Musketeer's Daughter:Unanswered Riddle

Chapter 35: Gone

Lost in dreadful thought, Ysabeau trudged from the hut to Dupré who waited in the decrepit stable fit for a single horse. The air was hazy with a charred smell and she lifted her gaze after leading her destrier out.

The sky was tinged with orange, and off to the northeastern skies above the treetops, appeared a column of shadowy clouds.

"What do you suppose . . ." Her heart iced and she no longer entertained her thought but became one with her purpose as she flew upon the destrier's back and hurtled through the swamp, leaving a wake of squeaking fowls. "Please do not let it be, do not let it be!"

Several moments later, the smoke intensified the closer she drew home and her skin prickled at the sight. The stables billowed with floating ash, fire licked the roof and horses scampered.

"Mathieu!" she screamed, launching from Dupré before he could stop. She whipped her sword out and ran for the stables. Philippe's horse blared, charging from around the back. "Philippe?" Her heart found joy and renew purpose invigorated her limps.

She glanced at the manor and from what she could see, all appeared well.

"Mathieu!" It was oddly silent. Beside the conservatory and behind the stables, Philippe lay sprawled against the wall, clutching his side. He face pale and beaded with glistening moisture. His hat quivered in the breeze. "Philippe! What has happened?"

He angled his chin aside. "He needs you more," he managed to grunt.

There, face down with one arm bent under and the other still grasping a sword, lay Mathieu. A pool of blood bloomed darkly beneath.

"No! Mathieu!" She shrieked, dropped her sword, and fell to her knees. "Mathieu?" He was a gentle soul, loving and kind. What ill caused this? Ysabeau eased her knees under his head so as to grant him comfort from the grass thick with ash. She turned to Philippe, his sword beside him stained with blood. "What have you done? You know he is no match for you! What have you done?"

Mathieu groaned and she forgot Philippe and gazed at Mathieu, tears washing his face from her vision. "Dearest, sweet frère. I am sorry about everything. For betraying you, for hurting you. Please, please do not leave. Mathieu!"

His lashes fluttered, throat flashed, and he trembled. "Ysabeau? Is that you? Why is it so . . . dark?"

"No, please. Here." She ripped the cassock from her body and fanned it in the air. It settled, gentle and complete, upon his body. "You are cold, Mathieu."

"Is—is Philippe still—" a bout of throaty coughs cut his words clean.

"Yes, the blackguard is still here. Shall I run him through for you?" His forehead shined with a thick cover of sweat. Black streaks chalked his face and clothes, white ash floated, settling upon his hair.

He shook his head with an agonizing groan.

"You are not fit enough to speak. Hush, frère, do not make a sound. I will take care of the scoundrel."