“Just so. I will warn them again. Would you have me contact Monsieur Arnaut of your wish to see him?”
“Non, not yet. But have Julot watch over him when he goes out of the shop.”
Fabien was awake at the first hint of dawn. Dressed in leather breeches and a loose linen tunic open at the neck, he was enjoying his petit noir and watching Capitaine Pascal’s ship, le Fox, leaving Calais harbor on its way across the channel to Plymouth. The ship’s lights were out, and the dark ghostly image, barely silhouetted against the horizon, slipped quietly out of port as faint ripples reflected the dawn.
The storm had passed and a morning star gleamed.
Rachelle came to his mind. That she had tried to manipulate to get her way bothered him. He leaned against the ship’s rail and watched the brightening horizon. He had insisted on his freedom, and doubtless she was hurt and angry.
The situation they had brought upon themselves was not one easily overcome. He was young, and Rachelle younger still. Dark days were looming over France, and love, if it were genuine, must be rational enough to confront the winds of trial. Much stood against them that he had merely set aside in the beginning, including his position, their allegiance to different bodies of Christian doctrine, and the times in which they found themselves placed by God.
Life and love and passion were not for the fainthearted. Life itself offered little comfort from the cruelties that abounded. Love, if it were to prosper between them and grow, must know how to give and forgive; and passion without a marriage commitment was but lust, empty of valor and without endurance, as in the Scripture he had read while at Vendôme: “Charity endureth all things.”
H“O! MONSEIGNEUR CAPITAINE!”
Nappier strode across the deck of the Reprisal toward Fabien, with the plume on his hat swaying, his hand on the jeweled scabbard that was a gift from Fabien when Nappier served at the Royal Armory in Paris.
“We do not need to wait for Pascal’s findings. This arrived just now from Plymouth. The messenger is with the cook eating now.”
Fabien broke the seal and read the short message: Proceed to planned rendezvous with all haste; the quarry has ventured from its pond.
He glanced up and saw the gulls wheeling in an updraft. “The wind is favorable. When is the soonest we can sail?”
“Tomorrow morning, Marquis; the capitaines will need to take on foodstuffs.”
“Gallaudet! I need you with me. We have to pay a visit to Monsieur Arnaut.”
Fabien stepped to his cabin to get his scabbard and belted it carefully. He grabbed a dark tunic from a hook and shouldered into it. Snatching his hat, he strode out and across the deck to the gangplank with Gallaudet rushing behind as though he were accustomed to unexpected action from his seigneur.
“What are we about, Monseigneur?”
“We will pay a short visit to Monsieur Macquinet. He must be warned of the spy Julot noticed loitering near the Huguenot shop. Now that we are departing, we can no longer act as his secret bodyguard.”
“The galleons were spotted then?”
“They were. We sail for the rendezvous point off the coast of Holland. We shall wait there to surprise them. Are you in a warm, mellow mood to greet le Duc d’Alva’s new soldiers, Gallaudet?”
“I am overflowing in bonhomie, Monseigneur.”
Hearts at Conflict
THE COACH-AND-SIX CARRYING COUSIN BERTRAND, RACHELLE, AND Andelot entered Calais at sunset. Silvery clouds tinged with pink, gray, and lavender loitered over the channel waters between the continent and England.
More rain? The roads were slippery and muddy all the way from Paris. Rachelle longed for a warm bath and a bed, either at an inn or the Languets’ house, but she dreaded the moment when she and Bertrand must tell her father about Avril. She thought perchance the lettre, written to him from Madame Clair, might have arrived by now. If so, it would be most naturel that he would wish to rush home to Lyon to comfort his wife. Might they be too late to contact either her père Arnaut or the marquis?
Rachelle prayed earnestly.
The carriage wheels and horse hooves clattered down the mist-enshrouded street. Here in the Huguenot section of Calais, Rachelle’s first sight of the lace and couturière shops scattered along the crowded way brought her some cheer. One of these lace shops belonged to the Languets, a family originally from Alençon, whom the Macquinets had done business with for years. Persecution had driven them from their château to English-controlled Calais to set up their lace shop, exporting to London.
Calais had been reasonably safe for Protestants, but matters had changed since it was now under French rule, due to Duc de Guise’s military victory over the English several years earlier. Now, even Calais could not promise to remain a haven for Protestants in France. Already there was a movement from the bishop to close Huguenot churches. Should persecution break out, they must look across the channel to England’s Spitalfields.
The Macquinet coachman helped Rachelle and Bertrand out onto the carriage block in front of the Languet lace shop. He then brought the coach around the corner to the hostelry to board their horses for the night, followed by Andelot, Romier, and the guards who had escorted the coach from Paris.
Mist swirled around her as she lifted her dark-hooded cape, fixing her gaze on the exquisite lace shop. Even her weariness could not smother the rise of joie de vivre which soon swept through her as she gazed under the shop awning at a lace display arranged in several new patterns and crochets, with variegated colors, including shades of pink and rose. Some were feathered with gold so that when it was sewn to sleeves, necklines, skirt loops, or hems, it would fall in soft draping folds.
“C’est magnifique. I must look inside. I have yet to see any lace this wondrous. I should buy at least one bolt to take home to the Château de Silk,” she murmured to Cousin Bertrand. “It will please ma mère and may even cheer Idelette.” Idelette was always entranced with lace of any kind. Some of this particular lace on the gown for the English queen would make it all the more belle.
She glanced to Cousin Bertrand’s alert figure in black, his dark eyes flashed under his white brows. His attention was directed to the upper story window with open shutters and draperies pulled back. Figures moved about the chamber.
“Ah! It appears we are in time, Rachelle. We best make our entrance through the back way. I believe Arnaut entertains a surprising and unexpected guest. Come, as I recall most clearly, there are steps to Monsieur Languet’s door.”
Rachelle had forgotten that Cousin Bertrand had been here in the past when traveling to Spitalfields, often smuggling French or Dutch Bibles to ministers. Burning at the stake awaited any who printed, distributed, or even possessed a Bible in the French language. He would often say, “We must be willing to lay down our lives if called upon to do so. We, and we alone, are the torchbearers, and we must be about our Father’s business. If the Reformation fails in France, then I fear all is lost for us as a great nation in Europe. We must tenez ferme as the Word tells us: stand firm in the battle now raging, for it will affect generations to come. We must persevere to be useful and not hide in fear. For what is our life? It is but a vapor. What we do, we must do while it is yet light.”
Rachelle was sure she did not have the same courage as Cousin Bertrand and her père Arnaut.
She followed him across the cobbled way and around the shop through a narrow alley into a small stone court with high rock walls. A vine bearing some manner of purple flower rambled along the top of the wall and spilled over a lattice archway. She passed through the archway into an even tighter court where pots of geraniums grew alongside a steep double flight of stone steps that wound upward to the back entrance of the house.
Rachelle did not recall the Languet family very well, for she had been a child when they had left Alençon for Calais, but she did remember an older husband and wife and a married son. All the family members worked on their lace while secretly aiding Huguenot ministers like Pasteur Bertrand.
&nb
sp; Rachelle climbed the steps and waited for him on the porch, hoping the exertion would not stress his still-tender injuries. He made it to the door with only moderate difficulty and used his stick to beat three raps on the door, followed by two and then three more.
A moment later the door opened by a small serving woman with cautious eyes.
“Bonjour, Thérèse, it is I, Bertrand Macquinet. My cousin Arnaut is here, I do presume?”
Her sallow face broke into a smile. “Oui, oui, Messire Bertrand.
Come, come, they are all in the salle now. Your bonne arrival will be most pleasing. Messire Arnaut has been wondering of your absence.”
Rachelle’s heart sank. Bertrand, too, apparently picked up the hint.
“Then there has been no correspondence yet received from the Château de Silk for Arnaut?”
“Non, Messire, no lettre has come for anyone.”
Rachelle glanced at Bertrand. He met her gaze with a slight drawing of his brows.
“Then we have much news to pass on, Thèrèse. Announce us, s’il vous plaît. This is Mademoiselle Rachelle, Arnaut’s daughter.”
Thérèse dipped a curtsy, her faded face producing a smile, and opened the door wider, beckoning them inside to the small foyer where a flower-strewn rug graced the floor. There was another door to the right, and voices came from there. Footsteps approached, and she turned to see Arnaut Macquinet in the doorway. He was a rugged man, broad-shouldered beneath his sage-green coat of brocade satin, his square face handsome with a cleft in his chin. A slash of chestnut brows matched graying chestnut hair that once had been darker than Rachelle’s own wealth of auburn-brown.
A look of surprise and delight broke on his face as he first saw her, and then his cousin Bertrand standing in the foyer.
“Père!” she called with a catch of both joy and sadness in her voice.
She had not seen her father in over a year, and she ran to him, relishing the fatherly hug that left her feeling safe and loved once more. “Oh Père, how happy to be with you again — ”
Her voice failed on that unfinished note, for as she raised her head from his shoulder and looked up, her gaze fell on Marquis Fabien. He stood in the chamber Arnaut had just come from, his expression holding the same hint of surprise that must have shown on her face.
Arnaut, who knew nothing of her relationship with Fabien or that she had even met him, turned to Fabien. “May I present my daughter, Rachelle; Rachelle, this is Marquis Fabien de Vendôme.”
Rachelle recovered. Determined this time to rebuild her dignity, she retained a cool, almost unreachable demeanor and offered a curtsy.
“Monseigneur,” she murmured distantly.
His eyes hardened perceptibly as he scanned her. “Mademoiselle,”he said as distantly, bowing.
“Le marquis is here on business, Rachelle, and whatever are you doing here with Bertrand? Surely your mother did not come also?”
“Non, mon père. I came alone with Cousin Bertrand and Andelot Dangeau; you remember him, of course?”
He smiled indulgently, his arm still around her. “But yes, of course I remember your petit beau, Andelot.”
Rachelle covered a wince. Her father made it sound as though she and Andelot had always been secret sweethearts. Arnaut turned to the quiet figure of Bertrand standing a few steps away, looking sober, as though he too understood the task before him.
“I had begun to think mon cousin that you had returned to Geneva and would not come to Calais,” Arnaut said cheerfully. “Then you did receive my message.”
He certainly does not know what happened at the château.
Rachelle glanced toward Fabien. He was watching Bertrand and Arnaut. Evidently, she thought, the marquis had not told her father anything of the events of recent days at Lyon. Had Fabien discussed the message she had shown him about the Bibles? He wished to avoid any involvement in the dilemma. But then, why was he here? Her father could not have sought the marquis because he was not aware of his presence in Calais. Had Fabien changed his mind about taking the Bibles to England?
Rachelle retained her poise and felt most pleased with herself. A glance at Fabien found his gaze on her. Their eyes met and clung for a moment as she miserably felt the heat begin to stain her cheeks. She lifted her chin as she had seen the sophisticated ladies at Court do and turned her head to Arnaut.
“Le marquis is here on business.”
“Ah?” Bertrand’s white brows climbed. “I was told by Andelot that you have your own ship.”
“I do, Pasteur Bertrand, but urgent business calls me away from Calais.”
“Perhaps we can continue our discussion in Languet’s study,” Arnaut said. “Messires, if you please?” He extended an arm toward a door that led into another room. “Rachelle,” he said, “Thérése will take you to the guest room to rest and refresh yourself before dinner.”
She was to be excluded from the men’s business dealings, but she was accustomed to this and knew better than to push herself before her father.
He had always taught his daughters to keep to their work as couturières and grisettes and leave the risk taking to the men in the family. Little did her beloved père know all the horrendous experiences she had come through since she last saw him, and by God’s grace, she had survived to grow stronger.
“Mon cousin, you have injured yourself ?” Arnaut asked, as he noted Bertrand protectively favoring his right arm and shoulder.
“I tell you aforehand that I bring news that will test your soul, mon cousin Arnaut.”
Rachelle stood tensely on the top step, looking after her father, an ache in her heart as she realized the agony he was about to face. After Arnaut and Bertrand passed into the next room, she moved her gaze across the room to Fabien.
He watched her evenly.
She met his burning violet-blue eyes with new determination. Now was the time to reclaim her shattered reputation from the humiliating rags of their last meeting at the château. There would be no more falling at his feet and begging for morsels of his favor.
She waited for him to walk to where she stood by a banister, her hand resting on the newel. She had never seen him dressed this way before — in rugged leather breeches, boots, and a dark loose tunic with full sleeves. His rapier was housed in a jeweled leather sheath, and he carried a wide-rimmed hat that also appeared to be of sturdy leather embellished with silver.
“You mentioned having come here from Paris. What were you doing at the Louvre when you were secure at the château with the guards I trusted?”
It was as though he were bracing himself for another emotional duel about why he should not leave France or her.
She arched a brow. “My reasons, Marquis, are my personal concern.
Like you, I have matters that include no one except myself, and I feel no obligation to explain them for your approval.”
Her grave dignity appeared to further exasperate him. His steady gaze sent the skin on the back of her neck tingling.
“I have no desire to detain you from your beloved ship for even a moment, I assure you,” she continued. “I did not come to Calais to locate you, if that is your concern. I came to see Père Arnaut. Had I known you were here, I should have delayed my entry until after your departure.”
The marquis knew nothing yet of Sebastien’s state in the Bastille, or that they had journeyed here with the hope of securing Fabien’s help in appealing to the king. Nor was she prepared to speak to him of Grandmère’s death, for her emotions would weaken her before him when she needed to be strong. It was wiser to leave the distressing news of Sebastien for Bertrand or Andelot to tell.
Rachelle retained an attitude of cool indifference, though her heart ached for the handsome man who stood before her, as unreachable as she.
His eyes sparked blue fire. He regarded her gravely. “You are not only a beautiful woman, but an exasperating one.”
Rachelle lifted her chin. “Then I shall remove my exasperating presence from your affairs, Monseigneur
, and so I beg your leave.”
With élégante demeanor, she turned with the practiced air of Princesse Marguerite and began to ascend the stairs. “I bid you adieu.”
She heard his small intake of breath. She had taken only one step when his warm fingers took possession of her arm, detaining her.
Her heart raced. She turned toward the warm glitter in his eyes, which did nothing to soothe the moment between them. He drew her down the step until she stood before him.
“You are deliberately trying to frustrate me.”
She trembled. “I should inform you, Marquis, that I do not know what you intend by those accusing words.” Her eyes fought his. “And I request that you release me.”
His eyes narrowed, and in defiance he pulled her closer until she felt the rough tunic beneath her palms; she resisted her desires, knowing her only chance of winning him was to convince him he could lose her.
She turned her head away, afraid he would try to kiss her, knowing she could not resist him for long. Already her heart was thudding from his nearness.
Footsteps from the stairwell brought the moment to a swift conclusion. His hand dropped, and he stepped back as Thérése appeared above on the landing. “Oh, I do beg your pardone, I did not know you were with company — ”
Rachelle tore her gaze from Fabien’s and turning on her heel, slowly ascended the steps, as though untroubled. Little did he know the weakness in her knees.
She had left him looking after her, but when she reached the top she did not turn to see if he was still there. She was sure he was infuriated.
She had survived their first dreaded meeting since Lyon, and she hoped she had been elevated in his mind. Even so, what had changed?
They remained estranged, two contrary wills warring. Her heart felt no more comforted now in her pretense of indifference than when she had thrown herself unwisely at his feet.
Written on Silk Page 17
