Threads of Silk

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  “They do not trust him either. A word was given to the duc to be alert. His life may be in danger.”

  Fear grabbed hold of her. It was true, then. The Spanish ambassador had somehow received word of her plan to use the marquis. That her effort to retain secrecy had failed terrified her.

  Someone had overheard — a guard perhaps? It could be anyone. Perhaps a guard at the Amboise dungeon when she’d first confronted Fabien? Even a docteur. She turned her gaze slowly toward the door standing ajar. Yes, it could be anyone, even Fabien. How very Machiavellian if true!

  “My enemies at court are many, and they lie,” she hissed. “I wish the duc naught but bonne fortune. And you, Francis, you must not shed blood.”

  He bit his lip. “Mother, I am most miserable. I curse the day when Father died and I had to become king. I never wanted to be king. I would surrender the crown in a moment and go far away with Mary if I could —even to Scotland, oui, to be free of the cardinal and — ”

  Francis stopped, and his gaze swerved to hers as though he had not meant to say those words.

  “And to be free of me, too, my son? You need not fear me, my poor sick Francis. I am going to help you be free of the cardinal. You and Mary both.”

  His eyes showed a sparkle. “You will help us, Madame Mother? If only we could go away — ”

  “Trust me, my son. Oh, you will soon be free of the Guises. I have a way to open your cage and let the petite birds fly away.”

  Footsteps entered too quietly behind her, and Catherine whispered, “Say nothing of what we discussed. Not even to Mary.” She stood, smiling down at Francis. “And now you must rest, my son. We must not overtire you.” She turned, and Mary stood with a cool glint in her eyes.

  “Ma petite Reinette, do not look so grieved. Francis will be stronger soon, you will see. The new medicine the docteur has given to me will assuredly help him.”

  “Given to you, Madame? The royal physician has said nothing to me about a new medicine. This new docteur you brought today — ”

  “He did not wish to overburden you. You are so disturbed over your beloved Francis. Come now and sit beside him. Play on the lute for him and he will fall to sleep. We must not tire him.”

  “No, Madame, we must not. This new medicine you mention — ”

  “He has not yet sent it, ma petite, but he will deliver it soon. If you like, it shall be sent to you to give to Francis.”

  Mary looked relieved. She showed her smile. “Oui, Madame, I should like to take care of Francis myself.”

  “But of course you would, and you shall. Why not play the lute for him now? He so enjoys it. I shall leave you both in peace.”

  Catherine smiled at Francis, then at Mary.

  You smug spy!

  “Ah, adieu, my little lovebirds.”

  ANDELOT RECEIVED HIS DREADED summons from the cardinal to come to the king’s chamber. He arrived tense and prayerful to find King Francis looking pale and stressed, sitting on the throne chair.

  “I — I have also sent for Antoine, King of Navarre,” he told Andelot.

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  The king was studying his slender white hands, turning a jeweled ring round and round on his finger.

  Andelot was aware that the marquis had gone to warn Prince Antoine. The Guises had secretly arrived, and Andelot could hear them moving about behind the curtain in the antechamber, talking in low voices with Maréchal de Saint Andre.

  The time crept by. Andelot grew more confident when two of the Guise followers came with the message that Antoine was sick. Duc de Guise came through the curtain and spoke to Francis.

  “Send the captain of the guard, sire. He is not ill. This smells of a ploy.”

  Andelot waited in prayer. At last he heard the captain of the guard coming with Antoine. The door opened and Andelot snatched a glimpse of Marquis Fabien and Gallaudet in the outer corridor flanking the prince, but when they attempted to follow him in, the guards stopped them.

  Prince Antoine entered, his manner silent and cautious, and bowed low to the king.

  At least he knows what to expect.

  Antoine remained across the chamber, far removed from Francis. Andelot noticed that he wisely carried no weapon. He kept his hands folded at his chest, fingers interlaced. Andelot took careful note of all this should he need to testify of Antoine’s actions.

  The three of them were alone now. The fire sizzled and crackled in the hearth and, to Andelot, overheated the chamber, causing sweat to dampen his forehead. King Francis stood up suddenly from his chair and pointed a finger at Antoine. “You! You and Louis! You are traitors —both of you. Traitor! Fie! I should — I should have you executed — you, with Prince Louis. Speak! Confess you are a traitor. Have you nothing to say, you coward?”

  Antoine moved even farther from Francis and said not a word.

  Francis frowned, and a crimson stain stood out on his pale, boyish cheeks. He averted his eyes. He plucked at his hands. He began again: “Have you nothing to say for yourself?”

  “I am innocent of any rebellion, my lord King. I was not involved in the Amboise rebellion. I knew nothing of it until it was over.”

  Francis looked about him as though wondering what to do next. Unexpectedly, he yelled out, “Help! Help! Assassin!”

  But by this time, Antoine, warned by the marquis of what to do, had inched closer and closer to the door. As soon as Francis cried “Assassin!”

  Antoine ran out of the royal chamber to where the marquis and Gallaudet were waiting. Antoine was escaping before the three plotters could dart from the antechamber with daggers unsheathed to protect their king.

  Andelot remained mute and as far away as he could from those in the royal chamber.

  Duc de Guise held a dagger in hand. His eyes were hard, and his mouth slashed his disapproval across his white face.

  Andelot, sickened, was sure he considered Francis a failure for not hurling enough venomous charges against Antoine to provoke him. The Cardinal de Lorraine also held a dagger, and his mouth was twisted with mockery as his voice dripped with scorn toward Francis.

  “Behold the most lily-livered king that ever sat on the throne of France!”

  Andelot felt the injustice of it all stir his heart. He clenched a fist behind his back. And you Monsieur le Cardinal — a hypocrite! As if I would ever wish to follow your steps. I shall not stay at court. After my days with Scholar Thauvet are accomplished, I shall leave France.

  AT FONTAINEBLEAU IN EARLY DECEMBER, the execution of Prince Louis was days away. The rains darkened the afternoon, and candles burned in the Queen Mother’s chamber. She walked to and fro, her feet treading soundlessly over the burgundy and gold carpet. She brooded over the narrowing course of action open to her.

  She pressed her kerchief to her lips, biting on the cloth, her mind racing. She had hoped that as Francis grew older, he would begin to assert himself and come into his own rule, but he remained intimidated by the lecherous cardinal.

  If only my Anjou had been born ahead of Francis. Anjou, third in line to kingship, would not permit himself to be controlled by the house of Guise. Francis was never meant to be a king. She sank into a chair with wearied resignation.

  There was no way out of her trap except to wait — wait for her son, so tired and exhausted, so ill, poor petit Francis, to die.

  Catherine rose and walked slowly about her chamber, head bent, pondering. Charles would become king, and Charles did not fear the cardinal — he hated him. The house of Guise will not be able to control Charles. He will not submit his scepter to the Guises. It is I alone who control Mad Charles.

  Charles will not come into his maturity for years. If am voted the regent by the Estates General, it will mean that I will rule France for years —with Antoine de Bourbon.

  And Mary? If Francis died would she remain at court? Yes! Yes! With the Guises scheming to marry her to Charles, who was besotted with her, though he was but a child. Even so, the Guises would seek to arrang
e a wedding between them for the future. Ah, she knew the Guises well.

  Catherine hardened her mouth. Ah, that spy will be sent back to Scotland. Let her shrewd red-headed cousine, Queen Elizabeth in England, take care of the petite reinette in her own fashion.

  She pushed her kerchief to her mouth to silence a gusty chuckle.

  The days slipped by. King Francis complained of severe pain in his ear. He was in so much pain that all of the court physicians did not know the answer to His Majesty’s ailment and suffering. Catherine insisted on helping her son with her own remedies of herbs and drugs.

  “As I did when he was my enfant. My herbs and powders from Florence help lighten the pain,” she said. “I cannot bear to see my son, my Francis, suffer so.”

  “But Madame,” Mary cried, looking pale and red-eyed from crying.

  “The medicine you give Francis puts him into dumbness. He cannot move. He does not speak to me.”

  “My poor petite Reinette Mary, how your tender heart grieves, and I understand why.”

  If Francis dies, your days here are finished. You will be off to your wild and churlish Scotland, as you fear.

  “Your sorrows are many. This is so hard on you, is it not? But what is most kind? To ease his pain in deep slumber, or allow him wakefulness to toss and turn in agony? You too must rest. Yes, you are driven by your anxiety.”

  “Oh, Madame, after all that has occurred — ” Mary’s eyes snapped —“First at Amboise, with the beheadings of so many Huguenots, and now with Prince Antoine — how can Francis and I not be overwrought?”

  And who was it that wished the execution of so many Huguenots at Amboise and planned to murder Antoine? The Guises! Your oncles!

  Catherine caught herself and replaced her inner snarl with a look of compassion.

  “So true, so true. These have been dreadful days. That is why you must get some sleep and leave me to sit by his bedside for this night at least.

  Go, ma chère. Is not the royal physician also here to watch over him?”

  “Yes . . . yes . . .” Mary put a hand to her forehead.

  “Tomorrow,” Catherine continued soothingly, “tomorrow? Who knows, ma petite? Perhaps God will hear the bonne cardinal’s intercessions and Francis will awaken feeling much better!”

  “Yes, you may be right. Mon oncle, the cardinal, is offering a Mass.”

  “Oh, well then! Francis will assuredly do better.” Catherine smiled.

  Catherine beckoned for Mary’s ladies to come forward, and they took her away to her rest for the night.

  Catherine dropped her smile. She walked briskly to the bedside and gazed down at her son. She remembered the happy moment when her first son had been placed in her arms. How Henry had been pleased!

  She continued to stare down at him.

  She sat down gently so as not to disturb his slumber.

  During the long night, she thought, planned, and watched him.

  If only you had permitted me to arrange a marriage for you instead of letting Henry’s debauched mistress arrange it with Mary Stuart, matters would be different for you, for us. You would have been happier, my son, and there would be no house of Guise manipulating your throne.

  My poor little son, the king.

  Later, she sent the docteur away. “You also, Maître d’Fontaine, must take your sleep. Docteur Ambroise le Pare will soon be here — there is no need to wait for him. I shall keep vigil. Au revoir. ”

  ON THE FIFTH OF DECEMBER, King Francis died.

  Catherine took refuge in her chambers where the walls were hung in black mourning drape. She locked her door, making plans to send Mary back to Scotland.

  Poor petit Francis. She took another moment to remember his life and his illness of the blood disease since infancy. She dabbed her eyes with her kerchief. Now he was gone — but so was Mary.

  Well, the docteur had always told her he could not be expected to live long.

  After the death of his elder brother, the boy-prince Charles de Valois became King Charles IX, crowned in 1561 in the cathedral at Reims by the Cardinal de Lorraine. And Catherine, according to her plans, became regent of France, with Prince Antoine de Bourbon as her general. She had received the quiet support of the Huguenot Admiral Coligny, to whom she had promised the religious convention at Poissy. She had also promised to work for an end to the relentless persecution.

  Nevertheless, Fabien believed she would throw them all to the lions if she thought it would prevent Spain from supporting the Guises with an army in order to replace her.

  Fabien was in the council chamber, standing near the Queen Mother, when Duc de Guise entered. His sour gaze swept away from Catherine to fix on Fabien. Fabien gave him a measuring glance, refusing to yield.

  The duc walked up and bowed stiffly to Catherine.

  “Madame, what is this I hear of Prince Louis being released from the Amboise dungeon? And mere days before the axe was to fall? This smells of injustice and treachery. I believe you should have the new king look into this matter, lest the people come to think suspiciously of your reign.”

  Fabien reached to smooth the lapel on his velvet jacket and ended by drumming his fingers.

  “Monsieur Duc, you forget yourself in my presence,” she said.

  “Madame, I could not forget myself in your presence. If I have seemed to you too blunt, I beg pardon, but my words spring from an injustice.”

  “An injustice?” Fabien asked.

  His voice, equally blunt and aggressive, caused Duc de Guise to turn toward him, lifting his chin.

  “Do you know something of injustice, Messire?” Fabien asked.

  The duc blinked, his shock apparent. “You are suggesting, Marquis?”

  “That Duc Jean-Louis de Bourbon, my father, was left to die on the battlefield near Calais. That too, was injustice. An injustice that as yet has not been satisfied.”

  The duc’s left eye watered, and the scarred eyelid twitched.

  Fabien could not see Catherine’s face, but this was the tense environment she hoped for. So be it. It mattered not whether he was playing into her plan. These were the words he had long wanted to throw at the duc, and more.

  The duc’s small mouth came together in a thin line beneath his short ginger-colored beard.

  “The death of Duc Jean-Louis de Bourbon was an honorable one,

  Messire. I know nothing of any injustice; the day he took a sword thrust and was left on the battlefield, I was miles away in a battle of my own.”

  Fabien was on the verge of pressing home the attack when Duchesse Dushane, standing nearby, stepped toward them, her ebony walking stick clicking on the glossy floor. She had grown thin and pale from a detrimental change in her health.

  “Madame,” she said to Catherine, and inclined her silvery head with its glittering diamonds. Her smooth voice seemed to try to ease the matter by changing the subject back to Louis.

  “Is it not true, Madame, that legally Prince Louis was imprisoned by the will of the late king?”

  “Duc de Guise would know that, Duchesse, since it was he who insisted Francis send for the Bourbon princes to arrest them.”

  “And rightly so, Madame,” Duc de Guise snapped, giving a hard look at Duchesse Dushane.

  “Then,” said the duchesse, “is it not a matter for the new king to either carry through on his brother’s wish, or to release Prince Louis, which he has chosen to do?”

  His lean face sullen, Guise remained in silent opposition.

  “The new king has chosen to show mercy on his ascension to the throne, my lord Duc,” the Queen Mother said.

  “Was it His young Majesty King Charles who wished to show mercy to Prince Louis, Madame?” And with an abrupt bow, Guise turned on his heel and strode from the council chamber.

  Catherine laughed and made as though the scene were nothing, but Fabien could see the cold venom in her eyes over Guise’s affront in public.

  Later, he received her summons to come to her chamber. The Queen Mother was al
one when he entered, her arms folded across the bosom of her severe gown.

  “The effrontery of the man,” she spat. “I had hopes he would pick up the gauntlet you tossed to his feet. Ah that was clever, my lord Marquis.

  Most clever, but he is too cunning for that.”

  In truth, Fabien had not planned for the moment with Guise, but he permitted the Queen Mother to think so. In retrospect he considered the rash moment of anger detrimental to his true purpose, which was safeguarding Rachelle. It would have been wiser had he not drawn attention to his resentments over his father’s death. He owed the smooth intervention of the duchesse for slipping out of his own trap.

  The Queen Mother, of course, knew nothing of his true feelings. She turned and faced him.

  “A duel may yet work, but keep in mind his son may also challenge you. Young Henry de Guise worships his father.”

  He wondered if she may not want the duc’s son to turn on him since all blame for his death would be taken away from her.

  Fabien continued to feed her fears of Spain so as to muzzle her raging appetite for the duc’s quick death.

  “Madame, my loathing of the man who murdered my father does not waver. Even so, with Louis released from the dungeon and the Guises embittered, I may have been unwise to alert the duc this night. They are more watchful than ever. I found one of the Spanish ambassador’s spies loitering near my appartement.”

  She watched with her unblinking serpentine stare. “What do you mean to suggest?”

  “You know better than I the many secret correspondences the ambassador sends to the escorial,” he said of King Philip’s court.

  He saw her emotionally withdraw her claws. Caution now scribbled its fears across her face. He stepped closer, pressing in with his words.

  “I would suggest, Madame, that until the gossip settles down, we keep a cautious distance from the Guises.”

  She drew her fingers tighter about the black lace at her throat. “Gossip? What gossip! Parisians are fools for Duc de Guise and his son.”