The Swordswoman’s Revenge: Story after Rebirth
Chapter 21: We Will Get It Back
Matilda and Eleanor couldn't have missed such a spectacle.
Seeing Geoffrey consumed by rage, Matilda stepped forward, her voice soft but firm. “My lord, must it come to this? Surely, words can resolve this without tearing apart the bond of father and daughter.” Even as she spoke, her hand clamped onto Isolde Langley’s arm with cruel force, her nails biting into the existing wounds. “Isolde, do as your father says. Kneel. Plead for his forgiveness and let his anger subside.”
Geoffrey’s face darkened further, his voice like a rolling storm. “Kneel and take your punishment, and I will be merciful. Defy me, and if I beat you to death, it will at least settle things with your mother.”
Isolde lifted her chin defiantly. “Then do it. If I so much as cry out, I’ll have no complaints.”
The whip cracked through the air and struck her arm, searing her flesh. Isolde didn’t flinch, her expression hard, though fiery pain surged from her arm to her skull.
“Kneel!” Geoffrey roared again.
Isolde raised her blood-smeared face, her voice laced with derision. “Is that the best you can do? Show me the strength you take to the battlefield. If you’re going to strike your own daughter, at least strike with some honor. This is nothing—I’ve killed bandits with more force than that.”
Geoffrey’s fury erupted. He struck again and again, each lash cutting into her flesh, reopening old wounds. Blood streaked down her arms and pooled at her feet, but she didn’t waver.
Watching from the side, Matilda and Eleanor smirked with cruel satisfaction, their eyes glinting with malice.
Hearing the commotion, Helena—weak and gravely injured—crawled from the shadows, her voice trembling as she clung to Isolde. “Please, my lord, have mercy!”
Isolde’s gaze burned with anger as she looked at Geoffrey. “Go! Beat me to death if you can. At least it’ll settle this miserable bond. I owe you nothing but the life you gave me. You never raised me. The estate I live on is my mother’s; two years of your food doesn’t buy my soul. Let’s finish this here and now.”
Geoffrey’s face twisted with rage. Her words struck like daggers. He swung the whip viciously, but the blow landed on Helena’s frail back instead. She let out a muffled cry, her strength finally giving way as she collapsed. Still, she wouldn’t release Isolde. Her arms clung tightly, trembling, unyielding.
Matilda signaled to the butler, who stepped forward to drag Helena away. When she wouldn’t let go, the butler struck her hard across the face. “How dare you interfere with the Duke’s orders!”
Helena, already at her limit, crumpled to the ground, unconscious.
Rage exploded in Isolde’s eyes. With a feral snarl, she kicked the butler in the stomach, sending him sprawling. “You miserable cur! How dare you lay a hand on her? Do you think I won’t make you pay for it?”
Geoffrey’s fury reached a breaking point. He lashed out wildly, the whip striking Isolde’s face, arms, and back.
Blood poured freely, blinding her, drenching her in crimson. Her body swayed, trembling on the edge of collapse, but still, she stood.
Slowly, she raised her head. Blood trickled into her mouth, and she licked it away with a cold, bitter smile.
Geoffrey raised his whip once more—but this time, Isolde caught it midair. He yanked it, but her grip held firm. Shock flickered across his face. “Unfilial wretch, release it!”
The whip’s steel thorns tore into her palm, blood spilling onto the floor, yet she refused to let go.
Her voice was steady, chillingly clear. “Twenty-five lashes. I’ve taken them all. The debt is paid. From this day forward, if you lay a hand on me or mine again, I swear on my life, I will burn this house to the ground.”
With that, she wrenched the whip from his grasp and stood tall, defiant, as blood dripped from her hands. The whip sliced through the air in a clean arc. With a flick of her wrist, it struck the stone table beside her. The solid table cracked clean in two with a thunderous sound, scattering fine dust that spiraled upwards before settling back to the ground.
Everyone stood rooted in stunned silence. Even Geoffrey was too shocked to speak. He had dismissed her as someone with only a few decorative tricks, never imagining her martial skills to be so devastating.
Isolde staggered, her body giving way. The world around her blurred and spun like a flickering lantern, the house tilting, and crimson whirlpools forming before her eyes. With a dull thud, she crumpled to the ground. “Mother… I can’t go on…” The words escaped her lips in a faint whisper before unconsciousness claimed her. Yet, even that frail murmur sent a tremor through Geoffrey’s heart.
Matilda quickly stepped forward and barked, “Someone, help Lady Isolde at once! If anyone dares to ask why she didn’t return last night, tell them it was all a misunderstanding.”
But the mention of her supposed elopement only stoked Geoffrey’s fury further, dousing whatever flicker of softness he’d momentarily felt. He cast a frigid glance at Isolde’s crumpled form.
“Call for a physician to treat her injuries,” he ordered coldly. “And have her examined. If she’s no longer pure, the engagement will be called off. Send her back to Windermount.”
A storm brewed in his chest, anger mingling with sorrow. She returned from the manor so well-behaved, so dutiful—how did things come to this? Killings on a whim, lashing out at others, and now, shamelessly running off with a man while engaged—she had utterly disgraced him.
The injured steward, struggling to his feet, bowed low despite his pain. “Yes, my lord,” he said, his voice trembling.
Geoffrey rounded on Matilda next, his anger unabated. “And you! As her mother, why didn’t you keep her in check? You knew she was associating with that scholar and yet said nothing to me!”
Matilda sighed deeply. “My lord, please, calm your anger. How was I to know it would come to this? I only thought their interaction was a bit close, not that they’d plan an elopement!”
Geoffrey’s expression darkened further. Fury erupted from him like a torrent. “Investigate! Now! Drag that scoundrel here, and I’ll beat him to death myself. Then send her off to a nunnery!”
The steward staggered upright and barked for the maids to carry Isolde back to her chambers. Eleanor trailed behind, her lips curling in disdain.
Standing over Isolde’s bloodied face, Eleanor sneered. “Do you truly think yourself a proper lady of noble birth? Pathetic. You aren’t even fit to carry my shoes.”
But before Eleanor could say more, a hand shot out and seized her by the throat. She barely had time to gasp before she was hurled onto the bed. Her breath vanished as if stolen, and her wide eyes locked on Isolde’s face. What she saw there turned her blood to ice—Isolde’s dark eyes glinted with venomous rage, and the blood dripping from her brow gave her the look of some vengeful specter. Panic clawed at Eleanor as the grip around her neck tightened. She thrashed, but no sound escaped her lips. Nearby, Jacqueline let out a shriek, but before she could act, Isolde flung a pillow with unnatural force. The seemingly harmless object struck Jacqueline square in the head, sending her crumbling to the floor, unconscious.
Eleanor had never felt such terror. It was as if Death himself had wrapped his hands around her. For one horrifying moment, she was certain her life was over.
When Isolde’s grip finally loosened, Eleanor collapsed, gasping for air. Her trembling body refused to obey her, and her pale face was slick with cold sweat. She stared at Isolde, her terror complete, unable to even muster the courage to speak.
Isolde’s voice cut through the air, soft and deadly. “Killing you would be no trouble at all.”
Eleanor shuddered, the words slicing into her like a blade. “What are you waiting for?” she finally croaked, her voice shaky. “Help me up!”
The maids, jolted from their paralysis, rushed forward to lift Eleanor to her feet. Her legs buckled beneath her as she fled, as if chased by an unseen specter.
Isolde stood motionless, her cold gaze fixed on Eleanor’s retreating figure. Once the room was empty, she dismissed the maids with a wave, leaving herself in the stifling silence of her chambers.