Threads of Silk

by Linda Lee Chaikin

Fabien lowered his voice. “Pardon my saying this, but I would keep nothing back that concerns Your Majesty.”

  “Yes?” she breathed, her skin pale and moist in the candlelight that flickered and weaved.

  He continued to stir up her fears of Spain. “Suspicions run rampant in Catholic Paris, no doubt begun by Guise followers themselves, that the late king’s death was not as it seems. If Spain hears of this — well, Madame, you can imagine the response.”

  He lifted a brow. He waited for what, he did not know. Her square jaw flexed, and he saw the muscle in her throat move as she swallowed.

  “Gibberish. Forever my enemies hiss and snarl about poison! Lies, lies, and more lies.”

  Fabien pressed home the final attack. “The Parisians are already whispering that the ‘Italian Woman’ cannot be trusted with France.”

  She grimaced her anger.

  “Ask yourself, Madame, is this the wisest hour for Guise’s death?”

  She drew her head back, her eyes studying him from beneath heavy lids.

  “If Paris is led to believe by the duc’s son and the cardinal, or the Spanish ambassador, that the throne had anything to do with an assassination of the duc, it could, coming so soon after the king’s death, ignite a civil war against you and the young king.”

  He watched the look of anger turn into alarm and was satisfied with his tactic.

  “Be assured, Marquis, of my caution when dealing with the enemies of the house of Valois.”

  “I am indeed aware of your vigilance in matters of state, Madame. And with the Guises now licking their wounds, a reprieve may be granted us for a time.”

  “And as you yourself know, they will regroup and do all they can to regain power. In my allowing the religious colloquy to be held at Poissy, I will be plagued with denunciations from Rome. Remember, I am depending on the Bourbon-Huguenot alliance to stand with me.”

  She took a sudden step toward him, surprising him, her finger tapping his chest for bold emphasis.

  “They are in a weakened state. This is your opportunity to at long last avenge the murder of Duc Jean-Louis, just as you have dreamed and planned.”

  How crafty of her to throw the assassination of Guise back into my realm, as though it were my solitary ambition to avenge my father’s murder.

  Suddenly, it was not she who wanted the removal of Guise, but he alone. Whether intentional or not, this alerted him that if he failed to cover his tracks completely, he would find no quarter with her once he had accomplished the task — she would abandon him to the mob. Perhaps that had been her ambition all along.

  At Court

  RACHELLE FOUND HER NEW LIFE AT FONTAINEBLEAU WITH FABIEN both exciting and dangerous. She was constantly under watch by spies, so that whether she was walking in the garden with Nenette or in the corridors of Fontainebleau, she sensed the eyes of Madalenna watching her from the shadows, or perhaps a dwarf among the trees, or a guard outside the appartement.

  Despite this fear, Fabien came home to her in the afternoon, and once again within his embrace, she felt secure. At last bride and groom were together and love was fulfilling, the unity of spirit and mind could be as wondrous as the physical passion of marriage.

  They had not been living in the Fontainebleau appartement for many weeks when Fabien left a meeting with the king earlier than usual and came to inform her that the Queen Mother was sending him to Paris for a few days on court business.

  “I’ll take servants with me to retrieve your bolts of silk and sewing equipage from the Louvre. That will make you happy.”

  It did. She had gone so far as to write a lettre to the Queen Mother asking that her sewing equipage be sent to her here at Fontainebleau. Rachelle was surprised by the freedom the Queen Mother was granting Fabien.

  “The Queen Mother is not concerned with my coming and going as long as you remain at court under the watchful eye of spies. She knows I will always come back to you. You, ma belle, are my greatest treasure.

  She knows I would not seek freedom without you.”

  Until Fabien assassinates Duc de Guise?

  She could see his thoughts working as he tapped his chin, looking out the window to the courtyard below.

  On more than one occasion since his release from the dungeon, they had quietly discussed the Queen Mother’s unmentionable secret plan to rid herself of the Duc de Guise. Each time Fabien went away on business for the Queen Mother, Rachelle felt her concern quicken. Whenever she brought up the matter, Fabien managed to slip around the subject, lightly evading her questions.

  “This journey has nothing to do with Duc de Guise?” she whispered. She spoke with caution even though he had already searched every corner of the appartement for listening tubes.

  “Guise is not in Paris. He is here at Fontainebleau,” he said, sidestepping the issue once more. “He is with the cardinal and an associate in the chapel forming a three-man holy league. They are taking Communion together and vowing to do all in their power to destroy the Reformation in France.”

  Rachelle shuddered. “You saw them in the chapel?”

  “I came in through a curtain behind them,” he said, no suggestion of apology for spying in his voice.

  Rachelle sat down on the rose colored settee.

  “That is why war is inevitable at this point,” he said, frowning. “No matter the laws of toleration passed by King Charles and Catherine, the Guises and their following will ignore the laws and continue the persecution.” He paced. “You may not have heard, but the cardinal has increased burnings all over France.”

  “Are they deliberately provoking?”

  “So it would seem at times. Duc de Guise has the promise of soldiers and gold from Spain. If the Huguenot nobility decides to move to defend their serfdoms, they will need to financially sponsor the war and pay for added mercenaries. Guise can outnumber the soldiers with men from the Duc of Alva, and he will have plenty of gold from the treasure ships coming to Spain from the Americas.”

  Now she understood his silent frowns as he oft mused in silence. And how would this affect them and their longed-for escape? When would it come, if ever?

  She thought of the coming arrival of her parents and Pasteur Bertrand.

  She looked up at him quickly.

  “I wonder if it is wise for my parents and Pasteur Bertrand to come to the colloquy?”

  “I doubt you could keep them away, chérie. They are so dedicated to the truth war. But you speak rightly. Even with permission from the king for French Bibles and debate, there may be those who will wish physical harm.”

  He ceased pacing and turned about to face her.

  “What is it?” she asked, standing.

  “Do you realize how many of the chief Huguenot Reformers will be gathered together in one place, coming from far and near, including Geneva and Navarre? Queen Jeanne and Prince Henry are attending as well,” he said of his kinswoman and her son, the heir to the throne of Navarre.

  Her eyes met his, searching to confirm the strange shiver that inched along her back. The church burning that took the life of her petite sister Avril flashed before her. She could hear the doors and windows being nailed shut by the enemy, hear the crackle of the fire as it spread.

  “Do you think there could be some sort of attack planned by Duc de Guise and his soldiers?”

  “It is possible. I’ll speak of it to Prince Louis and Admiral Coligny.”

  He took hold of her. “The truth is we must always be alert.”

  She bit back the words, I could almost wish the duc were assassinated!

  What if Fabien thought she wanted him to do such a murderous deed, knowing she counted Guise responsible for the death of Avril and the violation of Idelette?

  But would his lone death solve the persecution of the Huguenots throughout France? As the Reformation was stronger than one man or even a group of men like Calvin and Luther, so was the CounterReformation enacted by the Vatican. Ultimately the enemy was Satan himself, for we wrestle not against fle
sh and blood but principalities and powers.

  “Oh, Fabien, if only we could escape now. I fear the Queen Mother will never release you. If we do not escape soon, it will be too late.”

  He drew her close, fingering her hair, stroking her back, and speaking confidently.

  “We will gain our freedom. I do not have the answer yet as to how and when it will be managed, but I will not give up. There is not a day that goes by that my thoughts are not upon it. May the Lord open a door that only He can unlock.”

  These were Rachelle’s thoughts and prayers as well. God could do anything. She knew that. But it seemed to her at times that the enemy was so strong and purposeful that they would be swallowed up. Aside from Duc de Guise, there were other enemies of concern at court. Nor was she the only one being watched. Fabien had many powerful enemies, including the Spanish Ambassador Chantonnay, who had not forgiven him for sinking the Duc of Alva’s galleon.

  “I do not like the ambassador,” she said.

  “Chantonnay,” Fabien said dryly, “must spend most of his time before keyholes.”

  “Nor do I like the way he looks at me.”

  Fabien turned his gaze on her, alert. “I can see why he would look at you, ma belle, but what do you mean?”

  She shook her head. “He does not look at me with masculine appreciation, but as though I were a heretic he might like to turn over to the inquisitors. I think he would abduct us both and send us to his master if he thought he might prevail.”

  Fabien’s jaw set. “If he makes one step toward you, I shall use a few inquisitional tactics of my own. I will hang his gizzard out to dry and send it in a belle package to the morose Philip.”

  His remark made her smile. “A tactic you learned from Capitaine Nappier, no doubt?”

  “No, a Hollander who hates papists, as he calls them.”

  “It sounds as if he has learned a few odious techniques himself.”

  “Oh, he has. He always leaves one or two of them alive to go back and tell the others what they saw.”

  She smoothed the already neat and spotless dark blue velvet of his jacket. She looked up at him and traced the line of his jaw with her finger.

  “I think you caught buccaneering fever, and it is incurable. It will flare up now and then with great allurement to take you from me,” she teased.

  “Think so? I did come back to you. It was you alone who captured my heart from the lure of the sea.”

  She sighed. “The Reprisal . . . how fair it sounds now, even to me; and to think the ship waited within reach at Dieppe to take us to England.”

  “And then along came Maurice. Ah, I should have shown no pity but wrung his neck. By the way, where is he? I have not seen his bright plumage about court in weeks.”

  She laughed. “Nenette found out that he is nourishing his wounded pride at the Beauvilliers estate. The comtesse and Madame Trudeau went with him.”

  “To soothe and solace him? They may have feared he would drink hemlock. Ah, well, chérie. He will return one day, I am sure. Maybe he will come back a little wiser. But! Enough of Maurice.”

  “Yes, quite enough. Fabien, mon amour, do be extraordinarily cautious with the precious bolts of cloth and my equipage.”

  “For you? I will watch the servants load the wagons with a heinous scowl and a drawn sword. And because you have told me of the Spanish ambassador’s unfriendly glances, I shall leave Gallaudet to guard you. I will feel better while in Paris knowing he is with you.”

  He drew her closer, kissing her long. “I loathe leaving you for even a day.”

  “As long as you come back.”

  “You can be certain of that.” Then he swept her up into his arms and carried her off toward their bedchamber.

  PART 2: In the Shadow of the Serpent

  Gowns for a Princesse

  IN JUNE, WITH PREPARATIONS FOR THE COLLOQUY PROCEEDING AT a feverish pace, Rachelle received an unexpected summons to join the Queen Mother in the Fontainebleau gardens. The call forecast ominous potential.

  Rachelle entered the garden and saw her ahead in the trees, a forbidding figure, stately and somber, who always put her in a tense mood. Almost at once her heart began to beat faster.

  Rachelle met her and dipped a curtsy. “Bonjour, Madame.”

  “Ah, you are looking most well, Marquise. Marriage must be to your favor. It is the marriage of my daughter, the princesse, I wish to speak with you about. Come, walk with me. I am sure by now you will have heard that my long-intended journey to Spain with Marguerite is delayed.”

  Rachelle was secretly pleased but kept her personal feelings concealed. Even before her marriage to Fabien, the worrisome thought of having to attend Marguerite and the Queen Mother on a journey to Spain with its darkly morose king had given her shudders.

  The Queen Mother walked along, her gown floating darkly behind her heels. “Marquis Fabien may have mentioned to you that negotiations with his kinswoman Queen Jeanne over a marriage contract have once more begun in earnest.”

  “He did mention Princesse Marguerite and Prince Henry of Navarre, Madame.”

  “The marquis is pleased over a Huguenot marriage of the princesse?”

  Trapped. What could she say? Fabien agreed with Queen Jeanne that her son should marry a princesse of his faith. Marguerite was untamable.

  “The marquis thinks well of both the princesse and the prince,” she said truthfully.

  “It was the wish of my husband the king, when he was alive, that Marguerite should marry the son of Queen Jeanne and Prince Antoine de Bourbon.”

  “I did not know it was the late king’s wish,” Rachelle admitted. “The princesse, your daughter, assured me — ” She stopped, forgetting herself.

  “Assured you it was young Henry de Guise? Ah, but no, she will not marry the young duc.”

  The Queen Mother’s voice took on a hard note, and Rachelle was sorry she had allowed her tongue to slip.

  “Marguerite is excessively emotional,” the Queen Mother went on abruptly. “She is willful. No doubt she will carry on like a silly fool over negotiations resuming with the Queen of Navarre, but my daughter must come to accept it. It is for the good of France. So it must be done.”

  I am blessed, Rachelle thought. I have been given the man I love and respect to be my husband.

  “Queen Jeanne is skeptical of the serious mind of my daughter, so it is necessary for Marguerite to adorn herself in fashion that will not offend when Jeanne arrives at court to attend the colloquy later this summer. That is where your ability as a couturière is needed to create gowns of modest colors and cut. I am determined she dress modestly and dutifully at the various functions, you understand?”

  “Assuredly, Madame. I deem it a great joy to once again put my hands to the cloth and needle.”

  “Your passion for silk and design will prove most beneficial. It is not every couturière who is chosen both by the Queen of England and the Queen Mother of France to design gowns that will be worn while history is made. I have heard of the special gown you made for the English queen. It may be that I shall not be outdone and request one of my own, not for the colloquy, but for Marguerite’s marriage to Navarre.”

  Rachelle dipped a bow. “Should it be, I shall deem the opportunity an honor, Madame.”

  “The court will soon be leaving Fontainebleau for Paris. Marguerite will send for you to discuss the plans for her gowns. Do remember that I wish to see the designs before you commence work. It will be my approval and not my daughter’s that will permit you to proceed. Understood?”

  “Indeed, Madame,” she murmured dutifully.

  A few days later Rachelle heard from Fabien that they were expected to join members of the court who were moving to the royal château at Saint-Germain-en-Laye, located just outside of Paris.

  “The Poissy Dominican monastery is within walking distance from there,” he said, “and only a short drive by coach from Paris.”

  “Then the colloquy will be held at the monastery?�
�

  “Yes, with the biblical debates and speeches conducted in the imposing dining chamber.”

  “I wonder if I shall be allowed to attend?”

  “Do you wish to hear the doctrinal debates?”

  She arched her brows. “But of course! The very safety of the Huguenots in France depends upon the outcome of this colloquy. Besides, I wish to see Monsieur John Calvin.”

  He smiled. “You never cease to amaze and amuse me.”

  She cuddled up beside him, her fingers smoothing the tendrils of his hair. “Why so?”

  “Most women do not wish to see Calvin,” he said. “And doctrinal issues bore them.”

  “How can you say that? To understand the great doctrines of Scripture safeguards us from error that will stunt our growth as Christians.”

  “Your father trained you well.” He smiled, reached up, and drew her face down toward his and kissed her until she was breathless.

  “Then my lady shall go to the colloquy! That is,” he said wryly, “if I can gain permission from the Queen Mother.”

  THE ROAD TO SAINT-GERMAIN-EN-LAYE lay westward from Paris through the village of Saint Cloud. Seated in the carriage with Nenette, Rachelle looked out the window and watched the road begin to climb through the hamlet of Marly, then to twist and turn through the wooded country which thickened into the forest of Laye.

  The gray castle came into view, and within a short time the coach neared the gates and passed through into the courtyard. Hostlers came forward to convey the carriage to the stables, and Fabien, who had ridden on horseback with the guards and other courtiers coming from Fontainebleau, escorted her to what would be their chambers through the summer and fall.

  While the chambers were comfortable and elegant, she thought only of her difficult position. She was held captive as it were until Fabien accomplished his dark deed. She sensed that Fabien, too, grew anxious and restless.

  The designs for Marguerite’s dresses took up her time and thoughts and brought her satisfying pleasure, as did the thrill of entering her atelier. Fabien had requested from the Queen Mother that Rachelle be granted one of the east-facing morning chambers to turn into her atelier. The chamber was next to their living quarters so that when she decided to remain up late with Nenette and work, she need not walk halfway across the castle to come and go.