Brocade Series 02 - Giselle

by Jackie Ivie

  Esmee’s reaction was close to a scream, while Giselle sat as straight as possible and continued her steady regard of Jean-Claude.

  “Perhaps I could use a drink, too. Jean-Claude?”

  Giselle was still watching Jean-Claude. That’s how she knew Marguerite accepted a goblet from him with hand that visibly shook. And even to Giselle’s untrained eye, it looked like their mother cringed from him. That was surprising.

  There wasn’t a servant in the room to open the door when Louisa knocked, so Giselle gestured Esmee to do it. She smiled at the other’s bad grace.

  “You have news?” Esmee asked her question from around the door.

  “Yes, tell us this news and get it over with.”

  Jean-Claude downed his third glass of wine nonchalantly as if they were attending a party.

  “Begging you pardon, but my message is for the duchesse only,” Louisa slid past Esmee and into the room.

  Giselle stood quickly, feeling sudden terror fill her. Etienne couldn’t be dead! She refused to think it. Etienne’s death would leave Jean-Claude as the head of the family. And now she knew why everyone feared that.

  “What’s the message, Louisa?” Giselle felt the other Berchalds gather at her back.

  “It’s not good, Giselle.”

  Beside her, Giselle felt Marguerite stiffen at the familiarity. She ignored her. Marguerite would do well to clean her own household before she censored Giselle’s.

  “The duc has suffered injuries to his back. And his legs are broken.”

  “He won’t even notice that.” Jean-Claude said, voice sounding bored and disappointed.

  Giselle whirled and glared at each of them in turn before she spoke again. She didn’t recognize the commanding tenor of her voice when she did, and she saw the surprise on the other’s faces, as well.

  “Shall I receive my message in the hall?”

  They backed away from her like a pack of animals, although it was a slow movement. Their action actually surprised her. She turned back to Louisa.

  “He has suffered an injury to his head, too,” Louisa continued in a low voice. “Monsieur Navarre doesn’t know how bad it is, or if the duc will survive the night. I’m to take you to him while we wait for the doctors.”

  “My husband requests my presence. And only mine,” Giselle informed the others. Esmee was the only one that didn’t look surprised. “You’ll be informed of his condition when I know it.”

  She climbed the same staircase on which she almost fainted that first night. This time there wasn’t any hesitation and no weakness. The largest manservant she ever saw opened Etienne’s door for her. As a guard, his position wouldn’t be questioned, but it was a sad day when the duc needed guarding in his own house.

  Navarre stood from the bed when she entered and reached for her hands.

  “How is he?” she asked.

  “I’m frightened, Giselle. He was hanging by just a bit of his blanket. Jean-Claude hadn’t counted on the bedding becoming entangled on a jagged block. I don’t know how it happened. By rights, he should be dead.”

  His eyes filled with tears, and Giselle held his hand tighter.

  “Will he…?”

  “Live? I don’t know. Come. See for yourself.”

  Navarre drew her to the bed. She stepped up onto the platform as he lifted the linen off Etienne’s face. Although she tried to control her emotions, she couldn’t help crying aloud. An ugly gash bled from his forehead, and the scraping along his face, neck, and chest made her eyes fill.

  “It was very difficult getting him back up. I tried to be gentle. As it was, it took Jean, the guard at the door, and his brother, who stands guard in the lower hall, to help. I didn’t know Etienne was so heavy. My arms still ache, but I have no right to feel pain if he dies. I should have been here! I should have attended sup. I could have done a thousand things different to prevent this!”

  “No, Navarre. The only thing that could’ve stopped Jean-Claude was making certain he was punished the first time.”

  “Impossible!”

  “The entire situation is impossible. How can you say that! Look at him! He was almost killed! He might have perished if the blanket hadn’t caught. You said so, yourself.”

  “We almost lost him anyway! The blanket was ripping when we got there. I don’t understand how you knew he was in danger, but it was you that saved him, Giselle. If ever I doubted my love and respect for you, I was a fool.”

  Although there was only one candle on the dresser, she had plenty of light to see. Giselle felt her heart pulse as she read his eyes, filled with anguish and love. And then he turned away, back to his brother.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Giselle didn’t know which was worse — Navarre’s constant pacing, Etienne’s thrashing, or the bleeding the doctors insisted on performing. She asked Navarre not to allow that, because it had taken the entire first night to stop the bleeding from the gash on Etienne’s temple, but they didn’t listen. The doctors treated her like she was an ignorant woman.

  By the fourth day, when Etienne still hadn’t awakened, the Berchald family physician sent for a specialist from Paris. There was nothing further he could do. He suspected Etienne had sustained further injury to his back, too. Nothing could be done, but he wished to make sure. He asked Giselle if she understood.

  The head wound had all of them mystified though. It was more severe than any of his other injuries. It appeared as if the duc suffered a blow to the head before his fall down the stairs.

  Down the stairs? What other lies were they telling?

  “Make sure the duc drinks this liquid,” the doctor told her. “It will alleviate any suffering. It isn’t the legs that he’ll need it for, he’ll not feel that. It’s for his head. I just don’t know….”

  The doctor clicked his tongue and left her. Giselle watched as he whispered the details to Navarre so Giselle wouldn’t overhear. She knew what they were discussing. She’d overheard them before. Etienne’s back was severely pulled out of placement. Perhaps not as bad as they suspected, but if he wasn’t already paralyzed, he would be now.

  Then the specialists came, and Giselle wanted to toss them out the moment they attached leeches to Etienne’ s feet.

  Somehow, Navarre got Etienne to swallow the special broth, and it did soothe him. It dawned on Giselle that Navarre wouldn’t let anyone close to his brother, not even the guards. It worried her. She wondered what would happen when Navarre collapsed from his schedule.

  He wouldn’t listen to her suggestion, though. Giselle offered to sit with Etienne while Navarre napped.

  He rejected the offer, saying she was too frail and much too innocent. Giselle wasn’t interested in changing her husband’s clothing or his dressings, just in keeping Navarre from collapsing.

  It wasn’t until the specialists left that Navarre finally allowed her to help. He didn’t wish to, but Giselle had tiptoed into the duc’s chamber one morning to check on them and was surprised to spot Navarre slumped across the platform while Etienne thrashed about.

  “Navarre! Fetch him!”

  Etienne moaned it as he tossed off his covers and ripped at his bandage. The blackish-yellow color of his forehead made her wince. It was a good thing he wasn’t fully conscious yet. The pain would have been terrible.

  “I can’t hold much longer!”

  The bandage slipped down into his mouth and he gagged, so Giselle stepped up onto the pedestal to adjust it. Etienne was lucky he hadn’t lost an eye as deeply bruised as he was. Giselle’s mouth hardened into a thin line as she saw it.

  “Jean-Claude?” Etienne asked. “Why would I want him? He’s a girl. He wouldn’t want to climb with me, but Navarre will. Fetch him, I tell you!”

  “It’s all right, Etienne,” Giselle said softly. “Here. Let me help you.” She lifted his head and dribbled some of the medicine onto his lip, waiting until he swallowed.

  He sounded lucid enough, but he mumbled often, sometimes about incidents so far in th
e past they were forgotten. She glanced at Navarre as Etienne slouched back against the pillows.

  Navarre was still sleeping, so she smoothed Etienne’s covers back into place. Not once was she able to take her eyes off her love. One arm was flung out and propped against the bed post, and his legs were fanned out. Even with his mouth open and dark circles under his eyes, he was beautiful.

  Giselle put a cover over Navarre next, and eased a pillow beneath his head. Aside from a grunt, he didn’t show she was even there. That was fine with her. He couldn’t argue about her if he slept.

  She settled into a chair and waited for Navarre to wake. Henri, Jean’s brother, stood guard outside the chamber. The door was locked tightly, but she was still alert for intruders. Navarre hadn’t left the chambers since the accident, and she knew how deeply worried he was.

  But she’d have traded places with him. She envied him the solitude.

  Throughout the past week, she’d attended to castle functions as if Etienne didn’t hover near death, but it was wearing on her, especially when she had to face Marguerite and Jean-Claude.

  The previous night, over dessert, Marguerite had asked how Etienne was, as if she cared. Giselle suspected the true reason. She was asking so she could provide Jean-Claude with the information.

  “Tell us, Giselle,” Esmee had said. “We’ve heard nothing. For all we know, he could be gone.”

  “Oh. He’s not dead.” Giselle had glared at them and pushed back her chair as she stood. “And I won’t let him die, either!”

  Her grand exit was ruined when she’d reached the doors and couldn’t budge them. She’d had to wait for a servant to assist. Behind her, she’d heard the sounds of amusement. And that’s why she raced the stairs, tears of humiliation staining her cheeks.

  “Monsieur Navarre?”

  A discreet knock at Etienne’s door made her rise, but Navarre only shifted his weight and went back to his dreams. Giselle smiled as she walked through the antechamber.

  “What is it, Henri?” she asked.

  “Madame du Berchald requests again to see her son.”

  He sounded strange through the door, but she refused to open it. Giselle leaned her forehead against the painted wood.

  “My husband can’t receive any visitors, Henri.”

  “You can’t keep me from him forever, Giselle,” Marguerite said.

  Giselle unlocked the door and opened it a crack.

  “I demand to see my son, and no monster of a servant will stand in my way! I’m his mother!”

  “Henri has his orders, Madame.” Giselle drew herself up to face their mother, although she barely reached the woman’s mouth.

  “Please, Giselle. Please? I beg it of you. I’m his mother. You can’t keep me worrying this way.”

  “Henri, please have Madame du Berchald shown into the duchesse’s chambers. This display is unseemly. I will join her there when I have time.”

  Giselle closed and locked the door, drowning out Marguerite’s gasp as the key turned.

  “What has happened?” Navarre asked groggily. “Why was the door open, Giselle?”

  Tousled hair streamed down both sides of his face, and a light brown beard covered his chin and upper lip. The effect was still stunning. Giselle opened her mouth to tell him, but no words came out.

  “Who were you talking to? Has something happened to Etienne?” His eyes widened and he turned back in panic.

  She stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Etienne sleeps comfortably enough, Navarre. He only had one episode while you slept.”

  Giselle blushed. She didn’t know why. Navarre had also been asleep while she studied him. No one would ever know, would they?

  “I slept? And you didn’t wake me?”

  He reached for her, pulling her within the embrace of arms so tender, Giselle’s heart fluttered.

  “Why would I wake you? You’re very handsome when you sleep, Navarre,” she whispered.

  His chuckle against her ear sounded strange through his chest.

  “I slept, and you watched me? Not Etienne? You’re not a very good nursemaid, not that I’d trade you.”

  “Etienne slept, too.” Giselle leaned away to argue.

  “I’m teasing, my love.”

  He shouldn’t use such endearments. It started a wellspring of want, pain, and desire within her. If she had to pretend disinterest, it wasn’t very helpful. Besides, his mother probably listened at the connecting door.

  “Your mother.” Giselle gestured toward her own rooms. “She asked of Etienne.”

  His face hardened, aging him. He released her and stepped back. “See her if you must. I won’t need you to spell me until this eve. Merci.”

  She watched him walk over to Etienne, and her eyes misted. Even Marguerite’s youngest child turned from her. Why wouldn’t the woman do what she must?

  Navarre put his hands above his head and stretched. Giselle stood at the doorway, watching him. He must not realize that Giselle still stood there, as he then bent forward, and began doing some strange series of exercises.

  It was quite visual. Interesting. And stirring. And it had to stop. It would never do for Marguerite to guess her feelings. Giselle was inviting an enemy into her camp, and she mustn’t forget it. She went to the connecting door to her chamber, unlocked it and had it relocked before Marguerite spoke.

  “Thank you, Giselle! Thank you!” Marguerite began before Giselle turned around. “I have been so worried.”

  “Pardon me if I don’t believe you.”

  Marguerite must have spent time trying to guess the best way to approach her daughter-in-law. It showed. Giselle watched the woman assimilate the answer before trying again. Giselle twisted her lips and raised her eyebrows.

  “Giselle, my dear, please. I can’t sleep for worrying. He’s my son, yet you deny me.”

  Giselle spent an extra bit of time arranging her dressing gown before sitting in a chair. She motioned Marguerite to one, too. The woman had drawn the drapes, letting the morning glow dispel some of the chamber’s gloom. Giselle wondered what else she had tampered with while she waited.

  “You’re about very early, Madame. That must be different for you,” Giselle finally replied.

  ‘‘Early? Late! What does that matter? I’ve been unable to sleep, I tell you!”

  She rubbed her hands together in an agitated fashion. Her drawn appearance could be the product of sleepless nights, or the absence of her facial paint. Giselle didn’t know which, so she waited.

  “Giselle, please understand. I’ll never rest if Etienne dies. I can’t possibly describe a mother’s love to you until you’ve experienced—”

  “Spare me the emotional entreaties, Madame du Berchald. It’s much too early for such.”

  Giselle watched as Marguerite sat back and stared as if seeing her for the first time. The woman’s eyes filmed over with tears before she turned away. But that could be an affectation, too.

  “As to your words? You’re right. I can’t understand a mother’s love, and since Jean-Claude is doing everything in his power to prevent such an event, I probably never will.”

  “You don’t like me very much, do you, Giselle?”

  She sounded on the verge of tears. Giselle narrowed her eyes before answering. Marguerite didn’t sound like someone fishing for a weak spot, but Giselle knew her limitations when it came to intrigue. That’s what came from being surrounded by masters of it.

  “I hardly know you, Madame,” she finally answered stiffly.

  “Yet you’ve already formed such opinions. You judged me before we met, didn’t you?”

  “I…I can’t say that for certain, Madame”

  “Don’t call me that any longer. I prefer Marguerite. Being called Madame as coldly as you say it almost breaks my heart.”

  Giselle barely stopped herself from snorting. It was clear Marguerite was yet another expert.

  “I remember how thrilled I was when I first met my husband, Giselle. He was a very handsome man, t
all, blond. Very masculine. You’ve probably realized that from my sons, haven’t you?”

  Giselle tried to still the blush at being quizzed with such a question, but she was being nonsensical. She could be reacting to Etienne’s description for all Marguerite knew.

  “Unfortunately, he was more interested in his coquettes in Paris and was wed very much against his will. Almost the instant our signatures were on the marriage register, he left me for his other life. He only condescended to visit me when his relatives forced him to. Do you know what that’s like, to love deeply and be tossed aside?”

  She stood, as if the thought still caused her inner turmoil. Giselle watched her pace to the wardrobe doors and back. Giselle had some idea of how it must have felt.

  Non, that was a lie.

  She couldn’t imagine how it would feel if her love for Navarre was unrequited. Tears flooded her eyes at the idea. She was in luck that Marguerite wasn’t looking.

  “The entire time I carried Esmee, my husband taunted me about my size and my bloated shape, as if a woman in my condition wasn’t supposed to look like that. He was as stupid as he was handsome, and he was gloriously handsome, Giselle. Even more so than his sons.

  “No. That’s not true. My little Navarre bears an uncanny resemblance to him, except for his hair color. I don’t know where that came from. You’ve probably noticed how dark he is in comparison, if you notice such things.”

  She gave Giselle a piercing look. Giselle fought turning redder. She’d have to be blind not to notice Navarre.

  “I can’t describe how disappointed everyone was when I produced a girl.”

  Giselle almost told her she didn’t have to, then stopped.

  “I suppose I should have been closer to her when she was born, but how could I? I was disappointed, too. I shouldn’t have been. With her birth, my husband had to visit even more often. It seemed to take forever to conceive again, but it wasn’t for lack of trying.”

  She looked over at Giselle, and it was her turn to redden.

  “That child was still-birthed. The shame nearly killed me. I had no one I could trust, and none that cared. My husband stayed with me then at the castle, though, said loving things to me, and made me fall even deeper in love with him. And all he wanted was an heir. I should have known it, but I didn’t.”