Daughter of Silk

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  To Andelot’s horror, Charles grabbed one of his own pet royal dogs, one of the numerous pets, including caged falcons, he kept in his cham- bers. He drew a dagger from his secret sheath.

  Andelot was certain the prince was trying to frighten him, to some- how impress him with his savagery, but when an ugly, dazed look crossed the otherwise boyish face, and he began to foam at the mouth, Andelot knew a dart of fear. He was convinced he would wound, if not kill, the dog. The small, trembling animal appeared to be aware of such horrors from the past. The dog yelped and quivered. Its terror stricken whine infuriated Andelot, who could not endure to see the innocent suffering.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Andelot threw himself against the prince and wrestled him down to the gilded rug, forcing the jewel-han- dled dagger to drop from Charles’s hand.

  Andelot stared down, scowling; Charles stared up red-faced, aston- ished, blinking.

  Andelot realized at once what he had done in laying his hands on the heir apparent to the throne of France. He had actually attacked a royal prince. He could be sent to the Bastille, even quartered! He had spared the dog, but could he spare himself?

  Andelot, startled by his own action, jerked back, releasing the prince and scrambling to his feet. The dog had escaped under the bed where it hid, unseen. Andelot wished he might crawl in after it. Trying to cover his anxiety, he pretended that his action was of no great consequence. He pushed his brown hair from his damp forehead; realizing his mouth was dry, he tried to smile. He was sure it was quite inadequate. When the prince remained on his back, Andelot, now shy, stepped forward, bowed stiff ly, took his hand, and lifted Charles onto his red satin slip- pered feet.

  “Pardon, Monsieur le Prince.” He bowed a second time, this one more graceful than the first.

  Charles breathed heavily, his eyes bulging with incredulity.

  “You see, Monsieur, I cannot bear the sight of innocent things being tormented. The little dog . . . it did nothing wrong. Nothing worthy of your dagger. I — I better go now. Adieu, Monsieur Prince.” He bowed a third time, wishing Marquis Fabien would suddenly materialize in the royal chamber. He backed slowly toward the door leading to the outer corridor, hoping to placate Charles.

  Charles gave a piercing yell that froze Andelot in his tracks.

  Andelot, frightened, expected the prince’s nurse to come rushing in with guards to see whether the prince’s guest might have attempted an assassination. But to Andelot’s amazement no one came to check, and the door into the nurse’s chamber remained shut. He decided she must have chosen a fortunate moment to take a brief respite.

  Charles needed no assistance from his nurse. He leaped past Andelot like a wiry, lean cat and scrambled toward the door on all fours, he leaned against it, arms folded, his mouth in a tight pucker.

  “You will not leave until I say so, peasant!”

  Andelot wondered at the tormented expression of rage and became afraid for the boy when his body trembled as though he had been in the icy water. His teeth chattered. His slim, white hands bedecked with heavy jewels, clasped together and unclasped, then he pressed them hard against his chest as though his heart were in pain. Little bubbles began to froth at his lips.

  Andelot was stricken with fear, more for the mental state of the boy than for his own safety, though he would not be surprised should Charles rage at him with dagger in hand.

  “Your Highness,” he whispered. “I beg your pardon! Please, do calm your soul. Are you well? Shall I call for your nurse? Oh please, be calm, be calm!”

  “You!” came the high-pitched squeak like a hoarse old woman. “I

  shall have you w-whipped! You d-dare touch me, heir to the t-throne of France? I will send you to the dungeons below! I will have you torn limb from limb. I will have you disemboweled. I will have one tooth pulled at a time until you faint!”

  Andelot stared, dumbfounded. He began to worry that his impru- dent actions might also reflect upon the Marquis Fabien, or would evok- ing the name of Vendôme grant him protection? Rank, here, meant everything as he well knew. Or perhaps he should go down on his knees and beg the prince’s forgiveness. Yet, he saw not a prince, but a cruel and unreasonable boy that Fabien had warned him to be cautious of. Even so, Andelot took heart. Charles was still a child and not a fiend, a mere boy who had sent for him to entertain him.

  But Andelot could not bring himself to fall on his knees and beg. He sensed Charles would take sadistic glee from his begging and prolong the agony.

  Andelot took another approach. He said calmly: “There are no dun- geons at Amboise. And I am not afraid to be whipped if it will make Your Highness happier.” He bowed.

  Charles’s eyes narrowed. His lips tightened into a line, his chin quivered.

  “Oh yes, there are dungeons,” Charles protested. “This is a fortress. The dungeons, they are not merely packed full of hungry little rats, but many nasty Huguenot heretics are there now waiting for their just due.”

  Huguenots in the dungeons below? Was he telling the truth? Did he know this? Where had they come from?

  “The cells, they are as dark as a hellish night when bats f ly.” Charles grinned and poked a finger toward Andelot’s left eye. “I shall have you placed there, peasant!”

  Something moved from under the bed. Andelot saw from the corner of his eye that one of the little dogs was still trembling. Charles saw it too for he started toward the bed angrier than before.

  “Monsieur le Prince,” Andelot said softly, “why do you even have dogs about your chamber if you hate them enough to kill them at a moment’s notice? Why not give them away? I shall take the one beneath your bed.”

  Almost at once, the erratic mood of the prince leaped to the other end of the pendulum. He began to tremble and tears filled his eyes. Then, just as though Andelot were not a subject beneath him but his mentor, he sank helplessly to the rug and wept, crawling on his hands and knees toward his bed and calling his dog.

  “Come, mon amour! I will not hurt you. Come!”

  Andelot watched the unnatural change in Charles, wondering if he should call the nurse. The older woman had seemed a gentle person who was genuinely attached to the prince.

  He must get away from Charles as quickly as he could. The excite- ment he had felt earlier at being invited into the prince’s chambers had vanished. Nor was he hungry for the promised tea and sweetbreads. He looked around for a way of escape. If he could get past him and dart out the door . . .

  Charles caught the small quivering dog and held it to his chest, smothering the animal with kisses of penitential remorse. “Mon petit cher, mon amour. Oh forgive, forgive, I did not mean it.”

  Andelot now pitied him. Oui, Fabien was right about Charles.

  “I — I do not want to hurt my dogs,” Charles confessed.

  “Non?” Andelot questioned dully. “Then why do you do it? I should rather die than wound something I loved. My stallion, for instance.”

  Charles jerked his head toward him. Andelot expected another out- burst of rage. Instead, a cunning look darkened his eyes.

  “You have a horse?”

  At once Andelot was sorry he had mentioned it. He kept silent think- ing of some way to turn the prince’s mind.

  “I will trade you this dog for your horse,” Charles said, standing with the dog in his arms. “What say you, peasant? And — and this dagger. Look how many diamonds and rubies are encrusted in the handle. C’est magnifique, oui?”

  “Oui,” Andelot said softly, “magnifique, but you are a prince, Monsieur. You could have a hundred horses.”

  Charles’s mouth turned hard. “Then I shall ask Maman to order you to give me your horse, and I will give you nothing in return. If I do not get the horse, peasant, then I shall take to bed with illness until my wishes are satisfied.”

  Andelot refused to show fear at the thought of turning his horse over to Charles. “The horse, Your Highness, it is not mine to give. The horse truly belongs to Marquis Fabien de Vendôme — you
r friend,” he added, hoping to salve matters over.

  Charles hugged the dog. “Fabien. Sometimes he is my friend.

  Sometimes he is not.”

  Andelot scrutinized him. He wondered what action Fabien may have taken with the prince to make him say that.

  “S-sometimes I cannot help myself . . . the dogs, I mean. Something happens inside. Only my nurse helps me. She soothes me, she prays for me. When I feel these moods coming, I send the dogs away until I am better.” He looked up toward the gilded cages. “And my falcons . . .”

  He gave a tormented sob. There was a moment of awkward silence as Andelot glanced apprehensively toward the nurse’s door.

  Charles saw the direction of his glance. Oddly, his expression became tender. “My beloved nurse, she asks me to pray with her.”

  “You should, Monsieur Prince. The Lord is merciful. I am certain he can aid you.”

  “I have not prayed . . . not yet.”

  Andelot felt the eyes of the young prince studying him. “You are a Huguenot?”

  “Non, Monsieur.”

  “My nurse is a Huguenot.”

  “His Majesty, your brother Francis, he has many Huguenots in his service, oui? Ah, but yes! Monsieur le Prince, many loyal and faithful Huguenots. All serve the throne of France.”

  Charles turned red in the face. “Traitors. Le Duc de Guise and the cardinal say so.”

  Andelot gave a bow. “Then pardon, but you have heard in error.” He moved again toward the door and his coveted escape. “I must go now, Prince.”

  Charles interrupted petulantly: “Non!” He loosed his dog, which slunk away to hide again. Charles now behaved all prince and heir to the throne of France. He strutted about in his velvet finery.

  “Non. Have I not asked you here? And I have not said you could take your leave of me, peasant. Then be seated. I sent for you to play games. What games do you play with Fabien?”

  Andelot could hardly say they had outgrown playing games years ago, or for that matter they had never done so. He recalled their times together. “Archery.”

  “Such a dull game.” “Archery? Dull, mon prince?”

  “If I say it is dull, so be it. Dull, unless you play for real.” He smiled

  maliciously. “Dull unless you dip the arrow into poison. I know about poison. My maman — ” He stopped. He paled slightly. “Non, we shall do something else.” Then he appeared to change his mind again. He was animated now. He turned in a circle, struck his white hands together, and looked about his gaudy chambers as if trying to decide. He looked at Andelot with a wicked little gleam.

  “I shall take you to a forbidden place.” “I would rather not, mon prince.” Andelot’s heart thumped. Caution. “Monsieur, if it is forbidden —”

  “Aha! If it is forbidden, mon ami, it is all the more exciting, is it not?”

  Non, not always, Andelot thought wryly. Aloud he asked, “Where is

  this forbidden territory, mon prince?”

  “In the fortress of Amboise, where else? Come, I shall take you on a secret exploration of forbidden territory.”

  Andelot remained wary, but his interest was also enticed, just as Charles had meant it to be.

  Amboise would be exciting to explore at any time, but more so now with the inactivity of the last four days due to the king’s delicate lapse in health, or so the excuse went. Andelot hesitated, however. He cast a glance toward the door.

  “You, mon prince, can do most anything you wish, but I will know displeasure if caught where I am not wanted.”

  Charles waved a careless hand. “Not if you are with me. It may be I will decide to keep you as my cher ami.”

  Andelot kept silent. He could not say what he truly thought of that idea.

  “Monsieur, should we not send for Marquis Fabien to join us first?” “Non. He is Francis’s ami more than he is mine. We will go now.” “Your nurse, she will be very upset, I promise you.” Andelot worried

  that Charles might find it amusing to lock him up somewhere.

  “Here now, peasant, do all I command, and it may be that when I grow up and become king after my brother Francis, I will make you an important man in my court. You and Fabien. I shall grant to Fabien his father’s duchy once more, then he will rule more than Vendôme. Perhaps I shall have him marry my sister Margo. Maman says she is very wicked. My maman, she chases Margo around the chamber and then ties her up, then whips her and whips her and whips her.”

  Andelot was revolted. Was the Queen Mother mad also?

  “Become King of France, Monsieur Prince, and I will serve you with a loyal heart,” Andelot said dutifully. “So will the marquis, but do thou let me depart, lest I anger the Queen Mother by going afar into cham- bers where I am not invited. And think, mon prince. Ah! What will the Queen Mother do to you if you wander into forbidden places?”

  Fear rampantly scrawled itself across Charles’s white face, until he set his little mouth. “Maman is too busy telling Francis how to rule France to concern herself with me. She hates me.”

  “Perish the thought, mon prince, that could not be, I assure you.” “Maman! Fie! It is Anjou she loves. Her petit Henry, her amour. He is

  a year younger than I, yet it is he whom she wishes to be king, not me, not

  Francis.” He whispered, “I know secrets about the Queen Mother.”

  A twisted gleam came to his prominent eyes. “The stars, peasant. Do you believe in the stars the way she believes? She calls upon Monsieur Nostradamus to read the stars for all of us. Sometimes Cosmo and Lorenzo Ruggiero also read the stars and make plans.”

  “I have heard of Nostradamus, but not messieurs Ruggiero. In what way should I believe in the stars, mon prince? They give light on a dark winter’s night and beauty in summer. You could see them tonight if it were not raining. Bright, like broken pieces of ice. I have been taught a verse in the Psalter. ‘The heavens declare the glory of God; and the firmament sheweth his handiwork. Day unto day uttereth speech, and night unto night sheweth knowledge.’ ”

  “Maman keeps a man who studies the stars and planets in a cubicle next to her chambers wherever she travels — he is here at Amboise, but he left the castle this afternoon to go on a mission back to Blois. I do not know what the mission was, but it is important to Maman. He tells her what to expect from the kingly rule of her sons.” He leaned toward Andelot. “The stars told her my father King Henry II would die in the joust at Tournelles. And he died. The Black Knight rode into the arena from nowhere and fought the king, and the king died — by accident; the stars say Francis will die soon.” A wicked little smile turned his mouth. “Then I will be king of France.”

  Andelot stepped away, disturbed. He shook his head and said quickly, “None know what tomorrow may bring but God. There is a certain man who once said a word to me that I always remember; he said that there is but one source of unchangeable truth, which is the Scriptures. The present king may live many years, mon prince. The stars could not know his death. Who told you this ill omen?”

  Charles’s lips tightened, and his hand dropped from Andelot’s arm. “It matters not who told me. Maybe I overheard. The Ruggiero brothers are from Florence. They make potions.” He smiled again, smugly. “You are upset. Ta ta.”

  Poison? Did the Queen Mother ever help the stars fulfill those pre- dictions of death?

  Charles must have tired of sharing his family secrets, for he walked swiftly across the chamber f loor to another door. He put a jeweled finger to his mouth. His eyes ref lected that he knew too much darkness for a

  boy his age. His hands shook as they did when he was about to lapse into what was called a ranting delirium.

  “Let us go,” he hissed.

  Andelot found himself close behind Charles in a central gallery and followed him through a chamber door. Charles shut it silently behind them. Then he moved a small stool in front of the door. Once on the stool, he slid the bolt solidly into the socket. He smiled at Andelot.

  “We are safe now
. They cannot follow!”

  “Wait, mon Prince, how . . . will we get back inside your chambers?” “Ta ta, peasant. Leave such matters to your new master.”

  Andelot turned hot. “You are not my master, Monsieur Prince. You are not yet the king. And even if you were — ”

  “And even if I were?” Charles repeated ominously. Andelot looked at him.

  “Treason?” Charles leaned toward him. “Are you saying that I,

  Prince Charles, son of Henry II, heir to the throne of France, would not be your master? Will you dare to speak treason?”

  Andelot felt a surge of helplessness, but also anger. He is unfair. He drew in a breath, and looked at Charles. “Not treason, my prince. I will serve you. But only God is my Master. Do not ask me to choose.”

  “Very well,” Charles said haughtily. “I can see only too well that your devotion to the religion places me, your liege, at risk.”

  Andelot felt his temper rising and knew that he dare not show it. “I have told you, mon prince, I am not a Huguenot. I speak with the same loyal tongue as do all the king’s subjects.”

  Charles scowled. “Not the Huguenots, not according to Guise.” “Le Duc de Guise is — ”

  Andelot caught himself and stopped. He had been about to say was

  too zealous for the Holy League.

  Aware that Prince Charles watched him as they walked along, Andelot quickened his steps down the corridor, hoping to end the sub- ject, but Charles was perceptive.

  “You do not trust Guise?”

  Andelot smiled. “I am related to the House of Guise.” “You do not look like the Guises.”

  Andelot wanted to turn back but could not. I am in for much woe, he thought helplessly.

  “If I am to know something, pray tell what it is, Monsieur.”

  But Charles took on a mysterious face, the corners of his mouth turn- ing upward. He looked over his shoulder. He caught Andelot’s arm. “Quick, peasant! Footsteps! This way!”

  He rushed to another door, listened, opened it a crack, then beck- oned for Andelot to follow.