Threads of Silk

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  Lord God, protect them and send angels to help them.

  “You are not looking well, mon petit,” came the cardinal’s mocking voice. “You would not have in mind the fate of your secret amour?”

  Dulled by the senseless question, Andelot wondered what to say.

  “Monseigneur, I do not understand what you are suggesting.”

  The cardinal produced a lettre, a cynical smile on his lips. “Does the name of Mademoiselle Idelette Macquinet awaken your understanding at all?”

  Andelot remained mute, wondering if Idelette had gone with her sister and Sebastien. The cardinal offered him the lettre.

  “This was found in Sebastien’s appartement at the Louvre by a maid of the Macquinet family. She arrived here with a peasant boy of about twelve. They came from Paris to find Duchesse Dushane. The guards intercepted the demoiselle and discovered this lettre written to you. Will you still swear to me that you knew nothing of Sebastien’s well-planned escape to England?”

  Andelot recognized the handwriting as belonging to Idelette, for she had corresponded with him on occasion in the past. He took the letter, and, uneasy under the cardinal’s gaze, read Idelette’s message.

  “We anticipate the day when Macquinet-Dushane silk cloth is shipped to the Spitalfields district where we will open a business with the Hudson family and employ many of the French, Belgian, and Dutch Protestant immigrants. There is another reason why I have chosen to leave France and take up residence in London, but I cannot bring myself to explain to you now. I will write you again, cher Andelot, after we have arrived safely by God’s grace.”

  Andelot’s sudden alarm surprised even him. There could be but one reason that would motivate the cool-headed and unemotional Mademoiselle Idelette to leave her beloved home in Lyon, the Château de Silk, and risk the journey to England with Sebastien and his family: that was Idelette’s respect and affection for a man who shared her interest in silk and design. And the only monsieur that he could think of was Sir James Hudson, the English couturier that both Idelette and her sister Rachelle had written about to him in the past.

  Andelot’s spirits slumped. The obvious “other reason” for going to England was that Sir James Hudson had not as yet asked for her hand in marriage.

  “Ah,” the cardinal said, “so you do have a secret amour. The look on your face informs me you are disappointed by the news of mademoiselle’s departure.”

  “Yes, Monseigneur, it is all so unexpected.”

  “Even so, your behavior of late is most unsatisfactory, Andelot. I can only hope your studies under Scholar Thauvet will vindicate your pledge to me that you wish above all things to pursue your education.”

  Andelot bowed. “I assure you, Monseigneur, that it is so.”

  “We shall see. It is fortunate that the mademoiselle has removed herself from becoming your distraction.”

  How many distractions did the cardinal have?

  The cardinal stood, signifying an end to the meeting.

  “I shall consider your vow that you are not involved in this treasonous behavior against the king.”

  Andelot bowed again. He was on his way toward the door when the cardinal’s voice halted him.

  “You were wise to end your friendship with the Marquis de Vendôme as I instructed you.”

  Andelot arranged a blank expression before he looked back at him.

  “Monseigneur?”

  The cardinal’s long mouth turned upward. “I have word from elite spies that the Queen Mother has lured the Marquis Vendôme back to France.”

  Andelot tensed.

  “The marquis waits to be ensnared in the net she has laid for him. It is well you are not deemed his ally when he is brought before the Duc of Alva. The duc is most displeased over the sinking of his galleon off the coast of Holland.”

  Andelot concealed his apprehension. The infamous Spanish Duc of Alva! Marquis Fabien was walking into a trap. The Duc of Alva was here at Fontainebleau at this very moment.

  Andelot felt a rush of horror as he imagined Marquis Fabien and Comte Sebastien both being brought to Madrid in chains.

  How might he warn the marquis? Was he at Calais? Paris?

  Is the cardinal testing my response?

  “As you say, Monseigneur,” he replied, keeping emotion from his voice and manner. “I have not seen the Marquis de Vendôme in months.

  Is he coming here to Fontainebleau?”

  The cardinal gave no answer and turned away to show Andelot he was dismissed. Andelot narrowed his gaze at the cleric’s back and went out, his palms sweating.

  Trouble and woe. His soul could hear the cackles riding the autumn winds outside the diamonded windows. Clouds hurtled their way across the sky above Fontainebleau Forest.

  Idelette . . .

  Marquis Fabien . . .

  Andelot walked slowly down the corridor toward the other section of the palais, toward Scholar Thauvet’s chambers and his own antechamber.

  What could he do? He must do something! He must think, plan, and act.

  Laying the Trap

  WITHIN HER ROYAL CHAMBERS ATFONTAINEBLEAU, THE QUEEN MOTHER of France composed her secret lettre, sealed it with the royal Valois seal, and placed it out of sight.

  At one of the windows, she gazed off toward the darkening Fontainebleau Forest. The crooning wind moved through long, swaying branches. The messenger she expected could arrive at any moment now.

  Catherine left her royal chamber and made her way by a circuitous route to an antechamber. Once inside she lit a candle and carried it to the other side through a narrow door. She peered down the secret steps. She turned her ear toward the hollow, listening, waiting. Then a small gleam from a candle appeared below. The messenger’s footsteps sounded, and a moment later a shadowy form emerged, shrouded in a hooded cloak like a traveling monk, and climbed upward. He had served her since her days in Florence, and he now bowed in obeisance.

  Catherine extended her hand for the coveted parcel. Her heart beat faster as her fingers clasped hold. “It is all here then?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty, it is from him, the master of mysterious sayings, delivered to me by his servant as arranged.”

  “Very well. Madalenna will see to your needs in the forest. Let no one see you.”

  “No, Madame. No one will see me.”

  Catherine returned to her royal chamber and forbade her servants to disturb her. She entered her writing closet and shut the door.

  Her stiff black skirt rustled as she sat at her desk, swiftly opened the package, and removed a rolled parchment. She drew the candles closer and spread the roll across the desk. Ah! Here it was! The future prognostications created for her and her royal Valois family from the diviner, Nostradamus.

  She pored over the strange allusions of muted rhymes and meditated on the divination charts alleged to forecast the triumph or doom of her sons based upon the signs of the zodiac.

  She smiled at the favor bestowed by the planetary system upon her favorite little son Anjou, drummed her fingers and scowled over Mad Charles, and narrowed her gaze thoughtfully over the present young king, Francis II. Soon, however, she set this portion aside, for it was the secret disclosure on one messire in particular, her enemy, that she had desired and negotiated to gain. And here it was! The dark forecast held her breathless and engrossed.

  Ah yes, yes . . . I see it. Blood and darkness ahead . . . now is the time to act. Ah yes, I must not step back in timidity. Here at last is the death sign — she tapped her finger on the drawing — his bright star is dimming, it is falling, it is going out. If this knowledge is acted upon, he will die, the readings tell his fall. That noisome plague, Duc de Guise, is going to die!

  She considered the plans stirring in her mind and the personal consequences to her and Anjou. King Philip of Spain, her opponent, could prove to be a danger. If Spain should come to believe she had a personal hand in the duc’s death, Philip could invade France, and with a quiet nod from the pope, remove her and her sons fr
om the throne and put a Guise in their place. She must save the throne of France for her sons, especially her Anjou.

  If only I could use poison.

  But not on this occasion. She dare not bring suspicion to her door. Not with a monsieur as beloved in Spain and Rome as Ducde Guise. The Spanish ambassador had already sent lettres to his master Philip accusing her of using poison against her personal foes at court. If the duc died by poison, they would turn on her like starving wolves. As for his popularity, all Paris cheered when the duc rode his horse down the street, calling out, “A Guise for a king!” Those same citizens, however, whispered their dislike and distrust of that “Italian woman.”

  There must not be even a hint of suspicion suggesting her involvement. Both the pope and King Philip had accused her of protecting the heretics and were looking for reasons to remove her from power, though the Huguenots would mock any claim of her protection. Daily across France, the religious burnings continued unabated upon orders from the cardinal, another Guise.

  Someone other than herself must be used to remove the duc. It was essential she remain shielded from the murky details. She rolled up the parchment, convinced this was the most favorable time to arrange for her plan to be carried out. Using a key on her wrist, she unlocked a large drawer concealed in the wall and placed the parchment inside. She left her closet and entered her main chamber.

  Spies had already sent word that Marquis Fabien had taken the Macquinet couturière from Paris and escaped with her to the Bourbon castle at Vendôme. She retrieved her sealed lettre from the desk and struck her gong.

  Her servant girl, Madalenna, appeared and bowed.

  “Yes, Madame?”

  “Take this to the dwarves to deliver at once.”

  AT VENDÔME, MARQUIS FABIEN left Rachelle in her chamber and went back down the stairs to the grand salle. He frowned, caught up his hat and coat, and went through the archway into the courtyard.

  The rain had temporarily ceased, while the sky was awash with wind-tossed clouds. Lightning flashed over the forest and the trees bent before the irate wind. It was a night for trouble.

  Gallaudet was waiting for him in the shadows as planned and came quietly to him.

  “We will handle this ourselves,” Fabien said. “Where is he now?”

  “He is in his bungalow.”

  “Under whose watch?”

  “Julot is near at hand.”

  Fabien would trust Julot with his life. “Come.”

  During his absence at sea, Fabien had left the security of the Bourbon estate under the command of the captain of the castle guard. Only those unmarried chevaliers who were skilled swordsmen and anxious for adventure, had accompanied him on the privateering mission against Spain. The others, the married and those content to remain at their positions here in Vendôme, had stayed behind. Even so, there was not a monsieur among any of his loyals, whether men-at-arms or castle guards and lackeys, that Fabien had not chosen with care.

  The bungalow was ahead, a small light glowing in the main window. Fabien’s gaze searched the area — nothing stirred. Gallaudet returned with Julot.

  “No one has come, Monseigneur. Captain Dumas’s wife came out and returned, but that is all,” Julot said in a low voice.

  Fabien disliked the thought of barging into the bungalow with the man’s wife there.

  “Knock and tell him I wish to see him at the castle,” he told Gallaudet.

  “If what you have heard is true, he is likely to slip out the back.”

  He motioned for Julot to move to one side of the bungalow. Fabien made for the shadows and came around the other side to watch the window. Gallaudet had gone to the front door and was speaking with Dumas’s wife. Fabien waited in the shrubs unseen. All was still, then came a rustle of movement. The man had climbed out the low window with a satchel on his shoulder.

  The man held a sword, but his face was in shadow. Fabien felt a moment of grief. This was the captain of his home guard, a monsieur Fabien had trusted above many others. That his character had a price of betrayal was a stinging disappointment; he would never have thought it of him. Dumas’s hearty cheer tonight was naught but hypocrisy. Honneur in a man was as priceless in Fabien’s estimation as virtue in a great woman.

  Disappointment over Dumas’s betrayal turned swiftly to anger. Fabien lifted the point of his sword. Within the bungalow, another lamp was lit and the glow came through the window and fell across the escaping man’s face. It was not Captain Dumas!

  Fabien stepped forward, sword lifted. “So, you join my traitorous captain. Where is he?”

  A lean, dark young man whom Fabien knew as Sully turned sharply at the sound of his voice.

  “Monseigneur, I — I am no traitor to you, I had naught to do with it.”

  “Where is Dumas?”

  “Dumas?”

  Fabien’s sword leapt to life and pricked dangerously close to his jugular.

  “I am in no fair mood for games, Sully.”

  The guard fell to one knee, his sword clattering to the stone walkway.

  “Monseigneur, I confess all! His wife told me he left soon after your arrival when he saw the boy seek out Gallaudet. The boy did not know much, only that his Oncle Dumas had met with the Comte Maurice Beauvilliers.”

  Maurice! That pariah! He’d managed to bribe the captain of the guard! How much had he paid Dumas?

  “Go on. Be quick.”

  “I heard Gallaudet knew of the captain’s treachery, so I came here to find him, but he’d already fled.”

  Gallaudet appeared in the open window and leaned out. “Monseigneur, we have the captain’s wife. Do you wish to speak with her?”

  Fabien stepped back from Sully and pointed him toward the front of the bungalow with his sword.

  “Inside,” he said roughly. “We shall see if your testimony bears with hers.”

  Madame Dumas was in tears, sitting hunched in a chair when Fabien entered with the guard Sully. Her bent figure, the rough worn hands that clasped and unclasped in her lap, softened his mood. Fabien gestured to Julot to remove Sully’s weapons.

  “Captain Dumas has already escaped, Monseigneur,” Gallaudet said. “Would you that I run this other traitor through with my blade?” He cast Sully a cold look.

  “One’s enemies are always best dead,” Julot said, eyeing Sully with scorn as beads of sweat formed on his forehead. “Let me have him, Monseigneur, and spare you the trouble.”

  Fabien saw the anxiety on the poor woman’s face, for her husband was a worse traitor than Sully. Her eyelids were red and puffed from crying. He vaguely remembered hearing from Dumas how their child caught a sickness and died a year ago. Before that, there had been a baby born dead.

  “Enough,” he said to Julot and Gallaudet, and turned to the woman, ignoring Sully, who crouched in a corner under the stare of Julot.

  “Where is your husband, Madame?” he asked quietly.

  She looked at him, then away quickly, lowering her face with evident shame.

  “He fled away, Monsieur Marquis. Where, I do not know, and that is the truth. All I know is he told me he’d be coming into twelve gold pieces.”

  “Twelve pieces of gold? Who would give him such a reward, and why?”

  “I swear he never told me.”

  She pointed a finger toward Sully, no sign of geniality in her prematurely lined features. “I do not know what Sully told you, Monsieur Marquis, but he knows what it was about. Sully was to get some of the gold pieces.”

  “And the plan?” Fabien asked. “Were any other of my guards involved?”

  She shook her head. “Ah, Monsieur Marquis, I know nothing more of it, I swear it. I have been busy working the castle gardens with the other women. My husband told me none of the details. He thinks little of a woman’s tongue.”

  He believed her.

  She pointed at Sully, and resentment flickered in her eyes as though she blamed him for her husband going astray. “He knows. He came here for supper, too lazy to ma
ke his own, always talking in whispers with my husband.”

  “You lie,” Sully said. “I sometimes brought things to pay for my supper. More times I brought you a fat duck.”

  “Likely stolen from the marquis as not.”

  “I stole nothing from the marquis! I got the ducks honest, and I will swear to it.”

  “Enough,” Fabien said.

  “Ask him, Monsieur Marquis, about the gold pieces.”

  Sully’s mouth twitched. He shot her an ugly look.

  “Take him outside,” Fabien told Julot. “I want the truth from him.”

  Julot grasped his arm. “On your feet, traitor.”

  In the trees, some distance from the castle Fabien stood by, affecting indifference to Julot and Gallaudet’s pretense of savagery as they tied Sully to a tree. They began arguing about the best way to kill him.

  “The new methods I learned from the Dutch pirate are certain to loosen the tongue,” Julot said. “The Dutchman learned them from his Spanish captors.”

  Sully looked wildly from one to the other, as if assured his old comrades-in-arms had degenerated into masters of Spanish cruelty since sailing with pirates.

  “Now, if you want my opinion, there’s no reason for such unpleasantness,” Gallaudet said. “Traitors that don’t speak the truth are best just dead and buried, or even better — alive and buried.”

  Fabien turned away to start back for the castle. “Let me know when it is over.”

  “Monseigneur,” Sully screeched. “Do not go, Monsieur! I will tell all I know.”

  Fabien turned to look at him. “Very well, say on.”

  Sully swallowed and licked his lips. “Comte Maurice Beauvilliers promised Captain Dumas a dozen gold pieces if he would play the spy for him here at the castle. He was to inform the comte of all that went on here. He was to send word as soon as you returned and — and send someone to open the gate when he and his men-at-arms arrived.”

  “And who might that be?” Julot snarled in his face.

  “Tonight when the captain saw the mademoiselle with you, he rushed away to tell the comte. True, he was affrighted the boy would tell and put his spying to an end, but the captain knew the arrival of the mademoiselle was the grand news the comte needed to give Dumas his gold pieces. He was to deliver the news to the comte, then sneak back here. It was my duty to let him in through the western postern gate. He would get his wife, and we would be ready to leave as soon as the gate was opened for the comte. We would be gone before anyone missed us in the battle. I was to get two gold pieces, and the captain would keep the rest.”