Daughter of Silk

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  “A woman of merit, to be sure. I have met her on many occasions at court through the years.” He wondered if this meant that Rachelle could be in line for a title. He thought, however, it was Comtesse Claudine Boisseau who would inherit.

  Fabien would not admit he but vaguely remembered having met Madame Clair in the royal appartements of Sebastien at the Louvre some two years ago.

  “I knew your père, Marquis Jean-Louis,” Grandmère said. “A galante of the highest order. I grieved when he was slain in the war with Spain and le Duc de Guise took his position as France’s general.”

  He thought his smile might have frozen at the mention of his father and Guise. His main reason for disliking the duc was rooted in the death of Jean-Louis.

  Fabien bowed but kept silent.

  Madame Henriette smiled, yet he noted gravity in her eyes. Maybe she too was aware of the arrival of le Duc de Guise and Cardinal Lorraine.

  Fabien bowed over her small, veined hand, then turned as she said. “My granddaughter Rachelle is working with me here at Chambord gain- ing further training as one of my grisettes and as a future couturière.”

  Rachelle was dignified now, showing there was Dushane blood in her after all, but some color remained in her cheeks after their misunder- standing. C’est charmante, he thought. Her manner was refreshing for a change.

  He lifted Rachelle’s hand and bent over it. “Mille pardons, Mademoiselle.”

  Her eyes came up to meet his and a spark showed in their depths over her vindication. Ah, he thought. Mademoiselle has a penchant for stand- ing up for herself. That too he liked.

  “Merci, Marquis,” she said with a sudden elegance.

  He restrained a smile and affected gravity, willing his gaze to silently speak of his respect and growing interest. He wondered if she knew the confusion of their meeting had made her unforgettable. Had she done so on purpose? No, and in thinking so he realized he had become accus- tomed to the belle dames at court. He was cynical.

  Madame Henriette spoke as Idelette entered: “My other granddaugh- ter Mademoiselle Idelette, also in training.”

  Another beauty, Fabien acknowledged her sober curtsy. He thought

  her wan compared to the f lushed liveliness of her younger sister, like a serene lily.

  “Honored, Mademoiselle.”

  Inside the chamber his gaze fell on bolts of crimson, gold, and blue silks, burgundy velvets, gilded brocades of verdant greens and rose pinks. There were smaller bolts of lace in various shades of the rainbow beside the staple ivory. He took in the cutting instruments, spools of silk threads, and then — across the chamber, he saw gowns in the process of being finished. The burgundy silk over cloth of gold he particularly found attractive.

  “I would not have requested my daughter to ask you here were it not that I have important news, Marquis, and it is a matter of trust.”

  “Am I to assume your reason for placing trust in me rests on the repu- tation of Jean-Louis?”

  “Sebastien and Madeleine have spoken well of you, Marquis.” “Knowing you are related to Sebastien gives you my undivided atten-

  tion, Madame.”

  “Merci, Monsieur. We are pleased the Bourbons have risen to defend our cause as Huguenots at court, for we of the Protestant belief have many enemies.”

  “You speak of my kinsman Prince Louis de Condé, also Admiral Coligny,” he said, for he did not wish to include himself as a swift defender of Calvinism.

  “Yes, Monsieur. We know you are a kinsman of Antoine de Bourbon, now King of Navarre.”

  Navarre was the mostly Protestant realm under Queen Jeanne who had married his kinsman Antoine.

  “You too, Monsieur, are a Huguenot, are you not?” Rachelle spoke for the first time.

  He turned to look at her. He would not be trapped into saying he was a Calvinist.

  “Au contraire, I am a Catholic, Mademoiselle, as I think you already

  know.”

  “I did not know. I thought . . .”

  Madame Macquinet stepped in quietly. “Ah, so be it, Marquis de Vendôme, we already know we can trust you and that you are a good Catholic.”

  “Merci, Madame.” He bowed casually, then continued in a quiet voice. “You may confide in me your troubles, Madame, I will do all I can to help you. What is it you wish to tell to me?”

  Madame Macquinet released a breath and her shoulders sagged. He took her arm.

  “Do sit. Are you certain we can talk freely here?”

  Rachelle had come swiftly to her Grandmère, assisted her to a chair, then stood behind her, resting her hands on the backrest.

  “Yes, it is safe. This chamber has no listening holes.”

  He tilted his head. “Is there something, Madame, you have learned, that I should know?”

  “Madame Xenia Dushane has imparted to us information of utmost interest, Monsieur Fabien. She has also intimated you are trustworthy.” “Ah, the duchesse,” he said. “Yes, that explains this meeting well enough then. She has proven herself a friend on many desperate occa-

  sions. I pray you proceed without further delay.”

  Madame Henriette sat straight in the high-backed chair, hands folded in her lap. Rachelle looked on with f lashing eyes, while Idelette stood to the side with her hands calmly folded before her skirts, also watching him.

  “It concerns the masked figure le Duc de Guise brought here to Chambord this day to meet with the Queen Mother,” Henriette said.

  He narrowed his gaze. “Yes?”

  “Duchesse Dushane fears Sebastien is involved in something that may put his life at risk if it is known.”

  He waved a hand and the jewels sparkled. “Sebastien is a secret Huguenot, Madame; I am aware of it. You need not tread cautiously where he is concerned. I have known him and Madeleine since I was but twelve.” And he could have added that they had introduced him to the Reformation which, had Fabien not found worthy of the highest intel- lectual pursuit, could easily have landed them in the Bastille dungeons. “I am no ami of Guise, nor of his fanatical zeal.”

  “There is more to Duchesse Dushane’s fears, Marquis. Sebastien is missing. We fear his absence is connected with le Duc de Guise and the masked messire he brought here this morning. He is a spy — the duch- esse is most sure of this — and a betrayer of the Huguenots.”

  There was a momentary silence.

  He looked at her sharply. “How do you know this?”

  “La duchesse saw his face — she was not supposed to, but he removed his cowl and mask as she was stepping out of her chambers. He and the duc were entering another chamber nearby.”

  “And who is he, Madame?” “Maître Avenelle.”

  “Mille diables! She is certain of this?”

  “She vows it, Marquis.”

  Maître Avenelle came from the Bourbon districts, near Moulins and Berry. Moulins was the very seat of Bourbon authority in the days of Duc Charles de Bourbon. Many of Fabien’s kinsmen lived in the Bourbon Palais at Moulins. The forested area of Berry was not far away, nor was his marquisat at Vendôme.

  “Avenelle . . .” he repeated, trying to piece together reasons for his being with le Duc de Guise. “What more did la duchesse tell you?”

  “She is most certain that Maître Avenelle, a Huguenot, has become an ally of Duc de Guise.”

  “Madame, you are certain you did not perhaps misunderstand the duchesse?”

  “Ah, Monsieur, I vow it.”

  “There is more,” Rachelle spoke up. “Madame sent me to Sebastien to warn him of all this, but Sebastien is not in his chambers. Neither has he been seen by others. Your cousine, Comte Maurice Beauvilliers, told me so.”

  Fabien looked at her. “You have met Maurice, Mademoiselle?” “I found him in Sebastien’s chambers. He was seeking him also.”

  Fabien paced, one hand on his hip, the other tapping his chin. “If this Avenelle is to take counsel with the Queen Mother, one could ardently wish to hear what he has to say about the House of Bourbon.”


  Madame Henriette leaned forward anxiously. “Our fears are as yours, Monsieur, that some doom may be planned against the Bourbon- Huguenot leaders.”

  Rachelle said urgently: “And this Maître Avenelle knows all the nobles who secretly support Prince Condé. What if he names Sebastien?” Her eyes f lashed as she boldly looked up to meet his gaze. Then she lowered her eyes to her Grandmère.

  “If Sebastien is missing,” Idelette said, “could it not suggest he has already been named by Maître Avenelle? And who may be next at court?”

  “We must find Sebastien, Monsieur Fabien. My granddaughter, Madeleine, is enceinte,” Madame Henriette said with delicate pronun- ciation. “If anything should happen to Sebastien — she is most delicate. She might lose the bébé.”

  “Forbid, Madame. Do not fully despair. There may yet be something we can do.”

  He felt Rachelle’s quick, appreciative glance.

  Idelette tried to comfort her Grandmère who appeared to have suc- cumbed to anxiety. Fabien pondered the information, his chin resting on his doubled fist, pacing slowly. He knew Avenelle could endanger the Huguenots at court. There were others, including the king’s royal physi- cian and surgeon, Ambroise le Paré. But how could Avenelle be a danger to his Bourbon kinsman?

  “Knowing Guise as I do, there is more to Avenelle’s betrayal than having individuals at court exposed as sympathetic to the Reformation. There was a reason for Guise needing to disguise Avenelle. Guise will not be easily content with merely apprehending a Huguenot duchesse like Dushane or Sebastien or even the royal physician. Despite caution, I assure you that many of us already know of their religious leanings. Le Duc de Guise, though scornful, has more on his mind. In my opinion, there is some matter of greater importance.”

  But why would Guise need to bring Avenelle here to Chambord to have

  audience with Catherine?

  “Maître Avenelle must know something important. Somehow, I must discover what it is before I contact my kinsmen.” His pondering stride had brought him to the burgundy silk dress on the mannequin. He reached absently and lifted a fold of silk, feeling it.

  “If there is some wayto learn what Avenelle and Guise told Catherine,” he murmured to himself.

  Madame Henriette turned in her chair, alert. “Ah, Marquis, but the meeting has not yet taken place. Madame Dushane informs us they will meet this afternoon in the state council chambers. Le Duc de Guise and le Cardinal de Lorraine will be there as well as Maître Avenelle.”

  Fabien turned sharply, fixing his gaze upon her. “Madame, you are certain of this?”

  “The duchesse was adamant, Monseigneur.”

  He heard Rachelle’s breath catch lightly. Her eyes brightened, but tension also showed on her lovely face. She started, as if to suggest some- thing, then seemed to restrain herself.

  “Yes, Mademoiselle?” he encouraged.

  She walked toward him. “Monsieur Fabien — pardon, Marquis de Vendôme —”

  “Fabien will be sufficient.” He bowed.

  “Ah, Monsieur, I would address you by what your noble title deserves.” She curtsied with such grace as to render her a princess.

  “We shall see,” he said with a smile. Then, aware of her Grandmère looking on, he glanced to see her reaction, but she wisely appeared not to notice. A master stroke on her part. She could not help but be aware of the interest that had f lamed between them.

  “But you were going to tell me . . .” He lifted a brow and waited for Rachelle to proceed.

  “Marquis, there is a secret closet . . . a secret step, a listening hole, into the state council chamber.”

  Grandmère stood. “Rachelle!”

  “It is true, I promise you, Grandmère.”

  “Bien entendu!” Fabien said. “I, myself, should have remembered this. I know of it — but the precise location escapes me. Catherine has such closets in most of the chateaus.”

  “Ah, Monsieur Marquis, I know where it is located.” “You know?” he asked, raising a brow.

  “It was told to me by a kinswoman when she was here at court, Comtesse Claudine Boisseau.”

  He knew of Claudine. She had indeed returned to Orléans.

  “I can take you to the listening closet,” Rachelle said. “There you may hear all.”

  Fabien fixed her with a judicious gaze. “If you indeed know of this lis- tening step, then it is one of many such devices the Queen Mother avails herself of in all the castles, though few know where they are located. May I ask how Claudine discovered it?”

  “From the Queen Mother’s Italian servant girl.” “Madalenna?”

  “Oui, Madalenna. A child to be pitied, used as a slave by the Queen Mother. She became frightened and told Claudine.”

  “An error indeed, and if Catherine knew, it would mean the maid’s swift demise, to be sure.”

  He saw Madame Henriette throw a worried glance toward Rachelle, who appeared not to notice. Idelette too drew nearer as if to protect her younger sister.

  “Will Mademoiselle explain?” he asked.

  Rachelle looked at her Grandmère and then back at him.

  “Claudine was in the queen’s royal chambers bringing fresh f lowers as expected when she caught the demoiselle in the queen’s chest. She questioned her sternly, thinking she had done some mischief, but now we know that was not the situation. Madalenna must have been so anx- ious to secure her lack of guilt she showed Claudine the very key she had been sent by the Queen Mother to retrieve.”

  “Here is a piece of fortune to be sure. Where is this listening closet you speak of?”

  “I can bring you there now,” Rachelle said boldly.

  Fabien turned and looked at Madame Henriette. “You will allow this, Madame?”

  “The answer, in this situation, is yes, Marquis. The matter of Maître Avenelle and Sebastien may be dire, so we must all take our risks and leave the harvest to the care of our kind Savior.”

  “You speak well, Madame.”

  “It will bring far less attention for my granddaughter to walk with you there than for me to escort you.”

  “My exact sentiments, Madame.” He smiled.

  Fabien turned to Rachelle. “Then take me at once. If Guise is to see Catherine about Avenelle, it will be after the déjeuner. We have but a short time.”

  Fabien reminded Madame Henriette to keep all of their words close to her heart. She assured him their secrets were secure. A moment later, after bidding Madame and Mademoiselle adieu, he and Rachelle left the Macquinet chamber together.

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  Chapter Six

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  R

  Rachelle Macquinet walked beside Marquis Fabien de Vendôme along a section of stone promenade shaded on one side with a row of lime trees. The trees were in blossom as spring had come early this year, and the air was heavy with a sweetness that drew bees.

  “It is so wondrous here at Chambord.” She wished this moment in his presence among the blossoms would never end. Her feelings, how- ever, warned her of unrealistic dreams concerning the marquis. “And even though there is beauty here, yet great woe may be in the planning behind these walls and gardens.” She gestured toward the lime trees and myriads of blossoms that had fallen to the path after only a few days of bloom.

  “Like the garden of Eden, Madame le Serpent is about, but hardly a topic suited to your company, which is most charmante, Mademoiselle. As for the beauty you mention, Francis had an appetite for building. He insisted on turning Chambord, which was merely a gloomy hunting lodge, into a palais amid the f lat and dusty plains of Sologne. Here the Renaissance was to achieve its purpose.”

  “I believe he accomplished it, Monsieur.”

  “It is no surprise. He amassed every device, decoration, and eccen- tricity of his favorite style, as you can see.”

  The royal fortress chateau was one of several near Blois, and one of many throughout France to which members of royalty took their lei- surely pleas
ure; this chateau was marked by numerous towers, turrets, broad f lat roofs, painted windows, and ample courts.

  Rachelle could well understand why Monsieur le docteur had recom- mended the boy-king come here for health reasons. From the moment she arrived she was impressed with the sunny little town of Blois that sloped sweetly downward toward the river Loire.

  “And yet this king, who appreciated art, killed ma oncle,” she said. “It took place before I was born at Lyon. Maman has told me of it. Oncle was one of the Reformers burnt in the Lyon square.”

  His mouth turned with some bitterness. “I am not surprised. I do not wish to sound hard, but kings — and queens — have a penchant for eliminating vexatious Huguenots.”

  She kept silent. “This way, Monsieur.”

  “Ah, the stairway. Catherine would have wanted some listening clos- ets near at hand. I recall a time years ago when her Italians, the Ruggerio brothers, visited here. Now I can imagine the reason for their visit —” His steps slowed to a stroll. “Do not hurry so, Mademoiselle. We are being watched. That unshackled fop near the fountain is the Spanish ambassador.”

  Light pressure of his fingers on her arm told her to pause. The Spaniard removed his sombrero with gold fringes and rubies and bowed in their direction. Fabien returned the acknowledgment and Rachelle offered a curtsy. Fabien drew her away, and she smothered a laugh.

  “What would Monsieur Ambassadeur do if he knew you called him a fop?”

  “I might also have called him a spy, which would not have endeared

  him to us.”

  “I doubt not that you are right, Marquis.”

  “As for what the fellow would do, I have not a clue, though I have heard he is a laudable swordsman.”

  She threw him a glance. “I have heard you are also, Marquis, a swordsman par excellence.”

  “With much credit due my master swordsman, Chevalier Nappier.” “But I doubt the day will come when you will have reason to use your

  skills against the Spaniard.”