Threads of Silk

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  “The least I can do is warn Jeanne. The quandary facing us is that she has already left Navarre with Henry. Her retinue would be well on its journey by now; the colloquy begins in days.”

  “I think, Marquis, I should go back to Fontainebleau.”

  “Non, you will respect our friendship, Andelot, and ride out at dawn.

  Believe me, there is nothing you can do to help me in this matter of my kinswoman.”

  “Then — as you wish, I will go. If Gallaudet can pack my personal things and take them with him, I shall be very much grateful.”

  Fabien felt a well of relief. “Where will you go first?”

  Andelot hesitated. “London, to see Idelette . . . and request her hand in marriage. Then, if she accepts me and is willing, to Geneva.”

  Fabien grinned. “We will attend your wedding at London — God willing, mon ami.”

  “God willing, Marquis Fabien.”

  LATER THAT NIGHT, AFTER FABIEN RETURNED from his meeting with Andelot in Chaplain Mornay’s cottage, he entered the Fontainebleau appartement by the back side entrance where royal guards greeted him. Fabien had spent long months trying to earn their loyalty, and with the aid of Gallaudet, was confident that he had done so. This camaraderie had been helped along with a few jewels and a promise of fine horses from Vendôme one day when they were in the region. Fabien now understood better what Sebastien must have suffered all those years as a reluctant member in the Queen Mother’s council. One day in London he would sit down with his oncle by marriage and ask him how he had endured those turbulent years that included his arrest and incarceration in the torture chambers of the Bastille where the cardinal insisted he renounce his faith or lose Madeleine and his daughter. All this was a part of Sebastien’s legacy.

  Fabien was pleased to learn, through the Macquinets, that Sebastien and Madeleine were adjusting well. Sebastien was already beginning to move in some political circles in the London court of Queen Elizabeth due to a past friendship with Elizabeth’s brilliant Protestant secretary of state, Sir William Cecil, her counselor and loyal friend.

  Fabien had carefully made friendships in the royal guards and it would assist him during the important moment of getting Rachelle, Nenette, Bertrand, and Chaplain Mornay out the side door to waiting horses.

  He went to the appartement and entered quietly to avoid awakening Rachelle, and though weary, he found that restful sleep evaded his troubled mind. He stepped out on the balustrade and leaned against the rail. A silent landscape greeted him with stars and planets in place above forested hills. The lake reflected the starlight like a mirror. So many thoughts raced through his mind: civil war, treachery, love, his future as a Bourbon noble, and soon now, if war did come, what it would mean for his kinsman Prince Louis de Condé and Admiral Coligny.

  What would his own followers do without him? What of his marqui-sat? Though he had thought of these things before, the events at hand reopened old regrets and brought them anew to his mind and his heart. Departing France was something he had once told himself he would never do, for the sake of the honor of Duc Jean-Louis de Vendôme and of his mother, Duchesse Marie-Louise de Bourbon. Regardless of the necessity of leaving, doing so would be traumatic. He could not see himself living in England for the rest of his life when he was a Frenchman. Though he could communicate well in English, he spoke more fluently in Dutch.

  War was coming, surely. Under normal circumstances, it would be his duty and honneur to gather an army of followers from Vendôme and lead them to join the head Bourbon, now Condé, since Antoine no doubt would side with Duc de Guise and the Catholic alliance.

  Ah! If Duc de Guise were dead . . .

  What would it mean for him? For Rachelle?

  The Queen Mother would be satisfied. Her grip upon him would be broken.

  But unfortunately, Guise looked healthy. Fabien knew he could be removed from the French scene by a quiet but firm thrust of a dagger. One clean thrust would bring him to his eternal destiny.

  But I am no murderer. Nor will I be, not for all of France! He pushed the idea away and ceased to toy with it.

  He deliberately turned his thoughts to the colloquy. As yet, though he had his personal family chaplain who was a Huguenot, he had not publicly taken Communion with the Protestant leaders from Geneva. When the colloquy began, he would do so, declaring himself with Minister Beza, the twelve theologians, and those with Condé and Coligny.

  But many, like John Calvin, had been forced to leave, and why not him? And Andelot would ride away on the golden bay. That beloved horse! What would Andelot do with him? Maybe he could arrange to have him taken to the Château de Silk under the care of Messire Arnaut.

  This is something! He laughed at himself. He could relinquish Vendôme but not a horse. I cannot think of leaving France without worrying about a horse — non, two horses. For already, the beau chestnut stallion was upon his heart.

  Soft footsteps came up beside him. He turned, and Rachelle was there, his comfort and amour, as always. She slipped her arm through his and leaned with him against the balustrade, looking off at the dark forest under the gleaming stars.

  “I heard you come in. I was unable to sleep for thinking about Sardinia. Tell me what happened. You did meet with Andelot?”

  This would not be easy for him, but he respected her too much to keep the unpleasant truth concealed. She too must know what was at risk. He quietly told her everything that had occurred with Antoine, the Guises, and the Spanish Ambassador Chantonnay. He went into detail of what he believed the plans were to arrest his kinswoman Jeanne and the scheme to marry Mary, Queen of Scots, to Antoine and what such a union would mean, not only for France but England and Scotland. He finished by telling her Andelot was going to England to ask Idelette to marry him, whereupon they would journey to Geneva where he would train as a Huguenot pasteur or a teaching theologian at Calvin’s school.

  “So, ma chère, all is not dark. Happiness awaits your sister after all her grief, and Andelot will fulfill his spiritual gifts from God. He will be a tender shepherd for Christ, I am sure of it.”

  “Happiness awaits us too, mon amour Fabien. I am already happy in your arms and always will be — and I have a wondrous secret to tell you.”

  He studied her lovely face and wondered how he could have missed the sparkle of excitement showing in her eyes.

  “A secret? It must have something to do with the belle gowns you have made Margo. What is it, chérie, perhaps you have been asked to create a gown for Queen Jeanne?”

  Her smile deepened, and she slipped her arms around him and came closer, laying the side of her face against his chest. He held her close.

  “All a reason for excitement, but not my cherished secret.” She looked up at him.

  He lifted a brow. “Then you have me baffled and most curious.”

  She drew in a breath. “I had feared being barren, but I now am enceinte with our first child. I could not be more excited and thankful to our God. I hope you will also find it so?”

  For a moment he did not speak, and then he could not find the appropriate words.

  His immediate response was to squeeze her tightly and bury his face in her fragrant hair. He kissed her earlobe, her throat, her lips, and tenderly communicated his delight and his abiding love.

  The Dark Agreement

  THE QUEEN MOTHER TOOK HER MORNING PETIT DÉJEUNER ALONE IN HER chamber. She was vexed. She pondered again the message from one of her spies in the Guise camp. With the opening ceremonies of the colloquy to begin the following day, events were moving too quickly away from her control.

  So the Guises, with their chief collaborator Chantonnay, were inducing Antoine de Bourbon into becoming a Catholic, using bribes and flattery. Losing Antoine would weaken her. She must either draw closer to the Huguenot alliance under Admiral Coligny and his brothers, or reverse the direction she was going and show the Guises and Spain that she was truly their friend and working on their side.

  Months ago when she
had met with Antoine in the garden and whispered her plan to make him her general of France, it was with the idea of joining forces against the Guises, but she had not reckoned on the machinations of Ambassador Chantonnay, Philip’s formidable spy.

  She used her dagger to slice off a section of her sweet breakfast melon. She sealed her lips tightly and laid her knife and spoon down, mulling over Spain’s offer to Antoine to exchange Sardinia for the Kingdom of Navarre. And that swayable fool Antoine was impressed by the prospect. A tropical island! That slab of rocky wasteland? Ah, if Jeanne knew her husband was willing to negotiate away her father’s kingdom for Sardinia, how incensed she would be.

  Catherine needed no spy at Navarre to tell her what Jeanne was thinking, for she had been reading the lettres sent between Antoine and Jeanne for the last year.

  Antoine, so typical of him, held nothing back in his correspondence —except all of the truth. He was carrying on an illicit relationship with Louise de la Limaudière, la belle Rouet. Catherine was scornfully amused by one of Antoine’s exaggerated statements to Jeanne — “I promise that neither the ladies of the court nor any others can ever have the slightest power over me, unless it be the power to make me hate them.”

  Catherine chuckled. He undoubtedly had convinced his conscience it was true, even so, such words were not likely to fool an intelligent woman like Jeanne for long. She would decide Antoine sounded too defensive. Jeanne understood how weak her husband’s fidelity was. So too was his signature. “Your very affectionate and loyal husband, Antoine,” might send an uneasy qualm through Jeanne. Was that promise of loyalty not a little overstated?

  Catherine called for her woman in the escadron volant and demanded further news. Louise de la Limaudière reported that it was true, Antoine was wavering in his commitment to the Huguenot cause and showing a growing willingness to become a Catholic. He would then join Duc de Guise and Cardinal de Lorraine in their holy league, meant to thwart any movement at court that would tolerate the Huguenots in places of power.

  Holy league, she scoffed. Made up of murderers and adulterers to defend their faith! What was holy about it? At least, she thought with a tinge of self-righ teousness, I do not pretend to act for God, but for my own ambitions!

  “And will you be given anything in return for turning the vacillating Bourbon prince into a dedicated Catholic?” she asked wryly.

  Louise ducked her blonde head. “I have been promised rewards, Madame.”

  “Have you now? Well, is that not festive and mirthful.” Catherine looked at her coldly. “What manner of rewards, Mademoiselle de la Limaudière?”

  Catherine saw her swallow as if her throat were dry.

  “Marriage to Antoine de Bourbon, Madame.”

  “Marriage! How celebratory. And do you have no qualms that your Antoine might not take a mistress from my escadron volant?”

  Louise drew her heavy maternity cloak about her as she knelt there on the carpet before Catherine’s black skirts.

  “I shall become his queen.”

  “You shall become his — ” Her jesting voice caught and tightened as the words startled her.

  Catherine stood rigid. Queen! Then she relaxed.

  “Of Sardinia?” She laughed.

  Louise licked her lips. “Non, Madame, of France.”

  Catherine’s hands trembled with rage. Her breath came quickly as her heart thudded.

  And the Valoises? What did Spain have in mind for the Valoises? What would become of Charles? And Anjou? And if Louise were fool enough to believe that they would make her queen of France, what would that make Antoine?

  She leaned toward Louise, her skirt rustling, and the woman looked up with a white face and eyes that widened with alarm.

  Catherine took a step toward her, but the woman, large with child, was unable to rise. She fell on her side and let out a shriek like a cat.

  “Hush, you fool.”

  Catherine seized her own spiraling emotions back under control. She clenched her hand to keep from striking the woman’s bent head.

  Louise grew silent. A moment passed as the sound of their breathing closed around them.

  Catherine leaned down toward her again, her voice a whisper.

  “If you even hint to them that you have mentioned this to me, you will regret you have a tongue. Do you comprehend?”

  “O-oui, Madame. ”

  “Now go.”

  Louise tried to get up but could not. Catherine impatiently called for her ladies to help her up and take her away to her bed.

  A coldness settled over her. It would not be long before Antoine would need to explain to Jeanne of Navarre about the illegitimate child that had somehow emerged during his most loyal absence.

  It was likely, however, that Jeanne already knew about Antoine and Louise through the Huguenot women here at court who had tried to keep Antoine from slipping into the adulterous pit.

  What Jeanne does not know is the plot to have her arrested. Ah, the sly cardinal and papal legate have put her in a position of weakness and great danger.

  Later in the afternoon, Catherine was able to sneak away unseen to keep her clandestine meeting with the Duc of Alva in the forest. No one, not even the Guise faction, knew that Alva had returned to France briefly and was here to meet with her. He had departed for the Netherlands a year ago, after Marquis de Vendôme was put in the Amboise dungeon, but he was back again with an urgent message from King Philip, who was furious with her for the colloquy.

  No wonder my indigestion is upsetting me again. I live among scorpions.

  THE QUEEN MOTHER WAITED in the trees far enough from the château not to be seen easily by anyone out strolling. She had covered herself from head to toe in black gown and head scarf.

  The Duc of Alva arrived alone, also in austere black with a touch of red silk ribbon. The duc was a man of solemn countenance with a thin face and a short, well-groomed pointed beard. Behind those shrewd dark eyes lay a fanatical allegiance to his country and his generation’s concept of the religion he served with a ruthless sword. She could admire his strength if he were not her opponent in statecraft. She would need to be shrewd to appease Philip of Spain by convincing Alva of her genuine faith. She was, of course, neither Catholic nor Protestant at heart. The occult, Nostradamus, and the Florence astrologers who made her zodiac charts stimulated her primary spiritual interests.

  “Madame,” he stated with a bow.

  “My lord Duc.” She tipped her head, feeling her dark coif sway gently with the hem of her long black gown.

  “It is imperative we meet alone like this to touch upon certain religious matters of which my king, His Most Christian Majesty, is deeply burdened.”

  “That he is burdened troubles me, I promise you.”

  His bleak smile was in place on his lean, sallow face. “It is well that we meet here, Madame, not in the palais. The walls, I believe, have ears.”

  She ignored what she thought was an allusion to her spying and kept a serious face.

  “Ah, but you would know about that better than I, my lord Duc.”

  He managed a semblance of a chuckle. “Perhaps, Madame.”

  The air was cool and crisp as they walked, the fallen leaves crunching beneath their feet.

  “How unfortunate for us that you will depart so soon for your own country,” she said with a friendly smile. She could hardly wait for his entourage to make their exit.

  “My deepest regret, Madame,” he said, matching her slippery tongue. “But my king is anxious to know your reply to his solemn concerns. So much so, Madame, that he wishes my immediate return.

  Much that is important in the ways of war and peace depends upon your cooperation.”

  The warning in his voice gave her a chill.

  “Ah, so profound, monsieur. You bring worry to my already overburdened heart.”

  There was a cool warning in his eyes that alarmed her. Not even she could thwart Philip of Spain. He was in league with Rome and could not be easily turned asi
de from the wishes of the Holy See. Like the first Crusaders who went to war in the Holy Land against the invading Moslem Turks, Philip, too, believed Spain was blessed of the pope to use sword against another threat to Christendom: the spreading Reformation throughout Europe. The enemy now was Protestantism and certain realms in Europe breaking away from the pope’s authority.

  Catherine knew that France lacked a well-equipped army to withstand a large invasion force from Spain. She understood what the Duc of Alva was doing in Holland, and what he and King Philip were hoping to do to Protestant England and its heretical queen if she did not return to Rome.

  And she knew what could befall her and France should the Duc of Alva hurl his seasoned army of soldiers and German mercenaries into France to bring down the Valois throne. She would then be replaced by the house of Guise. Any army that she and Charles could call together would not be sufficient. To attempt to stand against them, she would need the Bourbons, Admiral Coligny, Prince Condé, and others.

  Catherine and the Duc of Alva made a twosome as bleak as the fall day. As they walked along, the wind moved in clouds that were masking the sun and making a low moan through the fir trees.

  She resented the way in which he began at once to bring up the religious conflict in France. She tried to ignore this affront and instead carried the theme of conversation to her inquiry into the marriage of Marguerite to Philip’s son, Don Carlos.

  The Duc of Alva’s chill smile refused to oblige her, nor was he intimidated by her as others were.

  “Madame, I am here as spokesman for my lord, the great King of Spain. I was ordered by his direct command to set aside any discussion of marriage between the two royal families until he rests assured that you and your son, the young king, come to terms with the enemy, the Huguenot nobility.”

  “Ah, my lord Duc, is it so easy then to murder so many?” she asked coldly.