Threads of Silk

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  Fabien watched him evenly, hands on hips, and Gallaudet turned his back.

  “Who planned this?” Fabien asked.

  “Comte Maurice. He first sent a messenger to the captain. Then matters were arranged between them. Comte Maurice is rash, Monseigneur. He will act soon when he learns you are here. He will come with his men-at-arms.”

  “No doubt. He will wish to duel for mademoiselle. And if so, I would not wish to disappoint him.”

  “His belief, Monseigneur, is that the mademoiselle is promised to him in marriage by decree of the Queen Mother herself. He believes he has just cause.”

  Fabien’s temper flared when he thought of the lettre the Queen Mother had sent to him in London. Her intention was clear: if Fabien wished to stop the marriage, he must return and yield his service to the Queen Mother’s dark intrigues. She cared nothing for Maurice’s interest in Rachelle; he was merely an expendable pawn.

  “That jackanapes,” Fabien said harshly. “He will guess at once my plan to take Mademoiselle Macquinet out of France to her family.”

  “Then we are too late, Monseigneur,” Gallaudet said. “Captain Dumas will soon contact Comte Maurice.”

  Yes, the news that Rachelle was here with him at the castle would provoke Maurice to action. Fabien had no doubt of Maurice’s temper and abilities.

  “It will take Captain Dumas the rest of this night to reach Fontaine-bleau, and half the morning for him to return with the comte and his men,” Gallaudet said. “Should we not be gone by then, Marquis?”

  “The comte is not at Fontainebleau,” Sully said. “He is near at hand.

  Captain Dumas rode there tonight.”

  “Where then?” Fabien demanded.

  “I do not know, Monseigneur.”

  Fabien took a step toward him.

  Sully cried, “I swear I speak the truth. Comte Maurice’s whereabouts were never told me.”

  “Did you not take Dumas’s messages to the comte?”

  “I did, Monseigneur, but it was the comte’s own messenger I met on the road. Only Captain Dumas knew of the comte’s whereabouts.”

  “What road?”

  “Why, the road from Amboise, Monseigneur.”

  Amboise! Could Maurice be at the fortress of Amboise?

  Fabien’s royal kinsman, the Bourbon Prince Louis de Condé, was being held there in the dungeon on charges of treason. Why was Maurice there?

  Fabien frowned, pacing before the tree where Sully remained tied. Intermittent raindrops were falling, and the sound of the drops on the leaves broke the silence.

  Perhaps the king’s court was moving to the Amboise castle from Fontainebleau? If so, it placed his enemies closer to Vendôme. It was now imperative to leave at dawn for Dieppe to take Rachelle to safety.

  He turned to walk back to the castle, when Sully’s plaintive cry halted him.

  “Monseigneur, I beg of you, leave me not in the hands of these men. They will surely see me dangle from the highest branch.”

  Julot’s voice mocked. “That branch above your head will do. What think you, Gallaudet? Is it strong enough to support a traitorous jackal?”

  “Let us not hang him, Julot; let us drown him in the water below the bridge.”

  “Let him live with his conscience,” Fabien said over his shoulder. “But send him away from the castle. I’ll not have such a fellow among men-at-arms of honneur.”

  “Monseigneur, give me another chance, if you please. I will serve you faithfully.”

  “Non. Go and serve my cousin the Comte Maurice.”

  Julot took out his knife and cut Sully loose. “You live because the marquis is a better monsieur than the likes of you and your fellows. If it were my decision, you would dangle.”

  “Be gone,” Gallaudet said. “You have caused us all great harm.”

  They turned their backs on him and strode away.

  RACHELLE, THOUGH WEARY FROM TRAVEL, found herself unable to sleep after Fabien escorted her upstairs to her chamber.

  With a pang of regret, she realized that while she was soon to become Marquise de Vendôme, she was not to live here and bear the family that would carry on his title and rule. They must leave France, and while she did not think their departure would last forever, it might be the rest of her lifetime. And what of her Macquinet-Dushane family roots at the Lyon Château de Silk?

  Alas! Her place of refuge here at Vendôme, away from the snares and schemes of royal intrigue, was not to endure. Even if they were to avoid the long shadow of the Queen Mother, the flames of religious persecution crackled across the kingdom. If one was not loyal to the Roman Church, one was branded a heretic for the slaughter. And while the light of the Scriptures was shining across parts of Europe and England, the pope was determined to crush “the new opinions” wherever they took root by declaring them satanic heresy.

  Rachelle tried to avoid dwelling upon her fears. She went to the small hearth with glowing wood coals, removed her wet clothing, and draped it over the backs of chairs to dry. She donned her wrapper over her chemise and enjoyed the luxury of thick carpet beneath her bare feet. Outside the windows, she heard the wind tossing the shrubs. The rain started up again, sending large splats against the panes.

  Dawn would come quickly. She must rest, yet the more she concentrated on the need for sleep, the less sleepy she became. She began brushing her hair.

  If only there were someone in the family to consent to her marriage to Fabien in Père Arnaut’s absence, someone with authority . . .

  She set her hairbrush down with a clatter. She must be mad to have forgotten the one person in all France who had such authority! For did not Père Arnaut and Madame Clair leave me under her care when they went to London? Of course!

  The duchesse! They could marry at once without waiting until London, which would foil Maurice.

  This could be the answer to their dilemma at last! She must go down and tell Fabien. Her heart felt light for the first time in days, and she threw off her wrapper and dressed hurriedly in one of the two other dresses she’d brought, this one a comfortable apple green linen. She slipped on dry stockings and her still-damp shoes, and fled from her chamber through the corridor, down the many stairs, lifting the folds of her gown from her ankles as she ran to the man she loved.

  She saw him coming in from the courtyard and stopped short, grasping the banister with one hand, confronted by his formidable mood. Fabien was drenched with rain, his handsome features grim. She could imagine he’d just returned from a skirmish of sorts. Still, nothing short of a bearish growl could have altered her joie de vivre, and she started down the stairs toward him.

  “Fabien, mon amour, I have the answer to our dilemma.”

  He looked up at her, showing faint surprise at her presence, then his gaze softened. An amused half-smile appeared.

  He obviously did not take her seriously. She hurried down past the stairs. He came to meet her, taking her hands and drawing her to him. His smile deepened. “It is late. The wolves are baying at the moon hidden behind dark, sinister clouds, and you, my sweet, are looking as fresh as a fairy in a garden. It is your ability to go without sleep that surprises me.”

  She smiled. “I am in a state of bemusement, if you wish to know, but pay no heed to that. I’ve the answer that will permit us to marry at once, or at least as soon as we have her response. I am most sure she will say yes. So you see, I have every cause to appear most cheerful — despite the wolves baying at the moon.”

  His brow arched. “Well, I too am bemused. Who is this she?”

  “Duchesse Dushane,” she breathed jubilantly.

  His gaze sharpened. “Ah! Madame wholly slipped my mind.”

  “As she did mine. I must have been too distraught to think of her at once. I had been left under Madame’s supervision, but I never gave her a thought until I remembered we had sent my maid, Nenette, and also the boy Philippe to Duchesse Dushane at Fontainebleau.”

  His fingers tightened around her waist. “Your father
left you in her supervision?”

  “Yes, and she is at Fontainebleau.”

  “Then there is cause for the gleam in your eyes. When she understands the danger you are in, she will agree.”

  “She must.”

  “She knows me well. If she does not agree to the request, I will hound her until she does. I can have a man at Fontainebleau by morning.” He took her face into his warm hands and tilted her lips to meet his.

  “If I did not have concerns about leaving you here alone, even under the protection of Gallaudet and Julot, I would ride there myself this night, but — ”

  She clung to him. “No, I shall not permit us to be separated until the final ceremony is finished.”

  “I will not leave you. One of the men I trusted here at the estate, my captain of the guard, was bribed by Maurice to gain access to the castle. He escaped but an hour ago to take word to Maurice that we are here.

  Maurice is not at Fontainebleau. He is near at hand, and he is reckless enough to come here.”

  That Maurice would bribe one of Fabien’s guards infuriated her.

  “If he is not at Fontainebleau, then he could be here in Vendôme,” she said uneasily. “He and his men-at-arms could be concealed among the peasants.”

  “I would have denied such an idea earlier this evening, believing in my serfs’ loyalty, but I’ve already lost my captain of the guard to a few gold pieces. There may be more among the citizenry willing to conceal Maurice. I’ve sent some of my loyals into the villages to ask questions among the serfs, but I rather think he is at Amboise. If I knew where he was camped, I would call him out at once and be done with it.”

  She read the familiar resolute glint sparking in his eyes. “Maurice, too, will have men-at-arms, and he is as cold-blooded as a snake. He is very proud of his skills with his rapier.”

  “I know. He has long desired to best me with the blade.”

  “He is arrogant,” she said, and hid a shiver at the thought that Maurice might be near at hand, much nearer than they had anticipated, and likely under cover. How dare Maurice cast his shadow over her marriage here at Vendôme to the one and only galant she would ever desire?

  Fabien gazed at her with tenderness and stroked the side of her face.

  “Have no care, ma belle. I have said I would not see us parted now, and I meant my words.” His jaw hardened. “If Maurice comes, he will regret it. Come, I will write Madame. We will both sign our names. If she agrees, by tomorrow evening there will be no need to delay the wedding ceremony. I will make you mine before the journey to Dieppe.”

  And her heart’s desire would come to pass. She would marry Marquis Fabien at Vendôme in the Bourbon castle where princes of the blood were married, and their sons and daughters born — and perhaps one day, even a king of France!

  Her joy prompted feelings of courage, and she smiled her confidence at the man before her who would bring it to pass. Together they went to write the lettre that would forever change their lives.

  Later that night, after the lettre was entrusted to Julot, Rachelle returned to her chamber. She took several steps to the side of the grand bed and knelt in earnest prayer, petitioning God for the sufficiency of His grace to uphold Fabien in what must surely be an ordeal to come.

  Deliver us from the wicked traps set for us, O Lord, and bring us safely, in Your will and with Your blessing, to London.

  DUCHESSE DUSHANE HELD THE LETTRE from Marquis Fabien. Matters were most grave. If a trap had been set for him as he suggested, then Catherine would be aware that his ship had docked at Calais. Could she even know he had sent this lettre?

  She tightened her fingers around the jeweled handle of her walking stick.

  Is she making fools of us? She was watching me yesterday with that unblinking gaze of hers. Perhaps she realizes I have known of Sebastien’s plan to escape with his family to London for weeks. And if she believes I have betrayed her —

  The duchesse walked with slow, weakened gait to a tapestried chair and lowered herself, her breathing tight. She would have to be wise about the use of new herbal remedies. Surely it is only suspicion on my part that convinces me I have become unnaturally tired recently.

  She remembered her recent meeting with Catherine and Cardinal de Lorraine. The muscles along her back tightened. They had turned against her with new vigor.

  She was no weakling. If she were, she could not have remained alone at court these years while under scrutiny by the cardinal and the King of Spain’s spy, Spanish ambassador Chantonnay. They had guessed her to be a secret Huguenot, but did not move against her. The blooded nobility escaped outright death by burning because of their titles; if death came early, however, it came mysteriously or by secret assassin. It was the middle class and serfs that were tortured openly and burned by the thousands. And so it was the duty of Huguenot nobles to try to defend them by appealing to the king for edicts of toleration. Even so, the cardinal set the edicts aside while the pope and the armies of Spain stood behind him.

  She looked down at the marquis’ lettre. What should she do about his request to marry Rachelle? She understood his quandary; she shared it.

  “Maurice! That scoundrel.” She banged the end of her ebony stick on the carpeted floor.

  She must warn Marquis Fabien of the grave danger awaiting him, for the infamous Spanish war genius, the Duc of Alva, was coming to hold the Queen Mother’s hands to the fires of Spain’s wrath. Even Catherine, with all of her Machiavellian maneuverings, was not relentless enough in her warfare against the heretics to satisfy Spain. The Duc of Alva liked to bury Protestants alive in Holland, the women and children together for an added touch of tenderness. The duchesse relaxed her fingers. She’d been gripping her walking stick so tightly that pale impressions showed on her palm.

  The Lord knows about poor, brave little Holland. I must remain calm and pray for the steadfast courage of the saints. What dedication to go to their deaths rather than deny the teaching of Scripture. What love they showed for Christ!

  She pushed herself up from the chair and moved across the chamber to the window, still holding Marquis Fabien’s lettre. She must think.

  Below in the garden, two people were strolling. Her muscles tightened. Who could miss the white and scarlet cleric’s garments and the stiff black gown and coif of the woman beside him? There they were, enemies at heart, with their heads together planning and plotting, perhaps discussing the impending arrival of the Duc of Alva.

  She must contact the marquis and warn him. She would be taking a grave risk to send a message to him about the Duc of Alva. Who then, should deliver it?

  Few, very few could be trusted.

  The duchesse stepped away from the window. From behind her, the fire hissed in the hearth.

  A footfall, or was it? The wind was boisterous this late afternoon. The duchesse turned her head in the direction of the alcove. Had one of her ladies returned?

  “Who is it? ” she called abruptly.

  She walked in that direction but saw no one in the shadowy alcove. My imagination is all. Her gaze moved to the cabinet where her remedies were kept.

  Yes, watch your medicine. Remember your cousine, Dame Joan Dushane, known as grandmère to her family. Remember how she was poisoned with gloves?

  She walked back to the chair and sat down, rubbing her forehead. Perhaps she should leave Fontainebleau and take refuge at one of her estates near Saint-Germain-en-Laye.

  Her gaze dropped back to the marquis’ lettre. Sebastien Dangeau’s neveu, Andelot, impressed her with his growing character and insight. Andelot . . . oui, he could be trusted. He had matured from the naive boy that Sebastien had called to court to meet his unanticipated kinsmen, the Guises. He was now a comely young man with wavy brown hair, winsome dark eyes, and an increasingly masculine appearance. He’d also become a scholar in training with knowledge of how politics and religion worked together, ofttimes in unholy union.

  She went to her desk, lit the lamp, and wrote to Fabien of the
danger confronting him and Rachelle, giving him a brief account of the troubling events at court since his voyage, knowing he would receive a fuller report through Andelot.

  Perhaps ten minutes passed. She was ready to sign her name, but paused. She drummed her fingers on the desk. She must decide whether to give her consent to the marriage in the absence of Monsieur Arnaut. She hesitated, stood from the chair, and leaving the lettre on the desk, rang the bell for her chief page, Romier.

  The young page, an ami of Andelot and about the same age, came at once.

  “You called, Madame?”

  “Find Andelot. Do not let anyone know you are seeking him or why. I need to speak alone with him. Tell him it is about Marquis Fabien and his oncle Comte Sebastien Dangeau. You have heard about Comte Sebastien and his family?”

  “Oui, Madame. Everyone at court has been wondering how it was possible. He must have been most clever, they say.”

  “Desperate, perhaps. Go at once, Romier, and be exceedingly cautious.”

  “None shall see me, Madame.”

  The duchesse nodded her approval and watched him withdraw.

  A CRITICAL TASK NOW compelled him. Andelot went to the window and peered below. The courtyard was bleak and mostly dark with only a few torches weaving in the chilly gusts. He turned away, lifting his olive green velvet beret from the footstool and arranging it to one side of his brown hair in customary style.

  He opened the door of his bedchamber a crack to look into the large adjoining study-chamber. Scholar Thauvet always took his evening dinner at this time with friendly colleagues, and the chamber stood empty as Andelot expected. More than one lamp burned, and the manuscripts Thauvet was using were not yet stored away for the night, indicating he intended to return and work a few hours longer. Thauvet was in the long and tedious process of transcribing an ancient manuscript that would go to the library of Notre Dame when completed, and Andelot was assisting.