They walked on and came to a courtyard where there stood a white stone pavilion with Corinthian pillars.
Inside, Fabien lit a lantern and carried it past stone benches and statuary.
Andelot followed him to the back of the pavilion. “Here,” Fabien said. “Under these squares.” He lifted two heavy marble floor tiles, unveiling steps leading to a small cellar lined with stone. Fabien placed the family treasure chest at the bottom of the short flight of stairs. He replaced the marble tiles.
“Will the box last in there, Marquis?”
“It should stay dry, so it will last a long time if this pavilion remains.
We Bourbons have a penchant for garden pavilions and Grecian statuary, and there is no reason for anyone to tear it down. Besides, ami, precious jewels do not rust and decay, and no moth can destroy them.”
“Most interesting you would say that now.”
“Why so?”
“I was reading about laying up treasure in heaven. Our works will be tested by fire. Did you know that? Gold, silver, and precious stones will endure the searing flames of the Lord’s searching gaze; but works done for purposes that do not glorify Him will burn like wood, hay, and stubble. I suppose, Marquis, many of us will have big bonfires.”
“Assuredly so. How did you come to read these words?”
Andelot smiled and Fabien noticed a difference in his countenance. “That is the tale I wish to explain when there is time.”
Fabien looked toward the entrance. “We have time until Gallaudet returns with the Geneva minister.”
Darkness was now creeping up the steps into the pavilion. The breeze had come up with the first sign of the moon, sending dried hickory leaves tumbling across the floor.
“I am interested. Say on. This may be our last opportunity for camaraderie for who knows how long.” Fabien leaned against a statue and Andelot sat on the stone bench.
“It all began when the duchesse’s page, Romier, wagered me he would win a race in the woods against the golden bay.”
“Folly. The horse rides like the wind.”
“Exactement.”
“By the way, Andelot, I want you to keep him. I know you will favor him well.”
“Merci, Marquis! He is a great gift. I have grown most attached to him.”
Fabien smiled, amused. “And so I have no doubt you won the race.”
“It was not even close, Marquis. As I entered the woods of Fontaine-bleau, I came upon a Huguenot meeting with a Dominican attempting to arrest them for heresy. I noticed the elder pasteur hide something under a felled log. It was a Bible — in the French tongue. I kept it and read it. I only just returned it to the pasteur on my way here to Vendôme.”
Fabien listened as Andelot went on to tell how he’d almost been caught by Père Jaymin.
“I now believe as the other Huguenots do, though I continue to attend Mass with Maître Thauvet.”
Fabien was pleased but urged caution. “At least complete your studies with Thauvet. Afterward, consider journeying to Geneva for more training, or even England. A lettre of recommendation will open a door for you to meet personally with Calvin.”
“I will take to heart your interest in Geneva, Marquis. Thauvet has mentioned his concern of a religious civil war in France between Catholics and Huguenots. If it comes to that, it would be a wise time to visit Geneva for myself.”
“I tell you, Andelot, as long as the Guises have authority from Rome and soldiers and gold from Spain, the Huguenots will never have the freedom of worship in France. At best, the fragile peace holding the two camps together now hangs by a spider’s web.”
“Admiral Coligny is convinced the upcoming colloquy will bring about change.”
As Fabien knew, the colloquy would bring Monsieur Calvin together with Cardinal de Lorraine and other bishops and clerics for a debate of Christian doctrines that separated Catholics and Protestants. This was to become the supreme effort to capture France for the Reformation, or at least to gain toleration to establish a national Protestant church.
“I understand Admiral Coligny’s hopes for peace and reconciliation,” Fabien said. “Even though I remain a skeptic where the colloquy is concerned. Although the king signs edicts of toleration, neither the duc nor the cardinal will abide by any law but those favoring destruction. The Queen Mother knows this as well.”
“One wonders, Marquis, why she risks the anger of the Guises to have the colloquy?”
It was only Fabien’s understanding of her Machiavellian philosophy that convinced him her reasons had nothing to do with religious convic- tions. She could abide either a Catholic or a Protestant France as long as it supported her.
“Why does she risk it? Because after the Huguenot plot at Amboise to overthrow her and the Guises, she fears a national civil war between Huguenots and Catholics. The admiral has quietly warned her and the king that if the serfs under Huguenot nobles continue to be persecuted, tortured in prisons, and burned at the stake, the uprising that took place at Amboise was only the beginning.”
“You mean the Huguenot nobles like the Admiral will lead a rebellion?”
“Exactement. The Queen Mother must find herself in a quandary between the two religious factions. She so fears a civil war that she will risk angering the Guises by allowing the Huguenots their colloquy. No doubt she hopes the two sides will come to a meeting of the mind, if not the soul.”
Andelot’s smile showed his hope. “Maybe you are pessimistic, Marquis. Why, even Queen Jeanne of Navarre will come to hear Monsieur Calvin,” he said of Prince Antoine’s wife.
Fabien worried about Jeanne and her devout Huguenot convictions.
She was secure if she remained in her small kingdom to the south of France. Otherwise, who knew? He hoped she would not risk coming to the colloquy.
“Well, Marquis, if you are right, then there does not seem to be much hope.”
“I see very little of that,” Fabien said with brutal frankness. “I remember Pasteur Bertrand aboard ship saying in that dry wit of his that the only way for unity is to agree to unify around nothing.”
“He must have spoken in jest.”
“Bertrand? Non! As he said, ‘How can two walk together except they be agreed?’ ”
Andelot wrinkled his brow thoughtfully. “That verse, where was it?
I remember reading it somewhere in the Bible.”
“The pathway is crucial lest the church wander off with a false teacher into the wilderness.”
“Who would wish for Christian ity to tolerate error in the name of unity?”
“Those who yield truth for tolerance’s sake.”
“A church such as this would no longer represent biblical Christian ity.”
“Précisément — a lukewarm church going into apostasy.”
Andelot tightened his mouth. “What Christian would ever wish to belong to such a church?”
“Many. They believe they are rich spiritually and have need of nothing. While Christ is on the outside knocking to enter for fellowship.”
Andelot gave him a doubtful once-over. “How and why do you know such truths?”
Fabien smiled. “Perhaps I am repeating only what I recently heard from Pasteur Bertrand aboard the Reprisal. Remember,” he said with a lifted brow, “I was with him in close quarters for many long weeks.”
Andelot grinned. “I think it is the reason he went aboard. He wished to win you for the cause. It appears as though he may have accomplished his purpose.”
They lapsed into silence. Fabien stared at the lamp. The glow from the candlelight wavered in the contrary wind. I am grateful for that accomplishment.
Andelot remained silent. The chill wind rushed through the treetops and a few sprinkles of rain wet their faces as they walked back toward the palais château.
Once inside the courtyard near the front entrance they came upon a small tumult of activity. Gallaudet saw Fabien and rushed forward, saluting him.
“The pasteur has arrived, Monseigneu
r. He has come in masquerade to foil notice by his enemies. He awaits now.”
Rachelle would soon be his!
With This Ring
RACHELLE WAITED UPON THE STAIRWAY, GLANCING BELOW THE SLEEK banister into the wide salle where the activity commenced. The wedding vows were soon to be spoken before God, followed by a reading from Scripture, prayer, and the taking of Communion. Then they would be off for the journey to Dieppe to await the ship that would take them to England. Oh, this was quite unlike any wedding she’d ever heard about! She smiled and smoothed her bright burgundy velvet gown. Once again she touched her elaborately done hair — Fabien described it as the color of chestnuts with autumn lights — and wished that her petite maid Nenette was with her.
A hundred thoughts whirled in Rachelle’s mind. In one moment she wished for the smiling presence of her family, in the next she worried over their response when she arrived a married woman. Would they accept the consent she had received from the duchesse to marry?
She awoke to the precious moment as below, in the grand salle, the pasteur appeared, a Bible in hand. Next came Fabien flanked by his highest ranking men-at-arms, all dressed to precision in handsome clothes with Bourbon colors. Andelot too was there, and several of the male and female servants. He looked none the worse for having been bullied by Maurice and his bodyguard. Her gaze, however, could not be held by any of them for long and moved swiftly to lock on her beloved. Fabien was watching her, which made her heart sing. My bridegroom comes at last!
The marquis came forward now, most dashing in black and silver. He came midway up the staircase where she waited, and he bowed to her.
She dipped a low curtsy. He took her arm, tucking it under his, and, walking slowly with her down the staircase, led her to where the pasteur waited. The men-at-arms stood at attention, guarding the salle in a half circle.
The pasteur opened the Bible —
Several blasts from a horn ripped through the silence, followed by shouts and raucous voices outside in the courtyard. Stunned, Rachelle looked at Fabien. He whipped out his sword. He shot a warning glance at Gallaudet.
Rachelle’s heart leapt into her throat.
Fabien’s fingers tightened on her arm and he propelled her backward toward the staircase calling, “Pasteur! Up here, quickly!”
Gallaudet and the guards turned toward the door, swords ready. Andelot shouted: “Marquis! It is that cur, Maurice! He has one of your men, wounded.”
“Who was guarding the gate?” Fabien demanded.
No man had the answer, but they all looked as foul of countenance as did Fabien.
“Treachery, Monseigneur!” Gallaudet warned, his eyes narrowing as he looked in turn at each of the inner guards.
“By the saintes!” the lead captain called up to Fabien. “We would die first, Monseigneur! It was none of us, we vow it! Surely you know our fealty is yours!”
“They must have been surprised or tricked at the gate!” Julot called.
“Or bribed!” Gallaudet lifted the point of his blade, still glancing about at the others.
“If one of the guards is wounded, he must have put up a valiant fight,” Fabien called down to his men from the stairs, still holding onto Rachelle’s arm. “We shall do no less.”
Rachelle forced a calm demeanor, lifting her chin as she stood beside him, and looked at each of his men-at-arms below. Inside, she was trembling at the outcome. Men will die. She would not worsen matters by crumbling to pieces now, adding to Fabien’s concerns.
A group of bloodied court guards now burst in through another entrance, let inside by Julot. They grasped swords in hand and bowed toward Fabien, fists at heart.
“What happened?” he demanded.
“A traitor, Monseigneur, another ally of Captain Dumas, arranged to open the gate. We were deceived, then overwhelmed — the Comte Beauvilliers is not alone — some soldiers from Duc de Guise are with him.”
Duc de Guise. A rush of darkened memory came to Rachelle, bringing back another warning from the boy Philippe at the Château de Silk. “Soldiers are coming . . . run! It is the Duc de Guise — ”
In a horrifying instant of relived terror she could see the barn church smoking and in flames. She heard the echo of voices crying out. She saw again the body of her petite sister Avril lying dead in the field, trampled by horse hooves.
Rachelle’s fingers tightened on Fabien’s arm. Her gaze caught his face, but his gaze was fixed on his men below the stairs.
“How many?” Fabien demanded; his voice was iron calm.
“I saw nearly a hundred — and with Beauvilliers, maybe forty — they are fighting their way into the courtyard from the road — your loyalists are fighting well, Monseigneur. Julot lifted his head. “But one of the men is a prisoner and is bleeding badly — le comte threatens to kill him unless you surrender in the name of the King of France.”
“There will be no surrender! Bolt the door,” Fabien ordered.
Rachelle sucked in her breath. No surrender!
As his men rushed to take positions to guard the stairway, she heard the shouting and fighting getting closer and louder, the clash of steel against steel.
Fabien gestured to Andelot.
“Marquis?” he asked quietly.
“We will do what is needed to hold them off as long as possible. You will take Rachelle to Dieppe.”
“I will do my utmost.”
Fabien touched Andelot’s shoulder, then turned to Rachelle. He drew her toward him. “You and Andelot will escape. I will send Gallaudet with you. He is the finest swordsman in my service.”
“I will not leave you!”
“Chérie, you must flee. But not without becoming my wife!” he said fiercely. He turned his head, still holding Rachelle. “The pasteur —Andelot, where is he?”
“Here, Marquis,” the pasteur stepped forward from the corridor to the stairs.
Fabien snatched the wedding ring from his pocket and glanced below in the salle. A slow periodic bang of a ramming pole on the door made Rachelle’s blood run cold. “We will hold them back, whatever the cost!”
He turned back to Gallaudet. “Leave by the back passage, ami, you know where it is.”
“As you wish, Monseigneur.”
But it was clearly written on Gallaudet’s face that he wished to stay with the marquis and fight.
Rachelle was trembling. She gritted, clutching Fabien’s arm.
Fabien drew the pasteur forward on the stair landing. “Pasteur!
Marry us!”
“Yes, yes . . .” He opened the Bible and began to read quickly.
“Do you, Monseigneur Fabien Jean-Louis de Bourbon take this woman, Mademoiselle — ” He looked at her blankly.
“Rachelle Dushane Macquinet!” She glanced over her shoulder at the door.
“Yes, yes — do you take this woman, Mademoiselle Rachelle Dushane Macquinet, to be your wife?”
“Yes, I do.”
“And do you, Mademoiselle Rachelle Dushane Macquinet, take Marquis Fabien Jean-Louis de Bourbon to be your husband? To love and obey — ”
“Yes! I do!”
“The ring — ”
Rachelle thrust her hand into Fabien’s, and she felt the ring slide on.
“I now pronounce you man and wife. The God of grace, mercy, and forgiveness through Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior guard and bless you always. Amen.”
With a little cry, she fell into Fabien’s crushing embrace and met his burning kiss, her arms going about him tightly. A moment later his violet-blue eyes answered her questioning gaze with a promise.
“I will find you again in Dieppe aboard my ship — or, if all else fails, in England — as soon as I can. Au revoir, my beloved bride.”
He kissed her again, then handed her over to Gallaudet and Andelot. “Go, mes amis.”
Andelot clasped her hand. Gallaudet saluted him, then led the way down the corridor, his sword in hand.
Below, she could hear the clash of blades. It sounded
as though the door was finally cracking. In only minutes now, the enemy would be inside.
Andelot pulled her along. They ran toward the back of the palais to a secret exit. Just before they rounded a corner in the corridor, she looked back for a last glimpse. She saw the pasteur wisely duck into another chamber out of sight. Fabien remained on the stairway but now faced the front door. She heard a loud crack as the door split, allowing the enemy into the salle.
God be with you, mon amour.
MAURICE, SWORD IN HAND, appeared in the doorway. Fabien unsheathed his blade as he faced him.
“I have been waiting for you to arrive for three days; what took you so long, mon cousin?” Fabien mocked.
Maurice’s gray eyes, usually languid, sparked anger. “I will keep you waiting no longer.”
“Bon! I grow impatient to thrust you through.”
For a moment Maurice looked uncertain. “Who said anything about a duel?”
“I did.”
I must gain time for Gallaudet and Andelot to take Rachelle safely away.
Fabien stood, one hand on hip in an arrogant manner, knowing it infuriated Maurice. “There are other matters between us besides the mademoiselle. The matter of my bon ami Andelot must be answered. Ah, yes. That incident cannot be forgotten. Then there is your clumsy thievery. Ah, yes. Thievery. You entered my sanctuary, broke into my private chest, and removed a family possession deemed precious, having belonged to Duchesse Marie-Louise de Bourbon. For that insult alone, Maurice, I have been waiting for you. I insist on an affaire d’honneur. ”
“By the saints, you shall have it, marquis.”
“Bon. And now — you have offended my honor. First, you may begin by bowing to your Bourbon liege.” Fabien smiled. “Come now, Maurice, come forward and bow. If not, your defeat by my expertise shall be slow and humiliating.”
Maurice turned ruddy of face. A small glint of unease showed in his eyes, as though he had not expected this willingness to be put to the sword.
“It is you who have offended your superior, Cousin Fabien.”
Threads of Silk Page 10
