Rachelle brought Mathieu past the cook’s room into a hall with an alcove having steps going up to a second floor chamber that was affectionately called the Prophet’s Nook. The family had it built in the early 1500s when persecution against the first Reformers in France broke with fury. Presently it was kept ready for traveling pasteurs and Bible students out of Geneva. There was a wardrobe stocked with shirts, coats, and leggings in many sizes, and upon departure, travel currency was given.
Rachelle told him that hot water, fresh towels, and dinner would soon be brought.
“Merci millefois, Mademoiselle.”
“Have dinner, Monsieur, and get your well-deserved sleep. You have done your part in delivering the message. I will see to its contents.” Yet, even as Rachelle spoke, she wondered what could possibly be done.
She left Mathieu and started down the steps, frowning and considering her alternatives. Reaching the alcove, she set the candleholder on the ledge and opened the lettre. Holding it near the candlelight, she read her father’s brief message:
I am now in Calais with the cargo, awaiting your arrival. We confront several difficulties. Monsieur B informs me he is under suspicion. It is perilous for him to haul the cargo aboard his vessel as first planned. We must find other means. Also, Monsieur D’s warehouse can only be used for a brief time due to random inspections. Come in haste. Say nothing of my situation to Clair.
A. M.
Rachelle’s fingers closed about the lettre, and she gazed off thoughtfully. Now what? Bertrand could not make the journey to Calais. If she sent Mathieu back to her father with the dark tidings here in Lyon, it would compound his dilemma.
As she stood, considering, she heard the servant’s voice, followed by footsteps, then Fabien’s question as he entered the grande salle. She hurried across the polished floor, her dark blue skirts swishing, and paused before the archway done in tiles of pale blue with a yellow floral pattern.
The grande salle was the largest room in the château, with a vaulted ceiling and chandeliers that now were only partially lit. Large Florentine tapestries lined the cream wall facing the archway.
Fabien was waiting for her. He cut a striking figure, garbed in a rugged outfit of leather and woolen cloth. His boots were buckled, his scabbard jeweled, the hat he carried was wide brimmed and sweeping. Was he dressed for travel?
As Rachelle set the candleholder on a table, her reaction was one of relief. He had returned safely! She attempted to deny her suspicions, but as he turned and his eyes met hers, alarm began to creep into her heart.
It grew as she came to meet him, for she sensed his deliberation.
She paused, curbing her intent to flee to the strength and safety of his strong embrace. She had known since Vendôme, and even before, that he intended to take to sea, and waited for a covert message to arrive from the French buccaneers. He had never told her just who these “buccaneers” were, but she knew he had gone to meet one of them two weeks ago, and she believed his present behavior was related to that meeting.
She lifted her chin and hurried to him, smiling, determined she would not lose him, not now; not after the struggle to win his heart. She reminded herself that no other woman had done so. She was the first, and she was not going to release him now.
“Fabien.” She hurried to him and clutched his rough tunic as though she would never let him go again. “Thank goodness you are not hurt. Why did you go to the inn? I was so worried.”
“Have you not had enough to worry you this day?” he asked gently.
“But you and Gallaudet — do you think you should have gone there? Word is bound to find its way to Duc de Guise. When he learns of it — ”
“When he learns of it and wishes to answer for his evil deeds, he will know the man to seek.”
She stared at him, her frustration growing. If anything happened to him . . .
“But to challenge two of the duc’s soldiers! The man is afflicted with madness, surely. Why else would he go about seeking Huguenot assemblies to put to the sword? He hunts Huguenots like the king hunts rabbits!”
“He is not mad. He knows exactly what he is doing, working hand in hand with the deliberate purposes of Spain and Rome. Who told you I went to the inn?”
Rachelle read the glint of impatience in his violet-blue gaze.
“Mathieu, a Bible scholar from Geneva. He arrived a short while ago bringing Bertrand a message from my père Arnaut. The student was at the inn when you arrived. He saw you. Fabien, do you not understand?” She reached again for the rough woolen sleeves of his tunic, as though by sheer determination she could hold him forever. “Now Guise will be against you more than ever.”
His indomitable manner only frustrated her. He spoke in a calm voice, “Is that why you would not tell me earlier that it was Guise’s men that attacked?”
“I was afraid you would ride after him. And as I feared, you sought him out. You might have been — been injured or taken prisoner.”
He seemed surprised at her intensity. “Rachelle, ma chérie — please. He is an enemy and has been long before I met you at Chambord. He is responsible for the death of Jean-Louis,” he said of his father. “Now he has added more crimes to his conscience, if he has one.” He gently removed her clutching fingers and brought them to his lips. There was something in his watchful gaze that was both unsettling and confusing to her wearied emotions. Did he think she was being possessive?
“Gallaudet learned that two of Guise’s men were at the inn. I went there to learn from them where the duc had made his camp, but Guise had left with his bodyguard, immediately after the attack on the Huguenots, to meet his wife. He and his son Henry are staying at the bishop’s palais on the road to Paris. It would be foolish for me to go there. He would demand the bishop detain me. What happened at the inn between Guise’s men and me and Gallaudet was unplanned, I assure you. They drew swords first. There are several witnesses.”
His gaze softened, and he took hold of her shoulders. “You have faced exceedingly sore trials today, chérie; you are overwrought and weary, as you should be. I wish I did not need to disappoint you now with the news that I must leave, but — ”
She drew back, searching his face. “Leave? But Fabien!”
“Rachelle, I must. The privateers are sailing and I need to be with them.”
“You cannot leave now!” She grabbed hold of him.
He quietly released his arm from her grasp and walked a few feet away, then turned to face her, his eyes determined.
“My ship waits at Calais. I have no choice in the matter, as my absence would affect the privateers and their crews.”
“But you told me when we left your estate at Vendôme that you would be staying here at the château until Arnaut returns, that you wanted to meet him.”
“Yes, and I meant it, but things have suddenly changed.”
“Changed? Toward me?”
He was beside her in a few steps. “Mon amour , of course not.” His arms went around her again, and his gaze searched her face. He frowned. “You make it most painful for me to leave, I assure you.”
This was what Rachelle wanted to hear. She would not surrender.
She put her arms around his neck. “You have not kissed me since you returned from your secret meeting with the privateers.”
His eyes glinted warmly. He hesitated for a moment, then his lips met hers.
“Fabien,” she whispered, “do not go away — ”
“By the saints, but you do try a man! This conniving side of you, chérie, is something I have not seen before. Do you think I want to leave you?”
“Conniving!”
“Précisément. Did I not tell you from the day we met at Chambord that I would need to leave France for a time? I kept nothing back from you. My leaving should not come to you as a surprise. Listen to me, Rachelle — ” he reached for her arms — “I received word a short time ago that a ship is ready for me at Calais. I am to meet with certain buccaneers concerning an attack on Spani
sh galleons arming the Duc d’Alva in the Netherlands.”
Rachelle, though she had expected this moment to come eventually, had convinced herself that he would change his mind once he was in love with her. She had certainly not expected his departure now — even within the hour.
She pushed away from his arms. “I should have known. You are just like all the rest. Men declare one thing and do another.”
“I have not deceived you. It is you who are beginning to sound as all the rest, claiming rights never spoken, nor yet committed.”
She sucked in her breath, hardly believing what she was hearing. She faced him with shattered emotions, knowing only that great devastation had come upon her and her family, and he appeared to be walking away when she needed him most.
“Rachelle, believe me if there was any way to delay my departure, I would do so. It is with great regret that circumstances have moved to call me now, but — ”
“Circumstances! This is your choice!”
“It is, Mademoiselle. I, and others, have been planning this for many months, and at great expense. It will save the lives of many Dutch Protestants. And may God help me for the sake of thousands facing the Inquisition.”
She looked at him, realizing she had gone too far. “Oh,” she said meekly and bit her lip. She turned away.
He came up to her, his fingers enclosing around her arms, caressing her. “Mon amour,” he said softly into her hair. He kissed her lips, then her throat. “You take lightly how difficult this is for me after this morning’s tragedy. Leaving you like this when you ask me to stay will only add to that difficulty! If I fail to keep this meeting, it will affect hundreds of men who are depending on me. I leave you in good stead with Madame Clair and Pasteur Bertrand. The crewmen wait in dependence upon me to accomplish this mission. Many are faithful Huguenots who are determined to help their brothers in the Netherlands. These men know that if we can sink Philip’s galleons, we will deny the Duc d’Alva soldiers and weapons. At the same time we strengthen the hands of the Dutch Protestants standing against him. What took place today with Guise and the Huguenots is the same brutality that is sweeping across the Netherlands. You should care deeply about this mission. You must care. You must believe in what I am doing.”
“I do care, believe me I do, but surely others can take your place? I only know you are leaving when it is important that you stay and speak to mon père about us, even as you said at Vendôme.”
A tense moment held them.
“I have made arrangements to see that the Château de Silk is guarded,” he went on. “The men have already been paid. If Pasteur Bertrand was fully conscious, I would discuss it with him, but I cannot wait for his recovery.”
“That you take such fine interest in me is appreciated, I assure you.” She turned her back, devastated after this horrendous day. And now, to have it end with Fabien leaving was another loss. Despite better judgment, and all her careful upbringing, she burst into ungracious tears, so weary of body and soul that she snatched up a flower vase of spring violets and smashed it.
Fabien took hold of her and held her close, smoothing her tumbled hair and speaking gently. Though comforted and mollified, she did not hear what she so desperately wanted to hear, that he loved her too much to leave her, that he would stay and wait to speak to her father about marriage.
She looked up at him. “Do you love me, Fabien?”
Such a question was considered shocking, if not deplorable, in the Huguenot culture. Her sister Idelette would not have believed it of her, but at the moment Rachelle cared not at all. Perhaps she was making an error carrying on this way, for the marquis was seeing her at her weakest moment of unflattering reality. She wanted his affirmation, his unfailing devotion, and his commitment.
His words did not come for an uncomfortable minute.
“If I did not care about you, I assure you, I would not be spending this time trying to win you over to this cause to which I am committing myself.”
“You ‘care’ about me?”
“Did I not also say at Chambord that it was love at first sight? I also recall having said that our emotions, so strong, must be tested. Let us face the facts. We know, do we not, that my religion does not satisfy Pasteur Bertrand or Madame Clair? I can only believe that your father, Monsieur Arnaut, will be of like mind about the possibility of the Catholic Marquis de Vendôme as their son-in-law.”
Rachelle felt as though a splash of cold water had struck her face.
It was true that Madame Clair had misgivings about her daughter’s interest in the marquis, though she had couched those concerns in softer words. What Bertrand thought, she did not know, for he had not spoken to her about it, and as for her père Arnaut, she felt he could be convinced upon his return.
She threw her arms around him. “I will make my parents understand.”
“When and if I choose to have them understand, I will prefer to do so myself.”
His mild rebuke sobered her, and she drew back. “You could always change your religion,” she pleaded.
“The hypocrite’s solution. Is it so easy then, chérie, to change one’s religion like a garment? A king would find such allegiance despicable, how much more the very One who has called Himself the way, the truth, and the life?”
She had prided herself in being the one knowing truth, and now with calm assurance he had rebuked her.
She was blundering badly tonight. Her head throbbed, her senses were dulled with pain from Avril’s death and the deaths of so many of her friends, not to mention the injuries to Bertrand and Sir James Hudson.
His thoughtful gaze remained fixed upon her, and a chill went through her as she read his displeasure mixed with sympathy. It was not the look she would have expected to receive from the marquis until this awkward moment. The look silenced her. For a moment they stood sizing one another up as though they had just met — for the first time.
Rachelle’s heart sank when he turned and walked to the stone hearth. The firewood crackled in the numbing silence.
“Rachelle,” he said gently. “We need time; I for a mission, and you for recovery. And we must not make such an important, life-altering decision while either of us is struggling with trauma. Though what you are asking may provide an immediate sense of escape and security, it would be an error for us to enter into marriage until this present turmoil has passed.”
He thinks I am trying to manipulate him, to force him into a quick marriage.
Well . . . was she not?
She rebuked herself. In a weak moment to satisfy her desire to have him, she had all but suggested it did not matter what he truly believed, that one’s faith in Christ could become decoration rather than foundation.
“I think it wise we discuss this later, after I return.”
She was tired, physically and emotionally. She realized that except for the brief hour in her chamber when she changed her bloodstained dress for the sedate black of mourning, she had not napped, or even rested. There had been too much to do, to think about, and thinking meant feeling.
“Where will you go to catch your ship?” she asked dully.
“Calais.” He stared at the fire in the hearth, frowning to himself. “I do not have much time. Gallaudet is getting the horses ready now.”
Calais . . . The name of the harbor recently won back to France from Spain began to settle in her mind. He had mentioned Calais before, but now it stirred her awake. Père Arnaut was there with the French Bibles.
“Fabien, take me with you to Calais.”
He looked over at her with a scowl, then, as though he could not help himself, a brief smile, tender but ironic, broke through. She had the uneasy feeling that he did not take her seriously. “You wish to be one of my crew, do you?”
“Do be serious.” She walked toward him.
“I thought I was.”
“Remember that I spoke of a message brought tonight by the student, Mathieu? I told you it was for Pasteur Bertrand from Père Arnaut, who is no
w at Calais. Bertrand’s condition renders him unable to join him there, but I shall.”
“Your father is at Calais? I was told he was fully engaged in Geneva?”
“So we thought.” She looked quickly around for her father’s lettre which she had dropped in her haste, and finding it, handed it to him.
“Fabien, you must help us. You say you will have a ship waiting at Calais; you could bring us to England, to Spitalfields, to deliver the Bibles.”
“Bibles? Are you serious?”
“It would give you time to come to know him, and he you. The fact that you would come to his aid would surely convince him your faith is genuine. Oh, do you not see? It will all work out perfectly.”
Rachelle waited impatiently while he read and reread the message.
She watched as his jaw flexed.
“No.” He handed back the lettre.
“No? He needs your help. He could be in danger.”
“Most assuredly.”
“But you have a ship — ” she gritted.
His eyes were a flinty blue. “It is out of the question, Rachelle.”
“Then you must have an ami who has a ship? A buccaneer, as you say, a monsieur who loathes Spain and Rome — who would be pleased to help the Huguenot cause. You yourself have said the cause for which you go to sea is to harry Spain!”
“And so it is. And the answer is no, Rachelle.”
He stood like a bulwark, resisting all her hopes and dreams. She wanted him and could not have him. She wanted him to take her to Calais to aid her father, and he would not. Her frustration simmered into anger.
“What you demand of me is impossible,” he said.
She turned and looked at him, tears in her eyes.
“I have word from a trustworthy privateer from England that the Duc d’Alva himself may soon be on a Spanish galleon. Do you know who this man is? He leads the Inquisition in Holland. Protestants are known to have killed themselves on word of his army’s approach to a helpless village or town. If I involve myself with your père and the Bibles, I will not be able to intercept the galleons. I must allow nothing to hold me down.
Written on Silk Page 7
