Threads of Silk (9 page)

IT MUST HAVE BEEN
after midnight when Andelot departed from Fontainebleau with assistance from one of the duchesse’s friends in the royal guards and Page Romier.

“So you will not have me come with you?” Romier whispered, scowling beneath his pointed hat, the tassel swinging in the breeze.

“Non, mon ami, but I will have much to tell you when I return.”

Romier’s scowl deepened. “And I, your loyal ami. Why do I not come with you? Madame will gladly release me if you request I ride with you.”

“I must go alone. Madame needs you here. She too is at risk.”

Romier did not look entirely appeased, but he nodded at the mention of caring for the duchesse. They walked with the guard through the dark courtyard to one of the tributary postern gates.

“Farewell.” Andelot lifted a hand and slipped through the gate into the dark night. The golden bay had been quietly brought from the stables and was tied in the trees, waiting.

Andelot mounted Marquis Fabien’s horse and rode off into the night, alert to avoid notice by guards and soldiers on patrol.

ANDELOT
RODE THE GOLDEN BAY
beneath the canopy of silvery light from the full moon that sat like a pearl gracing the dark sky. He rode deeper into the woods around Fontainebleau, following the duchesse’s instructions. After a short time he came upon a small log cottage. There, he dismounted and went to the door and knocked with the rapping code the duchesse had given him.

A moment later the door opened, and he was ushered in by a dignified gray-haired man wearing dark, somber clothing. Andelot handed him the lettre from the duchesse. The elderly monsieur read it in silence before his hearth. Andelot recognized a look of pleasure, and even amusement, as the man’s mouth turned up at the corners and he raised his eyes to look more keenly at Andelot. He nodded to himself and beckoned Andelot to follow him into the small cooking room.

He was given food to last him the journey and a change of clothes. Andelot put on the rough peasant’s clothing, and the student of the famous Thauvet became Andelot the serf. The elder smiled at him. “I am the pasteur you rescued that day when the Dominican caught us in the woods near here. Duchesse Dushane tells me you have embraced the redemptive work of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.”

Andelot, surprised, remained speechless for a moment, then broke into a smile. “Monsieur, it is you! And to think I expected to leave here and replace the Bible where you hid it under the old log. The Lord has many pleasant surprises for us. Ah, Pasteur, I owe you much — for being able to read the Scriptures in my native French.”

“And I owe you much, Andelot. Your courage that day with the angry cleric has spared my earthly life that I may continue to serve God. I assure you, young messire, that whenever you wish to come to read this Book you will be most welcome. There is much we can discuss concerning the Word of God. We must, as the apostle Paul has written, “rightly divide the Word of truth.”

“
Merci
, mon pasteur. I will surely call upon you when I return. But I ask how you knew about me?”

“Duchesse Dushane spoke of you in this lettre. She has sent messages before. I always burn them, for one never knows if the messenger has been followed.”

“Indeed, Pasteur.”

Followed . . .
Andelot glanced uneasily toward the cottage door. The wind rattled the windows. He could imagine the broad face of Père Jaymin suddenly appearing.

“I know Madame well, though from afar,” the pasteur said. “She is a firm Huguenot, even as we. She has granted us much assistance and also sends warnings when we may be in more than usual danger.”

Andelot nodded. “The duchesse, oui — but how did she know I had your Bible? I told no one except mon oncle, and I would not have told him except he came upon me reading it.” Andelot told him of the time when he’d nearly been caught reading the Bible and how Sebastien had come to his aid at the precise moment to save him from discovery.

“Madame mentioned that Comte Sebastien had told her of your experience with the Bible. He was concerned for your safety, you see. She mentions that he has escaped with his family. May the Lord grant them a successful voyage to England.”

After they had discussed Sebastien’s escape for a few minutes, Andelot went on to tell him about the upcoming religious colloquy to be held at the Monastery of Poissy, near Saint-Germain-en-Laye.

“Perhaps I can slip away and come here to give you the news of what is occurring,” said Andelot.

“The debates over Scripture and the decisions made there will be of utmost concern, I assure you. Any news you can bring and share will be received gladly. I am told Monsieur Beza himself will speak for the way of grace alone, proving it from the Word.”

Theodore Beza was the primary Huguenot theologian for France and was a close associate of Monsieur John Calvin.

“Yes, and Monsieur Calvin will also send twelve theologians from the school in Geneva. They will bring many writings from the early church fathers and copies of the originals to debate doctrine.”

“We will surely pray that the minds and hearts of those in authority will be opened by the Spirit to receive God’s unchanging truth. How wondrous it would be if our beloved France were shaken to its foundations with the light of God’s timeless Word. Oh, to cast aside the mere outward display of religion that leaves our hearts unchanged!”

Andelot set aside his reservation and threw an arm of brotherly affection around the older man.

“My prayers will follow you wherever you go,” the pasteur said.

The pasteur then bowed his head, speaking Andelot’s name in prayer, and committed him to Christ. The experience of hearing a pasteur pray for him personally in an audible voice was altogether new, and his heart was stirred.

A few minutes later, with the pasteur accompanying him, he walked back to his horse and mounted in silence.
I will come back for a longer
visit
. He lifted his hand in salute, and rode on toward Vendôme.

IN A BUNGALOW NEAR
VENDÔME,
Comte Maurice Beauvilliers fixed a withering stare on his page.

“You are most certain of this news?”

“Monseigneur, the spy discovered it from one of the duchesse’s own servants. He has ridden through the night to arrive ahead of Andelot Dangeau.”

“Send me this spy. I would hear it from him.”

“He is unconscious, my lord Comte, deep in sleep — ”

Maurice set his goblet down with a snap. “Tell me the news again.”

“Andelot was summoned to visit Duchesse Dushane. What was discussed could not be overheard, but it was about your oncle, Comte Sebastien, and Marquis Fabien. Andelot was sent with a lettre from Madame for the marquis.”

Maurice raised a lean, tanned hand and smoothed his ebony mustache; the long folds of crème lace at his wrist fell leisurely over the burgundy sleeve.

“No doubt the titled fox has protested my engagement to Rachelle. I’ll wager she has sent a reply saying she knows nothing of our upcoming marriage.”

“It would seem so, my lord Comte.”

Maurice’s heart began to pound like a battle drum. “Andelot must not deliver that lettre.”

“Men are stationed along the road to watch for him.”

I must have that lettre. In the hands of the Queen Mother it will become
a millstone around Fabien’s neck. And Andelot! That serf that deigns to
call me cousin. The intolerable impudence — and after spilling wine on
my silk doublet in Oncle Sebastien’s appartement! I warned Andelot I
would not forget, and I keep my word. Now he will pay for my insulted
honor and ruined silk shirt.

“Saddle the horses. We will ride forth to meet him. I will deal with Andelot myself.”

“By now he should be nearing Vendôme. As soon as he is in sight, word will be sent.”

“I will be waiting.”

News from a Far Country

MARQUIS
FABIEN,
RESTIVE, MOVED ABOUT THE LARGE
SALLE
THAT
connected to his sleeping chamber. He stepped onto the balustrade and swept a glance about the courtyard. A lavender haze settled gently across the horizon of the forest, and evening shadows lengthened.

He looked toward the tower turret. One of his watchmen stood gazing toward the road and bridge. Farther down the road, settled out of sight within the thick forest trees, he knew there would be another sentry keeping vigil, followed by more guards on patrol ready to send their signal back to the castle should enemies approach.

Mille diables, but matters are progressing slowly!

He drummed his fingers on the rail and narrowed his gaze, looking toward the ominous road to Fontainebleau. Shadows crept forward. The trees rustled. With each passing hour spent waiting for the lettre from Madame, more opportunity was granted his opponents.

His ventures as a privateer for England would pursue his steps, but the danger stewing in the political and religious cauldron of France was due to far more than his escapades for Holland. Persecution of the Huguenot middle class would result in their seigneurs calling for war to protect them.
Noblesse oblige!
He too had an obligation to the citizens of Vendôme. Leaving France for England when a civil war was about to break did not rest easy on his conscience, but he could not relinquish Rachelle.

Below, he saw Gallaudet coming across the courtyard from the direction of the gate. Earlier, Fabien had sent him to check on the men-at-arms watching the road. He was waiting for the report when Gallaudet arrived, solemn-faced.

“You have news?”

“Dark news, Marquis. Until an hour ago only serfs and a few monks had traversed the road.”

“And now? Is there sight of that jackal, Maurice?”

“Non, but the dwarves of the Queen Mother are coming.”