Threads of Silk

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  He stood, helping her to her feet. “I must make certain, however. Though all evidence crowns him the thief, I will speak to my chamberlain. It will be interesting to see what he can say about this.”

  Fabien sent for him, and the chamberlain appeared, looking distraught over the breach to his master’s private chest.

  “What do you know of this, Raymond?”

  His eyes widened with fear. “Monseigneur, nothing, I vow! No one has entered your private bedchamber during your absence at sea. I permitted the chief serving man entry to dust and clean only on the night of your arrival.”

  “The chief serving man?”

  “Henri has served you for years, Monseigneur. He would — ”

  “Call him.”

  “At once!”

  The chief serving man returned to face his seigneur with twitching hands, his eyes fixated on the chest as though he expected a cobra to slowly raise its head.

  The chamberlain spoke for them both. “The two of us will lay our necks to the chopping block, Monseigneur, if I thought for even one moment that either of us failed in our duty to guard the inner palais château during your courageous absence.”

  “I do not doubt the loyalty of either of you, so there is no need to carry on about chopping blocks. Just tell me when someone might have had undue access to my chambers. Mademoiselle believes there may have been a singular time when the Comte Beauvilliers entered. Do either of you recall this?”

  The chamberlain was adamant in his denial, but the serving man looked at Rachelle then at Fabien, smoothing the front of his tunic with uneasy movements.

  “Mademoiselle is correct, Monseigneur de Vendôme. She came here to take refuge for a few days after the Amboise rebellion, and Comte Beauvilliers was with her.”

  “Yes! So it was,” she said quickly, remembering.

  “Did either of you allow Beauvilliers to enter my chamber?”

  The chamberlain exchanged a frown with the serving man.

  “I saw him come out of this chamber, Monseigneur,” the serving man said, moistening his lips.

  The chamberlain drew in a breath. “What! And you failed to tell me so?”

  The serving man shot him a glance then focused on Fabien.

  “When I asked le comte what he was doing in the Marquis de Vendôme’s chambers, he called me a prowling dog. He had merely entered the wrong chamber, he told me.”

  “He had the key?” Fabien asked, arms folded, looking pointedly at the chamberlain, who was in charge.

  The chamberlain blotted his forehead with a kerchief, looking at the chest. “He received no key from me, Monseigneur. Is — are there family jewels missing?”

  “And I have no key, my lord Marquis,” the serving man hastened to say, looking pointedly at the chamberlain. He continued, “When I began to press Comte Beauvilliers on how he entered, he insisted the door was unlocked.”

  “Did you notice if he carried anything, a book perhaps, a cloak?”

  “No, my lord Marquis. Whereupon he insisted I bring one of your best wines to his guest chamber. I fear the event slipped away from me once the dark news of the slaughter of the Huguenots at Amboise castle came to us here.”

  The chamberlain’s mouth tightened as he looked at the chief serving man. Fabien dismissed the two men, telling them the fault was not theirs. Even so, Rachelle saw that Fabien could not easily put the matter from his mind.

  “Here is one more grievance against Maurice,” he said when they were alone. He scowled to himself, walking about, then after a moment, as the silence grew, he looked at her.

  “My apology, belle amie.” He came swiftly to her and offered a smile, but she could see he fought inner anger over Maurice.

  “This has not been the romantic atmosphere I had in mind when I brought you here to choose your wedding ring.”

  He brought out the box of jewels. She sat down at a low table where a gilded lamp burned. He opened the box.

  She drew in an audible breath. “Fabien, I have never seen such beauty.”

  Her fingers caressed rubies, diamonds, emeralds, sapphires, topaz, pearls — all set in gold rings — as well as pendants and bracelets.

  “So many to choose from!” she murmured, putting a hand to her forehead.

  “There are more — but not here. Which one suits you for the ceremony?”

  She laughed. “Which one? All! All are stunning.” She glanced at him.

  “You must give me your opinion — which means the most to you?”

  He did not hesitate to lift out a small gold box and open it. A ruby and diamond ring set in gold flashed its beauteous glory.

  “This was the wedding ring of Marie-Louise de Bourbon, passed on for several generations. Let us see if it fits. That is always the difficulty.”

  He took her left hand and slipped the ring on her finger.

  Rachelle gazed at the ring with a sigh. She blinked to refuse entry of a tear. “Exquisite.”

  “It was meant for you, belle amie. You see? It fits well.”

  She gazed enthralled, moving her hand under the lamplight so that the glitter of the blood red rubies and flashing diamonds shimmered in unity.

  She looked up at him. The momentous decision intertwined them in silence. He took her hands and drew her up. The flame in the depths of his eyes caught up her emotions and filled her heart.

  “I am honoré, Rachelle, to take you as my bride. It must be here, tonight.”

  This moment made up for her heartbreak at the Château de Silk when she had unwisely fought to keep him from leaving for England. Then, in devastation, she believed her lack of wisdom and fairness in understanding him had lost him forever.

  Now it was his own heart that had brought him back to her. The wedding cup would taste far sweeter in knowing their passion was shared, their love and need of one another equally desired.

  She looked at her hand. “I will wear this ring proudly.” Slowly she began to remove the wedding band from her finger. “But you keep it until the ceremony,” she said, but he enclosed her hand in his.

  “Do not remove it until we stand before the minister.” He directed her attention back to the jewelry. “Take something else. Then I must conceal the chest somewhere until I am certain our lives will be secure in France.”

  She sighed over each piece of jewelry, undecided.

  He gave an affectionate flip to one of her stray auburn curls. “Come, mignon, you are as indecisive as all women. What about this brooch? And the bracelet?”

  “Oui! Oh, I adore them! The sapphires gleam like brilliant blue stars.” She swept over to a gilded mirror and held the brooch to her gown and the bracelet against her wrist, striking a pose.

  He smiled. “Belle des belles, chérie. I will send Gallaudet for the minister.”

  “Oh, I must change! And my hair, I must do it with more flair. I wish

  Nenette were here; I wonder if Andelot may know of her safe arrival at Fontainebleau with Philippe.”

  “We will ask him. While you ready yourself, I shall seal the jewels and gold to be buried on our way. There is no guarantee the palais château will not be searched and even burned.”

  She turned, aghast. “Burned!”

  “The son of a duc and duchesse who rebels against the throne is treated as a rebel and an enemy.”

  She looked about her at the wondrous furnishing and tapestries, sickened. “Burned . . .”

  He cupped her chin. “Maybe the order will not be given. But I will take no chances. I shall meet you at the foot of the stairs in five minutes.”

  “Five minutes?”

  “Very well, then — ten minutes.”

  She looked at him, stunned. Ten minutes to dress for her wedding to the Marquis de Vendôme? Oh, come, most surely he jested?

  “I will need an hour at least!” Oh, if ma mère were only here.

  “An hour! You are charmante as you are.”

  “Very well, half an hour. And Fabien, what if Andelot is wrong? What if he misunders
tood Madame’s mind on the matter?”

  He appeared to consider, his smile tilting. “I trust him, but if he is wrong, I shall ever be indebted to him. Our marriage will soon be a fait accompli, ma chérie. Let us agree that the duchesse has given us her bountiful blessing.”

  She smiled and hurried from the salle down the passage to her chamber. Half an hour!

  To Bury a Treasure

  FABIEN GATHERED THE MOST CHERISHED FAMILY TREASURES AND STRODE off to find Gallaudet. After sending him to locate a Huguenot minister, Fabien went to meet with Andelot in the bedchamber where the chamberlain had taken him.

  Andelot was scrubbing himself in a round tub of hot water when he entered. The chamberlain had brought in handsome articles of clothing and displayed them upon the wide bed.

  “Merci, a thousand thanks, Marquis.”

  “How do you manage to ride into these situations, mon ami?” Fabien said in a light tone. “I begin to think you hunger for battle.” He came up and inspected Andelot’s shorn head, asking the chamberlain to find some ointment to rub on the nicks and grazes Maurice’s men had made as they hastily removed his hair.

  “On the contrary, Maurice finds me. I am an offense because I’m privileged to be your ami.”

  “It is I who am privileged to have such a loyal ami, Andelot. Maurice will pay for this treatment, I assure you. Was it he who did this to you?”

  “Well, one of his bodyguards. A giant of a fellow of an otherwise mellow mood. At one time, I had rather liked him. Now I should like to put a sword in his portly belly.”

  “It is not for you to talk like that.”

  “I find no dishonor in following your steps, Marquis.”

  Fabien frowned. The notion unsettled him. Though he believed he acted in honor and valor, he did not wish for someone like Andelot, whom he saw as sensitive and gentle, to mold his life after his own.

  “My steps do not always lead wisely. Follow Pasteur Bertrand or Calvin. I could wish for you to go to Geneva for the rest of your learning, even though you are a Roman Catholic.”

  An abashed expression came over Andelot’s face and Fabien wondered why. What had he said that brought Andelot such a look of guilt?

  “I have something to say about my Christian faith, Marquis, but not yet.” He touched his cropped head. “I shall be well enough. It will grow out again soon.”

  “You are being most courageous,” Fabien said dryly. He looked about at the items of clothing the chamberlain had brought up. “Let’s see, what can we do until your hair fills in? Ah!” He turned to the chamberlain. “Hats and scarves — or a large kerchief — made of cotton. You will find a few in the trunk I brought back from the Reprisal.”

  The chamberlain left and returned with some cotton kerchiefs and several hats.

  Fabien went through them, rejecting most, as Andelot looked on, curious but smiling. “There has never been an ami like you, Marquis.”

  “This one will work.” Fabien took a black beret style hat and a dark forest green scarf. “Until your hair grows, or you get hold of a periwig, you will cast the shadow of being a buccaneer. You will look most dashing. This is how the pirates do it: take the scarf like so — ” he folded it and placed it around Andelot’s head — “and tie it in back with a seaman’s knot — there! The beret goes on like this, tipped to the side, and — voilà! Capitaine Andelot Dangeau!”

  Andelot looked at himself in the mirror and grinned. He thrust out his chest. “Bon!” he rubbed his hands together and cocked his head, turning about and looking at himself. “Ah, Marquis, I like it much! Oui! Now — my scabbard and sword — ”

  Fabien laughed. “Wearing a sword will tempt brigands to have a go at you,” he said quickly. “Wiser to stay to your studies, I beg of you.”

  Andelot frowned at himself in the mirror and sighed. “At this moment I would give much, Marquis, to be Capitaine Nappier! If only I knew the sword as well as you. I’d hunt Maurice down and see him humbled.”

  Fabien kept his anger toward Maurice masked, lest it heighten Andelot’s.

  “Maybe, Marquis, you could teach me. You started to do so once, but all of the trouble that has come upon us since Amboise has intervened.”

  “What I wish for you, cousin, is an education par excellence. That is the path for you, among books and monsieurs of greater learning. You are too fine for violence and intrigue.”

  “Me?” Andelot questioned in mock self-deprecation.

  “You.”

  Andelot appeared to reconsider as he rearranged his beret a trifle more to the left eyebrow. “Geneva would be most interesting, I admit. I have my Latin down and wish to learn even more Greek. As for the Reformers, I have something to tell you of utmost importance.” He cleared his throat. “It all began when I came across some Huguenots in the woods around Fontainebleau. The old pasteur hid a — ”

  Fabien hastened to speak. “I will look forward to hearing all about it, but we have not the time now. Come with me. I must conceal some Bourbon treasures and I want you, at least, to know where I bury them. Who knows, Andelot? Anything might happen. It is a long way from my family estate to my ship at Dieppe.”

  Andelot showed surprise. “You are leaving, Marquis? But — ”

  “I must.” He had delayed telling Andelot, knowing it would sadden him. They had, in the last two years, grown as close as brothers. “Leaving France is my only option. Rachelle must be brought to safety and I will remain with her.” He glanced at Andelot to see how he was taking the idea of their marriage. Andelot showed no ill feelings, and Fabien was relieved. “How long our stay in England will last, I cannot say. My possessions here in Vendôme may be confiscated by the throne. Some generations ago, all this region of France was Bourbon.

  “My ancestor, Duc Charles de Bourbon was perhaps only a step from the throne, but Francis I decided all of France should become one kingdom with himself at the head. He began incorporating territories that belonged to the ducs. The Bourbon duchy was one of the most powerful, and Francis seized it. The Bourbons fought, but in the end my kinsman had to flee — to Spain of all places! He joined them and fought against France. As you can imagine, it took his ancestors some bon effort to make peace with Francis. We have ruled over smaller territories to this day. It may be, Andelot, that I too will not return to rule even my marquisat.”

  “Do not even say it!”

  Fabien threw an arm around his shoulder. “We shall always be bon amis. Now come, there is no time to lose.”

  The sun had just set behind the forest trees and the horizon blazed vermillion. They walked from the palais toward a distant copse to a stone court surrounded by hickory trees.

  Fabien discussed the darkening political news of Europe and the events in the Spanish Netherlands, and wondered if Capitaine Nappier and the crew of the Reprisal would be able to sail safely to Dieppe.

  Andelot offered what information he had gleaned from the duchesse, who evidently knew much of what was transpiring across Europe. He mentioned the surprising news of how their Oncle Sebastien had taken his wife Madeleine, bébé Joan, and Rachelle’s sister Idelette, and escaped the court.

  “I had no inkling he was planning to flee,” Andelot went on.

  Fabien noted a faint disappointment in Andelot’s voice. “He was wise not to inform you for your own sake. You did not want to go with him?”

  Andelot shrugged. “My emotions remain divided. I would not mind England — and yet . . .”

  Was he considering Idelette’s dilemma? Fabien doubted Rachelle’s belief that Andelot was in love with Idelette. If he were, would he not go to her now in her time of despair? Perhaps he was unsure of his reception.

  “You have heard what happened to Mademoiselle Idelette in Lyon?”

  “Madame told me. That dog is one I should like to put to the sword.”

  “You need not concern yourself about him. He and I crossed blades, and he is now deep down below.”

  The silence lasted only a moment. “You are certain he wa
s the one?”

  “Assuredly. I have yet to make it clear to Rachelle, but I will. She may tell her sister as she pleases, or no.”

  Andelot nodded. They came to the copse as the vermillion sky was deepening to pewter. After a moment Andelot went on. “About Oncle Sebastien, I did notice his recent interest in maps, including one of England. I might have guessed then, but I thought it was due to Monsieur Macquinet’s wish to start a silk plantation there.”

  Fabien left unsaid what worried him most about Sebastien’s escape —the road to Calais was usually well traveled by the king’s soldiers. His kinsmen, the two Bourbon princes, were another concern that would have consumed his waking hours if it had not been for the dangers surrounding Rachelle. Louis was held in the Amboise dungeons, and Antoine was under palais arrest at Fontainebleau.

  “Was there any suggestion from the duchesse that Prince Louis might be released from the dungeon?”

  Andelot winced. “Then you have not heard — ah, Marquis, he is to be executed for treason in early December.”

  Fabien gritted his rage and clasped the hilt of his sword. If only . . .

  “A curious factor, Marquis, is that the Queen Mother leaves Fontainebleau often to visit him.”

  Fabien turned his head sharply. “Catherine speaks with him in the Amboise dungeon?”

  “They say her visits to his cell are frequent and secretive. At best, her motives are conspiratorial, so the duchesse believes.”

  If only I did not need to depart at once —

  “The bonne news, if any, is that the duchesse and Admiral Coligny are working feverishly with other respected nobles of Huguenot and Catholic persuasion to convince the king to stay the prince’s execution.”

  Fabien quickened his step on the pathway. He shook his head. “My hands are in chains, Andelot. There is naught I can do to save my kinsmen if I wish to save Rachelle. We marry and leave tonight.” He clamped his jaw. “It is settled.”

  Andelot nodded in grim silence. “Once she is safe in England with Madame Clair . . . Perhaps then?” He glanced at the marquis, but Fabien behaved as if he’d not heard the tempting suggestion to return.