Written on Silk (31 page)

At first they had not tortured him. They hoped for his cooperation in giving the names of every Huguenot at Court who might have been privy to the Amboise plot under Seigneur Renaudie. Weeks went by in the filthy cell until the day they led him away after he refused to recant.

That had been the beginning. Accused of treason, of concealing enemies of His Majesty, he had been questioned for hours, and days.

“I know nothing . . . I was not involved . . . I know no one at Court disloyal to the king . . . I am loyal to King Francis . . .”

Then a different inquisitor arrived, wearing robes. He began asking Sebastien in an exceedingly kind voice if he wished to see his belle wife, Madame Madeleine, and his newborn daughter named Joan.

Other robed men stood around him with lamentable faces holding candles and crucifixes.

“Would Comte Sebastien Dangeau prove his loyalty to the mother Church by kissing the blessed crucifix? By undergoing all religious ceremonies? By attending Mass?”

This question was repeated . . . and repeated . . .

“Would Comte Sebastien Dangeau confess his heresy, repent, and attend Mass to prove his total submission to what is absolutely required for salvation?”

The lead questioner with large, sad brown eyes took a handkerchief from his robe and touched the tears away from the corners of his own eyes. “You must remain on the rack, Comte Dangeau. It is the only way. But that is the beginning. There is the thumbscrew, the red hot spikes and pincers, the slicing of the tongue in two, the maiden coffin of spikes — but messire, why go through this when your well beloved Madeleine has given proud birth to your first child? Do you not wish to see them? What you must do to gain your release is as nothing. Recant your heresy, and attend Mass daily. Do so and you may walk from here free to rejoice at the bedside of Madame Madeleine and your daughter. If not, Madame will join you here for like questioning.”

Sebastien heard little of this, so great was his pain. Salty sweat dripped onto his eyes; his blurred vision tried to focus.

“Messire Sebastien, he that has suffered in the flesh has ceased from sin. No suffering for the moment is of apparent value, but afterward, when your soul is saved because of it, and the soul of Madame Madeleine, and your enfant daughter baptized — the anguish will prove to have been of utmost deliverance. You will see — unless you fail to understand the truth and embrace it, proclaiming heresy.”

Sebastien shut his eyes. He gritted his teeth so hard he tasted blood.

“God, non, God help me!”

“He will help you, messire, once you recant the diabolical lies propagated by Calvin and Luther. The bébé may also be taken away, messire, and raised apart from heresy in the monastery. But you and madame will never see her again. What will you do? We have no more weeks to delay, messire. Shall I give the order to send guards to your appartements in the Louvre palais for your wife?”

“Non, non, I beg of you, not my wife, s’il vous plait, not Madeleine — ” Tears ran down his cheeks.

“You know what you must do, messire.”

Sebastien wavered; for a moment the peace he had known at various times came again, and he felt new strength refreshing his spirit.

But then . . . He thought of Madeleine on the rack; Madeleine, with all her tenderness, and his mind was filled with a rush of terror.

If I had only to think of myself, I might endure to the end, but I must
live to see my wife and bébé escape to England. If I die, Madeleine might be
arrested and brought here — unthinkable!

Sebastien heard his own voice coming like the wail of a sick creature:“I — I will do all you say, Monseigneur — oui, all you say.”

The man in religious garb smiled benignly. “You are becoming a wise man, Comte Sebastien.” He lifted a hand toward the guards and nodded to the other robed men.

“Release the ratchet, loosen his chains, feed and water him, bathe him, and tend his hand and knee. There is cause for rejoicing; Comte is now prepared for the religious ceremony. I will send word to Cardinal de Lorraine.”

The Announcement

CHÂTEAU DE SILK, LYON, FRANCE

T
HE SCARLET BLOSSOMS ON THE BOUGAINVILLEA VINE ALONG THE WALL
of the garden held tenaciously under the gusts sweeping down from the hills and through the grove of mûreraies.

The château did not welcome Rachelle home as the haven of security and purpose as it had in the past, not without Grandmère. Less than a year had passed since Rachelle and Idelette first left with Grandmère as her grisettes in training for Paris and then on to Chambord Palais to work on gowns for the Reinette Mary Stuart-Valois and her sister-in-law, la Princesse Marguerite. Less than a year . . . but for Rachelle, it seemed that more had happened to alter her life than in all the earlier years combined.

How could one’s life change so drastically? Like gusts of wind that rushed unexpectedly to shake, to tear, to leave scattered in ruin! Why did God permit it? Her family was serving the Lord! Why had not the pain and loss come to the wicked?

Her conscience smote her. Cousin Bertrand would look at her with his brilliant dark eyes and tell her she was distrusting God’s purposes:

“ ‘The Lord hath his way in the whirlwind and in the storm,’ the
prophet Nahum told us. But would ruin prevail? Non. And the winds
came, and the storm beat upon that house, and it fell because it was not
founded upon a rock.

“The rock is Christ, Rachelle. Though the mountains shake, though
they be carried into the midst of the sea, He is our solid foundation. He
said He was going away to prepare a place for His disciples, and would
come again to bring us to where He is. For we look for a city which has
foundations, whose builder and maker is God.”

Rachelle drew in a breath and pushed open the wide, lattice double doors into the spacious atelier, and went to her work as she did each morning after her petit déjeuner.

It was in this chamber that several generations of Dushane-Macquinets had jealously guarded family silk secrets for what at the time was called the “new cloth,” although silk was hardly new in the distant East from where the silk filaments had first made their way into Europe by the caravan trade route called the Old Silk Road.

No one discussed Grandmère’s strange death, though she was certainly in their minds and hearts. Perhaps, Rachelle thought, they knew they would be overcome by a host of emotions once they began to discuss the petite silver-haired grande dame. Only once did Rachelle, unable to keep silent, bring up the gloves.

“They were poisoned somehow, I am almost certain. Andelot agrees with me, and though the duchesse is cautious, even Cousin Bertrand is suspicious.”

Madame Clair’s look counseled the wisdom of silence. She later took Rachelle aside, and with her hands on her forearms, said gently: “Such talk will not help any of us now, ma chère. Your sister Madeleine is still at the Louvre. I shall be going there to be with her when I settle on travel plans. We must guard our tongues. We dare not risk the attention of the Queen Mother with Sebastien in the Bastille.”

Rachelle noticed more pronounced lines at the corners of her mère’s pale blue eyes.

The warning was the same as that spoken by her père Arnaut, so Rachelle thereafter hid away the suspicions inside her heart. She might conceal them, but she would not forget, and if the opportunity ever came, she would continue to seek the truth.

During the days following her return home and after her mère left for Paris to help Madeleine, Rachelle threw herself into her work. Her days were fully occupied with completing the gown for James Hudson before his departure to England.

“You are very talented,” he said, shaking his dark head and grinning. “Wait until my father meets you and takes a look at your design book. Several of your gowns are stunning. I especially want to try out the one with bell sleeves. Who knows? We may start a new fashion trend in London.”

“I should be thrilled. The sleeves should be done in very light and airy material with a delicate gossamer thread of gold or silver woven into it. What do you think?”

“Yes, we’ll name the gown ‘La Rachelle.’ ”

Rachelle laughed, one of her first in many days. The work on Queen Elizabeth’s gown was progressing so well that James, as she had taken to calling him at his request, was delighted, and made his plans to return to England within two weeks.

Idelette did not join them often. When she did her sections of the project, it was usually in the evenings, alone. Not even the bolt of new lace Rachelle had brought back from Calais from the Languet family had returned Idelette’s enthusiasm as Rachelle had hoped. Idelette admired the lace and made her comments, but that was all.

Afterward, Rachelle had encouraged her to come out of her solitude, but her sister preferred to keep to herself. Rachelle prayed this would soon change.

“I am embarrassed by the marks on my face,” she had explained to Rachelle. “Look at my mouth. It is revolting. The gash is healing, but when I eat it feels swollen and bleeds easily.”

“Chère, you are so brave. Take courage. Within another month or so you will not even notice.”

“Unless it scars . . .”

“I will show you a few beauty tricks to help hide it until it fades. I learned them from Princesse Marguerite.”

Idelette groaned wearily. “Ah Marguerite! Will she marry King Philip’s son or the Huguenot, Prince Henry of Navarre?”

Rachelle remembered what the Queen Mother had told her about a visit to Spain. She shuddered. She hoped she would forget all about having to attend Marguerite during that time.
It is one thing to seek for
an answer to poison gloves, but quite another to travel with Madame le
Serpent to Spain with its dreadful Inquisition
.

“Marguerite loves but one monsieur, Henry Guise — the son of the duc.” Even speaking the name of Duc de Guise was difficult for Rachelle without her voice interjecting the loathing she felt.

“Marguerite will never be allowed to marry him. A Guise for a son-in-law would threaten the Queen Mother’s sons coming to the throne.”

Some days later inside the atelier, Rachelle sighed and rubbed the frown away from between her brows. She walked over to the long table where the silvery-pink gown was spread upon the long working table, shimmering in the light that beamed in through the windows. Her project for today was to meticulously sew the small pearls on the bodice. James had told her the Hudson family received the pearls without expense from a wealthy English merchant who wished to please his queen. The one stipulation was that Queen Elizabeth know from whom the pearls had come.

Rachelle’s mind drifted. James Hudson had once said the English queen had beautiful hands. “She is exceedingly vain of them, they say.

She likes to display them on her lap without gloves to the foreign courtiers and ambassadors so that they will return to their respective courts and tell how pretty her hands are.”

Rachelle smiled to herself. What woman did not feel gratitude for something lovely about her outward appearance? Rachelle was pleased with her thick and shiny auburn-brown hair that the marquis found so much to his liking. She was grateful there was something about her that the apparently immovable Marquis Fabien could be moved by — but could not own. She was satisfied in having stood her ground in Calais, refusing to melt at his touch. Let him have his beloved ship — his true amour. She glowered and curled her lip derisively.
His wondrous love, a
ship! Well, la, la.

She snatched up her needle and put on Grandmère’s gold thimble. Her frustration and anger subsided as quickly as it had risen its ugly head.
Oh Fabien, that you might want and love me more than anything
else in this cold, heartless world . . . as much as I want and love you.

She fantasized his unexpected return, bending on one knee, clasping her hand between his, and begging her pardon. His violet-blue eyes would sizzle with desire.
“Ah, marry me, ma chérie, there is no one else
like you, I vow it. I want you more than ships, more than Spaniards’ heads
dangling from my cabin wall.”

She laughed sourly at herself. “Get on with your work. You are as silly as Nenette.”