Daughter of Silk

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  He had offered a deep, elegant bow. “No, I am a Catholic, Madame.

  Am I to assume there are no Catholics sober?”

  Her silver brows had lifted. Then she had thrown back her head and laughed.

  It was well-known that the recent maitresse of King Henry, Diane de

  Poitiers, had been old enough to be his maman. Fabien, because of his position at court, knew that Catherine had despised her, and no sooner did Henry II lie dying from his ill-fated joust, than Catherine sent a mes-

  sage to Diane to return all of the jewels Henry had given her and to vacate the palais of Chenonceau.

  Yes, it was dangerous at court. There were more ways than one to spend the night in a lion’s den. The image of the belle Charlotte de Presney came to his senses — again. She was a physical temptation he found difficult to resist, though he felt an equal amount of contempt for her lack of fidelity to her husband. Fabien knew her husband, a sound monsieur, a soldier. Fabien did not fear his jealous rage, for he could well handle himself, but he feared for the foolish Charlotte, who did not perceive how near she played to the edge of a boiling pit.

  A light tap sounded on the door and his page, Gallaudet, entered, bowing. His page was unsmiling as ever, yet patient and dedicated. He was young and wiry, with hair as fair as platinum. His red, white, and blue Bourbon livery fit him well, as did his rapier, a gift from Fabien who had made certain he knew how to use it with expertise.

  “Monseigneur, a royal missive is sent to all courtiers. All festive events at Chambord are canceled without explanation.”

  Fabien took the missive and read the brief message:

  His Majesty and his Court will depart Chambord in early morning to journey to the fortress-castle at Amboise.

  The Marquis de Vendôme will please have his personal retinue prepared for journey in the morning.

  The change in royal plans confirmed his suspicions. “When was this missive sent out, Gallaudet?”

  “Not more than ten minutes ago, Marquis.”

  “Interesting, I assure you. So soon after the arrival of Guise with his cowled stranger. What do you make of it, Gallaudet?”

  “Trouble afoot, Monsieur.”

  “Go and see what else you can learn from the other pages, especially Guise’s page. Also, go to the armory and tell Nappier to see what he can discover from Guise’s men-at-arms.”

  Gallaudet bowed his head and turned to leave, but Fabien stopped him.

  “Have you seen Comte Sebastien Dangeau this day?” “No, Monsieur, I have not. Shall I inquire?”

  “You have enough to keep you occupied. I shall seek him out.” Gallaudet bowed and departed, followed a few moments later by

  Fabien.

  Fabien strode down thecorridor deep in thought. He could go straight to the young, ailing Francis Valois, newly declared King of France since his father Henry’s death in the fatal joust at the palais Les Tournelles. Fabien could ask the reasons behind the arrival of Guise and the masked messire among his men-at-arms. Francis Valois and his recent reinette, Mary Stuart of Scotland, had been Fabien’s acquaintances since child- hood. He could solicit an audience with the king, but it would necessi- tate secrecy, since neither the Guise brothers nor Catherine would of late permit Francis many, if any, visitors. Even Marguerite Valois told him she felt a prisoner here at Chambord.

  “His Majesty must rest,” the word persisted. “The king’s strength must be preserved and guarded.”

  Guarded, yes; but guarded so Francis could be better manipulated by Mary’s shrewd oncles? Fabien was sure these two brothers cared very little about Francis, or even Mary. They had connived through Diane de Poitiers, the late king’s mistress, to arrange the marriage to advance their own political power.

  Fabien could also appeal to the king’s younger brother, Charles, next in line for the throne, but he hesitated. Just thinking of the boy Charles Valois brought Fabien a scowl.

  Fabien walked through the lower salle toward upward steps to the second f loor and the royal chambers.

  It would be a great risk to entrust his suspicions to Charles. Catherine controlled her young son through fear. Therefore he would tell her what- ever she asked. It was most unfortunate that Charles lived on the rim of an abyss of mental hysteria. Part of the reason for his near madness was Catherine herself. Just as the Queen Mother had specific astrologers and mysterious perfumers that did her nefarious bidding, so also she had certain instructors brought over from her home in Florence, Italy, to teach Charles. Fabien believed that Catherine, who was of the blood of the infamous Borgias, maneuvered in the realm of the diabolical. For murky reasons of her own, she had set about to pervert Charles. For what purpose? Fabien often wondered. He now believed it was Catherine’s

  objective to have absolute control over Charles, who was next in line to become a boy-king should anything happen to Francis — who was of such weak health. Unlike Francis, however — who was manipulated by the power of his beloved Mary’s oncles, the duc and the cardinal — should Charles come to the throne he would be free of any manipulation by the Guises, whom Catherine feared of plotting against her wishes. Charles would bend to the will of Catherine alone.

  The very idea brought uneasiness to Fabien. And what was the old parable — uneasy lies the head that wears the crown? Would Catherine set about to remove one son to place another on the throne? Fabien deep- ened his frown. He believed she had used poison before in her extended family and would use it on others she deemed a threat to her power.

  As for Francis, it did not require foresight to see that the boy-king — so frail with a sickness of the blood like the grandfathers on both sides of his family — would never reach an old age.

  Fabien had been out with Francis just yesterday, riding in a joust with other young galantes at court. While Francis insisted on joining in, he had attempted to mask his weakness to impress Mary that he was as mas- culine as the best of his courtiers. Fabien had deliberately lost to him to terminate the charade and return him with Mary to their royal chambers for rest. Francis was still recovering today, trying to recoup his strength. What had disturbed Fabien most was the smile on Catherine’s face when she thought no one noticed her. Fabien had the impression she desired her son to wear himself out in order to free herself from the restraints of the Guises through Mary.

  Should Charles come to the throne before reaching maturity, Catherine would rule France as regent for many years. This was where her Florence instructors came in; she was using them now to terrorize him, to saturate his young mind with frightening, debase images, also attempting to bend Charles toward homosexuality. Fabien fought his own anger in thinking about it. Her reasons? Undoubtedly she wanted to keep Charles from producing an heir to follow him, and for that mat- ter, neither did she want Francis to produce an heir through Mary, for Catherine desired her favorite on the throne, her petit Henry Anjou, the younger son after Charles, and the only son she adored.

  No, it was wiser to avoid Charles for information, even though he was a spy in his own perquisite and likely to know as well as anyone who the mysterious visitor was.

  Fabien climbed the broad stairway on his way to seek access to his boyhood friend, King Francis Valois II.

  Chapter Five

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  R

  Rachelle Macquinet departed from the family chamber on her bold quest to deliver thefamily message to Marquis Fabien. Young Nenette, fourteen, a student grisette and serving maid combined— also Rachelle’s loyal ally and amie in many predicaments— came with her, scurrying along just behind Rachelle’s heels as though held on a gilded tether.

  Rachelle’s skirts of mint green silk and lace swished with each step taken across the shining parquet f loor, while the salle with its marble statues formed a silent guard.

  “Mam’zelle, where is Marquis de Vendôme’s chambers?”

  Rachelle, having reached the landing on the broad stairway, now came to an abrupt halt.

  Nenette squeaked, claspin
g hold of her shoulder to keep from colliding.

  Rachelle realized that no one had explained just where Marquis Fabien’s chamber should be.

  “Now what?” Rachelle muttered. “Go back, Nenette, find out where the marquis is situated lest we wander aimlessly.”

  Nenette f litted back in the direction of the Macquinet chambers, and Rachelle stood on the top landing, one hand on the banister, absently aware of the carved fleurs-de-lys pressing against her palm. At that moment, unexpectedly, as though Providence were indeed on her side, the marquis himself appeared below in the salle, coming around the elbow of the stairway and boldly climbing up.

  Rachelle realized that this was le momente she had been waiting for, and her heart thumped and her breath came quickly.

  Marquis Fabien could be described as elegante, but unlike others she had seen at court, especially Comte Maurice Beauvilliers, Fabien was without a trace of effeminateness. Rachelle had first noticed Monsieur Fabien in a friendly jousting game with the other galantes at Chambord. His expertise with sword and horse had impressed her, as she suspected it had the other mademoiselles gathered on the balustrade. Now, though wearing the exquisite fashion expected of a marquis in the presence of royalty, he clearly retained his masculinity.

  Monsieur Fabien came up the stairs with a faint scowl between his brows as though his thoughts worried him, then looking up, he noticed her and paused.

  He took her in slowly. As their gaze met and held, Rachelle stood perfectly still.

  He doffed his hat with its feather and bowed, hand resting on his light blue velvet jacket encrusted with diamonds.

  “Enchantée, Mademoiselle.”

  She felt her knees turning into warm, melted wax. A curtsy was called for. He was a marquis. Good breeding took over and she did so f lawlessly, but then his deep violet-blue eyes warmed her with a confident spark of interest that sent a strange tingle down her neck, and heat scorched her cheeks. She felt exasperated with herself. The emotion grew until his slow smile crumbled her confidence. She turned without thinking, her skirts swishing, and walked briskly away. She clenched her fists.

  “Quelle stupide,” she whispered to herself. “You did well until the end. Now what does he think of you? A comtesse would have carried on the encounter with sang-froid.”

  Nenette was coming through the Macquinet chamber doorway as Rachelle came toward her. Nenette’s small mouth opened with surprise.

  “The marquis is coming this way now,” Rachelle told her in sotto

  voce. “Quick, to the stairway. Signal when you see him nearing.” Nenette darted ahead to keep watch. Rachelle loitered in the door-

  way watching. Nenette stood near the landing with her back and palms pressed hard against the wall. Now and then she would lean her head forward to steal a glance.

  Nenette squeaked again and came f lying toward her, her red curls bouncing, hands twittering.

  “He comes!”

  “Inside.” Rachelle pushed her into the chamber and drew the door partly shut. With her ear to the crack she heard his steps coming down the salle. Then she saw him again.

  As yet he had not noticed her behind the partially open doorway, and it seemed as though he would walk past.

  “Monsieur de Vendôme!” she called.

  Fabien heard a voice, paused, and turned toward an elaborately carved door that stood partly open. Beside the door stood the same mademoi- selle he had encountered on the stairway. She looked at him intently and beckoned.

  He masked a smile. He knew many lovely women, but this one caught more than his usual interest. He assumed her coy behavior was delib- erate and playful, rather than an ingénue. He wondered who she was. With so many mademoiselles hoping to win him for his title and wealth, it became more difficult for any one particular woman to make a memo- rable impression. They were all belles, too willing, and too much the same.

  This mademoiselle was oddly different. He sensed it the moment their eyes met, though he could not have reasoned why.

  He had not seen her before; he would have remembered. This had to be her first season at court. She must be a daughter of one of the ducs, sent to become a lady-in-waiting. How long would her innocent charm endure among so many wolves? This one would be snatched up quickly, he thought, feeling cynical. If he had taken note of her that quickly, then so would every other messire at court. He often thought that if he had a daughter he would hide her away until he could arrange a marriage to a lad like the guileless Andelot Dangeau, the nephew of Sebastien.

  As the mademoiselle continued to beckon him, he tapped his chin. She had a wealth of titian hair, auburn — no, not exactly auburn, there was more dark brown in it.

  She stepped out and curtsied again. The belles at court dressed in ornate gowns and jewels, and this one had style and charm, with some narrow lace at the neck and wrists, but no jewels. He also noted that the bodice line was well covered. A rare sight . . . intriguing, so was the dimple at the corner of her well-shaped mouth. Her eyes he described as honey-brown, with thick, alluring lashes.

  “Monsieur de Vendôme,” came her overly stiff voice. “Please enter, I beg you. It is important.”

  Was this sweet little drama of hers a ruse? Ah! Maybe she was not the innocent he had thought. He might be entering the chamber of a woman belonging to the Queen Mother’s escadron volant de la reine.

  The Queen Mother’s maids-of-honor consisted of a bevy of some forty amorous women who were treacherous spies. Perhaps not all would go so far as to sell their virtue and honor for the Queen Mother of France, though most did. Catherine had once said of them, “They are the best allies of the royal cause.”

  He could believe it. The royal cause was merely her own intrigues, and her escadron volant proved useful to fascinate and ruin Huguenot and Catholic alike.

  Catherine had tried to trap him a few months ago in Paris by using Comtesse Soulier, though Catherine’s motive was as yet unclear to him. After the death of his mother and father, both deaths questionable, Fabien told himself he was far from being a fool.

  Was this demure and delectable rosebud yet another attempt? He regarded her thoughtfully.

  He stepped toward her chamber, pausing to lean in the doorway. He smiled. She blushed. Belle dames in the escadron volant did not blush. He casually rested his hand near his scabbard, not that he expected that sort of danger, but with the masked messire and recent events, he, a Bourbon, could not be trusting.

  He pushed the heavy wooden door aside wide enough to glance inside. He saw no one else in the chamber, and it did not appear to be a trap.

  His gaze came back to hers.

  “Did the Queen Mother tell you to invite me to your chambre à coucher, Mademoiselle? A plan, perhaps to search my mind and heart by the application of your charms?”

  She sucked in her breath.

  “Granted,” he said, “I find your charms alluring, ma cherie, but your plan will avail you of no information. I have no political secrets to share; my loyalty is sworn to King Francis.”

  “Monsieur de Vendôme, I blush for shame that you would think such of me, I assure you. I confess I have gone about this task most foolishly. I must appear very bold.”

  “Hardly bold, Madame.”

  “Mademoiselle,” she said with uplifted chin.

  He gestured his head in brief nod. “An error, Mademoiselle,” he said indifferently.

  “A grave error, Monsieur, I promise you.”

  He looked at her again, noting her discomfiture, but a quick f lash of anger as well. His interest only grew. He wondered about her motives and was now at a loss, even experiencing a faint prick of conscience. Surely this one was as fresh and untouched as any I’ve seen.

  “Though I quite understand your suspicions, I assure you,” she said. “The Queen Mother has not sent me, nor does she know we planned to talk to you.”

  “We, Mademoiselle?”

  “Madame Henriette — my grandmother. Ah,” came her relieved voice. “Madame is here now.
” She turned, looking across the chamber. He followed her gaze.

  Fabien, now thoroughly curious, saw an elderly woman wearing an elegant but plain black dress with a touch of white lace.

  “Marquis de Vendôme happened to be passing in the outer salle, Grandmère,” the younger mademoiselle explained. “And I did not need to seek an audience at his chamber. Though I fear I have caused him . . . um, some confusion.”

  Fabien hid a smile at that.

  Madame Henriette bowed with grave dignity in his direction. “Monsieur de Vendôme, merci. I see you have met my younger grand-

  daughter? Mademoiselle Rachelle Dushane-Macquinet. We are here at court as couturières, Marquis, called here from Lyon by royal summons from the Queen Mother herself.”

  Fabien began to understand. He had heard of the Macquinets, the famous silk couturières.

  “Bien sûr, Madame.”

  Madame came toward him now. “My daughter, Clair, is not here, but she met you before in Paris, Monsieur, but you may have forgotten her? Clair Dushane-Macquinet, the mother-in-law of Comte Sebastien Dangeau. His wife, Madeleine, is my eldest granddaughter. She remains in Paris.”

  “Ah, but yes, pardone, Madame.”

  It was clear to him now that he had misjudged the mademoiselle with the magnificent auburn brown hair. One thing was settled; he would not forget meeting Rachelle. He looked down at her again, tasting her name as he studied her once more. She turned away. He found her pro- file exquisite . . . yes, this one must be watched before some duc snatched her. A duc or a greedy comte like his cousin Maurice Beauvilliers. That, he suddenly decided, he would not permit.

  The Macquinets of Lyon were known for their silk. Now that he was inside the chamber he saw their bolts of material. But of course! He vaguely recalled that Margo had mentioned having new gowns made here at Chambord.

  Fabien offered a deep and elegant bow. “The pleasure is mine, Madame Henriette. Dushane, is it not, Madame?”

  He saw the slight sparkle of pride show in her dark eyes. “Oui, Marquis. Madame Duchesse Xenia Dushane is a distant cousine of mine.”