Written on Silk

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  What he does not know is that the opportunity is no longer available to me.

  “Perhaps it is well you did not go, Andelot. Though Marquis Fabien has not said so in his lettre, I suspect he has more on his mind than financing a voyage to reinforce a colony for Admiral Coligny. However — ” and her expression grew troubled as she studied him — “remaining in France may yet prove as full of risk for your future as taking to the seas.”

  She might have heard through her many spies that he was, in some way, related to the Guises. Perhaps she knew something of the cardinal’s dire plans for him.

  “Marquis Fabien walks a dangerous line as well, Madame.”

  “Assuredly. And if he sinks a galleon, he will hear the angry wail of revenge all the way from Madrid to the ear of the Queen Mother. I suppose he made up his mind to take to the sea upon thinking Sebastien dead. I cannot envision him leaving if he knew Sebastien were to face the inquisitors.”

  “I believe you are right, Madame. He was told by his own Bourbon kinsman, Prince Condé, that Sebastien had been killed with the Huguenot seigneur, Renaudie, in the woods. The marquis also thought that Mesdames Henriette and Madeleine would return together to the Macquinets at the Château de Silk, and that Sebastien’s wife and newborn would be comforted there.”

  “It will be a grievous trial for Madeleine when she learns that her husband lives only to face the inquisitors. She will want the company of her family at the Château de Silk. It is unfortunate this sudden illness that plagues her and her grandmère interferes with any hope of immediate travel to Lyon.” A stalwart look of resignation settled into her countenance.

  Andelot tore his gaze from the walking stick. He bowed lightly. “Just so, Madame.”

  “Very well, then. Wait here until I call Romier to take you to the dining hall and then to your barracks. You need food and rest. I will call for you again this evening after I speak to le docteur. I must also decide on whether to try to intercept the marquis with the news of Sebastien.”

  Ah — food, rest, and sleep!

  “Merci mille fois, Madame-Duchesse!”

  ANDELOT WALKED WITH THE page, Romier, across a courtyard toward the barracks located behind the main palais.

  The Louvre, built by Philippe Auguste, stood on the grassy margin of the river Seine with the palais walls and bastions surrounded by a moat. It was here at the Louvre that Andelot had first met Marquis Fabien. Fabien had been in the royal company of the Dauphin Francis and Mary of Scotland when he had come to Andelot’s rescue. A group of pages, all sons of the nobility, had decided to teach him he was naught but a peasant, more suited to wiping muddy boots than keeping their company. A page was threatening to toss him into the moat when Marquis Fabien approached with a warning: “Andelot is related to me by marriage. As such, anyone who touches him henceforth will have me to contend with.”

  After that, no one in the Corps des Pages troubled him again.

  The dining area in the barracks had its own pantry and a large cooking area. Together with the buttery, the room encompassed the whole left wing of the barracks. The area was raftered with dark beams, its walls darkened from generations of cooking. The cookery was rich in pewter, iron, and copper. The canopied fireplace took the whole of the right wall, and on the other side a long, low table with benches worn to a smooth polish.

  Preparations for déjeuner were underway. The savory aroma of meat on a spit told Andelot how hungry he was. He would eat and retire to a bunk for some sleep before the young men in training would arrive from their duties. There were several hounds licking out greasy cooking pans by the buttery. A precocious cock wandered about in search of tidbits of ground corn, looking as if it dared the hounds to chase it away.

  “Something to wet our throats,” Romier said to a serving boy, who looked to be eight or nine years old. It was not unusual to see even younger children working long hours in the barns, stables, cooking area, and laundry rooms.

  “Leon, fetch that lamb joint to the table — there’s a good lad — and draw us a pitcher from the ale cask. Set out cups and water in the basins.”

  Andelot washed, then took a place at the bench. The aroma of broiled lamb browned and dripping with melted fat wafted to him. The bread was cut in generous slices, and Andelot’s cup was filled with ale. He dipped a chunk of oven-warmed bread into his bowl of lamb’s broth floating with onions.

  As he devoured his meal he consoled himself, musing over the possibility that once he moved among the blooded nobles as kin to the cardinal and the duc, matters would change. There would be no more Romiers to wink and chuckle because he looked like a serf. He frowned and gnawed the lamb bone.

  The door flew open and several pages hurried in, their boyish faces flushed with dread or excitement.

  “News from Amboise! Riders have just come. There was a rebellion by the Huguenots against the king. Comte Sebastien Dangeau was one of them. He has been arrested and will soon be sent to the Bastille. The others are dead. There was a great slaughter ordered by the cardinal and Duc de Guise.”

  Romier pounded the pages with questions, but they had no more information to give.

  “You are certain of all this?” Doubt marked Romier’s lean face. “Ah, but it cannot be!” Romier doubled a fist and struck his other palm. “Renaudie was a noble messire.”

  “Do not permit the royalists to hear you speak thus,” said one of the pages.

  Andelot got to his feet. “It is true. I was there and saw the horrors. It is the cause for which I have traveled here to Paris. I have come straight from Amboise to bring this dark word about mon oncle Sebastien to Madame-Duchesse Dushane.”

  They turned to look at him. The fiery cauldron brewing in Romier’s eyes made Andelot wonder if he should not have held his tongue altogether.

  “You were at Amboise? With the Guises?” Romier asked.

  “I was there, not with the Guises, but with Marquis Fabien de Vendôme.”

  Romier said with a tinge of regret, “It is so, messieurs. He rode in on a golden bay. The stable attendants vow the horse is the marquis’ best stallion.”

  Andelot felt a touch of pride over being trusted with the marquis’ horse.

  There was a moment of studied silence.

  All eyes were upon him now.

  Romier drew Andelot aside to the table. “Sit down and finish your meat. You have journeyed far if you come from Amboise. Make known to me the failing of the Huguenot uprising. And how is it Duc de Guise captured Monsieur Renaudie?”

  Romier appeared to know more than he had first let on. No one among the pages had even mentioned that the seigneur of the rebellion had been Renaudie.

  Romier’s gaze had lost its coldness.

  Andelot calmed himself, and ignoring the pages who loitered around the table, removed the one weapon he did own, a long-bladed knife given him by the marquis, and sliced a hunk of yellow cheese. He looked evenly at Romier as he cut into it. Andelot told of the slaughter of the Huguenots at Amboise, but emphasized that the beheadings were ordered by the Queen Mother, Catherine de Medici. He could see the alarm brewing in Romier’s face.

  “Why did you not tell me this when you first rode in? I would surely have paid heed to you!”

  “You were slow to listen and quick to mock.”

  Romier waved an impatient hand between them. He leaned forward, jabbing a finger in the air toward Andelot. “You are most certain Comte Sebastien is not dead?”

  “He is alive. And will be brought before the salle de la question for his Huguenot faith.”

  Romier groaned. “If only this had not happened now. Surely the marquis would have done something to save him? He is related by marriage.

  He is also an ami of the king. I have heard they knew one another since youth. They were schooled together here at the Louvre.”

  Andelot knew he must be more cautious with his information. He had made several errors already, due most assuredly to his weariness. He believed he could trust Romier, but voices carrie
d in the large room, and there were many pages loyal to the House of Guise.

  “The marquis does not know of Sebastien’s capture. When they departed Vendôme, it was believed that Sebastien had been killed.”

  “Ah!” Romier dropped his forehead against his palm and lowered his voice. “Why not turn to Admiral Coligny? My madame has confidence in him.”

  “The admiral is aware of Amboise. He has called upon the Queen Mother and King Francis to grant a religious colloquy to discuss the reasons for Huguenot rebellion.”

  “Mon père fought under the admiral, and he is a brave seigneur,” Romier said. “If he will bring the Huguenot cause before the king in this upcoming colloquy, then we are well represented. But it will not help Comte Sebastien.”

  Silence settled over them.

  Andelot frowned, musing over the unsolvable problems.

  Finally Romier shook his head. “There could be no more evil news for Comte Sebastien’s wife than this that you bring to her now, Andelot.”

  “It pains me well, I assure you, for as I have said, Sebastien is mon oncle.”

  Romier scowled. “Madame Madeleine is not fully capable of understanding her husband’s plight now. It is the strange sickness that has come upon her. She is often not aware. I overheard le docteur tell my madame.”

  “What did he say?” Andelot asked.

  “That he suspects poisoning.”

  Andelot stared. “Poison?”

  “But, yes — from spoilage. There could be no other cause than the bad fruit, for both the grande dame of the Château de Silk and Madame Madeleine became sick. Only they ate the apples.”

  “Apples . . .” Andelot repeated, frowning at his mug of warm ale.

  Bad fruit, yes; spoiled, perhaps. Perhaps the little worms were in the apples, and they ate them and did not recognize the fact until — non, non, that is all wrong. Why, he had seen much spoiled fruit eaten by goats and they had seemed well enough — certainly they did not become poisoned. He pushed his mug away, feeling light-headed himself. He was weary, exhausted, that was all. Sleep, he needed sleep.

  He pushed his chair back and stood. By this evening when he met with the duchesse again, his optimism should have returned, though there was little reason to think so.

  He excused himself from Romier and was shown by a lackey to the rear grounds of the Louvre where the barracks of the Corps des Pages were located. A small bunk invited him. He removed his boots and settled to the bunk. He shut his eyes and threw an arm across his forehead to blot out the daylight from a nearby window.

  Was there not something he wanted to remember, something that required attention? What was it? he pondered, while succumbing to the warm, comforting arms of mothering sleep.

  ANDELOT WATCHED THE BOY, Prince Charles Valois, open the door, peek inside, then beckon him to follow. Andelot felt himself floating through passage after passage. Where am I? Amboise . . . the palais of Amboise. They stopped before a giant menacing door.

  Charles sneered at him, took hold of his arm, and drew him into a large shadowy chamber.

  “Come, peasant, this way,” Charles hissed.

  Andelot heard Marquis Fabien’s voice, whispering chilling tales of Catherine de Medici in his ear. “Soothsayers abide wherever she resides. Cosmo Ruggiero came with her from Florence. He never leaves her but for short periods. Cosmo the astrologer, the alchemist, puts dead men’s bones in the fire, stirs up powders and perfumes. He draws her horoscopes and makes petite wax figures in the likeness of those who have stirred her enmity. They are to suffer pangs as their wax similitude’s melt into the flames. Cosmo is a purveyor of poisons for Her Majesty. He and his brother handle herbs and roots fatal to life. There on the quay near the Louvre they have their shop.”

  Andelot, as though in a trance, followed Charles into a small writing closet built into a turret.

  “Behold a secret stairway.” Charles grinned. He opened a narrow door built into the stone and pointed upward.

  Andelot peered past him toward a flight of steep stone steps. Charles held the candle which flared in a draft.

  “This way, peasant, hurry!”

  Andelot found himself on the stairs rushing upward, with Charles’s cackling laughter gaining distance on him. “Hurry, hurry, hurry — ”

  Charles stopped before a door at the top, removed a golden key, and entered. Andelot stepped up into a laboratory with a bunk, a chair, and a desk, upon which lay an ancient manuscript. The writing was in Latin with zodiac chart illustrations. To one side was a drawing of a woman named Semerimus and a ziggurat that wound up into the clouds.

  “What say the stars, peasant? Can you read them?” Charles mocked.

  Andelot stared at a cabinet against the wall. He saw many vials and sealed packets, dried herbs and powders. On one of the sealed packets was written: For Her Majesty. White powder. Very strong. Sprinkle on flowers, book pages, and inside gloves. Death within days.

  Suddenly Charles wore a mask of fear. “Maman is coming. Flee!”

  Andelot bolted for the door and darted with Charles down the outer steps and onto a ledge. The wind lashed and rain whipped his face. A blinding streak lit up the gray, rushing Loire flowing beneath him crammed with Huguenot bodies choking the dam. He was losing his balance on the ledge, as the martyrs beneath him made room for him to follow —

  “Saints preserve me!”

  ANDELOT SAT UP, HIS heart thudding, sweat upon his neck, his hands grasping at the bunk frame.

  Poison.

  The sun had set, and only a vestige of twilight peered in through the window.

  From the corner of his eye he caught a movement at the doorway. He turned his head. It was Romier.

  “My madame sends word. You are to see her now.”

  Andelot rushed behind a curtain to pour a bucket of water over himself. Shivering, he proceeded to dry off and change into the fresh garments from a pack roll that Romier must have laid out for him. Andelot expressed his gratitude to the page while he hurriedly dressed to keep his meeting with the duchesse.

  Torchlights blazed at the entrances to the palais as Andelot crossed the courtyard. Guards stood with plumed helmets, shining silver and bronze, their boots polished and gleaming.

  Reaching Comte Sebastien Dangeau’s chambers, Andelot was met by Duchesse Dushane. Her face was strained.

  “Andelot, I report grievous news. Le docteur is with my cousine, Madame Henriette, now. He tells me she is dying and he cannot save her.” Her voice cracked and she turned — quickly, holding a handkerchief to her mouth.

  Andelot saw her shoulders shaking beneath her gown.

  He was at a loss to know what to do in the presence of so great a titled lady, overcome by sorrow. Should he try to comfort her? Put an arm around her shoulder? Lead her to a chair?

  He merely stood with head bent. Suddenly he thought of Rachelle and her sister Idelette, and the Macquinet family at the Château de Silk. How bitter this news would be for them. Grandmère was beloved, and her death would be a severe loss to the family.

  Duchesse Dushane was in control of herself again, dabbing her handkerchief at her eyes and cheeks. The thought was pressed that sorrow, death, and loss came to all, both poor and great. In the end, whether peasant or king, death came. Watching Madame-Duchesse weeping, helpless against the grim reaper, with jewels twinkling on hands growing old, caused his soul to cry, Who then can gain the victory over death and the grave?

  “Is there nothing then, Madame, that can be done?”

  She shook her silver head slowly. “Non.”

  Andelot could not explain the agony that seemed to come to him from nowhere, stooping his youthful shoulders.

  Is there nothing then, O my soul? Nothing but death and loss? Oh! Pity then the moment that gives the crying enfant life!

  “If only Henriette’s daughter, Clair, and her granddaughters, especially Idelette and Rachelle, could be here to say their au revoir. How dismaying that they are not,” the duchesse said. “Even Madele
ine — in the very next bedchamber, is too ill to rise and go to her grandmère’s bedside.”

  Andelot paced around the chamber as her words broke through his concerns. The duchesse was now sitting and seemed to be struggling to bring her feelings under her usual firm grip.

  Dare he suggest what was on his mind? Why not? It was fair to Rachelle, a granddaughter so firmly attached to her beloved grandmère.

  “Madame? I would ask that you send me at once to the Château de Silk. I will bring the Macquinet mesdemoiselles here.”

  “Yes, I thought of that, but there is not time enough, Andelot — she is most ill.”

  “S’il vousplaît, Madame. I have a horse, the marquis’ horse! He races like the wind. If the marquis knew the urgency, he would have me use his stallion to accomplish this feat. It would mean much to the Macquinets, I assure you, if they but knew the shortness of time, Madame.”

  She looked at him with a sympathetic expression. “And what is your determined interest in all of this?”

  Andelot hastened: “You see, I was raised at the Château de Silk in Lyon by a nurse until mon oncle Sebastien came and brought me to Paris where I was placed in a monastery school. I remember well the dignified woman the Macquinet Daughters of Silk so affectionately called Grandmère. I should feel it my duty to do my utmost to see Mademoiselle Rachelle has one last meeting with her grandmère — to kneel beside her bed and pray.”

  She appeared to take control of her emotions once more and walked over to the desk using her walking stick.

  She was now the Duchesse Xenia Dushane, in command by right of blood title. “Yes, you must try to bring Rachelle, at least, to say adieu. It is appropriate and most telling of you, Andelot.”

  He felt the color rise up his neck to warm him. This great lady approved of him.

  “I will send my chief page with you.” She rang a small gong and Romier, who had waited outside the door, entered.

  He bowed. “Your Grace?”

  “Prepare my fastest horse. You will ride with Andelot to Lyon tonight.”

  “Tout de suite, Madame-Duchesse!”