Threads of Silk

by Linda Lee Chaikin

“Do not call me ‘cousin,’ ” Fabien said disdainfully, mocking Maurice.

  “Do you not always throw those same words into Andelot’s face? You are but a Beauvilliers. I am a royal Bourbon.” Fabien stood on the stairway, looking down at him. “And who might this superior be that I have offended? You? A comte by marriage?”

  Maurice’s nostrils flared. “You, Marquis de Vendôme, are under arrest in the name of the king. Ha! What think you of that? Where is my fiancée by the will of His Majesty?”

  “Such dreadful manners you have, Maurice. You break down my door, barge into my palais, join an attack against my men-at-arms, and then dare to call Rachelle your fiancée? You even make boast of the king as your sponsor in this outrageous behavior. I tell you, such haughtiness is beyond reason.”

  Maurice took a step forward. “I have come to claim what is mine, Marquis de Vendôme.”

  Fabien leaned against the rail as though bored. Had Gallaudet and Andelot gotten Rachelle into the forest yet?

  “Do you dare fault His Majesty the King of France for granting Rachelle to be my wife?” Maurice shook out the perfumed lace at his cuff.

  “I do, undoubtedly. It will be most ignominious, I assure you.”

  Maurice dropped a hand on his narrow hip. “Need I warn you that when such words reach the throne they will be considered traitorous, Marquis?”

  “Have you a missive signed and sealed by King Francis de Valois?” Fabien asked silkily. It would not be surprising if Maurice did have such a lettre.

  Maurice glanced about the salle at Fabien’s grim-faced men-at-arms facing him with drawn blades. Behind him, just outside the entranceway, there stood at least a dozen. Fabien knew there were more soldiers in the courtyard awaiting instructions, but from whom would they take orders? Guise was not here, and Fabien could not conceive of the duc’s proud guard leader surrendering his command to Maurice.

  “A royal missive? Aha! You shall soon find out just what King Francis thinks of you now, Marquis. There will soon be issued a lettre for your arrest on charges of piracy against Spain.”

  “Soon? You mean you do not have it with you while daring to thrust your uninvited company into my castle? I ought to string you up on the highest rafter for your uncivilized manners.”

  Maurice was taking all of the bait Fabien was tossing him, arguing back and using up time, time so precious for Gallaudet.

  “Your ami, the king, will do nothing to protect you this time, Marquis; not with the Duc of Alva at his side and Duc de Guise and Cardinal de Lorraine supporting Spain’s call for your arrest.”

  “Should I be surprised to hear that the Guises are loyal to Spain? They are nothing but King Philip’s legates. The charge of piracy must be proven before I can be considered guilty. If I fought Spain under legal letters of marque from Holland or England, I am not a pirate but an honorable privateer.”

  Maurice waved his hand. “I have naught to say of that. However, I shall make you a bargain. Relinquish Mademoiselle Rachelle to me now, and I will tell my men to step aside. You can spare your own life and your chevaliers’ lives and ride out free.”

  Fabien smiled. “And ride into a trap that you and Guise’s men have deceitfully agreed upon? You would then have mademoiselle without even a duel. And Guise would have the satisfaction of presenting me to the Duc of Alva. Ah ça non! You must take me for a fool, Maurice. Non, now that you are here, there are grave matters that must be settled between us. But as for la belle des belles, you have been foiled. She is now Marquise Rachelle de Vendôme. We were married before you arrived.”

  Maurice stared. Color came into his cheeks and he let out a furious cry.

  A horn blasted from outside. The boom of a drumbeat signaled the drawing of weapons in preparation for battle. Guise’s soldiers began moving to take the castle.

  Maurice waved his sword with a vicious flourish and bounded toward Fabien, who threw aside his cumbersome scabbard and baldric to meet Maurice’s lunge. Fabien took his footing to meet the onslaught and parried as their blades clashed and ground together, the two swordsmen testing and feeling each other’s skills. Soldiers followed, bursting through the open door into the salle as Fabien’s swordsmen threw themselves into the fray. The salle erupted into warfare, the clash and ring of steel upon steel.

  Maurice advanced, then leapt aside, testing Fabien’s guard at each engagement with catlike movements as he circled.

  Fabien’s confidence and precise moves caused Maurice to attack with fury. Fabien deflected a thrust and parried with a swift unexpected counterthrust that drove Maurice back from his stance. Maurice recovered and moved in more cautiously.

  They fought, thrusting, circling, parrying. Their blades clashed, disengaged, then met again, testing each other. Around them, Fabien’s men-at-arms were in clashes of their own, steel ringing against steel as they held off Maurice’s loyals and the Guise guards. Tables were hurled, chairs crashed, shouts and insults bounced from wall to wall.

  Fabien found an opening and thrust, feeling his point tear cloth. Maurice flinched; a spot of blood seeped through his sleeve. He came at Fabien, feinted and lunged, springing away. Fabien moved in again swiftly. They circled, their swords flashing, seeking, caressing. Fabien feigned a disengagement only to swipe Maurice’s peacock feather from his red velvet hat.

  Maurice glared and wiped the sweat from his forehead, realizing he had taken on a swordsman who was testing his skills beyond any he had fought at the armory.

  From the corner of his eye, Fabien saw Captain Dumas, the traitor, in a battle for his life with one of Fabien’s men. In one swift thrust of his sword, the guard rammed Dumas through his chest.

  Maurice advanced again and again, sweating profusely. Fabien’s blade consistently met his, turning it aside. Maurice thrust high. Fabien parried lightly with the forte of his blade and countered promptly, but Maurice swept the blade aside and lunged for the shoulder. “Aha! Blood for blood!” Maurice cried with pomp.

  Angered, Fabien attacked with cold deliberation. When Maurice was momentarily unguarded, Fabien’s blade nicked his cheek.

  “As you boasted,” Fabien said.

  Maurice looked shaken but leapt away. Fabien whirled and thrust. Maurice parried late, and Fabien’s point, driving straight at Maurice’s breast, was barely deflected by an upward swing.

  After several such engagements, Fabien didn’t follow up Maurice’s backward leap, so Maurice could pause for breath.

  “What ails you, my dashing comte? And now, may you taste the humiliation that you forced upon young Andelot, a far better man than you. You are but a messire who hounds pups that you may imagine yourself master of the pack.”

  Fabien could see anguish creeping over Maurice’s face as he anticipated approaching defeat.

  Fabien’s sword point leapt past and again flicked him, this time in the neck. Maurice’s face was pale with the heat of flush, smeared with sweat and blood.

  Fabien gave no more pauses but kept up the vigorous attack, forcing Maurice to concentrate on defense. Maurice continued to fall back. Fabien pursued relentlessly, avoiding a death thrust but punishing the comte, forcing Maurice to taste humiliation and futility.

  Finally, he stepped back. “Did you truly fancy yourself the chief swordsman at court? You are indeed a wonder, Maurice.”

  Thus goaded, Maurice bounded forward, wasting his energy. Fabien sidestepped to avoid a thrust, but as they disengaged Fabien missed his footing.

  “Ho!” Maurice breathed jubilantly. “I am not finished yet!”

  “You will be!”

  Fabien came in close; Maurice would not be put off. Following a parried thrust, he found the opening he sought. Fabien made a thrust at Maurice’s throat, but despite his anger with him, he did not wish to press it home. As Maurice swept Fabien’s blade aside, his neck was cut again. Maurice dropped low and crouched in an Italian lunge, intending an upward thrust into Fabien’s chest.

  Fabien sidestepped Maurice’s low lunge, and Maurice lost his
footing. Fabien, with his left hand, landed a sharp blow to the back of Maurice’s neck, and he went down. A push in the right spot with his boot sent Maurice over on his face, his sword clattering on the floor.

  Standing over Maurice as he lay prone, Fabien placed his point at the back of Maurice’s neck.

  “It is over, Maurice. You have been sorely defeated.”

  He withdrew his blade, and Maurice pushed himself up to his knees, catching his breath. They locked gazes for a long moment, then Maurice threw up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

  “Well played!” Maurice admitted with a sigh. “Your triumph, Marquis.”

  Fabien stepped aside, catching his breath and wiping the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his Holland shirt. “If I had the time I would shave your conceited mustache and send you to Fontainebleau with your breeches cut off at the thigh.”

  Maurice groaned.

  Fabien was weary of him and glanced around the salle as confusion reigned. There were injured and dying men everywhere. Furniture was overturned, and irreplaceable statues and vases broken. He saw one of his men swing from a chandelier, then connect with a Guise captain, knocking him down to the floor before finishing him with a short blade.

  Fabien caught a movement from the corner of his eye. He turned to see Maurice lunge toward him, sword in hand. Fabien moved out of his path, avoiding the full force of Maurice’s thrust into his side. But Maurice did nick him. He went down.

  Maurice stomped on Fabien’s hand and kicked his blade across the corridor out of reach. Maurice grasped his sword hilt with both hands and was about to plunge it through Fabien’s chest when a heavy brass urn from farther down the corridor smashed into his head, sending him reeling. Maurice collapsed, unconscious.

  Fabien turned onto his side, looked down at his bloodied clothing, and tried to raise himself. The bloody floor made his hand slip, and he went down again. A moment later he opened his eyes to a pair of small red leather boots with gold spangles. Through blurred vision he looked up at one of the Queen Mother’s twin dwarves. So they had returned with Guise’s soldiers.

  Fabien looked past the dwarf. Four soldiers faced him with drawn swords.

  The dwarf shook his bountiful black ringlets.

  “Ta, ta, Monseigneur. You should be duly ashamed of your trusting spirit. You turned your back on the serpentine comte, believing him a true brother at heart.” He bent over Fabien and wagged a finger at him. “You should have thrust him through when you had your point on his neck. But — alas! Her Majesty wishes to see you, as I said several days ago. We cannot have you delivered to Fontainebleau a corpse now, can we? Therefore my aim with the brass urn was excellent, was it not?” He straightened to his full height. “I could have sent my dagger through the comte’s heart, but he is still needed by Her Majesty.” He looked over at Maurice, whose chin slumped upon his chest, his arms extended outward from his sides. The dwarf shook his head again.

  “The comte may have headaches for the next few days. I shall send him one of my herbal teas to help.” He chuckled, then turned and spoke to someone — no, to several. Guise’s soldiers had invaded the corridor, obviously having overcome his own men-at-arms. The dwarf gave an order: “Stop the rambunctious Marquis de Vendôme’s bleeding. Then hold him in the name of the king.”

  “What about the mademoiselle?” an insolent voice demanded. “I was told to bring her as well.”

  “Search every chamber. She is here. I saw her loveliness but yesterday. The Queen Mother wants her most unaltered. Put the marquis in chains. We will ride out tonight.”

  Foes

  MARQUIS FABIEN DE VENDÔME, WEAKENED FROM THE WOUND IN his side, felt heavy chains binding his wrists behind him as he walked between armed guards across a familiar stone arcade that in his memory was both hallowed and nefarious. He thought it ironic that he should end up in the very Amboise castle courtyard where two thousand Huguenots were murdered by axmen at the behest of the Queen Mother and the Guises nearly two years ago. It was here that he had vowed to strike against Spain’s wars of inquisition, and it was here that he would answer for sinking the Duc of Alva’s galleon and several smaller vessels bringing soldiers and weapons to reinforce their massacre of Protestants in Holland.

  He looked toward the royal stand with fringed canopy, the Queen Mother in her usual black gown with severe coif to the right of King Francis, and the Cardinal de Lorraine and Duc de Guise just behind and to the left of him. Francis looked unusually tired and pale, his young shoulders slumping. Reinette Mary was not present. Beside the Duc de Guise stood the infamous Duc of Alva, Spain’s chief war general for the inquisition and spokesman for King Philip of Spain. He was here to protest France’s failure in the eyes of Rome and Spain to rid the land of its Huguenots. This was the man Fabien was sure would rejoice to have his head on a platter to carry back to Spain.

  “What better gift for the Duc of Alva than my capture?” Fabien murmured to the guards. “I am in bonne company — where is the dungeon with Prince Louis de Condé?”

  The guards looked uncomfortable but kept silent.

  Fabien stared at the royal assemblage. His staunch gaze crossed with Duc de Guise, who glowered self-righteously, then with the Duc of Alva, who looked victoriously smug. His black eyes raked Fabien.

  A pity you were not aboard your fancy galleon when we sent it to the bottom!

  RACHELLE’S HEART SLAMMED AGAINST HER RIBCAGE. Where is he? her thoughts screamed. Where is Fabien? What have they done with him? Did they surrender her beloved to the infamous Duc of Alva? Please, Lord, anything but that! I cannot live and endure the thought that Fabien is a galley slave on Alva’s ship!

  Royal guardsmen and soldiers serving Duc de Guise appeared in number in the courtyard at Amboise castle. Beneath a canopied platform, the Queen Mother sat still. The breeze ruffled her coif and the black hem of her skirt. She reminded Rachelle of a winged black carrion crow ready to swoop down upon her prize.

  Beside the Queen Mother, the young king, thin, pale, and looking ill, slumped in his throne, vulnerable between the two dominating figures standing beside him, the militaristic Duc de Guise and his brother, the Cardinal de Lorraine. They were smiling!

  Rachelle clamped her hands into fists until her nails dug into her palms, fully aware of the guards at her elbows. She stood a short distance from the royal platform, a prisoner with Andelot and Gallaudet. While escaping the Bourbon palais château they had been overtaken in the woods by a band of Guise’s soldiers and brought here to Amboise, where they’d been told Fabien was being held a prisoner of the king.

  They were amused! The duc and cardinal were laughing and exchanging what appeared to be glib remarks with a dark-haired Spaniard with hawkish features and a short pointed beard. This must be the notorious Duc of Alva, the terror of the Dutch Protestants. Her heart throbbed as she read their victorious smiles. The cardinal, in spotless white and crimson, turned his head and spoke to Alva. He was here to collect the prize who had sunk his galleon and to haul Fabien away in cruel chains as a gift to King Philip of Spain.

  Again Rachelle scanned the courtyard with anxiety eating at her heart. Where was Fabien?

  SEATED ON THE PLATFORM over the courtyard, the Queen Mother tightened her fingers around the armrests of her royal chair and fixed her gaze below, where soon the marquis would be brought before the king for judgment.

  The marquis had showed boldness and resolve in marrying the Macquinet belle couturière, but now, along with piracy against Spain, he must pay for his rash actions.

  If only my weak son possessed some of the marquis’ stubborn determination. Then I would not need to worry about the Guises manipulating the throne of France.

  Duc de Guise, standing at the elbow of her son, fumed, for as Catherine knew, he wanted no delays where the marquis was concerned. Guise would be pleased to see the marquis dead — just as he had seen the marquis’ father dead at Calais? She heard him muttering into his ginger-colored beard and beginning to pace abo
ut the platform at the delay. She would have liked to make some barbed retort to him, for she despised his rigid self-righ teous ness, but dared not. They were too powerful for her to openly oppose. She must move behind the scenes on shoeless feet, keeping her feelings toward him and the cardinal a smiling mask, just the way she had kept herself seemingly humble and unknowing when her husband had openly scorned her in public while honoring his mistress.

  Just thinking of these humiliations made her angry. She forced herself to put them from her mind and fixed her gaze on Cardinal de Lorraine standing behind the king. The cardinal wore his familiar scornful little smile, as though bored by an inconsequential fuss. The Duc of Alva, all in black, stood in austere silence, the essence of Spanish pride. His hands dripped with Protestant blood. Since his severe master wanted this infamous “corsair” marquis brought to Spain, there would be no relenting of Alva’s purpose unless she thought quickly to counteract his plans. If Alva had his way, the marquis would soon be a galley slave on his way to Madrid.

  Duc de Guise leaned down toward Francis and spoke in a low urgent voice that Catherine could just barely hear.

  “Do you not see, sire, that to be rid of such a dangerous messire in France is to your benefit?”

  This constant chipping away at the ailing young Francis was wearing him down.

  “I do not see that Marquis de Vendôme has done me harm.” Francis’s voice rose in its usual soft nasal twang caused by a breathing problem from which he had long suffered.

  “Sire,” came Cardinal de Lorraine’s scornful tone, “sinking Spanish galleons is both a harm and an affront to all France.”

  “If the marquis did sink the Duc of Alva’s galleon . . .” Francis ventured.

  “There is no question of that, sire. The marquis boasts of it,” Duc de Guise said in an impatient voice.

  Francis and the marquis had been friends since they were boys, and Catherine was aware of the king’s reluctance to move against him. She was not supposed to know, but even her daughter, Princesse Marguerite, had sent a secret message to Francis asking that he not turn the marquis over to the Duc of Alva. Marguerite had once thought to begin one of her many flirtations with the marquis, but he had been wiser than most.