Daughter of Silk (17 page)

Fabien must find a way to warn Louis Condé, who in turn could warn Renaudie that their plot was known. Or was it already too late? Perhaps even now Renaudie’s troops were gathering in the forest for the march to Blois?

Neither the duc nor the cardinal had arrived to discuss Catherine’s meeting with Avenelle. Fabien watched her throw back her shoulders. With a bold step she walked toward the door, her black skirts rustling. She threw open the large, heavy door and barked a command, then she passed through into what he knew to be the salle de garde.

Fabien scowled. She was leaving. Why hadn’t the Guises been pres- ent? Where had they gone after he saw them climb the stairs? Were they badgering Sebastien in some dank chamber?

Fabien fought against the wash of helpless rage that pounded his mind. Rushing about with haste and thunder would gain him nothing. He must plan his every step with clear thought. If the enemy suspected he was aware, they would move against him in a moment’s notice.

Fabien had no time to linger; he needed to escape the listening closet now while the moment was in his grasp. He dare not meet Catherine de Medici a second time today loitering near the state council chamber.

Rachelle was stunned when word arrived that all work on Reinette Mary and Princesse Marguerite’s wardrobe was to be postponed until further notice from the Queen Mother. The Macquinets were to pack their grand arsenal of precious materials and return to the Chateau de Silk in Lyon. The news came as a complete surprise.

“What of Her young Majesty’s accessories?” Idelette asked the royal page in blue and gold satin.

“The royal retinue will be leaving for Amboise. The accessories must wait for another time, Mademoiselle Macquinet.”

Rachelle was pleased that she had at least completed Marguerite’s burgundy and cloth of gold. But what would the princesse think of the stoppage? She had wanted other gowns for the summer. Knowing Marguerite, she would not at all be satisfied.

The page departed, and Grandmère clasped her hands together and took a turn about the chamber. “I am worried about your sister. What will Madeleine do when she hears Sebastien is missing? And the enfant due within weeks! Ah, ça non! If I could join her at Paris — but the Queen Mother will assuredly desire us to work on the royal wardrobe at Lyon.” Grandmère sighed and took Rachelle’s arm. She drew her aside and spoke in a low voice.

“You heard the page. I am called away to oversee the packing and storage of the bolts of silk. The marquis should come soon with the key. Let us anticipate that all went well. Wait for him and explain what has happened. The key, bien sûr, will need to be returned.”

Rachelle and Grandmère exchanged worried glances as Idelette came toward them.

“I will go with you, Grandmère. I can be of assistance as overseer,” Idelette said.

Rachelle and Nenette were left to fold and wind the various bolts of cloth and lace remaining in the chamber on the shelves.

Rachelle found it difficult to concentrate. Bolts of cloth remained on the long cutting table waiting to be stored in trunks, when growing res- tive, she sent Nenette to keep watch at the outer chamber door for a sign of Marquis Fabien. Had matters gone well?

Nenette opened the door a crack and peered out for some minutes before she hissed: “He comes, he is in a hurry— la, la — how beau he is, I shall swoon!”

Rachelle snapped her fingers. “Shh, Nenette. Show yourself digni- fied, I pray you. Show him in at once — and remember his station with a curtsy.”

“Oui, Mademoiselle. I know, I know.”

Rachelle drew in a deep breath, arranging herself near the bolts of silk in a languid stance that she had seen Princesse Marguerite use. She checked her wealth of hair to make certain it showed to its opti- mum beauty. The arrangement that she and Nenette had labored on so long after déjeuner was of courtly fashion, a bundle of braided sections mingled with petite curls into a waterfall, which then cascaded down her back and across her left shoulder.

Nenette stepped into the outer corridor to welcome the marquis inside. Rachelle waited, aware that her heart f luttered with strange excitement and fear. What had he discovered from the listening closet?

The marquis entered the chamber. He must be the most handsome man at court. His glance told her of his approval, making the work she had done on her hair worth the effort.

“Mademoiselle,” he said smoothly. He then looked toward Nenette with what Rachelle took as a suggestion for her dismissal.

“That will be all for now, Nenette, you may go,” Rachelle told her.

When the girl had left them, Fabien stepped closer to Rachelle and took hold of her hand. Her heart leaped at his touch.

“Where is Madame Henriette?”

“She and Idelette are packing. We have been ordered back to Lyon. I will return the key to the Queen Mother’s chamber. Whatever the news, do not fear to report it to me. I will inform Grandmère with my utmost caution.”

He remained solemn, convincing her he had discovered reasons for travail. She was suddenly ashamed of her actions. Here she was trying to capture his interest when Sebastien and her fellow Huguenots might be in danger.

“The stranger with Guise was indeed Maître Avenelle, who has betrayed the leaders of the Bourbon-Huguenot alliance. The Queen Mother knows everything.”

A queasy wave rolled over Rachelle’s stomach. She listened in dismay as he went on to give a brief, hurried account of how Avenelle uncovered

a Huguenot plot to overthrow the House of Guise and secure an end to Huguenot persecution throughout France.

“And Sebastien?”

“I can only assure Madame Henriette that Avenelle did not men- tion Sebastien’s name to Catherine, but that in no way clears him for the future. The Queen Mother’s ways are often strange and Machiavellian.”

“Then Maître Avenelle would not know Sebastien is a Huguenot?” “Do not rely on that. Catherine may already know it to be true and

merely be waiting.

She could see his thoughts racing, trying to make sense of the details he had heard. The twists and turns of the events also confused her.

“These are the days of danger, ma cherie,” he said gently.

He had called her that endearing name before, though they had only recently met. That he did so brought unusual happiness, yet the emo- tions it evoked also made her wary. It would be a long time before she was likely to forget that fiery embrace on the gallery, but her Grandmère was right to consider where her interest in le marquis would end.

He walked to the window and looked into the courtyard. “The plot to rid France of the Guises was to have occurred here at Blois. Now with the court to depart for the fortress of Amboise in the morning, why do I feel that there is something amiss in all of this?”

He turned from the window, scowling, and looked as if he would speak, but then glanced at the table where several dazzling bolts of silk were awaiting transport back to Lyon.

“You are readying to return to Lyon, I see. Do you have men-at-arms to see to your safe traveling?”

“We have servants from the Chateau de Silk. Perhaps five are able to use a sword.”

He walked to the long table where a bolt of pale green silk had caught his attention and touched the cloth. He moved to the burgundy silk gown over the cloth of gold belonging to Marguerite.

“Were you thinking of bandits, Monsieur Fabien?”

“Yes, bandits,” he said absently. “Five men are hardly enough with such rich booty to be taken as a prize.” But his sweeping glance of her intimated a wider meaning. “I will send a dozen of my men and two swordsmen with your Grandmère for the journey. You will tell her for

me? I may not see her again by morning. I have some matters to attend this night.”

“Monsieur is most kind.”

He looked at her with a brief, wry smile. “It is not kindness. This burgundy silk, it pleases me. Is there enough to make another gown of the manner of this one?” He gestured to Marguerite’s gown.

She joined him at the table. “By all means.” She released several folds of the burgundy onto the table and held it so that light from the chamber window caused it to shimmer. “The silk, it is always in the process of being replenished through our silkworms. We have
mûreraies
groves to feed them, you see. If we did not, we would soon have no silk business in Lyon.”

“Silkworms,” he said thoughtfully, as though his mind were on any- thing but that.

Rachelle tucked her lips into a small amused smile and carried on with gravity. “Yes, thousands upon thousands of petite worms, Marquis Fabien. We Macquinets have the finest silk filaments in France . . . and Italy, I promise you. Grandmère knows of but one family in all Italy who is able to match the silk we produce. Ours is of a finer grade than any- thing made even in Assam, India, or the East.”

He smiled lazily, but his violet blue eyes were anything but casual as they looked at her. “I do not doubt it at all. I have long heard of Macquinet silk, but when Duchesse Louise-Marie, my mother, had gowns made, the chateau was called Dushane-Macquinet.”

She shrugged gracefully. “Oh, it remains so. You see, Grandmère is a Dushane, and of course, Maman. We merged with my père’s family, the Macquinets. The two families were competitors at one time, but amour has brought us all together.”

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.”