Threads of Silk (48 page)

Fabien was staying with Prince Condé, Princesse Eleonore, and Queen Jeanne, for the Hotel de Condé was not far from the Louvre; for that matter, neither was the Hotel de Bourbon where Prince Antoine was staying while Jeanne was in Paris. The thought that Fabien and a strong alliance were nearby encouraged her. Soon now, he would come — but what was taking him so long? What hour was it?

Rachelle, unable to rest, arose, fully garbed for travel, and moved about the chamber.
What was that sound?
She paused and looked toward the door. Outside the door she thought she heard footsteps, but could not be sure. She hurried, but stopped — wait, he said he would tap.

But no tapping came. Fabien had assured her he had amis among the guards who would arrange for certain guards to be on duty who would look the other way when he came. What if one of them betrayed him? If Prince Antoine could betray Jeanne, why couldn’t a guard betray the Marquis de Vendôme?

Where is your faith? You will soon go mad worrying about every detail
that can go wrong. All your brave talk these many months means little. When you need trust, you fail to lay hold of it, and fret.

Something appeared under the door. In the dim light of the candle, she saw a white piece of parchment. Her fear leapt into action.
Fabien
will not be coming. He has been caught—

She rushed to snatch it up and turn to the candle. The note shook as she read:

Madame Rachelle,

The life of the Queen of Navarre will be worth nothing when the
sun rises tomorrow. The warrant for her arrest on heresy charges is
being drawn up at dawn. The house of Guise will not allow her to
leave Paris. They have talked Prince Antoine into putting soldiers
around Paris to stop her from leaving. If she does not leave tonight,
they will catch her. They will turn her over to her worst enemies. I
tell you this because the Huguenot queen is a kind woman, not like
my mistress. You too have been kind to me. I will leave the door of the
secret passage of the Queen Mother open for the marquis as he asked
me. Burn this lettre unless you wish to see me murdered. I hope you
will be at peace.

Madalenna

Madalenna! Rachelle reread the message, her throat dry. So the Florentine demoiselle had been part of Fabien’s plans all along. Her compassion reached out to her again. Madalenna had shown much courage in risking herself like this. Rachelle prayed for her, then Queen Jeanne, then held the message to the flame and watched it burn and turn to ash.

Tonight! How could Jeanne escape so quickly? She must be sound asleep at this hour with no thought in her mind of an arrest come the morning. Unless Madalenna had slipped out and found her way to the Hotel de Condé? But no, the demoiselle could not manage that, and that was the reason she had given her the warning instead, so she could tell Fabien — when he arrived! Where was he? And now it was all the more urgent that he come quickly.

Rachelle paced, hand at her forehead. Fabien would bring Jeanne word of her danger. He would never leave Paris now without his Huguenot kinswoman. This complicated their escape, making it more dangerous . . . and more likely to fail. And yet how could she even think of that now when the trap was being set to surround her.

Antoine — how could he do this?

Rachelle had made sympathetic excuses for him, blaming his failure on being left alone with the Guises and the Spanish ambassador at the palais without strong upright fellowship. Yes, how true the apostle Paul’s words in 1 Corin thians 15:33: “Evil communications corrupt good manners.” Antoine had joined the league, and soon the Guise influence led him down their own path. “Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly,” she murmured.

The first psalm could be Antoine de Bourbon’s epitaph. What is
mine?

She turned swiftly, hearing a whisper of footsteps in the outer corridor. She held her breath, waiting, then came the signal — the light tap, tap.

In a moment she was there, sliding back the bolt, and Fabien entered, closed the door quietly, and wrapped his arms around her. He kissed her as though they had been separated for a year.

“All is ready. I see you are rightly dressed. Come, make no sound.”

She pulled at his sleeve. “Wait, I must tell you news.”

After he had heard Madalenna’s message, he scowled. “Arrest her by dawn? Saints! She must leave at once. It is essential I return to the Hotel de Condé, but not before I turn you over to the captain of my guard.

Quick, chérie.”

He looked into the corridor to make certain no one was there, then, with her hand securely clasped in his, they were rushing through the corridors, across a salle, down some stairs, and along a back passage to the little-known door left unlocked by Madalenna. In a few moments, they were inside the passageway, and a lone candle he must have lit earlier guttered. The air became dank and stale. The sound of their feet echoed, and as they neared the outer door facing the quay she could hear the drip of water and smell foul odors. Fabien held to her tightly and guided her along. Then they were out the door into the dark night, facing a gust of wind that made her shiver with relief. She looked at his smile. With his arm around her they rushed forward toward the river Seine.

The night closed about them. They had not dashed far before Gallaudet appeared. The three of them disappeared into the garden trees. Gallaudet watched for anyone who might be following while Fabien strode ahead, his hand firmly clasped on his scabbard. He was ready for any trouble. She would tremble to be a guard who stood in his way at this moment. It was all she could do to keep up without running.

“Not far now,” he whispered as if he could read her mind.

She recognized the landscape as the route to the quay. This was the way she had taken on that morning that had brought such fear into her life. What if once again they were being deceived by the Queen Mother? What if she knew they were planning to escape? What if soldiers were waiting, and once again Fabien was attacked and torn from her, this time to be sent to the Bastille? Oh forbid! Let it not be. Not this time —

Her heart thudded. Her hands were clammy, and her throat felt cramped and dry. The water lapped against the wooden pilings, and small boats creaked and looked like silhouettes of dragons looming up in the Seine. Did they come to aid their escape or war against them? The smell of river was unpleasant; the wind was biting, its cold making her eyes water. Her teeth chattered from fear. She was not chilled, but perspiring.
Hurry!

A little way farther, to horses that waited with a dozen of his men-at-arms. A little way and then freedom waited, England waited —
if only
—

She saw the men ahead; two hurried to meet them. She pushed forward, her mind screaming the one worry that pulsated through every heartbeat:
hurry, hurry
—

Fabien swept her up in his arms when she moved too slowly for him and made a hasty move toward the horses. The men fanned out, watching the way from which they had come, hands on their scabbards. Nothing moved, nothing stirred but the wind.

A moment later Fabien swung up into the saddle and rode up beside her.

“Fear not, he smiled, his dark eyes flashing. “Away, mon belle amour!”

Rachelle held the reins and started her mare trotting behind him.

She looked back over her shoulder for one last glimpse of Paris.

The sprightly mare dashed ahead after Fabien’s stallion, and soon they were galloping away, away from the quay with its dark memories, away from the Louvre palais silhouetted against the dark Parisian background, forward to the road, to the coach, toward La Rochelle — and England. A few tears wet her cheeks, as the wind, caressed them.

Adieu my beloved France! Au revoir!

End of Book Three

Book Four, 2008

Catch Up on the First Two Books in the Silk House Series!

DAUGHTER OF SILK, BOOK ONE

Pursuing the family name as the finest silk producer in Lyon, France, Huguenot Rachelle Dushane-Macquinet is thrilled to accompany her famous couturière grandmere to Paris to create a silk trousseau for the Royal Princesse Marguerite Valois.

The court is magnificent; the Queen Mother, Catherine de Medici, deceptively charming . . . and the circumstances, darker and more dangerous than Rachelle could possibly imagine. At a time in history when the tortures of the Bastille and the fiery stake are an almost casual occurrence in France, a scourge of recrimination is moving fast and furious against the Huguenots — and as the Queen Mother’s political intrigues weave a web of deception around her, Rachelle finds herself in imminent danger.

Hope rests in warning the handsome Marquis Fabien de Vendome of the wicked plot against his Bourbon kinsmen, the royal princes. But to do so, Rachelle must follow a perilous course that puts her at risk — but she finds that her heart, too, is in danger of being captured by Marquis Fabien.

WRITTEN ON SILK, BOOK TWO

Rachelle Dushane-Macquinet, a couturière from one of France’s foremost silk-making families, has been commissioned to make a magnificent gown for the Queen of England. But Rachelle is uneasy. She occupies a precarious position in the court of the Queen Mother, Catherine de Medici, who has not officially sanctioned her stay at the Château de Silk.

As Rachelle works on the gown, persecution rages against the French Huguenots. When the rampant slaughter of the Protestants brings tragedy to her sisters Avril and Idelette, Rachelle needs the love of her life, Marquis Fabien, more than ever. But Fabien has his own way in warring against the persecutors — he has left on a privateering venture to strike a blow against the Spanish supply lines of the persecution. Rachelle must fend for herself.

When she receives a summons to return to Catherine de Medici’s court, she welcomes the chance to spy on the Queen Mother known as “Madame le Serpent,” believed to use poison on her enemies.

When Catherine decides to lure Marquis Fabien back to Paris in order get him to assassinate one of her enemies, she threatens to give Rachelle in marriage to Fabien’s cousin, Comte Maurice. Will Marquis Fabien return to claim Rachelle for his own and risk being captured and sent to Spain?

Glossary of French Words