Threads of Silk (29 page)

Why was he included in this meeting? Apart from some vague connection to the Guise lineage, which remained limpid and undefined, what did he have to do with either the house of Guise or the house of Bourbon?

“Andelot, for the good of France, we must act while we have time,” Duc de Guise said. He strode around the gilded chamber, deep in thought.

Andelot glanced over at King Francis. He merely watched, sometimes closing his eyes as though he were too tired to concentrate on what they were saying — or perhaps did not want to.

“Antoine de Bourbon is a threat. He seeks to weaken, then overthrow the king.”

Antoine? So weak and vacillating?
He’d been much in the company of the Queen Mother recently, but overthrow the king? Andelot could not see the threat they made so much of.

Duc de Guise lowered his voice. “The Bourbon, Prince Louis, will be executed soon. So too Antoine must be removed. We have a plan involving the king and you, Andelot. For the good of France, you will assist him.”

Andelot’s throat turned dry.

The cardinal leaned over, his arm around Andelot’s shoulder again, and said with a pleasant tone as he sought to win him over, “Remember, the king is privy to our plan and agrees to everything we are about to tell you in the strictest secrecy.”

Andelot shot a glance toward Francis. His face was pale, his mouth formed a thin line.

The duc and the cardinal turned toward Francis. “Is that not so, sire?” suggested the cardinal. “You also are privy to this all-important decision?”

“Yes,” Francis said. “It must be, as you and mon oncle the duc have said.”

The cardinal’s steadfast gaze pinned itself to Andelot.

“We are all in agreement. And you also will surely agree and help your king.”

“This is our plan,” the duc said. “You have the honor to serve your king.”

The king’s young face remained pale and tense.

The cardinal said, “Sire, you have said this action is a most necessary decision, have you not?”

Francis nodded. “Yes, it must be. Antoine and Louis rebelled against my rule at Amboise. I cannot trust them. They encouraged the rising of the Huguenots against me. Now, if they live, they will seek to usurp the throne.”

The cardinal looked down at Andelot. “Our spies, and those of the Spanish ambassador, have unearthed a plot by the house of Bourbon to overthrow the king. This must be stopped. We are all in agreement, as you see.”

The smile, the settled tone of voice, all bespoke the fact that Andelot would indeed assist his king in stopping what was said to be a Bourbon plot, but assist him in what way? Marquis Fabien was also a Bourbon. What would this mean for him?

Andelot tried not to grip the arms of the chair as he was hearing both the cardinal and duc plotting the actual murder of Antoine de Bourbon, to be followed by the swift state execution of Prince Louis. There was no mention of the marquis, but could he trust the silence to mean he was to escape the plot of death?

Once the Bourbons were dead, the way would then be left open for a Guise to rule France
should
King Francis die of his blood disease. Andelot saw the truth now. If there was a plot to overthrow the king, it did not come from the Bourbons but the Guises. It was the Guises who insisted that Louis and Antoine must die because the Queen Mother had gained their loyalty. Antoine was seen too much in her presence, weaving plans that the Guises insisted took away their rightful authority.

They had convinced King Francis through Mary as well, that Antoine was a grave threat to his life. It was necessary to kill Antoine and Louis, or they would overthrow, even assassinate, the king.

RACHELLE
MOVED UNEASILY THROUGH
the royal gardens at Fontainebleau until she came to the fountain where Maurice’s message told her he would be waiting. The trees and flowering shrubs stood against the backdrop of the blue sky, and robins trilled in the branches. All this, she thought despondently, while the Guises and the Queen Mother connive and plot to overthrow one another at any cost, even to the shedding of blood. Power, ambition, and glory set the hearts of opponents on a race to the cliff’s edge. Even the church was represented as a mustard plant that had become overgrown into a tree that nested the birds of the air. It was fear of losing power over kings and nations that kept the midnight lamps burning in Rome.

And now Maurice’s selfish ambitions and jealousy had turned him, a once friendly opponent of Fabien, into a relentless enemy, willing to see Fabien delivered yet again to the authorities, this time to the Bastille.

She emerged through the trees and heard the fountain splashing. Yes, Maurice was there, waiting, moving across the court with animal-like restlessness.

He looked up and saw her. He removed his hat and bowed. Her eyes dropped to his scabbard. Yes, he wore it, his hand rested there as though the sword were the remedy to whatever stood in his way to gaining his desires.

Rachelle walked toward him. He came to meet her, a defensive gleam in his gray eyes.

“Where is the Bourbon Bible?” she demanded.

“Not so quickly as all that, Madame.”

“The Bible belongs to Duchesse Marie-Louise de Bourbon and you stole it from Vendôme, from the private chamber of the marquis. What you have done is outrageous!”

“Ah, yes, I have the forbidden Bible. And I will take it to Cardinal de Lorraine.”

She sucked in her breath and stepped toward him. “Maurice, you would not be so vile!”

“Ah?” He scanned her. “Maybe not.”

“He is quite capable of contemptible behavior,” interrupted Fabien’s cold voice.

She whirled.

Fabien came from the trees. There was a calm about him that alarmed her. He walked toward Maurice.

Maurice stepped as warily as a cat, moving away from the fountain in a half circle until they faced each other.

“I suspected it was you who broke into my chest. You cannot imagine my satisfaction at hearing you admit you are a thief. That you did not also cart off the Bourbon family jewels is a surprise. It gives me pleasure to take back what you stole. Where is the Bourbon Bible?”

Rachelle’s heart thudded. She looked at Maurice’s hand tightening around his sword handle. She rushed forward, standing between them.

“Maurice,” she hissed, “do not play the fool. Your pride will be your end. I know him better than you. If you have any wisdom at all, you will call this ridiculous warfare to an end. You are a young man. Everything you think you have lost can await you in the future. Return the Bourbon possession and walk away.”

“Step aside, Madame. If he wishes a rematch, so be it.”

“Rachelle, you have warned him, now go back,” Fabien said. “Maurice, I have not forgotten the deaths of my men-at-arms. It need not have happened except for your selfish folly. Men better than you are buried at Vendôme, their families grieve, there are young widows, one with a child. All because you were not willing to accept losing something you merely wanted. You can either leave Fontainebleau now for the Beauvilliers estate, or you can draw your blade and die.”

Rachelle held her breath. Her hands were cold and damp.

Maurice stared at him. There must have been something in Fabien’s calm, low voice and fixed expression that slapped him into his old sensibilities, for he spoke not a word in reply and stood still, looking at Fabien. The haughty demeanor, the flare of the nostrils, and the curl of the lip were gone.

Rachelle stood with her skirts rustling in the breeze. The robins ceased to trill.

Running footsteps sounded over the courtyard, but neither Fabien nor Maurice moved. Rachelle turned her head. Madame Trudeau rushed breathlessly forward, her dark dress and coif trailing in the breeze. She brushed past Rachelle and made for Fabien, falling to her knees in a gasping cry, holding a Bible to her bosom.

“Monseigneur, I beg of you, forgive my son his folly. He is impulsive in many ways, but perhaps it is not all his blame but mine. You see, he was my child, but I — I was unmarried and could not keep him — and Comtesse Francoise Beauvilliers had no son and we agreed to — to keep the secret from everyone except Comte Sebastien, who knew — yet he kept his silence to the end, even when he was disappointed in Maurice. Oh, Monseigneur, here is Duchesse Marie-Louise de Bourbon’s — Book. Take it, I beg of you, and be content to let this folly go. I vow that Maurice will be no more trouble to you or to Marquise Rachelle. The comtesse will send him to Beauvilliers’s estate, and I will go with him.”

They stood bound in silence. No one moved. The wind rustled the leaves. Maurice gaped at the woman on her knees before Fabien.

Maurice seemed to be trembling, his eyes wide as he stared down at Madame Trudeau.

“You? You — are — my — mother?
You!
”

Tears streaked her thin face and her mouth trembled. “Yes, Maurice. I speak the truth at last, I swear it, though I wished you not to know.”

He walked slowly, clumsily toward her, now apparently forgetting Fabien and Rachelle.

“Who is my father?
Who?
”

Madame Trudeau dropped her face, into her palms. Rachelle believed that Maurice hoped it would still be Comte Beauvilliers, even if Madame Trudeau had not been married to him.

Madame Trudeau kept her face in her palms. Her voice was muffled. “Your father is dead.”

“Who was he?” Maurice demanded in a shaking voice.

Madame Trudeau shook her head as though the words were too painful to speak. At last her voice came, tremulous.

“He was a soldier under Duc Jean-Louis de Bourbon.”

“W-what rank?”

“Ensign.”

Maurice groaned, as if this were the final humiliating blow. His hands dropped listlessly to his sides. Even the cocky ostrich plume in his red velvet hat appeared to dampen. He lowered himself upon a large rock in a bed of periwinkles and removed his hat, setting it on his knees. The plume ruffled in the wind. His shoulders stooped.

“His name was Ensign Maurice Fontaine,” Madame Trudeau said in a muffled voice.

Rachelle felt inclined to walk over and comfort Madame Trudeau, who obviously had not wished to share her shame in the open. Not knowing whether her action would worsen matters, she refrained. Fabien, too, looked startled by the disclosure. He turned and walked a short distance away, his back toward them.

Rachelle had the uncomfortable notion that if it had not been for the presence of Madame Trudeau, Fabien’s laughter would have filled the garden.
Maurice, the illegitimate son of a common foot soldier; Maurice
who flaunted his title as comte, who scornfully refused to call Andelot his
cousin! A serf of Fabien’s father
. Rachelle bit her lip and cast a furtive glance down to the bed of periwinkles.

Maurice sat, head in hands, so still he might have been a marble statue.

A few moments later Fabien walked up, took the Bourbon Bible that Madame Trudeau had laid down on the stone court, said something in a kindly voice to her, and then turned to Maurice. Fabien’s mouth turned up at the corners. He picked up Maurice’s plumed hat and straightened the feather.

“Well, Maurice, let me assure you that your father fought under a most excellent Bourbon duc.” With exaggerated attention, Fabien placed the hat on Maurice’s head with a final but gentle pat.

Maurice stared glumly at his boots, all the bluster and revenge emptied from him, his ego dwarfed.

Fabien walked over to Rachelle, and after taking her hand and kissing her fingers, took her arm with a glint of amusement in his violet-blue eyes, and walked her back toward the château. The robins, she noted, were trilling again.