Written on Silk

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  Andelot looked from Rachelle’s taut face, to the duchesse, who looked shocked. Bertrand merely looked grave and thoughtful.

  Rachelle lifted the lid — it was empty.

  Andelot refused to be disappointed, but Rachelle fell silent and stared in bewilderment.

  Madame sighed.

  “I would not have been surprised had you found poison,” the duch-esse said. “It has been done before, though even the mention of it could put us in danger.”

  “Is that not expected?” Bertrand said, making his way to the fire. “The marquis warned me to be aware of the Queen Mother. He does not trust the upcoming colloquy to be held at Fontainebleau this fall. I confess the thought of poison crossed my mind. I have discreetly mentioned this to le docteur. He will consider an autopsy upon Grandmère, in strictest secrecy, you understand.”

  “If not in secrecy, there is no telling what may become of those who meddle,” the duchesse said darkly. “I know Catherine de Medici very well, and le docteur knows the secrets of this infamous court, I assure you.”

  Rachelle retained a thoughtful silence. Andelot, watching her, was not satisfied with the empty box, and he did not think she was either.

  “Mademoiselle, was your box also empty?”

  Rachelle shook her head. “The boxes themselves were gifts, but mine had a jewel inside. I have worn it on two occasions and received no ill effects.”

  “Madame, do you know what this box contained?” Bertrand asked the duchesse.

  “Mais certainement. A merveilleux pair of gloves from Catherine’s special maker on the quay,” the duchesse said.

  Rachelle looked up. “Oui, and that is what I thought Grandmère was telling me, gloves. But I expected them to be inside the box.”

  Bertrand turned from facing the hearth. “Tell me, Madame, can you recall whether or not she may have worn them?”

  “Oh well, bien sûr, I remember distinctly that she had them on when she returned from the market — ”

  Andelot raised his gaze sharply, as did Rachelle.

  “Ah . . .,” Bertrand murmured, frowning.

  The duchesse’s voice had suddenly gone flat as the implication of her own words appeared to have left her shaken.

  “Gloves,” she reiterated.

  Rachelle nodded. “I am most sure she tried to say the word gloves.”

  “Just so,” Andelot agreed. “Not apples, but gloves. The apples were eaten at about the same time as the poison was working, for several hours, through her skin.”

  Rachelle sprang to her feet and took a turn about the chamber. “Poor Grandmère. If only I had been here! I should not have taken refuge at Vendôme but come straight to Paris!”

  “You could not have stopped what took place,” the duchesse said. She clenched the handkerchief she held upon her lap. Her face was pale.

  Rachelle sank onto a rose settee, head in hand. Andelot walked up beside her.

  “Why did I not receive a pair?” Rachelle cried, as though it were unfair that Grandmère should be poisoned while she went free.

  She loved Grandmère more than anyone in the family, Andelot thought, at a loss to comfort her.

  Bertrand walked over to Rachelle, laying a kindly hand of encouragement on her shoulder. “If you did not receive gloves, perhaps it is because you are yet useful to Madame le Serpent. We must see to it that you do not return to Court.” And he looked at the duchesse for her confirmation.

  “I shall do my utmost, Bertrand, but as you know, it is the Queen Mother who decides such matters. Perhaps with Sebastien arrested on charges of treason, she will have no further interest in the Macquinets.”

  “May God grant it, Madame, but I have my doubts.”

  “We must consider that we still have no proof of poison.”

  Andelot, however, was convinced.

  Bertrand looked at Rachelle. “You say Madeleine also received the same gloves? Then chère ladies, you must find them! For her illness is most likely caused by the same devilish means.”

  “Madeleine!” Rachelle sprang to her feet as though a burst of energy flowed through her and fled from the sitting room in a direction that Andelot guessed must be her sister’s bedchamber.

  The duchesse heaved herself to her feet clutching her walking stick.

  “Cher God in heaven,” she whispered as a prayer. “Yes, yes. Madeleine’s gloves were sitting in plain sight on her vanity table for the last week. I remember now. She had mentioned them to me when I came to see bébé Joan. Saying something about how they were too large.”

  “Then give thanks to God they did not fit,” Bertrand said. “The shortness of the time she wore them may spare her life.”

  The duchesse turned toward Andelot, her eyes bright with worry.

  “Andelot, this way, we may need you.”

  She limped with her cane as rapidly as she could, and Andelot followed.

  Madame called to her maid of honor as they passed the outer chamber.

  “Madame Sully, detain le docteur should he try to depart just now. I have something important to ask of him.”

  “Oui, Madame-Duchesse.”

  Andelot followed the duchesse to the door of Madeleine’s bedchamber without restriction. Her ladies were keeping silent vigil and candles gleamed. One of the ladies-in-waiting was blotting Madeleine’s pale face with a cloth. They moved aside as Rachelle swept in and begin to search the vanity tables and bureaus.

  Duchesse Dushane walked over to the bed and looked down upon Madeleine.

  “How is she?”

  “She sleeps most soundly, Madame. Le docteur gave her more medication.”

  Andelot’s heart was as heavy as a satchel of rocks. One look at the once belle Madeleine Macquinet-Dangeau and he feared her trek was not far behind Grandmère’s. Anger boiled in his stomach, bringing with it a hideous fear of the tall Italian woman in black. Why had she done this?

  Duchesse Dushane dismissed all the ladies-in-waiting, and though surprised, they departed into the antechamber. She looked across the room at Rachelle, who was still searching with frantic determination.

  “They are gone,” Rachelle cried.

  “They must be there. I saw them on that very table next to the gold filigree box.”

  She turned and looked at the duchesse. “Who could have taken them?”

  “The ladies would never steal from her, or from me.”

  “I was not thinking of that, but perhaps they removed them.”

  “Or,” Andelot said uneasily, “would she have given them away because they were too large?”

  The duchesse sat down heavily.

  “Let us ask the ladies-in-waiting.” Rachelle hurried to the door of the antechamber and went inside.

  Andelot heard her questioning them. A few minutes later she returned, walking slowly, thoughtfully.

  “They know nothing about the missing gloves. Mademoiselle Richelieu says she remembers them on the table beside the box, but that was on the day Grandmère became ill. She has not seen them since. The others say the same.”

  The duchesse groaned.

  Rachelle went back to the bureau and searched again, but then threw up her hands. “It is no use. Someone took them.”

  “Perhaps your sister put them away somewhere before she became ill,” Andelot encouraged.

  Rachelle did not appear convinced.

  Andelot watched Rachelle near the bedside of her eldest sister. She kneeled and prayed, then followed the duchesse out. Andelot went back to the sitting room where Cousin Bertrand waited. He was holding up well, though his face was drawn and lacking some color. Andelot explained that the gloves had disappeared.

  “What is this about a poison laboratory at Amboise?”

  Andelot told him of his ill adventure there at the fortress with Prince Charles Valois and the astrology chamber near the Queen Mother’s bedchamber.

  “There were many poisons, Monsieur; I saw them myself,” he said in a hushed voice. “And there was a certain powder in a vial w
ith a written note. Sprinkle on garments or inside gloves, or some such words of that nature. I cannot recall all, but I fear some of that diabolical poison was used in the gloves.”

  “I believe you may be correct, Andelot. Astrology, the black arts, and poisons.” Bertrand shook his head with grief. “I hear it is even at Rome as it is here at Court. For your sake, you must promise to say nothing of what you know to anyone at Court, especially to the Guises.”

  “Of that, Monsieur, you may be certain.”

  Bertrand regarded him evenly. “Let us hope so, Andelot.”

  “Just so, Monsieur, but what of you? What of this long journey to Calais you mentioned to Mademoiselle Rachelle? Will you yet go?”

  Bertrand gave him a hard, thoughtful look. “Do I take a chance with you, Andelot?”

  “Monsieur?” He wrinkled his brow, uncertain what he meant.

  “Rachelle trusts you implicitly. From what I hear, so does Marquis de Vendôme, whom you are able to call your ami. The duchesse too appears to welcome you into her confidences. You are here with us now, hearing us speak of poison and betrayal. And yet I am told from other reliable sources that the cardinal looks upon you as a possible favorite, that he intends to enter you into the university for a high position in the state church, perhaps to follow his own steps and one day receive the red hat as a cardinal after him. And shall I take you into my confidence about why I go to Calais and London?” Bertrand arched a silver brow, his dark eyes measuring him.

  Andelot did not know what to say. He was accustomed to the Huguenots taking his friendship for granted, speaking freely in his presence, even as he did in theirs. The thought of betrayal after the slaughter of Amboise was hideous to him. He realized, however, this was not well known to Pasteur Bertrand, a theologian from Geneva who would be considered a bon “catch” by the inquisitors.

  “Monsieur,” Andelot said, “I confess that I do not know the reasons for your going to Calais or to London, but I suppose it has something to do with propagating your Reformational beliefs. But that is not why I wish to go to Calais with you. It is to try to warn Marquis Fabien that Sebastien is facing a cruel and monstrous death, and perchance the marquis can delay his voyage and appeal to his ami, King Francis.”

  Bertrand watched him, and his dark eyes glimmered. “That is one of the reasons why I go.”

  Andelot found that he somehow wanted this older monsieur to trust him. “No longer, Monsieur, am I deemed the favorite of the cardinal, for as I mentioned in the coach, I have offended him while at Amboise. They say I have their blood, that mon père Louis was a Guise cousin disowned by the family, and that Louis was adopted by Sebastien’s family, the Dangeaus. But I am not esteemed enough to be in a position to know the plans of the cardinal.”

  “Then if you accompany me to Calais, your advancement at Court through the bon graces of the cardinal will be at further risk.”

  “I shall be fully disowned if the cardinal learns I brought the marquis word of Sebastien’s arrest.”

  Bertrand seemed aware. “Do you wish to serve the cardinal?”

  Andelot hesitated. He was sure the way to this man’s friendship was through integrity.

  “Monsieur, I think you know that I am not a practicing Huguenot; therefore I am not averse to studying in the church universities. I had hoped to become a great scholar like Thauvet. However, I do not wish to be a practicing priest.”

  “You walk a narrow path, Andelot. You must be careful where it leads you.”

  “Just so, Monsieur. And yet, learning may yet enable me to discover where this narrow path you speak of leads to in the end.”

  And just where will it lead me? Andelot wondered.

  “Your dilemma weighs heavily upon you, as I can see. None can choose the path your feet will tread except your own will and heart. My advice is to pray much about your decisions. Look to His counsel and His working in your soul. His Word will guide you if you surrender your desires to His purposes. I can tell you from experience to be most cautious in dealing with the House of Guise.”

  “Monsieur, if I intended to please only the cardinal, I would be far removed from this chamber.”

  “Unless you were a spy.”

  Andelot, stunned, stared at him. “A spy!”

  But Bertrand’s thin smile and burning eyes assured him he did not think it so. “If for no other reason than your amorous feelings for the mademoiselle.”

  Andelot felt his neck begin to burn. “I have other reasons, Monsieur Bertrand. I assure you upon my honneur, I would never betray the marquis. And if he were here now he would swear it so!”

  Bertrand put a hand on his shoulder, his gaze sober and frank. “Do not be angry because I test your fealty, Andelot. As a Huguenot pasteur, and an ami of the hated John Calvin, I must be cautious of those I hold in confidence.”

  “You speak well, Monsieur. It is true, what you say. I hope one day you will know I can be trusted.”

  Bertrand’s eyes softened. “I feel strongly that the hour will come.

  It may interest you to know that I have decided to make certain it will come. So you wish to be a great scholar, do you?”

  Again, Andelot was taken off guard and stared at him. “That is what I hope to become.”

  “Then perhaps there are more ways to accomplish that hope than you now realize. But come! We have no time to lose. I tell you this; I go to Calais to intercept the very one you say is a true ami to you, to the Macquinets, and to Sebastien.”

  Rachelle and the duchesse had returned to the sitting room, and Bertrand looked over at Rachelle who was speaking in low tones to the duchesse. “Matters have changed,” Bertrand said. “I see them in a clearer light than I did only a week ago at the château. I begin to think the marquis, who appears to have earned everyone’s confidence, including Madame’s, may be the seigneur we need to save Sebastien.”

  Andelot felt his hopes revive. “Then we shall try and intercept him at Calais?”

  “As you say, we shall try.” He looked over at Rachelle. “I think it wise that Rachelle join us.”

  Andelot had not expected Pasteur Bertrand to suggest it, but he knew she wanted to go for her own reasons.

  “When would you wish to leave?” Andelot asked.

  “If we hope for success, we must not delay. I would leave this night.”

  Andelot agreed. “With the help of Madame and Page Romier, it can be arranged, Monsieur.”

  “Bien, do all you can. I shall speak with Rachelle while you ready matters for travel.”

  A short time later with the duchesse and Rachelle informed of Pasteur Bertrand’s plans, Duchesse Dushane promised all the assistance necessary, including fresh horses. She would stable Fabien’s golden bay until Andelot returned, for he had told her that he feared the grand stallion had been ridden too strenuously in recent weeks. The truth was, he did not want to see the marquis’ scowl should his favorite horse look worn upon his return.

  With matters settled concerning their plans, the duchesse called her servants to gather supplies and ready the horses. Andelot joined Bertrand and Rachelle for a light meal with the duchesse and learned that Rachelle agreed to go on to Calais and leave her sister Madeleine in the care of her ladies and the duchesse.

  “I want to be the one who tells Père about Avril and Grandmère,” she said. “Madame Clair would approve, I am sure.”

  Andelot was sure this was the primary reason she wanted to go, but he guessed there were other reasons as well. This dampened his spirits, for he was not ignorant of the flame that burned between Rachelle and Marquis Fabien.

  She sat across the table from him, and as he watched, he was struck again by how she had changed since Amboise; he had first noted the difference at the château when he brought news of Grandmère. At first he thought it was his imagination. She had been through much turmoil, as had they all. But now that he had been around her for several days, he could see Rachelle truly had changed.

  The once tender brown eyes were now lik
e hard, flashing jewels. Her face, too, carried a new determination he did not recall seeing in the past. This worried him. He wondered if she dreamed of revenge. Andelot had no spiritual problem with revenge, though Pasteur Bertrand rejected the idea. Andelot did have fears for what might happen to Rachelle if she tried to enact the revenge she wanted. Would the marquis notice the change when he met her again?

  He was aware of some matter that had arisen to build a barrier between Rachelle and Marquis Fabien, some chill which held her in silence whenever his name was mentioned. Should I not be content to have it so? Maybe this will give me opportunity.

  Andelot smiled and relished his choice cut of roast pheasant and chestnuts.

  After the meal, as they prepared to depart, the duchesse informed Rachelle that she would write the unhappy lettre to the Château de Silk of Grandmère’s passing and explain Bertrand’s wish for Rachelle to accompany him to Calais.

  The duchesse came to Bertrand.

  “Our good God go before you, Bertrand.”

  “Your servant, Madame. I suspect our paths may again cross, perhaps at Fontainebleau at the colloquy in the fall.”

  “I shall be there in full support of our cause, I promise you. You are always welcome at the Dushane estate. Au revoir.”

  Rachelle dipped a curtsy. “Merci, Madame, for all your care for Grandmère and Madeleine.” She kissed her hand, and turning, swept from the chamber with Bertrand following.

  Andelot bowed as the duchesse turned to him.

  “Your Grace, I bid you adieu.”

  “Godspeed, Andelot. Do tell the marquis we need him desperately to intercede on behalf of Comte Sebastien.”

  The Privateers’ Expectation

  CALAIS

  MARQUIS FABIEN’S ARRIVAL AT THE MEDIEVAL TOWN OF CALAIS WAS bittersweet. It was here that the French forces under the command of the Duc de Guise defeated the English and won him the title of the great Le Balafrey, and it was near Calais in an earlier battle that Duc Jean Louis de Bourbon had been left to die, cut off from reinforcements by the same scheming duc.

  Calais had long been the port of passage across the channel to England. The citadelle was the name given to the line of defense around the Pas de Calais with fortifications dating from the thirteenth century. Though there were complaints from merchant ship captains that the old port was a den of pirates, to Fabien this was a most fitting port to wait quietly with the other privateers for word from spies on the movements of Spanish galleons.