Daughter of Silk (34 page)

Rachelle agreed it was undoubtedly so, but she hoped to return soon to Lyon with the many drawings of Marguerite’s wedding trousseau to discuss them with Grandmère at Chateau de Silk.

“I will think about your leave of absence from court,” Marguerite said. “But it is not common that a maid-of honor should be granted such leave so soon after becoming one.”

“True, my princesse, but it is rare that a maid-of-honor also has the privilege of being the couturière for Her Highness’s wedding trousseau. Such a grand trousseau as this must have the Macquinet family assisting me.”

“There is time,” Marguerite said. “The marriage contract with the king will not be signed tomorrow, I promise you. And my marriage to Monsieur Guise will not take place for several years at least.”

Rachelle was uneasy. What gave Marguerite confidence the contract would not be signed when Catherine was equally determined it would be so?

Rachelle finished Marguerite’s charming mask of gold with burgundy ribbons, then as Charlotte was called to fix Marguerite’s hair, Rachelle rushed to finish her own mask. It was green velvet with gold ties, match- ing the gold trim on her gown. Her heart was heavy and whether her dress was exquisite no longer mattered, for who would be there to appre- ciate it? She thought of Andelot Dangeau, one galante, at least, who was a safe harbor for her ailing heart.

As the purple and gold twilight deepened over the river, the torches sprang into f lame up and down the waterway and in the emerald forest adjacent to the castle. Rachelle found the gala affair most stunning. All

the courtiers and ladies were at the banquet to pay homage to the visiting King of Portugal.

Although the festive ceremonial meeting between Marguerite and the nephew of Philip of Spain proceeded with appropriate decorum on Marguerite’s part, Rachelle knew Marguerite was only feigning meekness.

The king, too, played his part well. As to whether he was deceived by the princesse, or was made by his Oncle Philip to understand Marguerite was an untamable wanton, Rachelle could but wonder. It all seemed to her a theatrical play, all of them fit for the masque later that evening. The glittering candles shining on the gold and bejeweled goblets of wine, the gowns, the rings, the smiles — all were cut of the worst kind of ruse.

Therefore it came as no surprise when the king declared openly that there was no one more lovely than the Valois princesse, nor was there a more fascinating woman at court. Marguerite let it be known by her charm that such a marriage match was most suitable to her.

Rachelle was fascinated watching the Queen Mother. Catherine, for a change, did not wear black but rather a most extraordinaire dress of rose lace. But her eyes were fixed upon her daughter, and to those who did not know her, Catherine appeared emotionless. But the unblinking gaze of Madame le Serpent spoke its secret warning to Marguerite: one faux pas and it would be dealt with when the goblets were empty and the servants were sweeping the f loor.

Rachelle knew she too was one of the most beautiful ladies in atten- dance in her emerald green velvet. And as an attendant to the princesse, she had caught the interested eyes of several titled men, including Comte Maurice Beauvilliers, Sebastien’s nephew. She did not see Fabien at the banquet. Then he had opted not to come — why? Andelot Dangeau was also there. He would undoubtedly know why the marquis was keeping himself away.

During the dancing, with the many courtiers on the great f loor in two opposite lines, Rachelle was able to nod to Andelot that she would meet him near the open gallery on the other side.

The air was cool coming in from the river, which was lined with col- ored lamps. Andelot was waiting, looking vulnerably handsome as he approached her in his less f lamboyant clothing.

“There is le Cardinal de Lorraine,” she said in a low voice.

Charles de Guise wore crimson and white, his gold cross gleam- ing. There was a somewhat haughty smile loitering around his mouth, and his gray eyes were watchful. He had turned those eyes now toward Andelot and Rachelle. Rachelle felt an odd sensation as he looked at her, and she pretended she did not notice his gaze.

“He is coming,” Andelot whispered, consternation and excitement mingling in his voice.

Rachelle shivered. She dipped a curtsy as the powerful man walked up. She could smell the fragrance from his rustling garments, saw the white hand with its rubies and sapphires being extended toward her for the perfunctory kiss of obedience.

Andelot grasped his hand and kissed it.

“Monseigneur Cardinal, I am your dutiful servant. I have longed to meet you since I arrived at Blois.”

She knew Andelot had risked looking brutish by his action, and that it had cost him, for he wanted more than anything to appear worthy of his kinsman’s attention and betterment.

The cardinal turned his attention away from Rachelle and looked at Andelot with a lean smile and observant eyes.

Rachelle thought he looked amused.

“Monsieur Andelot, I trust our meeting will go forward tomorrow without further interruption. We have much to discuss, including your future in Paris. We must wait for your oncle, Sebastien, to return from Moulins.” His mouth showed cynicism. “He is taking a long time to return to the queen regent, is he not? But then, perhaps he has more in common with the Bourbons.”

How much does he know?
Rachelle wondered.
Does that subdued

mockery mean he knows Sebastien is a Huguenot?

“Did I hear the honored title of Bourbon, Monsieur le Cardinal?”

They turned. Marquis Fabien stood garbed in rich Genoan velvet of black and scarlet, holding a broad-rimmed hat turned up with a scarlet plume and fastened to an aigrette of rubies, with the armorial device of a
B
in gold.

He bowed. “Mademoiselle, Monseigneur le Cardinal, mon cousine Andelot. What is this you say, Cardinal . . . Sebastien has not returned from Moulins? Ah, but he has!” And he gestured with his golden brown head toward the salle.

They all turned. Sebastien stood with the cardinal’s brother, le Duc de Guise, their heads bent, talking soberly.

Fabien smiled lazily. “He rode in last night, Monseigneur.”

Cardinal de Lorraine’s gray eyes swept him. “At last, this is good news, Marquis. We have been waiting . . . And will your kinsman, Prince Condé, show himself?”

There was a moment of silence, in which Rachelle, sensitive to the interplay between them, tensed over the cardinal’s seemingly innocent remark.

“You will be pleased to know that the members of the House of Bourbon will be here within two days to meet with King Francis. Louis has much to worry him, with Spain meddling in how Bourbon serfs decide to conduct their private worship.”

Rachelle scarcely breathed. Beside her, she felt Andelot stiffen. Was he nervous because he feared that Marquis Fabien would undermine his opportunities with his kinsman the cardinal, or was he concerned that Fabien was removing his mask of cooperation with the cardinal?

Le Cardinal de Lorraine’s handsome face was chiseled with lines of contempt. His power and authority over France intoxicated him.

“If the Prince Condé would rid his duchy of heretics and so solace the King of Spain, then he would not need concern himself with a pos- sible bull issued by Rome for his arrest and trial in sponsoring heresy, Marquis.”

Rachelle glanced sharply at Fabien. The muscles in his jaw tensed and the blue-violet of his eyes burned like hyacinth. Prince Condé was a true protector of the Huguenots, and Princesse Eleonore charitably sponsored safe houses for f leeing Protestants from elsewhere in France.

Why were the Bourbons risking so much to come here to Amboise?

“Do Philip and Rome perceive that a movement against Prince Condé could provoke a war? William the Silent of the Netherlands is prepared to bring his Protestant soldiers to Bourbonaise, and if necessary, to fight alongside Louis.”

“Does the Marquis mean to imply that he too would join Prince Condé to raise swords against the king of Catholic France?”

Fabien bowed. “Monseigneur knows that I am a most loyal Catholic — as was my father before me, Duc Jean-Louis de Bourbon.”

Rachelle picked up the subtle interplay. Her heart was beating quickly. Fabien was hinting that his father’s loyalty to the cardinal in the last war with Spain had not served to protect him from the Guises’ arranged assassination.

The cardinal’s cynical mouth tipped at one corner and froze there. “Rome may choose to reconsider your allegiance and wonder if it is genuine.”

“May it never be. For surely, Monseigneur, I do not measure up to your good witness of the faith.”

Andelot choked on his wine, bending over and holding his throat with one hand, clutching his goblet with the other.

Rachelle seized the moment he provided. She grabbed his arm and cried: “Andelot! Oh, Marquis de Vendôme, aid me in getting him to a chair,
s’il vous plaît!
”

The cardinal gave a brief nod of his head and looked at Andelot. “Come to my chambers in the morning, cousine — if you survive chok- ing on your wine. We will meet with Sebastien over
petit noir
. The day will be long and we have much to decide about your future.”

Cousine?
Rachelle thought.

Andelot ceased his coughing at once. A look of shock spread over his face. The cardinal then turned to Fabien who also showed alert interest.

“Marquis, do you not think it most interesting that I have discovered the parentage of Andelot?”

He turned to Rachelle. “Mademoiselle Macquinet, I trust we will meet in Paris at a more convenient time. Adieu.” He walked away toward le Duc de Guise and Sebastien, his crimson vestment rustling, leaving a fragrance of musk.

“Ah, Marquis Fabien,” Andelot whispered with dismay. “You have done yourself grave injury. Why did you do so? You made him angry. He will not forget.”

“A
fait accompli
, mon ami. Do not concern yourself unduly. I know the cardinal’s ways as a stag knows his watering holes. I was never secure. Nor will you be now.”

“What?” Andelot blinked.

“Listen, mon ami, do not go to his
petit déjeuner
in the morning. You will not find Sebastien there.”

“What! Mon cousine — not go? When I am here for this very pur- pose? And such a purpose. Why, I might end up the page of the cardinal himself.”

“That is what I fear. We must talk tonight after the masque.”

Fabien’s violet blue eyes hardened like jewels as he looked after the cardinal. “He believes he is very clever, that one. A pity a holier man than he is not in his position.”

“You made that clear,” Andelot grumbled. “I do not understand you, Marquis. You have deliberately made yourself abhorrent.”

Fabien smiled. “You but think so. And now, Mademoiselle, it is you and I who have much to discuss. Will you accompany me on a boat ride to the south side of the Loire? S’il vous plaît.” He bowed.

Rachelle’s mind was still f loundering in a turbulent sea of its own. She looked from Andelot, who was scowling in obvious bewilderment, to Fabien, whose smile caused her guard to snap into place.

“Monsieur, merci, but I cannot leave the princesse. I am under orders from the Queen Mother.”

“Yes, you better not go,” Andelot agreed hastily.

Fabien looked at him with a brief, wry smile. “Au contraire, cousine. Mademoiselle Rachelle
must
come with me.” He reached over, smiled, and took her arm. He bowed lightly to Andelot. “Adieu. I will talk to you later tonight.”

Rachelle found herself being guided with a firm but gentle hand along the gallery to the downward stairway.

The night breeze was comfortable and bore the lovely strains of a symphony from the royal musicians, who played from the center of the river on an anchored barge, with the raised platform covered with purple velvet embroidered in gold.

“I have a boat ready, Mademoiselle. Your company is most charmante.” “Monsieur!”

“Fabien.”

“Marquis Fabien,” she said, “you have a certain finesse for taking command even when it is uncalled for. I cannot go with you on a boat, although a moonlight cruise would also be most charmante in the plans of Madame Charlotte de Presney.”

She took her arm away and stopped on the stair, looking at him with what she hoped was a cool stare, though his presence made her feel anything but that. She could not resist the jealous anger growing in her heart.

“I am sure that Madame de Presney is more preferable to my com- pany as it
was
in the garden when I was to meet you . . . You do remem- ber, Marquis.”

“Yes, I remember well, Mademoiselle. You decided to have a head- ache and leave me helpless and hopeless to combat her bewitching wiles. She ruined the lace on my shirt, because of
you
. But as you are such a fine grisette, I am sure you can sew it for me? I will pay you, assuredly.”

She made an unearthly sound, gritting her teeth, then turning sharply she started back up the steps to Andelot, but Fabien took her arm again and laughed.

“Mademoiselle, do you take me for a fool? A boy when it comes to such matters as you speak of? Do you think I am so naive that I cannot see through Madame de Presney’s wiles from the beginning? Or that I shall melt at her slippers for the opportunity of her bed?”

“Monsieur!”

“Come, come, let us be honest. That is what you are hinting about, is it not? I see I must remind you. I was raised at court. Nothing surprises me; little shocks me. I have seen it all and heard it all. I have already decided on what I wish from life. There are many Charlottes, I assure you, both young and aging, and beautiful and powerful enough to do injury to anyone who snubs them. But I will also remind you again that none of them interest me. Did I not tell you so at Blois?”

Yes, he had told her, and she believed him until Louise informed her otherwise. That he had mentioned his shirt, however lightly, proved Louise had spoken the truth of what she saw in the garden.

“Believe me, I care not what the gossips report. None of this disturbs me, Mademoiselle. It is your thoughts toward me that are of concern.