Threads of Silk (27 page)

“Ah, Monsieur Prince, when I met with tragic news this morning I asked myself with whom should I speak of such heartbreak? And my thoughts turned to you, my brother, a monsieur with many troubles, and through no fault of your own, I assure you,” she lied. “And so it is grievous news I choose to share with you today. I hope I do not impose upon you, but I am just a poor woman alone and need a strong messire to hold in confidence.”

He looked flattered that she had turned to him, as she had intended, but mention of her ploy of grief and tragedy brought tension to his face, a handsome Bourbon face, though his was weak of jaw.

“Grief? Ah, say it is not Louis, Madame,” he breathed, hand flashing with jewels laid at his heart.

“Ah, no, my prince, it is not your galant brother. It is my son, the king. I have spoken with Docteur d’Fontaine this morning after his visit with my son. The docteur tells me what I have longed feared — but it is too soon, yes, much too soon. My poor Francis will not live long.”

“Madame, a poignant grief, surely. Then is there nothing to be done?

What of the great Docteur Ambroise Pare?”

“I fear his words will be the same. It is a matter of time . . . but this woeful news we must keep secret for the sake of those nearest him who love him.”

“I understand perfectly, Madame, for the sake of his beloved wife, Reinette Mary.”

“Not that this should come as a total surprise. Far from it, I assure you.”

“So true, Madame. We have all known that the king suffers from the blood disorder. You have my sympathy and my prayers, as does His young Majesty. Perhaps, who knows? Docteurs are sometimes in error, Madame. King Francis may have more years left than we know. He may yet live and come of age to reign — with Mary as well.”

The fool. He thinks he is encouraging me
.

Antoine went on in a comforting tone, “Soon, in just a few more years, Mary Stuart will become Queen of Scotland as well.”

Catherine paused and turned to see if there could possibly be mockery in his eyes.
No, the undiscerning royal peacock is actually trying to cheer me
with the very words that turn my heart to ice. Mary, becoming the Queen
of France, reaching the full reign of authority and power. Mary, who did
everything her Guise oncles wished, anxiously seeking what she should do
to please them.

As if I could ever abide having Mary Stuart as Queen of France ruling
under the duc and cardinal.

“Alas! My brother, that bonne fortune would indeed come to pass —but,” she said with a sigh, “most unfortunately, I fear you are too hopeful.”

“Truly, Madame? Say it is not so.”

“The docteur tells me that Francis will not live long enough to see Mary come into her own.”

“The king seemed most promising in strength since I have come from Navarre.”

“Have you not noticed these last several days how his illness strikes suddenly — ” she snapped her fingers — “and takes hold of him? How he tires more easily and looks pale of cheek?” She patted her own cheek.

Antoine nodded his dark head, his gold earrings set with diamonds sparkling.

“Now that you mention it, Madame, yes, I have seen a change — recently.”

“But, my brother, woeful as this news may be to my heart, the good of France must go on, and my son would not have it otherwise. So you see, I must make plans for the future.”

“Well said, Madame.”

She brought her lace kerchief to her eyes. “I must also say this, my brother. You should not think it was I who planned your arrest, and that of Prince Louis. It was the house of Guise, the enemy of my house and yours, Monsieur Prince, who had the trap waiting when you both arrived. King Francis was furious with Louis for his part in the Amboise plot, and so insisted that Louis would die for his betrayal,” she lied.

“Madame, it is as I have heard even in Navarre before we ventured here. My wife Jeanne, the queen, warned us both of that danger. But who can resist the summons of our king? Even so, perhaps we should have listened to Jeanne.”

Catherine stopped on the garden path. The mention of her enemy, Queen Jeanne of Navarre, another devout Huguenot, alerted her.
So
Jeanne had seen through the Guise plot. She would, for she was shrewd
and open in her dealings. Had Jeanne also suspected that Catherine had
been privy to the plot to arrest her husband and brother-in-law? Yes,
Jeanne would have guessed.
Catherine had cooperated with the Guises and King Francis so as not to risk losing what authority she had.

Catherine put her mouth next to Antoine’s ear. “If my son, the king, as sick as he is, dies — then Prince Louis will be spared execution. You also, my brother, will be free again to pursue plans worthy of your royal rights.”

Antoine looked startled, then swallowed.

“Why should you not think of the consequences, Monsieur Prince? My son’s departure even in its gravest moments to me, brings good to the Bourbons.”

“Meaning Madame, that — ?”

From the corner of her eye, some feet away, she saw the bushes move. She stiffened. “Come to my state chamber tomorrow. I will send Madalenna. We will resume our discussion then.” She walked abruptly away, leaving Antoine to gaze after her in wonderment, no doubt believing that she was upset over discussion of Francis.

Who had been watching them? Had her voice carried?

She was more determined than ever to be free of her enemies.

The next day Antoine arrived at her chambers, where Catherine sat waiting for him. Here it was safe to talk.

Antoine bowed. Catherine stared down at him. He looked nervous over what might be awaiting him, and this pleased her. She deliberately addressed him from her elevated chair.

“I shall speak most plainly, my brother Antoine. If my son Francis dies — then my next son Charles will be king. He is too young to bear such a heavy yoke as you are well aware. So France must have a regency.” She paused to see if he followed where her words were intended to lead.

“Yes, Madame, I am aware.”

“You, my brother, are the first prince of the Bourbon blood royal, and I am aware of your rights to hold the regency according to the law. Should my son Francis die — you will be expected to play a large role in the kingdom.” She leaned toward him, her voice hushed. “Is that not what the Amboise plot was truly about? So the Huguenot Admiral Coligny has told me! The Huguenots wish to be rid of the Guises who dictate their will through their adoring niece, Mary. And my poor sick Francis, so enamored with his little reinette that he does all she wishes? Or rather, as the duc and cardinal wish?”

Antoine swallowed. Rather than taking her words as an encouragement as she meant them, he seemed to grow more cautious.

“Madame, I had nothing to do with the Amboise rising. I was in Navarre with my wife, ruling our shared kingdom.”

She had never believed Antoine to be involved with Prince Louis and his retainers and waved his words aside.

“Ah, but my son Charles is not Francis. The Guises could not rule Charles through Mary, or the cardinal. Only I can handle my son in his bouts of frenzy. You understand?”

There were beads of sweat on Antoine’s forehead.

“I see you
do
understand.” She shook her head sadly. “Charles, too, is sometimes sick. Sick — here — ” she tapped her temple. “But I, his loving maman, can curtail this madness when it strikes him. I can handle him. I know what to do. But you must realize that I am the only one who can handle Charles.”

She saw that he watched her uneasily yet with growing excitement.

“Yes, Madame, I believe I understand your intentions.”

She smiled at him, then leaned back into her gilded chair. She fixed her eyes upon him, lowering her lids, and her smile ended so that there would be no misunderstanding.

“I must be awarded the regency in your place, my brother. You comprehend? If not, your brother Prince Louis will die — and so will you. But if I become regent I will make you my general in place of Duc de Guise. You will have the second highest position in France. All edicts will be signed in our names.”

Antoine licked his lips.

“But the Guises must not know of our plans for the regency, not if you value your life. They will lose a great power through their niece Mary should my poor son Francis die soon.”

Antoine cleared his throat as though it constricted on him. A faint color painted his cheekbones.

“Madame, I fully understand the danger and will do as you wish.”

Catherine smiled and put a finger to her lips. She leaned forward. “The regency is our secret, my brother,” she whispered.

Antoine bowed stiffly, his mouth taut. His eyes shifted about uneasily.

“As you say, our secret, Madame.”

Satisfied, she watched him leave. He was afraid, as well he should be.

She would not have taken no for an answer. The regency belonged to her.

RACHELLE’S
FINGERS CURLED INTO FISTS
at the sides of her velvet gown. She walked quietly across the blue-and-gold carpet in the appartement salle de sejour toward the door to the outer corridor.
Almost there
. She glanced back toward the archway that opened into the small salle containing a large desk and a wall of leather books with gold embossing. Fabien was in there now, and she could just see him standing by the window beside the desk reading a lettre from Capitaine Nappier delivered by Julot Cazalet through Andelot. At any other time she would have wanted to know what was in the lettre, but her mind was in a turmoil. She must leave without alerting Fabien. Quietly, she slipped out and closed the door behind her.

FABIEN
TURNED AND LOOKED
toward the door inching closed behind Rachelle. He lifted his brow. He was aware of some unusual behavior this morning. It began when her little Nenette arrived to do her hair. He had already been up and about his business, but could not help hear them in the bedchamber, Nenette with her fluttery emotions, and Rachelle with abrupt questions, which alerted him to a problem of some sort or other. He had expected that Rachelle would confide in him when she came to join him for petit noir.

With intrigue surrounding them, he was more observant to possible danger than he might otherwise have been and decided he could not ignore her uncharacteristic behavior. He was amazed at his awakened capacity to love her as much as he did.

“Nenette!” he called.

The mademoiselle appeared as softly as a kitten in the archway, her eyes wide and her hands hidden beneath her white sewing apron.

“Monseigneur?”

He fixed her with a level gaze. “Where did your mistress go?”

She swallowed. “Go, Monsieur Fabien?”

“Yes, go. Where? Do not lie to me or keep back the truth.”

She withdrew her hands from her apron and intertwined her fingers.

“Oh, Monsieur, to meet Comte Maurice Beauvilliers.”

He was astounded. At first he could not believe it. He walked over to her, taking her arm and looking into her eyes. “You jest.”

“Non, Monsieur Fabien, I would not do such a thing when the matter is most dangerous.”

“What! And you did not tell me?”