Musketeer's Daughter:Unanswered Riddle

Chapter 53: Surrounded

Shouts. The sound of a thousand drums. Swords singing in the air. More. More soldiers charged through the echoing corridors.

Philippe set Ysabeau down and pushed forward, his arm out in a protective barricade. "Stay behind me, ma chérie."

"No," she whispered, feeling her face crumple, more tears leaking hot. "I shall not lose another love." With a shout, she sliced at her skirts and shredded them away as well as the sleeves. "I will not lose you, Philippe!"

Ysabeau kicked her shoes off and leaped over the candelabra, her sword lashing high overhead and met with a harsh clang the sword of the first who entered. The man growled, and raised his foot to kick her. Ysabeau cleared his assault with an easy leap, kicking his face away at the same time.

Philippe joined her at her side, his excellent swordsmanship one to be admired. He was as graceful, as limber and swift as she could ever dream. With a smile in her heart, she welcomed her next kill.

On, they both fought, bodies falling away, yet more came. Ysabeau's loud breaths burned her lungs, and her knees quivered with weakness.

"There are too many!" she cried.

Just then, a man came from nowhere, his sword coming straight at her. Oh, she saw it. The slow ascent of the already-bloodied blade. It sang through the air, but she was not fast enough as her momentum slowed. An excruciating slice through her gut and she screamed. Her sword flew and she lost her footing.

She blinked. Philippe, with back to her, fought on as the brave Garde de la Manche he was and she expected nothing less. He paused as if she had called his name, and turned to her. The motion of his lips formed her name, but the shrill echoes in her head deafened all sound.

Again, he shouted, his face quivering with his effort. A sword sliced forward and Ysabeau's eyes widened, he spun around and parried it. With deft movements, he slayed the attacker and ran for her. Philippe dropped to his knees, his sword out to hold the flooding soldiers at bay.

Ysabeau's lips curled into a soft grin and she blinked. Her heart full. "Together, we die, mon amour."

But he did not hear, he continued shouting, his sword protective above as the room became inundated with the Queen's garde. Ysabeau heard something else and tried to move, but Philippe's gentle hand covered her chest. What she heard was silence and suddenly, the garde parted. In the midst of the parting, stood the Queen-Mother.

Philippe froze, dropped his sword in surrender, and raised his hands. Ysabeau lifted her sword, but it trembled.

"As good as dead, yet, you struggle to lift your knife?" Catherine smirked as she sashayed closer, her haughty gaze assessing. "As I have said before, you would have made a wonderful addition to my Squadron, it is most unfortunate that you must be killed." She lifted her chin, nodded at the nearest swordsman, and moved toward the portal.

Before Philippe could attack, the man kicked his sword aside with a derisive chortle and disarmed Ysabeau who could no longer defend.

"Philippe!" Ysabeau clutched him to her, and he lowered his mouth to hers. "I love you."

"And I you, Ysabeau, mon amour."

Death was cold, black, terrifying. Yet, it was warm, light and welcoming. She had done what she had set out to do and accomplished far more than she ever dreamed possible. With love at her side—

"Now, you die," the executioner said. His boots clicked on the stones of the floor, the sword making that familiar metallic sigh . . .

Ysabeau deepened her kiss with much fervor, finding joy in the simple touch of Philippe. They clutched one another, bracing for imminent death, yet drowning it out with each other's love.

A clear bellow split the air, the sound of rumbling feet quaked the floor. Ysabeau turned from surprise, Philippe following. The executioner paused.

"Do it, now!" Catherine shrieked.

The man snarled, swung his sword with a quick slash of light. Philippe tossed his body over Ysabeau, his arms squeezing her to him and she whimpered as she dug her nails into the warmth of his beautiful flesh. She waited for his weight, for the agony to thrust into her body. Rather, the buffeting of a flutter through the air and weighty thud sounded.

"In the name of His Majesty the King, you are ordered to stand down!" The voice authoritative, strong, divine.

"Andrién," Ysabeau whispered. Never a more beautiful sound in her life and she smiled. Her inside became liquid as they quivered from painful relief. She clutched Philippe to her and wept.

The Garde du Corps marched with swiftness into the room, their beautiful colors of black eating away the horrible colors of the Queen. Philippe eased his hands beneath Ysabeau and she braced for the searing pain that would come when he lifted. After the lancing heat ebbed, she held tight to him and rested her ear to his heart. The Queen's garde dropped their weapons in one accord and the bodies parted as someone stepped through.

"The King demands your presence, Your Majesty." Andrién did not bow, but glared down his nose at her. Catherine's face pinched, and like a specter, floated from the chamber, her men following in stark silence. Andrién lifted his shining face, and smiled. "Ysabeau, well done."

"It is about time you free yourself from the prison and did something useful for once," Philippe scolded.

Someone moved beside Andrién and Ysabeau's heart lurched. The face lifted, a trembling smile breaking over her belle face. "Ma mère?" Ysabeau's joy was complete. "I thought, I thought . . ." Blackness threatened and lethargy made her limp.

"Ysabeau!" Marguerite lifted her skirts and rushed forward. "I was terrified for you and prayed with every bit of my soul. Thank the Lord you are alive."

"Just," Philippe indicated the wound at her side.

The two femmes stilled, studying one another's wounds. "He really hurt you, the blackguard." Ysabeau skimmed her fingertips along the cuts and bruises that sealed Marguerite's eye closed.

"And you, petit fille? Come, let us take her to the royal physicians."