Again, he fumbled, turning an ugly color. “Yes, Madame.” He swal- lowed. “I have come at the duc’s will to inform you of what I know of a grave Huguenot conspiracy . . . and le Duc de Guise has rewarded me.” Fabien tensed. A plot? If Prince Condé were in any way involved, and Sebastien with them, it would mean their deaths. But how could there be such a plot? Would he himself not be aware? But knowing Louis Condé, he might not have wanted to involve him in such a risk. Fabien recalled several Bourbon-Huguenot alliance meetings he had not been told about
until afterward, as though Louis did not want him there.
“And you have confessed to the duc all you know of this wicked- ness?” Catherine almost shouted.
Avenelle cringed. “Oui, Madame, I — I have confessed all.”
She bounced from her high-back gilded chair, pointing a finger at him. “You had best hope so, Maître Avenelle. Oh, you had best hope so, I swear it.”
He bowed low, both hands pressed against his heart. Cringing coward, Fabien thought with disgust. Betrayer. “This plot is hatched by Calvinists, is that so?” she inquired. “Yes, Madame, entirely.”
Fabien gritted his teeth.
“How many Huguenots are involved?” “Over two thousand, Madame.”
Two thousand! Fabien stared.
Catherine sank back in her high-backed chair as though receiving a blow. Her face hardened with surprise, then fury. She pushed herself to her feet again and strode toward him. Avenelle sank to his knees.
“It is why I have come, to warn Your Majesty — ”
“Silence, worm! Who — who is at the head of these rebels? I demand the truth! Speak! If you hold back their names, I shall have you delivered to the torturers to be f layed alive.”
Avenelle was shaking so violently now that Fabien wondered if he would become sick to his stomach. Could the poor creature even speak without his teeth biting his tongue?
The vicious tone of Catherine’s voice and her autocratic manner had him paralyzed. Watching such a foul, despicable scene, Fabien clenched his fist. Diabolical woman.
“Speak!” she cried. “Or I swear I shall have you put to the screw!”
Avenelle wiped his dripping forehead on the back of his sleeve. “I-I am unable to f-find my voice —”
Catherine walked around the table and looked down at him, waving her hand with an impatient gesture.
“Fool! You will answer me, Maître Avenelle. The torture chamber is at hand; the way of wisdom will loosen your tongue or you will have none with which to speak either truth or lies.”
“Oh Madame, oh Madame . . . I am come to tell you all.”
“Who, then, is at the head of this plot? Their names. I want their names.”
“That heretic Prince Condé, Madame.” “So.”
Fabien’s fingers tightened convulsively on his sword hilt. “And Admiral Coligny?”
“Non. Though the admiral knows of the plot, perhaps . . . I cannot swear for certain, Madame, but his brother Monsieur Odet, le Cardinal de Châtillon knows, but — but they are not involved as deeply. They will not draw swords.”
“Hah,” Catherine said. “Go on, Maître Avenelle.”
“The military leader of the plot is Barri de la Renaudie; but, Madame, he is a subordinate acting under Prince Louis de Condé’s orders. Heretics all, Your Majesty.”
“Heretics you call them?” she mocked. “You yourself are a Huguenot, is that not so?”
“Oh, Madame, I am no longer a Calvinist, I assure you.” “No?” she continued with scorn. “Why so?”
“Le Duc de Guise has— has helped me to see that I was wrong, Madame, and to recant.”
A crisp, mocking laugh came boldly from her lips. “Indeed, Maître Avenelle! How tender the shepherding heart of our great le Balafré and his brother the cardinal. I swear their concern for your soul and the souls of all the Huguenots in France is wondrous to behold. Has the pope yet struck a medal celebrating their love for their enemies, Maître Avenelle, as he has before?”
“I do not know, Madame,” came the shaking voice.
“This Renaudie, this Huguenot retainer under Prince Louis de Condé, is he not the commander, your bon ami? Did he not lodge with you as a brother in Paris?”
Avenelle was staring at the chamber f loor. He spoke, but Catherine interrupted: “I cannot understand you, Maître Avenelle. Speak up.”
“Yes, Madame. He did stay with me in Paris for a short time, but no longer. You see, I will have no bon ami who is not loyal to your sacred person and to the sacred person of King Francis Valois.”
“And the Guises? Do not forget to mention the House of Guise,” she said with stinging mockery. “One would think, Maître Avenelle, that the Guises were as much a part of the royal Valois family as my own sons!”
Avenelle cringed and kept silent.
The Queen Mother stalked about the chamber, her stiff skirts sway- ing, reminding Fabien of a giant dark bird ready to swoop down and eat the f lesh of her enemy.
“Maître Avenelle, tell me the purpose of this Huguenot plot.”
She walked to her chair of state, ornamented with the arms of France, and placed on a dais covered with thick carpet. She sat down, her eyes on Avenelle.
“Your Majesty, the Huguenots all say you are the power that gov- erns France, not your son, His Majesty Francis II, and that under your rule freedom of worship and justice will never be granted Frenchmen of the Protestant belief; they say, Madame, that you seek the counsel of le Duc de Guise and le Cardinal de Lorraine, who are even more bit- terly opposed than you are to Protestant interests. Therefore they have addressed themselves to Prince de Condé who is believed to share their opinions, both political and religious, for present redress. The conspira- tors propose, Madame, to place His Highness Prince de Condé on the throne as regent, in your place, until— until such measures are taken as will confirm their independence from burnings.”
Fabien stif led a groan. This would mean the end of Condé — unless he formed an army. A religious civil war in France would rip the nation in two.
“The Bourbon-Huguenot alliance think to put Your Majesty under palais confinement; send the young king and queen to some unfortified place — such as here at Chambord or Chenonceau — and then banish the Guise brothers from France.”
Better to kill them, Fabien thought, his emotions like ice. And I, for
one, would gladly put the sword to the duc. Fabien’s heart thudded evenly in his chest. But what of Sebastien? Thus far Avenelle had not mentioned him.
I must alert Louis that Avenelle has betrayed them, and the plot is
known.
Avenelle had finished speaking. Catherine’s face was tight with rage. Then her voice shattered the silence, a sudden clear and unemotional command, showing Fabien she was once more in control.
“Proceed, Maître Avenelle.”
“U-under Renaudie, two thousand Huguenots expect to come here to Chambord from various points of Nantes to attack on the fifteenth of this month of March.”
Saintes! Fabien thought. It was almost the fifteenth now.
Catherine stood looking unexpectedly calm and cold. Her face was still, and her eyes took on a steady, almost hypnotic stare.
“So le Duc de Guise spoke the truth to me when he ordered the royal court to the fortress castle of Amboise.”
Now matters were slowly unfolding to Fabien. The unexpected call to journey to Amboise came from Guise as a military tactic to thwart the attack of Renaudie’s army.
“Have you told me everything, Maître Avenelle?”
“Oui, all. I swear it. Have mercy and remember, I beg of you, that it was I, Avenelle, your humble, devoted servant who has saved Your Majesty and the young King Francis from their evil schemes.”
Catherine swung toward him, lifting a hand and pointing. Avenelle f linched as though she had hurled a whip.
“You will be kept a prisoner until His Majesty’s council tests the truth of your information. If you have told m
e the truth, I will spare your life.
Even so, when this is over, you will leave France forever, is that under- stood? If I find you have lied, you will surely die, Avenelle. I swear it. Now go from my presence.” She turned her back to him and strode to the window.
Her words echoed through the lofty chamber. She struck the metal gong. Two guards entered, grabbed Avenelle’s thin arms, and took him away.
Fabien leaned against the wall, staring in the darkness, frowning, calming his fervid brain. Avenelle had not mentioned Sebastien as one of the plotters. This bode better for his head staying in place than Fabien would have dared to hope only an hour ago. But where was he? Did le Duc de Guise and le Cardinal de Lorraine have him under bolt some- where in the palais chateau questioning him even now to gain new infor- mation and names of Huguenots?
Fabien must find a way to warn Louis Condé, who in turn could warn Renaudie that their plot was known. Or was it already too late? Perhaps even now Renaudie’s troops were gathering in the forest for the march to Blois?
Neither the duc nor the cardinal had arrived to discuss Catherine’s meeting with Avenelle. Fabien watched her throw back her shoulders. With a bold step she walked toward the door, her black skirts rustling. She threw open the large, heavy door and barked a command, then she passed through into what he knew to be the salle de garde.
Fabien scowled. She was leaving. Why hadn’t the Guises been pres- ent? Where had they gone after he saw them climb the stairs? Were they badgering Sebastien in some dank chamber?
Fabien fought against the wash of helpless rage that pounded his mind. Rushing about with haste and thunder would gain him nothing. He must plan his every step with clear thought. If the enemy suspected he was aware, they would move against him in a moment’s notice.
Fabien had no time to linger; he needed to escape the listening closet now while the moment was in his grasp. He dare not meet Catherine de Medici a second time today loitering near the state council chamber.
Rachelle was stunned when word arrived that all work on Reinette Mary and Princesse Marguerite’s wardrobe was to be postponed until further notice from the Queen Mother. The Macquinets were to pack their grand arsenal of precious materials and return to the Chateau de Silk in Lyon. The news came as a complete surprise.
“What of Her young Majesty’s accessories?” Idelette asked the royal page in blue and gold satin.
“The royal retinue will be leaving for Amboise. The accessories must wait for another time, Mademoiselle Macquinet.”
Rachelle was pleased that she had at least completed Marguerite’s burgundy and cloth of gold. But what would the princesse think of the stoppage? She had wanted other gowns for the summer. Knowing Marguerite, she would not at all be satisfied.
The page departed, and Grandmère clasped her hands together and took a turn about the chamber. “I am worried about your sister. What will Madeleine do when she hears Sebastien is missing? And the enfant due within weeks! Ah, ça non! If I could join her at Paris — but the Queen Mother will assuredly desire us to work on the royal wardrobe at Lyon.” Grandmère sighed and took Rachelle’s arm. She drew her aside and spoke in a low voice.
“You heard the page. I am called away to oversee the packing and storage of the bolts of silk. The marquis should come soon with the key. Let us anticipate that all went well. Wait for him and explain what has happened. The key, bien sûr, will need to be returned.”
Rachelle and Grandmère exchanged worried glances as Idelette came toward them.
“I will go with you, Grandmère. I can be of assistance as overseer,” Idelette said.
Rachelle and Nenette were left to fold and wind the various bolts of cloth and lace remaining in the chamber on the shelves.
Rachelle found it difficult to concentrate. Bolts of cloth remained on the long cutting table waiting to be stored in trunks, when growing res- tive, she sent Nenette to keep watch at the outer chamber door for a sign of Marquis Fabien. Had matters gone well?
Nenette opened the door a crack and peered out for some minutes before she hissed: “He comes, he is in a hurry— la, la — how beau he is, I shall swoon!”
Rachelle snapped her fingers. “Shh, Nenette. Show yourself digni- fied, I pray you. Show him in at once — and remember his station with a curtsy.”
“Oui, Mademoiselle. I know, I know.”
Rachelle drew in a deep breath, arranging herself near the bolts of silk in a languid stance that she had seen Princesse Marguerite use. She checked her wealth of hair to make certain it showed to its opti- mum beauty. The arrangement that she and Nenette had labored on so long after déjeuner was of courtly fashion, a bundle of braided sections mingled with petite curls into a waterfall, which then cascaded down her back and across her left shoulder.
Nenette stepped into the outer corridor to welcome the marquis inside. Rachelle waited, aware that her heart f luttered with strange excitement and fear. What had he discovered from the listening closet?
The marquis entered the chamber. He must be the most handsome man at court. His glance told her of his approval, making the work she had done on her hair worth the effort.
“Mademoiselle,” he said smoothly. He then looked toward Nenette with what Rachelle took as a suggestion for her dismissal.
“That will be all for now, Nenette, you may go,” Rachelle told her.
When the girl had left them, Fabien stepped closer to Rachelle and took hold of her hand. Her heart leaped at his touch.
“Where is Madame Henriette?”
“She and Idelette are packing. We have been ordered back to Lyon. I will return the key to the Queen Mother’s chamber. Whatever the news, do not fear to report it to me. I will inform Grandmère with my utmost caution.”
He remained solemn, convincing her he had discovered reasons for travail. She was suddenly ashamed of her actions. Here she was trying to capture his interest when Sebastien and her fellow Huguenots might be in danger.
“The stranger with Guise was indeed Maître Avenelle, who has betrayed the leaders of the Bourbon-Huguenot alliance. The Queen Mother knows everything.”
A queasy wave rolled over Rachelle’s stomach. She listened in dismay as he went on to give a brief, hurried account of how Avenelle uncovered
a Huguenot plot to overthrow the House of Guise and secure an end to Huguenot persecution throughout France.
“And Sebastien?”
“I can only assure Madame Henriette that Avenelle did not men- tion Sebastien’s name to Catherine, but that in no way clears him for the future. The Queen Mother’s ways are often strange and Machiavellian.”
“Then Maître Avenelle would not know Sebastien is a Huguenot?” “Do not rely on that. Catherine may already know it to be true and
merely be waiting.
She could see his thoughts racing, trying to make sense of the details he had heard. The twists and turns of the events also confused her.
“These are the days of danger, ma cherie,” he said gently.
He had called her that endearing name before, though they had only recently met. That he did so brought unusual happiness, yet the emo- tions it evoked also made her wary. It would be a long time before she was likely to forget that fiery embrace on the gallery, but her Grandmère was right to consider where her interest in le marquis would end.
He walked to the window and looked into the courtyard. “The plot to rid France of the Guises was to have occurred here at Blois. Now with the court to depart for the fortress of Amboise in the morning, why do I feel that there is something amiss in all of this?”
He turned from the window, scowling, and looked as if he would speak, but then glanced at the table where several dazzling bolts of silk were awaiting transport back to Lyon.
“You are readying to return to Lyon, I see. Do you have men-at-arms to see to your safe traveling?”
“We have servants from the Chateau de Silk. Perhaps five are able to use a sword.”
He walked to the long table whe
re a bolt of pale green silk had caught his attention and touched the cloth. He moved to the burgundy silk gown over the cloth of gold belonging to Marguerite.
“Were you thinking of bandits, Monsieur Fabien?”
“Yes, bandits,” he said absently. “Five men are hardly enough with such rich booty to be taken as a prize.” But his sweeping glance of her intimated a wider meaning. “I will send a dozen of my men and two swordsmen with your Grandmère for the journey. You will tell her for
me? I may not see her again by morning. I have some matters to attend this night.”
“Monsieur is most kind.”
He looked at her with a brief, wry smile. “It is not kindness. This burgundy silk, it pleases me. Is there enough to make another gown of the manner of this one?” He gestured to Marguerite’s gown.
She joined him at the table. “By all means.” She released several folds of the burgundy onto the table and held it so that light from the chamber window caused it to shimmer. “The silk, it is always in the process of being replenished through our silkworms. We have mûreraies groves to feed them, you see. If we did not, we would soon have no silk business in Lyon.”
“Silkworms,” he said thoughtfully, as though his mind were on any- thing but that.
Rachelle tucked her lips into a small amused smile and carried on with gravity. “Yes, thousands upon thousands of petite worms, Marquis Fabien. We Macquinets have the finest silk filaments in France . . . and Italy, I promise you. Grandmère knows of but one family in all Italy who is able to match the silk we produce. Ours is of a finer grade than any- thing made even in Assam, India, or the East.”
He smiled lazily, but his violet blue eyes were anything but casual as they looked at her. “I do not doubt it at all. I have long heard of Macquinet silk, but when Duchesse Louise-Marie, my mother, had gowns made, the chateau was called Dushane-Macquinet.”
She shrugged gracefully. “Oh, it remains so. You see, Grandmère is a Dushane, and of course, Maman. We merged with my père’s family, the Macquinets. The two families were competitors at one time, but amour has brought us all together.”
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