The Damaged Bride

Chapter 11

As he reached the yard, Marcus could see three saddled horses milling riderless around the entrance, one of which he knew all too well. The stallion, with its flanks covered in whipping scars, could only belong to one man. Dismounting, he hurried into the hall to find out why O’Flagnery had returned when he had been told to never come back.

Entering, Marcus was confronted by two of O’Flagnery’s hired men barring the door. Hearing the sound of a fist hitting flesh followed by a female cry of pain, he shouldered his way past the thugs through the door.

Before him, Douglas O’Flagnery stood over the cringing figure of his granddaughter entangled in a tapestry, one fist wrapped in Bridgette’s hair, the other raised ready to strike.

“Where are they?” the old man demanded, punching her soundly across the face. “What did you do with them?”

“O’Flagnery!” Marcus yelled, grabbing the man’s raised bloody hand as he prepared to strike Bridgett again. “What in the hell do you think you are doing?”

Turning on him, Douglas pulled Bridgette off the floor by her hair.

“I am asking my sweet darling granddaughter what she has done with some things she stole from me yesterday,” he replied, spittle flying.

Marcus looked at his wife, seeing blood running from her nose and lip, a purple bruise spreading across her cheek.

“She is my wife now, not just your granddaughter,” Marcus replied, stepping forward, “and if anyone is going to beat her it will be me!”

Releasing Bridgette with a shove that sent her face first into the wall with a sickening thump, Douglas turned to stand toe to toe with Marcus leaving his granddaughter to slide down the wall.

“Then you beat the truth out of her,” he demanded, his yellow teeth flashing. “Make her return my property and I will leave.”

Kneeling down, Marcus took Bridgette by the shoulders, turning her to face him.

“Tell me the truth,” he said, his voice choked by the pain he saw in her face. “Have you taken anything that belonged to your grandfather?”

“No,” Bridgette said softly, looking up at him, her swollen eyes begging him for help. “I took nothing that belonged to my grandfather.”

“You lying little harlot,” Douglas yelled, kicking her in the leg.

Marcus stood, placing himself between grandfather and granddaughter.

“No!” he yelled at the older man.

“Did you take anything of this man’s?” he demanded of Bridgette over his shoulder. “As you husband I demand the truth.”

Praying for mercy, she shook her head slowly once more.

“No,” she said flatly, her strength ebbing. “I took nothing that belonged to him.”

Nodding, Marcus turned to Douglas.

“She said she took nothing of yours,” he said solemnly, “and as her husband it is up to me to determine if she is lying.

“I have no reason to distrust her,” he said looking down at Bridgette’s bruised and bloodied face.

“Now,” he continued, returning his gaze to the older man, “get out of my house.”

Douglass pointed a gnarled finger at him, then at Bridgett.

“You will regret this. Both of you,” he spat. “Mark my words, you will regret this.”

With that he turned on his heels and stormed out of the house, his men following close behind.

When the sound of hooves had faded to nothingness, Marcus turned back to Bridgette.

Blood was dripping from several splits in her swollen lips, her nose, and deep gash on her forehead where she’d been shoved into the wall. The deep crimson of it staining her bodice as she leaned against the wall. Her bruised cheek was beginning to swell significantly, turning an angry shade of purple.

He watched as she tried to get to her feet, but seemed unable to accomplish the task on her own.

“If you ever lie to me like you just lied to him, I will beat you,” he said, helping her to her feet.

“I didn’t lie,” Bridgette replied with a slur through swollen lips. “I said that I did not take anything that belonged to my grandfather, and I swear by God that is the truth.”