The Swardswoman's Revenge: Story after Rebirth

Chapter 8: The Marshal

Matilda’s fury flared as she shot a sharp glare at Anne. “Why are you still standing there? Fetch the doctor! Or are you planning to let Mary bleed to death?”

As if on cue, the doctor arrived. Imogen led a thin, middle-aged man into the courtyard. He was dressed in a plain gray coat, a leather medical kit slung over his shoulder, sweat beading on his brow. At the sight of Mary, he gasped. “These injuries… they’re severe!”

“She’s not your patient,” Isolde said coldly. “You’re here to treat the girl inside.”

The doctor hesitated, finally noticing the strange tension in the courtyard. But experience had taught him to keep silent—houses like this always hid unsettling secrets. Under Isolde’s watchful eye, Imogen led the doctor inside to tend to Helena.

The poison, Painroot Extract, was not difficult to neutralize. A few needles to stimulate key pressure points and two doses of pills were enough to cure it.

When the doctor emerged, Isolde took a pouch from her sleeve and tossed it to him. “You’re done. You may leave.”

He caught the payment and turned to go, but Matilda stepped forward, blocking his path. “Wait! Treat her wounds before you leave.”

The doctor glanced nervously at Mary, but before he could move, a whip cracked through the air, its sharp snap stopping him in his tracks. “No one touches her,” Isolde declared, her voice icy and firm.

The doctor froze, his gaze flickering to Isolde’s cold, unyielding expression. Trembling, he waved his hands as if to excuse himself and quickly left.

“You’re out of your mind!” Matilda burst out. “You had the doctor here and refused his help? Do you really mean to let her die? If she dies, you’ll be charged with murder. You won’t escape the consequences!”

Isolde responded with a faint, indifferent smile. “Let them come.”

From that moment, anyone who tried to approach Mary found themselves met with the crack of Isolde’s whip. Only when Mary’s labored breathing began to falter completely did Isolde rise from her seat and walk away.

She knew one truth well: to show mercy to your enemies is to be cruel to yourself. She also understood that Matilda had not ordered the poisoning. This had been Mary’s own scheme, and precisely because it was her doing, Isolde had dealt with her so decisively. Taking orders might excuse certain actions, but deliberately poisoning one’s mistress—especially with Painroot Extract—was a grave offense. The pain alone could drive someone to bite their tongue or dash their head against the wall. Were it not for Isolde sealing Helena’s pressure points, the girl likely would not have survived.

As she looked at Helena’s pale face, Isolde’s mind began to turn. Mary was dead—why not seize the opportunity?

She turned slowly, her gaze locking onto Matilda’s with icy determination. A cruel smile played on her lips. “How fortunate for me—truly, the heavens are on my side. Mother, you had Mary poison my food in an attempt to kill me. If this reaches the High Court of Parliament, what will people think? That you tried to eliminate me for the sake of Eleanor? Even William wouldn’t dare marry her after such a scandal. So, I must thank you, Mother, for doing me such a favor.”

Matilda’s face paled, but a flash of malice lit her eyes. She clenched her teeth and shouted, “Guards! Seize Miss Langley! And throw out all the food in the inner rooms!”

“Mother, save your energy. Do you really think these men are a match for me?” Isolde smirked, sinking back into her chair. Her cold, disdainful gaze swept over the guards, restless yet hesitant to act.

The butler leaned closer to Matilda, his voice low and urgent. “Madam, we can’t leave the food untouched. Mary is dead—she was your agent. Even if you didn’t order the poisoning, the blame will still fall on you. Now’s the time to act. Duke Langley is at court.” He added, “Call for Marshal Blackwell. Let him subdue her, and we can dispose of the food. Frankly, none of our men are capable of handling her.”

Matilda frowned, torn. Bringing her brother into the estate’s private affairs would raise eyebrows and hurt her reputation. The butler read her hesitation and pressed on. “Say Marshal Blackwell and Miss Blackwell came to visit and happened upon the scene. They stopped Miss Langley from committing murder. As for the poisoning, she has no proof. When Duke Langley returns, do you think he’ll believe her over Marshal Blackwell?”

Matilda exhaled, then nodded. “Do it. Bring Marshal Blackwell and Eleanor here at once.”

The butler scurried off, and Isolde allowed herself a small smile. Her plan was unfolding exactly as she’d hoped.

The Marshal’s estate was only three streets away. Milton and his daughter, Eleanor, arrived swiftly. Milton, once a junior officer at the court, had risen through the ranks on the strength of his battlefield achievements. His service had elevated Matilda from a concubine to the estate’s mistress, a rare privilege granted only to families who had rendered significant service to the crown.

Tall and broad-shouldered, Milton cut an imposing figure in his green brocade robe, a sword at his side. His face seemed open and honest, but those who knew him understood he was a cunning and ruthless man, showing no mercy—even to those who surrendered.

Isolde knew this well. In the past, she had faced him on the battlefield. He was reckless, glory-hungry, and ambitious, much like William. But unlike William’s hollow bravado, Milton had the skill to back his ambition. Her mentor had fallen victim to Milton’s treachery: a forged letter ruined his reputation, and a single arrow pierced his heart. Isolde had witnessed it all, powerless to act.

Now, Milton strode into the house, his sharp eyes falling on Mary’s lifeless body. He feigned shock, though the glint in his gaze betrayed his calculating nature.

Slowly, he unsheathed his sword. “Isolde, did you kill her?” he asked, his tone heavy with mock incredulity, as if murder were unthinkable.

“Brother!” Matilda interrupted, her composure easing at his arrival. She lowered her voice. “Seize her now. The food inside must be dealt with immediately.”

Eleanor gasped at the sight of Mary’s body, retreating behind her father. But her eyes gleamed with malice as she cried out, “Father, Isolde has killed someone! She’s gone mad—she might harm Aunt next! Stop her before it’s too late!”

Isolde stood calmly, her fingers brushing the engraved name on her whip: Isolde, My child. My dear mentor, she thought, I failed you in my last life, but this time, none of them will escape justice—not Milton, not the Blackwells.

Milton’s voice broke the silence. “Isolde, I’m your uncle. I can’t stand by and watch you commit such a heinous act. How will I explain this to your father?”

“Spare me your lectures,” Isolde replied coolly. “My father is alive and well. What gives you the right to interfere in the affairs of my family?”

Milton tossed his sword aside and stepped forward. He had heard the butler’s warnings about her sword-fighting skills. But in his mind, a young woman raised in the countryside might have some strength and a bit of training, but surely nothing more. However, Milton wasn’t surprised the Duke’s people couldn’t take her down. Honestly, everyone in that house was a bunch of spineless, good-for-nothing losers.