Musketeer's Daughter:Unanswered Riddle

Chapter 5: Message

She climbed it and the tree never complained as it became her arena once more. The branches graciously held her weight as she ran across them, leaping with ease from one twist to the other while she fought. Balance, agility, speed, keen sight, sharp hearing, anticipation, clarity of thought and a good meal . . . only then would her weapon serve her well.

By the time the sun kissed the western horizon, sweat plastered her clothes to her back. Her hair clung along her cheeks and her face clashed with the cool evening air. The sound of the little brook that ran through beckoned and she willingly complied.

Trembling with weakened legs from practice, Ysabeau trotted to the water. The chill in her palms made her sigh and she drank long and deep. When she was done, she wet her face and neck. Just when she reached for the clasp at her neck, longing to disrobe, a sound made her halt.

Though the sound was faint, nearly drowned by the liveliness of the brook, she still heard it. With stick in hand, Ysabeau rose to a crouch and moved over the little beach. The sound became clearer, like a lark that had broken its wing.

“Mon mère!” Ysabeau ducked behind a tree, her eyes watchful. Her mère gathered her skirts in her hands, picking wild berries, her voice low and sad as she sang. She always carried a tear in her eye, her voice sweet, yet sullen.

Ysabeau thought her beautiful with her long hair woven dark as midnight, eyes soft brown. Her name just as beautiful. “Marguerite,” Ysabeau whispered, haunted with the sorrows of her past. As a girl, Ysabeau often wondered about her mère’s face, it being a prohibited subject to broach. What had happened? Why did so many scars line her cheeks, her forehead where her eyebrows hid beneath the hair? She moved closer, fascinated with the unguarded moment.

Her mère paused, her fingertips grazing the cruel scars. She stepped as a cautious doe would toward the bank, and lowered to her knees. On her palms, she peered into the smooth surface where the brook pooled amidst a ring of rocks.

Taken aback by this particular piece of revelation, Ysabeau’s heart came to a standstill. To gaze upon one’s reflection was forbidden. Always. Now that she thought upon it, there was never a mirror during her childhood. Never. In fact, this was the first time she had seen her mère acknowledge the scars. Ysabeau stared for several moments, wondering what coursed through the woman’s mind.

Did her weeping every night of Ysabeau’s childhood have much to do with it? She recalled one evening in particular, how her mère lamented after drawing water. She did what any loving daughter would do, and ran to comfort her once upon returning home. Andrién closed the bedchamber[EM1]  door on her. Not unkindly, she could tell, for the sorrowful expression always painted his face.

“Not now,” he would say. It was always not now, so Ysabeau never discovered the reason for mère’s discontent.

“—stole my youth!”

Ysabeau blinked, instantly drawn to the present. Had her mère spoken? She crept forward, craning for a clearer view.

“How could you? How?” Her mère reached into the water, bringing in her fist black mud. “You ruined my life forever for a single night!”