Brocade Series 02 - Giselle

by Jackie Ivie

  “We’ve come for Monsieur Jean-Claude du Berchald,” the leading man said to Navarre’s servant.

  Giselle thought the man was going to faint. He slid back against the door frame as the soldier dismounted.

  “Come, my good man. Wake your master.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Jean-Claude stepped onto the landing with Marguerite directly behind him.

  Giselle scooted deeper into the bushes, snagging her hair, and scraping her scalp. Marguerite was at the dower house? She didn’t attend Etienne’s funeral but was sheltering here?

  “I am Jean-Claude, duc du Berchald. I take offense at this interference into my family affairs. The king shall hear of this.”

  “Mother?”

  Navarre stepped out from behind them. Giselle tried to call out to him as she watched, but her voice wasn’t cooperating. She watched as Navarre gave his mother support.

  Marguerite turned to Jean-Claude, just as Giselle saw the dark stain spreading down her gown. That was it, then. She’d lost the baby. She recognized the symptoms of hysteria, making her breathe too rapidly and shallowly. She had to force it away. She gripped her hands into fists and started swallowing over and over again, whole hot tears spilled from both eyes. And then she heard Marguerite speaking. The words brought Giselle’s head up.

  “There is no mistake, nor is there any interference, Jean-Claude, my son. These soldiers possess a Lettres de Cachet, signed by the king, that bears your name.”

  “A Lettres de Cachet?” He spat out the words. “Have you lost your senses, Mother?”

  “No, Jean-Claude, no. I have finally found them.”

  Giselle forced herself to stand and moved around the closest horse. If she didn’t find help soon, she might not be conscious long enough to save herself. The pain in her side was gaining, making everyone’s words blur together.

  “Not the Bastille!” Jean-Claude said.

  “It’s more than you deserve. Did you think I’d allow Etienne’s death to go unpunished? No matter how much I love you, he was my son, too.”

  “Etienne?”

  Jean-Claude laughed, a high-pitched sound. Giselle stumbled to her knees, feeling the rocks scraping her knees. Although it stung, she concentrated on it gratefully. It would help her to stay conscious.

  “I wouldn’t have harmed him. You must know that. I’d be a fool to do so after your warnings, wouldn’t I?”

  “More lies? Take him away.”

  Giselle was shocked out of her own misery by the stern tone Marguerite was using. Jean-Claude was probably white under all his paint.

  “It’s no lie, damn it! The wine wasn’t for Etienne. It was a mistake, I tell you. It was for that little duchesse and her bastard!”

  He made a strange garbled noise, and Giselle looked up, ignoring the ache in her entire body. Navarre had hit him! One of the soldiers had to pull him off Jean-Claude, and Giselle saw the blood gushing from his nose.

  “Enough!”

  Soldiers surrounded Jean-Claude and shoved a gag into his mouth. Giselle suspected he might choke, yet still, she heard someone screaming. She didn’t know it was her.

  “Oh my God, Giselle!” Navarre leapt the stairs and ran to her. “Mother! Quickly! Send for the doctors.”

  Giselle felt him lift her, but she struggled weakly against him.

  He hated the baby. The baby.

  “Navarre…the baby,” she whispered. “I’m losing…the baby.”

  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.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  “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 served 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 mustn’t cry!

  She lost Navarre the moment she lost the child. Or, perhaps 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 w
as 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. Soon 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.

  Giselle 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. It 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. But 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?

  “Thank you for leaving me this, Sister.”

  Giselle pressed the book of verse into the nun’s hands. Her eyes filled, along with Sister Evangeline’ s.

  “Don’t cry, Sister,” Giselle said. “I am content.”

  “Mademoiselle Patrice, you possess a lovely spirit. The church will benefit from it. You have no regrets?”

  “Non.” Giselle looked away, unable to meet the nun’s gaze as she lied.

  “Very good. Please have a seat, and we’ll begin. I brought sanctified water.”

  “Merci.” Giselle dipped her fingers into the holy water in order to trace a cross upon her front.

  Navarre!

  She couldn’t seem to banish his image. It was as if he mocked her from the mirror. She looked away at the cross above her bed, the rosary hanging beneath it, and the small window.

  A knock stopped Sister Evangeline’s hand before she made the first cut. A hint of impatience crossed her face before she dropped Giselle’s hair — not that she’d ever let that be known. The sisters let no emotion upset their calm. Giselle wondered how long it would be before she achieved that, and if she ever would.

  “Mother Superior requests Mademoiselle Patrice’s presence, Sister,” a voice called.

  “The mademoiselle hasn’t been prepared yet.”

  “It is of the upmost importance, Sister.”

  “Very well, but this is most irregular.”

  Giselle watched Sister Evangeline shut the door
on the young novice’s face before walking back to her.

  “I can’t think what the mother wants, Mademoiselle, but we must do as we are requested in this life, non?”

  She acted so much like Louisa, Giselle averted her eyes. Her hair was hidden under a wimple. Giselle saw how dreary she would look in the future just before they left her cubicle.

  Light fell on Sister Evangeline’s head from the high windows. Bright. Probably warm. It didn’t reach Giselle. That was all right. She didn’t deserve it. It seemed God was letting her know of it, yet again. All she knew was she was cold and heartsick and worn out.

  Was she ready? She doubted she’d ever be ready.

  The slight scrape of their slippers against the stone was tempered by the bare hint of singing as they walked, passing rows of ancient, insipid tapestries. Giselle quickly quelled such musings. The convent was dedicated to poverty after all, removing any comparison with her past.

  She thought momentarily of Chateau Berchand with all its polished halls and expensive furnishings, and the white magnificence of Chateau Antilli, then told herself to be humble. Of course the hangings bore little resemblance to what she was accustomed to,. Just as the large-weave cotton chemise rubbing against her skin bore no resemblance to her silks.

  The double doors leading to Mother Superior’s office loomed. Giselle waited patiently with Sister Evangeline while they were opened.

  “This Sister Patrice? She’s very petite? With a pale streak in her hair, like so? If she’s here, there is no payment enough.”

  Navarre!

  Giselle stopped the moment she heard his voice and knew Sister Evangeline was watching. She couldn’t enter the room if he was there. She couldn’t bear it. She was exhausted trying to bear everything else, already.

  Giselle could see his hand where he sat to one side of the desk. There was lace from his shirt cuffs grazing his fingers. She could also see a hat, a long leg clad in white hose, dark-blue velvet breeches, and silver-buckled shoes.

  She made some sound and turned to run. She had to hold her hand over her mouth at the same time to hold the agony in. She couldn’t face him. Not now. Not when he has everything, and she lost the only things that mattered. And she couldn’t return! She couldn’t bear to see him with Charmaine!