Threads of Silk (35 page)

Rachelle sent the designs for Marguerite’s gowns to the Queen Mother as ordered, and Madalenna returned them with authorization to proceed. Rachelle breathed easier. But convincing Marguerite herself was another matter. She met with the princesse in the atelier, laying out the bolts of silk and lace and other materials in various colors.

“I tell you, Rachelle, I will not wear them unless I do so for my only amour. There is but one Henry for me. I loathe Navarre, and I will not marry him.”

“My Princessse, my sympathies are with you, I assure you. Even so, I beg you to understand I have no choice in this matter. If I do not make these belle gowns as ordered . . .” She deliberately fell silent.

Marguerite raised her dark eyes toward the ceiling and heaved a sigh. “You need not explain. I know. I am well aware of your palais arrest and difficulties with the Queen Mother.”

She knew? But she could not know about Duc de Guise. In loyalty to young Henry, she would alert him of the danger to his father, and that would put Fabien at risk.

“If I must meet with Navarre and go through this charade, then I shall do so most reluctantly. It will keep me from being whipped again, and you from her dreadful ire.”

Rachelle smiled her relief. “I vow to do my best to make the gowns most belle.”

In the days that followed, Rachelle took solace in the handling of her exquisite bolts of silk and familiar sewing utensils transported from Paris. So much had happened since that first day at Chambord, working on Princesse Marguerite’s gowns with Grandmère and Idelette, which had brought about her first conversation with the marquis.

And here she was again with Princesse Marguerite, ankle deep in samples of silks and satins, velvets, brocades, and laces. Despite Marguerite’s loathing of the cause for which she would wear her new gowns, she nonetheless adored the rich silks and lush colors.

Rachelle unrolled a bolt of pink silk from Lyon and Nenette unpacked the gold silk, followed by the snow-drift white that would become a wedding gown. There were also strips of the softest ermine, to be studded with diamonds and added to collar and farthingale.

“But, mon ami, I should like the bodice lower. It is too high as you have drawn it — it will make my chin itch.” Marguerite raised a hand and scratched beneath her chin.

Rachelle sighed. “I have no choice in the matter, my Princesse. The Queen Mother has insisted I raise the décolleté. Also, the color cannot be crimson as you wished, but something softer.
More innocent
, was the meaning of the Queen Mother. Look at this lovely peach color, or what about the rosebud pink?”

“Non! I loathe pink. It makes me appear as if I am always blushing. “I know why Madame-Mère insists on a high neck and dull, frigid colors. It is because she wants me to deceive the old religious crow, Queen Jeanne, when I meet with her ill-smelling son. She loathes me as much as I do her.”

“Oh, Princesse, surely not.”

“I tell you it is so. And I will not have her son for all the gold in her Huguenot kingdom.”

Rachelle attempted to defend Fabien’s kinswoman, but Marguerite waved aside her protest. Marguerite, however, was not politically minded, nor was she a fanatic who desired the deaths of all Protestants. She, like Queen Jeanne, was well-educated, and had even studied medicine under the royal surgeon and physician, Ambrose le Pare. But from Marguerite’s antics and her moral looseness, one would not have guessed that intellectually she was the finest of the Valois children. She was more tolerant than those in her family and was not antagonistic, despite her outbursts of anger. Rachelle was fond of her and oft enjoyed her company even when saddened with her behavior.

At last Marguerite accepted the peach color with a sullen face.

“It is not your fault, I know. Oh, why do I not simply wear crow’s black and surrender to the funeral pyre?” She walked across the atelier out onto the balustrade while Rachelle rewound the bolt of silk.

Marguerite, rather plump and sensuous, with dark hair and eyes and an excessive passion for men, turned dramatically back toward Rachelle, her white hand with jewels placed against her heart. “Even so, all your belle work is in vain, mon ami. I am sad to say it is so, but I must. For I will not wear the gowns to meet that unwashed, prickly boar of the forest, Navarre. Nor will I marry him and sleep in the same bed with him. I swear it. I have vowed my everlasting amour to Henry de Guise, and so it will be, even though my neck is put to the chopping block by Charles and Madame-Mère.”

Rachelle winced and rubbed her aching head.

Marguerite continued needlessly pacing up and down the stone floor of the balustrade, while now and then peering over into the courtyard below where the road to town could be seen. “You do not know how much I loathe Henry of Navarre.”

“Oh, I do know, ma chère Princesse. You have told me every day for six weeks. He has dirty fingernails, he never takes a bath, and he laughs too much.”
And is as loose with the women at court as you are with men!

Marguerite scowled at her, then laughed. “You left out that he is a heretic. How can I marry a heretic?” she asked innocently, as though it truly mattered to her. “How can Charles and Madame-Mère even suggest I should?”

There were political reasons, as Fabien had said, and Marguerite knew them far better than did Rachelle.

Marguerite came back into the atelier and took her reluctant place on the stool again. Rachelle began to take measurements, for Marguerite looked to have put on a bit here and there since Amboise.

“Have you ever talked to the prince?” Rachelle asked. “Maybe the two of you could become friends even if you do not love passionately.”

“La, la. I have met him once too often, I assure you. He was at the Louvre when we were children. Nor does he have the élégant manners of the true Parisian. He is from Berne and behaves as crudely. I vow he chews on garlic for sport. Nor does he wear handsome finery, but rough, woodsy garments.”

Rachelle couldn’t help but laugh, imagining the Prince of Navarre munching garlic cloves for sport. “And yet the tales of his prowess with belle women?” Rachelle asked warily, for it would not do for her to insult a future king even though Marguerite did so. She wondered how Queen Jeanne could not know of her son’s escapades. “Many Parisian women have desired him, so I hear; the belle dames from court and even demoiselles from wealthy noble families. Are you most sure he is as uncouth as you remember him?”

Marguerite snapped her fingers dismissing him. “He is. Besides, for me it will be forever my amour Henry de Guise. So galant! So tall and fair!”

So every inch a king? Ah, what the Queen Mother would read into her daughter’s last statement.

Marguerite walked over to the railing and looked below. “Come, Rachelle, look, did you ever see such a sight!”

Rachelle set her things aside and joined the princesse at the balustrade.

Along the outer street she saw a long procession of horses, mule-drawn wagons, and carts. Seated inside the wagons were men and women, even children, all garbed in modest dark apparel, with the men wearing wide-rimmed black hats. The Huguenots from Geneva! Rachelle’s spirits revived in hope. These Christians were Monsieur John Calvin’s small theological army, and they had traveled from Geneva to plead with the cardinals and bishops on the reasons for the Reformation.

“They look like a flock of crows landing on the city,” Marguerite said with a touch of amused scorn.

“They are dedicated to Christ, my Princesse, and as such they are no enemy of yours, but wish you well and pray for you.”

“I do not want to be converted.” Marguerite tossed her head. “I am content to be as I am.”

Rachelle looked at her, and in that moment possessed a great affection for her despite her weaknesses, knowing how many she had of her own — for which she had a great Savior.

“Are you truly content?” she asked gently, hoping the simple question would awaken a need in Marguerite’s empty heart.

Marguerite’s eyes flashed. “Do not be flippant. I love you, and you are mon amie, but though you are now a grand marquise, that in no way permits you to insult me.”

“Oh, Marguerite, I thought you knew me better than to think such a thing.”

“I do not want to discuss it. Religion bores me.” She turned on her heel toward the atelier. “I have had enough for today, Rachelle. I am going to see Henry tonight — Guise — ” she said with corrected emphasis. “Adieu,” she tossed over her shoulder as she went out, calling for her ladies who waited in the next chamber to follow.

Rachelle looked back at the long train of arriving Calvinists and smiled. Despite the darkening clouds over France, she experienced a wave of joy in her soul.

On an impulse, she waved down at the godly caravan bringing ministers and Bibles in French. “Welcome, bonjour!”

Here they come, brave soldiers to bring the truth of God’s Word despite
the obstacles. They are willing to risk their reputations and lives to debate
Cardinal de Lorraine and the bishops on the important doctrines of
faith.

They did not wave back. She had not expected them to do so. Reserved, no doubt concerned with how they would represent the Lord and stand against the wiles of the devil, they must have thought her a silly court belle.

Her gaze moved on along the trail of horsemen and came across a man in black with a white beard. He was escorted safely through the street by the Bourbon Prince Louis de Condé and his men-at-arms.

That man with the white beard . . . Why, it is Minister Beza, Calvin’s
disciple. I am sure it is he. I have seen a painting of him.

If only Père Arnaut and Madame Clair were here now. They would be so thrilled to see this victory after so many prayers for the deliverance of France. And Cousin Bertrand too —

She straightened from the railing. On one of the horses near Minister Beza, there was another beloved and very familiar figure, a tall, severe-looking monsieur with a short white beard and slashing brows. He was all in black except for the stiff white ruffle of lace about his neck — it was Cousin Bertrand Macquinet.

“Oh — ” Rachelle turned from the balustrade and ran across the atelier toward the door to the corridor. Nenette, who had come in just then with Philippe, stopped and looked at her with wide eyes.

“What is it, Mademoiselle?”

Rachelle laughed. “Cousin Bertrand Macquinet! He has arrived! Go to the balustrade and look. The Huguenots are coming!”

“The Huguenots are coming!” the boy Philippe cried, laughing.

“The Huguenots are here!” Nenette caught Philippe’s arm playfully and danced him around the atelier, then out to the balustrade to see the parade.

RACHELLE
FOUND HER WAY THROUGH THE PRESS
until she caught up with the front of the long train bearing Beza and his twelve ministers from Geneva toward the palais château gate. She saw Cousin Bertrand again and called to him, waving as he rode along on the big bay horse. He heard her, for his head turned sharply and she saw his gaze scanning the spectators following along.

“Cousin Bertrand,” she called again, smiling. “Over here!”

He saw her and a smile cracked his otherwise sober face. He tried to break away and ride toward her, but the crowd was too dense.

“In the courtyard,” she called, pointing toward a small entry that wound to the public side. He gestured that he understood.

Rachelle hurried ahead to wait for him. Did his arrival mean Père Arnaut and Madame Clair were in Paris?

She wondered where Fabien was. That morning he’d informed her the Geneva Bible teachers would arrive this week. Although the meetings did not officially begin until September, they had desired to spend more time beforehand with any and all who wished to discuss the Reformation or to attend private Bible studies. The Bible meetings were permitted during this period of time by the king as long as they were held out of sight within the private residences of the chief members of the nobility, such as Prince Louis, Admiral Coligny, and Queen Jeanne.

A few minutes later she saw Cousin Bertrand dismounting from the horse and turning it over to the hostler. Rachelle smiled. How relieved she was that he was here again.

He walked toward her, an élégant figure who might have passed for Calvin himself, except that Bertrand was heavier. She hurried toward him.