Written on Silk by Linda Lee Chaikin Read Free Book Online

think he is doing God ser vice.”
    The sounds of madness ceased. Rachelle opened her eyes, taking her hands from her ears, listening.
    Wood crackled; a gust of smoke blew in her direction. The mulberry leaves shuddered. A lone bird gave a short reluctant trill then, and as though in sadness over the evil of mankind, the bird flew away.
    Rachelle peered through the oleanders to see gray smoke coming from the barn. The soldiers had ridden away — or had they?
    She unclenched her fists; there was blood on her palms from her finger nails. She lifted herself from the ground, weak and damp with sweat. Keeping her head low among the oleanders, she surveyed the field as far as she could see. She squinted, able to see bodies. She was shaking now and strangely chilled.
    How many dead — non, how many murdered? How many had been bound with rope and carried away for the dungeons, to be burned later?
    She straightened, hearing the wind swirling through the trees, and what had earlier seemed a chorus of praise was now mournful to her ears.
    Grant me courage, Lord. If there were any yet alive and wounded, she must go to them. Possibly her own sisters and Cousin Bertrand were among them. And poor James Hudson.
    Rachelle pushed through the oleanders and walked across the road.
    Although she wanted to run, her feet felt heavy.
    Her heart froze with fear as she made her way into the field with the smell of smoke on the breeze. The grasses rustled. She stopped in the midst of the wreckage, stunned by the gruesome sight of so many cut down, including children. For a shocked moment she could do nothing except stare at the bloody carnage. Her stomach sickened as she began to recognize friends she had known since childhood, all of them members of her church. How could this have happened?
    Rachelle raised her tearstained face to the sky and felt the sun warming her damp cheeks. I want revenge. I hate them!
    If she expected heaven’s rebuke, it did not come. This patience with her anger and frustration did more to melt her resistance than any rebuke. Oh, Father , she prayed, anguish gushing from her soul and forming a river of hot tears that drenched her cheeks. She fell to her knees, her clenched fists slowly loosened.
    Be strong, yea, be strong.
    Fret not thyself because of evildoers . . . For they shall soon be cut down like the grass, and wither as the green herb.
    She forced herself forward into the midst of death, running, then pausing to see who had fallen and if there were any signs of life. Onward she moved, searching, searching — afraid of whom she might find.
    Here was Monsieur Lemoine who had requested Bertrand to teach his flock. He had found something more precious to him in life than appeasing the powerful. For belief in Scripture alone as the final authority, he had received a sword through his heart; his Sunday shirt now soaked crimson. The Bible had been snatched from his hand and the pages were ripped out, scattered and trampled around his lifeless body, the wind now fluttering some pages.
    On she ran.
    Here was Madame Hershey —She would not be bringing the silk scarf to her daughter today to celebrate the birth of her first grandson. Her daughter would soon be mourning her death.
    Rachelle blundered on, the hem of her skirt stained. She saw several little ones cut down without mercy.
    A lone baby cried beneath the shield of its mother’s arms. Madame Scully had died bent protectively over her baby girl.
    Rachelle stooped, removing the infant from Madame Scully’s embrace. It was difficult to loosen the mother’s hold and Rachelle choked back sobs. Finally freeing the child, she carried her into the shade, remembering the time her birth was announced.
    “I will come back for you.”
    She walked on, coming closer to the charred barn until she saw her — Rachelle inched forward, moaning, and slipped to her knees beside a familiar silken dress the color of an April daffodil, the white Alençon lace was now stiff and