Look at her! Even now slinking off to meet young Guise, the duc’s son, in the forest!
Marguerite ran toward another section of the palais grounds to keep her tryst.
No doubt she assumed Catherine had ridden out on the hunt as she so often did.
Catherine narrowed her gaze. Her fury rose like a tempest.
I should have her whipped again!
Catherine did not believe the duc when he claimed he was not encouraging his son to marry Princesse Marguerite. What better way to take the throne of France than to become the king’s brother-in-law?
Another reason why the duc must die — or his son.
There was no time to confront her wayward daughter now. Catherine returned to the château in dark musings.
As the days went by at Fontainebleau, Catherine cautiously weaved new plans and began putting them into action, fearing that if she hesitated, the Guises and Chantonnay would surprise her with some unexpected coup d’état. First, she began to reach out to Prince Antoine de Bourbon. Although under arrest like his younger brother Prince Louis for the Huguenot rebellion at Amboise, Prince Antoine was merely under palais constraint and therefore at liberty to move about comfortably. He could also have visitors, mainly his own kinsmen at court, including Marquis Fabien.
One afternoon when the Queen Mother knew the Guises were else where with the king, she sent Madalenna to call for Antoine to stroll with her under the arbor within the garden court.
“Ah, Monsieur Prince, when I met with tragic news this morning I asked myself with whom should I speak of such heartbreak? And my thoughts turned to you, my brother, a monsieur with many troubles, and through no fault of your own, I assure you,” she lied. “And so it is grievous news I choose to share with you today. I hope I do not impose upon you, but I am just a poor woman alone and need a strong messire to hold in confidence.”
He looked flattered that she had turned to him, as she had intended, but mention of her ploy of grief and tragedy brought tension to his face, a handsome Bourbon face, though his was weak of jaw.
“Grief? Ah, say it is not Louis, Madame,” he breathed, hand flashing with jewels laid at his heart.
“Ah, no, my prince, it is not your galant brother. It is my son, the king. I have spoken with Docteur d’Fontaine this morning after his visit with my son. The docteur tells me what I have longed feared — but it is too soon, yes, much too soon. My poor Francis will not live long.”
“Madame, a poignant grief, surely. Then is there nothing to be done?
What of the great Docteur Ambroise Pare?”
“I fear his words will be the same. It is a matter of time . . . but this woeful news we must keep secret for the sake of those nearest him who love him.”
“I understand perfectly, Madame, for the sake of his beloved wife, Reinette Mary.”
“Not that this should come as a total surprise. Far from it, I assure you.”
“So true, Madame. We have all known that the king suffers from the blood disorder. You have my sympathy and my prayers, as does His young Majesty. Perhaps, who knows? Docteurs are sometimes in error, Madame. King Francis may have more years left than we know. He may yet live and come of age to reign — with Mary as well.”
The fool. He thinks he is encouraging me.
Antoine went on in a comforting tone, “Soon, in just a few more years, Mary Stuart will become Queen of Scotland as well.”
Catherine paused and turned to see if there could possibly be mockery in his eyes. No, the undiscerning royal peacock is actually trying to cheer me with the very words that turn my heart to ice. Mary, becoming the Queen of France, reaching the full reign of authority and power. Mary, who did everything her Guise oncles wished, anxiously seeking what she should do to please them.
As if I could ever abide having Mary Stuart as Queen of France ruling under the duc and cardinal.
“Alas! My brother, that bonne fortune would indeed come to pass —but,” she said with a sigh, “most unfortunately, I fear you are too hopeful.”
“Truly, Madame? Say it is not so.”
“The docteur tells me that Francis will not live long enough to see Mary come into her own.”
“The king seemed most promising in strength since I have come from Navarre.”
“Have you not noticed these last several days how his illness strikes suddenly — ” she snapped her fingers — “and takes hold of him? How he tires more easily and looks pale of cheek?” She patted her own cheek.
Antoine nodded his dark head, his gold earrings set with diamonds sparkling.
“Now that you mention it, Madame, yes, I have seen a change — recently.”
“But, my brother, woeful as this news may be to my heart, the good of France must go on, and my son would not have it otherwise. So you see, I must make plans for the future.”
“Well said, Madame.”
She brought her lace kerchief to her eyes. “I must also say this, my brother. You should not think it was I who planned your arrest, and that of Prince Louis. It was the house of Guise, the enemy of my house and yours, Monsieur Prince, who had the trap waiting when you both arrived. King Francis was furious with Louis for his part in the Amboise plot, and so insisted that Louis would die for his betrayal,” she lied.
“Madame, it is as I have heard even in Navarre before we ventured here. My wife Jeanne, the queen, warned us both of that danger. But who can resist the summons of our king? Even so, perhaps we should have listened to Jeanne.”
Catherine stopped on the garden path. The mention of her enemy, Queen Jeanne of Navarre, another devout Huguenot, alerted her. So Jeanne had seen through the Guise plot. She would, for she was shrewd and open in her dealings. Had Jeanne also suspected that Catherine had been privy to the plot to arrest her husband and brother-in-law? Yes, Jeanne would have guessed. Catherine had cooperated with the Guises and King Francis so as not to risk losing what authority she had.
Catherine put her mouth next to Antoine’s ear. “If my son, the king, as sick as he is, dies — then Prince Louis will be spared execution. You also, my brother, will be free again to pursue plans worthy of your royal rights.”
Antoine looked startled, then swallowed.
“Why should you not think of the consequences, Monsieur Prince? My son’s departure even in its gravest moments to me, brings good to the Bourbons.”
“Meaning Madame, that — ?”
From the corner of her eye, some feet away, she saw the bushes move. She stiffened. “Come to my state chamber tomorrow. I will send Madalenna. We will resume our discussion then.” She walked abruptly away, leaving Antoine to gaze after her in wonderment, no doubt believing that she was upset over discussion of Francis.
Who had been watching them? Had her voice carried?
She was more determined than ever to be free of her enemies.
The next day Antoine arrived at her chambers, where Catherine sat waiting for him. Here it was safe to talk.
Antoine bowed. Catherine stared down at him. He looked nervous over what might be awaiting him, and this pleased her. She deliberately addressed him from her elevated chair.
“I shall speak most plainly, my brother Antoine. If my son Francis dies — then my next son Charles will be king. He is too young to bear such a heavy yoke as you are well aware. So France must have a regency.” She paused to see if he followed where her words were intended to lead.
“Yes, Madame, I am aware.”
“You, my brother, are the first prince of the Bourbon blood royal, and I am aware of your rights to hold the regency according to the law. Should my son Francis die — you will be expected to play a large role in the kingdom.” She leaned toward him, her voice hushed. “Is that not what the Amboise plot was truly about? So the Huguenot Admiral Coligny has told me! The Huguenots wish to be rid of the Guises who dictate their will through their adoring niece, Mary. And my poor sick Francis, so enamored with his little reinette that he does all she wishes? Or rather, as the duc and cardina
l wish?”
Antoine swallowed. Rather than taking her words as an encouragement as she meant them, he seemed to grow more cautious.
“Madame, I had nothing to do with the Amboise rising. I was in Navarre with my wife, ruling our shared kingdom.”
She had never believed Antoine to be involved with Prince Louis and his retainers and waved his words aside.
“Ah, but my son Charles is not Francis. The Guises could not rule Charles through Mary, or the cardinal. Only I can handle my son in his bouts of frenzy. You understand?”
There were beads of sweat on Antoine’s forehead.
“I see you do understand.” She shook her head sadly. “Charles, too, is sometimes sick. Sick — here — ” she tapped her temple. “But I, his loving maman, can curtail this madness when it strikes him. I can handle him. I know what to do. But you must realize that I am the only one who can handle Charles.”
She saw that he watched her uneasily yet with growing excitement.
“Yes, Madame, I believe I understand your intentions.”
She smiled at him, then leaned back into her gilded chair. She fixed her eyes upon him, lowering her lids, and her smile ended so that there would be no misunderstanding.
“I must be awarded the regency in your place, my brother. You comprehend? If not, your brother Prince Louis will die — and so will you. But if I become regent I will make you my general in place of Duc de Guise. You will have the second highest position in France. All edicts will be signed in our names.”
Antoine licked his lips.
“But the Guises must not know of our plans for the regency, not if you value your life. They will lose a great power through their niece Mary should my poor son Francis die soon.”
Antoine cleared his throat as though it constricted on him. A faint color painted his cheekbones.
“Madame, I fully understand the danger and will do as you wish.”
Catherine smiled and put a finger to her lips. She leaned forward. “The regency is our secret, my brother,” she whispered.
Antoine bowed stiffly, his mouth taut. His eyes shifted about uneasily.
“As you say, our secret, Madame.”
Satisfied, she watched him leave. He was afraid, as well he should be.
She would not have taken no for an answer. The regency belonged to her.
RACHELLE’S FINGERS CURLED INTO FISTS at the sides of her velvet gown. She walked quietly across the blue-and-gold carpet in the appartement salle de sejour toward the door to the outer corridor. Almost there. She glanced back toward the archway that opened into the small salle containing a large desk and a wall of leather books with gold embossing. Fabien was in there now, and she could just see him standing by the window beside the desk reading a lettre from Capitaine Nappier delivered by Julot Cazalet through Andelot. At any other time she would have wanted to know what was in the lettre, but her mind was in a turmoil. She must leave without alerting Fabien. Quietly, she slipped out and closed the door behind her.
FABIEN TURNED AND LOOKED toward the door inching closed behind Rachelle. He lifted his brow. He was aware of some unusual behavior this morning. It began when her little Nenette arrived to do her hair. He had already been up and about his business, but could not help hear them in the bedchamber, Nenette with her fluttery emotions, and Rachelle with abrupt questions, which alerted him to a problem of some sort or other. He had expected that Rachelle would confide in him when she came to join him for petit noir.
With intrigue surrounding them, he was more observant to possible danger than he might otherwise have been and decided he could not ignore her uncharacteristic behavior. He was amazed at his awakened capacity to love her as much as he did.
“Nenette!” he called.
The mademoiselle appeared as softly as a kitten in the archway, her eyes wide and her hands hidden beneath her white sewing apron.
“Monseigneur?”
He fixed her with a level gaze. “Where did your mistress go?”
She swallowed. “Go, Monsieur Fabien?”
“Yes, go. Where? Do not lie to me or keep back the truth.”
She withdrew her hands from her apron and intertwined her fingers.
“Oh, Monsieur, to meet Comte Maurice Beauvilliers.”
He was astounded. At first he could not believe it. He walked over to her, taking her arm and looking into her eyes. “You jest.”
“Non, Monsieur Fabien, I would not do such a thing when the matter is most dangerous.”
“What! And you did not tell me?”
“She commanded me to say nothing — ”
“Where did she go to meet him? Quickly! Out with it!”
“To the garden.”
He brushed past into the bedchamber closet, grabbed his scabbard, and strapped it on. “This time, Nenette, there will be no turning of my back.”
“Oh, Monsieur!”
Fabien strode out, snatching up his hat as he went.
ANDELOT, GARBED IN BLACK scholar’s cloak with fur collar, walked down the corridor with his Latin book under his arm to join Scholar Thauvet for the morning’s lesson. He looked up to see a severe figure, also in black, striding toward him.
Andelot paused. Was it too late to slip into an antechamber?
“Monsieur Andelot,” Père Jaymin called.
Andelot sighed.
In his dark robe and sandals, Jaymin looked taller than usual with his large, shiny scalp rimmed with thick curling black hair. The large silver cross on his chest flashed in the sunlight coming in through the row of windows that overlooked the front courtyard of Fontainebleau.
“Bonjour, Père Jaymin.”
“You are on your way to Monsieur Thauvet? It must be delayed. You are summoned. Cardinal de Lorraine is waiting in His Majesty’s chambers. Go at once.”
“Surely you do not mean the king’s chambers?” The thought amazed him. He had been in the august company of royalty before now, of course, but the thought of meeting the cardinal there was most curious. “Is Marquis de Vendôme there as well?”
“Non, I saw him rushing toward the garden. It appears he is in an ill-tempered mood this day, for he would not answer my mellow greeting.”
If Fabien were not with the king and cardinal, then Andelot found his call to the royal chamber even more unusual. What could the summons be about?
“Then I had best go to His Majesty,” Andelot said. Père Jaymin detained him.
“Andelot, one moment . . . Have you any notion why your cousin, Comte Maurice Beauvilliers, is holding secret meetings with the Spanish Ambassador Chantonnay?”
Surprised, Andelot turned back. He met the doleful eyes and saw curiosity swimming in the brown pools. “I have not heard of these meetings, Monseigneur. I have not spoken to the comte since my return to Fontainebleau.” He could have added that it was not surprising since Maurice deemed him an enemy and that the feeling was not far from mutual. “Is there something more, Monseigneur?”
“I shall say this as a spiritual instructor, Andelot, and you would be wise to pay heed. If you have one of the forbidden Bibles of the heretics, you should burn it at once and seek pardon at Mass today. The times grow dangerous, even here among the nobles. There are secret heretics among us, and the cardinal is urging King Francis to ferret them and their forbidden literature out into the light.”
Andelot was surprised by his bluntness. He had guessed that Jaymin suspected him of owning a French Bible, but he had expected him to go directly to the cardinal with his suspicion, without so much as a warning.
“Merci, Père Jaymin, but I have not the Scriptures in the French language.”
Jaymin looked doubtful but said no more, and after bidding him adieu, departed on his way.
For a moment Andelot considered the circumstances hedging him in, but he was even more concerned about Marquis Fabien and Rachelle. He knew about the Bible belonging to Fabien’s mother Duchesse MarieLouise and how it was stolen from a chest of heirlooms at Vendôme. Maurice was suspect
ed, but as yet there was no further news about the troubling incident.
Andelot quickened his stride down the corridor. Marquis Fabien had also told him what had taken place at the Amboise dungeon when the Queen Mother met with him. Andelot frowned over the matter, just as he had been doing ever since he learned of it. The very mention of Duc de Guise now made him anxious. That Fabien was at liberty here at court was due only to his agreement to fulfill the Queen Mother’s secret plans. Fabien was as much in danger as the duc.
Andelot wrestled in his mind, wondering how the dark and sinister matter could possibly end well for any of them.
ANDELOT ENTERED THE ROYAL CHAMBER with its grand canopied bed and fleur-de-lys in gold. He had heard the king was resting after having expended himself on a hunt. Mary did not look at Andelot when he entered, but her eyes were fixed on the tired face of Francis in his regal chair. He was smiling at her as if receiving strength from her nearness. Andelot felt a surge of sympathy as he saw the king’s wearied condition.
Duc de Guise was moving about restlessly as usual, and the cardinal, in crimson and white, looked down on Francis with a bored expression.
Andelot quietly entered, approached the royal chair where the king sat, and then bowed.
“Your Majesty,” he said quietly.
Francis smiled briefly and gestured toward Mary. Andelot stepped toward the reinette and bowed.
Cardinal de Lorraine extended his pale, slim hand with his clerical ring full of jewels. Andelot bent his head over the hand in obedience, telling himself that to refrain would not be worth the consequence. If I must die for my faith, then let it be over the deity of Christ and His blood atonement. Nodding to Cardinal de Lorraine’s gold ring means naught to me.
The cardinal put an arm around Andelot’s shoulders. Andelot breathed a whiff of parfume.
“Well, Andelot, I have heard bon things about you from Thauvet. He tells me you have an exceptional thirst for knowledge. I am pleased you are keeping yourself from joining the raucous behavior of the young rapscallions in the Corps des Pages.”
Why would he even care, with his own reputation stained as it was?
Threads of Silk Page 18