Threads of Silk

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  “Indeed, Madame. One can hardly fathom that I could accomplish so much.”

  “Then, there is always the axe. And do remember that you are at Amboise.”

  “What then, Madame? Have you come to relinquish me to Duc of Alva or the axe?”

  “The Spanish envoy awaits, most impatiently,” Catherine continued, moving about, holding the rolled parchment. “It will delight him to see you handed over to him in shackles.”

  “I am well aware, Madame, from the last meeting in the courtyard, of Alva’s salivation at the prospects.”

  “What will it be, Marquis, the dungeons of Spain to face the Inquisitors who doubt your allegiance to the pope, or perhaps it would be poetic justice to send you back out to sea as a galley slave, chained at the oars of the Duc of Alva’s new ship?” She scanned him. “You are a strong young seigneur, well able to work. You will not die easily. And now he awaits an audience with me at Fontainebleau on my return. I can hold him off no longer. My poor son Francis has been badgered nearly to death by the duc and the Guises. Alva will once more demand that the king put forth a communiqué for your deliverance to his soldiers.”

  She stepped back with an even stare. “Then, again, my lord Marquis, you and I may come to some mutual agreement of our own. I can release to you your heart’s treasure, your belle des belles, Marquise Rachelle de Vendôme.”

  That she used the title inherited through the marriage was not lost on him. She would accept the marriage. If —

  “And what, Madame, if I am permitted to ask, would be the reason for this suggested bonne fortune and reprieve?”

  She moved about, restless as always. He leaned a shoulder against the stone wall and watched her in the light of the oil lamps. Her strong features were immobile, but her eyes were bright and alert to his response. She must know her deadly game had won her the prize she had schemed for.

  “Your protection from the clutches of Spain is possible, but it will require your cooperation in exchange. Your usefulness to me is in aiding my plans for the good of France and the house of Valois. Shall we spare ourselves from subtlety and come to the bold facts as they are?”

  “Your Majesty, I have wasted too much time as it is. The bold facts, as you say.”

  “You shall have them.”

  She looked triumphant as she went to the door and opened it. Fabien heard her clear voice: “Bring in the prisoner.”

  He straightened from the stone wall. Prisoner?

  A strong guard roughly propelled Fabien’s beloved into the chamber while another guard came in behind with a drawn blade. He raised the tip as Fabien made a gesture toward the guard who held Rachelle roughly by her arm.

  “Make no move, Messire,” the guard said, holding the blade. “I am under orders to thwart you at any cost.”

  Rachelle turned her head away, but Fabien saw the slight wince as the guard tightened his burly grip. If Fabien could have gotten to him he would gladly have broken his fingers. He jerked his head toward the Queen Mother, who stood back in the doorway.

  “If you do not release her at once from this dawcock, you will never get from me what you want. I promise you that.”

  “On the contrary, if you do not cooperate fully, Rachelle goes to the Bastille where a hundred such soldiers wait.”

  She turned abruptly to the guard. “Leave her here. We will give the little lovebirds a few minutes before they are forever separated. Fabien to the oars of the Alva’s galleon — and the belle mademoiselle to her unpleasant fate.”

  She swept out the door, the guard following, while the swordsman backed out after them, his eyes as hard as the rocky dungeon. The door clanged shut.

  “Rachelle!”

  They came together. He held her so tightly he heard her slight gasp, and loosened his hold. His lips sought hers, sweet and tender and warm. “You are in my dreams,” he whispered. “I can think of nothing but having you in my arms . . .” Her anxious kiss turned his heart into a thudding hammer. Her hair, fragrant and soft, was like silken threads in his fingers, her throat fragrant.

  “Stop. . .” she whispered weakly, turning her face away and burying it against his chest.

  “Have they hurt you?” he whispered.

  She shook her head. “Oh, are you all right, mon amour? You are recovering? You are not sick?”

  He turned his mouth. “No, just half-starved. She was a devil to bring you here to torment me. She means what she says, Rachelle. I know her too well. She will send you to the Bastille. There is no alternative but to agree to her wishes.”

  “And then what? How can you do such a deed as she wishes done?”

  “I will find a way to delay until we can escape as we planned.”

  “She is cunning. She will never let me out of her sight.”

  “We will play her game for as long as it takes.”

  She looked at him, and he read the anxious fear. “And in return?”

  He tightened his hold on her waist. “In return we will be together.”

  “Then it will be worth the struggle.”

  “In the end, we will outwit her. I’ll not rest until you are on the Reprisal sailing to England.”

  “Until we are on the ship, mon amour.”

  “As you say . . .” He kissed her softly this time, restraining his passions. He would not tell her that his first ambition was to see her to safety, whatever the cost to himself.

  The door opened, and the Queen Mother stood there, the two guards on either side with glum faces.

  “It is time to bid adieu,” she said.

  Fabien released Rachelle, whose gaze adhered to his. He squeezed her hand encouragingly and brought her wedding finger to his lips.

  He watched her leave the guard chamber, this time free of the soldier’s grasp. In another moment he was alone again with the Queen Mother.

  “If anything happens to her . . .”

  “Nothing will befall her as long as you serve me loyally. You know what I want, what I must have for the good of the house of Valois, for France. Naturally, this must be done without so much as a hint of suspicion coming back upon my sons, or upon me. You must understand this perfectly.”

  “Perfectly indeed.”

  “Then do you agree?”

  “What about Alva? That parchment you brought bears the heart of Spain. They will never be content to see me free.”

  “Never mind that. I will deliver you from the grip of Spain, but know that it will be at a cost to me. The Duc of Alva will depart for his royal master with my words in his ears and a message in hand that I shall surely deal with you and all the enemies of the true religion in my own time and way.”

  Now what could she mean by that? Had she intended to let those words slip off her tongue so easily? Her own time and her own way? The enemies of Rome? What might she be planning down the road for the Huguenots?

  “And the Duc of Alva, Madame, will he accept your promising words?”

  “Marquis de Vendôme, you are clever enough to know he would not relinquish his claim upon you easily. I must convince him. And I shall. One does not turn down the mighty seigneurs of Spain and bask in their condescending favor. In sparing you from Spain I have lost, for the present, the opportunity of discussing marriage between Philip’s son, Don Carlos, and my daughter Marguerite. I have been told that there will be no consideration of marriage as long as heretics roam France at liberty. I will resume negotiations for the princesse’s marriage to Henry of Navarre.”

  Her words were plain enough, yet he sensed she was toying with him and others, including Margo. He perceived that something important must fill in the empty spaces between her comments, but what? Perhaps even she did not know what it may be as yet. Some move against the Huguenot leaders perhaps? His apprehension alerted him.

  “I have spared your bodyguard, Gallaudet, the student-scholar, Andelot Dangeau, and more importantly your amour, Rachelle.”

  He wanted to gain as much information as he could in her own words so that later she migh
t not say he had misunderstood her intentions.

  “Cardinal de Lorraine would annul your marriage if he could.”

  “Cardinal de Lorraine has no jurisdiction over my marriage.”

  “Mademoiselle Rachelle dangles over the flames by a spider’s thread.”

  He pushed the stakes higher. “In return I want my freedom to come and go as I wish. What you ask of me demands careful planning.”

  “You will have certain freedoms to move about, but Mademoiselle will remain under palais arrest. I will have no more ventures such as that accomplished by Comte Sebastien and Madame Madeleine. Eventually, however, full freedom for both of you will be restored to what it was in the days of your father, Duc Jean-Louis, whom my husband the king oft called to service at his court.”

  So, then he was called to a life at court with Rachelle amid luxury, intrigue, and murder . . . until he managed to escape.

  She must have understood some of what his feelings were, for she smiled her empty smile.

  “Ah, Marquis, once the deed of your service to France is done all will be well. Until then, you must remain available at court. You will be given the appartement so unexpectedly vacated by my loyal counselor, Comte Sebastien,” came her words thick with mockery. “You will take his place. You shall attend the council meetings in full view of our grand Duc de Guise.”

  He retained his studied composure, his feelings held down with an iron grip.

  “I wish to send the marquise to her mother in London.”

  “What?” she mocked cheerfully. “So soon, Messire? And such a belle mademoiselle too.”

  He bowed smoothly. “With regret, Your Majesty, I assure you. I cannot accomplish this deed of which we both desire in one day. It may take months to plan. I must have a free hand, and a free mind where the gracious marquise is concerned.”

  “We both need our gracious Marquise Rachelle. Moreover, you will surely keep your promise to me with Rachelle my palais prisoner. Do you not see my position? Of course you do. Marguerite is to renew her friendship with Henry of Navarre at the colloquy. A marriage with Navarre will be in the making. Your delightful marquise will design and make the princesse gowns to wear. And truly, her skills with the silk and lace go beyond anything the best couturières at court can offer.”

  Her cunning was evident.

  “Well, Marquis?”

  He bowed. “I will see that your wish, and mine, is fulfilled, Madame.”

  “Ah. Then there is nothing more to discuss at this time. I shall return to Fontainebleau with Mademoiselle.”

  “What about my release, Madame?”

  “I will see to the matter on my return. It will take a few weeks. You must be patient. I shall see you are moved to a more comfortable cell.”

  She gave a nod of her head. To the Queen Mother, the matter was settled.

  She swept toward the door.

  “And Rachelle?”

  “She will be waiting for you at Fontainebleau.”

  “What of my kinsman, Prince Louis?”

  Her face sobered. “That, Messire, I cannot promise. The king has ordered his death.”

  He bowed to her ultimatum, struggling to keep hatred from crushing his soul.

  UPON FABIEN’S RELEASE FROM THE AMBOISE DUNGEON two weeks later, he reclaimed his sword and Gallaudet sent a message ahead to Rachelle that he would arrive at Fontainebleau as soon as possible after making a brief call at Vendôme. He hoped to visit with Louis but was hindered by the guards.

  “It is by order of the king, Marquis. It will mean our heads if we favor you to speak with your kinsman, the prince.”

  He left Amboise with Gallaudet, and they rode toward the Bourbon palais.

  TRIBUTE

  Fabien arrived at Vendôme in secret. He could imagine the disarray inside his palais after the battle that had been fought. To his satisfaction, the bandits living in the woods had not ransacked the estate in the absence of his guards, and his loyal domestic attendants had remained, but scars from the battle were in evidence. Pieces of broken furniture had been stored away with the Viennese chandelier which had come crashing down in the salle de jour. His servants greeted him with surprised delight; the older women, who had known him as a boy, wiped tears from their eyes.

  Later, he had his chamberlain go on a sober walk with him to where members of his men-at-arms were buried in shallow graves. There were no markers, and Fabien ordered them identified with honors and crosses for each.

  “Did any of the wounded escape?”

  “Oui, Monseigneur, several. There is no word if they are yet alive, or of their whereabouts. It has been ghostly quiet here. Shall I seek to learn of them?”

  “Do so with all speed, and in secrecy. Gallaudet will distribute to the families of the dead and injured. They are to be well provided for.”

  Later that day Gallaudet was seated behind a desk with a mound of gold coins, carefully counting them as he read from a list of names. He was still pale from his injuries and imprisonment and had lost weight. Fabien scowled to himself. He had a strong desire to reap vengeance on Maurice. Had he kept to his own affairs at Fontainebleau, there would not be such losses among his men.

  Fabien hardened his mouth as he went upstairs toward his chambers. What would Maurice’s response be to the news of his release and his return to Fontainebleau to live with his beloved bride?

  He paused on the landing, looking at a broken section of railing and a dark stain on the carpet where he had lain. He recalled Maurice’s shout of triumph when the dwarves had the Queen Mother’s soldiers carry Fabien to a wagon to take him to Amboise. Maurice’s words to his men-at-arms had haunted him on the long, bumpy ride to the dungeon: “We shall overtake Mademoiselle on the road to Dieppe!”

  And so they had. Fabien stood soberly, looking below to the salle where most of the fighting had occurred. How could he replace the loyalty and camaraderie of those who had been killed? They had gone with him to London and to the waters off the coast of Holland. They had cheered together, fighting side by side with Capitaine Nappier and the privateers when the Duc of Alva’s war galleon caught fire during the cannon exchange. They were with him when they boarded another Spanish vessel on the way to Holland to carry out Alva’s inquisitional orders. The new men-at-arms he planned to secure would in time generate their own record of brave deeds. He was sure that danger would hound his steps at court in the months to come.

  He frowned, thinking again of the Queen Mother’s statements during the interview at the dungeon. She reminded him of a sleeping viper. With the Duc de Guise’s assassination settled, who would become her next target? The Huguenot chieftains? And yet, she was reaching out to them, even risking angering Spain and Rome. Had he misunderstood her?

  He set aside his concerns for the present and thought longingly of Rachelle. Soon he would be with her again.

  He relished a bath, and soon his barber arrived, sharpening his instruments.

  After donning fresh clothing, Fabien enjoyed a sumptuous supper of pheasant. The absence of many of his old comrades cast a cloud, but his stirring memory of Rachelle diverted his thoughts as it had so often aboard the Reprisal on lonely evenings at sea. He thought of her waterfall of thick brown-auburn hair, lively brown eyes, and the dimple at the corner of her so kissable lips when she smiled. How longingly he had thought of her in the foul dungeon!

  He drummed his fingers on the table, staring moodily at the flickering candles at either end.

  Gallaudet said smoothly, “It is too late, Monseigneur, to begin our journey to Fontainebleau tonight.”

  Fabien laughed. Gallaudet had too easily sensed that Fabien’s thoughts had drifted back to Rachelle.

  “You are right, mon ami. It is wise we get a good rest before starting the journey. I shall discipline myself and leave tomorrow morning, just as I wrote her.” He raised his goblet, and Gallaudet did the same.

  “Our work is far from over, Gallaudet. We return to court as in the past, but our dangers and troubles are
doubled. Let us toast the Huguenot chiefs and Admiral Coligny. May his presence there bring light where there is shadow.”

  “To the Admiral! To the colloquy!”

  AT FONTAINEBLEAU, RACHELLE HEARD THE DOOR to her chamber unlock. Madame Trudeau entered much the same as she had done twice a day for the past six weeks. Rachelle, however, could see that a matter of consequence was at hand. Madame Trudeau’s voice was humbled, and she dropped in a curtsy. Her wary eyes looked toward Rachelle, then faltered.

  “Bonjour, Marquise de Vendôme.”

  Marquise . . . What was this?

  “The Queen Mother has instructed Comtesse Beauvilliers that my oversight of you is over, Madame. I am to escort you to the suite of chambers granted to you and Marquis de Vendôme while at Fontainebleau.”

  To you and the marquis! Rachelle stared at her.

  “Are you saying that Marquis de Vendôme is to be set at liberty?”

  She smiled lamely. “Oui, Marquise, he has been released.”

  Rachelle’s joy exploded. Forgetting the sour old woman who had worsened the past weeks, she dashed across the floor and threw her arms around her rigid shoulders as though she were responsible for freeing Fabien. Madame Trudeau looked as surprised as Rachelle. They looked at each other, then Madame Trudeau broke into a smile, and Rachelle laughed.

  “Oh, Marquise, I do feel ashamed for my manner in treating you these weeks. I hope you will think it a gracious thing to forgive me and count me among those who wish you and the marquis happiness and a full life.”

  “The past is over. Let us remember it no more. I am pleased to have gained a supporter in place of an enemy. I hope you will promise me one thing.”

  “Oh certainly so, Madame. Anything.”

  “That you will not bring Comte Maurice to our appartement,” she said. “Especially now with my husband Marquis Fabien there.”