Threads of Silk

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  His mouth twitched as he looked at her hand, then his gaze shot back up to hers.

  “A ring does not make a marriage.”

  “Nor does an undesired arrangement by a queen.”

  “You insult my honneur. I have fairly bested the marquis, a famed swordsman, with superior swordsmanship of my own.”

  “You have not defeated Fabien.”

  “He is in the dungeon, and I am not — a fact that should overcome your objections.”

  “It merely shows that he was wrong to trust you with his back turned.”

  “Gibes, mademoiselle, lies.”

  “There are witnesses to your treachery, mon comte.”

  “And such witnesses! Par exemple? ”

  “The dwarves of the Queen Mother. Would you dare call them liars?

  Do so, I beg of you, before Catherine and see where it leads you.”

  Maurice flung an arm upward in a gesture of dismay. “These tiring words prove nothing. There is naught else to be said. The marquis abducted you from Paris and has proven himself inferior to my tact and honor. He is where he belongs due to his rebellion against His Majesty by sinking Spanish galleons.”

  “I left with Fabien most willingly from Paris, I assure you. You may deceive yourself on these matters, but you will not deceive me. If Comte Sebastien were here, he would assuredly be ashamed of your act of treachery against both Fabien and me.”

  “After Fabien abducted my fiancée, an affaire d’honneur is not to be called treachery.”

  “I was never your fiancée. Do you not see that the Queen Mother used you to lure Fabien back to France so she could arrest him? You fell into her ploy like a bird in a snare and helped to bring us all to harm.

  Sebastien thought better of you.”

  A startled look flickered across his face, as for a moment he hesitated in consideration. But the look disappeared as swiftly as it came and impatience contorted his face.

  “By Saint Louis, the guardian of our race, do you take me for a fool?”

  “I take you for a traitor. Sebastien is likely to feel much the same when he hears of your actions. And I cannot even imagine his rage over your treatment of Andelot. Do not forget that Andelot, too, is his neveu, even if you prefer to treat him as a serf.”

  He flung a hand in dismissal and walked away. “I would have thought it more honorable of mon oncle Sebastien had he cared to at least inform me of his departure from France,” he said defensively, showing resentment.

  “Could he trust you?” she asked smoothly.

  His head turned sharply. The gray eyes were frosty pools. “As I trusted him! I suspected all along, but did I speak of it? My mother, his sister, mourns for his loss. And I miss the evenings spent over a glass of wine in his presence. Now mère is also denied seeing her petite niece bébé Joan grow up in France.”

  Rachelle turned her shoulder to him, ignoring Madame Trudeau, who hovered behind the back of a tall chair in the corner. “Far better petite Joan grows to womanhood in England.”

  “Tut! England,” he said. “Nor did anyone in the family inform me of Mademoiselle Idelette’s dilemma.”

  “My sister is not likely to go about sounding the trumpet, Monsieur.”

  “Had I known what happened I would have hunted this derelict down to the grave. As for your ill treatment of me, Mademoiselle, I can only confess my shock, having thought better of your fairness and virtue.”

  “I have done you no harm. Au contraire, after your boorish treatment of Andelot, do you speak of fairness? I should think you would apologize to him and begin to make amends.”

  He walked around the chair restlessly, went to the window, and returned to face her.

  “What he received for working against me was nothing more than sport. Why, the pages receive far more teasing when they first enter the Corps des Pages.”

  She moved away from him, staying out of his grasp, giving him no occasion to reach for her. She glanced toward the door; Madame Trudeau’s fingers plucked at her high collar.

  “I shall not be content ma belle chérie, not until this matter with Fabien is over and we are rightfully married by the cardinal.”

  In one quick move he was in front of her, cutting off her escape. His lean fingers grabbed hold of her arms, pulling her against him. He bent over her, his kiss urgent and demanding.

  She wrestled to remove herself from his stubborn grasp, biting his shoulder.

  He flung her loose, infuriated, the back of his hand flying to his mouth. He glared and reached for her again. Her hand shot out, connecting her palm to the side of his face.

  “Messire! Command yourself!”

  Madame Trudeau rushed forward to tug at his arm. “Oh Messire, you must not!”

  He jerked his arm free from Madame Trudeau and narrowed his gaze upon Rachelle.

  “This spurious marriage to Fabien will be declared void; the cardinal himself said so. And the Queen Mother promised you will be given to me. And when you are — ”

  “The cardinal would say anything. And you are foolish to trust the Queen Mother’s baiting promises.”

  “Take caution when you speak so of the mighty ecclesiastic and the Queen Mother. The church will not recognize your marriage to the marquis by an unknown monsieur, a mere Huguenot,” he said, scoffing, “one who deigns to call himself a true and established minister of God.”

  “A minister of God is more than an elevated religious official with a crimson robe. It is the doctrine and the fruit that declare a monsieur to be truly of God.”

  “Enough.” He flicked his hand as if at a gnat. “I do not wish to speak of religion.”

  “But you will speak of Christian ity when you wish to profane it for your unjust cause. That, monsieur, is the vilest hypocrisy. You scorned what is honorable just now and forced me to your unwanted attentions.”

  “That is not all I shall expect of you!”

  “Out!” She turned in a rage to Madame Trudeau, whose hands were at her mouth, her eyes wide. Rachelle walked toward her. “And you. You had no authority to bring him into my chamber. Go, both of you! I demand to see Princesse Marguerite!”

  She raised her voice louder so that a guard appeared unexpectedly in the doorway, looking from her to Maurice and then to Madame Trudeau.

  Rachelle rushed toward him with exaggerated relief. “Make this bane of my existence leave me!” She pointed to Maurice, dramatizing her emotion by placing a weak hand to her forehead. “He is forcing his unwanted attentions upon me. Look at the lace on my sleeve — he tore it just now, grabbing me.”

  The guard frowned. “Messire Comte, is this true what Madame says?”

  “Do you think I shall answer to you? I am a comte!”

  “You are, Messire,” came the sober voice and even stare. “And a prince of the royal blood is in the dungeon. So too is the Marquis de Vendôme. One might ask if a comte will fare better with the Queen Mother? It was she who sent me here to guard Marquise de Vendôme. You must leave, Messire.”

  Maurice’s cheeks flamed a ruddy color. He stammered and whirled toward Rachelle. “Again you besmirch my honneur.”

  “Then hate me and find another amour, Comte, one who adores you, I beg of you.”

  “I meant you no harm and you know it, Mademoiselle.”

  “I know nothing of the sort, Messire,” she said loftily, and stepped closer to the royal elite guardsman, lifting her chin.

  Maurice’s gray eyes snapped. “This is not over, Rachelle.” He walked over toward the doorway, pausing to throw a cold glance at the guard before looking back at her. “I shall win when the marquis is dead.” He passed on out the door.

  Rachelle turned away, folding her arms, her back straight so as not to show weakness. She was afraid she would encourage him to more threats and bullying if he knew his threat frightened her. Even so, the word dead pierced her heart like a fiery dart. What could he mean? What a ghastly encounter.

  The guard stepped back into the corridor and closed the door.


  She turned toward Madame Trudeau. “This was your doing. You should never have let Maurice in here.”

  “I had no idea he would behave this way, Mademoiselle.”

  “Yet you claim to know him so well?”

  “I have never seen him like this, I assure you.” She dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief.

  “Maurice has always been very temperamental,” Rachelle said.

  “Comtesse Beauvilliers has spoiled him all his life.”

  “That was only after his younger sister died. Athenais — ”

  “Now he believes his desires should be granted and satisfied at any cost, even murder.”

  “Murder!” Madame Trudeau’s hand crept up to her throat.

  “What do you call it? He tried to kill Marquis Fabien.”

  “I cannot believe it of him, Mademoiselle. Comte Maurice is emotional, oui, and he can be reckless, but he is not deliberately evil. He does not coldly connive. He reacts in bursts of energy when provoked —puff!” She opened her arms wide and looked at the ceiling.

  Rachelle lifted a tired hand. “Say it as you will, Madame, but see that you do not allow him in my chamber again. I shall attempt to appeal to the Queen Mother if you disregard my wishes.”

  She bowed her head, looking genuinely contrite. “It will not happen again.”

  Rachelle believed she truly was shocked by what she had witnessed and heard and wished now that she had not been so rash to favor the son of the Comtesse Beauvilliers.

  “And Princesse Marguerite?” Rachelle asked, taking advantage of the moment of the woman’s meekness. “Will you see that she has my message? I speak the truth when I say I was summoned from Lyon by the Queen Mother to serve as her daughter’s couturière. If the journey to Spain draws near, then I must begin work on her wardrobe.”

  “There will be no journey to Spain this spring. The journey was again delayed.”

  Rachelle felt the sting of disappointment.

  “Delayed?” She sank onto the settee. “Are you certain of this?”

  “Comtesse Beauvilliers learned of it only this morning. The Queen Mother and the Duc of Alva came to an agreement of cooperation on certain matters, but not marriage for the princesse. No new date has yet been set for a journey to Spain.”

  “The hoped-for marriage between the princesse and Don Carlos is delayed?”

  “It may not happen at all. As for Princesse Marguerite’s reaction, she is busy with Messire Guise, the duc’s son.” Her mouth tightened sourly.

  “The only talk of marriage has again turned toward the Huguenot, the young Prince Henry of Navarre.”

  With Antoine, the King of Navarre, his père, here at Fontainebleau under palais arrest?

  Rachelle’s tortured thoughts once again turned back to her amour Fabien in the Amboise dungeon. Her emotions were raw with a hundred horrible thoughts of what they might do to him, but did they dare? He was of royal Bourbon blood! Had not the Queen Mother sent a guard to ensure her own security? How much more then would she take measures to guard Fabien, whom she intended to use for her nefarious work against Duc de Guise?

  Perhaps I should worry and pray far more about what she will expect from Fabien in return for his freedom and mine.

  A knock on the outer door sent Madame Trudeau hurrying to answer. Rachelle waited tensely, hearing a soft muttering of voices.

  A moment passed before Madame came back. Her hands were clasped together at her bosom, fingers intertwined.

  “The Queen Mother has called you to her chambers. You are to go there at once. Madalenna is waiting in the corridor now.”

  Madalenna! Rachelle stood transfixed.

  THE SILK WEB

  A short time later, Rachelle, wearing a gown of blue satin embroidered with silver and carrying a pink feather fan was momentarily to enter the serpent’s den. Her heart thudded. Just a few feet ahead was an alcove to the side of the corridor —

  Swiftly she caught hold of Madalenna’s arm and pulled the thin girl into the wall recess, half expecting her to scream her protest, but she did not. Rachelle held her firmly against the wall.

  “Quiet, do not cry out. Tell me, does the Queen Mother know about the quay? Speak! I want the truth.”

  Madalenna’s eyes were like silent, deep pools staring up at her.

  “Answer me. You saw me there. Did you tell Her Majesty?”

  “Yes, she knows. I was not going to tell — but I had to.”

  “Why has she not called for me before now?”

  “She needs the Marquis de Vendôme. She needs you for a time. But later — later, watch out.”

  “Oh Madalenna, why did you tell her?”

  “Because she already guessed I was holding back from her. She always guesses. I cannot keep anything from her. She owns me. I have no choice.”

  “You do have a will of your own. You are her slave, but she cannot own your mind and soul unless you surrender them.”

  Madalenna’s shoulders slumped beneath Rachelle’s hands. “There is no hope for me.”

  “There is hope as long as you are alive. There is hope with your true Master, Christ. Turn to Him, call upon Him, and He can make a way for the freedom of your soul.”

  Madalenna dropped her eyes and said nothing. At last Rachelle gently released her.

  “I know you told her because you fear her. I hold nothing against you. I want you to know that. And I hope you will consider what I told you about Jesus. Attend the prêches when they begin in June. Seek to talk with Minister Beza when he comes. God will open a door of forgiveness for your soul.”

  Madalenna’s lips remained tightly closed, but a lone teardrop oozed from the corner of her eye and trickled down her sallow cheek.

  Rachelle swallowed. “We had better go to the Queen Mother’s chamber now. She will wonder why we tarry.”

  The girl turned and entered the corridor, and Rachelle followed, feeling a mixture of anger at Catherine and a new compassion for Madalenna. Until now, she had been but a sinister shadow creeping about; but now, she had a heart, a soul, and teardrops.

  What excuse could she possibly use to justify following the Queen Mother to the quay?

  They neared the royal chambers with the imposing guards posted on either side of the door. Was this to be her end? But Madalenna said the Queen Mother still needed her. She needed Fabien, and Rachelle was the hostage to compel him to do as the Queen Mother wished.

  Besides fear, Rachelle felt her anger reawaken. Though her mind had been filled with her own difficulties, she had not forgotten her suspicion that this woman may have brought about the death of her grandmère.

  She forced herself to remember what Pasteur Bertrand had said to the family about obligation to the throne.

  “The Spirit of God admonishes us through the apostle Paul in Romans to honor the king. If we say that is impossible, then let us remember who it was that sat upon the throne of the Roman Empire when this admonition was written, the insane Roman emperor, Nero.”

  Rachelle’s heart began to calm. She looked ahead. Madalenna stood passively waiting in the doorway to the Queen Mother’s chambers. Two Italian-looking royal guards stood at either side.

  The Lord would handle all disagreements in His own time. Even the kings and queens of France would bow before Jesus Christ one day as the King of all kings. I should show my trust now by waiting for Him to judge wisely. If I know the injustice done to grandmère will be taken care of one day by the Lord, whether in this life or in the next, then I can leave my anxieties and frustrations in His hands.

  “Avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath.”

  With a prayer in her heart, her palms sweating, she was granted entry into the imposing sanctuary of the Queen Mother.

  The élégante chamber waited in silence. The Italian frescoes and rose accents in cushions, floral rugs, and draperies lent an atmosphere of Renaissance grandeur and authority that left Rachelle with a tight throat.

  With head lowered, Rachelle curtsi
ed. “Your Majesty,” she said, her voice calm and unstrained, through much practice.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Catherine de Medici dressed in black. Like a spider in a fresh web.

  She waited to hear sharp words, like the crack of doom.

  Catherine stood tall and erect, her hands at the sides of her stiff skirt. Since the death of her husband, King Henry II, in a friendly jousting match, in celebration of the marriage of their daughter Elizabeth to the austere and morbid King Philip II of Spain, Catherine de Medici almost always wore mourning black. But she had wanted a new gown. Was this true, or an excuse?

  Rachelle, even in her anxious state, could not help noticing her wardrobe. Her gown was of exceptional texture, suggesting that the Queen Mother might take some interest in fashion.

  As a Florentine, one might have expected the Queen Mother to have black hair and dark flashing eyes, but such was not the case. Catherine’s mother had been French — in fact, a Bourbon. And her eyes were light colored, her hair thick and curly. Rachelle might describe the color as blonde, yet not a golden blonde like her sister Idelette’s, but an almost yellow-brown.

  Her hair was parted in the center, drawn back beneath her typical cap, or coif.

  Rachelle tried not to notice Catherine’s prominent teeth that gave her a rather robust look.

  If Catherine had intended to rebuke her it was not obvious now. She wore a smile. Rachelle knew better than to trust the false smiling face of the Queen Mother.

  “Ah, then, we have our charmante couturière back with us, do we?” The Queen Mother motioned for Rachelle to rise. “But are you our cou-turière Mademoiselle Macquinet, or is it Marquise de Vendôme?”

  “It is true, Madame, that Marquis de Vendôme has taken me for his wife. We were married at Vendôme.”

  The Queen Mother leaned forward, her hands gripping the armrests. “We cannot always keep what we desire, is that not true, Mademoiselle Macquinet?”

  Rachelle read the warning in her cold gaze, and it chilled her to the bone.

  “As loyal servants to France we must walk the path of duty,” the Queen Mother continued. “The Marquis de Vendôme has agreed with me.”