Written on Silk (20 page)

Bertrand planted a brief kiss on her forehead and came toward Rachelle, who lingered just outside the open door on the veranda. “I shall accompany you to Paris first, then on to Calais.”

She gave a nod of assent and hurried ahead toward the large coach where Siffre waited to help her in, as the driver, Pierre, stored the baggage.

In a few minutes they boarded the coach-and-six, with Siffre riding horseback between Romier and a guard, and Romier leading the marquis’ golden bay on a tether. Rachelle steadied herself as the coach moved down the graveled sweep and on to the road to Paris.

A Matter of Apples

T
HE
MACQUINET
HORSES WERE MAKING GOOD SPEED ALONG THE ROAD
to Paris. Rachelle sat across from Andelot on leather-lined seats with stuffed cushions while Cousin Bertrand was arranged with a blanket by the window, his legs on a stool.

“Well, Andelot, the mademoiselle tells me you were surprised by information that you are related to the House of Guise,” Cousin Bertrand said. “Tell me, will you be pleased to be elevated to the court?”

“I do not know, Messire Bertrand, I swear it. At one time I was most pleased, for I had heard my tutor would actually be the grand Monsieur Thauvet. But now, matters appear to have reverted back to where they were before I was brought to Chambord to meet the cardinal.”

Rachelle was surprised to hear that. “Oh, why so, Andelot?”

“Cardinal de Lorraine was disappointed with me after the Amboise massacre, and now he demands I give up my friendship with Marquis Fabien.”

“Ah? You are a particular ami of the marquis?” Bertrand asked, studying him.

“He is a seigneur worth knowing, Pasteur.”

“Is he now? And he considers you the same, does he?”

“Surprisingly, Messire, he has befriended me from the time I first met him at Court. But then, he befriends many who are not of the blood, or even titled.”

“He must,” Bertrand said wryly, “if he has joined the rowdy buccaneers.”

Rachelle moved uneasily and glanced at Andelot, who looked as though he may have said something wrong.

“Surely your new kinsmen will secure a merveilleux education for you with the best of tutors at Court,” Rachelle said, changing the subject from Fabien, “even if you do not have Scholar Thauvet.”

“Thauvet,” Bertrand said, “the instructor of princes and dauphins?”

“Le marquis also had Thauvet,” Andelot said, a hint of defense in his voice.

Bertrand smiled thinly, amusement in his dark eyes. “One wonders what the famous marquis may have thought of the renowned Thauvet.”

“It matters not so much that I have him, as long as I enter the university. To become a scholar, Pasteur Bertrand, is my foremost wish, but — ” Andelot shrugged — “that is now uncertain, even though I was told that my père, Louis Dangeau, is not a Dangeau at all but — ” he stopped, glanced at Rachelle, then said again — “not a Dangeau. Then . . . there was my mère, not a pristine lady, so I was told.”

“Oui, I remember you telling me when we journeyed to Amboise —Oh, how long ago it seems now. A thousand years, Andelot. So much has happened to us.”

“Oui, and not all bonne news, I promise you.” He leaned back, playing with his cap.

“This sickness of your grandmère and Madeleine is curious,” Andelot said, musing. “I would wish to discuss my concerns with Marquis Fabien if he were here. I wish he had not gone to Florida. Two years, such a long time to be away when we need him.”

Rachelle struggled with her emotions. She tried to relax into the comfortable velvet cushions, but her fingers were tautly bound together in her lap.

“But you are here, Andelot, and I am grateful for your concerns for my family.”

His comely face darkened with embarrassment, but she was accustomed to his responses and overlooked them.

Bertrand tapped him lightly on the shoulder with the tip of his new walking stick. “This sickness, Andelot, tell me about it.”

Andelot leaned forward, his eyes troubled.

“I do not know how to say this, Pasteur Bertrand, but I have grievous concerns about what may have caused Grandmère and Madeleine to become so ill. It is the cause for which I wanted to ride back with you, so we could discuss it without upsetting anyone.” He glanced at Rachelle, then back to Bertrand. “That is, Pasteur, if you will permit my conjecture? It is not my purpose to disturb Mademoiselle Rachelle, but — ”

“Do speak, Andelot,” she said.

“By all means, speak your concerns,” Bertrand added. Alerted, Rachelle sat up, paying close heed.

“Does it not seem most odd that both your grandmère and Madeleine should become sick after eating fruit?”

There was a strained moment of deliberation. Bertrand studied him. “Fruit?”

“Oui, the apples. How could a single apple each, make them ill to the point of death?”

For a time she could not fathom his words. “What have apples to do with this?”

“Are you saying, Andelot, that Grandmère and Madeleine ate apples, and le docteur blames this for their illness?” Bertrand asked.

Andelot’s fingers inched their way around the brim of his hat. “That I do not know, Pasteur. I have not spoken with le docteur. I thought Duchesse Dushane mentioned in her lettre that it was the apples which made Grandmère and Madeleine sick.”

Rachelle shook her head. “Non, she said nothing of that, how could that be?”

“How could it be indeed?” Andelot said and glanced from one to the other.

“But I thought they both had the fever.” Rachelle was growing confused.

“A fever, oui, but from eating apples.
Extraordinaire?
” He shook his head.

“This proves most interesting; do go on,” Cousin Bertrand said.

Rachelle listened, her tension building as Andelot told them what had happened to Grandmère and Madeleine: Grandmère’s trip to the market, the basket of apples bought there and served with their afternoon déjeuner of goat’s cheese, bread, and lamb’s broth.

“Madame’s page, Romier, mentioned that he had overheard le docteur mention the possibility of poison.”

“Poison!” Rachelle sat upright.

“You are sure of this?” Bertrand asked. “Page Romier is trustworthy?”

“Oui, though he did not mean poison as we think of it now; he meant bad fruit, but when Romier said it, genuine poison was the word that struck me cold.”

“As it should. Go on, young monsieur.”

“Later I had a dream that made me remember the time I entered the Amboise laboratory above the Queen Mother’s chambers. And then I realized what had been troubling me for so long.” He paused. “Poison,”he said in a quiet voice. “A poison made into a white powder.”

Rachelle’s skin became chilled as Andelot related his experience with Prince Charles Valois in the laboratory of one of the Ruggerio brothers from Florence.

“I wish I had thought to discuss it with Marquis Fabien before he went to sea, but so much had happened. There were zodiac drawings and occult arts. But it was most clear that her men from Florence are skilled in apothecary and poison making. The packet of powder was left with instructions for the Queen Mother.”

When he had finished his tale, she hesitated, pondering, fear clutching her heart.

“You are suggesting Catherine de Medici gave poison to Grandmère and Madeleine?” Cousin Bertrand asked sharply, leaning toward him. “Why would she do so?”

“That is the question, Pasteur Bertrand, why? Even if Sebastien seemed a risk to her plans, now that he is in the Bastille facing execution, why would she want to poison his wife?”

“And Grandmère, if it is true,” Bertrand said.

“It cannot be,” Rachelle said, “neither Madeleine nor Grandmère pose any threat to the Queen Mother. Not only so, but how could she have poisoned them both, and at almost the same time?”

“Oui, that is so. But my suspicion remains that she poisoned the apples,” Andelot said.

“But how would the Queen Mother even know Grandmère would wish to buy apples?” Bertrand said.

Andelot sighed. “I have considered that difficulty many times over since leaving Paris for the château.”

“The Queen Mother would need to have the poisoned apples at the market and have them prepared to sell to Grandmère,” Bertrand said. “How would she know Grandmère would come to that fruit stand?”

“Yes, well . . .” He ran his fingers through his wavy brown hair and then leaned back against the seat. “Oui, you must be right, Pasteur Bertrand, for it would be most difficult for the Ruggerio brothers to deliver such poisoned apples. They would have had to wait until they saw Grandmère leave the Louvre and then follow her.”

“You admit that is most unlikely,” Bertrand said.

Andelot looked dissatisfied, but in the end, gave a nod. “I suppose having that dream when I did, and remembering the laboratory, made me think so. My suspicions must come from the horrors of Amboise. I begin to see sinister plots where there are none.”

“Maybe. Then again, Andelot, maybe not. Let us not rush to dismiss your theory until we know more of the details. It has been said by reputable messieurs that Catherine de Medici has not recoiled from using poison in the past. Let us hope it was not so where Grandmère and Madeleine are concerned.”

Poison . . . the Ruggerio brothers . . . Catherine.
Rachelle shivered.

She pondered Andelot’s words, and though she did not trust the Queen Mother, the idea of poisoned apples seemed too difficult to have arranged, unless the fruit had been delivered to their apartment in the Louvre. From what Andelot said however, Grandmère had bought the apples herself from a market stand.

Still, Rachelle could not shake the thought completely from her mind. From the thoughtful frown on Cousin Bertrand’s face, neither could he.

A
S THE SHADOWS OF
twilight settled over Paris, the Macquinet coach clattered down the damp cobbled streets past the Hôtel de Clugny, the Hôtel de Sense, and toward the Louvre palais. A few days had passed since leaving Lyon. Soon the Louvre came into view, on the grassy margin of the river Seine, with its walls and bastions inside a moat. The wall surrounding the Louvre had four gates, each with its smaller postern gate and tower. The southern gate, opposite the Seine, was the strongest, low and narrow, with statues of Charles V of the Holy Roman Empire and his wife, Jeanne de Bourbon, staring solemnly down upon all those who passed by, as though confirming the absolute and united rule of sword, state, and church. From there, Rachelle could see one of the oldest churches in France, dedicated to St. Germain, Bishop of Paris.

The coach passed through the gates, bells jingling on the handsome horses. In the center of the inner court stood a round tower, which could be defended from a raised embankment or rampart. The tower was ill famed for its oubliettes, or dungeons, under which the river flowed, bringing no comfort to Rachelle.

They drove up to the entrance to the prized appartements and single chambers awarded by royalty to certain members of the higher nobility and those serving the throne. The marquis was said to have a chamber that he was obliged to occupy at certain times of the year when he was called to Court. Refusal to join the king’s entertainments when called could bring royalty’s displeasure and even an appearance before the throne to answer for slackness. Most of the nobility, fearing charges of treason, came dutifully, but others were so delighted to be at Court, they only returned home to their estates at a birth or a funeral.

Sebastien, as a former member of Catherine’s privy council before his arrest, had been awarded a choice appartement. Rachelle wondered how much longer her sister Madeleine would be permitted to retain occupancy. Most likely the Queen Mother would soon order Madeleine to depart, if she had not already done so.

Rachelle wondered what her sister’s plans would be now that Sebastien was known to be alive and on his way to the Bastille. Madeleine would hardly wish to return to the Château de Silk now, but would rather wish to remain in Paris and work for his release.

Rachelle thought that, had the marquis not left, he might have appealed directly to King Francis on account of Sebastien.
And if there was a
chance of pressing his friendship with the king, what then? If he learned
Sebastien was to be hauled before the salle de la question . . .
Rachelle narrowed her gaze thoughtfully and glanced at Cousin Bertrand. Was there the slightest chance to intercept the marquis at Calais?