Daughter of Silk

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  During the dancing, with the many courtiers on the great f loor in two opposite lines, Rachelle was able to nod to Andelot that she would meet him near the open gallery on the other side.

  The air was cool coming in from the river, which was lined with col- ored lamps. Andelot was waiting, looking vulnerably handsome as he approached her in his less f lamboyant clothing.

  “There is le Cardinal de Lorraine,” she said in a low voice.

  Charles de Guise wore crimson and white, his gold cross gleam- ing. There was a somewhat haughty smile loitering around his mouth, and his gray eyes were watchful. He had turned those eyes now toward Andelot and Rachelle. Rachelle felt an odd sensation as he looked at her, and she pretended she did not notice his gaze.

  “He is coming,” Andelot whispered, consternation and excitement mingling in his voice.

  Rachelle shivered. She dipped a curtsy as the powerful man walked up. She could smell the fragrance from his rustling garments, saw the white hand with its rubies and sapphires being extended toward her for the perfunctory kiss of obedience.

  Andelot grasped his hand and kissed it.

  “Monseigneur Cardinal, I am your dutiful servant. I have longed to meet you since I arrived at Blois.”

  She knew Andelot had risked looking brutish by his action, and that it had cost him, for he wanted more than anything to appear worthy of his kinsman’s attention and betterment.

  The cardinal turned his attention away from Rachelle and looked at Andelot with a lean smile and observant eyes.

  Rachelle thought he looked amused.

  “Monsieur Andelot, I trust our meeting will go forward tomorrow without further interruption. We have much to discuss, including your future in Paris. We must wait for your oncle, Sebastien, to return from Moulins.” His mouth showed cynicism. “He is taking a long time to return to the queen regent, is he not? But then, perhaps he has more in common with the Bourbons.”

  How much does he know? Rachelle wondered. Does that subdued

  mockery mean he knows Sebastien is a Huguenot?

  “Did I hear the honored title of Bourbon, Monsieur le Cardinal?”

  They turned. Marquis Fabien stood garbed in rich Genoan velvet of black and scarlet, holding a broad-rimmed hat turned up with a scarlet plume and fastened to an aigrette of rubies, with the armorial device of a B in gold.

  He bowed. “Mademoiselle, Monseigneur le Cardinal, mon cousine Andelot. What is this you say, Cardinal . . . Sebastien has not returned from Moulins? Ah, but he has!” And he gestured with his golden brown head toward the salle.

  They all turned. Sebastien stood with the cardinal’s brother, le Duc de Guise, their heads bent, talking soberly.

  Fabien smiled lazily. “He rode in last night, Monseigneur.”

  Cardinal de Lorraine’s gray eyes swept him. “At last, this is good news, Marquis. We have been waiting . . . And will your kinsman, Prince Condé, show himself?”

  There was a moment of silence, in which Rachelle, sensitive to the interplay between them, tensed over the cardinal’s seemingly innocent remark.

  “You will be pleased to know that the members of the House of Bourbon will be here within two days to meet with King Francis. Louis has much to worry him, with Spain meddling in how Bourbon serfs decide to conduct their private worship.”

  Rachelle scarcely breathed. Beside her, she felt Andelot stiffen. Was he nervous because he feared that Marquis Fabien would undermine his opportunities with his kinsman the cardinal, or was he concerned that Fabien was removing his mask of cooperation with the cardinal?

  Le Cardinal de Lorraine’s handsome face was chiseled with lines of contempt. His power and authority over France intoxicated him.

  “If the Prince Condé would rid his duchy of heretics and so solace the King of Spain, then he would not need concern himself with a pos- sible bull issued by Rome for his arrest and trial in sponsoring heresy, Marquis.”

  Rachelle glanced sharply at Fabien. The muscles in his jaw tensed and the blue-violet of his eyes burned like hyacinth. Prince Condé was a true protector of the Huguenots, and Princesse Eleonore charitably sponsored safe houses for f leeing Protestants from elsewhere in France.

  Why were the Bourbons risking so much to come here to Amboise?

  “Do Philip and Rome perceive that a movement against Prince Condé could provoke a war? William the Silent of the Netherlands is prepared to bring his Protestant soldiers to Bourbonaise, and if necessary, to fight alongside Louis.”

  “Does the Marquis mean to imply that he too would join Prince Condé to raise swords against the king of Catholic France?”

  Fabien bowed. “Monseigneur knows that I am a most loyal Catholic — as was my father before me, Duc Jean-Louis de Bourbon.”

  Rachelle picked up the subtle interplay. Her heart was beating quickly. Fabien was hinting that his father’s loyalty to the cardinal in the last war with Spain had not served to protect him from the Guises’ arranged assassination.

  The cardinal’s cynical mouth tipped at one corner and froze there. “Rome may choose to reconsider your allegiance and wonder if it is genuine.”

  “May it never be. For surely, Monseigneur, I do not measure up to your good witness of the faith.”

  Andelot choked on his wine, bending over and holding his throat with one hand, clutching his goblet with the other.

  Rachelle seized the moment he provided. She grabbed his arm and cried: “Andelot! Oh, Marquis de Vendôme, aid me in getting him to a chair, s’il vous plaît! ”

  The cardinal gave a brief nod of his head and looked at Andelot. “Come to my chambers in the morning, cousine — if you survive chok- ing on your wine. We will meet with Sebastien over petit noir. The day will be long and we have much to decide about your future.”

  Cousine? Rachelle thought.

  Andelot ceased his coughing at once. A look of shock spread over his face. The cardinal then turned to Fabien who also showed alert interest.

  “Marquis, do you not think it most interesting that I have discovered the parentage of Andelot?”

  He turned to Rachelle. “Mademoiselle Macquinet, I trust we will meet in Paris at a more convenient time. Adieu.” He walked away toward le Duc de Guise and Sebastien, his crimson vestment rustling, leaving a fragrance of musk.

  “Ah, Marquis Fabien,” Andelot whispered with dismay. “You have done yourself grave injury. Why did you do so? You made him angry. He will not forget.”

  “A fait accompli, mon ami. Do not concern yourself unduly. I know the cardinal’s ways as a stag knows his watering holes. I was never secure. Nor will you be now.”

  “What?” Andelot blinked.

  “Listen, mon ami, do not go to his petit déjeuner in the morning. You will not find Sebastien there.”

  “What! Mon cousine — not go? When I am here for this very pur- pose? And such a purpose. Why, I might end up the page of the cardinal himself.”

  “That is what I fear. We must talk tonight after the masque.”

  Fabien’s violet blue eyes hardened like jewels as he looked after the cardinal. “He believes he is very clever, that one. A pity a holier man than he is not in his position.”

  “You made that clear,” Andelot grumbled. “I do not understand you, Marquis. You have deliberately made yourself abhorrent.”

  Fabien smiled. “You but think so. And now, Mademoiselle, it is you and I who have much to discuss. Will you accompany me on a boat ride to the south side of the Loire? S’il vous plaît.” He bowed.

  Rachelle’s mind was still f loundering in a turbulent sea of its own. She looked from Andelot, who was scowling in obvious bewilderment, to Fabien, whose smile caused her guard to snap into place.

  “Monsieur, merci, but I cannot leave the princesse. I am under orders from the Queen Mother.”

  “Yes, you better not go,” Andelot agreed hastily.

  Fabien looked at him with a brief, wry smile. “Au contraire, cousine. Mademoiselle Rachelle must come with me.” He reached
over, smiled, and took her arm. He bowed lightly to Andelot. “Adieu. I will talk to you later tonight.”

  Rachelle found herself being guided with a firm but gentle hand along the gallery to the downward stairway.

  The night breeze was comfortable and bore the lovely strains of a symphony from the royal musicians, who played from the center of the river on an anchored barge, with the raised platform covered with purple velvet embroidered in gold.

  “I have a boat ready, Mademoiselle. Your company is most charmante.” “Monsieur!”

  “Fabien.”

  “Marquis Fabien,” she said, “you have a certain finesse for taking command even when it is uncalled for. I cannot go with you on a boat, although a moonlight cruise would also be most charmante in the plans of Madame Charlotte de Presney.”

  She took her arm away and stopped on the stair, looking at him with what she hoped was a cool stare, though his presence made her feel anything but that. She could not resist the jealous anger growing in her heart.

  “I am sure that Madame de Presney is more preferable to my com- pany as it was in the garden when I was to meet you . . . You do remem- ber, Marquis.”

  “Yes, I remember well, Mademoiselle. You decided to have a head- ache and leave me helpless and hopeless to combat her bewitching wiles. She ruined the lace on my shirt, because of you. But as you are such a fine grisette, I am sure you can sew it for me? I will pay you, assuredly.”

  She made an unearthly sound, gritting her teeth, then turning sharply she started back up the steps to Andelot, but Fabien took her arm again and laughed.

  “Mademoiselle, do you take me for a fool? A boy when it comes to such matters as you speak of? Do you think I am so naive that I cannot see through Madame de Presney’s wiles from the beginning? Or that I shall melt at her slippers for the opportunity of her bed?”

  “Monsieur!”

  “Come, come, let us be honest. That is what you are hinting about, is it not? I see I must remind you. I was raised at court. Nothing surprises me; little shocks me. I have seen it all and heard it all. I have already decided on what I wish from life. There are many Charlottes, I assure you, both young and aging, and beautiful and powerful enough to do injury to anyone who snubs them. But I will also remind you again that none of them interest me. Did I not tell you so at Blois?”

  Yes, he had told her, and she believed him until Louise informed her otherwise. That he had mentioned his shirt, however lightly, proved Louise had spoken the truth of what she saw in the garden.

  “Believe me, I care not what the gossips report. None of this disturbs me, Mademoiselle. It is your thoughts toward me that are of concern.

  I would have seen you before this to deny it, except I had some very important business which took me away for two days. We cannot talk here with courtiers coming and going. Come with me to the boat.” He drew her down the stairs and lowered his voice. “Margo is there waiting now.”

  “The boat? How did she escape the banquet?”

  “By walking in the garden with the King of Portugal. She made an excuse and ran off.”

  “What excuse?”

  “Mademoiselle, I did not ask her,” he said wearily. “She will meet Guise on the south side. He is there now, pacing impatiently, I imagine.”

  She looked away quickly to break the spell of his gaze. “Then, if the princesse is aboard the boat, I shall need to go with you, Marquis,” she said stiff ly. “Otherwise — ”

  “Merci,” he interrupted suavely. “Otherwise you would deny me. I am well aware. I have much to explain to you. From your coldness toward me I see I am not a minute too early in doing so.”

  “You owe me no explanations, Monsieur.”

  “I wish to give you such an explanation. I have already told you how you interest me. I know you are a Huguenot . . . that you keep your virtue intact until marriage. I expect nothing from you, Mademoiselle, if that is what you think my attention is hoping for. Court gossip has drifted to you about Charlotte and myself. I want you to understand that I turned her down.”

  She had never heard such plainly spoken words before on a subject that made her face hot.

  “You must not say these things.”

  “Saint Denis! Did I not warn you at Blois what it would be like for you at court? You are accustomed to your quiet ways at the Chateau de Silk, to the morality of the Macquinets and your neighbors. Believe me, it is not so here; the natural ways of the f lesh abound.”

  “Are you now suggesting the manner of your excuses?”

  “Is that what you heard from me when I spoke to the cardinal? Excuses? I will now warn you about the cardinal. You had best under- stand and give him no cause. Non, not even a smile.”

  When she was silent he said wryly, “So then, I have shocked you.” “Non,” she said quietly. “I am not that naive. I had guessed about the

  cardinal. But I thought you and Charlotte de Presney . . . that is, I was told . . . I see I was too hasty.”

  He stopped and looked down at her, his gaze warming her. The soft music sighed in the distance, mingling with the breezes in the forest trees.

  “Believe me, I would not throw away so easily what has recently been shared between us. Charlotte’s appearance is enough to tempt any man with eyes to see, but — ”

  “As she intends, I assure you.”

  “It is you, Mademoiselle, who stirs my passions.”

  She sucked in her breath at the word passions. Such a word should not be spoken, but the marquis evidently did not share the same mind.

  He stepped toward her, scooping up her hand into his, and at his touch her heart yearned for him. He brought her fingers to his lips and held them there for a moment.

  “I will not exchange a possible future with you, non, not for ten women such as Charlotte de Presney. I think you will be worth my patience.”

  Rachelle could not speak. Her heart beat quickly with the sheer thought of his words. He had deliberately emphasized the word future. He would wait to have her.

  “The Bourbon men, Mademoiselle, are not always wise in their behavior, but the ladies they have chosen to marry are the most honorable in France. Antoine and Jeanne of Navarre. Prince Louis and Eleonore, a niece of Coligny. These are the manner of women I will seek for a wife at Vendôme. Except I intend to be worthy of such a woman. Antoine is a moral weakling, and Louis hardly better, though I believe he sincerely loves Eleonore. He is also loyal to the Huguenots.”

  She turned away, overwhelmed. “But why do you say these words to me? Surely you do not mean that —”

  “Surely you know the answer. I see we are being observed. Come, let us go to the boat to seek Margo. If I do not bring her to the south side of the Loire to be with Guise, she will never forgive me. Despite her exasperating ways, I am as fond of her as a sister. I saw her grow up with Francis, Mary, and Charles.”

  “I, too, grow more fond of her with the days. But I wish she had not made me her maid-of-honor. I prefer, as you said, the quiet life at the Chateau de Silk.”

  “I could wish she had not as well! It appears as though we have been foiled on that, does it not? Let us hope Catherine does not ever consider you for her bevy of spies.”

  “I would never accept, Marquis Fabien.”

  “Catherine has her ploys, and they are always devious, believe me.”

  She shuddered. “Let us not discuss her now. Let us look at the boats plying up and down the river. For that one entertainment, at least, let there be no dark clouds to hide the moon.”

  This page is intentionally left blank

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‌

  U

  Upon the river, the red and gold lanterns on painted barges f loated past the bridge with its arches trimmed with colored lamps. The water swells ref lected the f lickering lanterns with bright glimmering patches of color.

  Rachelle looked back toward the castle and saw its windows all aglow, while the turrets had become beacons against the dark sky. Surely this beau
ty could offer no danger? This castle of Amboise would never become a dank and treacherous place, and the dungeons, even on this night, surely must be empty, swept, and varnished?

  Her soft emerald velvet gown sparkled with seed pearls in the lantern light, confirming her thoughts. They walked along the winding path toward the Loire.

  “There is Gallaudet,” Fabien said.

  He drew her under the shadow of the parterre to wait for him. The page came walking up carrying something dark and furry under his arm. A dead cat?

  Fabien pointed. “Dare I inquire what it is?”

  Gallaudet produced a dark wavy wig and a silver eye mask. “For your sport, Monsieur.”

  “You chose well.” Fabien plucked the long wig from Gallaudet’s hand and sniffed it.

  Rachelle laughed.

  Fabien threw a red cloak over his shoulders and bowed. “Your ser- vant, Madame.”

  “Oh, dear,” she said with a laugh, “the marquis is a toad. I fear I have nothing to wear but my mask.” She slipped her emerald velvet eye mask over her face.

  “It will take more than that to hide such beauty. Your hair gives you away, as does the dimple at the corner of your most delightful lips.”

  Gallaudet cleared his throat. Rachelle managed to keep her poise. “Does your Monsieur often have such a way with words, Gallaudet?”

  “Rarely, Mademoiselle. And upon first awakening he merely grumbles.”

  “Silence, you traitor. That reminds me, awaken me at dawn. We have important business to attend to. And keep an eye on Andelot and the cardinal. Find Sebastien also. Ask him of the handful of Huguenots I noticed in the woods this afternoon. See what he may know of them. It will be a grave mistake if Monsieur de la Renaudie was not fully warned as planned at Moulins.”