Flight From Blithmore by Jacob Gowans Page B

father
was relentless.
    “Please
let me go!” she begged as they made their way across the lawn. “Please, Father,
it hurts!”
    “Shut
up! SHUT UP!”
    She
tried to keep up with him to lessen the burning in her scalp, but her father
moved quickly. Her pleas turned into screams of agony and fright. She tried to
look behind to see if Norbin was following, but another sharp, biting jerk of
her hair forced her to give up. The back door of Oslan Manor was already open.
He led her upstairs with the same forcefulness. Isabelle made sure to not trip
on the steps up for fear that she might rip out her hair. The moment they were
inside Lady Oslan’s chamber, her father threw her to the floor.
    “Stay
here,” he ordered. “Mourn over your mother’s dead body until I get back.” He
left the room and locked the door from the outside. “Where are you going?” she
heard him shouting at Norbin. “Get out there and dig up that coffer! I don’t
care how long it takes you!”
    Isabelle
knelt on the floor and rubbed her head, checking for any spots where her hair
had been pulled out. She looked around her mother’s room and tried the door. It
was locked. Nothing in the chamber had been touched. She felt better knowing
her father hadn’t put his filthy hands on anything. After calming herself, she
blew out several of the candles, leaving the room in the dim, respectful light
of early evening. Then she washed her hands in the bowl on the bedside table
and pulled back the sheets so she could tend to her mother.
    The
work absorbed her and cleansed her emotions. For a time, she forgot about her
father and focused on her mother, letting the full impact of everything that
had happened soak in. She wept unabashedly as she changed her mother out of the
nightgown into her old, but magnificent white wedding dress; then she brushed
her mother’s hair and applied a touch of color to her mother’s cheeks and lips.
The whole process took a long time. When she finished, it appeared that the
last thing her mother had done before passing away was groom herself. Tears
still came, but Isabelle didn’t bother to brush them aside. She took a fresh
white sheet from the linen closet and laid it over her mother. She had barely
finished when her father’s voice boomed through the manor.
    “ WHERE
IS THE GOLD, ISABELLE ?” It sounded so loud and deep, it could have been
inhuman. She heard him thundering up the stairs toward her and cowered against
the wall.
    “Henry,”
she whispered. “I need you right now.”

 
     
     
     
    Eight -
    Not a Hero
     
     
    As
Isabelle cowered in Henry’s shop listening to her father yell
at Norbin, Maggie and Brandol were making poor time getting the sack of gold
into the house. Brandol didn’t like their situation one bit. Everything in the
world had turned a very dark yellow and frightening questions filled his mind.
Why was Isabelle so terrified of being seen? What would happen if Lord Oslan
caught him? What if he tripped and spilled the gold all over Henry’s lawn? Was
he involved in a crime? Could he be arrested for stealing?
    Brandol
considered himself a strong man. He helped Henry move wood and furniture,
loading and unloading the cart daily, but he had never tried to heft anything
this heavy. He guessed the sack must weigh nearly two hundred pounds. Maggie’s
face was red as a tomato, and he could only imagine how his own looked. The
shouts they heard from Lord Oslan grew louder, urging them to move faster.
    “HEAVE!”
Brandol’s voice came out strained. The bag went up two steps. Then, with one
last great tug, they cleared the steps and the porch, closing the door behind
them. He did not bother to check if Lord Oslan had seen them go inside. The bag
dropped to the floor with a heavy thud . The muscles in Brandol’s back,
arms, and hands burned as though branding irons poked deeply into his skin.
    He
looked at Maggie and followed her gaze to the bag of gold. The thick coins
reflected dozens of tiny