Daughter of Silk

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  “Yes, but you, Gallaudet, do not journey onward to Lyon as first intended. I have other plans. I may need you. Meet me at the road.”

  Lady-in-waiting to Margo — this displeased him, for Amboise would prove most dangerous. Fabien left his horse with his groom and entered the inner courtyard where the queue of calèches had gathered, waiting for the king to ride out. Princesse Marguerite and her ladies-in-waiting stood outside the two royal calèches awarded her for comfortable travel. The vivacious and attractively plump Margo, dark eyes snapping with fervency for young Henry de Guise, huddled with him on one side of the calèche. Her ladies and pages were shielding her as she bade au revoir to Henry, though he was also going on to Amboise. In reality, Margo and Henry’s amour for one another was known to any who both-

  ered to notice. Fabien, for one, had small interest in their goings-on.

  Fabien waited, bored. Henry, upon seeing him, unwrapped himself from Margo’s clinging embrace. He scanned Fabien, his jaw hardening. Though unsought by Fabien, there seemed a veiled competition between them at court for first place in the ladies’ admiration. Another foolish fri- volity as far as Fabien considered. He wished to avoid the belles dames.

  Henry, however, with his golden looks, his proud and arrogant idoliza- tion of his father, expected to be adored because he was the duc’s son.

  “A Guise, a Guise for a king,” the Parisians would shout when father and son with their men-at-arms rode from Lorraine into Paris.

  Henry now approached Fabien. A stern look overtook his comely face, and his hair, a golden red, glinted in the sun. As soon as he was out of earshot of Margo and her attendants, he said, “A Bourbon.”

  Fabien’s temper, a problem since childhood and now worn thin by recent events, f lared, for he believed it was Henry’s father who had plot- ted the demise of his own father, Jean-Louis. Yet this young Henry spread his proud feathers as though he, and not Fabien, was of the blood royal. The House of Guise was already in the place of authority that rightfully belonged to the princes of the blood, Antoine and Louis de Bourbon, only because the Guises were favored by powerful Spain and meddling Rome who believed in their political rule over kings.

  Fabien stepped closer, keeping his voice low, for there were ladies present, and the animosity between them was theirs alone, developing since childhood.

  “Your haughty address offends me, Henry. A Bourbon, yes, and where France is concerned, of higher rank than you or any in the House of Guise. If I were an arrogant Guise, I would draw my blade now before the ladies and demand your humble obeisance.”

  “After Avenelle? After my father has discovered a plot hatched by Bourbons to overthrow the king?” Henry de Guise snarled.

  “Avenelle,” the marquis said with contempt, “is a traitor, a small rat. A rat bribed by the duc to lie, and for whose rise to power? The duc’s own. Your oncle, the cardinal, scorns the king as well.”

  “You speak thus of my father and oncle!”

  “Your father deigns to overthrow the rightful rule of the house of Bourbon to usurp it for the House of Guise. He fills the king’s youthful mind with lies. There is no plot to overthrow a Valois king but to remove those around him who usurp a position not rightfully theirs. Men who are more loyal to Spain than to France.”

  Henry stared at him open-mouthed. “Marquis! I demand apology or I shall call for an affaire d’honneur with the sword.”

  “Then call for it. You will die here and now before Marguerite. Do so and be counted a fool, Henry. I shall best you. You will have nothing but infamy. Is that what you wish to portray before the royal princesse and courtiers?”

  Henry de Guise drew in his chin. A look of confusion and then sur- prise crossed his face, and his faltering gaze said his rash call for a duel of honor had been a mistake.

  Fabien wondered if Henry had ever been informed that the Guises of Lorraine ranked below Jean-Louis de Vendôme and the deceased prin- cesse, Marie-Louise de Bourbon, Fabien’s blood mother.

  “No one has heard our exchange. I shall be generous and spare your reputation before Margo. But know you have foolishly accosted mine. It is I who has the right to call you out for lightly esteeming my rank. But I am not so insecure. Do ask your father, the duc, if he thinks it is wise for you to have done so. He will not be pleased by your rash action, I prom- ise you. Also ask him why he would not be pleased, if you so choose.”

  Henry stood stiff ly. The look of uncertainty remained in his light blue eyes. “What do you mean to imply?”

  “That is for you, your father, and your oncle the cardinal to decide. Ask them about the death of Jean-Louis de Vendôme in the last war with Spain. Tell them you also accused a Bourbon of treason. Tell them I told you to ask about my father, a prince of the blood who was so accused.”

  Henry de Guise studied him with growing unease. “Your father was a prince of the blood?”

  “He was.”

  Doubt over his haste now showed in Henry’s eyes. “It is the first I have heard of it.”

  “Pray consider why. Some wish to not talk of it, but to tout their own honors.”

  Henry looked at him a long moment. “It seems I was hasty. I was under the impression . . .” He stopped.

  “That you admit it is satisfaction enough. We will forget this hap- pened if you wish.”

  Henry de Guise hesitated, then gave a grudging bow of his head to Fabien, showing deference. He walked away, his attendants following.

  Fabien was also turning away when Comte Maurice Beauvilliers, who was lounging in the background near one of the calèches, watching the confrontation, left his pages some feet away and sauntered toward Fabien.

  “I have important news, mon cousine Fabien. Do you wish to hear it?

  Where can we talk that none else hears?”

  Chapter Eleven

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  M

  Marquis Fabien walked away from the royal retinue of calèches and attendants with Maurice Beauvilliers. They paused beneath the shade of an arbor.

  Maurice sniffed a crimson rose he had pinned on his emerald green surcoat. His almond-shaped gray eyes were as languid as ever.

  “Did you discover news of Sebastien from Julot at the armoury last night?” Fabien asked.

  “Non. But I have other news. Did you hear that Rachelle Macquinet, la belle des belles, is among Marguerite’s ladies? She will go to Amboise. The winds of bonne fortune blow my way.” He smiled to himself and breathed deeply of the fragrance of the red rose.

  “Is that your news? I know it already,” Fabien said, irritated to be reminded of Rachelle going to Amboise and of Maurice’s interest. “What other news have you?”

  The glimmer of sobriety in Maurice’s eyes surprised him, and he paused.

  “I was passing Duchesse Dushane’s calèche and she called to me.” Mention of the duchesse sharpened Fabien’s interest.

  Maurice sniffed his rose again. “She believed it was safe to speak to me of important matters, as who would suspect Maurice of favoring the Bourbons, eh? She gave me profound news, mon cousine. Oncle Sebastien is away on proper business for the throne.”

  After what he had heard in the state council chamber?

  “You are surely mad. The duchesse told you so?”

  “She did. Sebastien departed Chambord soon after le Duc de Guise rode into the courtyard with Avenelle. Oncle Sebastien is on his way to Moulins with a royal summons for Prince Condé, Admiral Coligny, and his brother le Cardinal de Châtillon. There is to be an edict of pacifica- tion signed at Amboise, and your Bourbon kinsmen, the Huguenot lead- ers, are summoned there.”

  Fabien’s impulse was to hotly deny every word of this revelation. This must be a ruse after what he had just heard from the mouth of Catherine herself. Peace? There would be no peace.

  “Milles diables, but this must be trickery of the darkest sort.”

  Maurice shrugged languidly, as though he had now lost all interest since hearing Sebastien was safe and still in favor with Catherin
e.

  “Then speak to Prince Condé yourself. I have more pressing mat- ters to attend, Cousine Marquis. But I will tell you this one thing more, learned not from the duchesse, but a belle dame at court who knows. It was none other than le Cardinal de Lorraine who sent Sebastien with the royal summons to Amboise.”

  “The cardinal!” Fabien could scarcely take it in. “Treachery. What else can it be? Ask yourself why it is the Bourbon princes and Calvinist nobles have been requested to come to an important council meeting at Amboise after Avenelle betrays a Huguenot plot. How many edicts have there been in our lifetime?”

  “Several at least,” Maurice said.

  “All of them repudiated by the Guises before the ink dried on the page,” Fabien murmured thoughtfully. “So why another? And why now does the cardinal call for the Bourbon princes and nobles to Amboise for the kiss of peace?”

  “Strange to fathom, is it not?” Maurice agreed.

  “Or is it?” Fabien did not like it at all. “This smells of a trap.”

  “If you ride to Moulins, take caution. Adieu, mon cousin.” He strut- ted away.

  Fabien returned to the line of calèches and baggage wagons. His mind was busy.

  So Sebastien was sent to Prince Condé with a royal summons, but assuredly that summons came not from Francis but the Guises and Catherine. Could this proposed edict of pacification be genuine? Surely

  Sebastien would be wise enough to see through le Cardinal de Lorraine’s sending him to Prince Condé. The question now was, did Sebastien know of Avenelle’s betrayal of the Huguenot plot before he rode off to Moulins? If not, he was at a disadvantage.

  As Fabien neared Marguerite’s calèche, he saw Maurice again, this time f lirting with one of the charmante ladies-in-waiting. As Fabien passed by he reached over and plucked the ripe rose from Maurice’s surcoat.

  “Merci, mon cousine.”

  He walked to Princesse Marguerite Valois who stood outside her royal calèche under a silken, gold-fringed canopy sipping some refresh- ment. Coming before her, Fabien bowed deeply and handed her the rose with fanfaronade.

  “For you, most fragrant of all f lowers, my undying fealty.”

  Margo laughed, and though he knew she had taken note of the earlier meeting he had had with Henry de Guise, he was sure she had not over- heard. Nor did he want her to guess they had nearly come to swords at Henry’s challenge. Presently, her one bel ami was Henry de Guise. Fabien thought she might have called Henry foolish for his rash challenge, for though his father the duc was a masterful soldier and the younger Henry was fair with a sword, Henry was not capable of mounting an adequate defense in a match against him. Fabien was kindly disposed toward Margo, who perhaps was the least cruel of the Valois children, and their bantering friendship had endured for years.

  He glanced about for Rachelle and located her, but she had not seen him yet. She stood in the courtyard nearest the garden with the rest of the ladies-in-waiting, talking to Louise de Fontaine. Charlotte de Presney walked up to the group of ladies, and as she took in Rachelle’s rich brown-auburn hair, her face was easy to read from even this distance.

  “There will be jealousy between those two,” Marguerite said, watch- ing Rachelle and Charlotte. “If there is, I know who I shall blame. Charlotte is the worst of cats.”

  Fabien leaned into the shade beside Marguerite, taking the goblet of refreshment she offered him.

  “Now why, cherie princesse, did you need to call Rachelle Macquinet to Amboise?” Fabien asked in a wearied voice. “Have you not enough

  belles gathered about you that you need this one as well? And with rumors of trouble brewing.”

  Margo smiled, her eyes f lirting as always, and she extended her white hand to be kissed.

  “La, la, Fabien, mon ami, but how beau you are this day. Madame Charlotte de Presney is most unhappy. She claims you have been breaking her heart. Ah, how cruel of you.” And she laughed, her eyes twinkling.

  He smiled. “Cherie princesse, do not grieve. If her heart is broken, I assure you, it is only because it is so tender. But we may take solace in her quick recovery, for she need but set her heart upon another and it will be quickly healed.”

  Margo gave him a delighted look from beneath long lashes. “But of course, my beau Bourbon, you are taken with my new mademoiselle. Is it not so? Oh yes, I know, it is the talk already among the ladies at court. She has made them all so jealous. And Charlotte has been trying to get your attention and has thus far failed. Charlotte does not often fail.”

  His voice was dry. “So I have noticed, Princesse.”

  “Oh, do not be so sotte and formal. You have been calling me Margo for years. So you find my Rachelle of much interest, do you, mon amour?”

  He followed her gaze to the courtyard where Rachelle stood with the ladies-in-waiting. As if sensing his scrutiny, Rachelle turned her head. The distance between them was too great for speech, but he bowed toward her and she curtsied. Charlotte de Presney appeared to take note of this exchange and the displeasure on her face was evident.

  “I requested Rachelle Macquinet to attend me at Amboise,” Marguerite said.

  “Can you not find another? Ladies are easy to come by, are they not? Look how many courtiers wish their daughters to serve you. Why not return her to the Chateau de Silk where her skills and interests lie?”

  Marguerite grimaced. “Nenni. She behaves well. You are wrong.

  Loyal ladies are not easily found, and Rachelle pleases me well. Madame de Presney has cast her eyes on Henry. I cannot trust her. If I see her do so again, I shall have her punished. I mean it. Do not look at me like that. She is a spy for my mother. As if I did not know this. I may put Rachelle in her place as my maid-of-honor.”

  “Margo, la belle, do me a favor?” “But yes, what is it?”

  “Do not make her your maid-of-honor. See that she is protected from your ways — and do not make her the object of Charlotte’s wrath.”

  Margo arched her dark brows, then laughed good-naturedly. She reached beckoning bejeweled fingers toward his chin, but he caught her wrist.

  “Fabien, I should be insulted at such wanton words. But from you? I will take my reproofs. So you have special interests in Rachelle Macquinet, do you? Ah, this will not please your cousine. Maurice too is interested in the Daughter of Silk.”

  “My interest will displease many of the strutting cocks. But she is young and innocent. Keep her so, ma fleur, or you shall hear from me.” He smiled winsomely.

  She pursed her lips and made a kissing sound. “La, la.” “Do as I ask, ma cherie?” he requested seriously.

  “I shall keep her under my sisterly wing, I promise you.”

  Fabien winced and Margo laughed, then she beckoned for one of her pages to assist her into the calèche.

  “Au revoir, Fabien, unless you care to ride with us?” “I have other business.”

  Marguerite took her chief place in the lush velvet seat of the calèche, her principal ladies coming forward, one by one, to be assisted in beside her.

  Rachelle was about to enter the second calèche with attendants of lesser position when Marguerite sent word through a page, instructing her to come forward and ride with her, no doubt for Fabien’s sake.

  When Rachelle neared Marguerite’s calèche, Fabien took her arm and turned toward the princesse. “Five minutes, Princesse.” And he walked with Rachelle to the edge of a nearby garden where bougainvil- lea rambled along a stone fence.

  “Monsieur Fabien, you have made me the point of every woman’s jealous attention.”

  “You imagine it, I assure you,” he said too lightly. He did not wish to acknowledge he was sought after, for it seemed to him the utmost of

  foppery. “This decision for you to journey to Amboise is most unfortu- nate, Mademoiselle.”

  She did seem troubled, but he also noticed the excitement f lickering just below the surface of her eyes.

  He grinned. “I vow you are enjoying this unexpected change in your
future.”

  She lifted her chin with dignity. “Should I not, Marquis? Is it not an honor to serve Princesse Marguerite?”

  He glanced the short distance to where Maurice and his lackeys were watching them. Maurice stood lounging against the courtyard wall, arms folded.

  “That depends,” Fabien said ruefully. “You know, do you not, that you are as a lamb among wolves? One bite, ma belle, and you are gone, I promise you.”

  Her dimples showed. “How graphic you are. You are not, are you, among those hungry wolves?”

  He regarded her, arching a brow. She suddenly flushed and looked toward Marguerite’s calèche. “I must not keep the princesse waiting . . .” “You are not. We will not depart until the royal entourage of Francis goes before us. Know that I have tried to change Margo’s mind on mak-

  ing you one of her ladies-in-waiting, but she is insistent.”

  “Monsieur, I believe my days are planned by One far greater than the princesse. There is a divine purpose in my being called to her side. Perhaps I shall be used of God in some way, either to help the princesse personally or my fellow Huguenots.”

  Her simplicity was part of what attracted her to him, but it was also annoying.

  “I cannot imagine a lamb walking boldly into an arena of wolves to reason with them of their need to discipline their ravenous appetites.”

  She refused to yield under his gaze. His eyes narrowed. He had expected her to be afraid, overwhelmed by such company, but instead, she was committed to the notion that she had been called of God.

  “You would not listen if I told you the Bastille is full of men and women who also had the same noble belief? Yet they will undoubtedly die.”

  “Death is not the end. They look beyond the fiery stake to enter the Lord’s pleasure.”

  For a moment he became frustrated with her calm confidence. “Actually, what I am called to Amboise to do is rather simple.” “Is it?” He did not believe her for a moment.

  “Yes. I shall be adding to Marguerite’s wardrobe, and there is some talk of a wedding, though distant, of which I shall have the great honneur of assisting.”