Then there was the unmistakable sound of boots on the stairs, and as she struggled to sit up and clear the fog of sleep from her head, Marguerite opened her bedroom door, and was propelled inside on a veritable wave of tall, strong men in the King’s livery.
“Are you Isabella Beauchamps?” the one with the most decorations on his cloak barked out. And before she could answer, continued, “Were you attacked by a wolf last night?”
Marguerite squeaked. Bella paid no attention to her. How — What —
“I — ” she began.
“Describe the attack!” the man ordered, glowering at her so fiercely that she found herself stammering out her story without thinking twice about it — nor about the fact that her bedroom was filled with armed men, and she was huddled in the bedclothes in her nightgown.
He questioned her closely about the wolf itself, color, size and, most especially, behavior. Then he turned to Marguerite. “You will get your mistress prepared for travel, pack her clothing enough for a month and present her and her belongings downstairs in fifteen minutes,” he commanded. “This is by order of the King.”
But she didn’t have any chance to ask for an explanation or even to protest. Marguerite was so terrified that she practically threw Bella’s clothing onto her. No sooner had Bella struggled into her gown than Mathew and two more of the menservants, and Jessamine, another maid, were crowding into her room and bundling things into trunks. She and her things were rushed downstairs and into the hands of the King’s men so quickly that she scarcely had time to catch her breath.
The chief officer didn’t even let her limp her way out; he swept her up in his arms while more of his men dealt with the two trunks that the servants brought down, and carried her out the door, to be dropped unceremoniously into a carriage. The doors slammed shut, and when she tried them, she discovered that they were locked.
She considered any number of actions, starting with screaming and kicking at the doors. But it was fairly obvious that neither would get her anywhere. This was — must be — on the King’s orders. Doctor Jonaton either had not known what his report would mean, or had known and considered the situation grave enough to withhold the information from her.
So screaming and protesting would get her nowhere, and this carriage, while comfortable, was clearly built to confine whoever was in it quite securely.
She had no idea what was going on — but she hadn’t broken any laws, and clearly, this wolf attack meant something important…
And that was when the answer struck her, and she sat, frozen in horror, for the remainder of the journey.
The carriage stopped. The door was opened from the outside. The King’s officer waited as she blinked in the sudden light. “Can you walk, Mistress Isabella?” he asked with gruff courtesy.
“I think so,” she said in a small voice.
He handed her down; she winced as she put her injured foot on the pavement.
Now she looked up. She was in the courtyard of what was clearly a fortified Manor; a high wall surrounded the building, and the King’s men were just closing a pair of massive metal-reinforced gates. The courtyard was paved, and swept clean of every vestige of snow.
The Manor itself, despite being constructed to withstand a siege, was surprisingly attractive. Part of that might have been the stone-work; cream-colored granite veined with faint pink. Part of it was that the narrow slits of the windows had rounded edges, as did the edges of the roof; in fact, there wasn’t a sharp edge anywhere to be seen, and the placement of the window slits conveyed a feeling of welcome rather than of a prison.
The King’s men were carrying her trunks into the building, via the main entry. The officer gestured to her, indicating that she should follow them. Limping, she did so.
There was a very narrow entryway, clearly designed for defense, just inside the door. Stone below, stone walls, stone ceiling — and she thought she glimpsed murder slits in the walls and ceiling. With two more men with a trunk coming behind her, she limped as quickly as she could through it, and found herself in a room that offered the same welcome that the exterior of the building promised.
She had only been in two Great Manors in her life; both of them had what had been called a Great Hall just inside the door. This was a Hall indeed, but it was not, in size, anything like those rooms. There was a huge fireplace to the right, and another to the left; the room itself was wide rather than deep, and the expanse of floor that could have been cold, had it been made of stone, was instead of warm, light-colored wood. The benches at the fire were made of a similar warm wood, the stone walls softened with tapestries and the whole brightened with oil lamps.
In the middle of the Hall, opposite the entry door, was another door that swung open even as she stood there surrounded by four trunks — when she only recalled bringing two.
Through that door came a young man about four or five years older than herself. He was not exactly handsome, but with a kind and thoughtful face that inclined her to trust him. That he was wearing spectacles, and a sheepish expression, helped.
“Thank you, Captain Malcom,” he said. The King’s officer saluted, and turned and left without saying a word, his men following him.
“You must be Isabella Beauchamps,” the young man continued, turning toward her. “You have a reputation for being very intelligent, so I suppose you have already figured out why you were taken away and brought here.”
“Taken away, yes,” she replied, and shivered despite the warmth of the room. “I was attacked and bitten last night by what must have been a werewolf. I am being isolated until it is determined whether or not I was infected. Though why I was brought here — I don’t know. I don’t even know where ‘here’ is.”
