Written on Silk

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  He had last seen the marquis not long after Amboise. Marquis Fabien was returning from Vendôme where earlier he had agreed that Comte Maurice Beauvilliers should first bring Mademoiselle Rachelle for her safety.

  Fabien had visited Andelot secretly at night and informed him that he was returning to Vendôme and would be taking Rachelle home to the château. He expected to remain there in Lyon until a message arrived from a certain French privateer, whereupon a meeting of the brotherhood of privateers against Spain would take place in some locale near the coast of La Rochelle, a Huguenot stronghold.

  Andelot believed the meeting would have occurred by now. The marquis could even be on his way to Calais to cross the channel to England, where a privateer of the English queen had arranged for the marquis to buy a ship.

  Was it too late to join the marquis? The bay would surely get him there, but was there time? What would the marquis do if he showed up with a sword he could but clumsily wield? Perhaps I could help the cook or serve the marquis in some way.

  Across the chamber, the fire glowed in the hearth. The wind from off the river Seine, which ran beneath portions of the palais with its prison, remained chill and damp.

  His boots made no sound as he walked toward the warmth. The red coals hissed and glared at him. Was the illness of Grandmère and Madeleine the beginning of a judgment from heaven that would soon scourge the whole of Paris?

  He recalled from his studies at the monastery school how great sicknesses in the past had struck many kingdoms, leaving uncounted masses dead. There were so many bodies, the authorities had been forced to burn them in great fires in the village squares. At the time, traveling monks on pilgrimages across Europe spoke out as prophets, attributing the plagues to judgment sent by the saints for failure to worship and give to the Church. They had urged more reverence for relics and the need to embark on pilgrimages to burial sites. They carried bags of saintly fetishes on their donkeys, which they sold for blessing and protection.

  Andelot reached beneath his tunic and removed a small, well-worn cross and kissed it. He had received the object years ago from a traveling monk passing through Paris on his way to the Holy Land on pilgrimage.

  This cross was special. The monk had told him it was prayed over and anointed with holy ointment from the eternal city of Rome itself, the city built on seven hills. The cross would protect him from plague. Andelot kissed it once more to make certain before replacing it inside his tunic next to his skin. One could not be too cautious, having entered the chambers where sudden sickness had struck its curse.

  He frowned back at the sizzling coals. Yes, it was wholly possible that a new plague was breaking forth. Voices were sounding in protest against the blasphemous teaching of Luther, Calvin, Beza, and against that wicked city, Geneva. Judgments were pronounced on France for not doing enough to silence the devilish teaching of these heretics and their followers.

  Andelot ran his fingers through his brown locks and shook his head.

  These pronouncements heightened his uneasiness after what he had witnessed at Amboise. The flames of religious rhetoric crackled with devilish propaganda. Whom should he believe?

  Frustration drove him back to the window again, this time drawing his gaze in the direction of the wharf with its many shops.

  Yes, the quay . . . what was it about the quay he wanted to remember?

  Ill since Thursday . . . five days ago . . . very ill, the maid had said — due to last autumn’s apples.

  Odd, that. Apples? Could one become this sick on apples?

  A priest strode across the courtyard with a rolled parchment in hand and his robe swirling about his ankles, drawing Andelot’s mind to the night before when the cardinal had sent for him to appear in his chamber. After handing him the scarlet-edged missive to deliver to Duchesse Dushane, the cardinal had risen from his chair behind the desk and faced him with a thin curling smile, his almond-shaped gray eyes showing amused contempt.

  “So! You are a child full of pranks at heart. You hid under the vines tumbling from a cherub planter to spy on the beheadings of the rebel heretics! Such puerile behavior. Non! Do not try to explain that you were trapped. Such a tale is preposterous.”

  The lashing words had stung and remembering them again now brought a burning heat to Andelot’s face. It was no good to blame the incident on Prince Charles Valois, for Charles was a boy, whereas he himself was a young man. The cardinal had proceeded to lecture him with scorn.

  “Nonetheless, I make it my family duty to secure your future, though not in the capacity I had first thought. There may be opportunity for you as a family page, but I will not have you in my inner circle, not with such lack of wisdom as you have shown yourself capable. Perchance I may arrange for a position for training in the Corps des Pages if someone will sponsor you, but, henceforth, all will depend on your obedience and loyalty. Take heed, Andelot; your future success depends entirely on my good graces. The first action you will take is to end your injudicious friendship with Marquis Vendôme, a growing threat to our family house. Refuse me and there is no room for your future in the House of Guise or at Court.”

  Andelot stared out the palais window. He jammed his hands in his pockets.

  The rustle of a skirt brought him back to the present. He turned.

  An older woman of stalwart proportions and dignity to match, stood in the chamber leaning on a strong black, jeweled walking stick. He guessed the stick weighed enough to teach an enemy a desperate lesson if she so wished to use it. Andelot had heard that until her recent fall, the duchesse was particularly fond of riding, and even hunting with the king’s royal party. Her shoulders were wide and straight beneath a gown of rose silk looped with pearls, with sleeve cuffs and a high collar of stiff cream lace.

  He bowed from the waist. “Your Grace.”

  “I am told you bring us tidings from Amboise?”

  “Oui, Madame.” And he hesitated, for while it was bonne news, it was also exceedingly dark for Sebastien.

  “Comte Sebastien Dangeau is not dead as once we all believed, but alive.”

  The duchesse’s intake of breath prompted Andelot to hasten:

  “Unfortunately, Madame, he was arrested and is in the dungeons of Amboise.”

  Andelot’s Nightmare

  S“EBASTIEN IS ALIVE?” THE DUCHESSE PLACED HAND AT HEART AS THOUGH stunned.

  Andelot bowed to the Duchesse Xenia Dushane and stepped forward, handing her the scarlet-edged envelope with the religious seal.

  “He is, Madame. I bring a lettre from le Cardinal de Lorraine.”

  The news she was about to receive was indeed dark.

  “Ah . . . I see.”

  He read nothing in her voice that suggested dislike of the cardinal, and yet he sensed the stiffness in her mood.

  He watched her carry the correspondence across the chamber to Sebastien’s large desk, where even on a sunny day, one had to kindle lamps to penetrate the shadows that loitered in the palais chambers.

  Were shadows on his mind today? Wherever he looked his thoughts confronted them.

  Andelot stood unobtrusively, steeling his emotions, waiting for her to hammer him for details, but the silence continued. He looked across the chamber at her.

  The duchesse sat on the plush blue-and-gold-fringed chair by a window, and for several minutes after reading the cardinal’s lettre he could have sworn she had forgotten he was there.

  Andelot’s compassion grew as lines of dismay deepened on her face.

  Despite her height and strong shoulders, she seemed to him to be frail and vulnerable. Several times she breathed deeply and shook her gray head as though her burdens were too much to carry. He suspected they were, and that she relied upon her Huguenot faith for the assistance she needed. He knew little about her private doings, but since there was no mention of any Duc Dushane, Andelot perceived that he must have passed on. But then, he had not heard of the duchesse having sons or daughters.

  She sat staring out the window, lean
ing the side of her face against her hand, her elbow on an armrest. Just as he thought she had indeed forgotten him, her attention returned. She looked squarely at him, and a sober resolve reflected in her eyes.

  “So then. Comte Sebastien will soon be brought to the Bastille as a traitor to His Majesty. He will also face the inquisitors at the salle de la question.”

  The words struck Andelot like a doubled fist in his stomach.

  He had expected painful news but not this!

  She shook her head, dropping her forehead against her hand. “God’s mercy be with us, and His strength with Sebastien. This will be dire news for Madeleine.”

  Andelot forced his emotions into abeyance. He stood, hands gripped behind him.

  “Le cardinal informs me Sebastien was caught in the woods near Amboise while bringing word to the Huguenot chief Renaudie that the rebellion was known to the king and Queen Mother. Le cardinal also insists to His Majesty that Reformational Geneva was behind the plot to overthrow his rule, and that Monsieur John Calvin himself financed the soldiers with gold.”

  She used her walking stick to push herself up from the chair, an impatient gleam in her silvery eyes. “It is no great surprise to me that Cardinal de Lorraine would make so groundless a charge against the Reformer. Monsieur Calvin knew of the plot — of course he did. The bulk of the Huguenot soldiers came from Geneva where they had fled for their lives — to where the cardinal could not order the faggots set aflame beneath their feet.”

  “Madame, who knows who may be listening even in these chambers?” he suggested, though he dare not silence a duchesse.

  “Monsieur Calvin did not approve of the rebellion.” She banged the tip of her walking stick on the floor. “He warned the Huguenot leaders involved at Amboise that if they went through with their plans, blood would be spilled on both sides. He was clearly against the rebellion.”

  “Oui, Madame, he would not sanction rebellion against the king,” he hastened, avoiding words to the contrary. Andelot could not help wondering how it was that the duchesse apparently knew what John Calvin may have spoken to the Huguenot chiefs. That she declared she had known about the rebellion beforehand was dangerous. He feared what the Queen Mother would say if she or the cardinal knew. But the duch-esse seemed impervious to any risk to herself as she limped about on her dazzling black walking stick, its jewels glimmering in the lamplight.

  The Huguenot leaders had planned to make a Bourbon prince of the blood the regent instead of King Francis. It was then that Catholic spies in London, favorable to the rule of the Guises, learned of the plot and alerted Duc de Guise. The duc had persuaded the spy to confess all to the Queen Mother. This unveiling helped the Guises set a trap which led to the slaughter of thousands at Amboise. Andelot had heard from Fabien that Duchesse Dushane had warned of a betrayer, Maître Avenelle, among the Huguenots. Avenelle, once a Huguenot himself, had renounced his Protestant beliefs, then disclosed the plot to rid France of the Guises whom the Huguenots considered as naught but Spain’s legates and proponents of the Inquisition, rather than true Frenchmen.

  “The bloody massacre at Amboise,” the duchesse said passionately, shaking her head. “Marquis Fabien wrote me about it, as did the cardinal, but from quite opposite viewpoints, I assure you. Such diabolical carnage is unthinkable!” She looked across the chamber at him. “Marquis Fabien informed me you witnessed this wicked deed.”

  He found he could not talk of it without revulsion and nausea. “Oui, Madame. I was there, hiding as it were, and could not escape the scene until it was over.” As he thought of the deaths, the carnage he had witnessed in the square at Amboise flashed across his mind, and the cries of the Huguenots echoed. He could still hear the whack of the ax and feel the chilly March wind rustling the vines around him where he hid in the courtyard.

  She must have gleaned his deep aversion to discussing it, for she gave a short nod, and much to his relief did not pursue the matter.

  “The marquis mentioned in his earlier correspondence to me that you are a bon ami?”

  “Oui, Madame. We are very close friends.”

  She nodded. “He speaks well of you.” Her lips tightened. She looked down at the correspondence in her hand. Her voice lowered. “Sebastien will soon be brought to the Bastille.”

  Andelot cleared his throat to restrain the emotions welling up within his soul. He had a deep affection for his oncle Sebastien, who had been good to him through the years.

  “Marquis Fabien tells me I can trust you, Andelot. Even so, this missive from the cardinal — ” she shook it at him — “also confirms you are now in his ser vice.” Her narrow silver brows inched upward in question.

  Andelot felt the heat of embarrassment. The pressure of two masters, each demanding loyalty, squeezed his heart.

  She did not wait for his explanation, giving rise to the thought that she had not truly expected one. His frustration wheedled him, but again he held back his emotions.

  “Le marquis told me he will soon be leaving France for a time,” she said, a note of thoughtfulness in her tone.

  So Fabien confides in the duchesse. If he trusts her allegiance with the cause that pulsates in his blood, then so will I.

  He shifted his stance. “Madame, you do seem to be aware of the affairs of the marquis. Yes, he is now in league with certain French and English buccaneers — allied against Spain’s shipping.” He added quickly, “There is also an eventual plan to aid Admiral Coligny, to reinforce an earlier colony of his in a place called Florida. I believe it is named Fort Caroline.”

  She looked grim, drumming her long fingers with gold rings set with emeralds and sapphires.

  “And the small colony is at peril from the well-equipped Spanish garrison called St. Augustine. Ah, Andelot, I believe Marquis Fabien plays a dangerous game, as I am sure you are aware.”

  “Oui, very dangerous, Madame. Marquis Fabien is intent upon taking his ship to England where English buccaneers await him.”

  “The marquis warned me to leave Paris for my estates in Orléans,” she said several moments later. “I believe the Guise brothers, the duc and the cardinal, hope to learn the names of those at Court who may have been involved in the Amboise plot — if there were any at Court so involved.” She looked at him with eyes as frosty as a winter’s morn. “My assessment of why Sebastien remains yet alive in the dungeon is that it enables our enemies to force him to betray his associates. Do you agree, Andelot?”

  “Oui, Madame.”

  He had heard from Fabien that Duchesse Dushane was a private ally of the Huguenots, and known as a woman of some authority within the inner echelons of Court life. She was one of those privileged few of high title who belonged to the Queen Mother’s afternoon cercle. Accordingly, the duchesse possessed knowledge of the happenings at Court that had proven to be desperately important to her friends. On a number of occasions she had warned the Huguenot nobles of danger. Marquis Fabien’s Bourbon kinsmen, Princes Louis and Antoine, in particular, had been warned of murderous plots hatched against them by enemies at Court — all for power, for the House of Bourbon had legal claim to the throne — and so the House of Guise and their allies at Court wished to destroy them.

  What had the cardinal written to the duchesse besides giving her the austere news that Sebastien had been charged with duplicity in the plot?

  “Madame-Duchesse, may I be so bold as to urge you to heed Marquis Fabien’s request that you depart for your estate in Orléans? And if Sebastien is not released from the Amboise dungeon, would not his wife and newborn be better in the protective company of her parents at Lyon?”

  “Your concern is well taken, Andelot. Under varied circumstances, I too would heartily agree with the marquis. Unfortunately he was not aware of the grief that has befallen us with this sudden illness. Henriette cannot be moved just now, nor Madeleine. The maid told you, I believe, of this illness?”

  “She did, Madame. I hoped it was not as dire as she described.”

  She heaved
a sigh. “It is le docteur’s opinion that cousine Henriette should not leave her bedchamber until she gains strength enough for the arduous journey. And Madeleine — well, perhaps; but she has begun to worsen, having been stricken a day later than her grandmère Henriette.”

  She heaved herself up from the chair using her walking stick and moved over to the window. “And I am becoming too old and set in my ways to flee before the baying hounds. The news of so many men dying needlessly at Amboise has been disheartening, and the news of Sebastien, more personal and crushing, especially to Madeleine. I dread to inform her — and coming so soon after the birth of their first enfant !” She shook her head. “Ah, so great a trial. God’s mercies and extended grace are much in need. We will all need greater strength and unfettered faith in His purposes for us and for France as well. We must lean upon the grace of God.” She bent toward him, favoring her stick.

  The lamplight sparkled on the ebony cane. Lean upon the grace of God. She, in her weakness, was kept from stumbling, for her confidence in Christ was not misplaced. Andelot contemplated her steadfast faith.

  “The decision to leave cannot yet be made,” she continued.“Madeleine must decide when she awakens. I will show her the lettres. We will discuss her ability to travel with le docteur. As for me, I will remain here with Henriette, regardless of the medical decision for Madeleine.” She gave him a measuring glance. “I am surprised you did not go with Marquis Fabien.”

  “Oui, Madame. I had considered joining Marquis Fabien’s voyage,”he admitted boldly, straightening his shoulders. He was pleased he had gained muscle in recent months.

  “He was against that idea?”

  “I cannot say, for I did not approach him on the subject, Madame. I fear my expertise with the sword is lacking. Not that he would refuse me for that cause alone. However, there was an opportunity here in France that I desired far more than going to sea and visiting the Huguenot colony.”