Daughter of Silk

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  “At once. I have brought these for Mademoiselle.” Gallaudet lifted from a satchel a Spanish hat, gold fringed with jewels, and a black cloak.

  “Where did you get them?”

  “From your trunk, Marquis. The hat you wore once at Fountain- bleau.”

  “Did I? No wonder I never wore it again . . . At least the jewels are handsome.”

  “Oui, I was thinking of cutting them off and bartering for a new horse —”

  “You asked too late. They, and the hat, are now the petite grisette’s.”

  Gallaudet shrugged and handed them over.

  “Oh, I could not,” she said as the sapphires gleamed blue. But she placed the hat over her hair and tucked as much as she could under its rim.

  “That will do well,” Fabien said cheerfully. “Come, our boat is long ready.” He turned to Gallaudet, who bowed.

  “Oui, Marquis, it is ready. Capitaine Nappier himself will steer it.” “Nappier?” Fabien laughed. “From a twenty-gun corsair ship to a

  butterf ly boat. He must be in profound spirits this night.”

  Rachelle did not know what to expect, but she felt suddenly bold and daring in her Spanish hat with its shimmering gold fringe, her emerald eye mask, and a dashing black cloak that belonged to the marquis — and she had the marquis himself.

  She bowed. “I am ready, Monsieur.”

  The silvery moon and the fragrant spring f lowers wove their enchantments.

  The quay where the barges and boats were boarded was not far from the king’s musicians, so that the lilting sound of a lute playing a haunting refrain of a love song carried toward them.

  The painted barge was waiting for them . . . and what a barge! It was constructed in the shape of a butterf ly with gossamer wings ref lecting the moon’s beams.

  “May I present my master swordsman, Capitaine Nappier,” Fabien told her withagrin.“Tonight Nappier is an elf, asyoucansee. So Nappier! Do you expect to harry Spain’s galleons with your magic wand?”

  The tall Frenchman Nappier, rippling with muscle, displayed his green hose and a tunic. He bowed very low, his green cap bobbing with a rose. In his hand was a white wand that appeared to have been borrowed from a friendly chamberlain. He straightened, his teeth gleaming against his rugged, scarred features.

  “Ah, Marquis de Vendôme. Maybe one day you will sponsor your humble servant with a twenty-gun buccaneering ship, eh?”

  “And for the effort, see myself dangling from one of Philip’s yardarms.”

  “You will not dangle Marquis, not with Nappier by your side, I assure you.”

  “That, at least, is comforting. I must think about such a venture, Nappier. Tonight you remain an elf.”

  Rachelle stepped into the gently rocking boat under Fabien’s guid- ing hand. As they left the riverbank, Princesse Marguerite came from beneath a dark cover where she had been concealed. She laughed, fan- ning herself, and tossed back her hooded black cloak. She came to Fabien

  and kissed him. “Merci, mon amour Fabien.” Then she turned happily to Rachelle and clapped her hands in delight at her dashing hat with its saucy gold fringe dancing in the starlight.

  “Oh, this is gleeful, to be free, free! I shall run away with cher Henry.

  We shall become corsairs on the wild surging sea with Nappier! And we will drink in our amour, amour, amour!”

  Fabien arched a brow at Rachelle, and she laughed. It was amusing to see Margo so free and happy — far from court and its political demands, away from the molding power of Catherine and her iron ambitions and the ruthless shackles of corrupted religion.

  “But the King of Portugal,” Rachelle asked, “where did you leave him?”

  The question somehow struck Marguerite’s fancy. She threw back her head and laughed. She began to dance about the little boat, clap- ping her hands. “Where is the King of Portugal?” she cried to the moon. “Why— the good King of Portugal is with the wicked King of Spain. And the King of Spain? With the King of France — and the pope.” And she laughed again as though this were most hilarious.

  Fabien leaned toward Rachelle. “I assure you, the little hoyden has had one sip of wine too much. Come, ma cherie, let us look at the shore and listen to the orchestra.”

  The forest on both sides of the Loire was ablaze with festoons of lan- terns looped from tree to tree. There were other boats as well, shaped like swans and peacocks, filled with masked courtiers.

  Nappier laughed. “Now there is a capitaine for you, Monsieur Fabien.” He gestured to where a boat crew was caught in a thick tangle of water lilies on the banks beneath willow trees.

  Laughter filled the night. The other boats slipped past the water lil- ies and hooted at the entangled boat with its courtiers wading ashore, the women squealing as they hoisted their skirts above their knees.

  Marguerite grew more animated as they neared the southern bank. It was here she would meet Monsieur Henry de Guise.

  Nappier drew the boat to the bank, and they disembarked and mounted broad marble steps of the parterre with white balustrades and marble statues now appearing red in the colored lamps. Fountains were splashing rainbow colors.

  “There is Monsieur Henry now,” Marguerite said, and Rachelle turned her head to catch sight of a figure garbed as the King of Babylon in purple and yellow with a jeweled turban and purple mask.

  Marguerite threw back her hood and displayed her burgundy silk and cloth of gold gown.

  The Babylonian king advanced toward them.

  Marguerite met him with a playful bow. They clasped hands and rushed aside beneath the shadow of a portico.

  Rachelle quickened her steps in their direction, but Fabien held her back.

  “Ma Rachelle cherie, they are running into the forest. We will not see her again until morning. For Marguerite it is always toute la nuit.”

  “But the king — ”

  “Word will reach him by spies, believe me; no matter how careful we are, the news will be known. Come tomorrow this nephew of Philip’s and his retinue will be journeying from Amboise with injurious dis- dain. This is what Margo wants. She is now free again to try to marry Henry.”

  He drew her onto a path that wound into the lighted trees where music played.

  “She courts the wrath of the Queen Mother,” she protested. “We should not have brought her here.”

  “Cherie, she would have managed, even if she had to swim. If Catherine cannot clip her wings, do you suppose your honorable efforts would curtail her? Non. I have known Margo since she was five. She was attached to Henry even then. They use to hide in the closet together.”

  “But the rage she will face. I fear for her.”

  “You do well, for Catherine will be livid when this hoped-for mar- riage contract fails despite her best intrigue. Margo understands this. She has chosen the path her footsteps take her.”

  They wandered onto where plots of smooth grass grew lush beneath well-pruned trees. Along the parterre there were tents of satin and vel- vet, fringed with gold, offering the passing masquers refreshments and places to linger and listen to the music.

  They strolled the borders of the white marble terraces into the woods, where masked courtiers danced under decorative hangings spread

  among the branches of the trees, and others reclined on soft cushions arranged on carpets. Tables were filled with displays of wines, fruits, cheeses, and confectioneries, constantly replenished by busy servants under the watchful eyes of the chamberlains.

  They came to a pavilion lighted with colored lanterns, and he turned her aside.

  “I prefer this spot. You can see the bend in the river, and there are fewer courtiers.”

  He led her up the steps to a terrace. Below, the lighted court was filled with distant dancers and diners, but it was the sound of f lutes and f lageolets that filled the woods around them.

  He removed his wig and mask, and she did the same so that the breeze was refreshingly cool. They leaned against the rail, listening to the music. He
bent over the rail and caught the attention of one of the lackeys, who brought up a platter of refreshments.

  Rachelle was anxious to ask him about some of the bewildering things he had said earlier at the banquet and again later to Gallaudet.

  She glanced toward him and said suddenly, “What did you mean when you told Gallaudet there were Huguenots in the woods? Do you mean now, here?” She lifted a hand toward the miles of trees receding toward the hills.

  She saw his sobriety. She was right, then. What he had told his page was important.

  “When I was at Moulins, Louis decided messengers should be sent to warn de la Renaudie that Avenelle disclosed the plot to Catherine and the Guises. The Huguenots I have noticed here in the woods have given me reason to fear that the messengers were thwarted, that Renaudie did not receive the warning to remain at Nantes.”

  “How horrible. Then there are Huguenots here in the woods? Sent by Monsieur Renaudie? But they are in danger! They must be warned.” “That is what concerns me. And I have sent a message, you can be

  sure, but I wanted Sebastien alerted.”

  “Perhaps Monsieur Renaudie did not send these particular Huguenots?”

  “That too is a possibility. Let us hope so. Julot, a cousin of Andelot’s, is trying to make contact now in the woods to see where they came from.

  With so many courtiers roaming about, there is less chance of Julot being noticed. I only wish Louis would have accepted my offer to go to Renaudie. With Gallaudet, and perhaps Julot, we would have gotten through, I am sure.”

  “Then if Monsieur Renaudie is being watched,” she said cautiously, “who would do so except the Queen Mother?”

  “None but le Duc de Guise, though she and the cardinal would know about it. The duc was appointed head of all military forces in France before we left Blois . . . a curious and troubling fact when the Bourbon nobles are called to come here to sign an edict of pacification. Why is Guise suddenly made marshal?”

  “You think they continue to suspect Renaudie will attack?” “Or worse, Mademoiselle.”

  “What could be worse?”

  “A trap,” he said savagely. “That is what I fear — a trap. But I can- not convince Louis to listen. He comes to save face, fearing he will be thought a coward if he does not come. And Coligny, honorable man that he is, is too trusting of royalty. He often declares he would rather trust the Queen Mother than live in fear of constant intrigue, but in that I do not believe he is being wise. I know the Guises and Catherine. They are devilishly shrewd.”

  Rachelle stared off at the woods. Huguenots . . . were they out there? Would they attack? And if they did, what manner of trap did le Duc de Guise have in mind?

  “My retainers and men-at-arms were chosen because they are witty and cautious. Nor do I make apology for their wariness. These are times to doubt the proffered cup of peace. Catherine is not above dipping her finger in poisons.”

  Rachelle gripped the terrace banister. The colored lanterns, the masks of the courtiers, all took on a sinister new form.

  He nodded below toward some trees. “Over there . . . even now, my loyals are near at hand. Gallaudet would be nearby if I had not sent him to Sebastien. We are always on watch, Mademoiselle. For my father, Jean-Louis — you may have heard me talk of him— was assassinated. Bourbons are rife for death, for they are closer to the throne than the Guises.”

  “Then you suspect the House of Guise is to blame for his murder?” “Yes, but I have no proof. One reason I have spent time recently with

  Charlotte de Presney is because she promises me evidence.”

  Her head turned sharply. “Where would she discover such proof?” “Need you ask?” His voice was wry.

  “The Queen Mother?”

  “Among other lucrative sources. I can tell you the men Charlotte knows are often in high positions. A word from them would soon garner some facts.”

  So Charlotte was promising him benefits for an association with her.

  “What does she expect in return, Marquis Fabien?” she asked in a chilly voice.

  He regarded her. She looked away. She should not have disclosed her concern since he had already made known his thoughts on such matters, especially about Charlotte.

  He gently removed the dark cloak he had provided her and admired her emerald green silk dress. She had not intended for it to happen — or did she? Perhaps he did not plan it either, but the music, the silvery moonlight; all worked their enchantment. He drew her and she came to him.

  “How is it possible,” he breathed, “that I feel so strongly about you so soon?”

  “I confess my heart yearns for you also. You told me at Chambord it was love at first sight.”

  “I meant it. But I am not so young as to believe such love as this can be rushed into a marriage. Love needs time to be tested, Rachelle, ma petite. We must make certain it is an enduring love and not only passion.”

  “I hardly know you, but I do not want to say adieu.” “I would grieve if I were never to see you again.”

  Their lips met — and like a blazing torch toppled accidentally into a dry haystack, what was intended as a light demonstration of promises to come burst into a consuming desire.

  Rachelle trembled inside at his tightening embrace, while the heat of his lips melted the safeguards put in place by a young and tender will. Lord Jesus, her soul cried out in a plea for strength and wisdom in the gale of a storm newly experienced.

  Fabien abruptly held her away from him and took her face between his hands. She shut her eyes against the burning blue of his gaze.

  “Rachelle, my cherie,” he spoke in a low, husky voice. “I must be cautious — for your sake and mine. I promise to pursue our love, to see where it brings us in the future, but it is too soon to swear our hearts to eternal love when the passion is so strong.”

  It took her a moment to find her voice again and calm her heart. She moved further away, allowing the cool breeze to blow against her, to bring sanity. “Yes, it is soon, too soon . . .”

  “We would be unwise not to discuss some differences between us.” A soft uneasy murmur awakened in her heart. “You speak of my faith,

  a Huguenot, and you— a Catholic.”

  “There is that . . . and, some things I must do that I feel strongly about.”

  She looked at him, questioning.

  He frowned. “I shall doubtless make you wonder, for this is hardly the moment to show you on one hand how I feel strongly about you, and on the other to tell you that I am leaving France, but such is the situation now. So I must explain.”

  Her heart sank. A dullness crept over her. “Going away?”

  “Admiral Coligny has begun a colony in America. It is in a place they call Florida. I have already told the admiral I will help sponsor the jour- ney, to bring new colonizers to replace those who have died of sickness. I will be gone a year, maybe more.”

  She was silent a long troubling minute. “Rachelle,” he said very softly.

  Her heart hit bottom. “I see.”

  “Non. I do not think so. This has been long planned. Before I ever saw you at Chambord. I must see it through. Nappier has been trying to convince me to buy a ship. We would sail together to the region around St. Augustine.”

  One moment it had seemed the love of a lifetime was at her finger- tips. Within mere moments happiness was wrenched from her grasp and a door was closing. A year! Maybe two. It was impossible. The f lame kindled between them in the mere weeks they had known one another

  could hardly be expected to burn for so long. But how could she tell him? He was so sure it would last. And she had no right after only weeks to demand, or even to plead, for him to stay. She could see in his eyes he could not stay.

  He walked over to her and lifted her face as though he read her mind.

  “I could not forget you, ever. Not even if I tried to forget.” “It is not fair,” she whispered vehemently.

  “Cherie, I will return. Even if I stayed, it is too soon f
or us to marry. We are both young. There is much to do and learn that we will share with each other when I come back to you. And you, ma belle, you will have your wondrous silk and your Grandmère to make you into the renowned couturière you desire.”

  “Yes, my silk. I will have the silk,” she said with consolation. “I will go home. They cannot keep me here. I will not stay.”

  “Ma amour, you will have your way, I promise you.” “Oh, Fabien, you will make Marguerite let me go home?” “I will do something.”

  “C’est bien promis? ”

  “Yes, I promise you, ma Rachelle cherie.”

  For a timeless moment he took both of her hands in his and held them to his lips as the beauty of the starlight shone like silver on the river.

  Chapter Twenty

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  P

  Princesse Marguerite Valois did not hear as much as a whisper as she crept down the various corridors on her surreptitious route to reach her appartements before the sun was up. It was dawn and the castle was quiet except for guards moving here and there, sleepy, and waiting to be relieved by the next watch. She knew these night guards well, and they were rewarded at various times for looking the other way when she snuck back to her chamber from some rendezvous.

  This dawn was different. There were more guards than usual, and some were strangers to her. This worried her, but not enough to change her plans.

  She neared her appartements. There came a rush of footsteps and a loud command, lamps f lared with firelight, stinging her eyes, and she threw up an arm against the glare.

  “How dare you accost the Princesse of France this way,” she cried.

  Her breath stopped at the reply: “How dare a princesse of France behave the harlot! Bring her to my chamber immediately!”

  Catherine.

  Marguerite broke into a dazed tremor, her body soon wet with sweat.

  Charlotte de Presney, standing unseen in the shadow of a chamber door, tucked her mouth into a satisfied smile. Her betrayal of Marguerite’s activity to the Queen Mother would also bring Rachelle into grave