“I do not intend to lose you,” he said, bringing her against him again.
“Fabien, bel ami, what is it? What is wrong? Marguerite demands I stay here in my closet. Something dreadful must be occurring, but what? Did your kinsmen escape safely?”
There was no smile, no apology for his bluntness. “They rode out yesterday morning. There is a slaughter going on at this very minute.”
“A slaughter — !”
“Thousands of Huguenot prisoners are being dragged to the chop- ping block.”
She gasped her horror. “Andelot and Sebastien.”
“Andelot is not a Huguenot. Even so — ” he frowned — “he is not in my chamber and no one knows where he has gone. Sebastien too is not in his chamber.”
“Oh, Fabien we must find them.”
“There is no time. It is you alone that concerns me now. We shall try to escape to my family castle at Vendôme. It is not far, some twenty miles. I have good horses.”
She stared at him, numb, but his eyes persuaded her that he would not speak this way if there were not cause.
She looked around her chamber helplessly. What to bring? So many
priceless things that were part of her life from Lyon—
He took her arm and drew her away toward her closet. “Bring a hooded cloak. It may rain. Nothing else.”
“But Sebastien — ”
“I have Gallaudet and Julot searching for both Sebastien and Andelot.
They will do what they can. Come, Rachelle, make haste!”
She darted into her closet, looked about in despair at all her prized sewing things, then realizing he was at the closet doorway urging her on, she grabbed a hooded cloak and f led with him, pausing long enough to snatch her book of drawings from the table.
Moments later they were walking along the corridor, his hand hold- ing to her arm as though he expected someone to challenge him and snatch her away. Her footsteps could hardly keep up with his strides. Frightened servants huddled, whispering, and slipped away as they neared.
Fabien pulled open a door and pushed her forward, following. She heard a bolt slide into its place. She saw they were inside an antecham- ber. He left her and crossed to a door. Opening it he stepped out, and she watched as he glanced about. He turned and gestured. She rushed to join him. With his hand once more on her arm, they stepped out together and walked swiftly along a balustrade that rimmed an entire section of
the palais, until they came to a steep, stone stairwell that spiraled down- ward to a petite court.
Rachelle clasped her palms against her ears to stop the grotesque screeching of fifes and drums coming from somewhere on the other side of the castle. The fiendish glee of the musical noise curdled her blood. She looked at him in horror, but he refused to meet her questioning gaze.
Down, down they went, her feet f lying over the stone steps so fast her mind spun, but his firm, steady hold left her with no fear of tripping.
She saw Gallaudet waiting in the small court with its high walls. She counted but two horses, the golden bay that Fabien rode, which she rec- ognized at once, and another stallion that shook its head and sniffed the air uneasily, as though the smell of death troubled him.
“Everything is ready, Monsieur,” Gallaudet was saying.
A different voice called down to them from a portico above their heads. Rachelle looked up. Comte Maurice Beauvilliers leaned over the rail. The wind tossed his dark hair and crimson cape. He held a rapier that caught the rays of the sun and gleamed.
“Ho, mon cousine Marquis, Julot tells me Oncle Sebastien has been arrested for treason!”
Rachelle silenced a gasp of despair.
“Do you know if this is so?” Maurice asked.
Rachelle caught Fabien’s arm and looked at him imploringly. He frowned up at Maurice.
“I have heard nothing of this. I have not seen Sebastien since the council yesterday with the king. If he was arrested, then this treachery came while I was away with Monsieur Louis and Coligny. Where is Julot?”
“I left him near your chamber. He claims he cannot find the peasant, Andelot. Julot looks for you also.”
Rachelle grasped hold of Fabien’s arms. He looked down at her, his hand closing over hers, pressing it encouragingly.
“Ma cherie, what Maurice tells me changes my plans. I cannot leave, not with Sebastien possibly arrested.”
“They will arrest you as well!”
“Why should they? I am a Catholic. Nor did I sponsor Renaudie. There is no reason to arrest me. I will be safe,” he said gently. “It is you I worry about. This is no place now for a Huguenot. If I ride with you to the road to Vendôme, can you ride on from there with an attendant? I promise you, it is not so far that I cannot join you as soon as I am able.”
She clutched him more tightly, pleading with her eyes. “I will not leave you. If you stay, then I too shall stay.”
“Non, ma bel amie, I will not have you stay here. You must go.” And he took her forearm and looked over toward Gallaudet, but Maurice called down with bravado: “Never fear, mon cousine Marquis, I shall attend the mademoiselle with my life if it must be.” And he lifted him- self over the balustrade and shimmied down the pillar with elaborate gracefulness. He dropped gently to his feet and gave an elegant bow, but his sparkling gray eyes and sensuous smile was for Rachelle alone. He swaggered up as though the day offered no terror, and lifting her hand, he bent over it.
“Mademoiselle, you can count on me to take you to Vendôme. I, Maurice, am your humble servant.”
She drew herself up with dignity and looked at Fabien. He measured Maurice, his mouth tipping down at the corner, his violet blue eyes giv- ing a sudden leap of fire.
Gallaudet spoke to him quietly. “Monsieur Fabien, if Andelot and Comte Sebastien are in peril, you will need my sword to back you up, and others’ as well. May I suggest that I also remain at your side for whatever may await us and allow the comte to escort Mademoiselle Macquinet?” “A helpful gesture, in truth, I assure you.” Maurice smoothed the ruff at his throat, then he turned to one of his own men and snapped his
jeweled fingers. “My horse.”
Fabien drew Rachelle away and smiled briefly. “My cousine Maurice is an eager galante and a fop; he often irritates me, but he is no enemy such as we have in the House of Guise. At this moment, at least, I need him. He is worthy of his rapier, and he can be trusted to behave the gen- tlemen, as long as a mademoiselle gives him no cause to think otherwise. He knows you are a virtuous woman.” He lifted a brow and glanced in Maurice’s direction. “He also knows I will take off his head if he forgets himself even for a moment. Will you go with him?”
She glanced sideways at Maurice. “I would rather not, but if you insist I go with him, then I will.”
“I shall come to you at Vendôme as soon as possible.” “Oh, Fabien, do be cautious.”
He smiled with a tinge of wolfishness. “Permit me, bel ami, for I wish to give mon cousine Maurice something to be wary of. I want him to know he must not test me, or you.”
He drew her against him and his arms wrapped around her posses- sively. Her head went back against his arm and his warm lips took hers, long and possessively, sending waves of hot and cold emotions stamped- ing through her every fiber.
Slowly he released her, and she held to him for support. His eyes sparked with fire. Her breath came rapidly. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed each finger, his gaze still caressing her.
Gallaudet brought her horse around to where she stood with Fabien. Fabien held her steady as she put her foot into the stirrup and swung into the Spanish saddle. She turned the reins on the sprightly animal. She glanced at Comte Maurice Beauvilliers. A smirk twisted his lips over Fabien’s amoureux display. Anger tightened his dark brows.
“Adieu, Marquis, mon cousine. You have staked your ownership, but we shall see. This way, Mademoiselle Macquinet. Stay close to me.”
In seconds she felt the muscled horse surging beneath her
as if anx- ious to depart. She rode just behind and to the left of Maurice. They galloped down the broad avenue and toward the surrounding forest, leaving the castle of Amboise behind.
The wind blew behind her and seemed a friendly creation pushing her forward and away, away to freedom, to safety, leaving behind the screeching musical notes of Catherine’s fifes and drums. How different the sounds from a few nights ago when she heard glorious symphonies, when the trees were aglow with colored lanterns, and the call of amour was in the air like fragrant blossoms.
Had the masque all been a dream, a fairy tale? How changed Amboise was now! Death was in the air, demonic glee shrieked as Christians by the thousands were tortured, then brought to the scaffold . . .
The journey from Amboise to the safety of Vendôme was but twenty some miles as the crow f lies. She rode with Maurice through land that
was much the same as Blois and Amboise, full of verdant forest trees, grassy fields, and f lowering hills, with high forest farther toward the mountains and streams.
They drew up to a stream to let the horses drink and rest.
It was the first time she could talk and her questions were many.
“I do not understand, Comte. Was not the edict of pacification signed by the Queen Mother and King Francis? Why then this terror at Amboise?”
“Le Duc de Guise knew the warning from Prince de Condé did not reach his retainer, Renaudie, at Nantes. I have heard from my own spies the two men the prince sent were captured and forced to tell all.”
“Le Duc de Guise already knew this when the Bourbon princes and nobles met with the king yesterday?”
“But yes, he had his army hidden in the woods waiting for the her- etics to come with Renaudie. Unwisely, Mademoiselle, the heretics came in small groups and were captured easily until Renaudie himself arrived. Le Duc de Guise overtook him while he rested in his camp.”
Heretics. She disliked his easy use of the term. “How despicable of le Duc de Guise!”
As Maurice used his snuff box it glittered in the sun. “So many despi- cable things in life, Mademoiselle. That is why I try to concentrate on more pleasant experiences . . . The masque, it was most delightful, was it not?”
Rachelle was thinking of the betrayal and trap of the Queen Mother and the Guises. They had never intended the edict to be valid. But why had they not moved then and there against the Bourbons?
“Yes, it was most pleasant . . . Why did they not arrest Prince de Condé?”
“They move more cautiously against the lions of the forest, Mademoiselle. If the lion should roar, then a very large army could rise to his defense. Ask the marquis if he would fight for his kinsmen and the answer is oui . . . You were most belle at the masque, Mademoiselle Macquinet. The most belle of them all. I lamented the fact I was not able to dance with you or to spend time in your fair company. My cousine, the marquis, is a selfish man to keep you all to himself.” He smiled and his gaze drifted over her. “I admit he has such wondrous taste.”
Rachelle said stiff ly: “How far to Vendôme now, Monsieur Beauvilliers?”
“Not far, Mademoiselle.”
“Then please, let us be on our way, Monsieur.”
He bowed and gestured her toward the waiting horse, a too-pleasant smile on his lips.
Rachelle had a notion that in the days to come she would be seeing more of Maurice than she would prefer.
They rode on and she saw the palais chateau toward late afternoon. Drawing up on a rise she looked across the grassy fields toward the gray stone palais. Refuge awaited her, but what of Sebastien and Andelot? What if the Queen Mother and the Guises discovered Fabien was using his men-at-arms to locate and deliver them? Again, her anxious heart reached in desperation to the Lord for protection and deliverance. A mighty fortress is our God, she thought of Martin Luther’s hymn, a bul- wark never failing.
A bulwark . . . She turned her gaze again upon the Vendôme palais with its enclosed walls of defense; yes, here there was time for recovery, but for how long? They rode through the gate. She glimpsed terraced gardens and f lowering groves, but her ragged emotions turned all to gray.
She was ushered inside by the chamberlain, to whom Maurice explained why she was there and how the marquis would arrive either late that night or the next day. The chamberlain was to have more rooms ready, for Marquis Fabien would be bringing others here for refuge until the madness at Amboise ran its course and matters quieted once more.
Rachelle wondered if matters would ever be the same. She had seen a change in Fabien, a great burning anger she believed would only push him forward to fulfill his quest with Nappier and Julot to strengthen the colony which Admiral Coligny wanted as a refuge outside France, a new beginning at the place named Florida.
Rachelle was escorted up a wide f light of stairs and to a spacious bedchamber furnished in various shades of blue and white brocade, with burgundy rugs and draperies. The windows opened onto a ter- race promenade with a parterre of rounded greenery and shaped trees of petite size bursting with f lowers, but in her mind’s eye all she imagined
was the bloodstained courtyard where thousands of Christ’s faithful fol- lowers went like helpless sheep to their gruesome deaths. Had the Lord Jesus stood from his throne beside the Father as He had for the first mar- tyr, Stephen, who had been stoned to death?
And I, she thought, a cramp catching her throat, am safe here among
flowers and pleasant gardens!
Worn and emotionally exhausted she sank onto the soft bed. She closed her eyes, but the carnage paraded across her mind, giving no solace.
She stood again and paced. How soon until Fabien sailed? She recalled the things he had told her at Chambord when they had walked in the arcade of fragrant lime trees. How the gold and silver that paid for Spain’s armies to wage the terror against Protestants in the Netherlands was taken from the Americas, and what was called the Main, or the Caribbean. Would Fabien be even more anxious now to strike back at those treasure galleons bringing gold to Philip of Spain? She was almost certain it would be so.
Yes, he would become more resolved than ever to join forces with the French, Dutch, and English corsairs sinking Spanish galleons. What would this mean for their relationship? He had suggested his absence would last a year, perhaps a little longer, but not two years. Would he be able to keep that promise; would he even wish to do so?
Rachelle sought the breezes by walking along the promenade. The mournful cooing of doves sounded from the top of the arbor.
Would Fabien be more willing to sponsor Nappier with that twenty- gun ship they had spoken about so lightly the night of the masque when on the little butterf ly boat?
Maurice Beauvilliers might believe matters would quiet down and return to normal, but Rachelle was not at all inclined to agree. Everything had changed. What grief awaited the loved ones of those slaughtered at Amboise! Wives would not see their husbands again. Children would be without fathers. Would Madeleine and the soon-to-be-born enfant ever see Sebastien? And what would befall Andelot?
It was dark. Andelot did not stir from his cramped fetal position, his face at last dry of tears. He could not stop his trembling. His clothes were damp with sweat, and now as the chill evening blew against him he was cold. The guards had all departed and nothing stirred but the regal canopy f lapping in gusts of wind like ghostly wings. For a long time Andelot did not move. All desire, except to escape through the sleep of unconsciousness, had left him.
The stars glittered cold and hard in the blackness. The f lapping of the canopy continued. It began to rain. The drops at first came lightly and mingled with the bloody courtyard. Then the rain came still heavier.
He thought he heard footsteps once and his name whispered on the wind. The guards would find him at last, and he would be carried to the scaffold, to the blood-soaked block —
A quivering sob came to his parched throat, sounding inhuman, as a hand reached beneath the vine and touched him.
“Non! Non!”
“Shh! Mon ami, it is I, Fabien. I have been searching for you for what seems hours.”
Fabien . . . Fabien . . .
“It is over. Quick! Come out. The cardinal looks for you. Charles has confessed everything. He admits bringing you here. We do not have much time. We must leave for Vendôme.”
Andelot remained silent, still curled up. “Nappier and Julot are at the postern gate.”
Andelot felt Fabien grabbing hold and pulling him from beneath the cherubs.
Fabien shook him. “Can you understand me? Can you walk?”
He nodded, his teeth chattering, able to move, stiff ly at first, stum- bling to his feet with Fabien’s help. Whereupon Fabien threw an arm around him and together they made their way across the wet courtyard, staying close by the wall.
Fabien whispered: “Do not look about you . . . I will lead, you follow.
Make no sounds.”
Minutes later they reached the low postern gate. The master swords- man Nappier hovered in the shadows with horses.
“He is overcome,” Fabien warned in a low voice. “Be careful with him.”
Julot emerged from the darkness. “Let me take him to a house on the quay, Marquis. The man there is reliable. I shall care for him until he can ride of his own to Vendôme.”
“You can trust this man, Julot?”
“Most certainly. He has long been a friend.”
“Very well then. I choose to ride on. When Andelot awakens, if he chooses to seek me, I will be at Vendôme.”
“We will be there, Marquis.” His dark eyes f lashed with hate. “We will both come.”
Nappier drew near to Fabien. There was an angry grimace on his sweating face. He formed a fist that struck silently but savagely into his other palm. “It is now, Marquis. Now. Let us get that ship and take to the waters of Florida. Let us smash the Spanish galleons that bring gold to Spain that pays for legates like the Guises to kill our fellow Frenchmen.”
Fabien’s own anger surged in his temples with each heartbeat. He had walked in streams of blood and had some of it on the hem of his cloak. He had seen the piled corpses in the river Loire — so many the Loire was dammed up and overflowing its banks.
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