He moved away, and Lord Cutler stared back at his daughter. “Finish your meal, daughter. We shall be on the road soon enough. Revenge moves in my belly.”
* * *
Lady Isabelle Cutler ate as quickly as she could. She always tried to be grateful for what she had been given, but it was difficult sometimes, when she had a father such as Lord Cutler, always bellowing, always following the dark path. He had not always been this way, but in the past few years, once her mother had passed on, her father had hardened, continually seeking out violence and revenge.
He became the King’s righthand man once the King’s former one, Marcus Donovan, had been killed only a few months before. He had been vying for that position for a long time, and Isabelle had felt a sense of deep dread, once she realized her father had earned the position. Now he was on a journey towards revenge, for he had plans to kill The Wanderer and The Scots in their entirety, no matter the times she’d tried to convince him not to, for many reasons, one of them being that The Scots was a mixture of men and women and their children.
The King wished her father to banish these people from the Earth, and her father did not need much urging or encouragement. He had gathered up his most bloodthirsty and sword-skilled of men and set off, picking up new soldiers along the way. Now, their caravan was over 30 strong. It would be a slaughter. Isabelle had begged and pleaded with him to allow her to go on the journey, and he was surprised at her interest. He allowed her to come, but she knew it was only because he wanted her to become hard, just as he was. Perhaps she could be of use to him one day, he would tell her.
She begged him to let her join because she thought she might try to convince him to sway his course or at least find a way to stop the brutal attack from happening. She was grateful that Martin had gotten lost. That at least gave her more time to think. When her father was not looking, Isabelle grabbed a piece of warm bread from her plate and hid it in the pocket of her cloak. The beggars outside would be grateful, but she would have to figure out how to get it to them without her father seeing. Arya, her lady’s maid would have to help her, as she had persuaded her to do over the last few years.
“Father, I am finished now,” Isabelle said cheerfully and looked up at her father.
He grunted and turned back to her. “Let’s go. We are not far. It is only perhaps another day’s journey to the site of The Scots. We will make camp on the edge of the Loch tonight, and then the men can clean themselves, and we can rest before our surprise attack.”
Isabelle nodded solemnly and followed her father out of the door. She saw him eye a few of his men who sat at different tables around the room, eating and watching the other occupants with their beady eyes. She shuddered at their dark looks. They had often turned their sinister eyes to her over the course of the journey, watching her movements, whenever she and Arya were on their own, but she knew that her father would cut the hand off of any man who touched her. So, for that, she had to be grateful. Not every woman was so lucky.
Lord Cutler raised a hand in the air, and made a swirling motion with his finger, as he walked out the door. Isabelle watched in horror as the seated men stood, and a tin of oil was passed around as they doused the tavern. She cried out, “No, Father!” as she saw the other customers’ eyes widen with fear. But Lord Cutler grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her outside.
“I have told you, Isabelle, do not subvert me in front of my men!” His voice was low and menacing, and she knew the familiar look in his eye.
She whispered back, “Father, think of the innkeeper. It is his livelihood! And the people inside? You will not trap them, will you?”
He watched her for a moment and then laughed. “No, daughter. They will be freed. If they can find their way out from behind the flames.” Isabelle wanted to scream and run back for them, but her father knew her too well. He kept her wrist in his hand and passed her to Martin Dorset, who watched her calmly as if nothing unusual was happening. “Take her, Dorset. Put her and Arya into the carriage. Lock the door and be sure they do not escape.”
Martin bowed his head. “Yes, Sir.” He did not look Isabelle in the eye as he took her in his arms and prodded her towards the carriage. She had known Martin as a boy, and to see him now in this role was more than she could bear. As they moved away from her father, Isabelle could smell woodsmoke as the tavern burned, and she heard the footsteps of her father’s men leave the tavern, shutting the door behind them. Cries and screams filled the air as people moved around inside, jumping out of windows, and rushing through other doors to escape the growing flames.
She whispered to Martin through gritted teeth. “You are a fool, Martin. You used to be such a kind boy, so generous and thoughtful. Look at you now.” She struggled against his grip as they walked along. For such a short and rather a plump man, Martin was surprisingly strong.
He kept his voice even and measured as he always did when he replied, “Dear, beautiful, Isabelle, one day, you will see that what your father does he does out of necessity. And he does it for King and country. You should be honored by your connection with him. If he was not cruel and bloodthirsty, then these brutish Highlanders would never learn to respect their King. Your father is their judge and the teacher of lessons.”
Isabelle thought about spitting at the ground to show him her disgust, but it would only cause her father further displeasure. The very sound of his words made her want to shudder. Her father had totally brainwashed this man and forced him into his way of thinking, making him feel like what he was doing was proud and noble. She said nothing else, and Martin opened the carriage door and shoved her inside. “This is for your own good, Isabelle. You will see.”
Once he shut the door behind her, Isabelle banged her head on the back of the seat and closed her eyes. She growled in rage and slapped a hand against the wall. “How could he do this? These people have nothing!” She felt the shape of the roll in her pocket and wanted to burst into tears at her own helplessness, but she knew that would accomplish nothing. One day she would be able to fight back and not just in secret. Her father would see her for what she truly was.
A few moments later, the door was opened again, and Arya entered, watching Isabelle warily. “You have seen, Mistress.”
“Yes, I’ve seen, Arya, and what a waste it is. I can only hope that no one will be killed in the flames.”
She looked outside and tried to ignore the sound of the fire as it rose higher and higher. Smoke began to fill the yard in front of the tavern, but once it began curling towards their carriage, the horses were led onward, and the whole company was on the move. The carriage turned to the side to continue their path, and both Arya and Isabelle could get a full view of the burning tavern, now wholly encapsulated by flames.
Isabelle watched angrily as the innkeeper rushed out the front and fell to his knees, yelling into the open air. She understood his pain, but she feared that her father’s men might fill his chest with musket balls if he continued. “Arya, my father says that revenge moves in his belly, but now, at the sight of this, my own desire for it grows as well.”