Threads of Silk

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  While the duc and cardinal were speaking to the Duc of Alva, Catherine leaned her head toward Francis.

  “Remember, my son: with the Bourbon Prince Louis in the dungeon, and his brother Prince Antoine under palais arrest, sending the marquis to Spain might be the final stroke that provokes a religious civil war from their Huguenot serfs. Remember also who it is that becomes stronger if the Bourbons become weaker in France.”

  “If I do not do as the duc and cardinal advise, Madame Mother, there may be war with Spain. I do not see how I can prevent turning the marquis over to Alva,” Francis whispered.

  BELOW THE PLATFORM, NOT far from where Rachelle stood under guard, a disturbance erupted among the soldiers coming from the castle. Her tormented gaze sought Fabien.

  Just then, she heard a racket, followed by a bellow from a horn. Maurice, garbed in a crimson and black tunic, was followed by five guards roughly escorting a prisoner to a place just below the platform.

  Rachelle stood a mere twenty feet to the side so that her full gaze fell upon the prisoner. She sucked in a tormented breath. Fabien!

  The king’s guardsmen were on either side and behind him, and there was blood on his face and on the side and front of his ripped tunic. A stab wound from Maurice’s treacherous rapier?

  Rachelle could see that he’d opposed his enemy in a laudable battle. He wore that resolute expression she knew so well and had come to respect and love. Viewing the garment he had worn as her bridegroom torn and bloodied was almost more than her heart could endure.

  She fought back tears. Despite his rugged stance and unbowed head, she could see that he was suffering. He appeared to lose his balance for a moment, and she cried out in alarm. At once her voice arrested his attention, and his head swerved in her direction. For an agonizing moment their eyes met and held.

  Rachelle snatched her arm from the guard, breaking free. She bolted toward Fabien.

  Grabbed by a guard, she was pulled back.

  “Let me go to my husband. Let go of me! Let go — ”

  There was a commotion. She saw Fabien had broken free of his guards. He caught hold of Maurice’s shoulder, spun him round, and a solid fist thudded into his jaw. Maurice was knocked off his feet and landed hard backward on the court.

  One of the guards struck Fabien, and Rachelle screamed her rage, but Fabien did not go down. Another guard struck him from behind, and finally the others wrestled him down.

  The Queen Mother stood.

  “Cease, you fools! You will reopen the Bourbon’s wound!” Her voice carried loudly where her son’s did not, and everyone looked up at the platform, startled and uncertain.

  In the tumult of the brawl, Rachelle’s guard was distracted. She ran forward and knelt before the Queen Mother.

  “I beg of you to intervene, Madame.”

  A look of pleasure flashed across Catherine’s face. She threw a victorious glance in Fabien’s direction, as though desiring him to see his wife pleading for his life to be spared. At the traumatic moment Rachelle did not care. She would do most anything to free him if she could.

  “The Marquis de Vendôme is loyal to France and a friend of His Majesty the King. The marquis has done nothing to receive such treatment as has befallen him.” Rachelle flung a hand toward Maurice who was being aided to his feet, his hand held against his jaw. “The Comte Beauvilliers is small of spirit and jealous of the marquis who is a messire of honor.”

  The Queen Mother’s face was immobile. Francis leaned forward.

  “You are now the Marquise de Vendôme?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. We married two days ago at the Bourbon palais château. But this monsieur — ” She pointed again to Maurice.

  “Sire,” Duc de Guise said, fretting with his beard. “This distraction has nothing to do with the crime of high treason on the seas in which the Marquis de Vendôme and his crew of corsairs attacked, looted, and sank several ships of the King of Spain, destroying the lives of hundreds of soldiers who went down off the Spanish Netherlands!”

  “He is innocent, Monseigneur. The corsairs you speak of were English corsairs!” Rachelle called to Duc de Guise. “The marquis is a lawful privateer sailing under a marque from Queen Elizabeth.”

  “Ah?” came the cold response of the Spanish Duc of Alva.

  “Rachelle . . .” Fabien’s weakened voice came with great effort from some distance behind her. “Be still . . .”

  She turned, alarmed that she may have spoken unwittingly.

  Maurice pushed his way forward to stand beside her. His face was bruised, and he dabbed at his cut mouth with a bloodied kerchief. Rage made his gray eyes glow. “Your Majesty, there are no witnesses to the ‘innocence’ of the marquis as the mademoiselle unwisely claims out of her duress. The marquis’ ship, the Reprisal, is not an English vessel but a French man-of-war, with ‘French’ corsairs — like that one!” He turned and pointed, lifting his lace-encrusted wrist, now stained with blood, toward Gallaudet.

  “And at this moment, Your Majesty, that buccaneering vessel, in the absence of its true capitaine — ” he now pointed at Fabien — “Capitaine Fabien de Bourbon, is commanded by one who is just as nefarious —Capitaine Nappier.”

  Fabien was now being held by several rugged guards who held his arms behind him, but his head was lowered against his chest as though he struggled with consciousness.

  “It is the same Nappier, Your Majesty, who abandoned his post at the Royal Armory in Paris over a year ago to sail the vessel for the marquis. I now have information from one of his guards that the marquis was about to flee to Dieppe with my fiancée to meet that same Nappier and board his ship for Plymouth, England. Whereupon they would make even more attacks on Spanish galleons under the secret approval of England’s heretic Queen Elizabeth.”

  Another commotion broke out as Maurice’s detailed betrayal of their plans was being unmasked before all. Gallaudet wrested free of his guard and threw himself at Maurice. “You dawcock, you have no honor — ” He was brought down by guards who were now thoroughly alert.

  Gallaudet was already bloodied and bruised from the valiant fight he had put up to keep Rachelle from being taken in the woods. Andelot had a bruise on his cheekbone, and his arm was wrapped in a bloodstained cloth, evidence of the same fight. Such loyalty is not easily come by, Rachelle reflected, her throat dry and cramping from her emotions.

  “Your Majesty, having defeated Marquis de Vendôme in a duel, I ask that he be turned over to me as my prisoner,” Maurice said. “I shall have him guarded at the Beauvilliers estate in Clermont.”

  “Your prisoner?” the Duke of Alva’s nostrils flared. He turned sharply toward the Duc de Guise. “Unheard of! Your king surely errs if he does not appease my King Philip. I am expected to return with the brigand marquis to Madrid.”

  Rachelle whirled toward the Queen Mother with outstretched hand.

  Catherine leaned forward from her chair with a stern frown toward Maurice, as though angry that his boast of taking Fabien a prisoner had riled an even stronger opponent than the Duc de Guise — the Duc of Alva. She struck a hand toward the guards to silence Maurice.

  Maurice stepped swiftly aside and bowed low, as though he realized he’d gone too far and was in danger of royal displeasure. Rachelle glared at him, but his eyes were on Alva, who looked with disdain upon all that he had witnessed.

  The Queen Mother turned to Francis, who was looking more ill by the moment. Rachelle could rise above her own dilemma to feel a pang of sympathy for him. She heard the Queen Mother say, “This matter must be delved into, my son. We must not make the grave error of sending a messire of such blooded nobility to face the wrath of Spain. Remember, your grandfather was a king, and was held a prisoner of Spain, and was shamed for it. If there are witnesses of the marquis’ innocence of piracy, as the mademoiselle says, then we must hear them before deciding such a serious matter.”

  Did the Queen Mother believe Fabien innocent, or was this a delaying tactic to thwart the Duc of Alva
? Whatever the cause, Rachelle held her breath, hoping Francis would use the opportunity his mother had presented in his ear.

  Francis stirred as if forcing himself awake to think. “Yes, we must have all the facts, Monseigneur Alva,” Francis said quickly. He added gravely, lifting a hand to Catherine, “I trust you, Madame, to see that we come to the truth in this matter.”

  The Cardinal de Lorraine, his crimson robes rustling, the silver cross on his chest glimmering with rubies and diamonds, moved closer to the Spanish duc. His voice came snidely for all to hear: “As you see, my lord Duc, France embraces the bravest of sovereigns.”

  Rachelle’s hopes crashed again.

  “And do not forget France also embraces the most saintly of cardinals,” came Catherine’s smooth retort.

  The cardinal smiled coolly at her.

  The Queen Mother turned to the captain of the king’s guard. “At the king’s command, take Marquis de Vendôme to the dungeons.”

  Rachelle bowed. “Madame, I beg of you to allow me to stay at Amboise near — ”

  The Queen Mother did not favor her with a glance. She stood, her black gown rustling in the breeze, and flicked a hand of dismissal toward the guards, indicating that she wished no more pleadings, then turned her back toward the courtyard.

  Rachelle jerked her head toward Maurice, who hovered nearby as if to make sure Fabien was indeed bolted into a dungeon. “You!” she said with contempt. “You betrayed your cousin Fabien — and Andelot. You are selfish to the core of your heart, Maurice.”

  Maurice’s mouth curved with a cool smile. His limpid eyes ran over her.

  “Your so-called marriage, mademoiselle, will not stand the test of the church or of time. That, I promise you. You will see me again. And when you do, you will cooperate or be sorry you did not.”

  She jerked her head away, hoping to discourage him from the idea that he cared for her.

  The guards propelled her away from the courtyard toward the Amboise castle.

  Weary and heartsick, she looked back over her shoulder, trying for one last glimpse of Fabien, to speak her love in a glance, but he was no longer in sight. If I held no faith in God’s purposes, I should utterly despair.

  INSIDE THE AMBOISE CASTLE with its cold stone walls and footsteps echoing in the imposing corridors, the Queen Mother bit back her anger. Threats! Always threats from Spain. She faced the sullen Duc of Alva and the angry Duc de Guise.

  “Madame, you have caused the young king to err in this needless delay,” Guise stated.

  “Ah, my restless and impatient ducs,” she cajoled with a meaningless smile at both men. “I assure you, the king will make the final decision after he has rested himself this afternoon in his chamber. He is not well, as you have seen. The docteur insists that my son rest himself. Meanwhile — ” she turned with a sober nod toward her enemy, Alva —“the duc can also rest assured that his concerns for His Majesty King Philip will be given the utmost consideration. The marquis will be confined as securely in his dungeon as his Bourbon kinsman, Prince Louis, is in his.”

  The semblance of a smile showed on Alva’s sharp features, tanned by his months on the fields of battle. He nodded his head.

  “Let us hope so, Madame, for the sake of your son the king and for your sake as well. Be assured that we have much to talk over. I bring many words from my master, His Most Christian Majesty, Philip.” He bowed deeply with false congeniality and walked away, his black polished boots clicking on the marble floor.

  Reptile, she thought, maintaining her own misleading smile.

  The captain of the guard bowed to the cardinal, who’d been listening to her exchange with Alva.

  “Monseigneur, what does my lord wish me to do with this student of Scholar Thauvet?” He pointed toward Andelot Dangeau, who stood alone some feet away.

  Catherine too paused. Andelot was looking after the marquis, who was being taken by six armed guards toward the Amboise dungeons beneath the fortress castle.

  “I request with all humility, Monseigneur,” Andelot called, hastening a deep bow, “to accompany Marquis Fabien to his dungeon that I may attend him. He is in a fevered condition and I — ”

  “Andelot, keep silent,” the cardinal broke in with a voice to bring a shudder. “You trouble yourself far too much with this traitorous marquis. I have said so before. You have paid too little heed to your superiors and kinsman. And it is I who shall deal with you, my nephew, a wayward scholar-in-training.”

  Catherine resented the cardinal’s bold interjection. Not that she cared about the young monsieur called Andelot. She had hardly been aware of him, though she knew of him at court. She took a hard look at him.

  Duc de Guise interrupted her thoughts, speaking to the cardinal. “Andelot remains a boy to be trained.” He waved an indifferent hand. “Let him return to Thauvet.”

  “A boy!” scoffed the cardinal. “Come, come, my brother.”

  “He remains our responsibility. Now more than ever,” the duc said with impatience.

  Catherine looked from the cardinal to the duc. She wondered at what appeared to be an insignificant exchange between the brothers. But was it?

  The duc is not known for a spirit of lenience toward one whom he thinks has wronged him. Andelot Dangeau’s favorable interest in the marquis should annoy him. Why then, is he coming to the young man’s aid? Did he entertain plans to use Andelot for some future purpose? Most likely. Andelot too would bear watching.

  She turned her unblinking gaze upon Duc de Guise, studying him. There was nothing about him she liked, from the scar on his cheek and eyelid taken in a battle for France, to his small, mean mouth and self-righ teous eyes. The duc and cardinal had shown some interest in the young monsieur whom they laconically received as a kinsman. Was not Duchesse Dushane sponsoring him as a student of the respected Thauvet? There was something odd here.

  Even so, she did not wish for Andelot to be providing the marquis’ encouragement in the Amboise dungeon. She wanted the marquis in a weakened condition of mind and spirit when she called upon him in a few weeks — worried about Rachelle and in confusion over what would befall her and Gallaudet. She wanted the marquis without hope.

  LIKE A RAT IN A TRAP!

  Marquis Fabien’s first response to his captivity and the treacherous triumph of Maurice and the Queen Mother was rage. He came alert again as the guards hauled him across the courtyard toward the dungeons. He fought his captors every inch of the way as they struggled to haul him into the stone cell beneath the Amboise castle. He managed to break free of their grasp. His fist smashed the first jaw that came within reach. They jumped on him, wrestling him to the floor.

  “Where is Maurice! I will tear him limb from limb!”

  Someone ran up shouting orders. “I am his docteur! Careful, he is bleeding.”

  “Docteur, the marquis is going mad!”

  Fabien felt some strong vapors held by the docteur over his nose and mouth, and after a short struggle he sank into a strange oblivion.

  When he opened his eyes, he was in a dim cell with one small high window with bars. A candle flickered on a small table. He was lying on a low mattress feeling hot — then damp and chilled. He clamped his jaw to keep his teeth silent. Rage surged through him again with the memory of Rachelle.

  Fevered, with a persistent and sickening pain in his side, he tried to get to his feet, but his head throbbed and the cell began to sway as though he were aboard a vessel in a storm.

  He spied the docteur, a gaunt figure with high cheekbones, mixing something in a cup. In Fabien’s fevered condition, he saw him as the offender responsible for his woes. He glared and fumbled a hand for his sword.

  The docteur’s grim gaze measured him. “Messire, if you are expecting to find your rapier, you are more feverish than I anticipated.” He walked over, looked down at Fabien, and extended a cup. “Here, drink this. You will need it. I intend to clean debris from your wound. Infection has already begun. You are fortunate, nonetheless. The blade miss
ed your vital organs. Next time, messire, if there is a next time, do not turn your back on Comte Beauvilliers.”

  “Next time I will kill him.”

  The docteur held the cup to his lips. Thinking it wine, Fabien gulped willingly, then gagged and knocked the cup away.

  “Slime!” He spat out the last gulp angrily and again tried to get to his feet.

  The docteur raised himself up with grave dignity. “Marquis, it is a valuable herbal medicine that I discovered during my travels to Istanbul.”

  “Istanbul — mille diables!” Fabien said with scorn, trying to get up.

  “Do not be a spoiled patient.” The docteur motioned calmly to the guards to subdue Fabien. “This will be painful, messire.”

  “Spoiled! I am not afraid of pain. It is not the pain that riles me. I want to know what they did with the marquise!”

  “Messire?” The docteur looked down at him as though he thought Fabien were delirious.

  “What did they do with my wife?”

  “Do you not mean Mademoiselle Macquinet?”

  “I mean my wife, Marquise Rachelle de Vendôme! We were married at my palais. If anything happens to her, I will get free and kill them!”

  “Ah. She was taken under guard with Andelot Dangeau to Fontaine- bleau. Your belligerent page — I believe his name is Gallaudet — has also been subdued at last with something to make him sleep, such as I will give you. He is below you — ” he pointed to the floor — “in the dungeon. I will be treating his injuries after I have finished with you.”

  Fabien’s anger calmed. So, then Rachelle was with Andelot. He felt a little assuaged. They would both be held at Fontainebleau. Gallaudet was alive. He would be taken care of. Fabien slowly laid his head back down and stared evenly up at the docteur.

  “When will I see the Queen Mother?”

  The docteur shook his head. “Of that, Messire, I have no such knowledge. I hardly know of Her Majesty.”