It was said that Pascal's landlord, the fat knight Renier de Champcevinel, had two daughters. Agnes, the daughter of his second wife, could readily be seen around the manor, at festivals, or being courted by minor gentry from other villages. She was fourteen, wore her golden hair in long braids, and had an easy smile.
The knight's first daughter, the eldest, was only spoken of in whispers, and had been for so long that many said she did not exist, or had died at birth, or had long since been delivered to a convent. Others whispered a fantastic story—that she was a hideous monster, a thing of the devil, and was kept imprisoned in the high-walled garden behind the manor house. Her name was Isabel, and she was two years older than Agnes, if she was alive at all. Isabel's mother, the knight's first wife, had died in childbirth.
On his first day carrying water to the manor house, Pascal was determined to have a glimpse of the monster in the garden.
Pascal's back groaned under the weight of the wooden staff across his shoulders and the heavy, sloshing buckets at either end. The buckets were sealed with wooden lids, but water leaked out around the edges. He had to bring them uphill from the village well to the knight's house. He was now fifteen years old, and this meant he had just inherited the unpleasant morning task from his older brother.
Pascal's family belonged to the manor, which meant they served whatever minor vassal the distant Count decided to endow with the land. The Count's family had granted and withdrawn this land for generations, as vassals rose and fell in favor, but the arrivals and departures of lords meant little to the families who were bound to the land.
Pascal had never ventured far from the cottage where he was born. Neither had his parents, nor his grandparents. Serfs were not permitted to travel, and in any case the world outside the lord's protection was much too dangerous without a horse and sword. Pascal's family owned no such wealth.
He staggered to the kitchen entrance, as his brother had instructed him, and emptied the buckets into a barrel. The three women of the kitchen staff paid him no attention, and he hurried away with his empty buckets.
He should have hurried downhill, left the buckets at home, and gone to help his father and brothers dig the new irrigation ditch, but Pascal wanted to see the monster. He continued around the back of the house and saw the high, uneven stone wall, shaggy with vines. The garden was enclosed by three stone walls, the fourth wall being the house itself. Pascal approached it slowly, glancing at the rear windows of the main house to check whether anyone was watching.
He set down the buckets and staff, wiped his sweaty face on his sleeve, and put his ear to the rock wall. The stones felt cool against his cheek.
Pascal could hear the sounds of quiet rustling behind the wall, but he couldn't be sure whether they were man or beast. He walked the perimeter of the wall, searching for a crack or a hole through which he could peer. On the wall opposite the house, he did find a crack large enough to admit a little light from inside the garden, and a view of blossoming irises, but that was all.
He tapped on the wall.
“Is anyone there?” Pascal whispered.
The handful of flowers in his view shook, and then he heard a deep, angry growl. The monster. Pascal stumbled backward, tripped over a bucket, and landed in the dirt. He looked to the uneven ridge of stones at the top of the wall, expecting to see a horrible beast leaping down on him, but there was only vines and moss and the endless summer sky above.
The growling and snarling grew louder, and he scrambled to regain his feet. Pascal hurried downhill, not stopping to grab his empty buckets. The rumors must be true, he thought. An unholy monster lived in the garden.