Threads of Silk (4 page)

I shall admire these treasures from afar, and honor those whom God
has gifted with skills to create such marvels, but I do not need to possess
such luxury.

What he desired now was to go to Geneva to hear Monsieur John Calvin, to perhaps attend the great theological school there.

He gazed toward the archway where a door opened and a rustle of silky material alerted him. The fire flickered in a hearth, and a lamp was burning. There appeared to be someone else in the cardinal’s
salle de
séjour,
but the figure slipped out of view before Andelot could fully see. He saw the handsome young Charles de Guise, the Cardinal de Lorraine, the most powerful religious messire in all France. Andelot caught a whiff of fragrance that he had come to associate with him.

He was tall and slim with large, languid almond-shaped eyes. His mouth was sensuous, his long graceful hands adorned with gold and ruby rings. His lips were too often curved with what Andelot thought was amused cynicism. A woman in the other chamber quickly vanished through drapes. Andelot blinked, thinking he might have imagined her. No longer was he the gullible boy who had first come to Amboise to meet his Guise kinsmen. The first time Marquis Fabien had told him that the Cardinal de Lorraine kept mistresses, Andelot had been offended, thinking the marquis was being irreverent toward the cardinal. How gullible he had been to think that high church titles and religious ceremonies would make the man holy without the indwelling Spirit of God.

If I must depend upon this manner of religious messire to stand between
my soul and God, I should despair!

Jesus, our great high priest, is holy, harmless, undefiled, and separate
from sinners. He ever lives to make intercession for us. Our great high
priest is moved with tender compassion for each of His own.

Andelot suddenly smiled, joy dancing in his soul. “Bon jour, Monseigneur.” He hastened a small bow.

The cardinal’s brow shot up. “You are full of
joie de vivre
I see, Andelot. Am I to take your deportment as happiness that your guardian oncle has fled Paris for England?”

Andelot stared.
What! It could not be true! Comte Sebastien, gone?

“Monseigneur? Fled Paris?”

“Like a rat fleeing a burning ship. Your shock indicates surprise. You were unaware, is that it, Andelot? I wonder if I can permit my sounder judgment to believe you?”

“Monseigneur Cardinal, I vow this news astounds me.”

“As it does us all.” He walked into the salle and sat upon an ornate chair, gesturing Andelot to do the same.

“Sebastien has betrayed King Francis by this dastardly action. Not to mention inviting the rage of the Queen Mother, who trusted him as a member of the Privy Council. Without a word, he has taken his wife and child and his wife’s sister and abandoned his duty to the throne of France. And this betrayal, mind you, after the kindnesses bestowed upon him. We should have left him to his just imprisonment in the Bastille for his part in the Huguenot rebellion at Amboise against the king.”

Overcome by this development, Andelot remained silent.

“Then you are willing to swear you knew naught of this vile treachery, Andelot?”

Whether Sebastien’s actions were treacherous, Andelot would not judge, but he could vow that he had not been privy to the plans.

“This is the first I have learned of it, Monseigneur. He did not speak of it to me, and I knew not that he was planning an escape.”

He must have fled to Spitalfields to be with Pasteur Bertrand and the
Huguenot church there.

A feeling of loss rolled over him. He would miss the shrewd but kindly and protective Sebastien, who claimed in some complicated manner to be his oncle, even as the powerful cleric who sat watching him with measuring eyes was also said to be a kinsman. The facts had never been explained to Andelot’s satisfaction, and perhaps they never would be. The idea that he might be a Guise no longer straightened his shoulders and fed his desire for advancement at court.

Why did Sebastien not tell me he was fleeing France? I might have
chosen to flee with him.

His loss waned with the growing realization that Sebastien, unhappy at court and at serious risk in his faith, had outmanipulated the Queen Mother. Relief roused in his heart and almost sang from his lips until he became aware of the languid eyes staring at him so keenly.

“May I ask when Comte Sebastien left the Paris Louvre, Monsei-gneur?”

“If we knew that, he might have been captured and arrested posthaste,” the cardinal said wryly. “We thought you might be able to tell us.”

“I knew nothing of this, Monseigneur.”

“So you have said. The road out of Paris to Calais is under watch on orders from the Queen Mother. He will be captured, you can be sure.”

The cardinal’s confidence threw a dagger of fear into his belly. If Sebastien and his family were caught, it would mean their imprisonment, or worse.

Lord God, protect them and send angels to help them.

“You are not looking well, mon petit,” came the cardinal’s mocking voice. “You would not have in mind the fate of your secret amour?”

Dulled by the senseless question, Andelot wondered what to say.

“Monseigneur, I do not understand what you are suggesting.”

The cardinal produced a lettre, a cynical smile on his lips. “Does the name of Mademoiselle Idelette Macquinet awaken your understanding at all?”

Andelot remained mute, wondering if Idelette had gone with her sister and Sebastien. The cardinal offered him the lettre.

“This was found in Sebastien’s appartement at the Louvre by a maid of the Macquinet family. She arrived here with a peasant boy of about twelve. They came from Paris to find Duchesse Dushane. The guards intercepted the
demoiselle
and discovered this lettre written to you. Will you still swear to me that you knew nothing of Sebastien’s well-planned escape to England?”

Andelot recognized the handwriting as belonging to Idelette, for she had corresponded with him on occasion in the past. He took the letter, and, uneasy under the cardinal’s gaze, read Idelette’s message.

“We anticipate the day when Macquinet-Dushane silk cloth is shipped to the Spitalfields district where we will open a business with the Hudson family and employ many of the French, Belgian, and Dutch Protestant immigrants. There is another reason why I have chosen to leave France and take up residence in London, but I cannot bring myself to explain to you now. I will write you again,
cher
Andelot, after we have arrived safely by God’s grace.”

Andelot’s sudden alarm surprised even him. There could be but one reason that would motivate the cool-headed and unemotional Mademoiselle Idelette to leave her beloved home in Lyon, the Château de Silk, and risk the journey to England with Sebastien and his family: that was Idelette’s respect and affection for a man who shared her interest in silk and design. And the only monsieur that he could think of was Sir James Hudson, the English couturier that both Idelette and her sister Rachelle had written about to him in the past.

Andelot’s spirits slumped. The obvious “other reason” for going to England was that Sir James Hudson had not as yet asked for her hand in marriage.

“Ah,” the cardinal said, “so you do have a secret amour. The look on your face informs me you are disappointed by the news of mademoiselle’s departure.”

“Yes, Monseigneur, it is all so unexpected.”

“Even so, your behavior of late is most unsatisfactory, Andelot. I can only hope your studies under Scholar Thauvet will vindicate your pledge to me that you wish above all things to pursue your education.”

Andelot bowed. “I assure you, Monseigneur, that it is so.”

“We shall see. It is fortunate that the mademoiselle has removed herself from becoming your distraction.”

How many distractions did the cardinal have?

The cardinal stood, signifying an end to the meeting.

“I shall consider your vow that you are not involved in this treasonous behavior against the king.”

Andelot bowed again. He was on his way toward the door when the cardinal’s voice halted him.

“You were wise to end your friendship with the Marquis de Vendôme as I instructed you.”

Andelot arranged a blank expression before he looked back at him.

“Monseigneur?”

The cardinal’s long mouth turned upward. “I have word from elite spies that the Queen Mother has lured the Marquis Vendôme back to France.”

Andelot tensed.

“The marquis waits to be ensnared in the net she has laid for him. It is well you are not deemed his ally when he is brought before the
Duc
of Alva. The duc is most displeased over the sinking of his galleon off the coast of Holland.”

Andelot concealed his apprehension. The infamous Spanish Duc of Alva! Marquis Fabien was walking into a trap. The Duc of Alva was here at Fontainebleau at this very moment.

Andelot felt a rush of horror as he imagined Marquis Fabien and Comte Sebastien both being brought to Madrid in chains.

How might he warn the marquis? Was he at Calais? Paris?

Is the cardinal testing my response?

“As you say, Monseigneur,” he replied, keeping emotion from his voice and manner. “I have not seen the Marquis de Vendôme in months.

Is he coming here to Fontainebleau?”

The cardinal gave no answer and turned away to show Andelot he was dismissed. Andelot narrowed his gaze at the cleric’s back and went out, his palms sweating.

Trouble and woe. His soul could hear the cackles riding the autumn winds outside the diamonded windows. Clouds hurtled their way across the sky above Fontainebleau Forest.

Idelette . . .

Marquis Fabien . . .

Andelot walked slowly down the corridor toward the other section of the palais, toward Scholar Thauvet’s chambers and his own antechamber.

What could he do? He must do something! He must think, plan, and act.

Laying the Trap

WITHIN HER ROYAL CHAMBERS AT
FONTAINEBLEAU,
THE QUEEN MOTHER
of France composed her secret lettre, sealed it with the royal Valois seal, and placed it out of sight.

At one of the windows, she gazed off toward the darkening Fontainebleau Forest. The crooning wind moved through long, swaying branches. The messenger she expected could arrive at any moment now.

Catherine left her royal chamber and made her way by a circuitous route to an antechamber. Once inside she lit a candle and carried it to the other side through a narrow door. She peered down the secret steps. She turned her ear toward the hollow, listening, waiting. Then a small gleam from a candle appeared below. The messenger’s footsteps sounded, and a moment later a shadowy form emerged, shrouded in a hooded cloak like a traveling monk, and climbed upward. He had served her since her days in Florence, and he now bowed in obeisance.

Catherine extended her hand for the coveted parcel. Her heart beat faster as her fingers clasped hold. “It is all here then?”

“Yes, Your Majesty, it is from
him
, the master of mysterious sayings, delivered to me by his servant as arranged.”

“Very well. Madalenna will see to your needs in the forest. Let no one see you.”

“No, Madame. No one will see me.”

Catherine returned to her royal chamber and forbade her servants to disturb her. She entered her writing closet and shut the door.

Her stiff black skirt rustled as she sat at her desk, swiftly opened the package, and removed a rolled parchment. She drew the candles closer and spread the roll across the desk. Ah! Here it was! The future prognostications created for her and her royal Valois family from the diviner, Nostradamus.

She pored over the strange allusions of muted rhymes and meditated on the divination charts alleged to forecast the triumph or doom of her sons based upon the signs of the zodiac.

She smiled at the favor bestowed by the planetary system upon her favorite little son Anjou, drummed her fingers and scowled over Mad Charles, and narrowed her gaze thoughtfully over the present young king, Francis II. Soon, however, she set this portion aside, for it was the secret disclosure on one messire in particular, her enemy, that she had desired and negotiated to gain. And here it was! The dark forecast held her breathless and engrossed.

Ah yes, yes . . . I see it. Blood and darkness ahead . . . now is the time
to act. Ah yes, I must not step back in timidity. Here at last is the death
sign —
she tapped her finger on the drawing
— his bright star is dimming,
it is falling, it is going out. If this knowledge is acted upon, he will
die, the readings tell his fall. That noisome plague, Duc de Guise, is going
to die!

She considered the plans stirring in her mind and the personal consequences to her and Anjou. King Philip of Spain, her opponent, could prove to be a danger. If Spain should come to believe she had a personal hand in the duc’s death, Philip could invade France, and with a quiet nod from the pope, remove her and her sons from the throne and put a Guise in their place. She must save the throne of France for her sons, especially her Anjou.