Written on Silk

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  Memories, like leering demons, stirred from dark corners of his mind. You will go back there one day. Remember the red-hot pincers that tear at the flesh? How the inquisitors carve out tongues, poke out eyes, cut off feet, hands, arms? Remember?

  Therefore, be wise; do not risk your good favor with the king by even a suggestion that you intend to escape; do not let the Queen Mother know you have concern for heretics, lest she question your sincerity in attending Mass at noon each day. Recurring pain served to remind him of how near he had come to being burnt at the stake for heresy. He had trained his mind to avoid the brutality of the past.

  Though Sebastien concealed things he would not discuss even with his wife, Madeleine, he could not easily hide his mangled left hand. At least it was his left hand, and he was able to cover it in a black velvet glove.

  Those brutal scenes he had been forced to watch as part of his punishment came alive again, carved with vivid terror across his mind. He could not destroy those stark images, nor could he rid his nostrils of the stench. He leaned his head near the small coach window and thrust the shutter open, feeling sick.

  His handkerchief, always perfumed with sweet musk, offered no refuge. He still smelled the rotting, unburied corpses that were ofttimes left to torment the prisoners. He leaned out the window and sucked in cool, fresh, rainy air.

  The coach bounded through the gates of Fontainebleau, but the groans from his mind pursued him.

  He looked over his shoulder, back toward the road, as though expecting to see a grayish apparition following him, pointing a bony finger of accusation for his willingness to escape the dungeon by recantation while they had endured for the name above all names. He saw only the royal guards, dressed in spotless crimson, gold, and black, their swords glimmering, receiving him into their habitations.

  The driver brought the coach to a stop in the courtyard of Fontainebleau. Sebastien heard the horses snort and whinny as his lavishly garbed footman opened the door and bowed.

  Sebastien stepped down, swayed a little, and was swiftly steadied by Andelot Dangeau, who, with a guard, had ridden ahead of the coach on the marquis’s golden bay, while other pages rode behind, at the tail end of the procession.

  Andelot had evoked the scorn of the Cardinal de Lorraine over his actions at Amboise with the boy, Prince Charles. Whether or not the cardinal intended to continue his remoteness toward Andelot was questionable, and troubled Sebastien. He was secretly pleased to have learned that Andelot was now excluded from the cardinal’s personal league. Sebastien knew the cardinal treated the boy-king Francis in a cynical and overbearing manner. Why would he treat Andelot differently? He hoped the cardinal’s aloofness would persist.

  Sebastien blamed himself for ever having brought Andelot to Chambord to meet the duc and the cardinal. He should have delayed, making excuses until the cardinal lost interest and forgot about his kinsman. Now, though presently Sebastien’s page, Andelot could yet become caught in the inner circle of the Guise coalition. Thankfully Andelot seemed content and was not seeking to win back the cardinal’s favor, due, no doubt, to Sebastien securing the scholar Thauvet as his tutor, as the marquis had written and paid handsomely to acquire. If the cardinal discovered it was the Bourbon marquis sponsoring Andelot at Court, there would be trouble. Thus far, the cardinal had paid no heed. Scholar Thauvet was one of the most learned men at Court, and also a secret Huguenot. Did the marquis know of Thauvet’s forbidden faith?

  Sebastien felt the chill of drizzling rain hurling against him. He drew his cloak, heavy with silver embroidery, around his slumping shoulders. He was not an old man, but recently he had been mistaken for Madeleine’s père, though he was but ten years her senior. His sufferings in prison had aged his body and in two months’ passing, his once dark hair bore streaks of gray.

  In a badly limping stride, he made his way across the wet courtyard, attended by pages and liveried footmen, all at his call.

  An ostentatious young monsieur was loitering near the orangerie, and Sebastien saw that it was his sister’s son, Maurice.

  Comte Maurice Beauvilliers ambled forward, wearing a peacock-blue gilded cloak, slashed black hose, and a sombrero hat with an ostrich feather dyed crimson.

  “Mon oncle,” he stated, “I must speak with you. It is urgent.”

  Sebastien paused. “Be it so, Maurice? I am late for audience with the Queen Mother.”

  “I know you are about to see her. That is why I have waited here enduring this most miserable rain and cold. I must present a petition to her, mon oncle, and you can do so for me most easily, I assure you.”

  Sebastien felt a rise of impatience. Maurice was spoiled by his mère, Comtesse Francoise Dangeau-Beauvilliers, who schemed day and night to advance Maurice’s favor and importance at Court. Sebastien believed she could have helped her son far more if she had not given him his every wish.

  “Ma mère Francoise, your sister, has written this lettre to the Queen Mother, mon oncle. Do see that she has it.”

  Maurice handed over a sealed parchment. Sebastien took it reluctantly. He loved his sister and neveu, but their intrigues now seemed to him, after such sober days, as unwise.

  “What does she petition?”

  Maurice smiled, lifting the pink rosebud from his sleeve and smelling it. “I want Mademoiselle Rachelle Macquinet to return to Court that I might marry her. I am madly infatuated, and I must have her.”

  Anger sprang up in Sebastien’s chest. The request was selfish and frivolous. “Do not be a fool, Maurice. I have no time to worry about my young sister-in-law coming to Court. She is content at the Château de Silk. Let her be. She has lost petite Avril and her grandmère in so short a time.” Pushing the lettre back into Maurice’s hand, he brushed past him and went on his way.

  ANDELOT DANGEAU WATCHED SEBASTIEN enter the royal hunting lodge-château of Fontainebleau, escorted by royal guards in red and gold livery to the receiving chamber of the Queen Mother, Catherine de Medici.

  What new bedevilment awaited?

  Andelot had overheard the exchange between Sebastien and Maurice over Rachelle, and his frown grew deeper. Maurice stood one hand on hip, his cap with an ostrich feather cocked arrogantly to the side of his curly dark head. His jewels and rings glittered in the torchlight that flared from the courtyard, and his satin finery irked Andelot so that he glowered at him. Maurice did not favor him with a glance of recognition, but took a gold box from his belt, opened it, removed a bit of snuff, and with practiced elegance, applied it to each aristocratic nostril. Afterward he turned and looked at Andelot standing by the golden bay.

  “So you wear the finery of the House of Dangeau. It is no secret to me, serf Andelot, that your wayward ami, le marquis, is footing your bills and paying the scholar Thauvet to turn you into a philosopher.”

  “Wayward, Cousin Maurice? Why do you speak so of le marquis?”

  “Tut, tut, do you take me for one who is ignorant of his bent for sword and ship?”

  Andelot cast a quick glance about them; most of the other pages were loitering in idle talk. “Do not speak so loudly, I beg of you!”

  “Always his defender, are you not? Well, no wonder, when you are laden with bags of silver from him — and that best of horses.” He nodded toward the golden bay.

  “He is not mine,” Andelot said shortly. “I am caring for him until he is reclaimed by his rightful seigneur. And for what cause should it offend you if my seigneur, the marquis, has opted to sponsor me? What page at Court is not sponsored by some seigneur?”

  “It offends me not, as long as you remember your place, Andelot.

  Do not think because le marquis befriends you that you shall have your way with Oncle Sebastien. And as I have said before, do not call me cousin.”

  Andelot itched to feel Maurice’s chin beneath his knuckles.

  “Greatness, mon comte, is not gained by demand, but by worth. One higher than you has commanded that I call him cousin, yet I refuse.”

  “Le marquis agai
n! He may find upon his return from harassing Spanish galleons that the king may call him traitor! Then I shall make my own plans for bringing Mademoiselle Macquinet back to Court. Do not forget that my mère is Comtesse Francoise Dangeau-Beauvilliers, and she has access to Princesse Marguerite and the Queen Mother. You may tell that to Oncle Sebastien who appears to favor you above me!”

  And he walked off.

  Andelot stood glowering after him.

  Duchesse Dushane had in the meantime come to Fontainebleau, and Romier, her chief page, strolled up, his bells jangling. “Well now, Andelot, the other pages have come to me with a wager that the golden bay is not the true horse of Marquis de Vendôme.”

  “We have discussed the golden bay at the Louvre. He is the marquis’s horse and you know it as well.”

  Romier wiggled his long nose. He put a placating hand on Andelot’s shoulder. “I do know it, mon ami, but our fellow pages tell me they will only believe you are speaking the truth if you agree to a race through the woods. The golden bay against all of our horses. What say you?”

  Andelot was in a tired mood. The Corps des Pages had been harassing him for weeks, and after Maurice’s insults, he itched to even the score. He looked from Romier’s haughty face with its aquiline nose to the challenging faces of pages from the various houses of the nobility, all watching with little smirks and refusing to accept him into their elite camaraderie.

  “Though the golden bay wins the race, how does that prove it is Marquis Fabien’s stallion?”

  “It does not, but they wish to race anyway.”

  Andelot turned his mouth dourly. “Very well. I shall race any and all, but each one who races will have to give one silver coin to the winner.”

  “I will see what they say.”

  The pages huddled together. Romier returned a minute later looking pleased. “They agree. When can you race?”

  “In the morning, after our duties are performed for our seigneurs.”

  “Well enough; tomorrow then. We will meet at the stables.”

  Andelot watched as they all walked away laughing among themselves.

  I will laugh last and best.

  A Great Discovery

  THE MORNING WAS COLD AND BLUSTERY. IN THE DISTANCE, FONTAINEBLEAU was visible through the trees, a stately backdrop against a worsening sky which threatened to overcome the weak sunlight on a frosty morning.

  Galloping hooves broke the hush as Andelot raced down the road from the royal stables, assured that he could stay in the lead on Marquis Fabien’s dazzling golden bay. He laughed at Page Romier and the other pages far behind on their stable horses, followed by the group of young lackeys. He snatched his fine feathered hat and waved it mockingly at them to catch up, then crammed it back down on his head.

  On Andelot’s left, the land was mostly marsh, the haunt of wildfowl. The powerful stride of the golden bay frightened a raven which gave a raucous squall and glided out over a pathway, swooping among low-hanging branches that held shadows against the light.

  The faint patter of October rain had turned into a drizzle. The spirits of the pages were becoming as damp as their uniforms and standards.

  Andelot glanced over his shoulder. He was still several lengths ahead of Romier when, deciding to take a shortcut, he turned his horse off the road from Fontainebleau into a thicket where dark branches interlaced overhead. An angry shout from behind reached his ear. The pages admired his tenacity but dared not follow. Superstition, mingled with religious beliefs, lurked in the hearts of many who nurtured old tales from medieval history, which declared the woods a habitation of wicked beings, and even heretics. At times they were not certain which was worse, a cloven-hoofed demon, or a follower of Monsieur John Calvin. The ecclesiastics said they were the same. To question the difference might bring the charge of heresy. But Andelot had no time to worry about cloven hooves, nor the definition of heresy, for on this splendid morning, despite the foul weather, he wished to forget the troubles brewing over the Bourbon princes’ involvement in the Amboise rebellion as well as recent talk concerning Marquis Fabien. More than once he had heard mentioned the word corsair. That Maurice hinted of swords and buccaneering ships did not bode well.

  On the road, the pages reined in their horses to a nervous but proud prance, as Romier paused and turned his horse to dash after Andelot.

  Andelot rode the marquis’s stallion past trees and bushes. Ahead the few remaining oaks stood, reaching a web of dark branches mingled with fir, beech, and pine.

  A stream ran dark and sullen in the cloud-shrouded land, merging clumps of dark woodland thickened. Andelot turned in his saddle to see Romier not far behind on the duchesse’s best stallion, a mottled brown.

  Andelot smiled to himself, for Romier feared superstitions about the woods as much as the others who had not followed.

  Darkness deepened and lightning flashed as they raced forward, the drizzling rain whispering through the dark fir trees. Suddenly Andelot pulled his reins, the horse dug in its front hoofs, slowing to a halt. Romier was not far behind and was too cautious to ride past, even if it could gain him distance in the race. He rode up beside Andelot. From the scowl on his face, Andelot could see he understood his reluctance.

  There was some sort of skirmish ahead, and the smell of a campfire hung on the moist air. Distant sounds of alarm set their stallions to a nervous prancing, and they held them steady. “Easy,” Andelot whispered to the bay and leaned over to stroke the sweating animal.

  Romier tugged apprehensively at his glove. “Fighting here?” he asked softly. “We had best turn back to Fontainebleau.”

  Andelot shook his head, still poised to listen. What reached his ears over the wind was not the sound of battle but the voices and cries of women and children.

  “Trouble,” Andelot said. “Let us see what it is.”

  “If there is trouble among the serfs, let it be their trouble, not ours.”

  “Shall we not see at least? It is the cry of women.” Andelot moved the golden bay cautiously forward. Romier followed reluctantly, fretting his displeasure.

  The jingle of their royal harnesses and the plod of horse hoofs over damp mossy ground went unnoticed as they threaded their way through the trees. Andelot began to see the signs of trouble ahead. At a place where several trees had fallen in some past windstorm, he saw a number of unarmed serfs and women and children clustered around a campfire. A shouting argument was underway with a Dominican cleric. The Dominican was not armed, but several of his guards were, and they apparently waited for the cleric’s word to arrest a Frenchman.

  “Huguenots,” Romier whispered. “Come along, Andelot, this is not our battle. Keep your distance from the Dominican if you wish to avoid wrath.”

  “Non, we must do something, else they will be taken away.

  After Amboise I cannot bear the sight of such things. Let us use our authority.”

  Romier looked at him as if he were mad. “Authority — what authority?”

  “Look — they are about to be arrested. Who knows the ill fate they shall suffer for meeting here like this?” Andelot kneed his horse forward.

  “In the name of Cardinal de Lorraine, stop!”

  Surprised, all eyes turned toward Andelot. He was pleased he had taken care today to wear a fancy cloak over his tunic and a fine hat with the colors of the House of Dangeau. They spotted him on the powerful golden bay and stared, aghast.

  Seizing the moment, the Huguenots broke and ran in all directions.

  Andelot watched an older monsieur, who must have been in charge of preaching, hurry through a cluster of trees. He clutched a book, which he hid swiftly under a fallen log before running on and disappearing into the misty shadows.

  The angry cleric demanded, “Who are you, sire, to interrupt the business of the Church? These were heretics — holding an unlawful gathering.”

  Romier rode up grudgingly, giving Andelot a glower. He hastened to smile upon the cleric. He bowed low in his saddle and removed his crimso
n hat with a wet feather.

  “Ah, Monsiegneur, forgive, I beg of you, this intrusion,” he said soothingly. “My ami is hasty in practicing his chivalry. He mistook you for the raiders of the poor peasant farmers and wished to prove himself worthy of honneur, being a kinsman of . . . er, le cardinal.”

  “Le cardinal? By all the devils, what rank folly is this?”

  “I assure you, Monseigneur, we did not realize you were arresting heretics,” Romier said, smiling pleasantly at the cleric.

  The cleric looked at Andelot. “You are related to le Cardinal de Lorraine?” His eyes raked him over.

  Andelot did not doff his hat, in keeping to the role of a Guise. “I am a Guise, Monseigneur. I go by the name of Andelot Dangeau Guise.” From the corner of his eye, he saw Romier’s sharp glance.

  “Ah? If you are related to le cardinal, how is it you would interfere in the arrest of heretics? I have had my eye on them since this summer, but they are slippery as wet fish. They move their place of meeting from week to week. The cardinal will not be pleased by this. One might think your intervention was planned.”

  “Not so. Monsieur Romier and I were having a race. We decided — that is, I decided — to take a shortcut through the woods back to the stables at Fontainebleau.”

  The cleric studied Andelot for a moment, taking in the form of a lad who was progressing in strength and wit, and appeared to find his guilelessness endearing. Then he glowered as if thinking of the heretics who had escaped him yet again. His black brows furrowed.

  “And what will you do about your transgression, Sire Andelot Dangeau Guise?”

  Andelot shifted uncomfortably in the saddle and glanced for help to Romier, but Romier for once was speechless as they stared at one another. Andelot sought to recall what he knew about transgression. Sin he understood, but transgression was yet another word.

  “Would you repeat, Monseigneur?”

  “You have made it possible for a nest of heretical cockleburs to escape.

  Could you, Sire Andelot, be bent on heresy, in spite of your kinship to the House of Guise? Even among them, I have heard there are one or two.”