His smile lost its grace. “If only amour could bring Catholics and Huguenots together.”
“It is not we Huguenots, Marquis Fabien, who are lighting the fag- gots and burning women and children.”
She saw the lazy gleam in his eyes harden into iron.
“You task us all with brutish severity, Mademoiselle. I assure you, having come from generations of Catholics, we are not all anxious to light the f lames below heretics or to stand and gape at another’s sufferings.”
She felt her temper rise, a sign that religious zeal was not always born of the sweetness of the Spirit. Heretic. He had used that word deliber- ately, she was sure of it. The beau Marquis Fabien de Vendôme could be cynical as well as elegante.
His gaze held hers, watching her, then he smiled unexpectedly and offered a light bow. “I have angered you.”
“We have, it appears, angered one another.”
“Then let us not discuss religion, Mademoiselle Macquinet. Let us discuss more pleasant things.”
“Some would find discussion of religion most pleasant, Marquis.” “They would?”
“Very much, it brings to our minds the precious promises of the One who cannot lie.” She looked down at the bolt of burgundy silk again and busied herself.
“I must come one day to the chateau,” he said. “You must show me the little silkworms.”
She smoothed the creamy Alençon lace on the table. “You will always be welcome, Marquis.”
He straightened from the table. “I want a dress made of this silk, with a quantity of gold tissue.”
“I should warn you, Monsieur, of the price, for it is most expensive.” “But of course!” He smiled.
“When will you wish this gown to be finished?” “By June.”
She gave him a quick glance, playing with the lace. “We, that is, Grandmère, will need to take precise measurements of the mademoiselle who will wear this gown, you understand, Marquis?”
“You would know best of that. The gown is for you. A gift. I wish to see you wearing it when next we meet in Orléans.”
She fumbled with the bolt of silk, nearly dropping it. “Oh, I could not . . . but —”
“But yes, ma belle, you can, and will,” he said softly. “It is what I
wish, you see. And I do not wish to be disappointed.” “What . . . you wish . . . ?”
And again he smiled at her discomfiture, as though he enjoyed sur- prising her. “I shall assure your Grandmère all is well and upright. She is a reasonable woman, is she not?”
She straightened. “Yes, but . . .”
Fabien laughed. “Then I am sure she will listen to me.”
“And you are a reasonable man?” Rachelle laughed. “I think, Marquis, you expect to always have your way. But in this situation, perhaps — ”
“Not always, ma cherie Rachelle; only sometimes. The payment will be made in full before we leave Chambord. Now it is settled.” He picked up his wide-brimmed hat from the cherry table by the chamber wall. “I must depart.”
He went to the door and she followed. He turned and bowed, and taking her hand once again, this time pressed the secret key against her palm. His touch would have sent her heart tripping, except for the sobri- ety in his eyes. She felt naught but the burdensome key, as though it weighed as much as the chains in the Bastille.
“I would not risk your going back into her royal chambers,” the mar- quis said. “I shall find some other way to return the key.”
“That would be most difficult, would it not? I assure you I can replace it without her notice. Marguerite’s gowns, which I brought there for her perusal, will need to be collected so the demoiselles can pack them for the trip to Amboise.”
“I rebuke myself for having encouraged you to take the key the first time. If she suspects at all, ma cherie, she will forever be your enemy. And I, I could do little to save you if Catherine moved suddenly. I have little authority outside Vendôme, while Paris bows at the feet of Guise.” “To their shame, Monsieur. The duc does not measure up to your
wisdom or fairness.”
He smiled faintly and placed a finger beneath her chin lifting her face. His touch, his intriguing gaze, caught hold of her senses. For a breath- taking moment she expected to find his lips on hers and the thought frightened her. The strong emotions she felt recently were new and dan- gerous. She did not wish to show them so soon.
Rachelle turned away with a movement of her hand as if to push her hair from her throat.
“You, Monsieur Fabien, must not worry about me. You would be one of the first to say that life is full of risks. Ma foi itself, which I have
embraced in such a time as this, guarantees a walk shadowed with risks. I must do this for the good of my fellow Huguenots.”
There came a moment of silence. Then his voice lowered with a seri- ous note. “You enchant me, Mademoiselle. I meet few women of your inner qualities. If it is your faith, then I commend its mastery of you — or should I say His mastery? It is most memorable, I promise you.”
“That you would think so pleases me more than I dare say, Marquis.”
“Then au revoir. I will have my men-at-arms waiting by your calèche in the morning.”
“Merci, au revoir, Monsieur Fabien.”
He lingered a moment, looked at her, a brief smile on his lips. “And to think only a week ago I was seeking an excuse not to heed the call to come to Chambord. And if I had not come, would we have met else- where? I wonder.”
As he left, Rachelle looked after him, her heart aflame.
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Chapter Nine
A
After Fabien departed, Rachelle stood for a long moment until her heart calmed again. Oh, Rachelle, how foolish you are behaving in this matter. He has merely taken a romantic fancy to you, but a lasting one? It is impossible. Do not permit yourself to fall in amoureux with the marquis. Amour and marriage? It is not to be. So what can come of this le coup de foudre?
I will not think about it now. I will merely enjoy for a short time his exciting attention. After Orléans I will forget Monsieur Fabien.
She thought of the gown he wanted made for her. She wondered what to do about it. Grandmère was not likely to approve, and what of Maman when she returned to Lyon from Geneva?
Ah, but what delight in having such a gown made from the same bur- gundy silk and gold cloth as Princesse Marguerite’s. The marquis was rich, there was no doubt of that, and if he wished to honor her with a gift for helping him get the key . . . ? How wondrous to wear such a gown at the palais in June, if she managed to attend with Comtesse Claudine.
Rachelle became aware of the key in her hand. She must return it soon. Despite her brave words she knew a chill along her back. I must show courage. Surely the Lord’s grace is with me. The Queen Mother will merely think I have come to reclaim Marguerite’s gowns, thinking they were now approved. And it is already late afternoon and the gowns need to be packed carefully for the journey to Amboise.
The key —
A light click as of a door closing quietly snapped her alert. She turned her head toward one of the doors leading off to other chambers and ante- chambers; she saw no one.
She tensed. Had someone been listening to the discourse between her and Monsieur Fabien?
Nenette, of course. Rachelle smiled to herself. She was quite fond of her la petite Nenette. Rachelle did not worry about her for she too was a devout Calvinist, and loyal. Nenette already knew of the Macquinet fears over Avenelle and the Huguenots.
Grandmère and Idelette would return soon. How could she tell Grandmère about the belle gown in burgundy silk and gold?
Dressed in a plain black gown and covered from head to foot in a veil, Catherine de Medici moved quietly about her chamber that was aglow with tapered candles. The crowned C above her bed glittered in the candlelight. She walked from her main chamber and entered her closet, locking herself in. She cast her attention to her
poison chest. Her gaze fixed upon it. A sense of power pulsated through her heart.
Men are generally so simple and weak that one who wishes to deceive can easily find dupes.
The Guises . . . She despised them. The sly, hypocritical cardinal; the proud military bearing of the duc! She must placate them now, but she was planning their ruin. Did they think she was a fool? But yes, she knew they had told the reinette Mary to spy on her.
That foolish Francis had been warned not to marry the Scottish girl — the spy! Catherine curled her lip. Ah, but Henry, her husband, had insisted. And why? Because of his mistress, Diane de Poitiers. She had insisted Francis wed Mary of Scotland.
“Henry was a fool,” she murmured bitterly. “But not Diane. She had wanted the marriage because the nasty petite spy, Mary, always did what her oncles, the Guises, told her.”
She stared at her poison chest and reached a hand toward it. Then she drew back, her chin lowered, her hand dropped to her side. Though she might wish to remove the Guises, she had to bide her time until she could plot against them. She must move with care. The Guises were watching her closely; one careless move on her part could be disastrous. She was confident that the Guises told their niece to report to them everything she did. Well, she had her own spies, including Madalenna.
Catherine laughed boldly. “Oh yes, I know just what they are all saying and planning behind my back. But in their presence I will pre- tend innocence. I will remain the humble Italian woman who submitted meekly to Diane de Poitiers, when the hag stole my husband from me.”
Catherine’s wide mouth spread into a frank, contemptuous smile. She had her revenge on the old beauty. She had taken away all the royal jewels Henry gave her and the chateau at Chenonceau that meant so much to her.
Her smile vanished. She would also have her revenge on the Guises — and Mary.
Catherine turned from her poison chest. Patience. For the present she would practice her fine art, which she had been gradually mastering, upon those less significant, who threatened her power.
She left the closet and shut the door, then strode back into her main chamber. She rang the gong. Little Madalenna, whom she had brought with her from Florence, came like a shadowy wraith into the chamber and bowed.
Ah, it is good that you are frightened of me, Catherine thought. Fear
makes for obedient servants.
Catherine, after having come upon Rachelle Macquinet and Marquis de Vendôme in the gallery, had been suspicious of what the two lovebirds were about. Returning to her chamber, she had ordered Madalenna to watch Rachelle and to glean whatever she could.
“Were you able to enter the Macquinet chamber as I told you, Madalenna?”
“Yes, Madame.”
“And did you hide without being noticed?” “Yes, Madame.”
“And now you must tell me everything.”
“Yes, Madame. I heard Mademoiselle Rachelle discussing with Madame Henriette Macquinet how she would take the key from your chest.”
“What? From my chest! Madalenna, which key?”
“I listened, Madame, but they did not say which key it was.” “And how did she know where to find it?”
“Mademoiselle Rachelle knew of it through Comtesse Claudine Boisseau.” Catherine stared at her. Claudine . . . another untrustworthy spy. It was well that I disposed myself from her when I did.
“Then after some time, a page came and I heard him say that the Queen Mother had left her chamber. Then — ”
“Whose page?” Catherine demanded.
“Marquis de Vendôme’s page, Gallaudet, Madame. Then Mademoiselle Rachelle brought many gowns to your chamber for Princesse Marguerite.”
“And did Mademoiselle Rachelle retrieve the key from my sleeping chamber?”
“Yes, Madame. Later the marquis came and told Mademoiselle Rachelle many things, and that she must take care when she returns the key to the Queen Mother’s chamber.”
Catherine was turning cold with fury. “And what things did the Marquis tell Mademoiselle Rachelle?”
“I heard him say that the stranger with le Duc de Guise was Maître Avenelle. That he betrayed the leaders of the Bourbon-Huguenots. He said there was a plot that was to have occurred here at Chambord.”
“And did the marquis say anything else?”
“He said that the Queen Mother knows everything.”
Catherine narrowed her eyes and her fingers formed into fists. The key to the council chamber listening closet! That contemptuous fox! A dangerous young man, another Bourbon, a kinsman to Prince Condé and Condé’s oncle, Admiral Coligny.
Catherine walked over to the candle on the table and watched the steady, burning glow . . . If Fabien had heard her discussion with Avenelle, then he would warn Condé that she knew of the plot. She smiled and her loud, gurgling laughter echoed through the cham- ber. Little did they know that she was not alarmed over their planned attack on Chambord. She and the Guises were prepared. She looked at Madalenna. The girl stood somberly in the candlelight, unresponsive to the laugher. Ah, Madalenna knew her moods so well.
What to do with Marquis Fabien de Vendôme?
The young marquis was a Bourbon, and as such, was important in the intrigues at court. He was still young, and she had not concerned her-
self with him. She now realized that the marquis would become a threat in the future as he came into his own. He was much like Jean-Louis, his father. That Fabien had been audacious enough to dare eavesdrop on her meeting with Avenelle showed potential. Though enraged, it also amused her. She could wish such a brazen young man was on her side. She could use him, just as she used her escadron volant, for the marquis turned the eyes of the women at court, as Catherine had noticed.
Catherine paced slowly, thoughtfully, her skirts moving. The candle f lames f lickered upon the priceless tapestries displayed on the walls.
Trickery could work. Her father Lorenzo de Medici had been a pro- tégé of Machiavelli.
“Do you know what Machiavelli wrote, Madalenna?” she turned to look down at the girl.
“No, Madame.”
“No?” Catherine mocked, stepping back, hand at heart. “After you have been so long with me? Then I will tell you: ‘A prudent Prince cannot and ought not to keep his word, except when he can do it without injury to himself; or when the circumstances under which he contracted the engagement still exist. It is necessary, however, to disguise the appear- ance of craft and to thoroughly understand the art of feigning or dissem- bling; for men are generally so simple and weak that he who wishes to deceive, easily finds dupes.’ ”
Catherine smirked. She walked to the window and drew aside the heavy brocade drapery to look out. A light rain was pummeling the pane.
She had already devised her trickery, using the duc and the cardi- nal. They too loved deceit. In this matter of the Renaudie plot, she was working side by side with the Guises. After she had met with Avenelle, she and the Guises had met together in another chamber where they had devised a plan to summon the Bourbon-Huguenot princes and nobles to Amboise. She would offer the Huguenots an edict of tolera- tion for freedom of worship signed by her son King Francis. This act of speaking peace while devising death would confuse Prince Condé into thinking their plot, revealed by Avenelle, had frightened her into coop- erating. Emboldened by her accommodation, she would lure the unwary Huguenot army under Renaudie to the forest around Amboise —
“And when they come they will be slaughtered, all of them. I tell you, Madalenna, I will hang their headless bodies on the ramparts and fill the Loire River with their rebel heads!”
She would show them what it meant to turn against Catherine de Medici!
She nodded to herself. She widened her smile. She looked over at Madalenna and laughed loudly.
“We will teach them a lesson, ma petite Madelenna,” she whispered. “It is good, non?”
“Oui, Madame. It is good.”
She paced again. Yes, deception would be her tool of survival. She woul
d fool her enemy into thinking she offered peace. And then — then she would strike.
She stood without moving. That would defang Prince Condé and the handsome Fabien, but there remained Rachelle . . .
Catherine’s rage remained unabated. She allowed the drapery to fall into place, turned on her heel, and moved restlessly about her chamber.
“I underestimated Rachelle.”
Not fearing the Queen Mother’s wrath will cost her dearly. She dared take the key from my private chambers? The Macquinet and her family had made an unforgivable error. What else does the spy from Lyon know? And what does Madame Henriette know? And the other grisette — Idelette, was it?
Ah, Rachelle Macquinet knew too much. The three Daughters of Silk knew things that were better kept secret. Did they also know of her poi- son closet? Of Cosmo, her astrologer? Of the Italian brothers, Ruggiero and Rene, both expert poisoners?
“Thief,” she said to the walls of the chamber. “The three of them will pay for their treachery against me.”
Catherine turned back to Madalenna, her skirts swishing. The girl stood stiff ly, fear written across her face. One eyelid twitched.
“Tell me again what you heard la petite Macquinet and the marquis say to one another in her chambers.”
Madalenna licked her lips and repeated the conversation, concluding in a hushed voice: “Madame Dushane wishes she could be at the Louvre Palais when Madame Madeleine Dangeau gives birth.”
Catherine smiled at what she had achieved with petite Madalenna. Her fear of being sent back to Florence to Alessandro the abuser had kept her loyal these years.
“And now, Madalenna, see that my petit Italians are sent to me at once.”
“Yes, Madame.” Madalenna bowed very low, then f led to do her bidding.
Catherine waited patiently. So Madame Henriette worried about her eldest granddaughter, Madeleine, did she? Henriette wished to go to Paris to be with Sebastien’s wife when she gave birth?
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