Daughter of Silk

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  They finished their meal. He helped her gather a bowl and a few dishes together into a bag for one of the lackeys to carry away, then he

  offered to walk her back to where the royal coaches were gathered in the shade of the trees, the f lags of Valois rippling in the breeze.

  “I suppose I shall see you again at Amboise,” he said, his tone hopeful.

  Rachelle smiled absently, for her attention was focused back along the road. “Look, there are riders coming. They are halting beneath those alder trees near the stream.” Was the main rider who she anticipated? The golden horse had a jeweled harness and the rider wore a cloak and hat that even from where she stood showed par excellence.

  “It is Marquis Fabien and Gallaudet. They will join the king’s cara- van once we are back on the road to Amboise.”

  “He arrived only in time. It appears as though the king is ready to ride on again.”

  “I was uncertain if Marquis Fabien would return from —” He shot her a glance, as if he had misspoken.

  She hastened to put him at ease, to let him know that she was aware of Fabien’s secret journey to his Bourbon kinsmen.

  “It is a mercy of God that Marquis Fabien has returned safely from meeting with Prince Condé. I wonder if the Bourbon chieftains will decide not to heed the king’s summons to come to Amboise?”

  “Then he told you? The marquis has shown confidence in your trust, but who would not?”

  “Merci. But what do you think, Andelot? Will Prince Condé and the others come?”

  “How can they not? It is the king’s demand.”

  “Yes, but not a light thing when you are uncertain of your reception, though the Queen Mother speaks of an edict of peace.” Remembering her foray into Catherine’s bedchamber and the sinister interview follow- ing, Rachelle again felt her nerves curl.

  Andelot looked off toward the royal caravan preparing for its jour- ney. “If only there could be peace between Catholics and Huguenots.”

  Not as long as the House of Guise are legates of Philip II of Spain and

  control the throne.

  She became aware of Andelot’s scrutiny and busied herself by taking notice of the clouds drifting in from the hills.

  “It looks as if it will soon rain. Au revoir, Andelot, I must make haste to la Valois before she misses me.”

  “Au revoir, Rachelle.” He bowed.

  Rachelle tossed him a smile of affection, then walked back toward the royal calèche where she noticed a f lurry of activity. When would she again talk with Marquis Fabien?

  As she neared, Charlotte de Presney approached her from the trees. “Where have you been?” she asked crossly. “The princesse has

  been inquiring.” Charlotte turned her head and looked off toward the soldier’s camp. “You must not wander off. Your reputation will soon be questioned, I assure you.” She turned and walked in the direction of the coach.

  The minx!

  Rachelle hurried up to the royal coach, expecting a sharp rebuke from Princesse Marguerite, and instead found her bon vivant, her dark eyes feisty. Now what has she planned?

  “I shall ride horseback the rest of the journey to Amboise, and you shall come with me. You and Madame de Presney.”

  Rachelle was certain the Queen Mother would not approve of Marguerite riding off without her guard. She was equally certain that Marguerite had some plan to meet Henry de Guise along the way in the woods.

  Rachelle was relieved when Charlotte saved her from the necessity of trying to reign in the princesse’s enthusiasm for indulging her whims.

  “Princesse, it will rain soon, and you know you are of weak dispo- sition in the cold, wet months. May it please you to remain dry in the comfortable coach.”

  Marguerite was surely in no mood for hindrance. “It is you who fear a trif le of rain. We will ride.”

  As Marguerite turned gaily to the rest of her ladies, Louise de Fontaine leaned toward Rachelle and whispered, “There is only one thing that could be so feverishly upon Marguerite’s mind: Monsieur Henry. He is no longer among the courtiers invited to Amboise.”

  “Why so?”

  “The Queen Mother has most sternly forbidden her to be alone with Monsieur Guise. Marguerite will meet the King of Portugal at Amboise

  and it is hoped by the Queen Mother that a marriage could be in the future.”

  “With the King of Portugal? But what of Prince Henry of Navarre, the Huguenot?” Rachelle whispered.

  Louise held her fan near her lips, glancing about as she spoke to make certain they were not being watched.

  “I have heard it said the Queen Mother has several important princes in mind for marriage to her youngest daughter, and that she is wooing all of them to gain but one. The one monseigneur she truly wishes for Marguerite is the son of King Philip of Spain, but the king is displeased with Catherine.”

  “Displeased, but why?”

  “Spain insists that the king destroy all heretics in France. There is some discussion that the Queen Mother may even go to Spain with Marguerite in a year or two to convince him of the marriage with his son. If they do visit Spain, Marguerite’s chief ladies will travel with her.”

  Louise looked at her thoughtfully. “I am sure Philip will have a mes- sage for the Queen Mother as well. If she wishes peace with Philip, and for Marguerite to marry his son Don Carlos, then Catherine will need to cooperate with the Guises in destroying the Huguenots.”

  A dart of both fear and excitement tingled Rachelle’s skin. Spain! Would she be among the ladies-in-waiting for such a grand excursion? But what of Spain’s demands upon the Queen Mother to rid her land of Huguenots?

  “The rest of you will proceed by coach,” Marguerite was saying to her ladies.

  It was very like Marguerite to behave with abandon and do some- thing of this daring nature by sneaking off into the woods for a rendez- vous with Henry de Guise. Why it was that Marguerite had decided to trust her and Charlotte with her plans was anyone’s guess. Rachelle was uncomfortable with any situation that might bring her to Catherine’s attention. That unblinking gaze had already fixed upon her, reminding her that she walked and moved in slippery places.

  A brief meeting with Henry in the Amboise woods was troublesome enough, but there would be challenges for Rachelle in the future that could be far more demanding. What would she do if Marguerite insisted

  she attend Mass with her each morning? Neither Madame Clair nor Grandmère had spoken to her about her duties as a Huguenot. With her fellow brothers and sisters being burned at the stake for their refusal to attend Mass, how could she shrug her shoulders and say it mattered not? The thousands of Christian martyrs in the early centuries in Rome had died in the arena for refusing to put a pinch of incense before the image of Nero. She supposed arguments could have been made at that time for dismissing the act of obeisance as unimportant. With a chill she remem- bered the words: In those days wherein Antipas was my faithful martyr, who was slain among you, where Satan dwells. She must not treat lightly that which was hallowed by the blood of hundreds of thousands of Jesus’ martyrs.

  Marguerite snapped her fingers impatiently, frowning. “Peste! Wake up, Rachelle! You are to attend me. Get my cloak from the coach, quick! Dépêchez-vous!”

  Rachelle did so, and Marguerite ordered her page to bring up her favorite horse, a little brown jennet, along with two mild tempered riding horses for Charlotte and Rachelle.

  Rachelle had learned to handle a horse at the Chateau de Silk with her sisters when she and Idelette rode down to the bungalows near the mûreraies where the weavers were at work at the looms. Little had she known back then that her riding would one day qualify her to ride with the princesse.

  Charlotte de Presney had a perceptive look in her eyes. Rachelle guessed the woman knew what Marguerite had on her mind, and for reasons of her own was pleased.

  They rode around a bend in the road, and drew up short. Rachelle’s breath caught.

  The Queen Mother herself waited
for them, a formidable figure in black astride her strong horse. Catherine was known for being a horsewoman par excellence and had ridden on hunting trips with King Francis I.

  Waiting behind the Queen Mother, King Francis, and Reinette Mary, were Mary’s oncles — le Duc de Guise and le Cardinal de Lorraine, looking equally formidable. With them rode several courtiers and the bodyguard.

  Rachelle’s stomach flipped. She glanced toward Marguerite and saw the color drain from her cheeks. Her own tension continued to heighten. Rachelle and Charlotte de Presney bowed low in their saddles, as custom demanded, first toward Catherine as the regent of France, then

  toward the young king and queen.

  Marguerite was no match for her Machiavellian mother, Catherine de Medici.

  It was late afternoon and the low angle of the sunlight through the for- est fir trees reminded Andelot that there would be little chance to reach the castle of Amboise before sunset. He stood leaning against a tree trunk waiting for Fabien to finish talking with a galante seated on a muscled black horse opposite him. Andelot had no idea who the other monsieur might be, for he was covered closely in a heavy black cloak and his broad- rimmed Spanish hat concealed his face. Andelot was convinced he must be of noble rank. Marquis Fabien remained astride his golden bay facing him, in close discussion.

  In the deepening purple shade of fragrant pine boughs forming a for- est canopy around Amboise, Fabien listened to the complaints of Henry de Guise over his frustrated plans to marry Marguerite Valois. Henry had ridden his black horse skillfully through the woods unseen by the royal retinue to keep a rendezvous with Marguerite and foil the Queen Mother’s plans to have Marguerite meet the King of Portugal.

  Henry’s handsome features were scowling with outrage over not being invited to the divertissement at the castle, where the King of Portugal would be entertained.

  “The talk of Marguerite marrying Henry of Navarre is laughable, for what can Navarre bring to France? Just as this possible union with Portugal is an error,” he stated loftily. “My père’s house is as powerful and important as the House of Valois, except that Francis is now on the throne, and he will not last long.”

  Henry must have realized his omission, especially after their angry confrontation earlier over the insult to the Bourbon name. Henry added: “And the House of Bourbon, bien entendu! Tell me, Marquis Fabien, why should Marguerite be forced to marry the poor and weak-eyed king of such a country?”

  Fabien could easily have told him, but he doubted that Henry would accept it. Catherine was no fool. For Marguerite to marry Henry would place the throne within grasp of the Guise family. They were already saturated with ambition, and too powerful. Catherine was not about to make Henry her son-in-law and place her sons at risk.

  Fabien had not intended to meet up with Henry de Guise, but he had been riding through the woods from Moulins on his way to Amboise when he came across Henry racing to keep another forbidden meeting with Marguerite.

  Fabien remained patient though he cared little about Henry’s frustra- tions. He hoped to uncover some hint about the edict of pacification to be signed. Henry was close to his father and likely to know something of his plans with Catherine. But for all of Fabien’s casually garbed ques- tions, he had learned little that was new.

  “Then the King of Portugal will also be at Amboise when the Bourbon princes and nobles arrive for the signing,” Fabien suggested.

  Henry showed neither suspicion nor interest. He merely shrugged. “They should not honor him with their presence.”

  Fabien was becoming convinced that Henry, at least, was not privy to whatever the duc and cardinal had in mind.

  He lost interest in Henry’s troubles with Marguerite.

  “I will ride with you to meet Princesse Marguerite,” he said, and when Henry’s gaze swerved suspiciously, Fabien explained: “She has a new lady-in-waiting, Mademoiselle Macquinet, the silk grisette. I find her of particular interest.”

  Henry relaxed, and even smiled, looking amused. “Ah yes, I have seen her. You have worthy tastes. Then let us be on our way— but wait —” He turned in his saddle and motioned for his page. “There is a spare mask for you.”

  Fabien took the mask. The two laughed and turned their horses to ride swiftly for Amboise.

  Andelot Dangeau thought that reaching Amboise would be his crown- ing moment, where he at last was to be favored by le Cardinal de Lorraine. Strange, however, that Rachelle had not appeared so impressed, as much as she had seemed shocked, that he was related to the Guise family.

  He frowned and paced to and fro under the alder tree, mostly think- ing, but sometimes reading from his Latin prayer book and fingering his rosary. He looked up. Horse hooves came barreling down the road. At last! Marquis and the galante with him had left the trees to ride on to Amboise. Andelot ran to put his religious objects back inside his saddle- bag and mounted, riding to the side of the road to join them. He bowed as the two young nobles of princely blood rode in his direction, their retinues coming swiftly behind. As the galante neared, Andelot recog- nized him. Monsieur Henry de Guise.

  “Ho!” Andelot cried. “Wait for me — ”

  Henry de Guise galloped by without so much as a glance his way, though Andelot believed he knew of his blood relationship from his father. He could at least nod to me, he thought, offended.

  Fabiendrewup, smiling, andhismen-at-armsandhispage, Gallaudet, also halted. They rode on together toward the Amboise castle, Guise and his retinue keeping some distance ahead but in view.

  A short time later they neared a gray rock fortress that dominated the view. Storm clouds boiled over the Loire, and the few drops of warning rain had become a drizzling shower that began to drench the misty forest. A streak of light plunged through the eastern sky and snarled viciously.

  Andelot could almost believe he sensed pending doom and imag- ined evil as real as a fiery steed riding upon dank winds and gaining on them. He started to look over his shoulder, except the marquis was there. Andelot grimaced at his imagination. He slowed his gallop until Fabien rode past and then maneuvered behind him. They rode over the wooden planks of the bridge with water f lowing below.

  “There is a sense of doom in the thunder and lighting,” Andelot called out, “like an evil omen. Do you not feel it, Marquis?”

  Fabien glanced at him over his shoulder, the breeze tossing a lock of golden-brown hair across his forehead. His dark cape, lined with fur, whipped in a gust of wind. He laughed mockingly.

  “I vow, but your imagination does run wild, mon ami. Let thunder be thunder, naught else.”

  After a few minutes, Fabien added: “I prefer to think of the king’s hunting party, of stags and boars. I will snare one or the other on this venture. We are to make merry at Amboise.”

  It was almost an order. Andelot cast him a glance. Why did he think the marquis was affecting indifference? Andelot merely felt relieved he was not expected to ride with the king’s hunting party.

  “I should rather see the poor creatures of God roaming freely through the king’s forest than shed their blood, except for meat on the banquet table.”

  “Saint Denis! But you have a ‘mothering’ heart, Andelot. How it is I find your company well chosen, I cannot say.” He shook his head and lowered his hat with its plume.

  “Be cheerful, Marquis. The custom of the hunt will not cease because I find no pleasure in it, I assure you.”

  “By all that is fair, I hope not. I shall favor you with the knowledge so your conscience may rest. All the animals taken in the king’s hunt will find their way to the banqueting table to keep the King of Portugal content. There is to be celebration, a masque. There will be no wasted game where I am concerned, I promise you.”

  “Bonne!”

  “You have to learn our ways. Be warned, mon cousine; if the cardinal takes serious his new guardianship of you, he will please his own inter- ests by turning you from his page into a priest. Is that what you want?”

  Fabien was look
ing at him now with serious intent. Andelot shrugged. “I do not wish to become a priest. But —”

  “No? But you will have no say in the matter.” Fabien’s eyes sparkled mischievously. “Then what will you do about the mademoiselle with the brown-auburn hair? What was her name? I must have forgotten . . .”

  Andelot knew he had not. He then remained silent, refusing to say what her name was. Fabien laughed and spurred his golden bay ahead.

  They raced on toward Amboise, pausing only to allow the horses to drink. Andelot began to whistle, which brought a glance from Fabien who had lapsed into a quiet and more thoughtful mood. Andelot thought it had something to do with his secret visit to Moulins, but though he had inquired about what happened, Fabien had not seen fit to tell him much except that his Bourbon kinsmen were coming to Amboise as summoned by King Francis.

  Now as they raced along with the wind throwing rain against them, Andelot unexpectedly grinned at him.

  “What do you think about, mon ami, that makes you suddenly happy?”

  Andelot laughed, for he was thinking of Rachelle and how his change of fortune extended his chances to win her hand. “A secret, mon cousine.”

  A short time later, Andelot rode in Marquis Fabien’s retinue through the gate at Amboise. Monsieur Henry de Guise had been smuggled in among Fabien’s pages so as not to be noticed. They passed stone walls and reinforced battlements and entered the cobbled courtyard where f lags f lurried. Here, Henry de Guise cut away toward the woods skirting the broad avenue to the castle, and Andelot dismounted. Rain ran down his neck and made him shiver. Fabien remained in the saddle and looked around and up toward the tall windows of the castle.

  “Let us hope the rain ebbs and does not ruin the hunting party,” Fabien said, but Andelot noted the indifference of his tone, as though the hunt were the last thing on his mind.

  Andelot scowled. “What awaits us, Marquis Fabien? Do you yet doubt royalty’s good intentions in issuing the summons to Prince Condé and Admiral Coligny?”