Rachelle groaned and reached both arms toward her. “My poor sister . . .”
Idelette wrapped her arms around Rachelle’s neck and they wept as only sisters can when their hearts are entwined.
“Avril — I saw it happen — and then a soldier caught me — ”
Rachelle rallied. She must be strong for both of them. She drew her sister’s head upon her shoulder.
“He shamed himself, sister. Your soul remains untouched.”
“Non,” she whispered, “it will never be all right for me again. And Avril — ”
It would be cruel to contest her now. Idelette needed silent comfort and support, anything else would feel like salt on wounds. Tomorrow would have time enough for such words.
They clung to one another until tears subsided. The chilly spring wind tugged at them. Rachelle could feel Idelette shaking from cold and shock. She had to get her back to the château to their mère. Idelette was always the strong one in her faith. Now I must be the strong one.
From the corner of her eye, Rachelle noticed something move in the bushes. Non, not something, but someone.
Rachelle turned her head. Sir James Hudson crawled from between low-lying branches, tried to rise to his feet, then collapsed.
“It’s James!” Rachelle left Idelette to run to his side. She dropped to her knees beside him. “Monsieur Hudson!”
The young couturier from London was burned and bruised, his shirt torn with blood stains.
“I’m well — it’s my leg; back there — Pasteur Macquinet — ”
“Bertrand!” She jumped to her feet and pushed her way through the bushes, finding him. He was alive.
Rachelle rushed to where he lay beneath a tree, bruised and unconscious, but breathing. His eyelids flicked open and he tried to raise a hand toward her. “Avril . . . Idelette . . . ?”
Tears welled up in her eyes. “Rest, Cousin Bertrand, do not talk now. I am going for a wagon.” She turned to leave but his fingers curled around her hand. She looked down at him and saw the worry in his eyes. She swallowed, her throat dry.
“Idelette is alive, but Avril is not.”
His fingers loosened. His eyes closed. He gave a weak nod of his head. “She — will suffer no more . . .”
Rachelle squeezed his hand and quickly left him. As she came back to where James lay, she stooped down.
“I’m all right,” he said, nursing his leg. “Mostly bruises.”
It looked like more than bruises. “You were very brave, monsieur. We are in your debt.”
He looked off across the field toward the road. “Horsemen.” He attempted to sit up, but Rachelle pushed him back.
She stood and looked toward the half-dozen horsemen that drew up on the road.
She narrowed her eyes and gritted. “More beasts?”
Rachelle stepped away from James and glanced toward Idelette. She seemed disoriented and was sitting with her head resting on her knees, her arms wrapped around her legs.
Rachelle stood unmoving as the sound of the horses broke the uncanny stillness.
The questioning voices around her quickly turned from dismay to anger. “Are they coming back to kill the rest of us?” someone cried.
The horses drew nearer.
Could it be? Marquis Fabien rode slowly forward with several men, whose faces she recognized from the last time they had been at the château.
The wind ruffled the white plume on Fabien’s broad-brimmed hat and the full sleeves of his linen shirt-tunic overlaid with a vest and sur-coat of velvet and gold. The horse jerked its head up, its nostrils flaring, as if the smell of battle was recognized.
Rachelle watched Fabien as his gaze inched over the scene of death and woe before him. He did not move or dismount. His knuckles turned white as he held the reins, and his jaw flexed.
His chief page, Gallaudet, turned his fair head toward him with open dismay.
Rachelle stood in silence, and it seemed the moment was frozen in time. The blowing wind, the smell of charred wood, the restless whinny of horses, the creak of leather saddles. Then, as if awakening, there was movement, voices, rage.
Marquis Fabien swung down from his mount; there came the crunch of boots, a pause, an intake of breath, and then an uttered exclamation. Rachelle’s bruised emotions found solace in the possessive but tender enfolding of his fingers around her arm. He drew her closer. “You are not hurt, belle amie? You escaped injury?”
“Oh, Fabien, I thank our God you have come back — ”
He embraced her so tightly that she could hardly breathe. “If anything had happened to you — ” he whispered.
He drew her head against his chest, stroking her hair. She heard his soothing voice, yet rage was just beneath his veneer, struggling to break forth over the scene of carnage before him.
“Come, I will have Gallaudet take you to the château, while I search for any yet alive. Where are your sisters?”
She clutched his arms and turned her head toward Idelette seated near Avril’s body. She felt his muscles harden like granite beneath her palms as he recognized them.
Rachelle’s gaze rushed to his eyes filled with outrage as they took in Avril’s disfigured face, and the blood that had smeared onto Rachelle’s silk dress.
“Who? ” he demanded in a gritted whisper. “Who did this?”
Rachelle trembled, hating the Duc de Guise so much that she wished to spit out his name as though it were venom; and yet loving Fabien as she did, she remained mute. What if he rode after the duc and his men?If she revealed her utter loathing, would she not encourage such revenge that he would seek the duc’s life?
Her emotions made her ill and weary. She must not think of this, she must not —
The death of the Duc de Guise by Fabien’s sword would bring the wrath of the whole House of Guise and their powerful alliance upon his head.
Rachelle dropped her forehead against his chest and held on to him tightly.
“Do not ride after them. Do not go. Stay with me! Please, Fabien!”
He cupped her chin, his eyes warmly searching hers, and placed a brief, solacing kiss on her forehead.
“Who led these murders against the Huguenots, Rachelle?” he asked again, quietly.
She shook her head. She was well aware that Fabien believed his own father was assassinated upon secret order of Duc de Guise at the battle of Calais.
Several others knew that Guise led this attack: Idelette, Hudson, Bertrand, Jolon the gardener, and the boy Philippe — his mother was dead. Even Madame Clair would have heard his name spoken by Philippe when he ran to warn her. Thank God Guise had not turned his men loose on the Château de Silk! He would know, of course, that the château belonged to the Macquinets. Was that why he had not done so?
Was it possible he had not known they were in the barn, thinking that all Huguenots were simple peasants, heretics?
It was not possible to keep the name of Guise from the marquis for very long.
But if — if I can delay him even for a few hours — then he may not ride to overtake him . . .
Rachelle closed her eyes and shook her head again, keeping silent her hatred for Guise.
In an act of helpless fury, Gallaudet, who stood nearby, slashed his blade into the ground. “Such murderous acts can no longer be borne, Monseigneur. The time has come for war in France! Your Bourbon kinsman, the Prince de Condé, speaks well. The Guise faction and the Queen Mother know only the show of force.”
“They that take the sword will perish with the sword,” came a weak voice from behind them.
They all turned and saw Bertrand standing with his shoulders hunched forward, one limp and bloodied arm hanging uselessly at his side. He had managed to drag himself here from behind the bushes and took several more staggering steps.
Rachelle rushed and knelt beside him. “Cousin Bertrand, you should not have moved. You are bleeding again.”
Marquis Fabien threw an arm around him, gesturing to Gallaudet for a skin of water.
“Christ has not called us to fight but to stand firm and endure . . . these deeds will not go unpunished . . . the Lord has His own sword. One of righteousness and justice.”
Fabien took the water from Gallaudet and held it to Bertrand’s lips as Rachelle held his head to drink.
“You speak well, Pasteur Bertrand.” The marquis turned to Gallaudet. “Go at once to the château and send a coach for the pasteur and the mademoiselles. Say nothing yet to Madame Macquinet.”
“At once, Monseigneur.”
“There are others more injured than I,” Bertrand objected in a hoarse voice.
Rachelle turned her head sharply toward her sister. They did not yet know what had happened to Idelette, nor did Rachelle believe her sister wanted them to know, though Idelette was in such shock that perhaps she did not care. As Bertrand finished drinking, Rachelle took the skin and hurried to where her sister sat, like Job before the pile of shards.
“I will soon have you home,” Rachelle whispered in her ear. “You are my chère, brave sister; it will soon be over, I promise you.”
Idelette tried to sip from the skin but her bruised mouth was too swollen. Rachelle clamped her jaw to keep her emotions from running over again into a river of tears. She carefully dribbled the water into her sister’s mouth.
“James Hudson, where is he?” Bertrand was heard asking. “God used that young messire to save me from the flames. He too was injured.”
Rachelle had forgotten about Hudson. She looked over and saw him still sprawled where she had left him.
He must have heard Bertrand, for he called weakly, “I am over here, my dear man.” He groaned as he tried to raise himself to an elbow. “’Tis nothing. Methinks I’ve hurt my leg. I’ll survive, to be sure, think not of me, sir. Lady Rachelle has been very kind indeed. But over there — ” he gestured with his hand — “Lady Idelette needs a physician.”
Marquis Fabien gave James Hudson a measuring appraisal that took him in thoughtfully; he then looked directly at Rachelle. She had already sensed what he may be thinking, and she turned her gaze away, feeling embarrassed.
Fabien walked up, took one look at Idelette, then removed his sur-coat and placed it around her shoulders. “I have sent for a coach, Mademoiselle,” he told her gently, “and le docteur is on his way.”
Idelette gave a nod of her head but did not speak, nor did she look at him, keeping her bruised face averted. But Rachelle could see that the marquis was aware, and that anger burned in his eyes.
Fabien caught Rachelle’s gaze and searched for the ugly answer. Her eyes spilled over with tears.
His jaw tightened, showing he understood. He scanned Idelette again. “I am sorry, Mademoiselle. I will find this beast, I promise you. I do not know when, or how, but when I do, I shall make him pay fourfold, I swear it!”
He turned to go, then saw Avril nearby and stopped. He gestured to one of his men to bring his cloak from his horse. Fabien wrapped the small demoiselle inside his magnificent cloak and had one of the men carry her to the side of the road to await the family coach.
Rachelle rose to her feet, feeling the wind ruffle her hair. Her mind rode the wind back through the mulberry orchard and over the garden wall, past the roses, and through the open window into the salle where they had breakfasted that morning. The words spoken by Cousin Bertrand before he had left for the barn church came back to her, bringing a lump to her throat.
“Remember those who have gone before us, who have endured great afflictions for His name’s sake.”
How could any of them have known that he was speaking of their immediate future with such painful clarity? What began with such optimism on this Sunday morning, the most pleasant day of the week, had ended with a lament. Even Marquis Fabien’s unexpected return had brought him into the circle of change, with far-reaching results for him and his followers.
In such a short time, each of their lives was affected, and nothing would ever be the same again.
The baby began to cry, and Rachelle went to it gently and reached down and lifted the bundle into her arms. She cradled the infant safely against her breast and whispered soothing sounds. Perhaps there is hope your père is alive, little one.
THE COACH ARRIVED FROM the château and came to a shuddering halt beside the wall of mulberry trees. Madame Clair stepped down and looked across the wide field, the breeze blowing her dark skirts and high ruffled white lace collar.
Rachelle’s heart beat painfully. Oh, ma mère, this will be far more painful for you than for us.
Was it Providence that had brought Madame Clair home just when her family, and especially Idelette, would need her? If it had not been for the delay in printing the Dutch Bibles in Geneva, and the arrival there of Bertrand, Mère would have remained with Père Arnaut and waited to return with him.
Rachelle whispered to Idelette that Mère had arrived with the coach. For the first time, Idelette stirred, showing that she was attentive to what was going on around her. To Rachelle’s surprise, Idelette managed to stand and began walking across the field.
Marquis Fabien intercepted Madame Clair and spoke to her, his hand holding her arm as though he feared his words would cause her to collapse. But Madame Clair stood as queenly as any royal Valois, showing herself not only a strong woman, but one who believed deeply in the faith she so heartily promoted. She began walking with dignity across the wide field toward Idelette, who drew closer.
Rachelle watched with quiet pride. She could see from the marquis’ expression that he too admired Madame Clair. Her dignity at such a time made Rachelle lift her head a little higher. This fiery trial will not destroy us. Nothing can defeat those secure in Christ.
RACHELLE HAD THOUGHT TO join their meeting, but now she paused, watching.
The two women, so much alike in fair appearance and serious demeanor, neared one another, with the waving grasses around their feet. Madame Clair stopped and opened her arms wide. Idelette took her last weakened steps and fell into her loving, protective embrace.
Rachelle looked on with wet cheeks. The two women stood entwined, like a Michelangelo statue, a tribute to Huguenot women.
Strengthen them both, Father God, for hard days and late nights are ahead.
Rachelle became aware of others moving about what had now become a sanctified field. Voices were heard, like the ebb and tide of the sea. Voices of lament mixed with anger. A voice praying, and yet another quoting a verse in a tone that spoke its preciousness at such a time.
One by one the living and the dead quietly reunited with family and friends. Rachelle, still holding the baby in her arms, felt a refreshing sense of thankful relief when she saw Monsieur Scully alive and coming for his child. The child would have one loving parent, at least.
“Monsieur,” she said gently, “my mother and I will be at your disposal should you need us.”
“Merci, Mademoiselle,” he rasped as tears ran down his creased, tanned cheeks. He took his child, his hands trembling, and she watched him walk away. Rachelle’s prayer followed them.
Soon the dead were retrieved from the field for burial. Nothing remained of the barn church except blackened ruins against a bright spring sky.
Cousin Bertrand and Sir James Hudson were helped to the coach, and Marquis Fabien walked toward Rachelle, leading his horse. He paused in front of her, muscled and virile, with hair the color of sun-ripened wheat.
His eyes softened as they took her in. “You are exhausted, chérie . Permit me to ride you to the château — the coach has departed with the injured.”
He brought her beside his horse, but she paused and walked over to the small blue wildflower and plucked it carefully. This will go in my Bible to be pressed between the pages and kept in memory of Avril.
The marquis waited. She came up beside him, and he lifted her to the saddle, then mounte
d.
The wind blew across Lemoine’s hay fields. The mingled voices of prayer and rage had ceased. Soon, a bird returned to chirp in the branches of a tree and carry on as spring demanded.
One day, time would eliminate every vestige of what had occurred here. Many succeeding generations would pass. The grass would grow green again, the flowers would bloom, and who would remember but God?
They rode together toward the road, Rachelle looking at the flower.
They rode toward the Château de Silk, and to what awaited them all in the days and months ahead.
Au Revoir, My Love
RACHELLE REMAINED TENSE AND UNCERTAIN AFTER RETURNING TO THE château with Marquis Fabien. What would be the outcome of the events which their good God had allowed to invade their lives? Why was the Lord allowing such painful trials as these? What had they done wrong? Were they being chastened? Was it satanic? Many questions ran through her mind, questions with no simple answers, leaving her downcast.
Rachelle was waiting near the rose garden when Marquis Fabien walked up. He stood looking down at her, the wide sleeves of his linen tunic and his plumed hat stirring in the wind.
“The roses still bloom; the leaves are yet green,” she murmured, looking toward the bushes. “Somehow I would have expected everything to have withered after such pain and sorrow, but life goes on, does it not?”
“You need not think of it now. It is an unfair weight upon your heart to attempt to come to terms with such loss and tragedy too quickly. Grief is a necessary part of healing. All things take time.”
He stepped toward her and took her face between his warm, strong hands and looked down at her tenderly. Her heart stirred to life again at his touch. As she gazed into his eyes, however, she saw that more was on his mind than having her so near. His gaze was serious and distant.
“What is it, Fabien?”
His smile was faint. “I must leave you for a while.”
“Oh, but — ”
“I shall return tonight. Le docteur is here now, and I think Pasteur Bertrand will recover. I have seen worse wounds. And the Englishman’s leg will also heal.”
Written on Silk Page 5