Fabien was making a casual summary of the soldiers on the ramparts.
“Do not imagine for a moment that I trust the House of Guise,” he said in a low voice, and he looked off toward the forested hills once more, thick with verdant green.
He turned in his saddle. “Gallaudet, settle our ami Andelot into my chambers.”
“Are you not coming up, Marquis?” Andelot asked, surprised and curious.
An unexpected gleam of amusement showed in Fabien’s eyes, which made Andelot wonder what he and Henry de Guise might be planning.
“Soon, mon ami, I will join you. Henry and I have something to attend first, if we are not too late.” And he looked toward the trees.
“You and he are not too late, Monsieur Marquis,” Gallaudet said, riding up from the direction of the trees. “We have made far better speed than the royal party, which moved as slowly as a March hare. The king is but now arriving.”
Andelot, curious, watched Fabien turn and ride off to where he had seen Monsieur Henry ride but minutes ago.
For Andelot, the unsettling premonition of some insidiousness in the making awakened once again in his mind. Madame le Serpent. That was the name the marquis had used when speaking of the Queen Mother and her insidious plans.
Andelot wished he had never heard of Catherine de Medici, even if it meant he would not meet the cardinal.
Will I ever meet him, or le Duc de Guise?
There had been no confrontation between the Queen Mother and her daughter on the bend of the road when they had started again on the jour- ney after the midday meal. Catherine, Francis, and Mary, along with the Guises and the royal guard, had ridden down the winding road toward Amboise castle, while Marguerite meekly followed with Charlotte de Presney and Rachelle on either side of her.
“Saintes preserve me,” Marguerite whispered, still pale and trembling.
The forest soon thickened around them as Rachelle rode toward Amboise. They galloped into a clearing where a grassy meadow crept to the river’s bank, and here they drew up. There came a f lurry of wind sending a few drops of cool rain spattering against her tired face and
dampening the horse’s brown mane. Ebony crows soaring high above cawed their laughter down upon her.
Rachelle’s first glimpse of the castle intrigued her. Even from a dis- tance the formidable fortress, built upon a bleak pile of rock, loomed above the landscape with its grim, stone walls casting shadows across the dove gray waters of the Loire.
The wooded silence ended as the royal trumpeters announcing the king rang out. The ostrich plume in the Queen Mother’s black velvet toque f luttered as the procession rode from the forest road to the banks of the Loire. Here, the river widened into a lake that was divided by an island and crossed by two wooden bridges.
The main gate to the castle of Amboise opened, followed by a f lour- ish of more trumpets and f lags f lying. A large number of royal men-at- arms rode out to greet the boy-king and his young queen.
“Vive le Roi!” they shouted. “Vive la Reine!”
The procession of King Francis crossed the first bridge with the thun- der of many hooves, the royal musketeers in blue and white in the lead.
Rachelle rode near Princesse Marguerite and Charlotte de Presney as the procession followed across the bridge.
Catherine rode ahead along the wide avenue toward the castle and Marguerite rode to her right, her brown jennet prancing. Behind her came le Duc de Guise. Rachelle, uncomfortable in his presence, glanced his way, but he seemed deep in thought and unaware of her. She was grateful his keen judging eyes were not weighing her in his scales of reli- gious justice. Was Marquis Fabien right? Did he want to take the throne from the Valois sons?
There were also two cardinals mounted on donkeys. Le Cardinal de Lorraine, whom Rachelle found one of the most haughty men she had ever seen. He was younger than his brother, le Duc de Guise, handsome, and he had already cast an appreciative eye in her direction. Fabien said he was unscrupulous and more of a religious politician than a devotee of God and Church. The other churchman was Cardinal d’Este, newly arrived from Ferrara, Italy, and related to le Duc de Guise’s wife, Anne d’Este. The cardinal was artistic and treacherous. Rachelle knew there must be many goodly cardinals who sought to honor God and serve his Church, but not these two.
Cardinal d’Este had brought, with his great entourage from Florence, the magnificent poet Tasso. Rachelle learned that the poet followed his cardinal wherever he took him to perform for royalty, princes, and nobles. She assumed he was here now to entertain the King of Portugal when he arrived to see Marguerite.
The Florence poet wore rich gabardine and a cap of dark satin sprin- kled with deep, glimmering rubies. Now and then his dark eyes would stray toward Marguerite who shamelessly f lirted with all, when out of sight of the Queen Mother.
Rachelle was impressed with Ronsard, a poet also, but Ronsard served the Valois court and accompanied them wherever they journeyed among their palais chateaus. Next to Ronsard rode Chatelard who was obviously enamored with the queen, Mary Stuart-Valois of Scotland. He looks devoted enough to die of love!
All of these individuals and many more, intrigued her and made for never a dull moment. If one was not f lirting, one was scheming. This is not a safe place to be, she thought, wryly amused. But her smile faded when she thought of her godly Calvinist père. What will darling père say when he learns I am here among what he once called a “court full of wolves and jackals”?
Rachelle turned her attention on the green acreage that formed part of the outlying region of the castle lands. As they rode at a brisk trot down the broad way, from the corner of her eye she saw two riders, mounted on powerful horses, keeping pace with their entourage, neither fully concealing themselves, nor cutting across the lawn to join their proces- sion. Had she imagined these phantom riders? But no, there they were again — two of them.
As they rode, weaving easily in and out of the trees and shrubs edg- ing the thick forest, Marguerite slowed her jennet until Rachelle and Charlotte were on either side of her. Rachelle saw the f lush of excited pleasure on the princesse’s face, who gave a low husky laugh for their ears alone.
“It is my amour, Henry. Is he not brave and daring, my Guise?” “What if the Queen Mother recognizes him?” Rachelle whispered.
Catherine, however, rode ahead with stately rigidness as though unaware.
“I did not ask Henry de Guise here. But his father, the duc, is here, is he not?” Her dark eyes portrayed amused innocence. “Since the duc must have called for his son Henry, how then shall I be reprimanded?”
It was plain to Rachelle that Marguerite had indeed expected Henry de Guise, perhaps much sooner in the woods along the road than he had managed. His secret arrival was no doubt the reason for the princesse having wished to ride the remainder of the way to the castle.
“There is someone with him,” Charlotte said. It was clear to Rachelle her interest was fixed on the second rider. “It is Marquis de Vendôme, I can promise you. I recognize his golden bay.”
“Be ready to ride after me,” Marguerite ordered them.
“But Princesse—” Rachelle protested, for it appeared impossible to her to ride away into the skirting woods without being seen by the royal party.
Marguerite hushed her. “There is no royal law that says I cannot ride through the trees to reach the front of the castle. I have often broken away and done so. Just follow me.” Her sharp glance at Rachelle cor- rected her audacity to protest. When Henry was near, it seemed her fear of her mother faded.
“As you wish, Princesse.”
The Queen Mother turned in her saddle and spoke to le Duc de Guise, whom she had beckoned to ride up beside her. At the very moment she was speaking earnestly, Marguerite rode away, laughing and making her horse leap over some ditches in the grass as though frolicking with her two ladies. For a time she rode in open view of the Queen Mother as though she had nothing else on her mind.
Charlotte followed
, and a moment later a reluctant Rachelle, muster- ing her courage, also cut away and rode after them, leaping her horse over the ditch. A dart of fear zigged down her spine for she fully expected the royal guards to ride them down, but no one followed. Marguerite had more freedom than Rachelle would have thought, but then she must, to carry on with her lovers. Rachelle wondered if she ever bribed the guards to look the other way.
A moment later Marguerite, laughing boldly, turned from the edge of the woods and rode deeper into the trees as though intent on a frolic- some race with her ladies.
Rachelle turned her horse away from the outer rim of the trees along the park lawn, and followed. She found herself riding a length behind Charlotte. Marguerite was several horse lengths ahead of them, cutting into the trees. Just then a rider wearing a wide sombrero and a heavy cloak on a strong black horse raced alongside the princesse. A swift exchange took place as he handed her something and she snatched it.
Rachelle saw Marguerite raise her hand, kiss it, and blow it toward him. He bowed, then leaped his horse over some bushes into the thicket, and was gone.
Then the second rider, on a golden bay, came alongside Rachelle. He slowed the animal’s eager pace from too easily overtaking her smaller horse. Rachelle could not possibly mistake those violet blue eyes in the slits of the mask. He tossed her a crimson rosebud that was beginning to open.
“Tonight.” And he galloped into the woods.
Rachelle clutched the soft velvet-petaled rose and realized he had cut away the thorns with a knife. She smiled and raced ahead to catch up with Princesse Marguerite.
Earlier she had lost sight of Charlotte, but when Rachelle came back out of the trees onto the broad avenue leading up to the castle, Charlotte was there with Marguerite. The two rode sedately once more, trailing a little behind the royal entourage. Rachelle caught up and took her place behind the princesse.
Charlotte de Presney’s face was impassive and hard as she took notice of the rose in Rachelle’s hand.
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Chapter Fifteen
K
King Francis I had transformed a hunting chateau near the royal forest and the open area of champaign into a castle within large walls of defense, enclosing green lawns, overhanging bowers, and formal lime alleys and f lowering groves. Here, in the shadows of its fortified bastions, stately terraced gardens overlooked the Loire which f lowed inside its walls. The castle boasted sculptured windows and architectural facades and noble halls with broad galleries. Rachelle’s sense of color and design was at its height as she rode with the king’s troupe across a drawbridge and down an avenue between a double line of attendants garbed in satins and velvets. Retainers with titles and pages serving the various houses in the nobility, all proudly bore their lord’s colors intermingled with gold, silver, and a display of peacock jewels. The armorial f lags f luttered. Even the mizzling rain had ceased.
Rachelle’s gaze sought the red, white, and blue of the House of Bourbon. It was prominently displayed with Marquis de Vendôme stand- ing to offer his bow to royalty. She noticed a magnificent fresh cloak of violet, embroidered with gold and pearls, draped over his shoulders. She imagined with some amusement how one of his retainers must have been anxiously awaiting Fabien’s late arrival as the king’s procession drew ever nearer. She suspected the cloak had been readied and tossed over him hurriedly as Fabien came just in time for Catherine and the king and queen to pass by and look in his direction. Fabien gave an elegant bow, as though he were not out of breath from running and dashing over hedges.
Her eyes met his as she went past and saw his faint smile as he bowed in her direction, sending a thrill down her spine.
Catherine dismounted from her horse at the arched entrance into the castle, as did Francis and Mary. The other Valois princes — Charles, Anjou, and Hercule, the youngest — walked away in the care of the chamberlains with their white wands, who conducted each one to their various appartements.
Catherine coolly gestured for Marguerite to follow. Rachelle saw a quick look of alarm cross Marguerite’s face.
“You too Madame de Presney and Mademoiselle Macquinet. Come,” Catherine said.
They passed into a long stone passage that brought them to a large gallery, a staircase, and to the various appartements and chambers.
Rachelle walked beside Charlotte who was just behind Princesse Marguerite with the Queen Mother’s black-clad figure in the lead.
“Did the Queen Mother recognize Monsieur Henry de Guise?” Rachelle whispered to Charlotte.
There was cool indifference on Charlotte de Presney’s face. “The princesse is aware, I assure you, of the dangers she f launts so recklessly each time she meets with the future Duc de Guise.”
Rachelle realized, perhaps fully for the first time, that Charlotte had small concern for Marguerite. Why did the princesse even keep Charlotte as her maid-of-honor?
I would have women about me who were loyal, who had some affection
for me, and I for them.
Louise de Fontaine had told Rachelle it had not been Marguerite, but Catherine, who had chosen Charlotte de Presney as maid-of-honor. Charlotte was one of Catherine’s favorite women in her escadron volant.
Rachelle’s sympathy for Marguerite grew, even though the young woman was shameless when it came to her immorality.
Catherine turned to the left and they trailed her, Rachelle nervously wondering what might be in store for her as well. Would she be sent home to Lyon?
Rachelle almost hoped she would be!
Almost, but not quite . . . soon there would be a great masque and ban- quet in honor of the King of Portugal. Or had that been canceled after Maître Avenelle’s disclosures?
But if the Bourbon princes were called here to sign a peace treaty with the king, would it not end the threat?
Logically, yes. But Rachelle was learning that royal plans were not all devised with understanding and honesty. A smile, a word of f lattery, could not be taken at face value. They were often meant to deceive.
Rachelle glanced about the lofty guard chamber as they passed through, their steps echoing up to the high, raftered ceiling. The stone walls were hung with tapestries showing royal hunts and kingly battles of triumph. Elsewhere, gleaming cuirasses, swords, lances, casques, shields, and banners, were suspended in boastful display.
Rachelle suspected these weapons might have belonged to the past kings of France, or to their noble retainers who had fought victoriously. Next, she followed into a comfortable salle, large and spacious, that opened into a suite of chambers Catherine long ago had chosen for
herself.
The Queen Mother turned imperiously, her round jawline as firmly in place as the marble from Florence displayed here and there in Italian splendor. Her unblinking eyes swept past Charlotte with comfortable indifference, then settled upon Rachelle. For a moment Rachelle wished she could shrink and dart up to the vaulted ceiling for refuge.
Catherine continued to watch her, making Rachelle wonder if she did not have some devious plan for her future. She imagined schemes forming in the deep pools of her eyes.
Suddenly, Catherine gave a short, bold laugh. “Well, Mademoiselle Rachelle, it appears that you are the one young belle at my court who has caught Marquis de Vendôme in her net. You are to be congratulated. Many have tried — ” her eyes fixed coldly on Charlotte — “and failed.”
Catherine’s features hardened into stone as she pronounced the word failed. Rachelle looked away to avoid Catherine’s gaze and kept silent. She sensed enmity coming her way from Charlotte as well, who accepted her humiliation in silence.
Why was Catherine bringing this up? What did it matter to her who Marquis Fabien found to his personal liking? Did Catherine want Charlotte to snare Fabien? If so, why?
Catherine turned and entered her appartements, shutting the door behind her. Rachelle slowly released her breath. She loathes me. I must be on guard.
The salle, used by Catherine as a sleeping room, with a high vaulted ceiling of dark oak, heavily carved, the walls paneled with rare marble statues brought at her command from her native Florence. There were busts on sculptured pedestals — some of which were ivory — ponder- ous chairs, inlaid cabinets, and carved tables. In one corner stood a large bedstead of polished walnut, with heavy hangings of royal pur- ple. The material was gathered into a diadem with the gold embossed initials C. M.
Very clever, Rachelle thought. She would like to have looked and
touched to see how exactly the couturières had done this splendid work, but of course, this was out of the question. She was favored to even be inside the Queen Mother’s private chambers, especially where she slept.
The antique silver toilet table was also merveilleux with a mirror in
Venetian glass set in a frame of Alençon lace, which greatly interested Rachelle.
She walked across the glossy, polished f loor to the long windows. Looking south she could see the Loire and the forest. She turned and glanced at Charlotte, who refused to acknowledge her. The marquis had become the wedge between them, earning Rachelle the woman’s dislike.
Mademoiselle — who was in actuality Madame, since she had taken
lovers like a married woman— Princesse Marguerite now f lung herself into a chair and raised her eyes toward the ceiling with hopeless despair. She put a palm to her forehead. “I swear she has eyes in the back of her head like a forest ghoul.”
“Princesse,” Charlotte warned, aghast, and her blue eyes moved cau- tiously about the walls.
Marguerite arched a brow and clamped a hand over her mouth. Rachelle felt a chill. Charlotte was hinting there might be a listening device.
Rachelle at last sat down on a ruby velvet settee, and Marguerite waved a careless hand.
“We are in trouble, ma belles,” Marguerite whispered.
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