Musketeer's Daughter:Unanswered Riddle

Chapter 43: Daughter

Ysabeau stared, incredulous, at Philippe. How she had been so awash with the man, she had forgotten life outside her fight. "You will not arrest me," she said, rising.

"Do not make me, for His Majesty watches."

But she did not care to see. She did glance down and found her sword. And here she thought it had landed in the water! If she should leave it, they would know it was Andrién. No! She could not do that, she could not implicate her père and have him arrested—possibly killed.

"I would not do that, if I were you."

Many more footsteps shuffled in around her and she saw musketeers surround her.

"Surrender. Now." Philippe lifted his sword.

Ysabeau footed her way closer to the sword. "I cannot, I am sorry." Tears streamed down her cheeks, mixing with the blood. She lunged for the sword, rolled along the ground, and lifted it along with the hat as he swung his weapon down upon her. His legs were open and she kicked into his knee. He cried out and swung again, and she jumped to her feet and parried.

The others stood at the ready, their swords gleaming cold in the moonlight.

"There is no way out, you must surrender."

Her heart crumbled. Did he not love her? Could he not spare her? She did not hesitate as she thrust her sword. On and on, they danced about the floating garden, the others stepping about, cautious, waiting for Philippe's signal. But he did not give it to them.

"Kill me then, Philippe, and you would have damned mon père for I fight with his sword."

"You are the one who damns him, monsieur." They moved close to the edge, the cold water lapping near. Philippe looked down with his eyes, but head high. "Surrender or I shall be forced to send you to your watery grave."

He called her monsieur! Her heart took wing with the insinuation of her escape. She understood. "I will never surrender!" She roared, raised her sword. Philippe kept his brow calm as he met her attack. They moved about, closer and closer to the edge. Ysabeau fought with the same skill, deflecting his blows with precision, though she became weak. The ledge taunted her at her heel. And she swung her weapon about, took a step back along with a deep silent breath, and plummeted.

The water swallowed her like a giant mouth of ice. It grabbed at her clothes and mocked her fatigue with cruelty. The moon overhead led the way in its silvery wake and she swam as fast, as hard as she could toward the barge. Not above the surface. Below. She must make it seem as if she had drowned.

With a quiet breath, she raised her head from the mossy green, her face coating with it, and watched. The pond was a perfect reflection of the bobbing lights and moving figures. Voices. They shouted. Someone retrieved her felled hat. More shouts. Water splashed as someone dove.

They were in search of her! She eased from the water and climbed over the edge, glad for the cover of night. In a coppice of thick trees, she stripped of her musketeer's clothes down to her bare skin—for there was no femme clothing beneath to hide her! Curse her poor planning by not leaving her shift beneath.

With her hand over her chest and her groin, she darted her way toward the château, leaving the clothing in a hollowed roots of the tree after covering it well with rocks and loose soil. Poor Mathieu would never see his uniform again. A sad smile dragged her spirits. Even in Heaven.

Glad for the secret passages and finding a sheet within—possibly abandoned by some fleeing mistress—she wrapped it about her and found her way to her apartments. After cleansing herself from blood and the pond's slime, she donned a red gown made of feathers and ribbon and black lace. The masquer and jewels coordinated beautifully along with the engagement ring.