Daughter of Silk (27 page)

A brief meeting with Henry in the Amboise woods was troublesome enough, but there would be challenges for Rachelle in the future that could be far more demanding. What would she do if Marguerite insisted

she attend Mass with her each morning? Neither Madame Clair nor Grandmère had spoken to her about her duties as a Huguenot. With her fellow brothers and sisters being burned at the stake for their refusal to attend Mass, how could she shrug her shoulders and say it mattered not? The thousands of Christian martyrs in the early centuries in Rome had died in the arena for refusing to put a pinch of incense before the image of Nero. She supposed arguments could have been made at that time for dismissing the act of obeisance as unimportant. With a chill she remem- bered the words:
In those days wherein Antipas was my faithful martyr, who was slain among you, where Satan dwells.
She must not treat lightly that which was hallowed by the blood of hundreds of thousands of Jesus’ martyrs.

Marguerite snapped her fingers impatiently, frowning. “
Peste!
Wake up, Rachelle! You are to attend me. Get my cloak from the coach, quick!
Dépêchez-vous!”

Rachelle did so, and Marguerite ordered her page to bring up her favorite horse, a little brown jennet, along with two mild tempered riding horses for Charlotte and Rachelle.

Rachelle had learned to handle a horse at the Chateau de Silk with her sisters when she and Idelette rode down to the bungalows near the mûreraies where the weavers were at work at the looms. Little had she known back then that her riding would one day qualify her to ride with the princesse.

Charlotte de Presney had a perceptive look in her eyes. Rachelle guessed the woman knew what Marguerite had on her mind, and for reasons of her own was pleased.

They rode around a bend in the road, and drew up short. Rachelle’s breath caught.

The Queen Mother herself waited for them, a formidable figure in black astride her strong horse. Catherine was known for being a horsewoman par excellence and had ridden on hunting trips with King Francis I.

Waiting behind the Queen Mother, King Francis, and Reinette Mary, were Mary’s oncles — le Duc de Guise and le Cardinal de Lorraine, looking equally formidable. With them rode several courtiers and the bodyguard.

Rachelle’s stomach flipped. She glanced toward Marguerite and saw the color drain from her cheeks. Her own tension continued to heighten. Rachelle and Charlotte de Presney bowed low in their saddles, as custom demanded, first toward Catherine as the regent of France, then

toward the young king and queen.

Marguerite was no match for her Machiavellian mother, Catherine de Medici.

It was late afternoon and the low angle of the sunlight through the for- est fir trees reminded Andelot that there would be little chance to reach the castle of Amboise before sunset. He stood leaning against a tree trunk waiting for Fabien to finish talking with a galante seated on a muscled black horse opposite him. Andelot had no idea who the other monsieur might be, for he was covered closely in a heavy black cloak and his broad- rimmed Spanish hat concealed his face. Andelot was convinced he must be of noble rank. Marquis Fabien remained astride his golden bay facing him, in close discussion.

In the deepening purple shade of fragrant pine boughs forming a for- est canopy around Amboise, Fabien listened to the complaints of Henry de Guise over his frustrated plans to marry Marguerite Valois. Henry had ridden his black horse skillfully through the woods unseen by the royal retinue to keep a rendezvous with Marguerite and foil the Queen Mother’s plans to have Marguerite meet the King of Portugal.

Henry’s handsome features were scowling with outrage over not being invited to the divertissement at the castle, where the King of Portugal would be entertained.

“The talk of Marguerite marrying Henry of Navarre is laughable, for what can Navarre bring to France? Just as this possible union with Portugal is an error,” he stated loftily. “My père’s house is as powerful and important as the House of Valois, except that Francis is now on the throne, and he will not last long.”

Henry must have realized his omission, especially after their angry confrontation earlier over the insult to the Bourbon name. Henry added: “And the House of Bourbon, bien entendu! Tell me, Marquis Fabien, why should Marguerite be forced to marry the poor and weak-eyed king of such a country?”

Fabien could easily have told him, but he doubted that Henry would accept it. Catherine was no fool. For Marguerite to marry Henry would place the throne within grasp of the Guise family. They were already saturated with ambition, and too powerful. Catherine was not about to make Henry her son-in-law and place her sons at risk.

Fabien had not intended to meet up with Henry de Guise, but he had been riding through the woods from Moulins on his way to Amboise when he came across Henry racing to keep another forbidden meeting with Marguerite.

Fabien remained patient though he cared little about Henry’s frustra- tions. He hoped to uncover some hint about the edict of pacification to be signed. Henry was close to his father and likely to know something of his plans with Catherine. But for all of Fabien’s casually garbed ques- tions, he had learned little that was new.

“Then the King of Portugal will also be at Amboise when the Bourbon princes and nobles arrive for the signing,” Fabien suggested.

Henry showed neither suspicion nor interest. He merely shrugged. “They should not honor him with their presence.”

Fabien was becoming convinced that Henry, at least, was not privy to whatever the duc and cardinal had in mind.

He lost interest in Henry’s troubles with Marguerite.

“I will ride with you to meet Princesse Marguerite,” he said, and when Henry’s gaze swerved suspiciously, Fabien explained: “She has a new lady-in-waiting, Mademoiselle Macquinet, the silk grisette. I find her of particular interest.”

Henry relaxed, and even smiled, looking amused. “Ah yes, I have seen her. You have worthy tastes. Then let us be on our way— but wait —” He turned in his saddle and motioned for his page. “There is a spare mask for you.”

Fabien took the mask. The two laughed and turned their horses to ride swiftly for Amboise.

Andelot Dangeau thought that reaching Amboise would be his crown- ing moment, where he at last was to be favored by le Cardinal de Lorraine. Strange, however, that Rachelle had not appeared so impressed, as much as she had seemed shocked, that he was related to the Guise family.

He frowned and paced to and fro under the alder tree, mostly think- ing, but sometimes reading from his Latin prayer book and fingering his rosary. He looked up. Horse hooves came barreling down the road. At last! Marquis and the galante with him had left the trees to ride on to Amboise. Andelot ran to put his religious objects back inside his saddle- bag and mounted, riding to the side of the road to join them. He bowed as the two young nobles of princely blood rode in his direction, their retinues coming swiftly behind. As the galante neared, Andelot recog- nized him. Monsieur Henry de Guise.

“Ho!” Andelot cried. “Wait for me — ”

Henry de Guise galloped by without so much as a glance his way, though Andelot believed he knew of his blood relationship from his father.
He could at least nod to me,
he thought, offended.

Fabiendrewup, smiling, andhismen-at-armsandhispage, Gallaudet, also halted. They rode on together toward the Amboise castle, Guise and his retinue keeping some distance ahead but in view.

A short time later they neared a gray rock fortress that dominated the view. Storm clouds boiled over the Loire, and the few drops of warning rain had become a drizzling shower that began to drench the misty forest. A streak of light plunged through the eastern sky and snarled viciously.

Andelot could almost believe he sensed pending doom and imag- ined evil as real as a fiery steed riding upon dank winds and gaining on them. He started to look over his shoulder, except the marquis was there. Andelot grimaced at his imagination. He slowed his gallop until Fabien rode past and then maneuvered behind him. They rode over the wooden planks of the bridge with water f lowing below.

“There is a sense of doom in the thunder and lighting,” Andelot called out, “like an evil omen. Do you not feel it, Marquis?”

Fabien glanced at him over his shoulder, the breeze tossing a lock of golden-brown hair across his forehead. His dark cape, lined with fur, whipped in a gust of wind. He laughed mockingly.

“I vow, but your imagination does run wild, mon ami. Let thunder be thunder, naught else.”

After a few minutes, Fabien added: “I prefer to think of the king’s hunting party, of stags and boars. I will snare one or the other on this venture. We are to make merry at Amboise.”

It was almost an order. Andelot cast him a glance. Why did he think the marquis was affecting indifference? Andelot merely felt relieved he was not expected to ride with the king’s hunting party.

“I should rather see the poor creatures of God roaming freely through the king’s forest than shed their blood, except for meat on the banquet table.”

“Saint Denis! But you have a ‘mothering’ heart, Andelot. How it is I find your company well chosen, I cannot say.” He shook his head and lowered his hat with its plume.

“Be cheerful, Marquis. The custom of the hunt will not cease because I find no pleasure in it, I assure you.”

“By all that is fair, I hope not. I shall favor you with the knowledge so your conscience may rest. All the animals taken in the king’s hunt will find their way to the banqueting table to keep the King of Portugal content. There is to be celebration, a masque. There will be no wasted game where I am concerned, I promise you.”

“Bonne!”

“You have to learn our ways. Be warned, mon cousine; if the cardinal takes serious his new guardianship of you, he will please his own inter- ests by turning you from his page into a priest. Is that what you want?”

Fabien was looking at him now with serious intent. Andelot shrugged. “I do not wish to become a priest. But —”

“No? But you will have no say in the matter.” Fabien’s eyes sparkled mischievously. “Then what will you do about the mademoiselle with the brown-auburn hair? What was her name? I must have forgotten . . .”

Andelot knew he had not. He then remained silent, refusing to say what her name was. Fabien laughed and spurred his golden bay ahead.

They raced on toward Amboise, pausing only to allow the horses to drink. Andelot began to whistle, which brought a glance from Fabien who had lapsed into a quiet and more thoughtful mood. Andelot thought it had something to do with his secret visit to Moulins, but though he had inquired about what happened, Fabien had not seen fit to tell him much except that his Bourbon kinsmen were coming to Amboise as summoned by King Francis.

Now as they raced along with the wind throwing rain against them, Andelot unexpectedly grinned at him.

“What do you think about, mon ami, that makes you suddenly happy?”

Andelot laughed, for he was thinking of Rachelle and how his change of fortune extended his chances to win her hand. “A secret, mon cousine.”

A short time later, Andelot rode in Marquis Fabien’s retinue through the gate at Amboise. Monsieur Henry de Guise had been smuggled in among Fabien’s pages so as not to be noticed. They passed stone walls and reinforced battlements and entered the cobbled courtyard where f lags f lurried. Here, Henry de Guise cut away toward the woods skirting the broad avenue to the castle, and Andelot dismounted. Rain ran down his neck and made him shiver. Fabien remained in the saddle and looked around and up toward the tall windows of the castle.

“Let us hope the rain ebbs and does not ruin the hunting party,” Fabien said, but Andelot noted the indifference of his tone, as though the hunt were the last thing on his mind.

Andelot scowled. “What awaits us, Marquis Fabien? Do you yet doubt royalty’s good intentions in issuing the summons to Prince Condé and Admiral Coligny?”

Fabien was making a casual summary of the soldiers on the ramparts.

“Do not imagine for a moment that I trust the House of Guise,” he said in a low voice, and he looked off toward the forested hills once more, thick with verdant green.

He turned in his saddle. “Gallaudet, settle our ami Andelot into my chambers.”

“Are you not coming up, Marquis?” Andelot asked, surprised and curious.

An unexpected gleam of amusement showed in Fabien’s eyes, which made Andelot wonder what he and Henry de Guise might be planning.

“Soon, mon ami, I will join you. Henry and I have something to attend first, if we are not too late.” And he looked toward the trees.

“You and he are not too late, Monsieur Marquis,” Gallaudet said, riding up from the direction of the trees. “We have made far better speed than the royal party, which moved as slowly as a March hare. The king is but now arriving.”

Andelot, curious, watched Fabien turn and ride off to where he had seen Monsieur Henry ride but minutes ago.

For Andelot, the unsettling premonition of some insidiousness in the making awakened once again in his mind. Madame le Serpent. That was the name the marquis had used when speaking of the Queen Mother and her insidious plans.

Andelot wished he had never heard of Catherine de Medici, even if it meant he would not meet the cardinal.

Will I ever meet him, or le Duc de Guise?

There had been no confrontation between the Queen Mother and her daughter on the bend of the road when they had started again on the jour- ney after the midday meal. Catherine, Francis, and Mary, along with the Guises and the royal guard, had ridden down the winding road toward Amboise castle, while Marguerite meekly followed with Charlotte de Presney and Rachelle on either side of her.

“Saintes preserve me,” Marguerite whispered, still pale and trembling.

The forest soon thickened around them as Rachelle rode toward Amboise. They galloped into a clearing where a grassy meadow crept to the river’s bank, and here they drew up. There came a f lurry of wind sending a few drops of cool rain spattering against her tired face and