Written on Silk

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  He lifted her fingers to his lips, turned, and descended the veranda steps. Gallaudet came around from the side of the château leading two horses, and they rode away together. His other men-at-arms and lackeys must have remained at the stables. Where was he going?

  The docteur, Maître Pierre Lancre, was grim faced and tight-lipped as he quickly scanned the worst of the injured, then turned back to treat them. Cousin Bertrand had a gunshot wound in his leg, burns, and multiple bruises, and the docteur spent the longest time with him. James had suffered burns and an injured leg, which meant his stay at the château would be longer than anyone had expected. Then, having already checked Idelette, who suffered from bruises and shock, he ordered a glass of wine brought to her and had her put to bed until he could fully attend her.

  “I am afraid you have your hands full, Madame Macquinet,” he later told Clair. “Neither of the messieurs may be moved for some time.”

  “Think not of that, Docteur Lancre; our home is always open in times of need. Indeed, Bertrand is part of our family. And Monsieur Hudson can stay for as long as needed.”

  Pierre Lancre went down the hall to visit Idelette with Madame Clair and Rachelle following.

  They waited beyond Idelette’s chamber door while Idelette was examined, and heard her answering questions in a low, dull voice. Rachelle watched her mère, seeing the worry in her eyes, the restrained sorrow on her pale, drawn face. Rachelle marveled that she was taking the loss of Avril with such spiritual fortitude. Perhaps it was because the crisis was still present and she could not allow herself to collapse under the devastation. There was Idelette and her recovery to think about.

  While Madame Clair paced the floral rug, her lips moving as though in silent intercession, Rachelle, too, remained restless, thinking of Idelette, Cousin Bertrand, and then Marquis Fabien. He had shown himself most astute; indeed, he had been the epitome of sympathy and strength, assuring Clair of his support with anything she needed, including sending men to Geneva for Rachelle’s father, Arnaut. Madame Clair had assured him that a lettre would be sent to her husband promptly. Fabien had shown such concern, perhaps because her parents knew he was a Catholic. Madame Clair, at least, had been aware of Rachelle’s interest in him and disapproved. Her words were spoken more than once; her intent clearly understood: “You cannot be united to anyone other than a Huguenot; your père would never allow it, ma chère.”

  She walked to the hall window and glanced below. Marquis Fabien had said he was riding toward the main village to meet someone at an inn. What it was about, he had not told her, as usual. He retains his secrecy well, she thought wryly. He could not easily overtake Duc de Guise now, too much time had passed — unless, horrors! — unless the duc had made an early camp for the night!

  Rachelle turned from the window as Docteur Lancre closed Idelette’s bedroom door behind him. A small man with a drooping mustache and shiny forehead, he looked not the slightest bit encouraged from his visit with her sister.

  Madame Clair stood with outward repose. “Messire?”

  A breath rumbled through his lips. “Madame, it is as she said . . . and as we feared. But I hasten to add that she is an otherwise healthy mademoiselle who, I am confident, will come out of this shock with a sound mind and body.”

  Rachelle noticed her mother’s shoulders sag a little. Rachelle understood that she had hoped Idelette may have been “mistaken.” Rachelle had never thought so, but their mère often saw both of them as very young.

  “I see,” she murmured, her saddened eyes turning downward.

  Rachelle felt a desire to go to her mother but refrained, keeping her face blank as she had taught her daughters while growing up. Intimate or embarrassing situations were always to be dealt with stoically.

  “Madame Macquinet,” he said, “I am a loyal Catholic as you know. As such, I am horrified at what has befallen my friends and neighbors ‘of the religion.’ ”

  Madame Clair nodded that she understood and accepted his condolences.

  “Such behavior as this, Madame,” he spread a hand, “is barbarism. No religious cloak shall ever give respectability to the behavior of Duc de Guise. His fervency has turned to fanaticism. And I shall not defend it! Even though a man be a heretic, I cannot believe the God of heaven would ever approve of such cruel deeds by his servants. And the petite Avril — ” Then the stoic Docteur Lancre was unable to finish.

  He shook his head, and begging pardon, paused and recovered. He went on to discuss his remedy for shock. Idelette was to rest and stay bedridden for the next several days, then he would see her again. He spoke of something to keep her quiet and sleepy.

  “And you as well, Madame,” he said soberly, looking at her over the bridge of his nose, “must be given a sleeping potion.”

  “I cannot, Docteur Lancre, I must keep all my wits at hand. There are correspondences to write, and I must arrange for my husband to come home as soon as he feels he can — ” she stopped short.

  Rachelle glanced at her. Madame Clair had almost mentioned the work Arnaut was doing in Geneva, which could easily have brought his arrest, and even the fiery stake if he did not recant. Rachelle looked at the docteur, seeing he had not suspected anything, but was writing his instructions for Idelette and for herself — though Rachelle wasn’t sure she was willing to comply.

  Rachelle knew there was little else she could learn, and she slipped away.

  The wall sconces shimmered with lamplight even during the day, for the corridor would otherwise be dim. The château, though most belle, was usually chilly in winter and spring. Even now she felt a draft about her ankles as she walked wearily across the carpet, faded from generations of wear in some places. The wear on the carpets and furniture seemed to make the château more cherished to Rachelle. It connected her emotionally to family who had been here before her with dedication to the silk enterprise.

  She passed Cousin Bertrand’s chamber but did not wish to disturb him now. She would see him when she visited at dîner. As for Sir James Hudson, it was not respectable for a young woman to venture into the bedchamber of a young man alone, even though Hudson had proven himself a Christian and a gallant gentleman.

  Rachelle’s mind jumped back to the duc. Everyone claims they are Chris tian. A prayer uttered, a ritual performed, a confession of belief, but what did it all mean when a heart remained the same, even justifying murder?

  After Docteur Lancre departed and Idelette slept, Rachelle waited in the main salle for Madame Clair. Clair descended the stairs appearing tense and pale and sat in the red velvet chair below magnificent tapestries that showed a garden scene from the Fontainebleau palais-château in Orléans.

  Rachelle knelt beside Clair and laid her forehead against her shoulder, taking solace in her mother’s consolation.

  “I should be helping you instead of taking comfort . . . you have only so much strength to expend . . .”

  “Hush, not so. Your presence consoles me. There is no shame in our tears, nor to our need for comfort. We all need an encourager when the way grows so long. There is a time to weep and a time to laugh. Now is our time for tears. How can we not? My youngest, your petite sister, is lying in the antechamber covered over with white linen; and Idelette, my lily, so serious, so dedicated, and now — ”

  “Oh, ma mère . . . Idelette, it is she who worries me the most.”

  “Yes. She may carry this burden for a long journey before seeing green pastures.” She looked off across the salle, thoughtfully.

  Silence descended. Rachelle had expected her mother to allay her fears, but she now accepted them as her own. On the tables, the candles burned and flickered. Now and then, one of the servants lost control of their feelings and a sob was heard from the kitchen area or another part of the house. They had been with the family so long, they also were sorrowing.

  “We are as Job this night,” Madame Clair said after a long silence. “The Lord has given, and the Lord has permitted the ruthless and the blind of spirit to take away wh
at we cherished.”

  “It is as le docteur said, ma mère. It was senseless and brutal.” And I hate the Duc de Guise, she thought, but could not bring herself to say so before her mother.

  “Senseless, I say, from our human reasoning, Rachelle, but not senseless to our great and wise God. You understand that, do you not?”

  She did, and yet she could not come to terms with it as her mother had, and she did not wish to add to her concerns.

  “Yes, ma mère.”

  “Understand, this could not have happened to us unless, like Job, the hedge of safety was lowered for the spiritual enemy to get through to us.”

  “Yes, but why?”

  “If we knew the answer, ma petite, we would no longer need to trust and walk by faith. We are tested, and like Job, we will, with God’s help, come forth as gold. We can choose to say, ‘Blessed be the name of the Lord.’ Remember that Faithful and True are two of His names.”

  Rachelle sat dry-eyed and silent. She did not think she could possibly muster another tear if her heart were torn from her. There would never be enough tears to mourn Avril, or to sympathize with Idelette.

  “Knowing where Avril is — helps to sustain us,” Clair said, squeezing her hand.

  “Yes, but our loss remains.”

  “In our earthly sojourn it cannot be fully mended. That is why heaven is now made dearer to us, Rachelle. And God wishes it so.”

  Those words, heaven is now made dearer , unexpectedly lit a flame in Rachelle’s heart. She looked up quickly. She saw the sadness in her mother’s eyes, yet it was softened, mingled with hope, even certainty. Rachelle sensed that hope of God’s promise growing brighter within her own heart. Yes, heaven is dearer to me!

  Madame Clair searched her face and must have seen something not visible before. A little smile turned her lips.

  In a gesture of gratitude to her mère, Rachelle placed her arms around her neck.

  They prayed together as was their family custom. Afterward, Madame Clair went upstairs to write Père Arnaut the dreaded correspondence of what had visited them in his absence. It was given to Rachelle to write to Grandmère and Madeleine, but she too went off to the task while eternal hope sprang up within.

  “Make me an encourager, Father,” she asked. “Let me light a candle in the darkness of fear and doubt.”

  Rachelle adjusted the lamp on her father’s writing desk, took out stationery, and dipped her pen into the inkwell. After several attempts, she settled on the words to her grandmère and Madeleine.

  THE LIGHT WAS FADING RAPIDLY with the setting sun and the long day edging toward its close. Billowy clouds, the color of eggshells, with tints of lavender, hung over the mureraies.

  Rachelle had finished her lettre, and the envelope sat on the burnished mahogany table by the door, ready for delivery to Paris.

  The darkness settled in. Where was Marquis Fabien?

  She reached to close the burgundy draperies and blinked, startled by what must have been a handful of gravel flung against the windowpane.

  She was in the salle on the first floor and had a clear view of the tall hedgerow and the front courtyard. There were no horses or men-at-arms, but a movement under the hedge caught her eye. A man crouched out of sight. Their gazes caught. She tensed; he reached inside his cloak and brought out a dark book and held it to his lips. Then he made the sign of the cross and signaled that he would go around to the back of the château. He slipped away, keeping out of sight.

  Was the book a Bible? Surely so. Who was he and what did he want? She drew the draperies closed, then making up her mind, she sped across the chamber, out the door, and toward the back entrances.

  Rachelle stepped out onto the rear balcony, feeling the night wind chilling her. There was a landing here, railed, with steps leading down to the culinary herb garden. She held to the rail and looked below into the twilight. Footsteps rushed along the path, now and then hesitating. She waited. Then the man came out of the shadows and rushed toward her.

  Rachelle stepped back cautiously.

  “A thousand pardons, Mademoiselle,” he gasped, “the grace of our Lord be with you! Forgive me for coming to you in this way, but two men were following me back at the inn. I was able to slip away unseen, but wish to take no chances.” He gave a swift bow. “I am Mathieu, a student from Geneva, where I attend Monsieur Calvin’s school of theology.”

  The student’s sober garb was familiar to her. Many Huguenot students from Geneva on their way to hold secret meetings throughout France had visited the château as a safe house through the years.

  Rachelle glanced about the darkness and saw no one else. She stepped back. “Come inside quickly, Monsieur.”

  He scrambled up the steps and ducked inside the antechamber, out of breath.

  Rachelle quietly shut the door and bolted it. She lit an oil lamp. Now that she had a clearer view of him, she could see he had been running and hiding, for his clothes were dusty.

  “You have come at a dangerous time, Monsieur Mathieu. The château may be watched by Duc de Guise’s men-at-arms. They attacked the Huguenot assembly early this morning.”

  “I had small choice, Mademoiselle. I was at the inn outside the village, prepared to stay the night, and thinking of my supper, when two men entered and sat down across the room. Soon they began to talk. They began to boast to one another of how they had attacked a group of “heretics” who met to worship the Devil, as they said. When they mentioned the Château de Silk and the Macquinet name, I was so dismayed, I almost gave myself away. I was sent here from Geneva by Monsieur Arnaut Macquinet with a lettre for his cousin, Bertrand Macquinet.”

  From her père!

  “Only by God’s good providence was I able to flee the inn unnoticed by these two soldiers. A stranger entered and boldly confronted them, demanding to know where the duc was camped. While they were occupied I slipped away.”

  Suspicion sharpened her voice. “This stranger who entered, did you hear his name?”

  “No, but there was another man with him who called him marquis.”

  Fabien! He must have been there with Gallaudet. Would he dare confront the duc? Her concerns grew.

  Mathieu removed a small sealed parchment from inside his cloak. In the light of the lamp she recognized her father’s handwriting.

  “Mademoiselle, I must deliver this to Pasteur Bertrand.”

  “Oui, bien sûr, but he was injured this morning. He was behind the teaching pulpit when a surprise attack came. I cannot promise that he will be strong enough to read my father’s message this night, as le docteur has given him a sleeping potion for suffering.”

  Mathieu’s young face fell with disappointment.

  “Is Pasteur Bertrand badly injured?”

  “We believe he will recover in time.”

  “Then God be thanked. Pasteur Bertrand has my prayers this night. Since you are Monsieur Macquinet’s daughter, I do not hesitate to tell you that the message from your father bears most important content.” He glanced around him cautiously as though from habit. “The Bibles Pasteur Bertrand wishes to smuggle out of France are even now awaiting his arrival. It is crucial that he act at once.”

  In his condition? What would have been bonne news before the events of the morning, now presented a dilemma. Bertrand was unable to leave his bed.

  She was also surprised to hear that the Bibles were already printed. On that very morning Bertrand had said that her father might need to remain in Geneva for another month.

  “Mathieu, are you certain? Bertrand does not yet expect the Bibles.”

  “Monsieur Macquinet was able to find another printer in Geneva to do the work posthaste. The Bibles are now stored in a private warehouse at Calais, guarded by Monsieur Macquinet — ”

  “Calais? But he was to bring them here to Lyon.”

  “That was the intention, Mademoiselle, until it was learned le duc may have knowledge of the Macquinet work in Geneva. It was then decreed too dangerous for the Château de Silk. A
las, le duc has struck here anyway.”

  “Then — you mean my père may have expected an attack here?”

  “He may have worried. Then the plan with Pasteur Bertrand was altered to bring the Bibles to Châtillon, then on to Calais, where a friendly ship awaits to bring both the pasteur and the Bibles to England.”

  “Are you certain my père is now at Calais?”

  “He is, and that is why it is most urgent that Pasteur Bertrand go there at once to join him. The Bibles must be moved from their place of concealment and brought to England before they are discovered.”

  Rachelle put a hand to her forehead. Her father was doubtless taking a grave risk at Calais. A warehouse was never safe for long with so many people coming and going on the wharves, and this one stacked with crates of French Bibles, with her father as their keeper.

  “But it is impossible for Cousin Bertrand to travel now. Why — it may be several weeks, perhaps even longer.”

  “Mademoiselle, I share your very concerns after what has happened here. If there is anything I can do — well, I am at your ser vice, and Pasteur Bertrand’s. Perhaps, Mademoiselle, it would be wise for you to read the lettre from your père, since Pasteur Bertrand is not yet able.”

  He handed her the envelope.

  Rachelle hesitated, then sent her reticence fleeing. After all, if her father was asking Bertrand to come with all speed, then she dare not delay learning of his plight.

  Mathieu looked weary and worn, and her sympathy went out to him. He had journeyed far bringing her father’s lettre. If anyone had discovered it upon him and read its contents, he would have been arrested. It was fortunate that Marquis Fabien had entered the inn when he did, lest the two soldiers recognize the student’s Geneva dress.

  “Come, we shall talk again in the morning. I will take you to your chamber for the night.”

  “The Lord bless you, Mademoiselle. The students at the university have heard of the Macquinet generosity toward us. The fine linen shirts sent to us are desired alike by student and docteur.”

  “The shirts are by oversight of my sister Mademoiselle Idelette,”she said, with a smile, followed by an onrush of uninvited sadness over Idelette’s condition.