Daughter of Silk

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  “You — have only now met me, Marquis.”

  “Le coup de foudre.”

  His resonant voice sent a chill along her spine. She tore her eyes away, feeling a warm f lush coming to her cheeks.

  “Could you then claim this key without endangering yourself?” “I am sure of it.” She sounded more confident than she felt.

  “You are right then. She will hardly take the key with her into the state council chamber to interrogate Maître Avenelle this afternoon. Be careful of Madalenna. She must not see you. What excuse do you have for getting past the guards at the door?”

  “Princesse Marguerite’s gowns. I shall take one with me as though she had inquired something about it. It will convince the guards.”

  “I will do something to call the guards away.”

  Something moved above them on the other side of the gallery; her eye had just caught a slight movement, like dark wings. She tensed, but it appeared he too had noticed. She saw his alert gaze f licker up to the third f loor where a diamond-shaped window let in the March light.

  Unexpectedly she found herself in his arms. He held her in a passion- ate embrace, his lips brushing her temple. She stiffened, drawing in her breath, heart pounding. “Marquis!”

  “Hush,” he spoke into her hair. “It is Catherine de Medici. She is watching us. She must think we are having a secret tête-à-tête.” Then his lips sought the tenderness of her throat sending her heart reeling.

  Footsteps on stone echoed from the gallery of the f loor above them. When the sound stopped, a commanding voice called: “Who is there?” “Be brave, ma cherie,” Fabien whispered. He released her suddenly,

  as though startled by the voice, and looked up toward the dark figure.

  Catherine, standing behind the railing, stared down at them. Always in black since the loss of her husband, King Henry II, she stood with arms folded across her front. Her farthingale reached to her heels. Her black pointed cap rested on her forehead. Her prominent eyes sometimes stared unblinking, earning her the whispered name Madame le Serpent. Her face was broad and round, and she had the unnerving habit of sud- denly bursting into bold laughter.

  Rachelle surprised herself with her poise. She took a few steps for- ward and dipped a low regal curtsy, her skirts going out around her in a shimmer of butterf ly wings.

  “Your Majesty. It is I, your servant, Rachelle Macquinet. Pardon, Madame.”

  Catherine’s look of sternness turned slowly into a smile, one that showed amused contempt at embarrassing two lovers.

  “So it is you, ma petite Rachelle. A tryst, is it? And with Marquis Fabien de Vendôme! The most sought after and difficult beau in my court!” And she laughed.

  Fabien stepped forward and gave her his most dashing bow, hat at heart. “Your humble servant, Your Majesty.”

  Catherine’s throaty laughter bubbled in a manner that was bold and vulgar.

  “Ah, ma petite lovebird has finally won the heart of the illusive Marquis.” She then turned her smile on Fabien. “Have you at last found one of my demoiselles to your liking? I am pleased. I had begun to won- der, Marquis, whether you have Bourbon blood after all. Alas, I see you are indeed like your father.”

  Fabien despised hearing his father’s honorable name being slurred. He had heard talk of his père and one of Catherine’s daughters but he believed it not. The daughter, Elisabeth, had been sent to become yet another bride of Philip II of Spain.

  “Ah, how we miss the great Duc Jean-Louis,” Catherine continued in a sad voice, but Fabien knew this woman well enough to recognize mockery. He kept an immobile face.

  “A man most esteemed at court and among my maids of honor.” And with an amused smile, she turned to walk away, then paused to look toward Rachelle.

  “La Macquinet,” she stated. “I wish to inspect the gowns for Princesse Marguerite. Bring them to my chambers — that is, when you have said your adieu to Marquis sufficiently well.” She laughed.

  “Oui, Madame.”

  The Queen Mother walked the corridor and disappeared. When the last of her steps faded, Rachelle appeared as if she were about to sink to the f loor. Fabien held her, steadying her.

  “It is well. She suspected nothing unusual.”

  Rachelle tightened her lips. “Now she will question Grandmère. She will ask about you, and tell Grandmère how she caught us here together.”

  “There is but one thing to do. Tell Madame Dushane to satisfy Catherine’s appetite.”

  “Monsieur!”

  “Doas I say, Mademoiselle. Shewilltell Catherinehow Iamenthralled with your beauty, and your Grandmère must express her deep concerns over your reputation. And — ” he bowed lightly — “while we remain here at court, I shall do my best to portray my ardor toward you. Hopefully, she will be convinced.”

  She looked at him evenly. “I understand all, but for one thing, Marquis. Was the kiss truly necessary?”

  He feigned surprise. “Sainte Barbe, yes, most assuredly.” He grinned at her display of affected offense. “C’est bien le moment! I assure you. And now. There is no time to lose. The meeting with Avenelle will be this afternoon. Can you gain the key by then?”

  “Mais certainement, Marquis. As soon as Her Majesty leaves her chamber to keep the meeting.”

  “That she has asked to see Margo’s gowns will serve you well.” “When I arrive, the guards will think I am most anxious to display

  them for the Queen Mother’s approval.”

  “Then I will await you in the salle. Be calm, ma cherie. She believes we are smitten by one another’s charms.”

  “It was very believable, Monsieur Fabien.”

  “Ah yes . . . it was, was it not? We will speak of it again later. Go now, cherie. Au revoir.”

  She looked at him evenly, then bowed her head, and turning, picked up her skirts to proceed back down the stairs into the salle. She hurried on her way down the hall to the steps.

  Fabien remained in the upper gallery a moment, thinking, tapping his chin. Outside the diamond-shaped windows he heard the crows. He glanced toward the upper balustrade where Catherine had been standing in the shadows, watching. Was she suspicious? Did the Queen Mother know the girl was a Huguenot?

  Overhead, from the salle de garde, heavy footsteps passed by the state council chamber. If only he could discover what the Guises were planning with Avenelle. It must be urgent if it could not wait until the king returned to Paris. Francis was ill. Mary would not appreciate her Oncle Guise upsetting him now.

  It was important to be inside that secret closet this afternoon.

  Grandmère entered the chamber with several more of Princesse Marguerite’s gowns. She and Idelette began to work as efficiently as they could to fold them for Rachelle to take to the Queen Mother’s royal chamber.

  After Rachelle had told Grandmère and Idelette of the meeting with the Queen Mother on the upper balustrade, a cold realization of ter- ror had gripped her. Could she get hold of the key successfully? The Queen Mother was intelligent, coldly so. A dangerous risk must be taken; Marquis Fabien was right about that, but Rachelle must enter the serpent’s den.

  Rachelle found Grandmère’s worried gaze upon her.

  She smiled, hoping to look confident. “Grandmère, do not worry.

  Only I know where the key is placed. All will be well.” “We will pray before you go,” Grandmère said again.

  Rachelle’s mind plodded along as she oversaw the folding of the mounds of rainbow silk dresses for the Queen Mother’s inspection. Princesse Marguerite was known to prefer daring gowns with a low décolletage, but Catherine disdained this and had once called Marguerite “wanton and wicked” in front of Rachelle.

  Soon a young man by the name of Gallaudet, a page who served the marquis, brought a brief message.

  “The Queen Mother has left her chamber. She has gone with Maître Ambroise Paré, the royal surgeon, to visit His Majesty, Francis. Now is the moment.”

  After the page left there was a nerv
ous f lurry in the Macquinet cham- ber, but Grandmère insisted on their sobriety and silence. “We will remain here, ma Rachelle cherie. We will be on our knees for you.”

  Idelette had called for the assistants, the grisettes belonging to the court, and the dozen gowns were carefully laid over their arms. They fol- lowed as Rachelle led the way to the appartements of the Queen Mother, located on the first f loor.

  Rachelle approached the royal guards and pages with an outward calm intended to portray confidence and dignity.

  “Her Majesty, the Queen Mother, has called for me. I am to arrange these gowns for her inspection.”

  There came not a breeze of doubt. They permitted her and the court grisettes carrying the glittering gowns to pass.

  Next came the antechamber where Catherine’s pages and some of her ladies-in-waiting gathered. Several women sat in window boxes embroi-

  dering and gave deep sighs of appreciation as the grisettes entered with the silks of blue, gold, ruby, and a stunning ivory with rich mounds of lace. Rachelle smiled. “Merci, mesdames. Should you want Macquinet silks you have but to see me or one of my entourage before our departure for Lyon.”

  They all assured her they desired new gowns and each hoped for a unique design to benefit her figure.

  Rachelle passed into the royal chamber of Catherine, holding her breath.

  The marquis had been careful with his information. The chamber was empty. Rachelle took new courage from this. Briskly she ordered the grisettes to leave the princesse’s dresses on the table. She alone wished to arrange them just so for Her Majesty to inspect. Assured by her digni- fied manner, her unwillingness to chatter and gossip, they appeared to accept her decision with disinterest and left.

  When the last grisette departed, Rachelle stood alone in Queen Catherine’s inner sanctum. She bit her lip. Perspiration dampening her forehead. Her stomach f luttered. She looked about her, making as cer- tain as was possible that she was alone and unobserved.

  She heard what sounded like wood creaking beneath someone’s tread. A tickle of alarm crept down the back of her neck. Her hands trembled. Her gaze slowly traveled the chamber. If she had secret listening closets in all her chambers as some claimed, then would there not be one here in her private chamber? A peep hole in the wall, or in the ceiling?

  She moistened her lips. She must not delay. She threw herself into the work arranging the gowns on the table. During these minutes she heard nothing more except the rustle of Macquinet silk and her own light tread as she moved around the table.

  She could delay no longer. If she were to take this risk, now was the time. The Queen Mother could return, or Madalenna, or one of the ladies.

  Her gaze raced through the chamber again, taking in the diamond- shaped windows set in arches overlooking the town of Chambord. The walls were of dark wood, decorated with a crowned C and a monogram in gold. Catherine’s oratory had a large oval window where the light poured through upon an altar. Rachelle wondered about the altar. Sebastien had

  told her that Catherine was not a Catholic, not Christian, but placed her trust in soothsayers and dabbled in the dark satanic arts.

  Her writing closet had many concealed drawers and there were secret entries in the walls— including a stairway leading to an observatory. Rachelle wondered if the Queen Mother had not followed those stairs up to the third f loor gallery where she had watched Fabien and her on the gallery one f loor below. There was a small room for her sleeping chamber with a built-in recess for her bed. The same gold monogram was embroidered in stunning work on the coverlet.

  With every muscle tightening into knots, Rachelle made her move.

  So much depended on this success.

  She went into the closet to the multitudinous sets of intricately carved drawers. There was a tall bureau. With clumsy, shaking fingers she counted down — one, two, three, four — seven, eight — Rachelle opened the drawer. A petite box of filigree gold that looked to be from Florence, Italy, stared at her. Rachelle opened it, saw the key, took it, and dropped it down her bodice. It might have been a dagger, so startling did the gray metal feel against her sweating skin. Breathing tensely, she shut the drawer and rushed back into the main chamber. She pushed a strand of hair away from her forehead and gathering her things, glanced back at the shimmering gowns, then walked out, head straight.

  “Merci, mesdames. I shall return to my chamber and await Her Majesty’s decision. Adieu.”

  “Adieu, Mademoiselle Macquinet.”

  Rachelle left the antechamber and entered the gallery salle once more. She walked slowly back toward the stairway and ascended. Now to take the key to Marquis Fabien.

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  Chapter Seven

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  F

  Fabien waited in a little-used antechamber on the first floor of the Chambord chateau, directly across from the stairway where he was to meet Rachelle Macquinet. He left his page, Gallaudet, on watch near her approach by the entry arch in case something went wrong.

  Fabien paced. Rachelle was late. He bludgeoned himself with rebukes for even considering her entry into Catherine’s private chambers. Had he been mad?

  Some minutes later he heard heavy footsteps and peered through the crack in the partially open antechamber door. He saw the small entourage with le Cardinal de Lorraine, the younger brother of le Duc de Guise, making lofty progress up the stairs toward the state council chamber. Swiss guards in and around the guardroom fell back as the handsome cardinal swept past with crimson and black cloak f loating behind. The cardinal entered the salle de garde to the state council chamber.

  Some minutes later, his older brother, le Duc de Guise, followed with his loyal bodyguard of ten men. The duc had many enemies, some who might wish to place a poison dagger through his heart. Fabien’s anger began to trouble his mind, making him restless. You have no proof of his involvement. He may not have had Jean-Louis assassinated. There is only the word of Messires Gaston and Nappier.

  At times like this he felt driven to frustration that he might never know the truth about his father’s death. Years had slipped by. As a boy he could do little except wait and plan. Now he wondered if those involved, except for the Guises, might all be dead. Who was there to verify what Nappier thought happened on that day so long ago in the war

  with Spain when Fabien’s father was killed — non, murdered? Nappier, a corsair who had sworn allegiance to Fabien, was now master swords- man in the Royal Armory at the Louvre in Paris, and Gaston was with Admiral Coligny.

  If either of the Guise brothers discovered Nappier had spoken to him about Jean-Louis de Vendôme, their lives would be in danger.

  Minutes lapsed. Fabien left the antechamber, and crossed the salle to the stairway. When he reached the upper gallery, he stood behind a latticed alcove. He was now closer to the state council chamber where Avenelle would be brought to Catherine and the Guises. Beside him in the alcove was a white marble bench from Florence, veined with gold, and great gilded urns of trailing greenery.

  Then, through the lattice, he saw Rachelle coming up the stairs to the second f loor where he waited.

  He saw no one following her, nor had Gallaudet signaled danger.

  Fabien looked for posted guards, saw none, and left the alcove to meet Rachelle on the top of the wide stairway.

  He admired her sang-froid. Anyone seeing her would have thought their meeting a chance encounter. He bowed, she curtsied.

  “All is well?” he asked in a low, urgent voice. “All went as planned, Marquis.”

  “I commend you, Mademoiselle. Bien joué.”

  “Your page Gallaudet has a message for you,” she whispered. “The Queen Mother has left the king’s chambers and is on her way now, alone, to the state council chamber. She has taken the main stairway, so you will not see her pass this way.”

  “Do you have it?” he said urgently.

  She casually opened her palm, revealing the key.

  Fabien caught
up her hand and bent over it. “Merci, ma cherie. I shall return it to you before Catherine misses it.”

  “Adieu.”

  He watched her depart down the stairs. Gallaudet would be waiting to follow her at a discreet distance to see her safely returned.

  Fabien turned, holding the key, then his gaze rammed into an intruder. Saintes! He was being observed.

  98

  Comte Maurice de Beauvilliers, Sebastien’s nephew, loitered at the far side of the gallery near the very steps Fabien must take to the listening closet adjoining the state council chambers. Catherine might even at this moment be preparing to bring Avenelle into the council.

  Fabien bit the bridle of impatience. In a concealed movement he slipped the key into his pocket. His manner must portray his usual con- fidence. He walked in a leisurely pace toward Maurice.

  Fabien had been but twelve years when his widowed father Jean- Louis de Bourbon married Sebastien’s younger sister Antoinette, mak- ing Fabien and Maurice cousins. Although he and Maurice were near the same age, they were not close; they did not share comaraderie of souls. No David and Jonathan, to be sure.

  Thinking back, Fabien told himself he might have been kinder to his stepmother. She had been much in love with his father and had tried to win Fabien’s amour, but he had held back, angry that his father had mar- ried sosoonafterhismotherdied. Thenhisfatherwasassassinatedeleven years ago outside Calais. Poor, grieving Antoinette had died a short time later when taking an interval of rest at the Louvre at Catherine’s invita- tion. Afterward, Fabien had become Sebastien’s ward until his Bourbon kinsman contested the decision. King Henry relented and Fabien was made a ward of Prince Louis de Condé. Thereafter Fabien had grown up making the rounds of the royal chateaus between visiting his blood kinsmen in Moulins, Vendôme, Châtillon, and Chantilly. Fabien had recently come of independent age and now inherited his own marquisat of Vendôme.

  Fabien’s kinsmen were many, some were enemies; others, like Maurice, were constant competitors. Maurice was a goad to be endured with friendly irritation. Fabien had not yet decided whether Maurice would emerge an enemy or a reluctant ami.