Written on Silk

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  Rachelle could not restrain her growing frustration. “It is all very well and good for your England, Monsieur Hudson. And I am thankful England opens her doors to us. But it is France I think of. France foolishly robs herself. One would think the king would realize the Huguenots, the middle class of this country, are the backbone of France! Without us, there is naught but nobles on one end and uneducated poor on the other.”

  “Quite the fact, mademoiselle, yes, quite . . . and sad for your country, of course.”

  “Unfortunately,” Idelette said, “those of the religion have small choice except to escape with their lives and the lives of their children.”

  “There is a far greater loss to France than silk and trade secrets,”Bertrand said. “It is the removal of God’s lampstand in France. With every Huguenot family who leaves, with every burning, every arrest and torture, the light of our witness departs. I fear darkness will reign if we as a nation continue to harden our hearts against the light of truth.” He looked at each of them. “France is in danger of forfeiting the greatest of opportunities from God — that of leading the way in Europe as God’s torchbearer. It appears to me that the honneur may pass to England.”

  Rachelle, highly patriotic, felt an unhappy twinge. She had naught against England, but her love was with France. She feared Cousin Bertrand was right.

  “England has also known her years of burnings and delusions,”James Hudson said. “Until Elizabeth came to the throne, we had her sister, Queen Mary. I think we all know that history has recorded many stalwart saints burned at Smithfield through her. Bloody Mary, we call her. Many leaders of the Reformation like Cranmer, Ridley, and Tyndale — all burned at the stake as heretics.”

  “Ah, but England is now embracing the light,” Cousin Bertrand said. “England welcomes the persecuted for His name’s sake with goodwill and a haven of safety. The Lord takes notice of this and the many changes under your present queen.”

  Whereas the Queen Mother, thought Rachelle, uses persecution to maintain her throne and appease Spain.

  Cousin Bertrand seemed to sense the heaviness at the table and smiled. “But! The Château de Silk has not rejected the light. We are all witnesses for God though we stand alone,” he said, his tone encouraging. “And the silk is a gift from our heavenly Father. For without the miracle of His silkworm, there would be no Dushane-Macquinet silk, no name of renown for the cloth. You chère mademoiselles know that this blessing is to be used not for our own ease, but as an open door. And so it is. Arnaut has financed much of the work in Geneva and France, and now in Spitalfields and Holland. The Bibles, the special printing of Scripture portions and books, all in fine leather and gilt edge, have been spread far and near because of our Dushane-Macquinet silk. And this will continue for as long as our good God preserves us. I will be eloquent and say that our witness, our trials and persecutions, are all written on silk!”

  Rachelle’s heart sounded a song of thanksgiving, knowing that eternal good was upheld by her needle and scissors, and even the feeding of mulberry leaves to the silkworms would assist her calling.

  “To our God goes all the honneur,” Madame Clair said. “Château de Silk prospers in order to serve our Lord’s work as well as our own. And, Monsieur Hudson, although my husband is not here to celebrate the beginning of the Dushane-Macquinet-Hudson alliance, I can tell you that our desire is singular. We will support the weavers’ guilds in Spitalfields by making certain they have silk.”

  “Silk and our own designs so they can cut and sew, ma mère.” Rachelle pleaded again for her special dream. “Let there be gowns sewn in Spitalfields and displayed in a fine shop on Regent Street. Even gowns of many sizes so that they can be purchased right there by passersby. Such a dress shop with our name would be unique and successful, I am sure of it.”

  “We share the same mind-set, Mademoiselle,” Sir James Hudson said. “’Tis a novel persuasion of great interest to the Hudson family as well.”

  Rachelle saw a tiny flame dance in his eyes.

  He turned to Madame Clair. “Indeed, ’tis our hope you and your daughters will come to London to oversee the opening of the first dress shop. Perhaps when the gown for Her Majesty is finished? ’Tis only fitting you attend Court when the gown is presented to our queen. Hudson Manor is always open for your stay with us. My father would be delighted to meet the Daughters of Silk and to discuss all this business to everyone’s complete satisfaction.”

  Rachelle, however, noticed a subdued response from Madame Clair. It was becoming obvious she did not want her daughters leaving France. Her heart was bound with the tragic happenings surrounding her family and the talk of a civil war between the Catholic forces and the Huguenots. No one could know how such fighting would affect the Château which had been a family enterprise in Lyon from the time of Great-Grandmère Antoinette Dushane.

  Rachelle nurtured her disappointment. A glance at her sister showed that Idelette was also disappointed. She had mentioned to Rachelle earlier that morning that Hudson had spoken to her of the hope that they would consider going to London to strengthen the alliance with the Hudson family in Spitalfields. He did not expect all three Macquinet women to make the journey, but he had suggested the possibility to Madame Clair.

  But Madame Clair merely smiled graciously at him across the table and remained noncommittal.

  Rachelle met Idelette’s gaze. We will not give up yet.

  A short time later, with breakfast finished, Cousin Bertrand retrieved his French Bible, tapped it with his finger, and said quietly, as if to himself, “Remember those who have gone before us who have endured great afflictions for His name’s sake.” Then with his Bible concealed inside his preaching satchel, he left the château to teach that morning’s message at the local Huguenot gathering.

  Idelette and Avril left soon after under the friendly escort of Sir James Hudson. As they went out the front door, Avril called to Rachelle that she would keep a place for her on the bench.

  Madame Clair’s tired face was due to more than worry over her recently widowed daughter Madeleine and the baby. Rachelle knew she had stayed up until after midnight to finish a special silk scarf for Madame Hershey, who would attend the worship meeting, and that she had been delayed in finishing the project due to Hudson’s arrival.

  As Madame Clair went to the atelier, Rachelle followed and stopped at the doorway, watching as she reached up to the shelf and brought down the scarf. She glanced over her shoulder.

  “Do go on without me, ma petite. I shall be a few minutes late. I must finish the ribbon edging. Madame Hershey will be disappointed if she cannot bring this gift with her when she leaves worship to visit her daughter. Her coach leaves for Paris soon after the meeting.”

  “Ma mère? About Sir James Hudson and going to London . . .”

  “Not now, Rachelle. I know what your wish is, but now is not the time to discuss the matter. We will wait until your père is home from Geneva. Hurry now, or you shall be late to sing the psalter.”

  Rachelle silenced her defeated sigh. She felt as though Madame Clair still thought of her as a demoiselle. She was grown now, ripe for amour and marriage — at least Marquis Fabien de Vendôme thought her a woman. He had not spoken of marriage, true, but . . .

  “Oui, ma mère,” she said with dutiful respect and did not argue. She respected her mère too much for immature tantrums. At least she had not said a definite non to London.

  What would Marquis Fabien do if she voyaged to Spitalfields?

  The Prince of Darkness Grim

  THE BARN CHURCH

  RRACHELLE WALKED ALONG THE SHORTCUT THAT BROUGHT HER TO THE wagon road that ran between the mulberry orchard and the silkworm hatcheries. From there it was only a five minute walk to the fields. She glanced back toward the château, and knowing that Madame Clair was not watching from the balustrade, tightened her sash, raised her silken skirts above her ankles, and tucked the waist under the sash. She had done this since a girl and saw no reason to stop now. She s
miled at herself and ran through the mulberry orchard toward the dirt road. Just as long as the Marquis de Vendôme, with all of his sang-froid, did not ever see her acting like a naive peasant girl!

  At the outskirts of the hatcheries and farther ahead to the right, a public road divided the Macquinet estate lands from Monsieur Lemoine’s hayfields. Lemoine, a Huguenot, had constructed a large, new barn that was used for Sunday worship meetings, as Protestant church buildings were forbidden by the Roman Church.

  The wind came sweeping through the family’s mûreraies , or groves of mulberry trees. Rachelle basked in the breeze, rustling her silk dress, and looked at the clouds skimming across the expanse of deep blue sky. The mûreraies provided the leaves for feeding the château’s silkworms, which produced the unique filaments with which Sir James Hudson was so anxious to be associated. Rachelle was not in the least surprised that the fine quality silk, which elevated the Macquinet name among cou-turières across Europe, was known even in the English court of Queen Elizabeth.

  Rachelle’s mind drifted to the merveilleux gown that she and Idelette were privileged to create. This would bring new opportunities . . . but where would they lead her?

  How good it was to be home again, away from the court, away from the serpentine Queen Mother, from deceit on every hand. Home. There was nothing that could add its touch of contentment to her soul more than to be handling yards of silk in wondrous shades of blues, pinks, greens, silver, gold, and burgundy —

  Burgundy. A smile tugged at her mouth. She relived the romantic moment when Marquis Fabien had surprised her with yards of rich burgundy silk and cloth of gold to make a gown for herself, just as she had for Princesse Marguerite.

  Rachelle had arrived at the château from Vendôme several weeks ago, escorted by the beau Marquis Fabien de Vendôme. A few days later a message for the marquis arrived unexpectedly, delivered by Fabien’s chief page, Gallaudet, who claimed that one of the French “buccaneer’s men” had brought it to him before quickly leaving, refusing to linger in Lyon a moment longer than necessary. Did this French seaman think he was in danger?

  Fabien read the message, then burned it in the château hearth while she watched, wondering what it meant. He left soon afterward without discussing its content, much to her irritation, telling her only that he would return to the château once the rendezvous was held, before he departed on a longer voyage to Florida. Fabien had refused to explain any details or even the purpose for this rendezvous — a fact she found irksome, for she felt she deserved his trust. Perhaps the time they had known each other had been too short for him to have complete confidence in her.

  She knew little more than that he’d left for a location on the coast, where an ally, a French buccaneer, whose name Fabien had withheld, awaited him for a secret rendezvous. That he would return to see her again before his voyage to Florida, encouraged her. The marquis had not yet spoken to her of marriage — indeed, he seemed to step back from it, and she knew physical attraction alone was never enough for a lifetime.

  His caution in that area had served him well during his years at Court, maintaining his freedom as well as his integrity.

  During these last two weeks she had agonized over his safety. Any involvement with buccaneers — French, Dutch, or English — against Spain, would put him at risk by the throne.

  Large leaves above her rustled, and speckled sunshine trickled onto her route. She took a turn that would lead toward a thick hedge of pink oleanders.

  As the hedge came into view, she spotted an opening where she could squeeze through to cross the road. Rachelle was careful to avoid touching the pink flowers; although she found them attractive, she had heard they were poisonous.

  She paused by the tall oleanders, catching her breath. How unseemly it would be to enter the worship gathering out of breath and perspiring, and with her skirts hiked up past her ankles! She laughed at herself, straightening her skirts and smoothing the folds into place. Singing came loud and clear from the large barn. Ça alors! She was late.

  Cousin Bertrand had selected Martin Luther’s hymn, “A Mighty Fortress.” The words, which she knew well, were clear:

  “The Prince of Darkness grim, we tremble not for him;

  His rage we can endure, for lo, his doom is sure,

  One little word shall fell him.”

  Running footsteps pounded from behind; she turned to look over her shoulder toward the mulberry grove.

  It was Philippe, one of the silk weaver boys, also late for the ser vice. She smiled until the look on his face alerted her.

  “Mademoiselle Rachelle, run! Duc de Guise is riding here with many soldiers!

  For a time she must have stood in shock for she realized Philippe was shaking her arm, his brown eyes wide.

  “Mademoiselle! Jolon sends me! Run, he says!”

  She threw her hand to her forehead. “Guise! It cannot be. Here? But why? Are you certain, Philippe? The duchy of Guise is in Lorraine.”

  “Jolon has gone to warn his wife and others in the hatcheries. He says word came from a spy that le duc is bringing punishment on heretics!”

  Here? Her mind revolted against such. This was not Amboise. What cause would he have?

  The words to Luther’s hymn continued:

  “Let goods and kindred go, this mortal life also;

  The body they may kill: God’s truth abideth still,

  His kingdom is forever.”

  Rachelle whirled and looked off toward the fields and the barn . . .kindred . . .

  “I must warn Pasteur Bertrand.”

  The boy laid hold of her, his frightened eyes imploring. “Non, mademoiselle, run. Listen — horses — ”

  Rachelle turned her head sharply, toward the thudding hoofbeats on the road. Yes! Horses, many of them, thundering closer.

  “Look!” Philippe pointed, awe in his voice. “It is him, le duc himself, with soldiers.”

  Rachelle saw the horsemen above the tops of the oleanders. Swirls of dust rose about the horses. If she ran to warn Bertrand, she would run straight in front of the soldiers. She dare not attempt to cross the field toward the barn.

  “Do not let them see us.” She drew the boy down beside her and peered through the leaves.

  The duc’s soldiers galloped into clear view, the horses’ hoofs beating the dirt. The steel breastplates, partly covered in leather, glinted beneath the sun’s rays.

  “Such soldiers, such horses, such gleaming steel — ” Philippe said, and Rachelle read the fear in his voice. “Ma mère is inside the barn-church. She sent me back to the bungalow for her wrap — she said she was cold — ”

  Rachelle gripped her fingers on his arm to steady him. “God knows.Be strong and pray for their deliverance.”

  The green and white flag bearing the emblem of the House of Guise snapped brazenly in the wind. Rachelle narrowed her gaze, seeking to glimpse the faces as they rode past, then — yes, there he was! The duc himself. She would recognize him anywhere. Her muscles tensed. That arrogant face with the tight mouth and contemptuous eyes was all too familiar after Amboise.

  Duc de Guise reined in his horse, unsheathed his sword, and raised it above his head. His men followed suit with an ominous clink of steel. Rachelle clenched her fists. Her heart pounded in her ears. Non, non —

  “The sword of the Lord!”

  His men answered with a rousing shout. Turning their horses away from the road, they galloped across the field toward the barn.

  Rachelle grasped Philippe’s arm more tightly and found him trembling. She did not want him to witness what might happen.

  “Run, Philippe, warn Madame Clair. Jolon may have forgotten. Tell her I said to hide the French Bible Idelette keeps in her chamber. There are other books too. Hurry!”

  Philippe, his young face pale and tense, hesitated, his fearful gaze shooting back to the barn, but she gave him a little shove. “Do as I say! Quickly!”

  He jumped to his feet and took off running back toward the mulberry orch
ard and the château.

  Rachelle watched until the boy disappeared, then turned her attention to Lemoine’s field, praying urgently.

  Peering through the oleander leaves, she wrestled with the horror seizing her heart.

  “Do something,” she told herself. “Do not just sit here. Throw yourself with abandon into the raging terror! Save your sisters and Bertrand!”

  As if she could! Her bitter desperation tasted only of gall. She clenched her hands into helpless fists until the nails dug into her flesh.

  Who could stop such blind hatred for those labeled heretics, whose crime was worshiping Christ from a study of the Scriptures alone?

  The singing ceased. Voices of praise gave way to the shouts of soldiers and the cries of protest from Huguenots trying for reason and calm. As though the Huguenots could reason with Guise’s personal inquisitors, Rachelle thought.

  “Father,” she wailed, sinking on her knees to the dirt, “help Your poor children! If not, who can stand this onslaught from Satan? Surely those committing such rage against us are greatly deceived and need Your mercy. Oh! Do open their eyes that the scales of blindness might fall, like the apostle Paul who once persecuted the Jewish Chris tians for calling on the name of Jesus, so let these — even Duc de Guise — see the truth as it is written! Help us, Father! In Jesus’s name!”

  INSIDE THE BARN, the prayers, the crying of frightened children, and the shouts that invaded from outside the barn, all merged into one great howl as of a funeral dirge.

  Pasteur Bertrand Macquinet was told the barn was surrounded by Duc de Guise’s men-at-arms soon after they heard the ominous shouts and galloping horses. Bertrand was grieved, but he was far from surprised that it was happening. The overzealous Guise was resorting to the tactics he was known for.

  The doors and windows were being nailed shut from the outside before the Protestants could escape. Those few men who had gone out at once to attempt to reason with the duc’s men were dying, thrust through with the sword.