Andelot plucked at the leather reins. Why did Fabien expect him to agree?
Andelot straightened his shoulders. “Yet, Monsieur Fabien, is there not the promise from King Francis? You say you trust his benefice toward all his subjects.”
“Saintes! You seem disposed toward bestowing benign favor upon the House of Guise no matter which way the wind blows, and all because of sharing an unexpected connection in their bloodline.”
Andelot twisted in his saddle and refused to meet his scowl.
Fabien said no more, evidently thinking it useless to continue, while Andelot felt guilty as though he had shown disloyalty. He pondered in disturbed silence all the marquis had suggested and liked none of it.
Crimson and blue f lags f lurried in wind gusts. Silver trumpets sounded forth, commanding the attention of all.
Andelot was alert to everything going on around him, the tinkle of bells, the snapping of f lags, the restless snorts from the horses, the smells that came to his nostrils now and then on the breeze. Were events fore- shadowing trouble being born before his very eyes? Was Marquis Fabien merely being perceptive? Could it be that something important was hap- pening? Something smelling, as Fabien had said, of treachery?
Fabien had once mentioned he did not believe the death of Jean-Louis de Vendôme was brought about by an ill-fated turn in a battle against Spain during the reign of King Henry II, Catherine’s husband. He had hinted that he thought his père’s death was an assassination, and that le Duc de Guise was involved.
So his mistrust must surely be due in part to his suspicions.
Andelot felt somewhat relieved by his thoughts.
As trumpets blared announcing the young king and queen were pre- paring to ride through into the courtyard, Andelot sat up straighter, his eyes were busy, and his skin tingled.
Another loud trumpet blast announced King Francis II.
Andelot snatched his hat from his head and held it to his heart. A shout rang out from the king’s men and another blare of trumpets came with a quick beating of drums. The hooves of many horses clattered proudly across the cobbles.
“The king comes!”
“Vive le Roi!”
The royal horses and the glittering procession neared, attended by the pages of the royal household wearing red velvet embroidered in gold, followed by the king’s musketeers in red and blue uniforms, and the Swiss guards with halberds and plumed helmets, their doublets with slashed sleeves showing black velvet.
Sixteen-year-old King Francis rode in the midst, a slight but elegant figure astride his horse. Mary Stuart, eighteen, Queen of Scotland and now Queen of France, rode prettily beside him. The royal couple looked to be much taken with one another. She was dressed in a robe with gold embroidery and trimmed with ermine.
“His Majesty does not appear in fine fettle today,” Andelot whispered with worry, again drawing Fabien’s attention as to why he may not have been called to the meeting this early morning with the Queen Mother and the Guises.
“He has been ill since birth,” Fabien told him. “He has a sickness of the blood. It is unfortunate, for he is the most likable of the royal sons. He enjoys music, art, and listening to the reinette play her f lute just for him. He is unlike his younger brother Charles. Charles is mad.”
Andelot cast Fabien a shocked look, at first thinking that he poorly jested; however, the grave look on his handsome face convinced Andelot otherwise.
“Mad?” Andelot whispered. “Marquis, why do you say such a thing?”
“Why? Because it is so, I assure you. You will find out for yourself,” came his low, warning voice, “when you meet him at Amboise. Beware of him, for he is shrewd. It is wiser that I am with you, mon ami, when you meet the prince.”
Andelot mulled the information over in his mind. Mad? Prince
Charles Valois?
Just behind Francis and Mary rode the queen regent, Catherine de Medici, dressed in black as usual. Beside her rode le Cardinal de Lorraine himself, almost as regal in his crimson vestment as the king.
Andelot watched the cardinal, who also bore the name of Charles, and the duc, who bore the same name as Francis. But this Charles was sane. Was he also as shrewd and cruel as Fabien thought? As Andelot stared at Cardinal Charles de Guise from Lorraine, he felt a tingle of pride. My
kinsman. A powerful man, he! He was comely too. His neat beard was short and blond with a hint of red. His crimson vestment was lined with white fur, and he wore a wide-brimmed crimson hat of Spanish style, the same wide-brimmed hat worn by all higher churchmen.
Fabien leaned toward Andelot. “The cardinal keeps several mistresses.”
Andelot f lushed. “Marquis, one can never think so about the cardi- nal! Ah, ça non!”
“Ah, but you are gullible. You think these men of lofty rank are honorable, whether they are holy or not. What if they are whited sepul- chers — full of dead men’s bones, mon ami Andelot?”
Andelot refused to be baited. “Lofty of rank, yes. Therefore of honor.”
“Non! Why do you think Luther and Calvin strive for reform in the Church?”
“Heretics!”
“That description, of our own Calvin, comes from a Church that has become a comfortable nest for rats.”
“Marquis de Vendôme, you make me tremble. Do you not speak blaspheme?”
The marquis turned his mouth with impatience. His violet blue eyes burned with frustration. “You have a wrong conception of blasphemy. In speaking of wayward men, I do not impugn God.”
“You do. For these men speak for God.”
“Then all the greater their responsibility to present God’s truth rather than replace it with their own exalted pronouncements, then per- secute those who turn elsewhere to worship.”
“You are a Huguenot. I swear it!”
“Non, non, Andelot. But what will you do? Run to your boasted kinsman, le Cardinal, with my heresy?”
Andelot sucked in his breath, leaning back away from him. “Sûrement
pas! How can you think so, Monsieur Cousine? But when you speak of — of wrongs in Christ’s Church you give the infidels reasons to mock and reject.”
“Did not Jesus make a cord of whips and clean the temple of those who polluted it? Did he cover the sins of the religious rulers to hide their
hypocrisy? Why do you think the religious rulers plotted his death? Was it not because he showed their need for repentance?”
Andelot stared straight ahead. He tightened his mouth.
Fabien smiled and whispered, “Should we turn like snarling wolves on Calvin and Luther when they shine their candles upon the Scriptures, revealing corners of the Church where cobwebs of uncleanness breed? What are you and the others afraid of? Is your faith so fragile that only that which cannot be shaken remains?”
“Monsieur!” Andelot gripped his hat, holding it f lat against his chest, his teeth gritting. “Shh!” He looked about in fear of being overheard, but Fabien’s voice had been low, and all eyes were on royalty. “Where have you learned this, Monsieur? I beg of you— someone may hear — ah, the faggots, the faggots they burn hot, they scorch, they smoke — ”
Andelot’s heartbeat doubled. “Surely you are a Huguenot, Marquis, like the rest of your Bourbon kinsmen, and have kept it from me.”
“No,” Fabien said calmly, “I am not. If I were, I would not be ashamed to say so. I am a Catholic, mon ami. But I am no blind zealot either, believing everything and anything these men tell me. We should search the Scriptures ourselves and see whether these things be so. I see no insult done to God by calmly hearing what Calvin and Beza say, as they are learned and righteous men. I would even read the Institutes.”
This idea brought Andelot further alarm. A feeling of dejection smothered him. How could the marquis have come up with such a wild tale as this? Jesus making a whip and driving people and animals from the temple? Such a thought! This could not be in the “real” Bible, but only in the heretic Bible, the one written in French. Did the
marquis have one?
Andelot wanted to ask him, but feared the answer.
John Calvin, who had f led France, was now in Geneva leading the Reformed Church and governing the city. His Institutes were banned in France, just as they were elsewhere in Western Europe. If one possessed these books, one would quickly be condemned a heretic.
“Ah, Marquis, do you know what happened to a shopkeeper in Paris who printed Calvin’s works?”
“I can well imagine.”
“He would not divulge the names of the Huguenots he had sold the books to.”
“A man whom Jesus will commend one day, I am sure. That is why you must honor these martyrs, Andelot, because the Lord will honor them. Do not think lightly of your brothers and of their past sufferings. They put us and our loyalty to the great Christ to shame.”
Andelot hung his head. He could not bring himself to say “heretics.”
But they are heretics. They “must” be. Rome said so.
Onoccasion Andelot, too, admittedtohisheartthathewonderedwhat Calvin had written in those books that made him so hated and feared, but he would not risk finding out. If he were caught speaking as the Marquis had just spoken . . . Andelot groaned within. He glanced toward Fabien who did not appear intimidated and merely saluted the king and queen with savoir-faire as they rode past toward the road. It amazed Andelot to see the King and Queen of France smile and acknowledge Fabien.
Andelot sighed. He took courage in remembering that Fabien went daily to Mass. He told himself that Fabien was merely of a curious nature, always wanting to know more than was considered safe to know. He enjoyed learning, and even books meant for burning interested him. And, for the sake of disputation, Fabien would even debate issues from a side he did not fully agree with. Surely that was what he was doing now. Oui, bien!
“Come, mon ami, it is time to ride,” the Marquis told him and smiled. “I see I have vexed you to your bones.”
Andelot twisted his mouth into a wry smile. Yes, he had certainly made him sweat. He wiped his brow and turned his reins to ride out with the soldiers and the marquis.
The retinue of royal calèches was moving toward the gate and the road to Amboise. Rachelle sat in Princesse Marguerite’s calèche, looking round at such bountiful luxury. Her excitement rose. The well-padded interior of Marguerite’s calèche was upholstered in green velvet; the gold velvet cushions and matching footstools were corded in blue with gold tassels. Compared to the Macquinet calèches in which she and her fam- ily had ridden all the way from Lyon, this was luxury in the extreme.
Hardly had the royal calèche left the grounds of Chambord when Rachelle glanced across at Charlotte de Presney and noticed mud on one of her fancy slippers and a smudge on the edge of her hem, as though she had trailed it through wet soil. Rachelle’s eyes lifted to Charlotte who was looking out the window. Her blonde hair was slightly windblown, and she was still breathing as though she had run to get to the calèche. Had it been Charlotte behind the garden wall, eavesdropping?
Just as most women sensed romantic tension between a man and a woman when emotion was meant to be hidden, Rachelle had noticed the prickly tension between Marquis Fabien and Charlotte de Presney. Well, it was no secret where Charlotte’s aims were concerned. Rachelle had seen her hand caress Fabien’s. She deliberately dropped that flower. With that thought came a sickening dart of pain, and yes, even fear, as she remembered the look in the marquis’s eyes when his gaze locked with Charlotte’s. Not that she could blame him for reacting to a woman who was belle of face and figure and who f launted her bosom in a shock- ingly low décolletage.
Rachelle struggled not to glare at Charlotte. It was positively shame- ful the way she had not worn a cloak to cover herself! But then, her behavior was intentional.
Rachelle scanned her once again, uneasily. She had few scruples, and it was plain to see she was determined to snare the marquis as a lover.
Charlotte turned her head and caught Rachelle’s stare. Rachelle attempted to keep her feelings hidden and quickly relaxed her expres- sion. The smug turn of Charlotte’s carmined lips told her she had not succeeded. Rachelle was relieved when Princesse Marguerite began to talk incessantly as she was prone to do, her ladies agreeing with her and assuring her that all her self-depicted woes were justified.
Andelot, as he rode alongside Fabien, was comforted to see that fierce emotion had left his eyes. Fabien frightened him, confronting him with ideas that must be avoided if one were to live life and see good days.
For some time they rode in silence, the long royal train of King Francis II slowly winding its way along the road. The winds cooled him, and he began to enjoy the ride.
After they had ridden for a time, Fabien gestured that Andelot should let the soldiers behind ride on ahead of them. After a time, with the yard- age between them and the other horsemen widening, Fabien drew rein and Andelot came beside.
“Adieu, Andelot. I ride on from here toward Moulins. Tell no one where I have gone. I will see you in two days at Amboise castle.”
Andelot knew at once why Fabien would venture to ride to Moulins. He saw his men-at-arms waiting at the side of the road; young, stalwart men wearing the Bourbon colors and the family lineage of Vendôme. Andelot felt a sudden longing to be one of them. To turn his back on any prospects with the House of Guise and follow the marquis. Dare he ask?
“Monsieur? I — ”
Just then a horseman galloped up, and Andelot turned to see Gallaudet, the marquis’s loyal page.
“Monsieur,” Gallaudet said, “there are horsemen riding this way with the f lag of the House of Guise. They are likely to join the duc at Amboise. Should we not leave at once before they know we have seen them?”
“How many soldiers?”
“Monsieur, at least five hundred, maybe more.”
Andelot looked quickly at Fabien and saw what he was thinking. This was more evidence that made him think the Guises were up to harm. He could not think they were merely going to Amboise to safeguard the king and royal family.
“Adieu, Andelot. We ride.” Fabien saluted him in a friendly way and rode off with Gallaudet. His men-at-arms followed in behind and galloped after them. Andelot watched until the great golden bay had raced across a green meadow toward the distant forest to the chateau of Moulins.
Chapter Thirteen
T
The palais chateau of Moulins was less than a two-hour journey from Blois. The sun was high in the pale aqua sky with puffy clouds over the Val d’Oise. Fabien and his retinue galloped swiftly across the plain toward the Forez and took the much-used route along the river where it followed the green embankment. Water tumbled over gray rocks where the spray caught the rays of the sun in a rainbow mist. Birdsong refreshed and assured the listener’s heart, if not the mind, that all was well in the world.
Fabien turned his golden bay and began the final ascent into the for- est around Berry. Moulins was not far now. The redolent smell of the dark soil, damp and rich, and the scent of pine warmed by the sun, can- vassed the region around them.
In theearlyafternoonthevastchateaucameintoview. Itwasembraced on three sides by the gleaming lake and on the fourth side with the tall pine trees that framed the sky.
Fabien and Gallaudet rode the edge of the lake, followed by a dozen men-at-arms and as many lackeys, and then up to the gate. The portier came hurrying from his lodge nearby, and recognizing the armorial bear- ing of Vendôme, bowed, saluted, and went to draw back the gate.
They rode through, horse hooves clattering over the cobbled road that ascended toward the grand chateau where the Bourbon Prince Louis de Condé and his wife, Princesse Eleonore, were gathered with other Bourbon nobles.
At the entrance the hostlers came forward to take his horse. Most of his men-at-arms went off to refresh themselves at the barracks and stables with the grooms and lackeys.
Fabien entered the palais and was shown along the great corridors with their gold lacquer and silk-paneled
walls to a large salon overlook- ing the Cour d’Honneur. A meeting was now underway, and Prince Louis de Condé was present, a man of middle height, with dark hair and eyes, of elegant fashion and bearing that announced he had not forgotten he was a royal prince.
Fabien did not see Admiral Coligny, but his elder brother, Odet, le Cardinal de Châtillon, was there and in deep conversation with Sebastien.
The women were gathered in an adjoining chamber. Fabien recog- nized Prince Condé’s wife, Princesse Eleonore, a blood niece of Cardinal Odet. She was leading a discussion on the plight of fellow Huguenots who had been deprived by the state church of their houses, shops, and estates for holding the outlawed Protestant faith.
Fabien had great respect for the older Princesse Eleonore who was most earnest and devout in her worship of Christ. He had heard how she was involved in aiding the persecuted and needy and setting up safe houses to care for them.
Prince Louis de Condé looked up from across the room and Fabien bowed lightly. “Monsieur le Prince.”
Condé’s charming face creased into a smile and his dark eyes spar- kled. He strode forward to meet him.
“Marquis Fabien, mon cousine, our gathering here is now complete with your arrival. Tell me, have you just come from Vendôme?”
“Non, mon cousine, but from Chambord. The king has left for Amboise this morning. I broke away and rode straight here to Moulins.” He looked toward the others and said in a louder voice to gain their attention: “Messieurs and Prince, I bring you news that has developed since Comte Sebastien brought the royal summons to you here at the Bourbon Palais.”
A sober silence fell across the room. The nobles of the Huguenot- Bourbon alliance ceased their discussion and gave him their full attention.
Sebastien moved forward, concern showing on his face. “Is it as I fear concerning the masked gentleman that rode in with Guise?”
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