Does she have soldiers waiting?”
“I swear I know naught of that. I do not think so, for she wishes for your help in a certain unspeakable matter.”
Unspeakable matter? What could it be except more intrigue over her hatred for Duc de Guise?
There were voices coming from the palace and footsteps of the guards. The privateers were leaving the audience hall. Fabien saw Bertrand and Capitaine Nappier waiting for him on the grassy lawn. Fabien turned to the French ambassador.
“Say nothing of this, or I shall need to see you again to make known my hearty displeasure.”
“Monseigneur,” he bowed, “in my precarious position both here in the English court and with the Queen Mother at France, I am not fool enough to wag the tongue, except when it furthers the will and pleasure of the king.”
Fabien looked at him long and hard, and did not like the glimmer that deepened in his eyes.
“Monsieur Ambassador, I do hope for your comfort you have not chosen to lie to me for the pleasure of the Queen Mother.”
Ambassador d’Alencome said not a word, but bowed deeply. Fabien gave him a measuring glance, then turned on his heel and walked toward Bertrand and Nappier. Fabien knew his countenance must have been noticeably affected, for neither man spoke to him as they boarded the coach and returned to the King’s Way Inn.
Rachelle, ma chère, this I cannot allow. You belong to no one but me.
He must go to her. Deceptive trap or no, he dare not risk the year’s voyage to Coligny’s colony and back again only to find her the wife of Maurice or James Hudson.
THE LONDON STREETS, SOME cobbled, most not, were crowded with vendors crying their wares. Apprentices stood in the doorways of shops calling out their master’s specialties. There were men and women of nobility moving about in fancy carriages, and beggars: the old, the dirty, and the infirm. Ragamuffin children ran as undisciplined as feral cats and dogs. Everywhere there were church spires on the skyline, with bells tolling for one event or another at frequent times.
The streets were dirty and the odor foul. Rats moved in and out of refuse piles raked into mounds to be set on fire. Houses were plentiful but cramped together, two and three stories high, as if for protection. Creaking signs swung overhead, and the fog was moving in, mingling with smoke from cooking fires.
Inside his room at the King’s Way Inn, Fabien paced across the quality but worn floral carpet, his buckled boots making no sound. His leather scabbard, with family jewels, hung within easy reach on the hook beside his royal blue plumed hat and matching coat with gold, worn for the English queen. Elizabeth had flirted with him. He would swear to it. The Earl of Essex had not appreciated it, though Fabien knew that with Queen Elizabeth it was always, and only, a flirtation from a distance.
The treachery heaped upon his Bourbon kinsmen, and the news of a possible marriage arrangement of Rachelle to Maurice, left Fabien no choice except to return to France and take his risks with the scheming Queen Mother.
Across the room watching him, Pasteur Bertrand in Huguenot black and white, stood with grave dignity, arms folded. His white brows were lowered over his dark, piercing eyes. Tall and thin, he gave the impression that if he raised his hand and pointed with a scowl, a lighting bolt might strike.
Bertrand would be returning to Spitalfields at dawn. He was anxious over possible important correspondence from Arnaut about the land he wished to buy outside London. He also expected an important lettre from Sebastien.
Fabien had already arranged for wagons to carry the French Bibles to the Spitalfields community of Huguenots and Protestant Hollanders, using several of his men as guards. By now they would have returned to the Reprisal anchored at Portsmouth, and awaited him there.
Capitaine Nappier and the crew anticipated a voyage to the Florida colony, but Fabien could not set sail now, nor could he release the ship to Nappier. He thought it wise to bring the vessel to Calais until he knew how matters would affect him and Rachelle.
Fabien sat down opposite Bertrand and glanced restlessly about the wooden table where their upcoming meal of kidney pie would soon be delivered. His rank mood was such that neither the pie, nor the ale appealed to him. Maurice, you conniving little fox. I will have your head this time, I promise you.
He snatched some grapes from the large urn and concentrated on their purple color. “If I sailed for Florida, I would return a year from now to find Rachelle either bearing Maurice’s child, or in the dungeons!”
“I fear the spoiled young comte will not relent peaceably,” said Bertrand. “And remember, the danger coiled in the vipers’ den at Court may not be for Rachelle alone, but also for you.”
“The Queen Mother is a deadly entity that I must handle with wisdom. Unfortunately, she wants something from me, Bertrand.”
Bertrand’s eyes flickered, alert. “What are your suspicions?”
Fabien reached for his scabbard, took it down from the hook, and unsheathed his rapier. The long, thin blade of steel glimmered with deadly precision.
“This,” Fabien said in a low voice. “Madame le Serpent wants Duc de Guise dead. She is likely to offer me proof that he arranged for the assassination of Jean-Louis near Calais. I believe it of him. She will expect me to assassinate the man she feels is the greatest threat to keeping the throne of France for the Valois, or she will use her authority with King Francis to arrange Rachelle’s marriage to Maurice.”
Alarm spread across Bertrand’s face. “You would not do so murderous a deed!”
Fabien looked at him grimly. “Would I not? I tell you, Pasteur Bertrand, there is a part of me that would take pleasure in doing so. I have long planned for it, and after his attack on the Huguenots and Macquinet family in Lyon, I could bring my form of justice down upon his head and sleep well for doing it. For the brutal death of Rachelle’s little sister alone I could do so — and Idelette.”
Slowly, Fabien replaced his rapier. “But I am no fool, though a sinner. And because I know my heart, I will be cautious when the Queen Mother meets with me, giving both fair promises and dark threats.”
Bertrand rested his chin between thumb and forefinger. “This is more dangerous than the face of things as I first saw them. You must beware, Marquis, mon ami. Satan is most cunning. Temptation is not a matter you wish to treat gently. If the Queen Mother provides you a cause for revenge, you will face a great struggle. Apart from God’s sustenance, you will not be able to resist. I had not realized the duc was responsible for the death of Jean-Louis de Bourbon.” He studied Fabien for a moment. “By returning, you risk more than your physical life; you now put your character at risk.”
“There is no other way. I must go. She was shrewd enough to make it so. If I refuse the summons to meet with her, I have no doubt of her vindictiveness. I have seen such in action before with others. She would see to it that Rachelle was given in matrimony to my selfish cousin.”
“Then what will you do? What are your plans? You cannot agree to assassinate Duc de Guise.”
“I will hear her words. But all the while I will be making plans to see that Rachelle is taken to some safe refuge where she is not easily reached by Maurice.”
“That may work for a short time, but that too will eventually prove futile.”
“I will take matters as they come.” He gave Bertrand an even look. “If all else fails, I shall marry her at once. That would end matters for Maurice.”
Bertrand’s mouth turned faintly. “It would. It may also end matters for you where the Queen Mother is concerned — and perhaps with Arnaut and Clair as well.”
“I will need to take my chances, mon ami Bertrand.”
“Let us not trust in our bon fortunes, but in our God and give ourselves to intercession and petitions.”
“You speak well there, Bertrand. Do so for me and I will be grateful to you, and our Savior.”
“I have, and will continue to do so.”
LATER THAT NIGHT, WEARY and in need of sleep, many thoughts raced through
Fabien’s mind: of possible religious civil war in his beloved France, of treachery and love, of his future as a Bourbon. Soon now, if war did come, how would he declare himself? As a Huguenot? Joining the admiral with his own retainers?
He thought longingly of Rachelle and of the precarious situation that would surround her at Court, and once more considered how he might safeguard and keep her for God, and for himself. Just how did she feel about Sir James Hudson? He frowned.
If she would have me, we can marry at Vendôme.
Would she accept? Was marriage still too soon for them? Was he acting in desperation because he was so sure a civil war would come?
He would know soon enough if her heart had kept beating for him in his absence, for he would be in Paris within a few days. Would she be pleased to see him, or as unreachable as she had been when they met at the Languet lace shop?
He recalled walking with Rachelle amid the fragrance of flowers at the Château de Silk and at Vendôme. He could feel her in his arms even now, and remember the softness of her lips beneath his, and how her eyes had told him she wanted him. She had loved him then; did she love him still?
I will propose marriage when I see her. If she agrees, she will be mine alone.
No more need to trouble himself over Maurice, or over her ser vice at Court among wolves and serpents. He would make a bargain with the Queen Mother. Rachelle was his. But at what price?
He narrowed his gaze. Yes, a bargain, but what would be her terms, and how would he fulfill them? And if he could not? What then?
Fabien thought the impossible, of something he had told himself he would never do for the honneur of the name of Duc Jean-Louis de Vendôme and of his mother, Duchesse Marie-Louise de Bourbon. He may find it necessary to turn his back on everything he had, his title and lands, and leave France for England, Geneva, or perhaps even a new colony in the Americas or the Caribbean.
Even now, the thought of leaving his beloved France was painful, but for the first time, he considered it. Others, like John Calvin, had been forced to leave, and why not himself? Perhaps the more he considered the notion of leaving, the more he could adjust to the idea.
Could he walk away? He decided that he could, but only if he had Rachelle, which meant children growing up in security. For the first time, the thought of the Bastille, the torture rack, and the burning stake took on a more personal meaning. Yes, he could walk away from his title and leave France, if he must.
The colloquy and the chance of civil war took on a new urgency. Matters had to change in France. The life he wished to live there with Rachelle and with any children God might give them was worth fighting for.
Had it come to this then? Civil war, or leaving France to establish their Huguenot roots elsewhere?
In his mind he seemed to hear the thunder of war horses and the clash of swords. War, sorrow, and death. In exchange for what? Freedom of worship, peace, and love.
Yes, it was worth it. Rachelle was worth it. Vendôme was worth it — if he decided he could stay.
He left the bed and walked to the window. He looked out, but London was draped with fog and he could see nothing. Somehow, the lack of sight brought to mind the words he had been reading in Scripture, “For we walk by faith, not by sight.” Faith in the words of Scripture alone, and in Christ alone. Not in his own wisdom, nor in his own abilities, not even in the exercise of prayer, but in God.
These Spirit-breathed words would guide his future and Rachelle’s along the treacherous road that lay ahead for all Huguenots who remained in France. The road would be rough, but they were not alone. They were not to be pitied for being chosen to represent Christ in such a time as this, for Christ declared that the suffering church was rich and not poor, and well favored in His love.
Fear none of those things which thou shalt suffer . . . I will give thee a crown of life . . .
Fabien anticipated telling Rachelle that he would openly declare that he was a Huguenot. He would publicly take Communion at the colloquy with Bertrand, Beza, and John Calvin.
And he hoped she would welcome him into her heart.
He would leave London before sunrise. In a few days he would be in Paris to see his belle amie Rachelle again.
This time I will vow my enduring love through marriage.
The Secret
RACHELLE’S JOURNEY FROM LYON TOWARD FONTAINEBLEAU PROCEEDED without difficulty. Near Fontainebleau Comte Sebastien and his guards rode out to meet them, and they pulled off the road among the pine trees for a short rest. When Rachelle first saw Sebastien she was momentarily stunned by the change in his appearance, and Idelette caught her breath. He now looked as elderly as Pasteur Bertrand, but even frailer. Her heart went out to him. What Sebastien must have endured! I am heartily ashamed of myself. I shall never again entertain a single tainted thought about his recantation.
She was so moved that when they met on the side of the road she embraced him. “Cher brother,” she said, and for lack of anything worthy to say, lapsed into silence.
Sebastien, his manner as fatherly as Bertrand, patted her shoulder. “I am doing well, ma petite soeur. I am cheered to see you again, but grieved that you have come to Court at this time. I worked against it for more reasons than one, for I may not always be there, but at least Duchesse Dushane should be. If ever in the future you find yourself in dire need, go to her immediately. These are precarious times for us all. You must behave most wisely before the Queen Mother, as I have confidence you will.”
He also suspects Grandmère and Madeleine were poisoned. Was he expecting his own arrest again?
Rachelle tried to reassure him to alleviate his worrisome burdens. He surprised her when he announced that he would attend them both on the remainder of their journey, and that they would be going to Paris. Sebastien was to spend a few days with Madeleine and his bébé Joan before returning to Fontainebleau with Rachelle.
Rachelle had not expected this. She was journeying with all of her sewing equipage.
Sebastien rubbed and straightened his black velvet glove with fidgety fingers. Was anything wrong? Was he perhaps not given permission to go to Paris?
“And where is the Queen Mother?” she asked in a low voice.
“She has gone for a short time to Chambord to keep a meeting with the Duc d’Alva.”
Rachelle shuddered at the thought of the Spanish military commander of the soldiers in the Netherlands, recalling the brutality Fabien had told her about. She thought also of Fabien, and worried. Surely the duc was here to make complaints against the sinking of his galleons.
Rachelle did not mind going on to Paris, for there was the matter of the gloves that she had not been able to search out, and now she may have the opportunity. She wished to see Madeleine again and bébé Joan.
Idelette helped Rachelle down from the coach to walk about and stretch after such a long ride from the château. Maurice Beauvilliers rode up to his oncle.
“What is this, mon oncle? Paris, you say? But non. I am under orders by the Queen Mother to bring Mademoiselle Rachelle straight to the palais-château at Fontainebleau.”
“The Queen Mother is at Chambord entertaining the Duc d’Alva. We will be but a few days at the Louvre. Mademoiselle Rachelle will return with me to Fontainebleau then. Do continue on with the sewing equipage. Make certain all of the goods and bolts of silk are secured in an atelier.”
Maurice looked from Sebastien to Rachelle. “There is something odd about this, mon oncle.”
“Do as I say, mon neveu,” Sebastien said impatiently. “It is getting on toward afternoon, and I wish to be in Paris before sunset. Madeleine is expecting us. I sent word ahead to her.”
Maurice studied him for another moment, his lips forming a tight line, then he barked orders to his men to turn the wagons toward Fontainebleau. His languid eyes roved back to Rachelle. Suspicion showed on his face. Rachelle stared back evenly, vexed by his possessive demeanor. Since his arrival at the château he had treated her as though she were his belle a
mour.
He swung down from his black horse and sauntered up to where she stood. He swept up her hand and pressed it to his lips. She snatched her hand away and narrowed her gaze.
“I beg of you, Comte Maurice, that you cease such behavior. Everyone is watching.”
“Would you permit me then, if they were not?”
“I have given you no such right.”
“Ah, but I have that right, mademoiselle,” he said stiffly, “and none shall deny it on the word of the king.” A satisfied smile drew over his sensuous mouth.
The king? Maurice’s confidence irritated and alarmed her. “Whatever do you mean?”
“The Queen Mother has written you and explained.”
“I beg to differ. The Queen Mother has explained nothing except that I am wanted at Court to create Princesse Marguerite’s wardrobe for her visit to Spain. You, mon comte, were not even mentioned,” she said with a taste of her own satisfaction. His pride was insufferable.
“Hah, ma belle, but you are most mistaken. I shall soon have you as my own princesse.”
“You imagine more than shall ever be, I assure you. I wish for no interest from any messire at Court, or otherwise. All I want is to be left in peace to do my work for Marguerite.”
“It is you, Rachelle, who imagines you have more rights than you are entitled. You and I will be married. The Queen Mother has promised me.”
Astounded, she stared at him. His eyes were bright and passionate and his determined expression alarmed her. He believed it!
“Messire, I think you are sadly mistaken. The Queen Mother could not have made you such a promise. My parents will not hear of it, I assure you.”
“They will have nothing to say about it,” he said flatly. “It is what the king will say that matters. If he wishes us to marry, we shall marry.
I suggest you be pleased you have won my devoted heart and begin to make plans to make me a happy and contented husband.”
Rachelle glared. “Ah, you are conceited, Maurice. I tell you I will not marry you. Now do step aside; my sister is waiting to board the carriage for Paris, and I am going with her. You have the orders of your oncle, and I suggest you honor him by carrying those duties to completion. I bid you adieu — and please do not permit the lackeys to soil one inch of my bolts of silk or they shall hear from me.” And she swept past him to the carriage, holding her breath, half expecting to feel his hand grab her arm or throw a tantrum over her rejection. Maurice kicked a rock across the road and shouted angrily at his lackeys.
Written on Silk Page 33