Musketeer's Daughter:Unanswered Riddle

Chapter 10: Riddle

She had no idea why her mère chose such a place to live. The trees here bowed with sadness, weeping heavy mosses that strung to the ground where the pond collected their tears with sickening green. As a little girl, she had imagined it as a place where faeries lived, but now, only demons could love such a place.

Ysabeau did not care how Dupré quaked through the night with his great hooves, nor did she bother to tether him. Andrién’s warning of hiding such a beast fluttered weak in her head and she dismissed it just as easily.

“Ma mère!” The door slammed open with a crack beneath her unforgiving fist. The house was small, cold, musty. No warmth resided here. Perhaps she was abed? Grumbling under her breath, she barged into the bedchamber. “Ma mère!” Nothing.

Where did that goat head to at this time of night? Her thoughts struggled to coalesce to a single form and then she remembered.

“The pond!”

Why the woman loved to torment herself by caterwauling after her reflection was ridiculous beyond reason. Ysabeau did not care. She would demand answers and not care what sort of tender emotions she would trample. For was it not Ysabeau’s feelings everyone else trampled?

Armed with righteous indignation, she broke through the marshes, her boots sludging through the disgusting green. Just as she predicted, Marguerite knelt with a lantern in her fist, keening at the scars her free hand stroked.

“Marguerite!” Ysabeau stepped through the cattails, filled with pious fury.

The woman whipped about, her gaze wide with fear. Her gown shown filmy white, damp from tears and sweat, her long black hair plastered to her body. She blinked hard, then narrowed her gaze as she lifted her light. “Ysabeau? Ysabeau?” Her eyes dropped down to Ysabeau’s boots, then back up to her chopped hair.

Ysabeau could see the anger surfacing quick, Marguerite’s gaze screwing tight. “Before you speak another word, mademoiselle, I demand to know why the King is determined to know of my death.” Her courage and wicked pleasure fed her blood and she grinned. “Your bastard child if you will.” Yes, it was a wild stab into the night saying it this way, but that is what Mathieu had believed, so why not bluff?

It was nothing like she expected, her mère’s reaction. In fact, Ysabeau had no idea what to expect, but not this . . .

Marguerite gasped, her eyes flew wide and she stumbled backward with a loud splash, her hands at her throat. An owl hooted and her head snapped into its direction, her jaw trembling. “The King?” Ysabeau saw her fists turn into hard knots of ivory. After several moments of heart-jolting terror that sunk into Ysabeau as well, her mère turned on her.

The woman bent at her waist, her eyes pinched with loathing. “What are you doing here, Ysabeau? Go back home to your Andrién, Mathieu.” Her voice was a hoarse grating.

This took Ysabeau by surprise, her sudden change of emotion, but she was not cowed. She stepped forward, her chin high. “No, Marguerite. What is it about the King that terrifies you so?”