Musketeer's Daughter:Unanswered Riddle

Chapter 7: Unexpected

Needless to say, Ysabeau lost much sleep that night. Mathieu’s cruel words ran wild chases inside her head. Her emotions tangled with the new ideas he mentioned until she could no longer lay still.

She bolted upright, hot tears still running down her cheek like many spiders.

It was true, what he said. She had finished the missive and discovered it. Andrién wanted her to dress in women’s garb and not just any garb, but the garb of ladies of the court. How he procured it, she had no inkling other than Mathieu’s said mistress and she refused to entertain the idea of Andrién’s loose morals. What made troubles worse; she was to mingle with the courtiers alongside Andrién as his niece. His niece! Why ever not as his daughter? Was his shame of her so great that he felt it necessary to cloak her true identity?

Her mind flitted to Mathieu’s enigmatic declaration of non-relation. Which recent discoveries had he made? How had he made them? She knew him well enough to know that he would not say such things in jest, and yet  . . . Ysabeau clambered from bed, worrying her lip between her teeth. Mathieu was a hothead, an imbecile—what did he know of dark secrets, pain, survival? He was pampered from the day he was born. She stared at the fine grains on her door, her fist aching.

Her thoughts took a sharp turn, she grazed her parted lips with a fingertip at the thought of his near kiss. How her heart fluttered in her chest! Hope, hot and furious, sparked. Though she bore anger for him from his thoughtless ranting, she could not hold still the budding thrill of anticipation. If what he said was true, would there ever be a chance to love anon?

The voices within her head disquieted her and she cried out. “You stupid, stupid fille!” Yes, she called herself a fille. She deserved such for entertaining aforementioned nonsense. Perhaps he deceived her so as to cause her further agony? Ysabeau pressed her back to the door and slid down, aware how the rough wood snared her chemise. The sharp prickles reminded her of her foolishness in ever finding Mathieu striking. “He was just trying to trick you, to hurt you for whatever reason he holds.”

What advantage would he gain if she but allowed her heart to indulge his once more? She closed her eyes and recalled his bearing as he hovered close; his eyes upon her lips, his mouth near. Again, her heart answered with a strong beat.

“Shut up, you betrayer.” She pressed her fist into her chest, angry at her raw instinct. It was not like Mathieu to jest about matters of the heart, but quite like him to taunt her emotions until nothing remained other than withered husks of bitterness.

Ysabeau rolled to her feet, her nail between her teeth. If a simpleton such as Mathieu could stumble across such a secret, it would be just as easy a task for her as well. She would find out if there was truth to his words.

She slowed in her pace, suddenly disgusted. Why? Why did she desire to disprove their relation? So that, what, they would wed? A dry, explosive laughter tore from her throat. No, there was something deeper, darker . . . menacing. If it was true, then that meant Andrién lied. Her mère lied. Everyone hid something, and she did not know how deep, how far, or how wide it ran.

Where to begin, where? The birth records were not for the likes of her at the church. Any communication between the couriers and Andrién were either burnt, or locked tight somewhere secret. Her mère would never tell her a thing, even if she came upon her with swords blazing.