Written on Silk

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  “Seek those things which are above, where Christ sitteth on the right hand of God. ”

  Where had she read that verse in Scripture? And only recently too. She must find it. Idelette had often told her that since the French Bible was forbidden and they may not be able to possess it much longer, they must discipline themselves to memorize more of it.

  RACHELLE, WITH COUSIN BERTRAND and Andelot, was escorted into the Louvre palais by Page Romier.

  With heart beating quickly, she went through the corridor and up the marbled steps, entering the blue-and-gold salle de séjour of Comte Sebastien and Madeleine.

  She stood, breathless, taking in the familiar furniture with silver tassels, the heavy blue brocade coverings, and draperies on the windows. Even the musty smell of ancient furniture and the Aubusson rug, walked upon by kings, struck her with the sensation that she may be too late.

  Too late. What could be more heartrending than those simple words?

  Andelot had spoken to one of the ladies-in-waiting who had left to announce their arrival to Duchesse Dushane.

  The duchesse came from one of the interior chambers, and Rachelle was struck that she looked weary and older than during their last meeting at Amboise. Rachelle curtsied and the duchesse caught up her hand.

  “Your Grace?” Pasteur Bertrand inquired.

  “You have come in time.”

  “Is there any improvement, Madame?” Rachelle asked.

  “I fear there is not. Le docteur is with your grandmère now.”

  The duchesse noticed Bertrand’s bound arm in a sling and that he used a walking stick.

  “What happened to you, Pasteur Bertrand? Were you thrown from your horse?”

  “Ah, Madame, I see you have not received Clair’s correspondence.”

  “Non. Has something of import occurred?”

  “Unfortunately so, which leaves me with the difficult task of explaining.”

  “I am in no state for more troubling events, I assure you. But come, we will talk in the next chamber while one of my ladies brings pastries and petit noir.” She turned to Romier who stood near the door. “Romier, do help Messire Bertrand.”

  “I can manage. Merci, Madame,” Bertrand said. “I am feeling much stronger. I intend to leave first thing in the morning for Calais.”

  “Calais? It seems you have more than one venture to tell me about, but at least permit Romier to help settle you comfortably on the divan.”

  She turned to Rachelle who waited anxiously with only one matter on her mind. The duchesse’s eyes softened.

  “Do not hesitate to go to Grandmère, for she is becoming weaker.”

  “Oui. Merci, Madame.”

  Rachelle went past her through a door into Grandmère’s bed chamber. Ladies-in-waiting stood or sat about near the chamber wall. One lady sat on a brocade chair near the bedside. Rachelle did not recognize her, but she appeared of high title. A docteur was there, and she thought he might be the famed Ambrose Paré, royalty’s own physician-surgeon, who had removed the wood splinter from the eye of Catherine de Medici’s husband, King Henry II, after the accident during a friendly joust that had taken his life.

  The docteur beckoned her forward. The ladies moved away to grant Rachelle privacy. Their faces wore sympathy, and many looked tired from long hours of vigilance.

  Rachelle approached the bedside and slipped to her knees on a little padded brocade stool. Could this gaunt face belong to her sprightly grandmère, who once had twinkling dark eyes and roses in her cheeks?

  Ah, death and sickness! How it decays the body and turns it to dust!

  Rachelle took the limp hand between her own and held it against the side of her cheek. Grandmère, do not leave me. You are the one who understands me best.

  OUTSIDE THE BEDCHAMBER IN the main salle, Andelot stood watching through the doorway. Had the sight not been so sad, it would have been a tender and lovely painting, he thought. The gracious Rachelle kneeling with her belle skirts spread about her on the floor, her luxuriant auburn-brown hair in curls on one shoulder, holding the grande dame’s fragile hand.

  I think I am in love with her, he mused, but who am I to think I could ever have her?

  Andelot said his own silent prayers as he had been taught. He wished he could send for the bishop, but he dare not; such would not be permitted. He noted the absence of ceremonial candles and incense.

  There would be no last rites, and none of the ceremony that attended the dying of a Catholic noble or monarch.

  Later, he saw Bertrand coming out of another bedchamber that he assumed must be Madeleine’s. Andelot took a risk and walked up to him.

  “Monsieur, should we not call for the bishop?”

  “Grandmère does not take last rites.” He put a hand on Andelot’s shoulder. “You see, it is Christ alone and His promises we trust for eternal deliverance from the just retribution of our sins and weaknesses.”

  “But, I thought — Ah, well, I see. If I may, I should like to go in and say my prayers.”

  “We will both go in, Andelot. I am certain Grandmère would be pleased by your presence.”

  A few minutes later, when Andelot entered Grandmère’s bedchamber with Bertrand, the docteur came up beside Bertrand as though he might know him. Perhaps he did, for it was said that Docteur Ambrose Paré was a Huguenot.

  “She is conscious but cannot speak without effort. I believe she knows who Mademoiselle is. She tires easily, so we must not overwhelm her.”

  Andelot kept back, kneeling some feet behind Rachelle who remained at Grandmère’s bedside, holding her hand. Pasteur Bertrand stood at the foot of her bed.

  “Grandmère?” Rachelle whispered. “It is Rachelle! Can you understand?”

  GRANDMÈRE HEARD RACHELLE’S VOICE as though from a distance. She tried to turn her head and focus upon her beloved granddaughter. There was something she must tell Rachelle, something most important. If only her mind were more alert to speak the danger — yes, that was it — the danger — danger — the gloves — Rachelle, ma chérie, the gloves! Tell Xenia! Tell Madeleine! Rachelle, do not wear the gloves that wicked woman gave to the three of us —

  “Do not be fearful, Grandmère. Do not become overwrought,” Rachelle whispered, trying to soothe her, but Grandmère did not wish to be quieted. She was dying, but she had little to fear, for Christ had triumphed over the sting of death. The sting of death is sin. But thanks be unto God who gives us the victory through Jesus Christ our Lord.

  Grandmère prayed again as she had done upon every awakening when her mind became briefly clear. She tried to squeeze Rachelle’s fingers and direct her gaze toward the belle red box sitting on the stand where the gloves remained after she had removed them — when? Yesterday — a week ago?

  Grandmère remembered she had gone out to shop, to the marketplace. She had felt full of hope and joy. Madeleine’s daughter was doing so well, and Madeleine too. And then, when she had returned here to the Louvre, she fell suddenly and violently ill. Her breathing became difficult, as though she were being slowly smothered. The following night was passed in a burning fever with a terrible weariness in her limbs, and by morning she had lost control of them. She could scarcely breathe and the pain in her chest worsened. She had wanted to warn Madeleine, but by then her speech had deserted her as well, and she was not remembering things. Then Xenia had come with the best docteur, a Huguenot, Ambroise Paré, the king’s surgeon. Grandmère remembered little after that.

  In rare moments of consciousness she had known there was something she must tell the ladies in attendance. They were all in danger; yes, that was it. Danger! She remembered the gloves, but her mind was failing her again, and she could no longer express her fears —

  Gloves, she said, remember the gloves? But could they hear her? Was she even speaking aloud?

  The Lord Jesus was her solace and calm expectation. Though dumbness seals my lips, You know, O Lord.

  Nothing escapes the Lord’s knowledge, no, not the suffering of t
hose who rejoice to bear His name among His enemies. Fear none of those things which thou shalt suffer . . . Be thou faithful unto death . . . and I will give you the crown of life.

  Her aging body would turn to dust, but her life was not ending. He to whom she belonged had triumphed over death and the grave. Would it matter that she had so briefly tasted the cup of suffering? Soon now . . . soon, the anguish would be forgotten, the ecstasy of seeing the Lord of glory would be hers. No one could take that away — not a persecuting cleric, nor even a king.

  The Belle Red Box

  RACHELLE WAS RESTING HER HEAD ON GRANDMÈRE’S SHOULDER. ANDELOT saw Bertrand speaking to one of the ladies-in-waiting. She left the bedchamber. Now what? Perhaps he should not have been surprised when some few minutes later the lady returned and handed Bertrand a bowl with several small rosy apples. Bertrand walked over to the docteur who listened in silence, head bent, attentive, chin in hand. They spoke for some time; the docteur took the apples and quietly placed them in his satchel. Andelot felt pleased with himself.

  Grandmère was trying to speak once more. Rachelle, too, noted it and raised her head. Andelot saw a note of recognition in Grandmère’s eyes and Rachelle leaned close, putting her lips to her ear.

  “Grandmère,” she whispered, “can you recognize me? Can you squeeze my fingers?”

  Andelot felt compelled to move up beside Rachelle and kneel. Bertrand, too, had come up and stood with the forbidden Book open in hand. A short time ago Andelot had wanted the bishop, but now he was glad the bishop was not present to observe. Even at this emotional moment he could not keep from making curious glances toward the forbidden Bible in French, as though he half expected to see a serpent slithering from among its pages.

  Should he say what troubled him? Yes! This was no time to be timid. He leaned toward Rachelle and whispered.

  “Ask if it was the apples that made her sick.”

  “Poisoned apples, Grandmère?”

  Grandmère made a throaty moan. Then — “Non, non — ” came her weak voice. Rachelle exchanged glances with Andelot and Bertrand.

  Andelot agonized, listening, watching her lips, while Rachelle kept her ear close. Bertrand, too, bent over Grandmère, laying a hand on her forehead. “It is me; Bertrand, Grandmère. Were you poisoned?”

  Andelot looked down to see Grandmère’s fingers barely taking hold of Rachelle’s. With a great effort and drawing of breath, a word slipped through in garbled syllables.

  “Gla — glu. Glau — ” Grandmère’s voice struggled.

  Andelot heard Rachelle’s quick intake of breath.

  He glanced at her. Did Rachelle understand? What could it mean . . .if anything?

  Bertrand continued to quietly pray, his voice calm and confident.

  “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me . . . Into thy hands I commend my spirit . . . Today shalt thou be with me in paradise . . . ”

  Andelot frowned and gave him a sharp look. A strange irritation goaded him. What gave him such confidence! Who does this man think he is to take so much authority upon himself? See how he gives confidence to Rachelle and Grandmère. Who gave you this authority — not the bishop, not the mother Church. It is She who has been given all authority! Yet look at him with that forbidden Book, as though he has access to the living God of heaven!

  Andelot was hardly aware as the docteur came swiftly to the bedside to attend Grandmère.

  Andelot stared at Bertrand. As if he felt the intense gaze, Bertrand turned his silver head and looked straight down at him where he knelt.

  Bertrand’s dark eyes flickered with what Andelot took as firm confidence.

  Embarrassed by his own hasty indignation, Andelot lowered his head and fingered his heavy silver cross, saying a prayer.

  Andelot felt his neck and ears burn. What came over me?

  The ways of the so-called Chris tian Reformers were known to him.

  He held much respect for this Huguenot family, and for that matter, he even felt bonhomie toward Bertrand. It was as though something dark had taken hold of him that he could not explain.

  He heard Rachelle say: “I understand, Grandmère.”

  Grandmère sighed and her breathing softened.

  Andelot stood and looked down at Grandmère, then drew back from the bedside toward the window, his mind active. Grandmère had meant to say something important to Rachelle with those syllables, and he believed Rachelle had understood.

  If not the apples, what was it that had made her deathly ill?

  Madame-Duchesse had come to the bedside to kneel, praying words that Andelot had never heard before. It took him a minute to understand she was saying words from the French Bible, but were they the words of the true Bible the bishop owned in Latin?

  Nevertheless, they were pleasant words in French and he liked them.

  “My sheep hear my voice, and I know them and they follow me: And I give unto them eternal life; and they shall never perish, neither shall any man pluck them out of my hand.”

  Who spoke those words? Jesus?

  Several minutes passed, and then the docteur spoke: “It is over, Madame, Messire. She has departed from this world.”

  Grandmère was gone. Wherever she went, she would not return to inhabit that poor, aged body again, Andelot thought, glancing over to the bed.

  Muffled crying sounded, coming mostly from the ladies gathered along the far wall. Andelot was about to leave the chamber when he noticed a change in Rachelle. She stood, looking intently about the chamber. He could see by her narrowed eyes that she knew something.

  She looked determined, even angry. He followed her gaze to a chest of drawers. On top of it sat a pretty red box with the initials in gold: C M.

  Rachelle stood staring at it. Andelot’s gaze dropped to her hands. They were clenched.

  C M, Andelot mused. Catherine de Medici, bien sûr! Andelot stared at the red box. He saw Rachelle move over to the chest, her rigid back toward him.

  “Messire?” the docteur’s voice interrupted.

  Andelot turned quickly, nodded, and was about to leave the chamber when Rachelle brushed past him entering the main salle, carrying the red box in her hand.

  He swiftly followed.

  ONCE IN THE OUTER chamber, Andelot saw that Duchesse Dushane and Rachelle had entered a private chamber. He followed and spoke to one of the ladies.

  “It is urgent I speak with the duchesse and Mademoiselle.”

  “Madame and Mademoiselle will not speak to anyone now. They are in grief.”

  “It is most urgent. Go now and tell her so, s’il vous plaît!”

  The ladies looked at one another in bewilderment, and at last the woman went to inquire. In a moment she returned and stood aside the open door. “They will see you now.”

  Andelot followed her through a second chamber into a small sitting room. Rachelle held the red box and was standing before the duchesse who sat in a large cushioned chair, her head leaning back wearily.

  “Andelot,” said Rachelle, “where is Cousin Bertrand?”

  “He remains with le docteur.”

  “Call him, if you please. He must hear what I have to say.”

  Andelot bowed toward the duchesse, for he had noticed her looking thoughtfully away from him to Rachelle. Had he given away his feelings for Rachelle?

  A few minutes later, all were seated except Rachelle, who stood facing them.

  “This box came from the Queen Mother,” she said. “I was in her royal chamber when she handed it to me, along with two others. It was this box that Grandmère was trying to draw to my attention.”

  “Caution, Rachelle,” Cousin Bertrand admonished. He looked at the duchesse. “Madame, you are certain we go unheard?”

  “All of my ladies and pages are trustworthy, Messire Bertrand, but you speak wisely in asking. I am sure there are no listening tubes or closets connected to this chamber. That is why we meet here. Sebastien went over it inch by in
ch when he came here several years ago with Madeleine.

  And Madeleine is very cautious about such things. I believe she checks every chamber at least once a year.”

  “Bon. Then, the box came from the Queen Mother?”

  Andelot stood, restless.

  “I believe Madeleine received one also,” the duchesse said.

  “As did we all — except Idelette,” Rachelle said, “which seemed most unusual in itself, for Idelette did most of the dressmaking work for the Reinette Mary Stuart. The engraved boxes were bestowed before we — Grandmère, Idelette, and myself — left Chambord. Grandmère came here to Paris for the birth, as we know; Idelette returned to the Château; and I was called to Amboise in ser vice to Princesse Marguerite.

  “The Queen Mother said the boxes were gifts for our par excellent work on the silk gowns.”

  “But Madeleine was not involved in the gown making at Chambord,”

  Duchesse Dushane said.

  “The Queen Mother stated that Madeleine’s box was in celebration of the coming birth of Sebastien’s first child. She made it most clear it was to be opened only after the successful birth.”

  “Are you saying, ma petite, that you think Grandmère was poisoned?” Bertrand asked, his tone quiet, but blunt.

  Andelot looked quickly at Rachelle. He saw her mouth tighten.

  “Oui,” came her firm reply.

  “But not by the apples?” Andelot asked.

  “Non.”

  “Nevertheless, I have asked the docteur to make a test on the apples,”

  Bertrand said.

  The duchesse frowned. “This is quite difficult to believe, Rachelle.

  Why would Catherine wish Grandmère to die? But nonetheless, proceed with your hypothesis.”

  “You may think me mad, Madame, but I, along with Andelot, believe that Grandmère was poisoned, and I now believe that the poison was inside this box. Madame, we are all witnesses as I open it.”