Written on Silk

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  Sebastien stood near the hearth, hands behind his back, staring into the glowing coals sending off a warm and pleasant pine fragrance.

  Andelot noticed the stoop of his shoulders and disliked bringing him more burdens, especially at this hour when he was soon to retire after taking his medicinal tea. He deserved a restful night’s sleep, for tomorrow would have trouble enough. Andelot cleared his throat politely to gain his attention. It had become a signal between them whenever he needed to interrupt Sebastien’s thoughts.

  Sebastien lifted his dark head streaked with gray and looked across the chamber.

  Andelot had learned to keep his expression unobtrusive, as though he had no opinions of his own, but he always experienced satisfaction when a look of family fondness lightened Sebastien’s face upon seeing him. Having been raised without a father, Andelot had a special fondness for his oncle. Andelot once thought a family relationship would develop with the Cardinal de Lorraine and the Duc de Guise, but that had swiftly dissipated. At first he had been disappointed, but recently he had found that he was relieved. His recent interest in the Reformation would be almost impossible to pursue if the cardinal had taken him under his wing. Andelot was beginning to see the working of God in the events of his life.

  Not that Sebastien was demonstrative. Au contraire. Sebastien was pleasant but precise, and Andelot felt genuinely liked.

  “Monseigneur,” Andelot said quietly, and bowed his head in deference as formality required, for even in families, respect was given to titled members. Andelot took pleasure in showing respect to Sebastien and Marquis Fabien, but it goaded him to bow to Comte Maurice.

  “Yes, Andelot? You have that revolting herbal medicine prepared?”

  Andelot smiled. “I am afraid so, but you may not wish to drink it yet. Your sister’s son is here. Comte Maurice Beauvilliers awaits most anxiously to speak with you about a lettre from Princess Marguerite Valois.”

  At the mention of the flamboyant princesse, Sebastien groaned.

  “Now what? More woes, to be sure. Speaking of woes — it pains me to say so, but I had just been thinking of that rapscallion nephew of mine, and see how he shows up to plague me?” His eyes showed faint amusement. “Do you agree that your cousin is a rapscallion, Andelot?”

  “Mon oncle, I would forget myself if ever I disagree with you.”

  Sebastien chuckled. “A fair answer and a diplomatic one. You will go far among your titled superiors. As for Maurice, I am in no mood for him . . .” He tossed up his hand. “So the princesse brings him here at this hour? And in the rain?” He sighed. “Ah, but send him in.” Sebastien rubbed the tired frown from between his heavy brows. “Francoise would not forgive me if I ignored her golden lad.”

  Andelot smiled, stepped back into the antechamber where Maurice waited, looking bored as he lounged his lean frame against the wall, picking at his polished fingernails.

  “Le comte awaits to receive you.”

  “It is past time.”

  Andelot stepped aside and held the door wide to allow passage.

  Maurice ambled past him into the chamber and bowed. “Ah, mon cher oncle. I will not detain you long.” His melodious tenor voice rang smoothly throughout the chamber.

  Andelot was about to close the door on their privacy and return to his own chamber to his studies when Sebastien said: “Non, Andelot, do remain. It is not often that I have more than one neveu together with me.”

  No one could have been more surprised than Andelot, except perhaps Maurice, whose languid eyes sharpened into a speculative once-over.

  Sebastien limped across the Aubusson rug toward Maurice.

  Why did he wish him to remain? Andelot moved away from the door to stand near the window, wondering what to do with his hands. He finally put them behind his back and looked on with a practiced immobile face, though his mind was alert.

  Maurice shrugged and pursed his lips. “Just so, mon oncle, and as you suggest, why should Andelot not join us, I ask?” He gestured toward Andelot with a show of disinterest. “Andelot is a blood relation — is he not?”

  Andelot snapped awake. Now what was the doubtful emphasis on blood relation meant to suggest? Andelot shot a look at Maurice, then to Sebastien, but while Maurice looked sleepy, Sebastien showed only irritation.

  “I am sure you did not come here at this hour to talk about Andelot.”

  Sebastien lifted his brows.

  Maurice spread a careless hand as though it were all in passing and of no interest. “A taste of wine first before I am sent away, Monsieur Oncle, at least. A few pleasant words.”

  Andelot stood straight, hands behind him. So, he thought, he is reluctant to tell him about Princesse Marguerite demanding to have Rachelle back at Court. He knows Sebastien will be displeased, for he too prefers to have his wife’s younger sister stay in Lyon.

  Maurice sauntered to the long, waist-high table inlaid with the fleur-de-lis where there stood a Florentine decanter of renowned French wine.

  He poured himself a goblet of the ruby liquid. A ruby of another sort encircled with diamonds hung from his left earlobe and danced. Andelot had seen him adorned with all sorts of gold bracelets, diamond pins, emerald pendants, and even pearls. Where does he come by all of these jewels?

  “Wine, Oncle?”

  Sebastien shook his head. “Non.”

  Maurice draped his lithe figure against the wall beside a gilded cage holding a linnet. He clucked his tongue and offered the tiny bird a bit of fruit from which it fled to the far side of the cage.

  “You go to bed early, mon oncle.”

  “These days have been trying. You should know that, Maurice.”

  “It is most troubling, I assure you. The burnings throughout Paris sicken my sense of smell, and the storming of cathedrals and smashing belle statues of the saints is also appalling.” Maurice made kissing sounds at the bird.

  Sebastien slowly lifted his head. “That you lament so sincerely, neveu, over the recent arrests of your fellow Frenchmen who are Huguenots, touches me deeply.”

  Andelot felt satisfaction at the bitter jab. Sebastien then began his limping pace, hands behind his back, head bent in thought.

  “Arrests . . . ah oui, pardone! The Bourbon princes . . . a pity.”

  Maurice frowned and gave a toss of his dark head suggesting sympathy.

  The gesture did not convince Andelot. Maurice was indifferent to all but his present concern, getting Rachelle back in his presence.

  Maurice settled leisurely into a brocade chaise lounge with gold fringe.

  He sipped his wine and crossed his ankles. His lips turned upward as though his mind were in some distant reverie. One hand trailed along the rug where he played absently with the fringe.

  “Princesse Marguerite boasted to me of how Mademoiselle Rachelle does the finest and brightest work with the silk and the little needle, taking over the couturière work of her grandmère. Marguerite knows about this Englishman Hudson who has transported Macquinet silk to Spitalfields. She knows all about the land too that Monsieur Arnaut wishes to acquire to start a new plantation like the Château de Silk.”

  Sebastien ceased his pacing and turned sharply to Maurice.

  “Did you mention Arnaut’s plans to la Valois?”

  “Oncle!” Maurice lifted his head from off the fringed gold satin pillow. His eyes widened. “Would I do such a thing? Why should I?”

  What was this about? Andelot had not heard of Arnaut Macquinet’s interest in England before. Why was Sebastien looking distressed, even angry?

  “If I thought it was you who spoke of this to the Queen Mother’s daughter — ”

  “Saints, why should I?”

  “You keep saying that, but you might have, Maurice.”

  Maurice shrugged. “It matters not to me that Arnaut has ties in England and wants to strengthen them . . . As long as Mademoiselle Rachelle does not go there with him. Ah! That I cannot endure, Oncle.

  You had best tell him so.”


  “It is none of your concern, Maurice.”

  “Non, Oncle! Nor should Messire Macquinet’s interest in going to England bring trouble to you. You are sure to remain at Court serving the Queen Mother.” Maurice sipped his wine, studying him over the rim of his goblet.

  Andelot could not keep his frown restrained. It sounded as though Maurice were indirectly telling Sebastien he was aware of a matter that Sebastien wanted kept secret.

  “Fabien’s recent venture of sinking Spanish galleons is known by Madrid.”

  “You think that is news to me? I have been shuffling papers back and forth from Madrid to the Queen Mother for weeks on the matter. The question is how you know, mon neveu.”

  “Chantonnay talks freely.”

  “Chantonnay, that Spanish spy! You are too much in his company of late, Maurice. He badgers me, as he does the Queen Mother.”

  Maurice shrugged. “They both spy upon each other. I do not feel sorry for either.”

  “That be as it may, I would ask that you not speak of Marquis Fabien around Court. He has problems enough without anyone enlarging upon his dealings at sea.”

  Maurice did not appear the least sympathetic. “I should be surprised if, upon his arrival, he is not immediately summoned before the king and made to explain his actions to the Guises. The Spanish king is most distraught over the English privateers, and now the marquis and other French buccaneers have joined them. They make a formidable force, I assure you.”

  “What else might the Spanish ambassador have told you?”

  “That Marquis Fabien has done some business with English privateers, sinking several galleons on their way to the Netherlands. The Duc d’Alva lost his supplies as well as the gold he was bringing for his soldiers’ wages.” He smiled and sipped his wine. “Mademoiselle Rachelle will not wish to keep company with such a ruthless corsair.”

  Andelot was annoyed. With Maurice’s lusty eye on Rachelle, he had most likely convinced himself he could get Fabien out of the way.

  Sebastien’s voice warned: “You concern yourself too much with the future of Madeleine’s younger sister. And as for the marquis, he can speak well enough for himself to the king.”

  Maurice’s mouth turned with boredom. He put his arm behind his dark head and held the goblet in the other, studying it.

  “I wish to marry Rachelle.”

  The statement, though mentioned lightly before, now seemed more determined.

  Sebastien made a snarling sound, lifted a hand of rebuff, and turned away to the fire.

  Maurice was swiftly on his feet like a panther ready to leap. “Mille diables! You fret too much, Oncle, I swear it. And you, Andelot, do not look like a frog swallowing an egg. I am devoted to la Macquinet. I shall go posthaste to her père Arnaut and beg for her hand.”

  “And be denied. You are never more cunning than when you use lofty words to justify your dubious ways,” Sebastien said wearily. “How many demoiselles in the last two years have you sworn to adore unto your utter loss?”

  “Ah Oncle, those were all different.”

  “Regardless, you will not involve yourself with Madeleine’s younger sister.”

  Maurice looked at him over his goblet, his gaze turning angry.

  “I will have my way, Oncle. I always do. And why should she not be pleased with me, I ask? One would think I was a barbarian. I attend Mass daily. I have even braved le Cardinal de Lorraine and gone to le prêche as a Calvinist, now and then.”

  “Now and then,” Sebastien repeated with a wry glance his way.

  Maurice placed his palm against his ruffled silk shirt above his heart.

  “Because Rachelle stirs my heart, am I now marked as a man of dubious intent?”

  Précisément! Andelot thought.

  “Too many mademoiselles stir your heart, Maurice. Your intentions are well established at Court,” Sebastien said.

  Andelot wanted to nod agreement.

  “You fret like an old hen,” Maurice said. “It was long in the planning for Rachelle to come back to Court to resume her place as Princesse Marguerite’s maid-of-honor. I do nothing that was not already agreed upon in the past. All I do is awaken the sleeping little bird. Now, Rachelle will come as a couturière instead of her grandmère’s grisette. She will enjoy herself. The wardrobe Marguerite desires for her Spanish trip will fill Rachelle with delight. Ma mère will talk to you about this.”

  “Francoise need tell me nothing.”

  “Oncle, be reasonable; it is she who was sent the summons to bring Rachelle back to Court. I have it present with me to give you, for I should marry la Macquinet at once.”

  Andelot displayed outward indifference, but his fingers twisted together in anger behind his back.

  “It is dangerous for Rachelle to be at Court,” Sebastien said, shaking his head firmly. “Francoise should have come to me first about your schemes instead of appealing to Princesse Marguerite.”

  “Andelot, more wine.” Maurice held out his cup. He snapped his lean fingers against the gold shining goblet.

  Andelot went for the decanter and came back to his cousin who was lounging once more.

  “Ah, mon belle amour has the most intriguing of eyes, the hair . . .”

  Maurice sipped. He sighed. “Oui, perhaps I will have my wedding at the colloquy. It will be most religious.”

  Andelot gripped the decanter.

  Maurice held the goblet to the light, and with a little sensuous smile, watched the ruby liquid as Andelot poured. It was a smile Andelot loathed. He relaxed his grip on the decanter so it tipped downward just slightly, spilling wine down the front of Maurice’s frilled shirt and onto his satin doublet —

  “Ehh!” Maurice jumped from the lounge attempting to brush off the spilled wine. “I am drowned in it! You did this vileness, Andelot, on purpose! I declare you to be false and disloyal!”

  “Mille pardons, Monseigneur.” Andelot hastened to say with the right amount of humility and rushed to bring cloths to soak the wine from Maurice’s wardrobe. “It was most clumsy of me,” he added.

  “Clumsy? Non! It was deliberate. Give that cloth to me — I shall do it myself.” Snatching it, Maurice blotted his garments. “They are ruined.”

  He threw the cloths down with aggrieved disgust.

  “I am most apologetic, Monsieur Cousin. I — ”

  “Do not call me cousin!” Maurice turned to Sebastien who looked on with a curious glint in his eyes.

  Maurice, his arm rigid, pointed at Andelot. “You saw what he did!”

  “Calm yourself, Maurice,” Sebastien soothed. “It was but an accident. You have dozens of like finery. We have more grave matters with which to be concerned.”

  Andelot bowed toward Maurice and moved away, gently now, avoiding those once deceptively languid eyes, and set the half-empty decanter back in its place. It was worth it.

  “Well?” Sebastien’s voice showed a strain of impatience. “What is this missive you speak about from Princesse Marguerite?”

  Maurice, with narrowed gaze following Andelot across the chamber, said stiffly: “It is important, I assure you, else I would not have troubled you at this hour.” He reached beneath his stained doublet and produced an envelope with an impressive gold seal that alerted Andelot. Sebastien’s expression changed.

  Maurice noticed and looked satisfied with his disclosure. “The missive is not from Princesse Marguerite, mon oncle, though she was the means of bringing the request to the attention of the Queen Mother.”

  Maurice handed the envelope over to Sebastien.

  “From the Queen Mother herself,” Maurice said. “The Macquinet couturière is to be summoned here to Fontainebleau for audience with the queen.”

  Andelot bit back his grumble of defeat.

  Sebastien took the envelope, scowling his worry. “A mistake. A dreadful one. So Francoise went through Princesse Marguerite to get you what you want. It was clever of my sister, but unwise and dangerous.”

  “Dangerous? You must exagger
ate, mon oncle!”

  With the royal missive in hand, Sebastien limped to the hearth where a crystal lamp in a silver base burned on a gilt-edged marble table.

  “The Queen Mother is behind this. But why would she want Rachelle here at Court now?” Sebastien murmured, frowning thoughtfully.

  A sullen expression came to Maurice. “I swear, mon oncle, beside Marguerite’s gowns, there is no motive except my desire for her in marriage.”

  Sebastien looked at him with a dark countenance. “Marguerite would have no power to recall Rachelle if Catherine had not given permission.

  And I ask, why? Maurice, one must not forget that Catherine de Medici is in the shadows — always in the shadows.”

  Andelot shifted his stance, still watching Maurice.

  Maurice fell silent. After a moment he refilled his wine goblet and stared into it.

  “Francoise should have told me of her plan to go to Princesse Marguerite. In this foolish game of yours to get Rachelle to Court, you have put her at risk.”

  “La belle will be busy with her silk,” Maurice said sullenly. “If it is her religion you worry about, it will not come before the cardinal.”

  Sebastien turned. “You speak glibly. With the attacks on the Huguenots all across France, Prince de Condé imprisoned, and Antoine de Bourbon morally defeated? The Guises have more power now than ever.”

  “Sainte Denis! You cannot think that the Guises would turn on Rachelle.”

  “No? Who then do you think turned on her two young helpless sisters with their brutish soldiers at Lyon?”

  Maurice scowled. He banged his empty glass down. “That was loathsome. If I had been there, I would have drawn sword, to be sure. I and the marquis both could have laid many of them low. But it will never happen to Rachelle here at Fontainebleau.”

  “I do not expect it will. The danger here is more subtle, but just as ruinous.”

  “If Princesse Marguerite heard of any danger to Rachelle, she would stop it. Did she not send her away from the danger at Amboise during the Huguenot rebellion?”

  “The Princess Marguerite must please the Queen Mother. And I! I can do nothing.” Suddenly Sebastien wavered on his feet.