man who came up behind her, but I did. He was tall and fair-haired, and had oddly shaped eyes. But then he rippled of sorts, and suddenly, it was Joseph there with his wife, and she smiled and accepted him to tryst. I thought I’d imagined the fair-haired man, but then your mum got with child, and Joseph seemed so suspicious about it. I’m sure your mum didn’t understand why he looked at you like a changeling, but then the rumors about you started, and the stupid fool only fed them. Your mum died a little each time he went on like that.”
“You saw a man tup with my mum by the Loch?” A mixture of horror and disbelief slithered through Isabelle. “Not Joseph?”
“Aye.” Hamish looked like he’d swallowed rotten cabbage.
“What are you sayin’, Hamish MacClanahan? Who do you think it was if not Joseph?”
A long pause filled the charged room. Isabelle ground her teeth to keep her lips together.
“He was Fae.”
“Fae?” She didn’t know if she wanted to laugh or cry. “Please, Hamish, that can’t be—”
“I swear on grave of my father, Isabelle. I’m not teasing you.”
“Are you saying my blood father is Fae, Hamish?”
“Aye, and he only tupped with your mother after he changed to look like Joseph Andersen.”
“What kind o’ tales are you tellin’?”
“I’m not tellin’ tales!” He jammed floured fists on his hips. “’Tis the God’s honest truth.”
Isabelle stared hard at him, her disbelief warring with her knowledge of Hamish. He’d never lied to her or jested about anything so serious. Holy Mother, is he right? Am I nothing more than a Fae’s by-blow?
“Why did you say nothing? Not to me or to my mum? Why did you keep it secret?”
“What was I to say, Isabelle?” Hamish crossed his arms ov
er his chest indignantly. “Was I to tell you and your mum that I’d seen her tup someone in the dark o’ the night who had looked different at first? I was a child! No one would believe a small child had seen anything clearly. Even I thought I imagined it.”
“Are you saying that I’m a child of the Fae?”
“I’m saying there is more to Heaven and Earth than we might think.” Hamish shook his head, his face set. “I didn’t think the Fae existed until that moment, but I dismissed it as fancy as I got older. Now we have a dragon threatening our crops and livestock. If we can have a dragon, why can’t the Fae exist as well?”
“Och!” Isabelle turned her head to look out the window in the back door. “It doesn’t matter now. I made my choice and lost my innocence a’ purpose. Joseph turned me out, and I will make a go of it on my own.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Marie protested, laying a hand on Isabelle’s arm. “You may stay here for as long as you need. There is no reason you must live like a hermit.”
“But I am a ruined lass.” Isabelle shook her head. “Tongues will wag, and your business could falter. I don’t want to be the cause o’ that.”
“Pish posh!” Marie scoffed, waving her hand dismissively. “That is ridiculous.”
“Marie is right, Isabelle,” Hamish added, straightening his shoulders. “I couldn’t help your mum, but I’ll be damned if I don’t help you. You’re welcome to stay as long as you like.”
“I can’t ask you to—”
“You didn’t ask. I’m offering.”
