Written on Silk (43 page)

Andelot felt sympathy for Antoine’s good Huguenot wife, the respected Queen Jeanne of Navarre, who remained wholly committed to the Huguenot cause. Her husband’s fall from marital faithfulness would grieve her deeply and injure the Protestant Reformation in France.

“If Prince Antoine has compromised and exchanged one outer religious garment for another, it is a dishonor to both Catholics and Huguenots,” Andelot said, disliking Maurice’s amused smile. “But true faith, Monseigneur Maurice, cannot be shed like snake skin to humor kings or belles dames.”

“Do not trouble me with religion, Andelot, for I find the squabbling between Catholics and Protestants most distasteful. It makes me wish to stay far from either of them. As for you,” Maurice continued, “you are sounding more and more like a heretic. You best be cautious, I swear it.

You could not ask for a more dangerous flirtation while under the shadow of the cardinal than to be caught doing something heretical — like reading a French Bible.” He gave a dismissing flick to a piece of lint on his coat of brocaded red and black.

Andelot glanced at him while mixing the herbal powder in Sebastien’s cup.
Now why did he mention that? He could not possibly know about the
copy he kept hidden among his things.
As yet he had not been able to return it to the Huguenot pasteur. Or was it because he did not wish to give it up? He told himself he would, eventually.

With an amused quiver of his lip, Maurice watched him stirring. “Still serving mon oncle Sebastien, I see? I pity you, Andelot. He can be a tedious man to please, of that I am certain.”

“I have not found him to be so.”

“Andelot, the loyal page,” he said with a small smile.

Andelot passed over the mocking tone. “I hope so, Messire-Comte, as I am also a loyal cousin. Comte Sebastien has done much to aid me at Court. There is little more I would rather do than pursue my studies under a scholar like Thauvet.”

Maurice waved a hand to show he had enough of the conversation.

“Announce me to mon oncle, if you will.”

“At this hour? The day, it has been long for our weary oncle. He is not strong, as you are aware — ”

Maurice waggled his fingers. “The lettre I bring is worthy of his attention. He must see it tonight.”

Andelot saw a gleam of smug satisfaction in his eyes. Something was afoot, and most likely unpleasant, coming from Maurice.

“Shall I tell you my secret?” Maurice tilted his dark wavy head with a smile.

If he showed his interest, he knew Maurice would deliberately hold back.

Andelot pursed his lips. “I am certain mon cousin will say nothing unless he wishes to.”

Maurice’s mysterious smile deepened. “My lettre,” he stated, “is from Princesse Marguerite Valois — who wishes most ardently to recall Mademoiselle Rachelle Macquinet back at Court posthaste. She wishes for a new wardrobe for her journey with the Queen Mother to Spain.”

So, Maurice had managed somehow to fan the flame of Rachelle’s
return.
This, as Andelot saw it, was disturbing. After the attack on the Huguenot assembly at Lyon and the strange death of Grandmère and sickness of Madeleine, how could Maurice want her where danger stalked?

“You frown like an aged wood chopper bending over his log, Andelot.” Maurice smirked, then waved a conquering hand. “You will see. Enough now, announce me to Oncle. It is important, as I have said.”

Andelot swallowed his mottled pride and bowed his head, then entered a door into Sebastien’s apartments.

Sebastien was at Fontainebleau alone, for Madame Madeleine and petite Joan were in Paris where he had wished them to remain, unless Madeleine decided to visit the Château de Silk. Although Sebastien had not said so, Andelot believed that Sebastien feared to have Madeleine here, so close to the Queen Mother. He appeared to tense each time she asked about them, wearing a strange amused smile. It made Andelot’s blood turn cold. Sometimes the Queen Mother played with Sebastien like a cat with a mouse. Andelot wondered why. She must have favored him at one time, and even after Amboise and the Bastille dungeon, she had reinstated him to her privy council.

Andelot was with Sebastien enough to become convinced he did think the Queen Mother had poisoned his wife and Grandmère. Andelot had tried to introduce the topic of his own suspicions, but Sebastien had made it clear from the beginning that he would not discuss it, not even with Duchesse Dushane who had broached the matter when he and Andelot first arrived. Sebastien had rejected the notion of poison, but Andelot was now sure it was because he fully understood the danger.

If Rachelle came to Court, would the matter remain hidden in the shadows? He thought not. This was yet another reason why Andelot was worried. Maurice was behaving most smugly, which meant to Andelot that his desires in having her at Court were on the verge of fruition.

Andelot, disheartened, opened the door into the comte’s blue and gold apartment with Italian tapestry hangings and brocade furnishings of deeply carved, dark wood.

Sebastien stood near the hearth, hands behind his back, staring into the glowing coals sending off a warm and pleasant pine fragrance.

Andelot noticed the stoop of his shoulders and disliked bringing him more burdens, especially at this hour when he was soon to retire after taking his medicinal tea. He deserved a restful night’s sleep, for tomorrow would have trouble enough. Andelot cleared his throat politely to gain his attention. It had become a signal between them whenever he needed to interrupt Sebastien’s thoughts.

Sebastien lifted his dark head streaked with gray and looked across the chamber.

Andelot had learned to keep his expression unobtrusive, as though he had no opinions of his own, but he always experienced satisfaction when a look of family fondness lightened Sebastien’s face upon seeing him. Having been raised without a father, Andelot had a special fondness for his oncle. Andelot once thought a family relationship would develop with the Cardinal de Lorraine and the Duc de Guise, but that had swiftly dissipated. At first he had been disappointed, but recently he had found that he was relieved. His recent interest in the Reformation would be almost impossible to pursue if the cardinal had taken him under his wing. Andelot was beginning to see the working of God in the events of his life.

Not that Sebastien was demonstrative.
Au contraire.
Sebastien was pleasant but precise, and Andelot felt genuinely liked.

“Monseigneur,” Andelot said quietly, and bowed his head in deference as formality required, for even in families, respect was given to titled members. Andelot took pleasure in showing respect to Sebastien and Marquis Fabien, but it goaded him to bow to Comte Maurice.

“Yes, Andelot? You have that revolting herbal medicine prepared?”

Andelot smiled. “I am afraid so, but you may not wish to drink it yet. Your sister’s son is here. Comte Maurice Beauvilliers awaits most anxiously to speak with you about a lettre from Princess Marguerite Valois.”

At the mention of the flamboyant princesse, Sebastien groaned.

“Now what? More woes, to be sure. Speaking of woes — it pains me to say so, but I had just been thinking of that rapscallion nephew of mine, and see how he shows up to plague me?” His eyes showed faint amusement. “Do you agree that your cousin is a rapscallion, Andelot?”

“Mon oncle, I would forget myself if ever I disagree with you.”

Sebastien chuckled. “A fair answer and a diplomatic one. You will go far among your titled superiors. As for Maurice, I am in no mood for him . . .” He tossed up his hand. “So the princesse brings him here at this hour? And in the rain?” He sighed. “Ah, but send him in.” Sebastien rubbed the tired frown from between his heavy brows. “Francoise would not forgive me if I ignored her golden lad.”

Andelot smiled, stepped back into the antechamber where Maurice waited, looking bored as he lounged his lean frame against the wall, picking at his polished fingernails.

“Le comte awaits to receive you.”

“It is past time.”

Andelot stepped aside and held the door wide to allow passage.

Maurice ambled past him into the chamber and bowed. “Ah, mon cher oncle. I will not detain you long.” His melodious tenor voice rang smoothly throughout the chamber.

Andelot was about to close the door on their privacy and return to his own chamber to his studies when Sebastien said: “Non, Andelot, do remain. It is not often that I have more than one neveu together with me.”

No one could have been more surprised than Andelot, except perhaps Maurice, whose languid eyes sharpened into a speculative once-over.

Sebastien limped across the Aubusson rug toward Maurice.

Why did he wish him to remain? Andelot moved away from the door to stand near the window, wondering what to do with his hands. He finally put them behind his back and looked on with a practiced immobile face, though his mind was alert.

Maurice shrugged and pursed his lips. “Just so, mon oncle, and as you suggest, why should Andelot not join us, I ask?” He gestured toward Andelot with a show of disinterest. “Andelot is a blood relation — is he not?”

Andelot snapped awake. Now what was the doubtful emphasis on blood relation meant to suggest? Andelot shot a look at Maurice, then to Sebastien, but while Maurice looked sleepy, Sebastien showed only irritation.

“I am sure you did not come here at this hour to talk about Andelot.”

Sebastien lifted his brows.

Maurice spread a careless hand as though it were all in passing and of no interest. “A taste of wine first before I am sent away, Monsieur Oncle, at least. A few pleasant words.”

Andelot stood straight, hands behind him.
So
, he thought,
he is reluctant
to tell him about Princesse Marguerite demanding to have Rachelle
back at Court. He knows Sebastien will be displeased, for he too prefers to
have his wife’s younger sister stay in Lyon.

Maurice sauntered to the long, waist-high table inlaid with the fleur-de-lis where there stood a Florentine decanter of renowned French wine.

He poured himself a goblet of the ruby liquid. A ruby of another sort encircled with diamonds hung from his left earlobe and danced. Andelot had seen him adorned with all sorts of gold bracelets, diamond pins, emerald pendants, and even pearls. Where does he come by all of these jewels?

“Wine, Oncle?”

Sebastien shook his head. “Non.”

Maurice draped his lithe figure against the wall beside a gilded cage holding a linnet. He clucked his tongue and offered the tiny bird a bit of fruit from which it fled to the far side of the cage.

“You go to bed early, mon oncle.”

“These days have been trying. You should know that, Maurice.”

“It is most troubling, I assure you. The burnings throughout Paris sicken my sense of smell, and the storming of cathedrals and smashing belle statues of the saints is also appalling.” Maurice made kissing sounds at the bird.

Sebastien slowly lifted his head. “That you lament so sincerely, neveu, over the recent arrests of your fellow Frenchmen who are Huguenots, touches me deeply.”

Andelot felt satisfaction at the bitter jab. Sebastien then began his limping pace, hands behind his back, head bent in thought.

“Arrests . . . ah oui, pardone! The Bourbon princes . . . a pity.”

Maurice frowned and gave a toss of his dark head suggesting sympathy.

The gesture did not convince Andelot. Maurice was indifferent to all but his present concern, getting Rachelle back in his presence.

Maurice settled leisurely into a brocade chaise lounge with gold fringe.

He sipped his wine and crossed his ankles. His lips turned upward as though his mind were in some distant reverie. One hand trailed along the rug where he played absently with the fringe.

“Princesse Marguerite boasted to me of how Mademoiselle Rachelle does the finest and brightest work with the silk and the little needle, taking over the couturière work of her grandmère. Marguerite knows about this Englishman Hudson who has transported Macquinet silk to Spitalfields. She knows all about the land too that Monsieur Arnaut wishes to acquire to start a new plantation like the Château de Silk.”

Sebastien ceased his pacing and turned sharply to Maurice.

“Did you mention Arnaut’s plans to la Valois?”

“Oncle!” Maurice lifted his head from off the fringed gold satin pillow. His eyes widened. “Would I do such a thing? Why should I?”

What was this about? Andelot had not heard of Arnaut Macquinet’s interest in England before. Why was Sebastien looking distressed, even angry?

“If I thought it was you who spoke of this to the Queen Mother’s daughter — ”

“
Saints
, why should I?”

“You keep saying that, but you might have, Maurice.”

Maurice shrugged. “It matters not to me that Arnaut has ties in England and wants to strengthen them . . . As long as Mademoiselle Rachelle does not go there with him. Ah! That I cannot endure, Oncle.

You had best tell him so.”

“It is none of your concern, Maurice.”

“Non, Oncle! Nor should Messire Macquinet’s interest in going to England bring trouble to you. You are sure to remain at Court serving the Queen Mother.” Maurice sipped his wine, studying him over the rim of his goblet.