Written on Silk

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  Fabien waited for the full impact of his words to hit Bertrand. He was confident Bertrand would decline, probably with a frown over Fabien’s brutal mission, and then seek to obtain other passage.

  “We are making for the Netherlands’ coast tomorrow,” Fabien continued. “While the wind is in our favor. You understand.”

  Bertrand wore a challenging smile. “Ah, I accept your offer, Marquis Fabien. I too wish for the defeat of Spain’s cruel conquests, whose wealth from the Americas allows them the luxury of great armies to crush the Reformation in the regions they control. The tender shoots of the Reformation are seemingly defenseless against the boots of the Inquisition, or as Rome calls it, the Counter-Reformation.”

  Startled, Fabien regarded the minister, wondering at his boldness. “Let me get this clear, Pasteur Bertrand. You would join forces with privateers, some of whom, shall we say, may not have legal articles from their respective kings or queens to attack Spanish shipping?”

  Bertrand stroked his short, pointed beard. “Précisément. Let us say also, that ministers do not have legal articles from the same kings and queens to bring Bibles printed in French, German, or Dutch into their realms. There is no freedom to own Bibles, nor to preach from them, nor to build Huguenot churches.” Bertrand offered his grim smile. “So then, Marquis, it is settled? I ask for no special treatment aboard your ship, except that I should like to take my loyal servant Siffre with me. I yet need his aid in working my shoulder bandages.”

  Fabien tried one last ploy.

  “You will need to have your cargo hauled across England to Spitalfields — no easy task, Monsieur.”

  “Also true, but I have done so before. The Lord has not failed me in any of these past difficulties, and I think His sufficiency will once again provide for my particular need.”

  “Monsieur Bertrand, you do fully understand, do you not, that of necessity, I shall become for a time a buccaneer giving no quarter to the Spaniards?”

  “It is fully understood, Marquis. Let us hope the kings of Spain and France do not fully understand,” he said wryly. “While I do not agree with such actions unless war is sanctioned by just cause of provocation — I shall not weary you with my reasons now.”

  “And you are willing to go on this venture, knowing I cannot take you to your destination until this issue with Alva is met, and bested?”

  “Précisément.”

  There was silence.

  “Bien! It is settled.” Bertrand pushed himself up from the chair. He smiled at Andelot who had listened with keen interest.

  “Adieu, Andelot. I plan to return to France from England in the fall to attend the upcoming colloquy. I shall see you again.”

  “I shall very much hope so. Adieu, Monsieur.”

  Bertrand walked to the door, replacing his black hat and straightening the bit of stiff white ruff around his collar. Fabien was struck again at how much he resembled Monsieur John Calvin.

  “Siffre waits on deck,” Bertrand said. “Duchesse Dushane has sent Romier, her trusty page, and several guards to aid in the loading of my prized cargo. We shall proceed with the matter at once, Marquis. Merci.”

  The skirmish was lost. Fabien had relented. He now worried that this man of character, whom he had a strange liking for, would meet the face of trouble, for the wharves were a hotbed of spies. The last thing he wanted was for the godly Bertrand to be caught and arrested on heresy charges to join Sebastien in the Bastille.

  “One moment, s’il vous plaît, Pasteur Bertrand. Just where is the warehouse that keeps your treasure?”

  “On the southern end of the wharf. Warehouse twenty-three. I have the key. You need not trouble yourself. I realize you and your capitaine are busy loading your own supplies.”

  “Anything can go awry. I would not risk your going there. I think it far wiser to wait until dark, whereupon I will speak with Romier about working with Gallaudet and my men-at-arms to take care of the matter.”

  Fabien thought Bertrand looked relieved, or perhaps he was merely exhausted. Fabien’s conscience awoke and smote him. Bertrand was in his sixties, recovering from the great trauma of only a few weeks earlier.

  “While we wait for nightfall, I will have you and your serving man — Siffre, is it? — shown to a cabin so you may settle in. I am afraid your space will be very cramped, Monsieur.”

  “I have slept in far less desirable places. Merci, Marquis Fabien.”

  By agreeing to Bertrand’s presence aboard the Reprisal, Fabien had just opened a door that allowed him to become even more entangled with the Macquinets, and for the Geneva pastor to become more involved with him.

  Fabien stood with arms folded across his chest, head tilted, watching as Bertrand walked down the gangplank with Gallaudet, and an older monsieur that must have been his servant, Siffre.

  “Why is it that I feel that Pasteur Bertrand’s boarding at such a time as this is something he had planned for?”

  Andelot said, “It is because you would not carry my silver cross, Marquis, so God has now blessed your voyage with Pasteur Bertrand.”

  Fabien narrowed his gaze, thoughtfully watching Bertrand until he was no longer in sight.

  From below on the wharf, a voice shouted, “Monseigneur Vendôme, pardone, have you seen Andelot?”

  Fabien recognized the young page, Romier, garbed in the green and silver and a scabbard with the duchesse’s coat of arms. He called out from his cabin door, “What do you want with him?”

  “Monsieur Arnaut and his retinue will soon be ready to leave for Paris. Their coach-and-six will be waiting beside the street. Monsieur asks if Andelot is returning with them. Monsieur wishes to be on the road within the hour to go to his ailing daughter at the Louvre.”

  Fabien turned toward Andelot who was scowling, a frown on his brow.

  “I could be of help to you and Bertrand on the voyage,” Andelot said hopefully.

  Fabien smiled. “Is it truly for the smell of the sea and battle you would join us? I think not, mon cousin. And yet would you come with me to Coligny’s colony in Florida with no taste for battle? Knowing the wrath of Spain for the Protestant corsairs?”

  “We will claim it was our duty to France, to His Majesty, Francis.”

  Fabien smiled wryly. He knew Andelot excelled in the spirit of learning, was content with his books, his love of languages, his religious studies, and a curiosity about John Calvin he would not admit to.

  “You have another calling, mon ami. There is a better future for you in the Corps des Pages than on a buccaneering ship.” And should something go wrong on this mission, he did not wish to have Andelot’s blood on his hands. “It is enough that I stir the wrath of your kinsman. If you also follow me, you will make him your full enemy. Cardinal de Lorraine does not spare any for pity, not even you. Andelot, there are but a few minutes. There are lettres I must write before you leave.”

  Andelot called down his intentions to Romier while Fabien went to his desk for parchment, ink, and quill.

  He was still writing when Andelot came back across the wooden deck and through the open door. At last he signed his full Bourbon name of nobility and used the appropriate seal with the coat of arms of Duc Jean-Louis de Bourbon, now his own except for the title of Duc, as that was carried by Prince Antoine de Bourbon, the King of Navarre.

  Fabien stood from behind the cramped desk and handed Andelot the two lettres.

  “Give one to the duchesse, and the other to Duc Bellamont. The rest they will take care of.” He threw open his sea chest and took out a leather money bag and placed it in Andelot’s hand as he protested.

  “Marquis Fabien, I should not take this — ”

  “You will need it. It should hold you over until matters are arranged with the pages. Stay in Paris. Stay, and learn. Be the voice of reason where fanatics walk. Hold in your heart a love for the truth — especially the truths God has revealed to us in the Scriptures.”

  “Tell me, Marquis Fabien, have you read the forbidden Fre
nch Bible?”

  Fabien lifted a brow. “I read it when I was twelve — a translation by Lefèvre d’Étaples.”

  Fabien placed a hand on Andelot’s shoulder, the ring once belonging to Jean-Louis de Bourbon catching the waning sunlight that slanted through an open shutter.

  It may be that one day in the future, your knowledge will do us both very well, Andelot.

  The silence that followed was broken only by the hurrying footsteps on the deck. Romier appeared, twitching his nose as he doffed his hat toward Fabien.

  “Pardone, but the Macquinet retinue is waiting. They just sent a man to ask again for Andelot.”

  Andelot appeared to have finally failed in his words. He placed the marquis’ lettres under his tunic.

  “Adieu, Marquis Fabien. When the Reprisal fights for Holland against Spain, it must be the best ship on the sea.” He grinned.

  Fabien smiled. “Adieu, mon ami Andelot.”

  Fabien walked with him to the gangplank and watched as he went down to the wharf and ran toward the Macquinet coach, which was parked in the distance near wagons, taxis, and horse-drawn carryalls.

  Fabien gazed at the coach, but he did not see either Arnaut or Rachelle who remained inside. He could go down to say adieu, but with the tension between him and Rachelle, what could be accomplished?

  A half dozen men-at-arms on horseback waited nearby with another horse that Andelot was to mount. The coach-and-six moved out slowly into the street followed by the horsemen. Andelot turned in his saddle and lifted his hat in a salute. Fabien did the same. A few minutes later the small caravan rode out of sight. They would soon be on the road to Paris.

  Fabien stood as the dampness, the smell of the port, the sounds of the gulls, the movement of the ship beneath his boots as it shifted within its moorings, all bespoke a very different world than the one to which Rachelle and Andelot were returning. A strange emptiness beat within his heart. He set his jaw, determined not to look back, and turned away from the wharf.

  He crossed the cabin and sat down at his desk to study the map of the region in and around Holland, moving aside other papers, maps, and leather-bound books.

  Some time passed before he noticed the air from the open door was colder, and the daylight was dimming. He lit the candle that was shortened from late-night study. Outside his window gray fog was starting to swirl across the deck. It would be a perfect night for loading Bertrand’s forbidden treasury as well as for silently leaving the Pas de Calais under wraps of misty darkness. If all went as he and the privateers had planned, in not too many days hence, they would rendezvous with Duc d’Alva’s galleons near the Netherlands.

  The Long Road Home

  THE LOUVRE PALAIS

  RACHELLE RETURNED TO PARIS WITH HER FATHER, MONSIEUR ARNAUT, to find Duchesse Dushane smiling as she stood to greet them in the Louvre salle of the Macquinet apartment. One look at Madame’s face lifted Rachelle’s spirits.

  “Madeleine is recovering?”

  “Many thanks to our God — she is! Oui, Arnaut, your daughter Madeleine is awake from her feverish slumber, and le docteur says she is on her way to a slow but certain recovery.”

  With joie de vivre, Père Arnaut bent over her hand and thanked her for the care she had given his daughter when neither he nor Madame Clair could be with her.

  “May I see her now, Madame?”

  “She will be most thrilled, Arnaut. The bébé is with her. You shall see your first granddaughter. Le docteur is here as well. I am certain you will wish to discuss matters with him after you speak to her.”

  Rachelle was pleased about Madeleine’s progress, but her thoughts soon strayed to Grandmère and what the docteur might have learned from the autopsy. After a short visit with Madeleine in order to not overtire her, her father came out of her chamber and told Rachelle he would speak alone with the docteur.

  Some time later the docteur came out and bowed to her, then departed. Rachelle swiftly entered the salle where her father stood staring through a window toward the river Seine. He heard her entry, and turned.

  His face was tired, the lines of prolonged strain deepening around the corners of his mouth.

  “What did he say about the manner of poison that was used?”

  “There is no proof of poisoning, my daughter.”

  “No proof,” she protested, walking toward him. “But the gloves.”

  He squeezed her shoulder with understanding.

  “There was probably an abscess of her lung,” he said quietly. “Le docteur now believes Madeleine’s illness was not related to Grandmère’s.”

  Rachelle closed her eyes in a moment of frustration. “Then what made them both so violently ill at the same time? Madeleine had many of the same symptoms, but she did not leave the gloves on for as long, whereas Grandmère wore her pair during her shopping. Mon père, it was the gloves I tell you, the gloves from the Queen Mother. I shall never be convinced differently.”

  “The gloves,” he said patiently, “are not to be found anywhere in the appartement. Without them we have no proof of poisoning. It is merely suspicion.”

  “But others saw the gloves. Madame Dushane saw them, the ladies-in-waiting — ”

  “There are no gloves now, ma petite.”

  “What does Madeleine say?”

  “Madeleine claims she may have been ill before trying on the gloves. She had not been well for several days.”

  Rachelle shook her head and sank to the rose settee. “I will not accept this, mon père. I have no doubt in my heart that it was her — Madame le Serpent! And I for one will not forget that she took Grandmère from me when I needed her most in my life!”

  Pain came to his eyes. He swept up both of her hands into his and held them tightly. “My daughter, pay heed to what you say. I do not want you upset about the Queen Mother like this. It is dangerous. The ears of others, ami and foe alike, are apt to hear. It may easily reach the royal chambers. I have already lost one daughter — ” His husky voice caught, and he squeezed her hands tightly. “I do not want to lose another, not by illness nor by her determination to discover evidence of some evil deed.”

  Rachelle threw her arms around him. “Oh, mon père . . .”

  He hugged her tightly. She heard him struggle to restrain his tears. She had always loved him for his ability to be emotional, quite unlike the restrained and sometimes wry Cousin Bertrand. Both men were so different in their outward display of feelings, yet they were the two strong masculine forces in her life.

  Then there was the marquis. His strength of purpose, like granite, seemed to exist on an altogether different plane.

  “Promise me, daughter, that you will not say anything rash that could wing its way back to the Queen Mother. She has many spies, some are easily recognized, but there are others we would never suspect. We must be ever vigilant.”

  A chill went up her spine as she met his grave eyes. It was fear that had silenced the poisoning of Grandmère and Madeleine. The gloves had vanished, and with them the proof that they had been treated with poison. It seemed that neither the docteur, nor anyone else, would dare make a charge against the Queen Mother. And as long as the docteur would not affirm that poison had taken Grandmère’s life, then it mattered not what Rachelle said, nor whether her father agreed with her. No recourse remained, for who dare accuse the Queen Mother?

  As footsteps came across the chamber floor, softened by the thick Aubusson rug, Rachelle and Arnaut turned. It was one of the ladies-in-waiting, a golden-haired young woman with sleepy eyes. Rachelle knew little about these servants, or to whom they swore fealty, but she took for granted that they were loyal to Madeleine and the duchesse. After her father’s brief warning, she wondered if anything was as simple at Court as it appeared. She was learning that a life at Court did not especially please her, and that those who were here had driving ambitions that seemed to exceed those of the serfs and other villagers she knew in Lyon.

  “Messire Macquinet, Madame requests you and the made
moiselle be taken to your rooms to refresh yourselves before you join her for dîner tonight.”

  “Merci, mademoiselle. One moment, s’il vous plaît.”

  After she left, Rachelle felt her father’s gaze and sensed he might be worrying about her in ways he did not for Idelette, or even Madeleine.

  “Ma petite daughter,” he said gently, his voice low. “Whatever befalls us, be it fair or dark, must first pass through the hands of our God who is faithful and true.” He put his arm around her shoulder and walked her toward the door.” Madame Xenia’s suggestion is a welcome one,” he said, calling the duchesse by her first name. “A little rest and quiet will do us well. We have yet much to discuss with her, not only about your sister, but Sebastien.”

  The words “hands of our God who is faithful and true” echoed in her mind for days afterward, giving Rachelle much to ponder. She knew these principles were taught in the Scriptures, whether or not her mind and spirit were able to grasp all the implications. Though she clung tenaciously to the truth that God could be nothing other than wholly faithful and true, consistent with His unchanging character, the sting of disappointment shouted unfairness, and she struggled to overcome thoughts of revenge.

  I know Grandmère was murdered and that Madeleine could have died as well, but for the grace of God. If I could find those gloves, I could prove it, even if it meant risking my own safety. How many more will she poison for her selfish ambitions?

  In the days after returning from Calais, her father made plans to transport Madeleine and bébé Joan to Lyon where Madame Clair waited anxiously, writing several lettres asking for news. Poor Mère was anxious to be with Madeleine, and yet she was fully needed at the château to care for Idelette and Sir James Hudson, whom she claimed was “becoming like a member of the family. His bon cheer is a welcome relief, and he apologizes for the care he requires. I assure him we give in the name of our Redeemer who gives to us all things freely. He marvels that I can say these things after losing Avril. I tell him I did not lose my youngest daughter. I know where she is — and it is a far better place than France is becoming. I long for your return . . .”