Threads of Silk (16 page)

“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.”

“Do not call
me
‘cousin,’ ” Fabien said disdainfully, mocking Maurice.

“Do you not always throw those same words into Andelot’s face? You are but a Beauvilliers. I am a royal Bourbon.” Fabien stood on the stairway, looking down at him. “And who might this superior be that I have offended? You? A comte by marriage?”

Maurice’s nostrils flared. “You, Marquis de Vendôme, are under arrest in the name of the king. Ha! What think you of that? Where is
my
fiancée by the will of His Majesty?”

“Such dreadful manners you have, Maurice. You break down my door, barge into my palais, join an attack against my men-at-arms, and then dare to call Rachelle your fiancée? You even make boast of the king as your sponsor in this outrageous behavior. I tell you, such haughtiness is beyond reason.”

Maurice took a step forward. “I have come to claim what is mine, Marquis de Vendôme.”

Fabien leaned against the rail as though bored.
Had Gallaudet and
Andelot gotten Rachelle into the forest yet?

“Do you dare fault His Majesty the King of France for granting Rachelle to be my wife?” Maurice shook out the perfumed lace at his cuff.

“I do, undoubtedly. It will be most ignominious, I assure you.”

Maurice dropped a hand on his narrow hip. “Need I warn you that when such words reach the throne they will be considered traitorous, Marquis?”

“Have you a missive signed and sealed by King Francis de Valois?” Fabien asked silkily.
It would not be surprising if Maurice did have such
a lettre.

Maurice glanced about the salle at Fabien’s grim-faced men-at-arms facing him with drawn blades. Behind him, just outside the entranceway, there stood at least a dozen. Fabien knew there were more soldiers in the courtyard awaiting instructions, but from whom would they take orders? Guise was not here, and Fabien could not conceive of the duc’s proud guard leader surrendering his command to Maurice.

“A royal missive? Aha! You shall soon find out just what King Francis thinks of you now, Marquis. There will soon be issued a lettre for your arrest on charges of piracy against Spain.”

“Soon? You mean you do not have it with you while daring to thrust your uninvited company into my castle? I ought to string you up on the highest rafter for your uncivilized manners.”

Maurice was taking all of the bait Fabien was tossing him, arguing back and using up time, time so precious for Gallaudet.

“Your ami, the king, will do nothing to protect you this time, Marquis; not with the Duc of Alva at his side and Duc de Guise and Cardinal de Lorraine supporting Spain’s call for your arrest.”

“Should I be surprised to hear that the Guises are loyal to Spain? They are nothing but King Philip’s legates. The charge of piracy must be proven before I can be considered guilty. If I fought Spain under legal letters of marque from Holland or England, I am not a pirate but an honorable privateer.”

Maurice waved his hand. “I have naught to say of that. However, I shall make you a bargain. Relinquish Mademoiselle Rachelle to me now, and I will tell my men to step aside. You can spare your own life and your chevaliers’ lives and ride out free.”

Fabien smiled. “And ride into a trap that you and Guise’s men have deceitfully agreed upon? You would then have mademoiselle without even a duel. And Guise would have the satisfaction of presenting me to the Duc of Alva.
Ah ça non!
You must take me for a fool, Maurice. Non, now that you are here, there are grave matters that must be settled between us. But as for la belle des belles, you have been foiled. She is now Marquise Rachelle de Vendôme. We were married before you arrived.”

Maurice stared. Color came into his cheeks and he let out a furious cry.

A horn blasted from outside. The boom of a drumbeat signaled the drawing of weapons in preparation for battle. Guise’s soldiers began moving to take the castle.

Maurice waved his sword with a vicious flourish and bounded toward Fabien, who threw aside his cumbersome scabbard and baldric to meet Maurice’s lunge. Fabien took his footing to meet the onslaught and parried as their blades clashed and ground together, the two swordsmen testing and feeling each other’s skills. Soldiers followed, bursting through the open door into the salle as Fabien’s swordsmen threw themselves into the fray. The salle erupted into warfare, the clash and ring of steel upon steel.

Maurice advanced, then leapt aside, testing Fabien’s guard at each engagement with catlike movements as he circled.

Fabien’s confidence and precise moves caused Maurice to attack with fury. Fabien deflected a thrust and parried with a swift unexpected counterthrust that drove Maurice back from his stance. Maurice recovered and moved in more cautiously.

They fought, thrusting, circling, parrying. Their blades clashed, disengaged, then met again, testing each other. Around them, Fabien’s men-at-arms were in clashes of their own, steel ringing against steel as they held off Maurice’s loyals and the Guise guards. Tables were hurled, chairs crashed, shouts and insults bounced from wall to wall.

Fabien found an opening and thrust, feeling his point tear cloth. Maurice flinched; a spot of blood seeped through his sleeve. He came at Fabien, feinted and lunged, springing away. Fabien moved in again swiftly. They circled, their swords flashing, seeking, caressing. Fabien feigned a disengagement only to swipe Maurice’s peacock feather from his red velvet hat.

Maurice glared and wiped the sweat from his forehead, realizing he had taken on a swordsman who was testing his skills beyond any he had fought at the armory.

From the corner of his eye, Fabien saw Captain Dumas, the traitor, in a battle for his life with one of Fabien’s men. In one swift thrust of his sword, the guard rammed Dumas through his chest.

Maurice advanced again and again, sweating profusely. Fabien’s blade consistently met his, turning it aside. Maurice thrust high. Fabien parried lightly with the forte of his blade and countered promptly, but Maurice swept the blade aside and lunged for the shoulder. “Aha! Blood for blood!” Maurice cried with pomp.

Angered, Fabien attacked with cold deliberation. When Maurice was momentarily unguarded, Fabien’s blade nicked his cheek.

“As you boasted,” Fabien said.

Maurice looked shaken but leapt away. Fabien whirled and thrust. Maurice parried late, and Fabien’s point, driving straight at Maurice’s breast, was barely deflected by an upward swing.

After several such engagements, Fabien didn’t follow up Maurice’s backward leap, so Maurice could pause for breath.

“What ails you, my dashing comte? And now, may you taste the humiliation that you forced upon young Andelot, a far better man than you. You are but a messire who hounds pups that you may imagine yourself master of the pack.”

Fabien could see anguish creeping over Maurice’s face as he anticipated approaching defeat.

Fabien’s sword point leapt past and again flicked him, this time in the neck. Maurice’s face was pale with the heat of flush, smeared with sweat and blood.

Fabien gave no more pauses but kept up the vigorous attack, forcing Maurice to concentrate on defense. Maurice continued to fall back. Fabien pursued relentlessly, avoiding a death thrust but punishing the comte, forcing Maurice to taste humiliation and futility.

Finally, he stepped back. “Did you truly fancy yourself the chief swordsman at court? You are indeed a wonder, Maurice.”

Thus goaded, Maurice bounded forward, wasting his energy. Fabien sidestepped to avoid a thrust, but as they disengaged Fabien missed his footing.

“Ho!” Maurice breathed jubilantly. “I am not finished yet!”

“You will be!”

Fabien came in close; Maurice would not be put off. Following a parried thrust, he found the opening he sought. Fabien made a thrust at Maurice’s throat, but despite his anger with him, he did not wish to press it home. As Maurice swept Fabien’s blade aside, his neck was cut again. Maurice dropped low and crouched in an Italian lunge, intending an upward thrust into Fabien’s chest.

Fabien sidestepped Maurice’s low lunge, and Maurice lost his footing. Fabien, with his left hand, landed a sharp blow to the back of Maurice’s neck, and he went down. A push in the right spot with his boot sent Maurice over on his face, his sword clattering on the floor.

Standing over Maurice as he lay prone, Fabien placed his point at the back of Maurice’s neck.

“It is over, Maurice. You have been sorely defeated.”

He withdrew his blade, and Maurice pushed himself up to his knees, catching his breath. They locked gazes for a long moment, then Maurice threw up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

“Well played!” Maurice admitted with a sigh. “Your triumph, Marquis.”

Fabien stepped aside, catching his breath and wiping the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his Holland shirt. “If I had the time I would shave your conceited mustache and send you to Fontainebleau with your breeches cut off at the thigh.”

Maurice groaned.

Fabien was weary of him and glanced around the salle as confusion reigned. There were injured and dying men everywhere. Furniture was overturned, and irreplaceable statues and vases broken. He saw one of his men swing from a chandelier, then connect with a Guise captain, knocking him down to the floor before finishing him with a short blade.

Fabien caught a movement from the corner of his eye. He turned to see Maurice lunge toward him, sword in hand. Fabien moved out of his path, avoiding the full force of Maurice’s thrust into his side. But Maurice did nick him. He went down.

Maurice stomped on Fabien’s hand and kicked his blade across the corridor out of reach. Maurice grasped his sword hilt with both hands and was about to plunge it through Fabien’s chest when a heavy brass urn from farther down the corridor smashed into his head, sending him reeling. Maurice collapsed, unconscious.