Threads of Silk (22 page)

“She needs the Marquis de Vendôme. She needs you for a time. But later — later, watch out.”

“Oh Madalenna, why did you tell her?”

“Because she already guessed I was holding back from her. She always guesses. I cannot keep anything from her. She owns me. I have no choice.”

“You do have a will of your own. You are her slave, but she cannot own your mind and soul unless you surrender them.”

Madalenna’s shoulders slumped beneath Rachelle’s hands. “There is no hope for me.”

“There is hope as long as you are alive. There is hope with your true Master, Christ. Turn to Him, call upon Him, and He can make a way for the freedom of your soul.”

Madalenna dropped her eyes and said nothing. At last Rachelle gently released her.

“I know you told her because you fear her. I hold nothing against you. I want you to know that. And I hope you will consider what I told you about Jesus. Attend the prêches when they begin in June. Seek to talk with Minister Beza when he comes. God will open a door of forgiveness for your soul.”

Madalenna’s lips remained tightly closed, but a lone teardrop oozed from the corner of her eye and trickled down her sallow cheek.

Rachelle swallowed. “We had better go to the Queen Mother’s chamber now. She will wonder why we tarry.”

The girl turned and entered the corridor, and Rachelle followed, feeling a mixture of anger at Catherine and a new compassion for Madalenna. Until now, she had been but a sinister shadow creeping about; but now, she had a heart, a soul, and teardrops.

What excuse could she possibly use to justify following the Queen
Mother to the quay?

They neared the royal chambers with the imposing guards posted on either side of the door. Was this to be her end? But Madalenna said the Queen Mother still needed her. She needed Fabien, and Rachelle was the hostage to compel him to do as the Queen Mother wished.

Besides fear, Rachelle felt her anger reawaken. Though her mind had been filled with her own difficulties, she had not forgotten her suspicion that this woman may have brought about the death of her grandmère.

She forced herself to remember what Pasteur Bertrand had said to the family about obligation to the throne.

“The Spirit of God admonishes us through the apostle Paul in Romans to honor the king. If we say that is impossible, then let us remember who it was that sat upon the throne of the Roman Empire when this admonition was written, the insane Roman emperor, Nero.”

Rachelle’s heart began to calm. She looked ahead. Madalenna stood passively waiting in the doorway to the Queen Mother’s chambers. Two Italian-looking royal guards stood at either side.

The Lord would handle all disagreements in His own time. Even the kings and queens of France would bow before Jesus Christ one day as the King of all kings.
I should show my trust now by waiting for Him to
judge wisely. If I know the injustice done to grandmère will be taken care
of one day by the Lord, whether in this life or in the next, then I can leave
my anxieties and frustrations in His hands.

“Avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath.”

With a prayer in her heart, her palms sweating, she was granted entry into the imposing sanctuary of the Queen Mother.

The
élégante
chamber waited in silence. The Italian frescoes and rose accents in cushions, floral rugs, and draperies lent an atmosphere of Renaissance grandeur and authority that left Rachelle with a tight throat.

With head lowered, Rachelle curtsied. “Your Majesty,” she said, her voice calm and unstrained, through much practice.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Catherine de Medici dressed in black.
Like a spider in a fresh web
.

She waited to hear sharp words, like the crack of doom.

Catherine stood tall and erect, her hands at the sides of her stiff skirt. Since the death of her husband, King Henry II, in a friendly jousting match, in celebration of the marriage of their daughter Elizabeth to the austere and morbid King Philip II of Spain, Catherine de Medici almost always wore mourning black. But she had wanted a new gown. Was this true, or an excuse?

Rachelle, even in her anxious state, could not help noticing her wardrobe. Her gown was of exceptional texture, suggesting that the Queen Mother might take some interest in fashion.

As a Florentine, one might have expected the Queen Mother to have black hair and dark flashing eyes, but such was not the case. Catherine’s mother had been French — in fact, a Bourbon. And her eyes were light colored, her hair thick and curly. Rachelle might describe the color as blonde, yet not a golden blonde like her sister Idelette’s, but an almost yellow-brown.

Her hair was parted in the center, drawn back beneath her typical cap, or coif.

Rachelle tried not to notice Catherine’s prominent teeth that gave her a rather robust look.

If Catherine had intended to rebuke her it was not obvious now. She wore a smile. Rachelle knew better than to trust the false smiling face of the Queen Mother.

“Ah, then, we have our charmante couturière back with us, do we?” The Queen Mother motioned for Rachelle to rise. “But are you our cou-turière Mademoiselle Macquinet, or is it Marquise de Vendôme?”

“It is true, Madame, that Marquis de Vendôme has taken me for his wife. We were married at Vendôme.”

The Queen Mother leaned forward, her hands gripping the armrests. “We cannot always keep what we desire, is that not true,
Mademoiselle
Macquinet?”

Rachelle read the warning in her cold gaze, and it chilled her to the bone.

“As loyal servants to France we must walk the path of duty,” the Queen Mother continued. “The Marquis de Vendôme has agreed with me.”

What had Fabien agreed with her about? Not that their marriage
could be annulled? Non, she would never believe that he would agree to
that.

Catherine stood and moved about slowly. “The Cardinal de Lorraine insists marriage outside the sanction of the Roman Church is no true marriage at all.”

What was she implying?
Rachelle’s tension grew. This meeting was not what she had expected. There was no dreaded mention of the incident on the quay.

“Madame, before God I am married to the marquis.”

Catherine snapped her fingers, her eyes glinting. “Silence.”

Rachelle bowed her head.

Catherine strode up to her, shoulders back, looking down through heavy lids.

Rachelle held her breath, waiting.

The moments crept onward. She could hear the Queen Mother’s breathing.

“Marriage is a duty performed for the good of one’s king, of his kingdom. As daughters of France, we show our dignity and accept what we must.”

Rachelle’s heart began to beat with the quickening drumbeat that sounded the portent of danger.

Catherine began her pacing again. Back and forth . . . back and —

“You will oblige the throne,” Catherine said. “It is your duty. And if not, I could send you to the Bastille.”

Rachelle tried not to tremble. She sensed the Queen Mother did not appreciate weakness.

“Mademoiselle, I would remind you that your family’s future also depends upon your cooperation. Do you wish for the Château de Silk, so long in the fair hands of its couturières, to continue as it has in past generations?”

Rachelle met her eyes at once. “Madame, with all my heart.”

Catherine gave a brief nod. “You are wise. Then you will do what is required of you. Of this I remind you, but with sorrow. Ah, it brings me sadness to speak of such matters, but when necessary, speak of them I shall. Believe me, Mademoiselle, so much is at stake.”

The spell of terror was eased as Catherine turned away —deliberately? — and sat down upon her ornate royal chair, gazing across her chamber. Rachelle, however, understood the message conveyed.

Catherine reached for several correspondences from a white marble stand veined with gold that stood beside her armrest.

“I have a few matters to discuss with you. I will begin with the lettre I received from your kinswoman, Duchesse Dushane, regarding the marquis. Most naturally she begs for his deliverance from the grip of King Philip.”

Rachelle tried to glean a ray of hope from her statement, but caution challenged.

“The duchesse promises to work tirelessly in the hope of granting pardon on his behalf.” Catherine shook her head as though weary. “Ah, Mademoiselle, this most unfortunate situation was of the marquis’ own doing. Even so, you may have a reason for hope. It is my intent to help those who serve my plans. There are, of course, certain conditions.”

Rachelle’s gaze flew to Catherine’s, searching, and found both promises and warnings. Rachelle was already aware of what those conditions were. She remembered seeing the Spanish ambassador pacing up and down the outer salle with open disdain written across his swarthy face.

“Madame, dare I hope you are suggesting the Marquis de Vendôme can be spared from the clutches of Spain and released from the Amboise dungeon?”

Catherine tossed the lettre from the Spanish envoy on the ivory stand. “You are the first one to whom I speak this. Yes, there is a rare wind of fortune blowing, that could perhaps return him to my son the king’s favor.”

As if King Francis were so fiercely against Fabien!

There was little doubt that once the Queen Mother’s purpose was accomplished, she would cast them aside without qualm to the dogs.

Duc de Guise must be assassinated, that is what the Queen Mother
meant, and she would expect Fabien to end the Duc’s life. And if Fabien
refuses? She will have him turned over to the Spanish envoy to be put on a
galleon for Madrid
.

Rachelle’s aching heart thudded in her chest. “Madame, if the release of my husband, the marquis, could be attained, then I should be a most grateful servant, Madame.”

Catherine leaned back into her ornate chair and smiled.

“Ah, most pleasing, Mademoiselle. I am sure you will be most anxious to see your bridegroom. You are favored, for many have sought him here at court. Your family will be pleased when they learn the news, I am sure. You now enjoy a title. Your family will attend the colloquy this summer?”

Rachelle tried to keep her composure. “Oui, Madame. They must return from London to attend to the silk business at Château de Silk. It is now under an overseer, but cannot remain so much longer without suffering from lack of Monsieur Macquinet’s knowledge.”

“I am sure Monsieur Macquinet is concerned for the good of his silk estate.”

Abruptly she stood, changing the mood again. “Did you know of the plans of Comte Sebastien to sneak away from his duties to the king and flee to London?”

Rachelle’s hands were damp. “Non, Madame. The day also took me by surprise.”

“I am most sure it did.” Her teeth showed in a mocking smile. She came down from her elevated chair and moved closer to Rachelle. The smile vanished. “You were busy elsewhere on the morning Sebastien and your sister Madeleine left the Louvre,” came her low voice. “Were you not?”

Rachelle’s heart sounded in her ears. Now it was coming — the trap was ready to snap shut.

“They must have departed in the night, Madame.”

“In the morning when you first arose, you did not see them?”

“I believe they must have already departed.”

“Where did you go when you arose so early, Mademoiselle?”

Rachelle stared into the heavy lidded eyes that confronted her without blinking.

“Go, Madame?”

“Yes, where did you go when you left the Louvre? To the quay?”

There it was. If she could somehow admit she had gone, but avoid alerting her . . .

“The quay? Madame, I did go for a morning walk, but it was a chilly morning. It was very foggy, and I found that I did not enjoy the stroll and returned.”

“Madalenna saw you on the quay. She followed you. Just as you, Mademoiselle, followed me.”

Rachelle’s mouth went dry. There was no way out.

Catherine’s strong fingers clamped around her arm, pulling her closer. “To whom have you mentioned this?”

“No one.”

Catherine’s eyes turned into slits and her fingers tightened until Rachelle gritted her teeth to keep from wincing.

“The truth, Mademoiselle.”

“To no one except the marquis.”

“The marquis!” She flung Rachelle’s arm away and stepped back.

“You fool.”

“I did not think it was important.”

“You lie. But I shall speak the truth to you. If your tongue slips this information to anyone at court, I will see that the marquis becomes a galley slave on a Spanish galleon. You will never see him again. He will die a slow, painful death. You will remain alive in a dungeon to worry for years to come. Understood?”

Rachelle dropped her head into her sweating palms. “Yes, I understand,” she choked out in a cracked whisper.