Written on Silk (13 page)

A
SHORT TIME LATER INSIDE THE LOUVRE
, Andelot waited in the blue and gold salle of his
oncle
Sebastien Dangeau’s appartement. Sebastien had served on the privy council of the Queen Mother, Catherine de Medici, until his recent arrest and imprisonment over his involvement in the Huguenot rebellion at Amboise.

Andelot glanced about the chamber as he waited for his audience with Duchesse Dushane, recalling how he had visited Sebastien here on several occasions when Andelot was younger and attending monastery school.

He admired once more the many treasured tapestry hangings from royal French worthies of the past. The Aubusson rug was worn in a few places but retained its comely heritage. All the chairs were upholstered with multicolored brocades that had a predominance of blue with threads of crimson artfully woven throughout the heavy cloth. The low settees and various cushions for sitting were all tasseled the color of gold. The wooden arms and backs of the chairs were meticulously carved into semblances of grape clusters and vines with petite flower petals, stained pink. A long table he remembered well, boasted the royal Valois
oriflamme
adopted by the renaissance king, Francis I. He walked across the chamber for a closer look.

I should like to live in a grand place like this with servants to do all my
bidding . . . and if I had not displeased le cardinal —

At the sound of footsteps approaching, Andelot turned as a serving-maid hurried in from the back of the appartment. She must have been a maid of lower status, or a cleaning woman, for her garments were ignoble, and her hands were knobby and had pink blotches, he supposed from years of cleaning. He noticed how the woman twisted and pulled on her hands. Some inward agitation most certainly gnawed at her which was reflected in her teary eyes as well. Surely the poor woman had been crying for some time.

She took him for a person of import, despite his common clothing, for she curtsied, not once, but twice.

“Oh, Messire, I fear Madame’s ladies cannot come to you now, for they are all at the bedsides of Mesdames Henriette and Madeleine, praying, as they have taken grievously ill.”

Henriette was grandmère to the Mesdemoiselles Macquinet. Madeleine was Oncle Sebastien Dangeau’s wife. The news was troubling.

“Ill? Both mesdames?”

“Oh Messire, I had naught to do with their illness, I swear it, Messire, though I confess I helped with the
petit déjeuner
, baking the bread. It is —
was
— the fruit. Oui, it must be the fruit, for what else could it be? I assure you, both mesdames ate of the fruit two days ago.”

She dropped her face into her palms, and her stooped shoulders shook.

Andelot threw a glance toward the closed doors leading off to the other chambers. Was this news of their illness worthy of his alarm, or was this serving woman overwrought?

“Ill from eating fruit? What manner of fruit was it?”

She shook her head with a small, defensive whimper. “Just some petite apples held over from last autumn’s harvest, Messire. That is all. Just some apples. Oh, it was la grande madame, as they call her, the silver-haired couturière from her Château de Silk in Lyon, who first took ill. Ah, it is dreadful. She arrived some weeks ago from Chambord to help her granddaughter, Madame Madeleine, who was
enceinte
. The
bébé
, she was born in March. We were all here. Then, two days ago, Grande Madame donned herself in most magnifique clothes and went out by carriage to buy some gifts for bébé Joan. Afterward she stopped at the fruit market to buy some rosy apples.”

The serving woman’s eyes watered over again and dribbled down the creases in her cheeks. “By sunset, after eating the fruit, Grande Madame was oh so ill. Her sickness was dreadful to hear — all the night she was ailing at her stomach — oh, there was naught any of us could do to stop it. She grows weaker by the day and such a kind woman too, Messire, undeserving of such suffering. She gave me lace for a new dress — and her granddaughter, Madame Madeleine, is sick also! Madame-Duchesse Dushane is vexed. She has called her own docteur — he has come several times since yesterday.”

Andelot frowned, for the illness sounded far worse than he first guessed.

“This news is most evil, Messire. Perhaps a curse is upon us? I have heard the writings of Nostradamus, warning of dark omens and curses.”

“Do not think of it,” he said.

The mention of such things brought to mind the chilling atmosphere of the occult at Amboise. He tried to block from his mind the secret laboratory where young Prince Charles Valois had brought him above the Queen Mother’s chambers.

He paced across the Aubusson rug. If only Marquis Fabien had not left France! His authority as a Bourbon gave him open doors into the court that few others possessed. Oncle Sebastien had once been a great asset for the family, but not now. There was the duchesse, of course, but she was already doing all she could.

He felt sorry for the woman; she reminded him of the peasant woman in whose charge he had been until his tenth birthday, after which Sebastien had brought him here to the outskirts of Paris to a monastery school.

When the serving woman hurried away, he went to one of the front windows, moved aside the blue and gold hangings, and peered below to the main courtyard.

Sick . . . sick unto death . . . ?

Unrest rattled the door of his mind. There was something he should remember . . . He shook his head. So much had happened recently — so much death.

The royal court was not presently in residence here at the Louvre, but they were in the process of making a move to the forest tranquility of Fontainebleau, to one of the royalty’s favorite hunting châteaus. The court rarely remained in Paris during the heat of summer, due to its unhealthy air. Those
courtiers
not going to Fontainebleau even now were making plans to return to their own estates. As always, however, they remained prepared to join royalty at the snap of a finger should the king or Queen Mother call for them.

Paris kept up its hum of activity with coaches rattling in and out of the gate, and guards in almost constant patrol in the courtyard. Andelot watched the flash of red and blue uniforms, the glint of their casques in the sunlight holding his attention.

I should have begged the marquis to let me go to sea with him. He and
Nappier could teach me some swordsmanship. What good to remain here
in France? My future is small. I shall never become the scholar as I had
hoped
.

Andelot sighed. While others loathed the study of books, history, and languages, he was fascinated. He might yet be forced to return to the Château de Silk and work again with silkworms as he had done when a boy. What else was there for him in Paris? The Corps des Pages — ah, that was but a dream, a vague promise of the past, for Cardinal de Lorraine was now angry with him.

Andelot turned from the window, rubbing the back of his neck, frowning. Prisons . . . poisons . . . What was it that he should remember? There was something . . . something stirring at the back of his mind, calling to him, something he had wanted to mention to Marquis Fabien before he rode out, but in the rush of departure he had let it slip from his mind.

He had last seen the marquis not long after Amboise. Marquis Fabien was returning from Vendôme where earlier he had agreed that Comte Maurice Beauvilliers should first bring Mademoiselle Rachelle for her safety.

Fabien had visited Andelot secretly at night and informed him that he was returning to Vendôme and would be taking Rachelle home to the château. He expected to remain there in Lyon until a message arrived from a certain French privateer, whereupon a meeting of the brotherhood of privateers against Spain would take place in some locale near the coast of La Rochelle, a Huguenot stronghold.

Andelot believed the meeting would have occurred by now. The marquis could even be on his way to Calais to cross the channel to England, where a privateer of the English queen had arranged for the marquis to buy a ship.

Was it too late to join the marquis? The bay would surely get him there, but was there time? What would the marquis do if he showed up with a sword he could but clumsily wield?
Perhaps I could help the cook
or serve the marquis in some way.

Across the chamber, the fire glowed in the hearth. The wind from off the river Seine, which ran beneath portions of the palais with its prison, remained chill and damp.

His boots made no sound as he walked toward the warmth. The red coals hissed and glared at him. Was the illness of Grandmère and Madeleine the beginning of a judgment from heaven that would soon scourge the whole of Paris?

He recalled from his studies at the monastery school how great sicknesses in the past had struck many kingdoms, leaving uncounted masses dead. There were so many bodies, the authorities had been forced to burn them in great fires in the village squares. At the time, traveling monks on pilgrimages across Europe spoke out as prophets, attributing the plagues to judgment sent by the saints for failure to worship and give to the Church. They had urged more reverence for relics and the need to embark on pilgrimages to burial sites. They carried bags of saintly fetishes on their donkeys, which they sold for blessing and protection.

Andelot reached beneath his tunic and removed a small, well-worn cross and kissed it. He had received the object years ago from a traveling monk passing through Paris on his way to the Holy Land on pilgrimage.

This cross was special. The monk had told him it was prayed over and anointed with holy ointment from the eternal city of Rome itself, the city built on seven hills. The cross would protect him from plague. Andelot kissed it once more to make certain before replacing it inside his tunic next to his skin. One could not be too cautious, having entered the chambers where sudden sickness had struck its curse.

He frowned back at the sizzling coals. Yes, it was wholly possible that a new plague was breaking forth. Voices were sounding in protest against the blasphemous teaching of Luther, Calvin, Beza, and against that wicked city, Geneva. Judgments were pronounced on France for not doing enough to silence the devilish teaching of these heretics and their followers.

Andelot ran his fingers through his brown locks and shook his head.

These pronouncements heightened his uneasiness after what he had witnessed at Amboise. The flames of religious rhetoric crackled with devilish propaganda. Whom should he believe?

Frustration drove him back to the window again, this time drawing his gaze in the direction of the wharf with its many shops.

Yes, the quay . . . what was it about the quay he wanted to remember?

Ill since Thursday . . . five days ago . . . very ill, the maid had said — due
to last autumn’s apples.

Odd, that. Apples? Could one become this sick on apples?

A priest strode across the courtyard with a rolled parchment in hand and his robe swirling about his ankles, drawing Andelot’s mind to the night before when the cardinal had sent for him to appear in his chamber. After handing him the scarlet-edged missive to deliver to Duchesse Dushane, the cardinal had risen from his chair behind the desk and faced him with a thin curling smile, his almond-shaped gray eyes showing amused contempt.

“So! You are a child full of pranks at heart. You hid under the vines tumbling from a cherub planter to spy on the beheadings of the rebel heretics! Such puerile behavior. Non! Do not try to explain that you were trapped. Such a tale is preposterous.”

The lashing words had stung and remembering them again now brought a burning heat to Andelot’s face. It was no good to blame the incident on Prince Charles Valois, for Charles was a boy, whereas he himself was a young man. The cardinal had proceeded to lecture him with scorn.

“Nonetheless, I make it my family duty to secure your future, though not in the capacity I had first thought. There may be opportunity for you as a family page, but I will not have you in my inner circle, not with such lack of wisdom as you have shown yourself capable. Perchance I may arrange for a position for training in the Corps des Pages if someone will sponsor you, but, henceforth, all will depend on your obedience and loyalty. Take heed, Andelot; your future success depends entirely on my good graces. The first action you will take is to end your injudicious friendship with Marquis Vendôme, a growing threat to our family house. Refuse me and there is no room for your future in the House of Guise or at Court.”

Andelot stared out the palais window. He jammed his hands in his pockets.

The rustle of a skirt brought him back to the present. He turned.

An older woman of stalwart proportions and dignity to match, stood in the chamber leaning on a strong black, jeweled walking stick. He guessed the stick weighed enough to teach an enemy a desperate lesson if she so wished to use it. Andelot had heard that until her recent fall, the duchesse was particularly fond of riding, and even hunting with the king’s royal party. Her shoulders were wide and straight beneath a gown of rose silk looped with pearls, with sleeve cuffs and a high collar of stiff cream lace.

He bowed from the waist. “Your Grace.”

“I am told you bring us tidings from Amboise?”