The Silk Weaver's Daughter Read Free Page B

family but the situation has deteriorated. Cousin Guillaume came down himself from Lusignon to inform me of the latest. The dragoons, Pierre…” His voice choked up. “I’m sorry to tell you this—they’ve killed his mother and father.”
    Pierre went cold. “Oh, no, Jacques! Uncle Lucien—they’ve killed him! And Aunt Mathilde! Dear lord. How was it done?”
    “They came in the evening—right after dinner—took them out and hanged them. On an oak tree, in front of the cottage. Guillaume watched some of it from the forest. He was on the way to visit them when he heard the soldiers coming, so he hid in the grove. He blames himself for not helping them, of course, but what could he do. There were at least a dozen of them. They burned the house—the animals—everything. What an unspeakable thing for him to witness.”
    The cousins stood for a moment, tears running down their cheeks.
    “A pastor! What harm did Lucien ever do to anyone?” Pierre’s voice trembled with emotion. “And dear, old Mathilde! Oh, the poor souls— they are martyrs no doubt. It’s too horrific even to think about. What could make King Louis order such a thing?”
    “I don’t know what to think about the king anymore. Someone must be manipulating him. I can’t imagine he would think to do it on his own. Now they say by autumn he is certain to revoke the Edict. Right now, it’s ministers. If it goes through, they will surely kill any who don’t convert.”
    “Fichu, this is shocking. What should I do?”
    “I can keep my ears open. If anything else momentous happens, I’ll ride back myself to keep you informed. I believe you must now warn both your family and the towns’ people of what may lay ahead, Pierre. It’s only fair to let them know.”
    “Yes, you are right. I have prayed it wouldn’t come to this but what will be, will be.”
    With that, Pierre soberly escorted his cousin upstairs, and they parted for the night.

     
    Louise had not gone to bed after leaving her mother. She listened until the murmuring of voices and other sounds in the house stopped. Then she opened her door and as quietly as possible sped down the stairs. Just as he promised during their dance, Marc waited in the workshop for her. In his hand was one perfect red rose. He held it out to her. “Do you remember? Red roses are for true love, they tell me. This comes from my mother’s garden in La Rochelle. I brought it just for you.”
    Without hesitation, she walked over to him, and taking the beautiful rose, smiled up at him. A cloud of curly black hair framed a face bronzed by the sun. His Persian blue eyes danced with merriment. How handsome he is, she marvelled to herself. But I’m so afraid Papa doesn’t approve of him.
    Marc was tall for a Frenchman, nearly six feet, so the top of her head came under his chin. He put his arms around her and drew her close. Only once before had he kissed her as a lover. She had relived the moment a thousand times. It happened before he left on his merchant trip. Somehow, he managed to be alone with her in the courtyard garden. He plucked one of the red climbing roses, and carefully tucked it behind her ear. His marvellous eyes softened, as he looked deep into hers.
    “I want to go on this journey very much,” he had said. “My only sorrow is I won’t see you for over two years. You will grow up in the meantime, and you are already so lovely. Will you wait for me to return? You won’t go getting betrothed, I hope.”
    “Of course I’ll wait, Marc,” she whispered, overcome with emotion and sudden shyness. “I’ll think of you every day.”
    He leaned over then and brushed her lips with his. It had been the most glorious moment of her life.
    Now, her heart again beat wildly as he looked at her in the way she remembered. “Did you keep the promise you made two years ago?” he inquired. “Are you still mine?”
    “There has only ever been you.” She lowered her gaze.
    I think I have loved you all my