Daughter of Silk (8 page)

“You hinted coming adversity, Madame Duchesse. A scourge upon Christ’s own sheep here in France,” Grandmère said in a quiet voice, her fingers intertwining tightly on the lap of her black moiré skirt. “What convinces you it is so?”

Duchesse Dushane’s broad face tightened, and she glanced about the
salle de sejour
as if making certain they were alone, though she had dis- missed all of her retinue. She leaned forward in her velvet chair, hand clasping the head of her cane, and whispered: “Henriette, I saw who was behind the mask. This messire’s cooperation with le Duc de Guise brings danger and possible death for Huguenots here at court.”

Tension dried Rachelle’s throat. She leaned forward to catch every word.

“Ah!” Grandmère breathed. “I see, yes, I see . . . a Huguenot then?”
A Huguenot!
Rachelle opened her mouth to protest and ceased when she saw la duchesse nod her head affirmatively and shut her eyes against

obvious disappointment.

“A Huguenot,” la duchesse repeated, “one of our own. A messire who knows the names of those among us who are under-shepherds of Christ. How much else he may know — who can say?”

“But is he a betrayer or a prisoner?” Rachelle inquired.

“One wonders . . . but even if he is not a betrayer, the cardinal will gain the information he wants at the
salle de la question,
the place of inquisition.”

Grandmère groaned. A small intake of breath came from Idelette.

“I confess, Madame Duchesse,” Idelette said, “I was of a mind to think the mask was but a humorous ruse for the ladies of court, stirring up their festive spirit for the upcoming masque.”

“A jester, you thought? If only that were so, ah, but no. The
divert- essement
, it has been canceled. Messire’s arrival with the duc and the cardinal is not at all benign. No such comfort can be taken.”

“And what messire is this, Madame?” Grandmère asked, pale and worried of countenance.

“Maître Avenelle. A trusted messire among the Huguenots in Paris. His arrival is a harbinger of sinister treachery. Would God I knew pre- cisely what it is that he has told the duc and the cardinal.”

“But why would they bring him here to Chambord?” Idelette whispered.

La duchesse widened her eyes. “They brought him to Catherine de Medici for some dark reason, bien sûr! What that is?” She shook her head. “Ah, that is what we do not know, mignon Idelette. We must find out.” She looked evenly at each one of them in turn. “Yes. We must dis- cover what is being planned.”

Rachelle struggled to keep her own fears from surging forward like a pack of foxes.

Grandmère sat with her back erect, her frail hands still clasped together. “We know the House of Guise is our enemy; Arnaut believes they are legates of Spain.”

“And they are,” Duchesse Dushane said. “The Guise brothers are two of the most powerful men in France.”

Rachelle recalled that both her père and his cousine Bernard had oft spoken of the House of Guise and their misplaced religious zeal in wish- ing to kill “heretics.”

“Since the death of King Henry, with his son Francis on the throne, and Mary a blood niece of the Guises, they grow more powerful. I have sat in the Queen Mother’s cercle and seen her eyes turn cold when either monsieur walks into the chamber. She knows they are using Mary to influence Francis in ways she cannot. Already, the duc has appointed himself head of the military.

“Appointed
himself,
Madame?” Grandmère cried. “It is unthink-

able. The gall!”

“And that is the beginning. The cardinal has appointed himself head of the treasury of France.”

Rachelle lifted her brows. “The treasury? But — ”

“But! That too is fitting.” La duchesse’s lips curled. “He will doubtless profit from his action — again, for he is already one of the wealthiest men in all of France. The state church is rich, and he sits in control over it.”

“And the Queen Mother?” Grandmère asked gravely.

“Catherine plots her Machiavellian intrigues, waiting in silence for her day of dark revenge. That is my perception.”

Rachelle believed her, for the duchesse was exceedingly well situated to know this.

“All of this, and Maître Avenelle, what does it mean?” Grandmère furrowed her brow.

“There is a balance of power presently at court between Catherine and the Guises. Catherine fears them because Philip of Spain supports them in all they do, as does Rome. Both have given a command to Catherine to rid France of her heretics, else they will do it for her. That would mean her removal as regent, but far worse, the removal of her sons from inheriting the throne of France in favor of le Duc de Guise. If Maître Avenelle knows of some cause for which the Guises can move against the Huguenots and their political defenders, the House of Bourbon — then Guise may have brought Avenelle here to reveal the matter to Catherine.”

Rachelle’s heart was thumping in her ears. “Then Her Majesty would be forced to move against us.”

“Such is my belief — and it is the belief of the Bourbon princes and nobles.”

Rachelle, who had heard details of the tortures inflicted upon the Protestants in the Netherlands through the visiting theology students from Geneva, found the thought of Spain ruling France horrifying. She saw the same thoughts ref lected in the attentive face of Idelette.

“You see, mes amies, do you not, where this brings us as Huguenots?” la duchesse said.

“These matters are debated and discussed fervently at the Chateau de Silk when Arnaut and Clair are home, I promise you,” Grandmère said. “I lost my son Louis to the f lames. He was one of the Lyon martyrs some years ago.”

“Ah — yes, yes . . .”

“Père’s cousine Bernard Macquinet was trained as a minister under John Calvin at the Geneva Theology school,” Idelette said, “so we know

of these things, Madame Duchesse, yet we never cease to marvel at the ways of the Evil One.”

Rachelle leaned forward, heedful, adding: “Students from Geneva oft come to us at the chateau on their way to edify the small house-churches throughout France. The brothers stay and rest with us a few days before going on their way. But we must not forget we have friends in France, the vassals of Prince Condé, our Huguenot army, who, at a moment’s call from the prince and Admiral Coligny, can form a strong defense.”

“Ah yes, and have done so in the past,” the duchesse said. “Yet, do also consider the even larger army available to le Duc de Guise. My spies tell me the Spanish ambassador has promised him several thousand experienced soldiers from their wars of inquisition in the Netherlands.” “I hardly fathom it, Madame.” Grandmère shook her head in obvious

dismay. “It is not pleasant to think of, but we must, I know.” “We live in trying times, Henriette.”

“Indeed, Madame, and may God grant us grace.”

Moments of silence followed in which Rachelle saw each of them locked in their own thoughts, perhaps wondering what the future might ask of them in the battle for truth.

Duchesse Dushane sighed at last, looking thoughtfully from one to the other. “I think,
cher
ladies that this generation of God’s people will not escape the fiery trial. We will follow the sanctified footsteps of the early Roman Christians. We must prepare our minds to accept suffering. If not . . .”

Rachelle glanced at Idelette, whose determination ref lected in her blue eyes. Grandmère looked tired. Rachelle longed to plant a kiss on her cheek and throw her arms protectively around her. Grandmère had already experienced too much suffering in her years. But who was Rachelle to say it was too much? How much was too much?
Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life . . .

Do I have the grace to lay down my life if it is required of me?
Rachelle shuddered inside, but outwardly she kept her hands folded, partly to keep her trembling from being noticed.

“Madame, if the House of Guise has its way, then the wars of perse- cution ordered by Spain and Rome will prevail,” Grandmère said. “But perhaps Maître Avenelle is not our betrayer. There is a bonne chance

he will give forth no incriminating evidence against the Huguenot shepherds.”

“We may hope, Henriette, but we dare not suppose. My concern is for Sebastien. If he is named to the duc or the cardinal, then the Bastille or even death may await him.”

Rachelle’s alarm leaped to the forefront. Sebastien! “Oh Madame, this is most distressing.”

“And with cher Madeleine soon expecting her first child.” Grandmère groaned.

“Ah! Ah! Most distressing to be sure,” la duchesse said.

“Apart from the good grace of our Defender, there is naught any of us can do to thwart the deeds of our great enemy. We must pray; we must take upon us the whole armor of God,” Grandmère said.

“How true, Henriette! Catherine will question Maître Avenelle this very afternoon in the council chambers. If one could hear what Avenelle said —”

“Then we must warn Sebastien immediately,” Idelette said.

“If I called for Sebastien to come here, the news would be known by the Guises and Catherine before sunset. Nor can I go to him. It would draw attention. All of my retinue are well-known and watched. I cannot but wonder if somehow my last letter to Prince Condé was discovered, in which I warned him he should not come to court if summoned, for his life is in danger. That is why I called the three of you here to tea. It is most
naturel
that I should receive kinswomen. It is you who must warn him of Maître Avenelle. He will know what to do to warn the others.”

“Précisément.
We will do what we must,” Grandmère said. “We Macquinets go unnoticed. We have come to court from the Silk House for the one purpose only, of sewing for Reinette Mary and Princesse Marguerite.”

The duchesse lifted a sealed envelope from beneath her satin pil- low fringed with gold. “I had thought to send this to Sebastien naming Maître Avenelle, but it is too risky.”

Rachelle watched in silence as she took a lit candle and set the letter aflame.

“Should we not go to Sebastien at once?” Idelette asked.

“It is wiser to wait until we return to our own chambers,” Grandmère said. “We desire no connection with Madame. If only we could think of a reason to call for Sebastien.”

“But Grandmère,” Rachelle said, “we have the perfect reason. You mentioned it on our way here. Sebastien forgot his hat last night.”

“Ah,
c’est bien le moment
, Rachelle,” la duchesse said approvingly.

“But wait, Henriette, it will appear far more innocent if your grand- daughter returns the hat.”

Grandmère was obviously reluctant.

Rachelle and Idelette looked at one another. “We will both go together,” Idelette said.

“One of you will draw less attention, I assure you. Let it be your youngest granddaughter,” she said to Grandmère, “who would be least suspected.”

Rachelle stood to her feet. “But yes, I will go. As soon as we return to our chambers.”

“Bien,” la duchesse said. “First, we have our tea. We must not give even a feeble reason for any to say the tea for which you were invited was left untouched. Who will pour?”

“I will, Madame,” Idelette said.

No one now appeared to have an appetite for the delectables on the tea table, and they drank their refreshment and ate their pastries out of duty. They soon departed the chambers of Duchesse Xenia with the elder woman’s warning ringing in Rachelle’s mind.
And do you be cau- tious as well, m’amie. One can never be too careful with the enemy on satin-slippered feet.

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Chapter Four
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R

Rachelle made her way to the lower floor and to the chambers of Comte Sebastien Dangeau. The peacock of precious gems on the black satin hat she was returning to him caught the midafternoon light from the windows and winked up at her with a f lash of red, blue, and amber.

Arriving, she expected the page to receive her and announce her presence.

She glanced about, and finding herself alone and unwatched, she entered by means of the common passage door. After all, Sebastien was her brother-in-law.

The
salle de garde
was empty. Where was the page? The other

servants?

Rachelle waited in the servants’ chamber, looking about, noticing that afternoon tea, of which Sebastien was known to be fond, had not been served. That too was odd. Was he not here? Where had he gone?

She tried the door into her brother-in-law’s private chambers and found it ajar. She pushed it aside and passed through, holding the hat.

The gaudy appartements of blue and gold were wrapped in stillness. Rachelle was ill at ease. A sense of something amiss was in the atmo- sphere. She crossed the f loor, thick Eastern rugs of gold f lowers on bur- gundy, to the windows that opened onto the balustrade. She stepped out, facing the courtyard below where earlier that morning le Duc de Guise and le Cardinal de Lorraine had ridden in with the secretive Maître Avenelle. The soldiers’ activity appeared to have increased since her arrival at Chambord weeks ago. Soldiers . . . and Sebastien. If he had already been taken somewhere, who could she appeal to?

She knitted her brows together, watching the soldiers below the balustrade as her fingers tightened around the rail. Marquis Fabien de Vendôme? But yes, and why not? Was he not Sebastien’s nephew and of high title in the Bourbon clan? She could not think of anyone better. Her heart quickened.
It is for Comte Sebastien and for Madeleine that I wish to contact him, not for my self-interests,
she thought defensively.
Fabien de Vendôme will know exactly what to do.

The March sun was nearing the western hills of the Touraine coun- tryside. A chill wind and clustered clouds over the distant hills prom- ised a spring storm. The wind rustled her light green skirts and chilled her face and throat. She hunched her shoulders against it and turning, went back into the salle de sejour.

Her gaze swept the chamber and lingered upon Sebastien’s desk. A clutter of papers were scattered, as though he had been in a hurry — or perhaps searching. Had he been interrupted?