Written on Silk

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  Rachelle squeezed her mother’s hands. “Adieu, ma mère.”

  “Then take care. Adieu, ma chère.”

  They looked at one another, for despite the words spoken with forced cheer and confidence, Rachelle felt her heart quaver as she saw the beginning of tears in the corners of her mère’s eyes as she hastened to blink them back. With a firm smile, she reached over with concern and straightened a strand of Rachelle’s hair.

  Madame Clair stepped away, with her back and shoulders straight. Rachelle walked to the coach where Idelette already waited, having said her good-byes. Rachelle was helped inside by Père Arnaut.

  “Au revoir, daughter. Remember the words we discussed in Paris after our return from Calais.” He kissed her forehead.

  Rachelle knew what words he meant. Again, there was the warning that she tread softly where the gloves were concerned.

  “Au revoir, mon père. God speed with the precious cargo of silkworm eggs and leaves.”

  He smiled and reached over again to clasp Idelette’s hand. “Be strong. Your mère and I will see you in a few months.”

  Madame Clair came up beside Arnaut, and there were more repeated good-byes. Then the coach door was closed, and Rachelle felt the coach moving along the courtyard and through the gate toward the road to Fontainebleau and Paris. She and Idelette looked out the windows and waved and smiled for a last time.

  Rachelle watched the white château slip away into the morning. She embraced a last memory of her parents standing together arm in arm, smiling and waving at their daughters.

  The moment was soon gone, and she leaned back in the seat and prepared herself to meet further winds of change.

  Omens from a Far Country

  LONDON, ENGLAND

  MARQUIS FABIEN, GARBED IN THE COLORS OF THE HOUSE OF BOURBON, accompanied the queen’s privateers to a meeting at Whitehall for a subdued celebration after successfully preventing the Duc d’Alva from resupplying his armies in the Netherlands.

  The queen entered. She was dressed entirely in purple velvet, with much gold, pearls, and jewels. There were others there who received audience with Elizabeth, and Fabien stood with Bertrand and the other privateers waiting their turn.

  The piazza under the long gallery was draped with gold and silver brocade, and the air hung with the diffusing scent from wreaths and garlands of fresh flowers. The reach of the river in front of Whitehall palace was covered with swans, and in the palace garden were thirty-four columns, each surmounted by the effigy of a heraldic beast.

  Queen Elizabeth seemed a most interesting woman. She had very white skin and red hair. She did not look strong, or all that well, but there was a fiery determination in her eyes that bespoke her will to serve and defend England. Fabien liked her at once. How different was this young woman than the dark, sinister, scheming Catherine de Medici. He noticed a different spirit altogether. What was the difference? One seemed satanic, while the other seemed open to the light.

  Fabien, standing with Bertrand Macquinet and Capitaine Nappier, noticed a vaguely familiar young man who was now having his audience with Elizabeth. He headed up a small party of what appeared to be couturiers, showing samples of their cloth and drawings of gowns and other articles of fashion to the queen’s silk-woman, Mrs. Montagu, who was also receiving gifts. There were numerous gifts for the queen.

  Fabien caught sight of “loose-bodied gowns” in blush pink, known in Paris as a negligée; there were handkerchiefs, night smocks, and night coifs, and hairnets knitted of gold and silver thread, all from the famous couturiers.

  Fabien brought his hand to his chin and pretended to look at the floor to keep from grinning. Nappier caught his eye and wore a wry twist to his lip. This seemed rather a strange group for ruthless privateers to follow — all were rugged men boasting swords, leather, and a thirst for Spanish blood; while the couturier was brandishing not steel but silk, flowering the English queen with feminine dainties, all the while hoping for her favor and business.

  Fabien cocked a brow, as several pairs of new “silk” stockings came out and were handed with grand fanfare to the queen’s lady.

  Queen Elizabeth seemed to take it all with casual indifference until the presentation of the new stockings. Her pleasure could not be hid. She had never seen silk stockings before, she said, but had heard about them flourishing in France.

  Hose were usually cut out of taffeta or worsted wool, and were only partially elastic and fitted only as leg covering reaching from the instep to mid-calf or knee. The clinging quality of the knitted silk stockings was something new for the haute monde.

  The queen’s voice carried across the gallery. “I like silk stockings well. They are pleasant, fine, and delicate. Henceforth I will wear no more cloth stockings. You may tell your couturière Mademoiselle Rachelle Macquinet that I am most delighted, Sir Hudson. Have her make many more for me.”

  Fabien came fully alert. Rachelle? He was suddenly interested in silk stockings and looked sharply at the young Englishman who was giving these gifts. Yes, the Englishman looked familiar. He limped as he turned and spoke to his page, who helped him open a larger container. A minute later they brought forth a stunning silvery-pink gown that shimmered and rustled as though alive and purring. Even the queen was delighted and smiled her pleasure.

  “Is that not the Englishman I saw at Château de Silk?” Fabien asked quietly of Bertrand.

  “It is. And if I am not mistaken, that gown is the one Rachelle and James were working so arduously on at the château. He is representing the new English silk enterprise of Dushane-Macquinet-Hudson. I take it he is trying to earn the queen’s blessing for support of the new silk enterprise here in London. Arnaut wants to open an estate near London, and he needs the queen to agree. These gifts, rather extravagant, I admit, are from the Macquinets to woo Her Majesty to their cause.”

  “The silk stockings alone may do it,” Fabien said wryly.

  This was the first time Fabien had heard of any such enterprise as the Macquinet-Dushane-Hudson company of couturiers opening in England. Fabien now recalled James Hudson from the morning of the barn burning. With the circumstances as they were when he was last at the château, he had not known why Hudson was there.

  Fabien studied Hudson. He was speaking about the gown —

  “Your Majesty, it is with great delight that I bring you the workmanship of one of the finest young couturière’s in France, Mademoiselle Rachelle Macquinet. She and your humble servant — ” he paused to bow lightly — “worked on this gown for a month of days in order to have the privilege to bring it to you just as we join forces with the famous name in silk in France, the Macquinets.”

  The gown looked to Fabien to be made of silk and satin and was embroidered in silver and pink, with pearls on the long, narrow waistline and puffed skirts, and a pink feather fan as an accessory.

  “Such splendid silk. Some of the finest I have seen . . . the workmanship is exceptional, Sir Hudson. The French couturière, is she here in London?” the queen asked.

  “Mademoiselle will be coming to London very soon now. She will be working with me as we open our own shop together. It is our desire to offer splendid gowns ready-made to be sold. This is our plan, to work as partners.”

  What was this? Fabien tried to not scowl. Rachelle coming to London? To work hand in hand with James Hudson?

  He measured James Hudson more thoughtfully. How long had this Englishman been staying at the château?

  Fabien leaned toward Bertrand. “You never told me Mademoiselle Rachelle planned to leave France to work with Hudson.”

  “I believe the matter was briefly discussed when I was there, but without a decision. As I recall, Madame Clair was not pleased with the idea of her daughters being in London alone, though staying with the Hudsons, a fair family of Reformed conviction.”

  Fabien was displeased. James Hudson was well dressed in black and white with some gold ribbon to his coat. There were several clothiers standing behind them.

/>   Bertrand said, “With circumstances as they are for the Huguenots in France, Arnaut thinks it wise to have an open door into England. I fully encourage him in this enterprise. For some period of time he has thought to open a second silk production estate outside France. The question of concern is the damp, cold weather.”

  And the enterprise would mean the uniting of the Macquinet family of couturières with the family of the Hudson couturiers . . .

  “Marquis de Vendôme?”

  Fabien turned. At his elbow there stood a silver-haired man elegantly attired. “Monseigneur, permit me to introduce myself, s’il vous plaît. I am Ronsard d’Alencome, King Francis’s ambassador to England. My secret condolences, for the arrest of your kinsmen, the Bourbon princes.”

  Fabien sharpened his gaze. “The arrest of the princes? Let us hope you are in error. Do you not mean Comte Sebastien Dangeau? But there is news that he was released and is again serving the Queen Mother.”

  “Oui, most fortunate for Comte Sebastien. I knew him in Paris. But non, I meant the Bourbon princes, Louis de Condé and Antoine de Bourbon. However, I see you do not know. My apologies, I did not intend to be the bearer of dark news.” He bowed his head a moment.

  “Then, I fear I must proceed to inform you.”

  “Feel assured that I wish to hear the truth.”

  Ambassador d’Alencome glanced toward the queen who was now speaking to some privateers and expecting Fabien afterward. D’Alencome whispered, “If you will, can we speak alone after your meeting with Her Majesty? In the garden, perhaps?”

  As soon as Fabien had exchanged pleasantries with Queen Elizabeth, he slipped away and found the king’s ambassador down near the river.

  The swans were farther out on the water now, and the moon was trying to shine through the London mist and failing. D’Alencome paced on the bank. Seeing Fabien, he hurried toward him and bowed lightly.

  Why do I feel uncomfortable with this fellow? Fabien thought. He was behaving in the customary manner expected of him, and yet, something was not right. Was he a spy for Catherine? She had her spies everywhere in the courts of Europe and especially in the court of Queen Elizabeth, whom Catherine did not trust, for in the queen she had met her match. Elizabeth was a far better woman, but she was also shrewd and discerning. Queen Elizabeth was no fool.

  Fabien was wearing his cloak and sword, permitted by Queen Elizabeth and considered part of the dress of the privateers. He rested his hand on his jeweled scabbard and met d’Alencome’s light blue eyes evenly. But the ambassador looked back clearly, as though he had nothing worthy to hide.

  “Monseigneur, I had to speak with you alone. I have a message for you from the Queen Mother of France.”

  Fabien said nothing for a moment. The breeze stirred about them. The water lapped softly in the distance.

  “A message for me?”

  “Yes, from our queen — ”

  Fabien stepped back, his hand still on his scabbard. Alarm spread across d’Alencome’s face by the gesture.

  “Monseigneur, I beg of you! I am your loyal ami, and the news from the Queen Mother is also conciliatory. She bears no animosity over the sinking of the Spanish galleons; indeed, secretly she is pleased, for she is no true lover of Spain, I assure you. King Philip has plagued her cruelly. The Guises, also her enemies, and the enemies of the House of Valois, are the legates of Philip, not the Queen Mother. If she could be free of the Guises, she might be free of Spain and free also to deal more sympathetically with the Bourbon-Huguenot faction in France. Surely, Monseigneur knows she thinks well of the Huguenot Admiral Coligny, and of yourself also, Monseigneur.”

  Fabien listened without comment. He knew better than to believe these words at face value.

  “What does the Queen Mother want of me?”

  “Monseigneur, I do not know.”

  “I would not call you a liar, Monsieur Ambassador,” he said. “But I think you do know. Where is the Queen Mother’s lettre? Hand it over slowly, if you please.”

  “Marquis de Vendôme, if I attempted to use a dagger against you, I should be a madman.”

  “Let us hope you are not. Merci,” he said with a faint smile as the ambassador handed him a lettre with Catherine’s impressive gold seal.

  “Before I read this, tell me of my Bourbon kinsmen, if you please.”

  “The news is not good for them, though Prince Antoine fares better.

  He is under palais arrest at Fontainebleau. He will not be executed. The Guises hope to use him to further their ambitions with Spain, which wants the Huguenot kingdom of Navarre.”

  “What are their plans?”

  “To turn Prince Antoine over to the Roman Church and exchange his wife’s rule of Navarre with Antoine’s, thereby placing Navarre in a hand loyal to Rome and Spain, which would bring the arrest of the Huguenots in Navarre.”

  A Catholic? Would Antoine change religions for favors from Spain?

  Fabien did not have confidence in Antoine. His kinsman was known to waver, to change his mind often, and to compromise. But Louis —

  “And Prince Louis de Condé?”

  “I fear Prince de Condé is now in the dungeons of Amboise.”

  “Amboise!” The very mention of the fortress castle brought back all of the treachery and murder Fabien had seen there last March.

  “He was arrested in Orléans as he and his brother rode of free will to Fontainebleau where they had been summoned by King Francis to answer for the treason of the Amboise rebellion.”

  As Fabien heard all that had happened, his anger boiled. The Guises were behind the treachery, of course. They would have convinced King Francis to cooperate with whatever they intended.

  Louis convicted of treason. What could he do to free him?

  Fabien read the lettre from the Queen Mother, taking every word with suspicion and trying to discover falsehoods.

  He learned little more than what d’Alencome had told him. She hinted vaguely that should he return to France for the long desired colloquy sought by his ami and ally, the grand Admiral Coligny, that she would have no cause to arrest him for sinking Spanish galleons, although the irate Duc d’Alva demanded her action against him.

  “I assure you my intentions remain peaceful and cooperative.”

  His mouth turned. He wondered if she had given promises of peace and friendship to the Bourbon princes.

  I am not so trusting, Madame, he thought, and continued to read . . .

  There has been much discussion between myself and your cousin the Comte Maurice Beauvilliers and Mademoiselle Rachelle Macquinet. The comte is most smitten with her and has begged for her hand in marriage. Who am I to stand in the way of true amour? I hover on the verge of allowing this sacred union soon after the colloquy. Her parents, Messire Arnaut Macquinet and Madame Clair, would not oppose the will of the king in this matter, for all loyal daughters and sons of France will do what is best. Should you desire to return to France, I am open to discussing this matter with you in private, even as I am willing to discuss the death sentence against your kinsman, Prince Louis de Condé . . .

  Fabien crumpled the lettre and met the surprised gaze of Ambassador d’Alencome.

  Maurice! That nefarious pariah!

  “Monseigneur, I fear not all is well?” d’Alencome said meekly.

  Fabien stepped toward him; d’Alencome backed away, unsure, his hand shining with sapphires in the moonlight.

  “Monseigneur, I beg of you, remember I am but an ambassador for our beloved Queen Mother, Catherine — eh! Messire, non, non — ” he sputtered as Fabien latched hold of his shirt collar and gave him a shake.

  “Beloved Catherine, is she?”

  “Monseigneur — ”

  Fabien released him with a small shove. “When did you receive this lettre from her?”

  He cleared his throat and looked behind him at the waterway as though he might end up in its embrace. “I confess, Monseigneur, whatever the news, it was none of my doing. I am but a humble serva
nt.”

  “Just another of her many spies, only a novice would not think so, I assure you. How did you know I would be here this night?”

  “I overheard Queen Elizabeth’s privy counselor, Cecil, mention it to her one evening. He was against permitting the privateers in the channel and advised her to move against them, but she refused, saying they were an extension of her Royal Navy. I heard your name mentioned with those who scuttled the Spanish vessels, and also that you were involved in taking the gold from the Genoese ships meant for the Duc d’Alva’s mercenary soldiers. It is of utmost concern to my life, Monseigneur, that these little matters are sent by circuitous routes to the private chambers of Catherine de Medici; though I hasten to add that she already knew from the Spanish envoy of these particular matters. I tell you the truth, Monseigneur, that secretly she is not concerned, but publicly, like Queen Elizabeth, she must be cautious. Both queens fear the might of Spain upon their own countries. So, Monseigneur, when the Queen Mother knew you would arrive as planned to be received by Queen Elizabeth, she wrote the lettre you now hold and had it delivered to me by the visiting Portuguese envoy who left France to come to England.”

  “And Maurice Beauvilliers?”

  “Ah, I know naught of such a one.”

  “A marriage to Mademoiselle Macquinet was being planned by the Queen Mother. Why so? To lure me back to the viper’s den?”

  “I know naught of it, Monseigneur. But she planned for your return, to be sure. Yes, yes, the marriage, as you say, must be some manner of plan to bring you back to France.”

  “Even so, it does not mean she will not force the matter. Is this a trap?