Daughter of Silk

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  Charlotte heard only what she wanted to hear, which had been enough. He had confessed to her charms, which strengthened her resolve to crack through his veneer. She walked slowly toward him, humbly and sweetly, innocently in need of his masculine protection.

  “Oh, Monsieur Fabien, you are right, I am a woman to be scorned and pitied —”

  “I did not say so, Madame.”

  “But it is true! I am unworthy of you, but my heart is smitten and wishes only for your friendship, your galant consideration of my grow- ing feelings for you. Would you be so hard on a woman who loves you so?”

  “If you were my wife, you would not be here at court walking in the garden in the spring moonlight. I would go to the Bastille if necessary to keep you from the bed of knaves.”

  “Oh Monsieur, if I were but yours, and yours alone, I would run away just to be with you wherever you were, to be in your arms in such moon- light, and even rain.”

  He laughed, and she was surprised he did not appear overwhelmed by her amorous words.

  “If your words, so fair, were but spoken by another . . .”

  She tightened her mouth. Rachelle. Charlotte almost lost her facade and spat out her venom for Rachelle Macquinet, but she caught herself in time, for it would have cost her the advantage she believed she was now gaining.

  Her spoken words sought to bind him in a silken net so that she might draw him to her. That he made no effort to escape alerted her. The potion of Rene, it is working!

  “What is this trying news you brought me?”

  “I confess now that I am with you where she would have been, and that though I am pleased she is indisposed, even so, I assure you that I am most sympathetic of her unfortunate headache. She has asked me to inform you and to keep you company.”

  “How thoughtful of Mademoiselle.”

  “I am sure her sickness was brought on because she is in the Queen Mother’s displeasure over the incident in the woods this afternoon. Her Majesty guessed at once that it was Monsieur Henry de Guise who rode to meet the princesse. Mademoiselle Macquinet, so young, so inexperi- enced at court, went into hysterics. It was dreadful to watch.”

  She had thought the implication of Rachelle’s weakness under the frown of Catherine would diminish her in Fabien’s estimation. She was surprised to see concern. It stung as her jealousy came to the forefront. If only he would show such depth of gravity for her troubles and dangers at court.

  “Are you saying Mademoiselle Macquinet was called in alone before Catherine this afternoon?”

  “She was called into the Queen Mother’s private appartements and questioned about Henry de Guise, and you also, Monsieur, were mentioned.”

  “I should have understood our antics might have put her at risk with the queen. What happened? Is Catherine then displeased with her enough to send her back to Lyon?”

  Charlotte lifted her brows. “You sound as if you wish her to go.” “But yes, bien sûr. I had hoped she would return to the Chateau de

  Silk with her family this morning.”

  His reasons could only be because he wished to protect Rachelle. Well, it would also suit Charlotte quite well if the Macquinet grisette- couturière were sent back to Lyon.

  “It may be that she will so displease the Queen Mother she will be sent away. She is a novice and knows little of how to behave among roy- alty and nobles such as you, Monsieur de Vendôme.”

  “Is she? I had not the faintest inclination of that. Tell me, and what of your Princesse? How has she fared with the Queen Mother over Henry de Guise?”

  “The queen is exceedingly displeased, I assure you. Marguerite will marry the King of Portugal. Her Majesty has made that clear, but the princesse is stubborn, as you yourself know, Monsieur Fabien. She is bent by the winds of her declared amour for Monsieur Guise, even as I am for you.” And not waiting a moment longer for fear he would take his leave, she threw her arms around him.

  “Kiss me, Monsieur Fabien . . .”

  He removed her arms from around his neck, but she threw herself against him, reaching out again. She pulled his face toward her lips and kissed with abandon, trying to break down his resistance, her own desires leaping out of control.

  Louise de Fontaine, upon hearing voices in the garden, crept up to the rose lattice on tiptoe and looked over into the garden where the lamp was lit. I knew it. That wanton Jezebel!

  Louise saw enough to narrow her eyes. She must warn Rachelle that Marquis de Vendôme had succumbed most easily to Charlotte’s wom- anly charms.

  Rachelle was resting on her bed with pillows behind her. She had never experienced such a headache, so much pressure inside of her pounding temples, daggerlike stabs that plundered her strength with each thump of her heart sounding loudly in her ears. She turned her head to the side and the pain seemed to f low. She stif led a groan. If only Maman or Grandmère were here . . . a cup of special tea and cold cloths on her forehead would make her think she was gaining some minor relief. She moaned, for her stomach turned nauseous. Any moment she feared she would be sick.

  She was aware that her chamber door opened, and she slowly turned to see if it was Louise, who had promised to look in on her before bed.

  Louise tiptoed over to the side of the bed and peered down.

  “I hate Charlotte de Presney,” Louise said forthrightly. “I found her in the garden with Marquis Fabien.”

  Something in Louise’s voice caused Rachelle to focus on her face.

  With Fabien. Rachelle moistened her dry lips and tried to swallow.

  “I knew she would not give up until she had worn down his resis- tance. They were together. Locked in one another’s embrace — and he seemed most obliging. I left quickly enough, for it appeared to me as though . . . well, she was trying to unloosen his shirt.”

  Rachelle’s heart thudded, causing the pounding in her head to swell to a groan that escaped her lips.

  “M’amie, oh, I should not have told you now. Do forgive me,” Louise cried, “but I hate her, and now she has stolen your beau galante.”

  Charlotte gasped, startled. Had she tripped or had he pushed her aside? Dazed, she sat staring at him. He was straightening his jacket and tucking in his shirt that was awry.

  “Saint Denis! If I did not know the truth, I would not believe it,” he said. “I have heard of lusty musketeers attacking belles dames, but rare is the occasion when it is the other way around. You have actually ripped the lace on my shirt.” He looked down at her with a malicious grin.

  “Because I love you!” He laughed.

  Charlotte, humiliated, cried tearfully, “Fabien, no, I beg of you — my leg, I hurt it when I fell . . .”

  There was no smile on his face now, and his eyes were like hard jew- els gazing down at her. “You lied. Rachelle is not ill.”

  “Non, she is, I swear it. Oh — ouch — my leg — oh!”

  He looked down at her in his indomitable way. She shrank away. She had gone too far and now he was disgusted with her boldness. She tried tears. She buried her face in her palms and cried softly. “Oh, Monsieur, what have I done? Oh, forgive me, I was such a fool. But my love for you

  is so great, I do not mind being a fool if only you would care for me a little . . .”

  He hesitated, bent down, and lifted her up. She clung to him. “I do not suppose you can walk on your own?”

  “Non, my leg hurts too much.” “As I expected you to say.”

  “You will need to take me to my chamber.” “And then to your bed? You little witch.” “Whatever you say, Monsieur Fabien.”

  “I say the men you hunt with your gilded net, Charlotte, are to be most pitied, for I suspect few, if any, have escaped.”

  She smiled, her arms reaching. “Forget that child Rachelle, Monsieur.

  It is a woman you need to make you happy.”

  He removed her arms again. “You will not make a man happy for long, Madame, I assure you. You may give your husband my condo- lences. I bid you adieu.” He snatched his
hat from the lawn where it had fallen, turned, and walked away.

  “But how shall I get to my chamber?” she cried. “My leg is hurt, I promise you.”

  “I shall send one of my pages. À bientôt, Madame.”

  Desperate, she hissed: “But I can help you prove that le Duc de Guise assassinated Jean-Louis de Vendôme.”

  He stopped. He turned slowly. His stare was even. “Repeat that, Madame.”

  She let out a breath of relief. Charlotte pretended to hobble to a bench where she sat down and smoothed her hair into place. “We cannot talk here. I was already unwise to speak of it as loudly as I did.”

  Fabien walked up to where she sat, gazing down at her. “If you are lying to me again —”

  “Non. It is so.”

  “Proceed,” he said. “You were saying?”

  “Ah, surely, a man as wise as yourself knows we cannot discuss such matters openly. It is very dangerous.”

  “We will discuss it here, if you please, Madame.”

  “But we may be overheard by someone spying on us from the bushes.”

  “Then they would have already raised their brows. However, I shall have one of my pages bring a calèche. We will ride, and you will explain your words.”

  She smiled. “I shall wait here for the calèche, Monsieur Fabien.”

  She watched him stride off to locate one of his pages and arrange for a calèche to take them out. She rubbed her ankle and calf. Actually, she had twisted it a little, but her success tonight was worth the mild discom- fort. Never had it been this difficult to capture her prey for the Queen Mother, and even now she had not yet won over the marquis — but the night remained young.

  The next days for Rachelle were miserable in their passing, so she bur- ied herself with her work as a couturière. Now that she knew Charlotte had been with the marquis, Rachelle was furious with herself for having fallen for him so easily. She had played the fool with her heart. Grandmère had been right when she warned her at Chambord. Idelette, too, had tried to warn her in her sisterly way, but she had thought she knew more than they. How wrong she was. She would not speak to Fabien de Vendôme again. No, not ever. And as soon as she could leave court and return to Lyon, she would be only too pleased to pack her trunk and depart. She would also write Maman at the Louvre to see if Madeleine could have Sebastien do something, anything, to see that the Queen Mother would send her home. Rachelle even thought of playing the coward by pretend- ing to be sick. If she were sick in her coucher for days on end, the queen would soon see she was of no use and send her away.

  Though she considered all these possibilities for escape, she would use none of them, for she would not dishonor herself with lies and weak- ness. She would be grateful to God for showing her in time what manner of man Fabien was before she had allowed her heart to go even further with him. And yet, all of her pleasant thoughts had been tossed by the wind and she was left with disappointment and a strange heartache that seemed to gnaw at her day and night.

  Rachelle worked tirelessly on her designing efforts to please Marguerite to keep her mind off of her painful disillusionment over the

  marquis. She also tried to avoid Charlotte. Charlotte was more smug than ever, and now and then dropped hints to Louise or one of the other ladies of her midnight meetings with her new bel ami.

  “Princesse, should we not begin discussing your wedding trous- seau?” Rachelle broached Marguerite cautiously, hoping to bury her emotions in her skills and beloved silk and lace. She was more than anxious to sketch some designs for the trousseau and return to Lyon for Grandmère’s help.

  “The only monsieur I will marry is Henry,” Marguerite said stub- bornly. “I will run away with him to Lorraine, and we will rule there, I promise you.”

  “Will Monsieur de Guise be content with ruling Lorraine?” Charlotte looked up from her own sewing.

  “Monsieur Guise would rule all France and Navarre if it were mine to give him,” Marguerite said.

  “Such words will not endear you to the king, your brother, Princesse,” Charlotte said.

  Marguerite, eyes snapping, walked over to where Charlotte sat and took hold of her earlobe.

  Rachelle winced as Marguerite pinched hard and said between her teeth, “Watch your tongue, Charlotte, or you will pay for its f lippancy, I assure you.”

  She released Charlotte and walked to the window, while Charlotte massaged her ear.

  “I only meant to protect you, Princesse,” she said calmly.

  “The protection I need is from the King of Portugal.” Marguerite moaned, for her ladies watched her with momentary disfavor for her treatment of Charlotte. Now she had their sympathy again, and Louise de Fontaine said soothingly, “I hear the king is handsome and very rich. He may inherit Spain from his oncle, King Philip.”

  “There are none as handsome as my golden Henry. Ah, Rachelle, that design is most charmant.” Marguerite came up beside her desk where she sat with her stack of drawings and patches of cloth and lace.

  But would the Queen Mother approve? Marguerite insisted on redo- ing Rachelle’s designs by either altering the décolletage or using colors that did not go well with her coloring. She was fond of blue, but it made her look sallow.

  Marguerite could not make up her mind. One day she approved a drawing that the next day she would dismiss. Whatever promised her the most male attention was what she consistently insisted on.

  “I shall wear blue to the banquet,” she said.

  “But was not the burgundy and cloth of gold meant to wear when you meet the King of Portugal?”

  “I will save that for when I meet Henry de Guise, at the masque.” Rachelle felt alarm when she recalled the words of the Queen

  Mother.

  “It matters what I want,” Marguerite said.

  But they all knew it mattered what Catherine wanted. Marguerite could pretend with her ladies, she could throw her emotional tantrums, but once in her mother’s overpowering presence, Marguerite changed into a frightened young woman.

  “And what do you plan to wear to the masque, Rachelle?” Louise asked.

  Rachelle had no desire for the celebrations, but would not say so in front of Charlotte. She told Louise of several of her gowns she and Grandmère had designed and sewn for her while in Lyon. One was a green silk with gold trim and gathered sleeves, a matching cap and feather. Another was blue silk, for blue was one of her colors, and the third gown was a rose velvet with rosettes of cream Brugesse lace. It was with bitterness Rachelle remembered the burgundy and gold gown that Fabien had made a point of in her chambers at Chambord, a dress he had wanted her to have made and wear to Orléans. Doubtless, she would not be seeing him at Orléans now. Her entire life had unexpectedly taken a different path. The burgundy gown he had wanted was no longer pos- sible, not after his tryst with Charlotte. She thought longingly of the Chateau de Silk. What could she do to influence Catherine’s decision to send her back home to Lyon?

  Chapter Seventeen

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  A

  Andelot Dangeau wished he had never left Paris. Several days had passed and still there was no summons to meet le Cardinal de Lorraine. They had forgotten him, and even his cousine, Marquis Fabien, was seldom in their appartement. He left early and returned late, leav- ing questions unanswered. He behaved so suspiciously Andelot began to think he may have a secret amour within the castle with whom he was spending his time. He rather hoped he had, for that meant Rachelle would be left alone. Nor had he seen her. He had caught glimpses of her, but always in the company of Princesse Marguerite Valois, attending to couturière business, so that he could not speak with her.

  Once she had looked at him and smiled, and he could have sworn she wished for his company, as though homesick or at least troubled to be at court. Perhaps she had been concerned about something, he knew not what, but not even Fabien sought out her company as he had at the first. This was curious. Fabien was seen more in the company of Madame de Presney. They would go off togethe
r in a calèche.

  On day five of their arrival from Blois, Andelot began to worry. His Oncle Sebastien had not yet returned from Moulins with the Bourbon princes and retainers, one of which was the Huguenot Admiral of Picardy and Normandy, Gaspard de Coligny, and his brothers. This, however, did not seem to trouble Fabien.

  “They will not come until the Admiral Coligny joins them from Châtillon later in the month.”

  But for Andelot, all things began to be cast with dark suspicions.

  Andelot was deciding how to slip out of the castle and locate Julot in the soldiers’ barracks, when an unexpected invitation was delivered to him by a royal page.

  The boy-prince, Charles Valois, brother of King Francis, sent word ordering Andelot Dangeau the peasant to come to his chambers for tea, sweetbreads, and an afternoon of games. Andelot was duly surprised by this. Perhaps Prince Charles could tell him why the cardinal had not yet summoned him, though it was not likely a boy younger than himself would know, or care to know, about what befell one of his lesser sub- jects. He recalled the odd warning from the marquis concerning young Charles.

  From the moment Andelot met Prince Charles Valois, he became uneasy. There was something about the royal prince’s personality that went beyond the typical haughty manner of royalty. His troubled mind showed on his young face with aquiline nose and small, tight mouth that sneered, but seldom smiled. His eyes were prominent, like his mother’s, Catherine de Medici. And like her, he had a cruel streak that lingered beneath his boyish veneer that could unexpectedly spring forth, like a tiger lying low in the bushes, and demand satiation.

  Andelot had been escorted into the princeling’s chamber and was there but a short time when Charles, slim and sullen and tall for his age, looked Andelot over keenly and boasted: “I hunt everything. Stags, bears, even dogs. Watch!”