Daughter of Silk

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  “I warned you,” Charlotte said in a cool whisper. “I told you not to meet him in the woods — ”

  “Peste! Silence! Have I not had agonies enough without your prim and hypocritical lectures?” Marguerite’s dark eyes flashed. “We must decide on one story.” Marguerite’s whisper was barely audible. “We did not know it was Monsieur de Guise, c’est bien compris? We went into the woods so that Marquis Fabien could speak alone with his bel ami.”

  Rachelle opened her mouth to protest, but Marguerite snapped her fingers. “It is so. And you will agree, or else I shall make it difficult for you, I promise you.” Her eyes spat fire.

  Charlotte de Presney stared without visible emotion in the direc- tion of the door into Catherine’s other chambers. “Use the rose. It offers proof.”

  “Ah!” Marguerite leaned forward with a smile and nodded to Rachelle. “Oui. Bien sûr! I should have thought of it. The rose will work, ma Rachelle.”

  Any moment now, Rachelle thought, the door will open. The woman in black would call them in. One at a time?

  Her shaking fingers tightened around the rose stem. Thankfully Fabien had taken away those thorns! But I feel my path is strewn with thorns and not fragrant petals. She hastened her prayer for deliverance to the Lord and waited.

  Catherine stood alone inside of her appartements. There was a narrow door in one corner of the chamber, and she passed through it into a tur- ret that was turned into a small writing closet. A secret stairway led from here to the chamber of her stargazing observatory. Cosmo Ruggerio had arrived before the royal party and was upstairs making a star chart on Francis, though he had not yet finished. And now she must send him back to Blois to her poison closet to bring her a vial . . .

  She needed some minutes to be alone with her thoughts and settle them into a plan. Henry de Guise, that clever handsome son of the duc was here. Le Duc de Guise denied knowing anything about his son’s presence, but Catherine trusted him no more than she trusted that wily, fanatic, Philip of Spain. My son-in-law, and she gave a spurt of ridicu- lous laughter. Her smile vanished as quickly as it came. Philip wanted a Guise on the throne of France. And a Guise — any Guise — was only too pleased to cooperate. Something needed to be done to thwart their plans. The House of Valois would reign! And if Francis continued to submit to the cardinal’s every wish through Mary . . .

  She sat beside the window casement. The current of the Loire f lowed near the castle to where it followed a bend and disappeared into the thickets. The graceful willow trailed its lacy greenery along the banks, and the alder trees grew tall. Farther away, the woods thickened into forest.

  She pressed her lips into a tight line. She took no pleasure in what she must do for the House of Valois. She must act for herself, for her little Anjou to one day reign. Ah, her favorite child, the beautiful little Anjou who looked so much like her husband, Henry— Henry, who had spread his banner of love not over his queen, but Diane de Poitiers. Anjou, the one son who was conceived on a night when it appeared Henry was truly her own and not Diane’s.

  Her hand formed a fist. Little Henry Valois, Duc of Anjou, would be king one day after Charles . . . after that fawning Francis with his sotte attentions poured upon Mary. And petite Mary spying on me for her oncles.

  Catherine ground her teeth, seething. How dare she spy on me?

  The matter she was planning must be altered. She could no longer depend on Charlotte to ensnare Fabien. It must be the belle Macquinet mademoiselle. Somehow she would lure Rachelle into her escadron volant to be used to capture the handsome marquis.

  She turned her mouth into a smile. She would use Fabien to elimi- nate le Duc de Guise in an assassination plot. All she needed was a few more pieces of the puzzle. When she had them, she would be able to plan better. Until then, she would humor the petite silk girl and the marquis. She would treat them very well indeed to throw them off guard.

  But now. Her fingers drummed. She must deal with her foolish wan- ton daughter and her disgusting passion for little Henry de Guise.

  Catherine stood, her mind settled. She calmed herself. A minute or two later she summoned her chief chamberlain. Holding his white wand of office, he bowed.

  “Are all things in readiness should the King of Portugal arrive?” “Oui, Madame. I have prepared for a gala masque, an evening of

  music, colored waterfalls, boats on the Loire, and a grand feast for the ball in which gifts will be given away.”

  Catherine nodded satisfaction. She dismissed him.

  The door opened. Rachelle rose swiftly and made her obeisance as did Charlotte and the princesse. Catherine beckoned Rachelle into her writ- ing closet.

  Lord, be with me, I pray.

  The door shut. The silence was astute in the stone chamber, shutting out even the sound of the river, for the windows were all closed.

  Rachelle saw a desk covered with dispatches and papers. The Queen Mother sat herself behind the table and left Rachelle bowing.

  “Arise, Rachelle.”

  She did so, trying to relax her face muscles, meeting the limpid eyes with the notion she had done nothing deserving of punishment.

  Catherine’s gaze lowered to the crimson rose. After a moment a smile came to her mouth.

  “Marquis de Vendôme has the blood of a romantic after all. You are pleased with his awareness of your charms, Mademoiselle?”

  Rachelle resented her intrusion but could do nothing to avoid her. “Marquis is a galante from whom any woman would be pleased to

  receive attentions, Your Majesty.”

  “No doubt. You are aware that Madame de Presney is also aware of the marquis?”

  “I have not made Madame de Presney’s notions my affair, Madame. As yet, I hardly know her. But I have heard that she has a husband.” The meaning was clear. Catherine laughed her bold, almost lewd, laugh.

  “You will find her a worthy opponent.” Rachelle kept silent.

  “Did you meet the marquis in the woods just now?” “Yes, Madame.”

  “He gave you the rose?” “Yes, he did.”

  “And said what?”

  Rachelle bit her tongue. She felt the heat in her face. “He asked that we might meet at the upcoming masque.”

  Catherine smiled broadly. “I am sure two young people will find the divertissement most pleasurable.” Then her smile faded. “Who was the galante with the marquis? The one in the Spanish hat?”

  Rachelle felt her throat go dry. She could not lie to the Queen Mother, yet she agonized over causing Marguerite punishment, and so soon after becoming one of her ladies.

  “I did not see his face, Madame, for I rode two horse lengths behind.”

  “A clever response, Mademoiselle Macquinet.” “I speak the truth, Your Majesty.”

  “I do not doubt it. You did not recognize him then?” “No, Madame.”

  “Very well. You are new among us. I shall not make matters more dif- ficult than necessary. I would not wish to rile the marquis against me,” she said in a teasing vein. “I will need, perhaps, his services in the future. Yours as well.”

  Rachelle saw a gleam in Catherine’s eyes and wondered.

  “You are amenable, are you not, Mademoiselle, to the idea of serving your king for la gloire de la France?”

  Rachelle bowed. “Oh, Madame, there is no answer I would give but yes.”

  “Then a day will come when we will discuss such important matters.

  Now call the princesse to me, then take a seat by the window.”

  Rachelle did not expect to be told to stay for Catherine’s interview with Marguerite and found the demand she do so embarrassing.

  Rachelle opened the door and stepped into the salon, where Marguerite waited, looking anxious.

  “Are you safe?” Marguerite whispered.

  Rachelle gave a small nod. “Her Majesty calls you, Princesse.”

  Marguerite rolled her eyes toward the vaulted ceiling, gave a sigh, but then stood with resolve. Rachelle stepped away to let her pass
through into the Queen Mother’s writing closet.

  Marguerite entered and bowed, kissing her mother’s hand, and stood before her, waiting.

  “My daughter,” Catherine said, “you look pale. Are you ill?” “No, Madame, I am well.”

  “That will suit you I am sure, since I have commanded a masque on the river and a banquet in the water gallery to celebrate the company of the King of Portugal on his arrival. You will attend him, bien sûr, and be most wise not to leave him or behave untoward in any way, my child.”

  Marguerite remained silent a moment too long. Catherine squinted at her and stood from behind the desk.

  Marguerite curtsied quickly. “But yes, yes, I will do all you say, Madame Maman.”

  “Strangers were seen in the forest nearby. With the dangers of a Huguenot plot freely discussed, it is most unwise to be darting off in the woods as you did this day.”

  Rachelle tensed. She glanced at Marguerite.

  Catherine gave a stern, level look. “Was the galante riding with Marquis de Vendôme a friend of his?”

  “An ami of Marquis Fabien’s? Oh, but yes, that is, I think so.” “You think so?”

  Again, Catherine turned her hypnotic gaze upon Marguerite, who f lushed.

  “My daughter, the weather has overcome you — be seated.” Marguerite lowered herself into a chair near at hand.

  Had Catherine recognized the son of le Duc de Guise, even with his cos-

  tume and mask? It appeared to Rachelle as though Marguerite believed so.

  Neither Catherine nor Marguerite exchanged a word for some tense moments. Rachelle still gripped her rose, now growing limp.

  Catherine came out from behind her writing desk and appeared to be gauging the effect of her words onher daughter. “You areadisappointment

  to me, Margo. Would the saints had given me another daughter as meek and obedient as Claude or Elisabeth. How well they did their duties as daughters of France. Elisabeth the Queen of Spain and Claude — ”

  “I have done all Madame requires of me,” Marguerite said.

  “Lies! That was Henry de Guise you rode out to meet secretly in the woods, was it not? Speak!”

  “I did not ask him here, I promise you.”

  “You need not. He knows all he must do to have you chase after him. And you! You spent much of your time before you left the Louvre with Comte la Molle. Does young Henry know the comte’s company also amuses you?”

  Marguerite lifted her chin. “Madame, it was you who bid me con- verse with those young nobles whom you and my brother the king have called to the court.”

  “Ah yes. And you have done so, to a far greater degree than one would have dared to imagine,” Catherine said with sarcasm. “You have, doubtless, served our purposes too well. But far better you saved your attentions for the King of Portugal than Guise!”

  “I do not want to marry the King of Portugal —”

  “My daughter, you will marry whomever the king and I decide is best for France. And Guise is an enemy of your Valois brothers.”

  “Ah, Maman.” She suddenly dropped to her knees, hands clasped, using the voice of a little girl pleading for affection. “He is not your enemy, I swear it.”

  Rachelle dropped her head, both troubled and even ashamed that she must be privy to such intimacy between the Queen Mother and Princesse. Why had she told her to stay?

  “Our cousine, the young duc, Henry, is an enemy,” Catherine said, speaking very slowly. She turned her eyes full on Marguerite, who for an instant returned her gaze boldly. “I warn you, Marguerite, that neither the king, my son, nor I, will tolerate more alliances with the ambitious House of Lorraine. They stand too near the throne already.”

  Marguerite dropped her dark head, hands still clasped, as if not dar- ing to look up to meet the steadfast glance of the queen.

  “Your Majesty has been disposed against the duc by jealous enemies of Henry.”

  “You will support the Valois throne by a royal marriage.” “Oh, Madame!” Marguerite looked imploringly at her mother.

  “Avoid Monsieur Henry de Guise, Marguerite. I warn you. I have already spoken with his father about his uninvited presence here, of which he professes entire ignorance. The King of Portugal is soon to arrive. He is the nephew of Philip of Spain. You will not destroy what is good for France over a foolish affaire d’amour with Henry. Avoid the duc, I say, and let me see you please the King of Portugal. Your hand must ultimately seal a treaty, important to the Valois.”

  Marguerite was speechless before the Queen Mother. At this last sen- tence, her lips parted as if to speak, but she restrained herself and was silent.

  “The daughters of France,” Catherine continued, “do not consider personal feelings in marriage, but the good of the kingdom. We will dis- cuss this no more. Very shortly I hope to arrange a marriage for you with the King of Portugal. Au revoir, Princesse.”

  Marguerite curtsied low before her mother, kissed her hand, and turned toward the door. As she did, Rachelle saw the pained and angry look on her white face. Rachelle curtsied and was about to follow when Catherine stopped her: “One moment, Mademoiselle Macquinet.”

  Rachelle paused. “Yes, Madame?” Her voice was taut.

  “You have heard all I have told the princesse. I have permitted you to hear for one purpose, for the good of Marguerite. Charlotte de Presney has failed me in that she has allowed my daughter to meet Monsieur de Guise in the woods. You will now see to it that the princesse does not make a fool of herself while the King of Portugal is here. If Marguerite plans to meet Henry again, it will be your obligation to inform me at once.”

  The blood seemed to drain from Rachelle. The burden of such a task fell like bricks upon her shoulders.

  “You may go, Mademoiselle Macquinet.”

  Dazed, Rachelle fumbled a curtsy that her own maman, Madame Clair, would have groaned over had she the misfortune to see it, and left the presence of the Queen Mother.

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  Chapter Sixteen

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  C

  Charlotte de Presney spoke to her serving girl. “Were the violets

  that arrived secretly brought to Mademoiselle Macquinet?”

  “Oui, Madame, I put them as near her nightstand as was possible, just as you told me.”

  Charlotte smiled to herself. The f lowers gave off a certain substance that brought on a severe headache — poor petite Rachelle.

  When evening came and the moon rose over the Loire with silvery gleams, Louise de Fontaine, lady-in-waiting to Marguerite, commented to Charlotte, “You are looking most fine this evening, Charlotte, after so long a ride from Blois.”

  “Merci. Where is Mademoiselle Macquinet? Will she not stroll with us tonight?”

  “Rachelle is indisposed with a most dreadful headache.” “Oh? But what a pity. And so lovely an evening too.” “Rachelle blames it on some violets that were in her chamber.”

  “But how odd . . . Oh, surely not! They must have come from one of her admirers.”

  Louise looked at her thoughtfully. “One wonders.”

  Later, Charlotte slipped from the castle and came into the garden.

  After a few minutes she saw Marquis Fabien near the lattice arbor where crimson roses were lavished in bloom. She pulled the corners of her carmined lips into a smile.

  Charlotte had gone to great care to prepare herself for this moon- light meeting with the marquis. She had washed and scented her golden tresses, curled and arranged them into a complicated crown of

  intertwined ribbons of gold with braided locks. The ribbon matched the gold cloth of her gown, and seed pearls adorned the puffed sleeves and bodice. She carried a gold lace fan with f lecks of sapphires that matched her eyes, the jewels sparkling in the starlight. She had used her pots of creams and rouges and powders from Rene, and she had added some of the potion of amour to her throat and temples.

  She came quietly into the garden and watched the marquis for a m
oment with unconcealed desire. He was dressed most handsomely in a coat of black velvet embroidered with his armorial bearings in rubies. His cap matched and there was an aigrette of rubies on it, with a golden B for Bourbon, signifying his princely lineage.

  Tonight she would have him. She would feel his lips on hers, his arms enclosing her.

  Fabien turned at her footsteps. She saw that he wore a scabbard housed with a jeweled sword. He looked momentarily surprised to see her, but the way he also noticed her body gave her confidence. He had expected Rachelle, but she was here now.

  She dipped a low curtsy, then raised her eyes to his. “Monsieur de Vendôme.”

  He bowed. “Madame de Presney.”

  She walked closer, choosing a spot where the garden lamp shone to declare her beauty. She tried to form an expression of concern and even sadness.

  “Monsieur Fabien, I fear I bring you trying news.”

  She saw his gaze take her in and enjoyed the f licker of wariness that showed in his violet blue eyes. It made him more attractive. She wanted to break down his resistance.

  “Madame,” he said politely, “I wonder what news can be as trying as your tempting presence?”

  She smiled sweetly, knowing there came at such a moment a dim- pling about her mouth. “That you find me so, Monsieur, pleases me, but that you do not trust me brings grief to my heart.”

  “Tell me, Madame,” he said dryly, “what does your husband think of his wife at court luring men to her bed for the Queen Mother’s political ambitions?”

  “Ah, I confess, Monsieur, I have not always lived the dutiful life of virtue, but I assure you, my devotion to you is not to please the Queen Mother but to satisfy my own lonely heart. You see, Her Majesty forced me to betray my husband. If not, she would send him to the Bastille. Although I fear he thinks I have done him injury, it was in loyalty and amour that I sacrificed my virtue.”

  “Ah yes, I see. A great saga, Madame. But you need not confess your lost virtue to me. I have been familiar with the ways of court since a small boy. Naught surprises me where an exchange of virtue is bartered for mere trifles. But I am even less surprised when it is sought with little more than deception. And with your leave, Madame, I choose not to be deceived by your charms, which I confess are many.”