Maurice wore a ruby encircled with diamonds in his earlobe, and his lean fingers sparkled with various rings. At other times he adorned himself with exquisite pins, pendants, and bracelets. He always dressed in colorful satins, brocades, and feathers, and was not above using rouge
on cheeks and lips. Today he wore a pretty velvet maroon cap with a pink f lower in the rim ribbon.
Fabien had a mischievous urge to pluck the f lower, knowing it would so enrage Maurice that he might forget anything he had noticed about Rachelle.
“You forget yourself, Maurice,” he said with affected gravity.
Maurice’s brows shot up as if he did not understand. Fabien knew he did, but out of pride wished to avoid proper protocol. Because Fabien was a marquis, next below a duc and a prince, and because he was of the blood royal, Maurice was obligated to offer his deference. Fabien enjoyed making the proud popinjay sip his cup of humility. Maurice had always envied his title and future marquisat by right of birth through Jean-Louis. When a boy, Maurice often insisted on playing the role of a duc. If he did not get his way, he ran to Françoise, his maman. After being coddled, Maurice would tell Fabien, “If I had your Bourbon blood, I would become king. Why would you turn away from Marguerite when it gives you the chance to marry a Valois?”
“Margo is an amie. But knowing you, you would marry an enfant or
an old woman to become a duc. And if you had royal blood as I have, you would poison your Grandmère to snatch the throne, I assure you.”
Maurice had kicked his shin and Fabien had pushed him into a muddy patch.
As Fabien locked gazes with Maurice near the stairway, no longer children but young men, Maurice’s melting gray eyes measured Fabien, but at last he straightened from the wall where he had been leaning and bowed gracefully.
“Monsieur de Vendôme,” he acknowledged silkily, then straightened again.
Fabien smiled lazily. “Bonjour, mon cousin, mon ami. Now, tell me. Why do you tiptoe about the stairs? Spying again, are you . . . for the House of Guise, perhaps?”
The accusation would put him on defense at once.
“Ha, very shrewd, Marquis Fabien, I swear it. But you will not throw me off course with your deliberate accusations. I have observed a sight most interesting — you cozying up to the belle mademoiselle Macquinet.”
“Ah, but you need not concern yourself since Françoise Beauvilliers is plotting your advancement at court by trying to arrange your marriage to Duchesse Belangée, a woman who turns seventy this year.”
Maurice’s face became ruddy. His shoulders stiffened beneath his velvet. “Did not His Majesty King Henry II love Diane de Poitiers?”
“I would not venture to guess what fires burned in His Majesty’s bosom.”
Maurice straightened the lace hanging at his satin cuff. A haughty sniff sounded from his nose. “When Duchesse Belangée dies — and as you say, she is aging — and should Maman arrange my marriage to her, all Belangée’s wealth and lands become mine.” Maurice’s lips turned with satisfaction.
“Ah yes, and the fat ruby from Charles V. I remember it well . . . from afar. I would be surprised if you did not now possess it. It was easily bartered for.”
Maurice narrowed his long eyes. “You insult me.” His hand dropped to his rapier, but Fabien lifted a brow.
“Come, come. Away with offensive airs. We know one another well, do we not?” He said then, in a serious voice: “Draw your rapier, and you will have made a foolish error.”
Above them on the stair landing, firm footsteps interrupted, and they glanced up.
Two of the royal Swiss guardsmen, carrying halberds and wearing black velvet doublets with slashed sleeves and feathered hats, looked down suspiciously. The captain, one of the guards, recognized Fabien and bowed.
“It is you, Monsieur de Vendôme. I did not mean to interrupt. This section is secured as Her Majesty orders, and we heard voices.”
Fabien saw his chance to be rid of Maurice. Afterward he would return and enter the secret listening booth.
“It is of no matter, Capitaine. My cousine and I are on our way back to our chambers. Is the order still on to journey to Amboise?”
“It is, Monsieur. We leave in the morning.”
“Do you know why His young Majesty gave this order?”
“No, Marquis, it was not King Francis but le Duc de Guise who ordered the departure. The Queen Mother then authorized it.”
Le Duc de Guise. Fabien was convinced now that he was plotting vice. He saw Maurice eyeing the Swiss guardsmen suspiciously.
“Is mon oncle, Comte Sebastien Dangeau, in the council chamber, Capitaine?” Maurice asked.
“Non, Comte, there is no one here yet.”
So Rachelle was correct when she had mentioned that Maurice too was trying to locate Sebastien.
Thenewsthatneitherthe Guisesnor Avenellehadasyetbeenreceived by Catherine heartened Fabien. There may yet be time to ensconce him- self inside the listening closet. He had to dispose of Maurice.
Fabien took the lead and departed the gallery. He reached the first f loor salle and glanced over his shoulder with impatience. Maurice fol- lowed down the stairs in lazy fashion. When he reached the bottom stair, Fabien grasped his arm and led him aside by one of the oriel windows.
“We must talk about our oncle.”
Maurice wore a moody face, brushing his satin sleeve as though Fabien had smudged it.
“What is happening with Sebastien?” Fabien asked.
“How should I know? I have been looking for him. One of the guards thought he might attend the council meeting. That is why I waited on the gallery.”
Fabien frowned. “Then no one has seen Sebastien since early this morning. It is not like him.”
“No. His absence at court is troubling. He was worried.” “What made you believe so?”
Maurice shrugged. “He used his lace handkerchief too much, always blotting his forehead. Most unbecoming at the feast table.”
“That is very telling, mon cousine. Did he speak of his concerns, any hints at all?”
Maurice looked out the window at the forest, then glanced around them. “Non.”
“Do you know something more?” Fabien demanded. “For Sebastien’s sake, this is no time to withhold anything. Who knows whether our oncle may be in disfavor?”
All sparring between them vanished.
“I have wondered if there might not be some calamity waiting in the wings,” Maurice admitted in a hushed tone.
“What do you know?”
“It is not that I know anything, but there is to be a meeting between Her Majesty and the Guises. And did not le Duc de Guise bring a stranger with his face concealed to court but a few hours ago? I have learned this stranger’s name: Avenelle, a Huguenot.”
But of course Maurice would have discovered this. He had his own ring of spies and made it his ambition to learn everything he could, hoping it would aid him in whatever purposes he involved himself in at court. He had learned the art of intrigue from his mother.
“A Huguenot? Pray tell, why has our galant Duc brought such a mis- erable heretic here to court?” Fabien pretended scorn.
“I swear I do not know, but have you heard how this Huguenot has renounced his Calvinist beliefs?”
Then Madame Macquinet was right. Avenelle had been a spy among the Huguenots and now was their betrayer. Unless, at the fear of being turned over to le cardinal’s inquisitors, his courage broke.
“And pray, what business is of such importance that the court would move to Amboise to fulfill it?” Fabien said.
“One wonders.”
“Perhaps one of our other cousines has seen Sebastien. You go to see Andelot.”
Maurice’s mouth curled with disdain. “Andelot? A cousine? By all the
devils, what are you hinting? I pray, reconsider. He is socially inferior.” “A cousine, nonetheless.” Fabien was attached to Andelot as one
might be attached to a younger brother.
>
“Why do you befriend him?” Maurice scorned. “His harlot mother gave him birth in a ditch behind the battlefield. He was born while the cannons were being fired at those cursed British.”
“So that explains his disposition,” Fabien said lightly, disliking, but accustomed to the pride of the nobility.
“It is no amusing matter. But for the concern of Oncle Louis Dangeau he would have died an enfant, his remains left for the carrion.”
“You are a heartless wretch. Sainte Denis! You task him with his ill birth, but was it not your blood oncle, this Louis Dangeau of whom you boast, who impregnated her?”
“I swear, but you are an odd one, Marquis. If I were in your boots, I would have him wiping them clean and rubbing down my horse. But you? You permit him to take advantage of your protective comraderie.” “Andelot is without guile. I find him a refreshing change from all the ambitious noblemen at court. But take heed; it may be that Andelot will one day surprise you. The footprints of ancestry may lead to unlikely
places.”
Maurice’s eyes f lickered uneasily. “What is meant by this?” “You will live to see it for yourself, I am certain.”
“What do you know? Why was he brought here? Ah, there is more you are not telling me, mon cousine Marquis. Even so, if I were a mar- quis such as you, I would gain a following and plan how I should take the throne —”
“And find your head lolling in the Seine ere long. I have my own plans.” He thought of the Dutch corsairs again. “For your tongue alone, mon cousine, Catherine would have you carved on her table. The walls have ears, mon ami, so be careful of your words when you speak of seiz- ing the Valois throne. Else I may need to use my men-at-arms just to free you from her dungeon.”
Maurice smirked. “Would you? Ho! Now there’s a wonder.”
“But do not count on my grace,” Fabien added heartlessly. “I may instead choose a choice seat at the carving table.”
Maurice appeared to take the warning of listening ears seriously. He cast a glance about. He took out his gold snuffbox, took a pinch, and inhaled it delicately at each nostril.
“And what do you plan? About Oncle Sebastien I mean? I doubt our peasant cousine knows what is afoot.”
“Nor do I. So we must find out. If you will not honor Andelot with your awesome presence, then do at least inquire from your other cousine, the soldier . . . Julot Cazalet, is it not?”
“You know his name,” Maurice smirked. “He is loyal to you, as is the master swordsman Nappier.”
Fabien waved his remark aside. “Is Julot not at the armory?”
“Julot Cazalet — another peasant — yes, at the armory. Doubtless he knows little of these intrigues. Julot is slow-witted, a barbarian, a soldier, an archer.”
“Do not count on his thick mind. Soldiers and guards are well- informed.” Fabien’s amusement was sardonic. “This barbarian Julot, I saw him at sword practice with Nappier this morning at the armory. He is par exemple in wielding the blade. If he is a barbarian, then I desire such barbarians on my side.”
Fabien knew Maurice prided himself on use of the rapier and looked offended.
“Thunder. I could best Julot.”
“By your life, may you never try, mon ami. Now, for Sebastien’s sake, waste no more time. Go to the armory, talk to Julot.”
Maurice regarded him, then gave a nod of grudging assent. He saun- tered off, the f lower on his cap bobbing.
Fabien shook his head ruefully, and when Maurice was out of view, turned to look toward the stairway. Fabien dashed up the stairs and back along the gallery from which he had come.
He neared the wall where the tapestry of King Francis I concealed the small, secret door.
At last! But was he in time?
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Chapter Eight
M
Marquis Fabien stood on the second floor gallery in Chambord Palais. The two Swiss guardsmen had returned to their salle de garde which connected with the state council chamber on the f loor above. He centered his gaze onto the heavy gold fringed wall tapestry of Francis I, with his aquiline nose and small, sharp eyes, his dashing figure in full regalia. This was the place Rachelle Macquinet had indicated to him earlier that morning. If she was correct, and he had no reason to doubt her, the priceless tapestry concealed a small door to a secret stairway and a listening closet outside the council chamber.
Fabien glanced along the gallery to make certain he was not being observed. The moment was clear.
He went straight to the tapestry and, satisfied no one was near at hand, lifted it aside. Yes, a small oval door. He used the key Rachelle had removed from Catherine de Medici’s secretary of drawers in her royal chamber.
The door unlocked; he ducked under its rim and entered a dark void, allowing the heavy tapestry to settle smoothly into position. He closed the door behind him.
Fabien stood cloistered in darkness, breathing the stale air of ancient construction. His sight adjusted to a dim beam of light above and ahead, reached by a steep, narrow set of steps which he assumed would bring him near the council chamber.
He felt his way cautiously. After a minute he reached a square platform no more than two feet wide, railed on either side, known as a secret step. In the darkness he saw a bright spot — the peephole. Looking through
it, he was greeted with a grand scene — the interior of the state coun- cil chamber with its long square table and chairs. A large window with brocade draperies looked onto a spring garden. The hole was located somewhere high in the council chamber wall, and it commanded a view of most of the chamber.
Someone had recently installed a listening tube, no doubt on orders from Catherine de Medici to one of the loyal Italian lackeys, or dwarves, she kept. Fabien suspected she might occasionally choose not to attend certain council meetings in order to spy on the king’s counselors to hear what they said on certain matters in her absence. She took perverse enjoyment in such activities. He was reminded again how much he dis- trusted Madame le Serpent.
Fabien centered his eye on the peephole and saw Catherine, garbed in black, pacing. Where were the Guises and Avenelle?
The Queen Mother ceased her pacing, became very still, and stared straight toward him. The hair bristled at the back of his neck, as he almost credited her with knowing he was watching. He could imagine himself standing on a trapdoor with controls at her fingertips that would drop him into a pit of poisonous snakes.
She looked away, staring elsewhere, as though deep in thought. Fabien rebuked his reaction. The hole would be undetectable from inside the chamber except to those who knew it was there. She did know, of course, but would have no reason to believe anyone was watching her, as she had watched countless others while hatching evil designs against them.
The Queen Mother continued to stand perfectly still. Then, abruptly, she lifted her head. Fabien saw the stern face, the unblinking eyes, as though a decision had been reached in her cunning. She strode to the long council table in the midst of the chamber, surrounded by chairs, picked up a mallet, and struck a gong.
The door to the connecting guard chamber opened. Fabien could see two of the royal Swiss guards inside. A dainty page boy hurried in and bowed to her.
She commanded boldly: “Call for Maître Avenelle to come to me at once.”
Her voice came plainly to Fabien even without the listening tube.
With his eye to the hole he wondered that the Guises were not present, unless they were seated in a corner of the chamber out of his view — though he had not heard them, and it seemed unlikely they would remain mute.
A short time later the door opened and a guard hauled in a nervous man with sallow skin and a thin, wasted figure.
Yes, this is Avenelle. I recognize him. Fabien felt pity and scorn. Le
misérable! What has happened to him? He is like death housed in skin!
But do I need wonder what has befallen him?
Catherine
de Medici was seated opposite him at a writing table, a pen in her hand and parchment before her. Avenelle stood facing her, and Fabien had a good view of the side of his face as well as of Catherine’s.
“Your M-Majesty,” came his tremulous voice.
Fabien narrowed his gaze. No matter who a man may be, none should cringe and fawn before such an unrighteous ruler.
He realized that his thoughts were treasonous and had emerged quite unexpectedly. In questioning the Queen Mother’s right to rule, he ques- tioned the authority of the throne of France.
“Maître Avenelle,” Catherine demanded, “Le Duc de Guise and his brother, le Cardinal de Lorraine, have spoken to me of grave information you claim to be true. Tell me! When did you speak to the duc?”
Pale, he intertwined his fingers, pulling on them.
He bowed again, too humbly. “I spoke to the duc this very day. Monsieur Marmagne, his secretary, first brought me here to Blois from Paris so that I may speak to your sacred person.”
“I see. So you are a barrister, Maître Avenelle?” “Oui, I am that, Your Majesty.”
“I see. A friend of Seigneur Barri de la Renaudie from the Bourbon region of Moulins and Berry?”
At the mention of the Bourbon region Fabien became convinced Prince Condé was in danger.
“I was his friend, Madame,” he hastened.
Catherine’s twisted mouth was visible. “Ah,” she said with dripping scorn. “But no longer his ami. I see. This leader of the vile Huguenot plot of which le Duc de Guise has been warned by the Catholics of England
— you are willing to betray Renaudie to me?”
Avenelle’s face turned ruddy. His nervous fingers traveled up and down the front of his surcoat.
“I — I do not wish Your Majesty or that of our cher King Francis to be injured by these zealot heretics, Madame.”
“How kind of you, Maître Avenelle,” came her sarcastic voice. “You are most generous. Now tell me. Have you been paid well by the duc’s secretary, Marmagne, to tell all you know of this plot?”
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