Threads of Silk

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  Fabien gave a hard laugh. “You will.”

  “I am new at court, having ended my long medical travels in the East. I was recommended at court by the royal surgeon, Ambroise le Pare, the king’s personal physician. And now, I will need to treat this infection or you shall surely succumb to it.”

  Fabien gave a nod of assent.

  Weary, his mind growing lazy from the effects of whatever he had swallowed, he was now noticing how sick and exhausted he was. He closed his eyes, and his thoughts drifted into a listless fog.

  SCORNED

  November found the leaves on the deciduous trees about Fontainebleau preparing for an autumn of crimson and gold. Rachelle kept track of the days since her arrival at Fontainebleau. Three weeks had passed. The chill that had settled over her heart made it seem as though it was already winter. She was locked in her chamber with none permitted to call upon her except Madame Trudeau, the older maid sent by the Queen Mother.

  Rachelle spent her long days and nights of isolation wondering about Fabien. She touched her wedding ring, remembering those final moments on the stairway in Vendôme. She feared the ring would be taken from her. She’d seen the humorless Madame Trudeau looking at it with no favor in her bleak eyes. Rachelle stood from the gilt brocade chair where she’d been praying. She heard footsteps in the outer corridor, then the familiar rattle of the key in the lock. The heavy ornate door opened boldly and her keeper entered in her usual heedless manner. This time she was not alone. A young girl tottered behind her, carrying the evening tray.

  “Your dinner, Mademoiselle — ”

  “Merely set it on the table, Thérèse. No need to prattle on in this fashion.” Madame Trudeau folded her hands in front of her long black skirts.

  “Oui, Madame.”

  “I am sure Mademoiselle Macquinet does not wish to be interrupted in her meditation.”

  Rachelle ignored the impertinence. Madame Trudeau was a distant relation to the Comtesse Françoise Dangeau-Beauvilliers, Maurice’s mère. As such, she would be loyal to her kinswoman and in sympathy with her unhappiness over Maurice’s discontented spirit.

  Rachelle had tried to get Madame Trudeau to talk whenever she came to her, eager for news about Fabien as well as Andelot and Gallaudet, but the older woman retained a distant demeanor. No doubt this was why she’d been chosen to be her keeper. This afternoon, however, the woman seemed to linger. When the maid had accomplished her duties and departed, Madame Trudeau stood near the closed door. Whatever little appetite Rachelle had was spoiled by the woman’s presence. Her face was angular and white, her eyes perfectly round and dark, like two polished wood buttons.

  “Did Comtesse Beauvilliers send for you to come to court recently, Madame?” said Rachelle.

  “Mademoiselle, I have been my kinswoman’s most trusted lady since before you were born. I have also seen you about on many occasions and was at Chambord when you and your Grandmère were couturières for Princesse Marguerite and Reinette Mary Stuart. I was also at Amboise during the treasonous act of the Huguenots and saw them justly beheaded. That you have not seen me heretofore may speak more of your giddy behavior than of my absence.”

  “Madame, I have never been giddy, as you suggest. Had I been so, Her Majesty would not have chosen me to become Princesse Marguerite’s maid-of-honor.”

  “A noble position, Mademoiselle, which you disgraced by fleeing to Lyon without leave of Her Majesty or the princesse.”

  She could not easily deny it, at least the part about fleeing to her home, the Château de Silk in Lyon. She might have told her that she now had a far greater blight upon her, that of having Madalenna catch her spying upon the Queen Mother at the quay in Paris. Madame Trudeau, evidently, had not learned of this. Rachelle was waiting for the Sword of Damocles to fall on her, but as yet she had not even been called before the Queen Mother. Rachelle’s lingering anticipation made it all the more stressful — that, and worrying and wondering about Fabien.

  “You seem to know a good deal about me,” Rachelle said.

  She glanced at Rachelle. “Comte Maurice speaks incessantly of you.”

  Rachelle ignored that. “You do not like me. Surely it isn’t because I fled the blood orgy at Amboise. Princesse Marguerite, too, was sickened by it, and if the truth were known, so too, the Comtesse Françoise.”

  “That is beside the fact,” she said stubbornly.

  “And it was Françoise’s son, Maurice, who brought me from Amboise to Vendôme.”

  “So now it comes out that he saved you. Yet it is widely known you reward Maurice with open contempt.”

  Rachelle answered abruptly. “I treat Maurice with contempt! He who was defeated honorably in a duel by the marquis, then stabbed him when his back was turned — after the marquis spared Maurice’s life.”

  “Lies, Mademoiselle. Who told you such?”

  Why was Madame Trudeau so defensive of him?

  “The Queen Mother’s trusted dwarves spoke to us of what happened after I fled. Following my wedding vows, I had to save myself from this same Maurice whom you defend as honorable!”

  Madame Trudeau’s lips rounded in a patronizing smile. “Comte Maurice has quite another story, Mademoiselle. You are his fiancée and he had a gallant right to do as he did. I am sure the marquis’ pride had much to do with the story of backstabbing.”

  “I am not now, nor have ever I been, Maurice’s fiancée. I have promised him nothing of my heart or my loyalties, ever. And I am now married to Marquis de Vendôme. Nothing Maurice says will change that.”

  “Do not be so certain, Mademoiselle.” With a secretive smile, she turned toward the door. “That Bourbon ring on your finger will not secure your future if the king wishes it differently.”

  Alarmed and indignant from her words, Rachelle followed her to the door.

  “What do you mean by that? I am married. That cannot be changed.”

  Madame Trudeau shrugged her narrow shoulders. “I have already spoken too much. It is best I say nothing more.”

  “I wish to see my kinswoman, Duchesse Dushane.”

  “It is the order of the Queen Mother that you see no one except me, Mademoiselle.”

  “Then do take her a lettre from me, I beg of you.”

  “I am not under Her Majesty’s leave to carry messages.”

  “At least tell me about my husband.” She said the word proudly. “Is Marquis de Vendôme still being held at Amboise? Has he recovered from his injury?”

  Her eyes hardened. “Mademoiselle, it has not yet been decided whether you have a husband or not.”

  Rachelle clenched her fists. “I am a married woman. I am Marquise de Vendôme!”

  “A lofty title, Mademoiselle, if it is true, but I have not yet been told by the Queen Mother to address you as thus. My orders remain the same. Adieu.”

  She departed without a backward glance. Rachelle heard the sound of metal on metal in the sturdy lock.

  FAITH LIGHTS A CANDLE

  Andelot could not sleep. He paced in his small, stuffy chamber. What to do about Marquis Fabien? He had done all within his power, which was feeble at best. His main hope came from his daily prayers for Fabien’s deliverance and Rachelle’s continued safety. Even Madame Duchesse was weak of hand. Andelot had spoken to her when he returned to Fontainebleau weeks ago and she had become most distressed. She had gone to meet with the Queen Mother to appeal for the marquis’ release, but she’d not been received.

  Andelot ran his fingers through his shorn hair, which was beginning to grow out again, and stared, frowning down at Philippe as though he no longer saw him but instead imagined Marquis Fabien on the floor in chains in the dark, rat-infested dungeons of Amboise. Weeks and no word of how he progressed or what would befall him. Nor had the Duc of Alva as yet returned to Spain, so confident was he of returning with the Bourbon prize for the Spanish king.

  If only there were a way to help the marquis escape. The Queen Mother boasted that she had put much effort into strengthening the p
rison at Amboise and improving its security.

  Andelot rubbed the tired muscles in the back of his neck.

  Madame Duchesse had written to Pasteur Bertrand Macquinet at Spitalfields in London and informed him of the situation. Much prayer would ascend to God once Bertrand knew of the present situation. Andelot wrote Oncle Sebastien — and Mademoiselle Idelette, owing much to Scholar Thauvet for smuggling his lettres out of the chamber. They would go to Cambridge with other mailings Thauvet was making to friends in London. Someone would deliver Andelot’s letters to the Macquinets, but as yet there was no certain news on whether they had arrived in England. His nights were long and plagued with forebodings. All those he cared about the most were far from his reach and confronting danger. How was he expected to give his mind to studies?

  There was no hope of seeing Rachelle in her chamber. The duchesse had tried to send Nenette, but the guards were adamant. Until the Queen Mother altered their orders, Rachelle would receive no company except Madame Trudeau.

  Andelot scowled to himself. There was something about Madame Trudeau that was vaguely familiar. What could it be?

  It was late, and Thauvet had retired over an hour ago.

  Andelot extinguished all but one candle and moved in silence to his bed.

  Outside, the chilly headwind moaned around his window eaves. He was anxious about Marquis Fabien, Gallaudet, and Julot, and grieved over what had happened at Vendôme to the honorable men-at-arms.

  Andelot prayed for their families. He tried to repeat some of the wondrous Bible words that he’d memorized before returning the Bible to the Huguenot pasteur in the Fontainebleau woods.

  Although the night was dark and the struggle in the battle for truth just beginning, the path was sure, as was his faith in the King of kings.

  Your Word is the light for my path. I believe, Lord, that You may yet have purposes for us. May You therefore secure the way forward, and strengthen us within.

  ALONE WITH GOD

  Even after all these weeks, Rachelle had received no word about Fabien, nor had the Queen Mother called for her, which kept her anxious and troubled.

  If only I might get a message to Princesse Marguerite, perhaps then I could learn about his health.

  Marguerite had long been Fabien’s amie. She would surely have heard the news about his arrest and confinement at Amboise and would soon contact her. Marguerite was not as politically minded as the Queen Mother, but she did have her ladies scampering about in important places, and she would have heard about the duel with Maurice and the ungallant treachery against the marquis. The princesse and her ladies would despise Maurice for such dishonor.

  Marguerite, I am sure, is here at Fontainebleau, as is Duc de Guise’s son, Henry, whom Marguerite loved as well as she could love. If I have not heard from her, it may be that even she dare not risk contacting me.

  Rachelle knew the cold taunt of being utterly alone and without any present hope of changing her circumstances. I am not alone — like King David, she encouraged herself. My soul, why are you cast down? Hope in God.

  She paced the carpet in her stocking feet, whispering to herself, her peignoir of blue lace floating behind her. Her chamber was by now so familiar there was no need for a candle in the dead of night when sleep evaded her tired mind.

  If only Fabien and I had left an hour sooner. If only we had slipped away, just the two of us, to find the pasteur and marry in his cottage — we could have escaped the arrival of Maurice and Duc de Guise’s soldiers.

  If only.

  Rachelle stopped at the window and looked below into the dark courtyard, seeing the familiar flaming torches, the uniformed guards on duty, looking like small toy soldiers from where she stood on an upper floor.

  The duchesse would be trying to contact me. And Andelot. She knew he was at liberty, for Madame Trudeau had let that escape her cloistered tongue. Perhaps even Marguerite had tried to send word to her. With so many failing to breach the walls that kept her enclosed in the splendor of her prison, what did it say for the power of the Queen Mother? Not even a note could be slipped beneath her door or smuggled in on a tray of food or with her laundry.

  And her beloved at Amboise? Amboise, with its cold, gray stone walls, impregnable dungeons, and equally gray River Loire that not so very long ago was clogged with the headless corpses of Huguenots. Fabien was in its dank dungeon, thinking of her as she thought of him, both pained in heart, wondering if they would at last meet in an embrace.

  Rachelle longed for him. She shivered, rubbing her arms and staring at the torch flames along the walls of the courtyard and at the gates. She tormented herself with the thought: What if Fabien were dead?

  Non, do not even think it. If he were dead, I would be useless to Catherine. She would send me away at once or perhaps even put me in the dungeons for having followed her to the quay.

  Was it possible Madalenna had kept silent about having seen her?

  She remembered what Fabien had said about that. Why then does the Queen Mother not call for me? Why no threats, no ranting? Rachelle narrowed her eyes as she stared out into the darkness. Because she has some diabolical plan in mind. What could it be except to convince him to carry out her wish to eliminate the duc? To torment Fabien with threats against my safety until he agrees to do her evil bidding. Yes, she has a scheme, and Fabien and I are caught in her sticky web.

  She turned from the window in restless anxiety.

  God is our hope.

  Her heart lifted heavenward.

  “O Lord — Father God!”

  Again, she sank to her knees beside a chair, resting her head. I won’t weep. I won’t!

  She prayed, wrestling her doubts into submission to truth. She thought of the promises she had memorized in Lyon at the family Château de Silk. She recalled the meaning of Christ’s mercy, His gracious dealings with those who called upon Him.

  “He is here with me through His Spirit whether I feel His nearness or not. He promised to be with me always, even to the end of the age. In times of fear, loneliness, confusion, or doubt, and even danger and death.”

  I wait, and am alone, like a sparrow upon the housetop.

  Tenez ferme. Stand firm.

  And if deliverance does not come?

  Peter was released from prison by an angel; but James was killed by Herod.

  Esther became a queen and was used to deliver her people, but Joseph was sold into slavery and endured years of imprisonment before being elevated to deliver his family. God has no favorites, only different purposes.

  Across her mind marched a company of spiritual heroes and heroines who had been delivered: Daniel in the lion’s den, Peter in prison, Moses, Joshua, Gideon, Deborah, Sarah, Rahab!

  But others, whose names were known only to God, did not receive spectacular deliverance. They were mocked and tortured, imprisoned and killed; yet these others were as victorious in their faith.

  Rachelle rubbed her temples as Psalm 37 came to her: Commit thy way unto the Lord . . . Rest in the Lord, and wait patiently for him: fret not thyself. She smiled as the words became steps that led her heart upward: commit your way . . . rest in the Lord . . . wait patiently, and finally, fret not.

  “Stand firm,” she whispered again to her soul.

  Why did I not think of using this possibility of getting a message out before?

  Rachelle moved about her chamber awaiting the arrival of Madame Trudeau, who rarely missed her schedule. Did not Princesse Marguerite expect gowns to wear to Spain?

  Was not this the singular reason for which she’d been called to Paris from the Château de Silk, to create such dresses for Marguerite? And a gown for the Queen Mother as well!

  A shiver ran along the back of her neck. There was no avoiding that uncomfortable possibility. Well, then. A Macquinet couturière must first decide the colors of the silks and velvets, the manner of lace and threads to present to the princesse so that she might choose. Therefore, it was necessary to see Marguerite. And once she was in her
presence Marguerite would surely come to her to aid and help smuggle a message to Fabien at Amboise.

  Rachelle’s sewing equipment remained at the Louvre, including her special Macquinet hand case with her initials embossed in gold. Unless, hope of hopes, Nenette brought it with her when she and Philippe came here to Fontainebleau. At least Rachelle assumed her grisette had safely arrived by now.

  If only that tight-lipped Madame Trudeau would tell me more!

  She heard footsteps approaching from the outer corridor followed by low voices.

  The key rattled in the lock.

  Intruder

  RACHELLE STEPPED AWAY FROM THE DOOR AND FEIGNED A MOOD OF composure. Her affectation nearly crumbled when Madame Trudeau stood back and Comte Maurice walked in with a look of triumph on his saturnine face.

  “Mademoiselle.” He bowed, removing his hat. He was garbed in purple and black satin with a white plume in his Spanish hat.

  “It is madame. For I am married to le Marquis Fabien.”

  “Not for long, Mademoiselle, I assure you. This mockery of a marriage is to be dissolved by the cardinal.”

  Dissolved? She tried to hide the fear his words evoked. Was it possible? What of the Huguenot weddings of Admiral Coligny, Prince Louis de Bourbon, and many of the Huguenot nobles? Their marriages were legal throughout France, as was her own parents’ marriage and that of Comte Sebastien and her sister Madeleine. Rome did not bless or accept them, but they were accounted as legal. But she put nothing past the Queen Mother, the cardinal, and Maurice’s machinations.

  She put on a calm face to deflect his attack. “I am married before God to Fabien and nothing will change that. I shall never submit to a false marriage to you, Maurice. You might as well understand that I love Fabien with all of my soul. And even if I were not married, after the shameful way you treated him and Andelot, I would never consent to becoming your wife.” She held out her left hand and the Bourbon family ring belonging to Fabien’s mère, the duchesse, glimmered like fire.