Threads of Silk (7 page)

She looked down at the marquis’ lettre. What should she do about his request to marry Rachelle? She understood his quandary; she shared it.

“Maurice! That scoundrel.” She banged the end of her ebony stick on the carpeted floor.

She must warn Marquis Fabien of the grave danger awaiting him, for the infamous Spanish war genius, the Duc of Alva, was coming to hold the Queen Mother’s hands to the fires of Spain’s wrath. Even Catherine, with all of her Machiavellian maneuverings, was not relentless enough in her warfare against the heretics to satisfy Spain. The Duc of Alva liked to bury Protestants alive in Holland, the women and children together for an added touch of tenderness. The duchesse relaxed her fingers. She’d been gripping her walking stick so tightly that pale impressions showed on her palm.

The Lord knows about poor, brave little Holland. I must remain calm
and pray for the steadfast courage of the saints
.
What dedication to go to
their deaths rather than deny the teaching of Scripture. What love they
showed for Christ!

She pushed herself up from the chair and moved across the chamber to the window, still holding Marquis Fabien’s lettre. She must think.

Below in the garden, two people were strolling. Her muscles tightened. Who could miss the white and scarlet cleric’s garments and the stiff black gown and coif of the woman beside him? There they were, enemies at heart, with their heads together planning and plotting, perhaps discussing the impending arrival of the Duc of Alva.

She must contact the marquis and warn him. She would be taking a grave risk to send a message to him about the Duc of Alva. Who then, should deliver it?

Few, very few could be trusted
.

The duchesse stepped away from the window. From behind her, the fire hissed in the hearth.

A footfall, or was it? The wind was boisterous this late afternoon. The duchesse turned her head in the direction of the alcove. Had one of her ladies returned?

“Who is it
?
” she called abruptly
.

She walked in that direction but saw no one in the shadowy alcove.
My imagination is all
. Her gaze moved to the cabinet where her remedies were kept.

Yes, watch your medicine. Remember your cousine, Dame Joan
Dushane, known as grandmère to her family. Remember how she was poisoned
with gloves?

She walked back to the chair and sat down, rubbing her forehead. Perhaps she should leave Fontainebleau and take refuge at one of her estates near Saint-Germain-en-Laye.

Her gaze dropped back to the marquis’ lettre. Sebastien Dangeau’s neveu, Andelot, impressed her with his growing character and insight. Andelot . . . oui, he could be trusted. He had matured from the naive boy that Sebastien had called to court to meet his unanticipated kinsmen, the Guises. He was now a comely young man with wavy brown hair, winsome dark eyes, and an increasingly masculine appearance. He’d also become a scholar in training with knowledge of how politics and religion worked together, ofttimes in unholy union.

She went to her desk, lit the lamp, and wrote to Fabien of the danger confronting him and Rachelle, giving him a brief account of the troubling events at court since his voyage, knowing he would receive a fuller report through Andelot.

Perhaps ten minutes passed. She was ready to sign her name, but paused. She drummed her fingers on the desk. She must decide whether to give her consent to the marriage in the absence of Monsieur Arnaut. She hesitated, stood from the chair, and leaving the lettre on the desk, rang the bell for her chief page, Romier.

The young page, an
ami
of Andelot and about the same age, came at once.

“You called, Madame?”

“Find Andelot. Do not let anyone know you are seeking him or why. I need to speak alone with him. Tell him it is about Marquis Fabien and his oncle Comte Sebastien Dangeau. You have heard about Comte Sebastien and his family?”

“Oui, Madame. Everyone at court has been wondering how it was possible. He must have been most clever, they say.”

“Desperate, perhaps. Go at once, Romier, and be exceedingly cautious.”

“None shall see me, Madame.”

The duchesse nodded her approval and watched him withdraw.

A CRITICAL TASK NOW
compelled him. Andelot went to the window and peered below. The courtyard was bleak and mostly dark with only a few torches weaving in the chilly gusts. He turned away, lifting his olive green velvet beret from the footstool and arranging it to one side of his brown hair in customary style.

He opened the door of his bedchamber a crack to look into the large adjoining study-chamber. Scholar Thauvet always took his evening dinner at this time with friendly colleagues, and the chamber stood empty as Andelot expected. More than one lamp burned, and the manuscripts Thauvet was using were not yet stored away for the night, indicating he intended to return and work a few hours longer. Thauvet was in the long and tedious process of transcribing an ancient manuscript that would go to the library of Notre Dame when completed, and Andelot was assisting.

He turned back to his own chamber, shut the door softly, and lifted the mattress to remove the French Bible. He must be wary. He could not prove that he was under Père Jaymin’s surveillance, but on more than one occasion he’d come within a breadth of getting caught with the forbidden Bible in his possession. Several times Andelot had noticed Jaymin’s inquisitive eyes probing about the chamber.

He wrapped the treasured Bible in his cloak and carried it into the study-chamber where he removed several narrower volumes from a bookshelf at the far end. Placing the Bible at the back of the shelf, he replaced the books in front of it. They protruded slightly from the shelf edge but not enough to be noticeable. This concealment would do for now —

“I have caught you at last!”

He turned sharply at the footstep behind him.

A young monsieur stood there with jaw-length hair the color of amber, smoothly waved and turned under at the ends. His nose came to a peak and his chin was angular. He wore green satin with silver fripperies, but he’d had the wits to pocket his tinkling silver bells before sneaking up on him.

Andelot formed fists to keep from grasping Romier by the collar of his silver and green satin uniform and shaking him.

“
Saintes!
I should thump you until you rattle!”

“Still your tongue. Will you that someone hear us?” He looked toward the door to the outer corridor.

“At the moment? I do not care!”

“Tut, tut.”

Though at first glance Romier appeared foppish, the duchesse kept him as her chief page because he was a swordsman, a marksman with a dagger, and he took pride in serving her.

“Madame wishes to speak to you in her chambers.” Romier looked over to the bookshelf, hand on his sword hilt. “So, ami, you yet have it! You are certain it will go undiscovered?”

Andelot remained irritated. His heart was still pounding in his chest. He’d been convinced the voice was Jaymin’s. He glared and snatched the olive green cloak he’d wrapped the Bible in.

“I shall return it — perhaps tonight.”

“You should have disposed of it weeks ago as Comte Sebastien warned.”

Andelot was well aware, but he had not wanted to part with it. “Never mind about that. If Madame wishes to see me I will go now. Most of the courtiers are at dinner.”

“It is about the marquis and the comte — did you know Sebastien had made plans to escape?”

“Non, and there is no certainty he will make it to London. He is in danger at this very minute.”

“So true. He took Mademoiselle Idelette with his family.”

Romier threw him a questioning glance, but Andelot refused to catch it. He had never mentioned holding a muted interest in Mademoiselle Idelette to anyone, not even to himself until recently. There was a reason for his reluctance; at times she intimidated him with her maturity. She was theologically knowledgeable as well, and he was but a learner. Her superiority in these matters kept him at a distance. Secretly, he’d been attracted to her golden fairness and her calm, reserved demeanor.

Andelot opened the door to the outer corridor and glanced out. It was deserted. He stepped out, and Romier followed with the pompoms on his slippers bobbing — and one practiced hand on his sword hilt.

PÈRE
JAYMIN
STOOD IN THE SHADOWS
at the other end of the corridor watching Andelot Dangeau leave the scholar’s chambers with Duchesse Dushane’s page. Andelot was a young monsieur of bon character, but Jaymin did not trust his loyalties to the Church. He was most sure that Andelot wavered on the cliff’s edge of heresy.

When Andelot was out of sight, Jaymin left the shadows and walked in long, soundless strides to Thauvet’s chamber, opened the door, and stepped in.

He crossed the study and entered Andelot’s chamber, going straight to the bed. He turned his mouth grimly. He bent down and lifted the straw mattress, holding a candle to look underneath. Nothing.

He must have hidden the forbidden book, the one I’m sure he was reading
that night when Sebastien intervened, snatching the book away and
asking questions about Erasmus. Andelot speaks ideas that sound like
a Calvinist. He must have a heretical French Bible — not a true Latin
translation. Ah, the devil was ubiquitous.

Jaymin dropped the mattress into place. He straightened, frowning.

Perhaps he has hidden it elsewhere. He may know I am suspicious.
I shall find it. If not tonight, then sometime when he is lulled into overconfidence.
Andelot must be saved from himself. Like Sebastien, he must
come to see the dangers of playing with heresy. In the end, the cleansing fire
will burn away the dross of false beliefs and save him from Satan’s stronghold,
from that wicked city, Geneva, and its antichrist, John Calvin.

Jaymin took another look around, finding nothing to confirm his suspicions. He knew that Andelot attended all the religious ceremonies daily, as required, and behaved as piously as the rest — perhaps even more so.

Still, he makes me uncomfortable as only heretics do. It is as though I
can smell them out.

Jaymin slipped out the door into the corridor and walked away in silence.
I will keep watching him. Eventually, he will give proof of his
heresy
.