Musketeer's Daughter:Unanswered Riddle

Chapter 5: Message

Ysabeau stiffened, wondering what it was she referred to. Single night? Stolen youth? How does one steal youth in a single night? If that was what she meant. But that did not explain the lines on her face. Her mère had them always—Andrién loved her the same, so the thought to ask never occurred.

Until the day Ysabeau turned nine. She had become obsessed with a certain boy in town, but he shunned her; declaring that one day Ysabeau would look as ugly and as scarred as her mère. It hit her like a heavy branch. Her mère, ugly? Scarred? So those were scars? She fingered her own face, silken smooth.

“I have lost him! I have lost the only one who ever loved me!”

Ysabeau slid closer, the fauna hiding her well. Her heart quaked, her breath bated. Closer still. Her foot slipped and made a splash. A small one. It could have been a fish, really. She swore. Stealth was something she lacked no matter the amount of time she practiced.

Marguerite lifted a streaked face, her eyes the size of the twin moons. “Who goes?” She trembled, her fists under her chin. “Hello?” Foot behind foot, she backed away, her skirt caught beneath. With a loud wail, her foot tangled and down she crashed.

Legs flexing and ready to rise, Ysabeau checked herself. No, that would be most unwise. Marguerite would fly into a rage—beat her if she were not afraid of Ysabeau.

Without another word, Marguerite twisted in place and sprang away, reminding Ysabeau of a frightened rabbit.

“Mon mère,” Ysabeau whispered, moisture filling her eyes. She had no idea the pain her mère endured. How long and since when? Would it be a mistake to go after her? Ysabeau took a step forward, tossing her cassock over her shoulder with purpose.

She was owed answers. Too many things secret and too many things transpired. From Ysabeau’s strange dreams that often left Marguerite trembling and pale, to the wretched scars on her face, to the cruel and unexpected abandonment. How could a mother leave her two children and a loving husband, and remain in a cottage unfit for the filthiest of rats? Better yet, how could Andrién . . .

“I want answers.” Clamping her hands and lifting her chin, Ysabeau marched forward, determined.

A rough hand clutched her shoulder. Instinctively, she dropped to her knees and kicked the assaulter’s knee. A move no one would ever expect. The man howled, fell into a pathetic heap, cradling his leg. It wasn’t until she pressed her knee into his back—

“Mathieu?” She stepped off him and eased him to his side. “Oh, I am so sorry. Are you hurt?” Concern washed through her as she probed his joint. “I am so very sorry.”

“You could have warned me first!” he groaned through his teeth.

She crossed her arms and glared. “I agree.”

Tears watered his cheeks and he dropped his head. “You are cruel and merciless.”

She stiffened, wanting to hurt him again. “I am a warrior.”

“You are a girl. Girls do not fight for the King.”

“And I shall prove you wrong.”

“No, wait—Ysabeau!”

She paused this time, huffed, and turned on her toe. Her brow rose, impatient.

“What are you doing here?” He eased to his palms and knees, grunting.

“I could ask you the same.” Ysabeau tapped the ground and gripped the hilt of her stick.

Mathieu wobbled to his feet with an amused grin. “I came looking for you.” He winked.

She did not know whether to be affronted by his intrusion. “What is it this time? As you can plainly see,” she extended her arm, “there are no drunken men to slay.”

His expression darkened. “No, but there is a woman.”

Ysabeau felt a flash of anger dart through her. “How long were you spying?”

“Yes, how long?” He stepped forward, his jaw hard.

She was not afraid. “This is my life to live and there is no place for you in it.”

Mathieu stopped, laced his hands above his head with a huff. “How long are you going to hold that grudge?”

“For as long as it takes!” She marched up to him, slamming him aside with her shoulder, and continued from the meadow toward the stable.

“If you are looking for Dupré, you will not find him.”

“What?” She spun around, so wanting to best him.

“I released him. He is on his way back.”

“Mathieu!” Ysabeau shouted.

But there was no smug expression on his face. “You will thank me later.”

“Dream on.” The distance did not deter her. Traveling by foot would give her much time for thought and muscle toning.

“Ysabeau!” Mathieu darted after her. “For once,” he said, exasperated, “do not walk away. There is a missive for you—it awaits you at home.”

She glared at him, pausing in her tracks. “You jest.”

“No,” he said, a light in his eyes reflecting a hidden fear. “It is from Papa.”

 [EM1]Is this word suitable or is it old fashioned for this era?