Written on Silk (15 page)

“It will be a grievous trial for Madeleine when she learns that her husband lives only to face the inquisitors. She will want the company of her family at the Château de Silk. It is unfortunate this sudden illness that plagues her and her grandmère interferes with any hope of immediate travel to Lyon.” A stalwart look of resignation settled into her countenance.

Andelot tore his gaze from the walking stick. He bowed lightly. “Just so, Madame.”

“Very well, then. Wait here until I call Romier to take you to the dining hall and then to your barracks. You need food and rest. I will call for you again this evening after I speak to le docteur. I must also decide on whether to try to intercept the marquis with the news of Sebastien.”

Ah — food, rest, and sleep!

“Merci mille fois, Madame-Duchesse!”

A
NDELOT
WALKED WITH THE
page, Romier, across a courtyard toward the barracks located behind the main palais.

The Louvre, built by Philippe Auguste, stood on the grassy margin of the river Seine with the palais walls and bastions surrounded by a moat. It was here at the Louvre that Andelot had first met Marquis Fabien. Fabien had been in the royal company of the Dauphin Francis and Mary of Scotland when he had come to Andelot’s rescue. A group of pages, all sons of the nobility, had decided to teach him he was naught but a peasant, more suited to wiping muddy boots than keeping their company. A page was threatening to toss him into the moat when Marquis Fabien approached with a warning: “Andelot is related to me by marriage. As such, anyone who touches him henceforth will have me to contend with.”

After that, no one in the Corps des Pages troubled him again.

The dining area in the barracks had its own pantry and a large cooking area. Together with the buttery, the room encompassed the whole left wing of the barracks. The area was raftered with dark beams, its walls darkened from generations of cooking. The cookery was rich in pewter, iron, and copper. The canopied fireplace took the whole of the right wall, and on the other side a long, low table with benches worn to a smooth polish.

Preparations for
déjeuner
were underway. The savory aroma of meat on a spit told Andelot how hungry he was. He would eat and retire to a bunk for some sleep before the young men in training would arrive from their duties. There were several hounds licking out greasy cooking pans by the buttery. A precocious cock wandered about in search of tidbits of ground corn, looking as if it dared the hounds to chase it away.

“Something to wet our throats,” Romier said to a serving boy, who looked to be eight or nine years old. It was not unusual to see even younger children working long hours in the barns, stables, cooking area, and laundry rooms.

“Leon, fetch that lamb joint to the table — there’s a good lad — and draw us a pitcher from the ale cask. Set out cups and water in the basins.”

Andelot washed, then took a place at the bench. The aroma of broiled lamb browned and dripping with melted fat wafted to him. The bread was cut in generous slices, and Andelot’s cup was filled with ale. He dipped a chunk of oven-warmed bread into his bowl of lamb’s broth floating with onions.

As he devoured his meal he consoled himself, musing over the possibility that once he moved among the blooded nobles as kin to the cardinal and the duc, matters would change. There would be no more Romiers to wink and chuckle because he looked like a serf. He frowned and gnawed the lamb bone.

The door flew open and several pages hurried in, their boyish faces flushed with dread or excitement.

“News from Amboise! Riders have just come. There was a rebellion by the Huguenots against the king. Comte Sebastien Dangeau was one of them. He has been arrested and will soon be sent to the Bastille. The others are dead. There was a great slaughter ordered by the cardinal and Duc de Guise.”

Romier pounded the pages with questions, but they had no more information to give.

“You are certain of all this?” Doubt marked Romier’s lean face. “Ah, but it cannot be!” Romier doubled a fist and struck his other palm. “Renaudie was a noble messire.”

“Do not permit the royalists to hear you speak thus,” said one of the pages.

Andelot got to his feet. “It is true. I was there and saw the horrors. It is the cause for which I have traveled here to Paris. I have come straight from Amboise to bring this dark word about mon oncle Sebastien to Madame-Duchesse Dushane.”

They turned to look at him. The fiery cauldron brewing in Romier’s eyes made Andelot wonder if he should not have held his tongue altogether.

“You were at Amboise? With the Guises?” Romier asked.

“I was there, not with the Guises, but with Marquis Fabien de Vendôme.”

Romier said with a tinge of regret, “It is so, messieurs. He rode in on a golden bay. The stable attendants vow the horse is the marquis’ best stallion.”

Andelot felt a touch of pride over being trusted with the marquis’ horse.

There was a moment of studied silence.

All eyes were upon him now.

Romier drew Andelot aside to the table. “Sit down and finish your meat. You have journeyed far if you come from Amboise. Make known to me the failing of the Huguenot uprising. And how is it Duc de Guise captured Monsieur Renaudie?”

Romier appeared to know more than he had first let on. No one among the pages had even mentioned that the seigneur of the rebellion had been Renaudie.

Romier’s gaze had lost its coldness.

Andelot calmed himself, and ignoring the pages who loitered around the table, removed the one weapon he did own, a long-bladed knife given him by the marquis, and sliced a hunk of yellow cheese. He looked evenly at Romier as he cut into it. Andelot told of the slaughter of the Huguenots at Amboise, but emphasized that the beheadings were ordered by the Queen Mother, Catherine de Medici. He could see the alarm brewing in Romier’s face.

“Why did you not tell me this when you first rode in? I would surely have paid heed to you!”

“You were slow to listen and quick to mock.”

Romier waved an impatient hand between them. He leaned forward, jabbing a finger in the air toward Andelot. “You are most certain Comte Sebastien is not dead?”

“He is alive. And will be brought before the salle de la question for his Huguenot faith.”

Romier groaned. “If only this had not happened now. Surely the marquis would have done something to save him? He is related by marriage.

He is also an ami of the king. I have heard they knew one another since youth. They were schooled together here at the Louvre.”

Andelot knew he must be more cautious with his information. He had made several errors already, due most assuredly to his weariness. He believed he could trust Romier, but voices carried in the large room, and there were many pages loyal to the House of Guise.

“The marquis does not know of Sebastien’s capture. When they departed Vendôme, it was believed that Sebastien had been killed.”

“Ah!” Romier dropped his forehead against his palm and lowered his voice. “Why not turn to Admiral Coligny? My madame has confidence in him.”

“The admiral is aware of Amboise. He has called upon the Queen Mother and King Francis to grant a religious colloquy to discuss the reasons for Huguenot rebellion.”

“Mon père fought under the admiral, and he is a brave seigneur,” Romier said. “If he will bring the Huguenot cause before the king in this upcoming colloquy, then we are well represented. But it will not help Comte Sebastien.”

Silence settled over them.

Andelot frowned, musing over the unsolvable problems.

Finally Romier shook his head. “There could be no more evil news for Comte Sebastien’s wife than this that you bring to her now, Andelot.”

“It pains me well, I assure you, for as I have said, Sebastien is mon oncle.”

Romier scowled. “Madame Madeleine is not fully capable of understanding her husband’s plight now. It is the strange sickness that has come upon her. She is often not aware. I overheard le docteur tell my madame.”

“What did he say?” Andelot asked.

“That he suspects poisoning.”

Andelot stared. “Poison?”

“But, yes — from spoilage. There could be no other cause than the bad fruit, for both the grande dame of the Château de Silk and Madame Madeleine became sick. Only they ate the apples.”

“Apples . . .” Andelot repeated, frowning at his mug of warm ale.

Bad fruit, yes; spoiled, perhaps. Perhaps the little worms were in the apples, and they ate them and did not recognize the fact until — non, non, that is all wrong. Why, he had seen much spoiled fruit eaten by goats and they had seemed well enough — certainly they did not become poisoned. He pushed his mug away, feeling light-headed himself. He was weary, exhausted, that was all. Sleep, he needed sleep.

He pushed his chair back and stood. By this evening when he met with the duchesse again, his optimism should have returned, though there was little reason to think so.

He excused himself from Romier and was shown by a lackey to the rear grounds of the Louvre where the barracks of the Corps des Pages were located. A small bunk invited him. He removed his boots and settled to the bunk. He shut his eyes and threw an arm across his forehead to blot out the daylight from a nearby window.

Was there not something he wanted to remember, something that required attention?
What was it?
he pondered, while succumbing to the warm, comforting arms of mothering sleep.

A
NDELOT WATCHED THE BOY
, Prince Charles Valois, open the door, peek
inside, then beckon him to follow. Andelot felt himself floating through
passage after passage. Where am I? Amboise . . . the palais of Amboise.
They stopped before a giant menacing door.

Charles sneered at him, took hold of his arm, and drew him into a large
shadowy chamber.

“Come, peasant, this way
,
” Charles hissed.

Andelot heard Marquis Fabien’s voice, whispering chilling tales of
Catherine de Medici in his ear. “Soothsayers abide wherever she resides. Cosmo Ruggiero came with her from Florence. He never leaves her but
for short periods. Cosmo the astrologer, the alchemist, puts dead men’s
bones in the fire, stirs up powders and perfumes. He draws her horoscopes
and makes petite wax figures in the likeness of those who have stirred her
enmity. They are to suffer pangs as their wax similitude’s melt into the
flames. Cosmo is a purveyor of poisons for Her Majesty. He and his brother
handle herbs and roots fatal to life. There on the quay near the Louvre they
have their shop.”

Andelot, as though in a trance
,
followed Charles into a small writing
closet built into a turret.

“Behold a secret stairway.” Charles grinned. He opened a narrow door
built into the stone and pointed upward.

Andelot peered past him toward a flight of steep stone steps. Charles
held the candle which flared in a draft.

“This way, peasant, hurry!”

Andelot found himself on the stairs rushing upward, with Charles’s
cackling laughter gaining distance on him. “Hurry, hurry, hurry — ”