“You mean no one knows about the Ruggerio brothers?”
“Very few. Why do you think she masquerades when she visits them on the quay, and uses secret stairways and listening closets? She does not want the Guises to talk about her use of poison in their appeals to the King of Spain. You do not want to become a goad to Catherine, chérie. It is as dangerous as cornering a viper.”
She remembered that Père Arnaut had given her much the same advice in Paris.
She leaned her cheek against his chest and held him tightly. In the moment of silence he stroked her hair and held her close. Then he lifted her face toward his and kissed her.
“We must go down now,” he said quietly, his voice offering confidence. “Are you ready?”
She gave a nod. A few moments later, with dignity, Rachelle went down the steps at Fabien’s side and entered the receiving salle. The two Florentine dwarves donned in costly garb with diamonds on their doublets bowed low to Fabien. They straightened, their black curls bouncing, their ebony eyes bright and cunning beneath heavy brows.
Rachelle found it difficult to tell the twins apart, except that Romulus always smiled, though his eyes held no humor.
Fabien left her on the landing and stepped forward. Romulus bowed again, then approached. In full height, he came just above Fabien’s knees.
“Bonjour Monseigneur de Vendôme,” came his tenor voice. “We have traveled from Fontainebleau with a message for you from Her Majesty, the Queen Mother. Do you wonder how we knew you were here?”
Rachelle tightened her hand on the banister. She glanced at Fabien and saw that his manner was reserved.
“We have bonne amity with the crows,” Remus said.
Rachelle could see he was serious. She felt a chill, remembering the credence paid to the occult and astrology charts made for the Queen Mother.
“Yes, as soon as I was outside of Paris, I did notice the crows kept pace with me,” Fabien said.
Only those who knew Fabien as well as she could have read the sarcasm in his response.
“Did you come alone — except for the crows?” he asked.
“We came alone, Monseigneur. Your men-at-arms on the road will tell you so. On the other hand, you did not come here alone.”
Rachelle kept her dignity.
Fabien gave him a stern look. “What message do you bring me from the Queen Mother?”
Romulus extended an envelope sealed impressively with the royal fleur-de-lis.
“Her Majesty wishes an answer be returned by our hand, and so we will wait for it, if Monseigneur permits.”
Fabien walked away and used a jeweled knife to open the sealed envelope, turning to watch them as he did. He would not be rushed into a response, this Rachelle knew.
She remained where she was, her palms perspiring. She noted the dwarves wore ceremonial swords the size a young page boy would carry and guessed they were poor swordsmen but probably deadly marksman with daggers. She did not think the Queen Mother wanted Fabien dead, however — at least not yet.
Fabien walked over to Rachelle and with lazy grace, leaned against the banister and read the Queen Mother’s lettre aloud to her.
“I have received news from my daughter Elizabeth, Queen of Spain, that His most Catholic Majesty, King Philip II, is aggrieved by certain actions taken off the coast of the Spanish Netherlands by certain French pirates united in purpose and religion with the Dutch. You in particular, Marquis de Vendôme, have been implicated as one of those adventurous sea wolves. I am most certain this outrageous charge laid against you by the esteemed Duc de Alva, who is here to see the king, will prove to be in error. We need to discuss this grave matter firsthand. It therefore becomes imperative that we meet at Fontainebleau, which will likewise afford you the opportunity to clarify your reasons for having taken the belle couturière, Mademoiselle Rachelle Macquinet, from her duties in Paris. I assure you, my lord Marquis, that both of you will be treated as family upon your return to court. Fear not; bring mademoiselle and brighten our lives with your appearances. I am certain this misunderstanding with the Comte Beauvilliers can be settled in peace. Also, Princesse Marguerite longs for her favorite lady and for newly crafted gowns to meet your friend Prince Henry of Navarre at the Poissy Colloquy this coming summer.
“Understand that this summons is for you and the mademoiselle to appear before me. Your presence is most assuredly required.”
Fabien lowered the lettre and slowly folded it, meeting her gaze. She read the meaning of the hard glitter in his eyes. The Queen Mother’s ruse did not deceive him. He looked across the salle at the dwarves.
It was just as Fabien had warned her. The Duc of Alva was at Fon-tainebleau and the Guises would like nothing better than to turn Fabien over to Spain. But would the Queen Mother agree to this if she needed him?
The chilling answer was no — on the condition he did as she demanded.
“You may tell Her Majesty that as her most loyal servant — ” Fabien bowed — “I await with anticipation the meeting to be held with her at her discretion.”
“Then you will come to the private château near Fontainebleau, and bring Mademoiselle Macquinet, Monseigneur?”
“Would I disregard a summons by Her Majesty?”
Rachelle recognized Fabien’s evasive question, though it appeared the messengers did not.
“Surely not, Monseigneur de Vendôme,” their tenor voices echoed.
“Surely not,” he said in a scolding tone. “Therefore, monsieurs, until the day and hour proffered by Her Majesty, I bid you adieu.”
The dwarves bowed to Fabien. “Merci, Monseigneur. We will wait, however, to deliver your lettre of response to Her Majesty.”
“Ah yes, bien sûr . . . I shall have my response written and delivered to you in the morning.”
They exchanged glances. “In the morning, Monseigneur?”
A delay, Rachelle thought.
“I would not think of sending you back tonight,” Fabien told them. “Your ride was very long, you are most assuredly tired and hungry. Your fine horse must rest and eat its fill of oats. And I should word my response to Her Majesty with utmost care and respect.”
Gallaudet had entered the receiving salle and eyed the dwarves warily. Fabien turned toward him. “See that the Queen Mother’s messengers are given refreshment and rest before they ride back to Fontainebleau in the morning.”
“Just so, Monseigneur.” Gallaudet spread a hand toward the outer passage. “This way, sil vous plaît.”
Rachelle narrowed her gaze as she watched them marching toward the outer passage with Gallaudet. As she looked at the determined set of Fabien’s handsome features, she took solace in knowing he would do all that was possible. Her admiration grew. She was blessed to possess the love and devotion of such a man.
When the dwarves had gone with Gallaudet, Fabien turned to her.
“It is as I expected. We will carry through with the plan to reach Dieppe. My response to the Queen Mother by lettre will give us another day to hear from the duchesse.”
She pondered the not-so-subtle statements in the Queen Mother’s summons and felt the muscles at the back of her neck tighten into knots.
Put to the Test
THE MOON WAS SETTING BEYOND THE HILLS OF THE FONTAINEBLEAU FOREST, and Andelot was well on his way southwest toward Vendôme.
After long hours of riding, he felt the need for rest and refreshment for himself and the golden bay. He drew the horse to a slower trot until he came to what he could make out as a hollow. He drew the reins, bringing the horse to a full stop, and listened above the soughing wind.
Below in the hollow, he could hear water cascading, which should mean a stream and tall tender grasses for his horse. The golden bay snorted restlessly in that direction. Andelot patted the horse’s neck.
“You smell your supper? Come, let us make use of the Lord’s provisions.”
He edged the horse forward off the road onto a narrow path and rode toward the hollow. The song o
f the stream and the wind in the trees mingled in a duet that grew in intensity. After a minute the water was in view, a dark opal in the starlight. The large stand of trees he took for fir. He swung to the ground and stretched, then walked the horse to the streambed and prepared a long tether where the grasses and water were easily reached. He loosened the saddle and took time to rub him down with some dry grasses.
The golden bay snorted and rolled an eye at him.
“By tomorrow afternoon, ami, we shall be taking our rest with your true master. You will have your fair oats, and I shall have my hot bread and maybe a leg or two of fat goose. And if you behave, I will have some apples sent out to you in secret.”
The horse stomped and shook its lustrous mane.
Andelot removed his cup from the saddlebag and went to the lively stream. He stooped to dip and drink, then spread a blanket under a tree. As he stretched out, hands interlocked behind his head, he shut his weary eyes and wondered if Marquis Fabien knew the Duc of Alva was at Fontainebleau. He must. There were many worrisome happenings to warn the marquis of when he saw him tomorrow.
Soon, lulled by the sighing wind and sound of water splashing over stones, his concerns ebbed as his tired mind gave way to sleep.
The uneasy whinny of the horse dragged him from slumber. He squinted toward the sun, now climbing in the sky. He looked toward the horse. Was it pulling at its tether? It was pawing the turf with one of its hooves.
Andelot scrambled to his feet and shook out his blanket. There was no time to waste. He must set off at once. The crunch of footsteps caused him to turn swiftly.
A half-circle of men-at-arms wearing the colors of the Comte Maurice Beauvilliers surrounded him. Andelot recognized the leering, hawkish faces of the comte’s lead men. Then he saw Maurice.
“Cousin Maurice!” he said in genuine surprise.
“How many times have I told you not to call me cousin?”
Andelot offered a stiff nod of his head. “As you wish, Comte Beauvilliers.”
“I tell you, Andelot, you will pay for your treachery to me.”
“Treachery!” Andelot pushed his hair back from his forehead.
“Where is the lettre from the duchesse that you carry to the marquis? Hand it over and I will spare your life at least. For I have no longing to see you dead and buried.”
He knew. How? “A lettre from Madame?”
“Do not play the game with me. It is the will of the king that Rachelle become my comtesse. He will not fault me for confronting the marquis for abducting her.”
“It is you, Comte, who has connived to abduct the mademoiselle and force an unwanted marriage.”
“So you persistently defend him. So be it. A sword!” he called to his men. He looked toward Andelot. “Do you suppose I have forgotten how you deliberately spilled wine on my white silk shirt in Oncle Sebastien’s appartement? I told you then to learn the blade, did I not? I gave you ample warning. And now! You will cross swords with me, I demand it on behalf of my honneur.”
“Your pride, Comte, exceeds the famed peacock, I vow it.”
One of Maurice’s men whipped out his rapier and offered it to Andelot with a mocking bow.
“If you know how to hold it.”
Andelot glared. “I know how to hold it. And I do not need your sword. I have one of my own.”
Ignoring hoots of laughter, he went to his baggage and took up his scabbard and buckled it on.
“When Marquis Fabien hears of this, you will pay profoundly, mon Comte.”
“He will have his own woes, I assure you.”
“If you kill me, he will see that you pay with your own life, of that I am certain.”
Maurice whipped out his rapier and held it menacingly.
“The lettre from Duchesse Dushane, where is it? Hand it over, Andelot.”
“You will not have it.”
Maurice lunged, and before Andelot could bring up his blade, Maurice’s rapier had darted off his hat. The move startled Andelot, and Maurice smiled.
“Come, mon petit. I shall teach you a few things about fighting with the blade.”
Andelot attempted to parry and thrust as Maurice came after him on light, dancing feet. He moved about Andelot flicking his shirt, his sleeve, his belt, toying with him as a cat with a captured mouse.
Andelot, humiliated, became more clumsy amid laughter from the men-at-arms. In a quick parry of whiplike blades, Maurice struck Andelot’s wrist with a sting that slackened his grip and sent Andelot’s sword tumbling to the ground.
“Come, come,” Maurice taunted with a wearied tone. “Can you not do better than this? A bon ami of Marquis de Vendôme? I would think such a famed corsair able to sink the Duc of Alva’s galleon would at least have taught you how to hold your blade.”
Andelot angrily snatched up his sword again and swung it. Maurice paused for an opening as Andelot’s blade passed, and he was on Andelot in a flash, the point of his rapier at the page’s jugular.
“I have you, Andelot.”
Andelot’s throat felt the threatening point. Sweat dribbled down his neck and his heart thudded painfully.
A poignant silence held them all; a gust of wind rustled the leaves in the branches above them.
“The lettre!”
Andelot gritted his teeth, but kept silent.
“Search him.” Maurice lifted his rapier, stepping back. “And his baggage.”
As two men laid hold of him, Andelot fought to free himself, landing a few good punches in his favor until a blow from a big fellow with a curling beard jarred his teeth and sent him reeling backward. Then the bearded giant held him down while two others searched him.
“Ho, you gargoyles! What need to destroy my garments — ”
One of them was using a long knife to rip through his tunic. In a moment he’d found the sealed lettre.
“I’ve got it, my lord Comte.”
“What shall we do with him now?” the other fellow asked.
“Look, there is a tree limb strong enough to hang him, Comte,” one of the men said.
Maurice sheathed his blade. “He is fit for naught but books and running errands for the marquis. I will spare him to go to his master, but he should be shorn of his locks and breeches. Cut off his hose, well above his knees.”
Andelot smarted under their laughter. He fought, but it was hopeless against so many. When they had finished with their sport, he was left with scant to cover his legs, and his brown locks were scattered on the ground around his bare feet.
“This, Andelot, is your reward for the wine on my silk shirt.” And with the sealed lettre in hand, Maurice turned his back, swaggered over to his horse, and mounted.
With grins on their faces, his men went to their horses, and with the comte’s colors fluttering boastfully in the wind, they rode off in triumph.
Andelot sat on the ground for several minutes before he pulled himself to his feet and limped over to the golden bay. He rummaged bitterly through his bag and saw that they had thrown his things about with contempt. His search grew more desperate. Those dogs! They had deliberately taken his extra pair of breeches and left him with nothing else to wear!
He formed fists, then snatched up his sword and looked at it grimly.
I shall learn to use this until I can best them all! And when I do —Eventually, his emotions spent, he threw the sword down and sank onto the blanket. Neither self-pity nor anger would aid him now. He must be practical. He must ride on to Vendôme regardless of the humiliation of arriving in such fare. He ran his stiff and bloodied fingers across his scalp, feeling the nicks and uneven condition of what once had been a fine head of hair.
I must look a pitiable creature.
He dug around for what scraps of food were left from the bread and cheese provided by the pasteur and nursed his downcast spirit. He took account of his situation with a cooler mind and decided that while he was physically bruised and battered, he was otherwise intact. It was his pride that was injured.
&nbs
p; How can I show myself like this to Marquis Fabien and Mademoiselle Rachelle? And the lettre! Gone. What now? Regardless, I must go on to Vendôme to warn the marquis.
He picked up the sword again. His fingers closed about the hilt tightly. His burning rage demanded the satisfaction of revenge. I will let my studies wait. I will think of nothing except learning to be the best swordsman in France. I will have my satisfaction.
He gritted his teeth.
This time I will not forgive.
The Broken Lock
MARQUIS FABIEN SUSPECTED THINGS WERE NOT AS THEY APPEARED. The Queen Mother’s dwarves had departed soon after sunrise, carrying his lettre to the Queen Mother. It was afternoon when he called for Gallaudet.
“We should have heard from the duchesse by now. With or without her permission, I’m taking mademoiselle in marriage tonight. We leave tonight for Dieppe to await the ship.”
Gallaudet went to the wardrobe, setting out a handsome attire of rich black-and-silver Genoa velvets for the marquis to wear.
Fabien heard the blast of a horn announcing a horseman’s arrival and he hailed his page to see who it was. The sound of a trotting horse followed by the uproar of hounds barking in the courtyard, came with a foreboding remembrance of the arrival of the dwarves the day before.
Gallaudet went to the balustrade. “A lone horseman, Monseigneur — a stranger. He looks injured — but he is riding the golden bay! But it is not Andelot — Sainte Barbe! It is Andelot!”
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