Brocade Series 02 - Giselle (39 page)

Blackness was closing in
. She could hear the jingle of the horse harness as the soldiers left with their captive as silently as
they’d appeared. There was a familiar tingle at her fingertips. Her nose.

She only wished she’d lost consciousness before she saw
Navarre’s look of horror.

“Be still,
Mademoiselle
Patrice
,
or I won’t be able to finish.”

Giselle sat as stiffly as possible, obeying Sister Evangeline’s words
. The sister was preparing Giselle’s hair for what would have been the
ultimate sacrifice just five short months earlier.

Shaving the scalp was a ritual Giselle
knew she’d face eventually.
It was a small thing, really, but vanity was such a curse. She tried to pretend it didn’t matter, and after a few moments, she felt it was true. She may
have been called a beauty in her past life, but
no one would think so now. Not with her hair thick with dark fluid.

It didn’t matter, yet tears pricked at her eyes
. How odd. She thought she
was done with tears as she felt the familiar burning sensation behind
her eyelids.

“
I have something for you,
Mademoiselle.”

Giselle looked up from contemplation of her ragged fingernails
and met Sister Evangeline’s glance in the mirror. The Sister smiled
and Giselle returned it, fighting the impulse to cry, instead.

“My mother gave this to me the night before I took my vows
. She said it would give me something to think about during the long night ahead.”

Sister Evangeline didn’t have to explain
. Giselle knew she was
expected to spend the time praying. After fasting for two days and
nights, she was to make certain of her commitment before dawn.

Sister Evangeline reminded Giselle a bit of Louisa
. She held out a book. It was a slender volume and Giselle stiffened at the title —
Sonnets of Love.

Love
?

There was no such thing.

“Merci,
Sister.” She accepted the book, and not one inflection betrayed anything.

“I’ll be right outside,
Mademoiselle
Patrice
.
If you have need of
anything, just call.”

“
Thank you.”

Giselle watched the door shut softly behind Sister Evangeline
. Everything the nuns did was soft and muted. Quiet. Unobtrusive. As if
they weren’t truly living life, just existing through it.

Such thoughts wouldn’t serve her now
. Giselle had to staunch
them. She looked at the volume in her hands, turning it over at length and wondered if she had the courage to read even a little.

She opened the cover and read the inscription —
To my love,
my Evangeline.

Giselle fought the urge to put the book down, and looked at the
door instead. It seemed Sister Evangeline had turned her back on
love, too. Giselle wondered why she was surprised. She dropped her eyes and read.

Pen was ne’er touched to page,
With more love than I gave!

My spirit trembles, and yet…. Nothing stops the dawn from coming,
The past from rushing in. I am dead….
For I ne’ermore live.

Giselle didn’t need such sentimentality now. She already
made her choice.
Navarre!

Giselle wrapped
her arms around herself to stave off the agony. She wasn’t going to cry. She mustn’t cry. She had to be stronger than this!

Tears serve
d no purpose. The baby was not hers to mourn. And Navarre had never been hers
. It was now a fact. He was as far away as the stars themselves.

I m
ustn’t cry!

She lost Navarre the moment she lost the child. Or, p
erhaps it was sooner than that — it may have been when he told
Etienne the news.

What did it matter when
? It still happened. Giselle couldn’t afford
to give in to the emotions. She had to stop any tears.
It couldn’t possibly matter when—
It matters when
. It does.

The little book slid from her fingers
as she knelt on the cold stone, bending to touch her forehead to it. She was aching to make the coldness one with her heart, and yet knew she’d fail before she even started.

Navarre!

Giselle’s hands splayed onto the floor, pressing so hard against
the unbending surface that she tore the skin. She ignored the pain.

“Don’t leave me to this,
Mon Dieu!
Please?”

Giselle raised
her face, looking over a ceiling spliced with one narrow
beam. Nothing else. No answer came. Because she didn’t deserve one.

God had deserted her
. He wasn’t there when
Navarre was summoned to Versailles. He hadn’t listened to Giselle’s prayers when
Mademoiselle
Charmaine had visited for Christmas, laughing and chatting with the residents about her upcoming
betrothal – or perhaps, what was really a renewed betrothal – all about how well all the
duchesse’s
jewels were going to look on her. God wasn’t listening to any of Giselle’s pleas, and it was time to look at why.

She was a sinner
. Unworthy. Unloved. And exactly what Charmaine said - unwanted.

I
mustn’t do this! Not again!

Giselle had
made the decision the following morning, Christmas day,
allowing only Isabelle to help her escape Chateau Berchand’s walls. Louisa would never
have let her go. She’d have informed the new duc, and Giselle couldn’t have stood it. She couldn’t see standing in the shadows watching Navarre. Knowing that when he went to his chamber, he’d be loving his wife. Charmaine. His body against hers. In that enormous bed…

“Forgive me, Father….”

She put her mind back on her vows. In very few hours, she’d no longer have a
right to such thoughts. No more jealousy could taint her heart. Because God would know she was lying again.

“…for I have sinned.”

Giselle’s whisper broke as tears flooded
her eyes, and she stifled the horror inside herself.

I mustn’t cry. I mustn’t cry!

“Dear God, my baby
! Why did You have to take the baby?
He was an innocent, and I would have given anything for him. Anything!”

The walls were deaf
, too. Still, Giselle glared
at them. Sister Evangeline should have
already shaved her hair. Then, she wouldn’t be able to pull at it in anguish
, staring blindly at the strands of white in her fingers. That was amusing. Briefly. Giselle had pulled enough hair out, she might not even look freakish, anymore. S
oon it wouldn’t matter, anyway.
Nothing would.

What did that poem say
again?
Something about no longer living?

Giselle retrieved the book and sat at the edge of the cot
to read it. She’d been given a book of heart-felt love sonnets. Tonight. As if words could replace it.
She’d tasted such love. Tasted it, and then lost it. Perhaps this book was part of her penance.

I cannot live without love,
There are not days enough….

To hold my sorrow
.

Giselle slammed the book shut as a vision of Navarre’s features
overwhelmed her, making her stomach ache with the force of her
sobs. She no longer cared if Sister Evangeline heard.

If only
Marguerite had acted sooner, then none of this would have happened.

Gis
elle held the book to her breast for a bit. She was lying to herself. She was trying to turn her pain and hate onto Marguerite. I
t was a useless gesture, and she knew it. Marguerite was the one who’d gained justice. The one who’d sentenced her most beloved son to the Bastille. An unnamed prisoner. A life sentence. Without possibility of freedom. Forgotten.

Oh…if only she’d done it sooner
! If only Navarre didn’t blame
himself! If only….

The candlelight sputtered to the base
. Giselle glanced at it. She had
little light left. She wouldn’t ask for more candles, however. She
learned her lesson the first night here.

“Candle wax costs francs, dear
Mademoiselle
Patrice
,
and it’s an
expense the convent can’t sustain.
I’m
sorry,” the nun had said.

Yes, they were sorry, but that didn
’t make it easier. Nothing
ever would. Because Giselle didn’t regret Etienne’s death. That sin couldn’t be repented. It wasn’t forgivable. And there wasn’t anywhere to hide from it.

The darkness
made it all worse. Giselle watched the candle sputtering
with anxiety. She was afraid. So afraid.
Louisa had been wrong, after all. Giselle was a coward. B
ut in the dark, with nothing to look at, the memories were worse
than unbearable. They were excruciating. God knew it, too. Giselle suspected it was her
punishment.

The candle sputtered again, the flicker warning her as it
wallowed in the melted wax.

“Not yet!” Giselle crouched beside that tiny bit of light
. “I’m so
frightened!
Mon Dieu.
I’m so frightened.”

She cupped her hands about the flame, helping it live for a
little longer.

“No!”

Her cry echoed after the light died, and she crept
to her cot by touching the wall for guidance.

There could be nothing worse than complete darkness
. It was
a darkness even prayers couldn’t penetrate. Darkness that made
Navarre seem so close.
Her eyes refused to cooperate. Giselle kept drying them on her
blanket, vowing she was done with tears. Tears were for the weak of heart. She had to be stronger than that.

I mustn
’t cry!
Nothing on
earth is worth such tears.

~

“You cry,
ma petit?!
How many times must I beg you not to
cry? It makes my own heart ache and my eyes fill. What? You
don’t believe me?”

Navarre smiled at her, warming the air around her until the
blanket seemed unnecessary even in the cold, tiny room.

“
How you’ve changed, little one,” he told her. “In the span of less than
a year,
I’d
hardly recognize my shy beauty from Antilli.”

“Navarre,
I’m
so sorry about the baby. So very sorry.”

His hand caressed her face, thrilling her as his fingers touched
her throat and chin. And then he spoke.

“It’s no matter, Giselle.
Really. Because I hated it.”

~

“You’re ready,
Mademoiselle
Patrice
?”

“I’m not sure.”

Giselle whispered it to her reflection and
waited for it to answer. She hadn’t slept. It would have been
impossible to sleep.

Oh
, why do I keep lying to myself?

She woke with the bells
, her body so tightly wrapped
in her thin blanket she had to stand in order to unwind it. She was bathed in sweat, too. It took most of her cold water to wash it off.

“I
’
ve brought the razor and strop,
Mademoiselle.”

Razor
?

Oh yes
. She
remembered. She was having her head shaved. Because today she was joining the sisters of one of the largest convents in all of France. That is what she was doing. Because that’s what she wanted.

“Come in, Sister,” she said. “
I am ready.”

Giselle hadn’t had access to pincers like the ones Isabelle had
once used on her, and her eyebrows no longer arched as subtly as
they used to. Her complexion would give Louisa fits if she saw it,
but that didn’t matter. Mottled red spots covered her forehead, and
deep circles were all about her eyes. It was a good thing she was sealing herself where no man would see her again. Even Navarre wouldn’t think her a beauty anymore.

Oh, why did
she have to think of him? Wasn’t it enough torment to have her dreams filled with him until even the hint of darkness made her heart pound in fear? Did the loss have to extend to every waking hour, as well?