Threads of Silk

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  Madame Trudeau looked appalled, then she saw Rachelle’s half smile.

  “Oh, Marquise, you may be assured I shall never again be so bold as that. I confess, my only knowledge of you was what I had heard from —well, others. Now I have had my own dealings with you and know what manner of honorable young mademoiselle you are.”

  Rachelle smiled. “Merci. And now, take me to this suite of chambers that has been granted to the marquis and me by the Queen Mother.”

  Rachelle was so delighted and relieved by the sudden turn of events that she refused to allow concerns of what lay ahead for her and Fabien to ruin her happiness. The weeks ahead would have time enough to face whatever may come. Now, the gate to a garden was open and flowers of May were in fragrant bloom, enticing her desire to dream. It was a time for amour, for expectations of a long and happy life with Fabien as her husband, and she would guard the rare time together alone with sacred jealousy. Enough of the fomenting evils of court intrigue between the Guises, Valoises, and Bourbons. Not even the awkward fact that the appartement was once occupied by her sister Madeleine and Comte Sebastien detracted from her joie de vivre! She already had plans to hang new velvet curtains, and of course, all the bedding was new, for Nenette was returned to her, and Rachelle would have time at her leisure to think about choosing her own ladies and pages.

  How good it was to see Nenette again. They greeted as long-separated sisters rather than as mistress and grisette and maid. After Nenette shed her tears of joyful reunion, vowing she’d never given up on daily prayers for Rachelle’s safety and that of the beau marquis, she told Rachelle how she had arrived at Fontainebleau with Philippe, and through a series of twists and turns, had finally been taken in by the duchesse.

  “There is talk Philippe may go live with a certain pasteur of the religion. Andelot knows of him. He has said he would find Philippe useful company.”

  Rachelle was pleased to hear the news. “There is news Marguerite is to marry Henry of Navarre. We will have her wedding trousseau to make in the future. I can see myself needing Philippe for some of the work, but we will wait to see. No date yet is set for the marriage.”

  “They have long talked about such a marriage,” Nenette said doubtfully. “I cannot see it happening myself.” She lowered her voice. “They say she meets often at night with young Henry de Guise.”

  Rachelle already knew this. “I prefer not to join the other talkers in gossip. This is a time for my own joy, Nenette. And you have not even congratulated me. I am Marquise Rachelle Dushane-Macquinet-Bourbon! Think of that.”

  “Oh, Mademoiselle Rachelle, it is most merveilleux. I have thought about it ever since I heard of your marriage. Oh, that I had been there to see you and the dashing marquis! Life is unfair. I should have been there to help you dress in a most belle gown and to help the other maids to carry your train. And instead — ”

  She clasped her hands together in agony.

  “And instead,” Rachelle told her dryly, “I had to keep telling the minister to hurry up and marry us. And my gown was the burgundy one with the black lace — black, Nenette, black!”

  “Non!”

  “And then Comte Maurice arrived with at least thirty swordsmen, and there was a horrendous swordfight and a personal duel between the marquis and the comte. And you know of the treachery Maurice turned on the marquis. Ah, I tell you, it was a shameful deed. And that, Nenette, was my wedding day.”

  “And then you were separated from him. And you have been married over six weeks!”

  “But my bridegroom is coming,” Rachelle said, sweeping about from chamber to chamber with fanfare of ecstasy. “He will come, and I must get ready for him, Nenette. I want flowers in the appartement and all manner of fresh fruits and delectables. I want my gowns ready too and the most belle wedding chemise ever — all lace and — ”

  “Ooh!” Nenette cried, dancing about. “And sprigs of blossoms from the garden. Oh, Mademoiselle! How I envy you. How I wish I could find my own amour and get married.”

  “Nenette, you are too young. A few more years must pass. And then we shall find you someone special. I will ask Fabien to find a dashing beau for you among his pages or men-at-arms — ” She stopped.

  The sober reality slapped her. Men-at-arms. Most of Fabien’s galants were dead or maimed. Gallaudet was alive, and Julot Cazalet, but the others? He would find new chevaliers to swear fealty to him, but it was tragic that the other brave monsieurs were dead.

  Nenette was still sighing as she danced about, her red curls bouncing, lost in romantic reverie. Rachelle smiled as she watched her. If Idelette were here, it would seem like old times at the Château de Silk again.

  Idelette. How was her sister faring in England? There was no chance she would be able to come to the colloquy with Madame Clair and Père Arnaut in September. By now the baby would be growing with all bonne speed in her womb. Would it be a boy or a girl? And what would its future hold? Would the baby grow up to return to France?

  May God preserve you both, she prayed.

  “MARQUIS VENDÔME IS ARRIVING NOW, Mademoiselle Rachelle,” Nenette called from the window. “Ooh, Chevalier Gallaudet is with him — and others — these monsieurs I have not seen before . . . they are all most beau. One cannot guess le marquis to have been in a dungeon, nor Gallaudet!”

  Rachelle’s heart beat faster. She applied the finishing touches to her hair, arranging the autumn brown waves over her shoulder. She smoothed the lace of finest point de Venise at neckline and wrists. The cloth of her gown was a rubbed satiny rose with slashings of golden tissue in the ballooned sleeves. The gown had been given to her by Princesse Marguerite de Valois and sent over with the words written on a perfumed parchment: I envy you. Margo. Applying some tucks here and there and lowering the hem, for Rachelle was taller than Marguerite, she and Nenette had spent the afternoon fixing the belle gown to a perfect fit, so that Rachelle herself could not have guessed that she’d played seamstress.

  Duchesse Dushane had visited the appartement, bringing greetings over Rachelle’s and Fabien’s release. Beneath the older woman’s smile and show of warmth, there’d been a worried look in her eyes, as if she had wished to speak of some matter that troubled her but refrained from doing so because of the pleasant purpose of her visit. Thereupon she had presented Rachelle with a wedding gift of Dushane family diamonds: sparkling earrings, a bracelet, and a necklace.

  Rachelle wore them now as a customary family tradition for the continuation of the Macquinet-Dushane silk house. “Now we have the added blessing of the royal Bourbon family,” the duchesse had said. “A most astonishing feat on your part, ma petite.”

  A grand catch, to be sure.

  Rachelle left the bedchamber mirror and waited while the page announced Fabien’s arrival. Nenette, looking flushed and excited over this wondrous moment, swiftly departed the appartement to join the duchesse’s ladies.

  Rachelle stood in the midst of the salle de jour waiting for him. Fabien entered alone and saw her. Drawn by the flame in his eyes, she went toward him.

  He tossed aside his plumed hat and velvet cloak and moved to claim her. They came together, embracing tightly.

  Her eyes closed with relief and joy, as for the moment they clung together as though some unseen menace threatened to again rob them of this moment. Her heart thundered in her ears as his kiss became one with hers.

  He smiled, his warm fingers caressing the side of her face, then her throat.

  He bent to kiss her again. “At last.”

  Serpent in the Garden

  AT FONTAINEBLEAU THE EXTENSIVE FOREST ABOUNDED WITH GAME FOR the king’s table, granting the royal guests opportunity to indulge in one of their favorite activities, the hunt. That morning, after partaking of breakfast with the king, the party of nobles and mademoiselles entered the courtyard where the grooms and attendants waited with the horses.

  In the grand salle, the Queen Mother, known for being bold in the chase, was on her way to the courtyard to join
them when the sound of quick footsteps detained her. She turned toward the archway that led into the outer corridor.

  Duc de Guise, hard and lean, stood in the archway, the scar across his cheek and eyelid pronounced in the streak of light that came through the diamond-shaped window panes. He wore a short green coat with threads of gold, and his powerful hand rested on his scabbard.

  Catherine lifted her head to her full height. For one insolent moment the duc’s bold presence confronted her with wordless authority, then, and only then, did he bow his head. She found herself both intimidated and angry. How dare he!

  “Madame,” he said stiffly.

  “My lord Duc.”

  He approached boldly, for he was fully aware, as was she, that he was the favorite of King Philip of Spain.

  The duc basks in his own strength and popularity throughout Paris. But his days will soon come to an end.

  Catherine held out her hand to receive a royal missive that the duc handed to her. As she suspected, it was from the King of Spain.

  “More veiled threats, my lord Duc?”

  “Madame, it is said that all Spain and the Vatican is astounded by your boldness. You have unwisely promised the Huguenot leaders the freedom to bring Geneva ministers here to teach their heretical viewpoints.”

  “Duc, the colloquy is a debate of the differences between Catholics and Huguenots. Surely you will agree that such a debate, if it can humor the Huguenots to actions of peace, is worth giving them a few days to speak at Poissy.”

  “A few days, Madame? Is it not rather months? Why should heretics speak at all? There are those who question your loyalty to Rome in the lettres they send.”

  “I am loyal to the Pope. Who has deigned to stain my reputation in false lettres to Rome and Spain? Could it be King Philip’s ambassador to the court, Chantonnay? Has he nothing better to do than to spy on the Queen Mother of France?”

  Duc de Guise’s face did not relinquish its severe cast.

  “Madame, it is said that a host of heretics will be permitted to gather freely to debate a gathering of bishops and the cardinal of France. This, Madame, is unthinkable, when your son the king has denied to me ever authorizing such a meeting.”

  The self-righ teous chill in his eyes angered her. She had few friends at court except her own spies and secret poisoners, and it was the cause behind her effort to reach out to the Huguenot Admiral Coligny and promise the colloquy he wanted. She must work her craft in the shadows to bring her plans to pass. Guise was a formidable opponent, but after today, if all went as expected, she would not need to concern herself with the duc.

  She forced a smile. “My lord Duc, I can assure you that both you and the King of Spain misunderstand my intentions toward the Huguenots. I have no more patience for these troublesome heretics than you or the Vatican.”

  His stare rejected her declaration. She stepped closer and bent her head toward his, laying a hand on his arm. She lowered her voice, still smiling. “If there is to be a religious colloquy, mind you, it will become a trap for them.”

  His left eye with its scar across the lid watered incessantly. He blinked. “If your words can be relied upon, Madame, why did you intervene with the king to permit the enemy of Spain to remain at court? The Marquis de Vendôme should be in the dungeon with his Bourbon kinsman Prince Louis Condé. Both should be executed. Do you think the King of Spain will forget that you have sent his emissary the Duc of Alva away with his chains empty of their prey?”

  She lifted her head. “Patience, Monsieur Duc. Spain’s enemies are also France’s enemies. They will be dealt with, but in subtle fashion.”

  His thin mouth twisted. “Let us hope such delays as you suggest do not bring the wrath of Spain’s armies down upon us, Madame. Surely King Francis will hear again from me of the folly of permitting this swarm of heretics from Geneva to teach and debate their lies at Poissy.”

  He bowed stiffly and strode away, his short cape floating behind, his sword clinking in its scabbard as a reminder that he was head of the French army.

  Catherine was left in the quiet salle with an empty smile that faded. She walked swiftly to the archway and looked into the outer corridor. The duc must go on the hunt. Where was he going now — to turn Francis against the colloquy? And if the young king refused the colloquy, there would be a civil war in France.

  In the corridor her gaze fell upon the Spanish Ambassador Chantonnay. It appeared as though he’d been waiting for the duc.

  “Madame, the King of Spain will not permit heretics to overwhelm this court.”

  “I assure you, Monsieur Chantonnay, that heretics will never take over the throne of France, which belongs to my son.”

  He bowed his head briefly, turned, and then looked at her again, his eyes reflecting dislike.

  “The Duc de Guise is a messire loved throughout France. Madame, consider well before you make an enemy of his family.” He went after the duc.

  Spy! And yet fear latched hold of her. Of what was he hinting? Was it possible he knew of her secret plans?

  In the courtyard the nobles were gathering for the hunt, but some minutes later, when the king did not appear with the duc, Catherine worried as she mulled over the ambassador’s words. Her position of power was slipping from her grasp. Each day that Francis grew older, he grew closer to the young queen, Mary Stuart, and Mary was devoted to her Guise oncles.

  Uneasy, Catherine decided to not go on the hunt. If her plans succeeded today through the marquis, it would be wiser to have remained at the château. She wished to be far removed from any scene where the duc met with an accident.

  Catherine left the château unseen and entered a section of the shadowy arbor along one side of the courtyard. She was out of sight, yet she retained full view of the hunting party. She would not be content until she witnessed Duc de Guise riding out with them.

  The minutes crept by. Neither Francis nor the duc appeared. Her tension climbed. She realized her fingers clawed her stiff black sleeve, and she forced her hands to be still. She watched through the lattice, but neither the duc nor the king emerged from the palais château. Her gaze switched to Marquis Fabien. He held the stirrup for Rachelle to mount her horse. Rachelle’s loathing of the hunt showed on her face. She sat straight in the saddle with her chin lifted, tugging on the wrists of her riding gloves. The marquis, dashing in a plumed hat, mounted his horse beside her. He said something to her that caused her to laugh. He appeared to enjoy the adventure, but was it a false face? His head turned and he glanced about the court. Did he also notice the Guises were unexpectedly absent? Was he also suspicious that Guise had been warned?

  Catherine did not entertain much doubt that the marquis would fulfill his mission now that Rachelle was under palais arrest. Then again, he had little choice. His love for his bride placed him where she wanted him: in a vulnerable position. Yes, the marquis was accepting his dilemma well enough.

  He’s grown up in the court in the midst of the little foxes, so he knows what to expect.

  Was he too knowledgeable for her to manipulate? He was sharp-witted. That, too, could pose a danger. But as long as she held the safety of his amour in her palm, he would behave. Ah, yes, Rachelle was most needful.

  Dangerous pets that might turn on you were all the more rewarding when their strengths were harnessed.

  Amid much fanfare, the château door opened and her son the king appeared with petite Mary.

  Where is the duc? Why is he not with him?

  Could Ambassador Chantonnay have somehow overheard her brief conversation with the marquis last night after the royal dinner? She had whispered her veiled suggestion to Marquis Fabien, knowing he would understand. She’d been careful to see that no one heard, but with Chantonnay one could never be certain.

  Chantonnay was her equal in intrigue and spying. Incriminating reports were often sent to Rome and Spain on her every encounter with the Huguenot leaders. She would have liked to encourage her son to cast him out of court, but the Guises he
ld the upper hand and would never send their chief ally away. France was in financial debt, and Duc de Guise controlled the army, which was dependent on assistance from Spanish soldiers and Spanish gold from the New World.

  The royal hunting party rode out the gate toward the forest without the duc, foiling her plans for an accident. She must be even more wary now that the first attempt had failed.

  There is something afoot with the ambassador.

  Earlier at breakfast, the duc and also the cardinal mentioned going on the hunt. Where were they? Rare indeed was the hour when the Guises did not form a possessive flank around her weak son Francis, prohibiting anyone except themselves from influencing him. Why were they allowing him to ride out with only the nobles and guards in attendance?

  A movement near the château steps drew her attention. Her earlier suspicions that the Spanish ambassador was plotting something were vindicated. He disengaged himself from the morning shadows and began walking swiftly in the direction of the garden. She pressed her kerchief to her mouth in frustration.

  Madalenna, that sloth. Where is she when needed?

  Catherine allowed him to walk ahead, and after a minute she left the arbor and followed.

  The morning breeze was chilling and sent the dry autumn leaves rattling in the trees along the garden way. She quickened her steps.

  Ahead, she saw him near the fountain where he was joined by the messieurs, the duc and the cardinal. She stopped and stepped aside.

  Ah, the three cozy reptiles sunning in the garden.

  Keeping behind the trees, her black gown affording helpful concealment, she strained to hear what was said between them and fumed over her powerlessness. If she drew closer, her stiff skirts would rustle.

  They began walking ahead into an open area of the court, away from trees and bushes, showing their practice in guarding their words from being overheard.

  Unable to proceed, she backed away, just as her daughter, Princesse Marguerite, emerged from some secret path, glancing over her shoulder.