Written on Silk (44 page)

Andelot could not keep his frown restrained. It sounded as though Maurice were indirectly telling Sebastien he was aware of a matter that Sebastien wanted kept secret.

“Fabien’s recent venture of sinking Spanish galleons is known by Madrid.”

“You think that is news to me? I have been shuffling papers back and forth from Madrid to the Queen Mother for weeks on the matter. The question is how you know, mon neveu.”

“Chantonnay talks freely.”

“Chantonnay, that Spanish spy! You are too much in his company of late, Maurice. He badgers me, as he does the Queen Mother.”

Maurice shrugged. “They both spy upon each other. I do not feel sorry for either.”

“That be as it may, I would ask that you not speak of Marquis Fabien around Court. He has problems enough without anyone enlarging upon his dealings at sea.”

Maurice did not appear the least sympathetic. “I should be surprised if, upon his arrival, he is not immediately summoned before the king and made to explain his actions to the Guises. The Spanish king is most distraught over the English privateers, and now the marquis and other French buccaneers have joined them. They make a formidable force, I assure you.”

“What else might the Spanish ambassador have told you?”

“That Marquis Fabien has done some business with English privateers, sinking several galleons on their way to the Netherlands. The Duc d’Alva lost his supplies as well as the gold he was bringing for his soldiers’ wages.” He smiled and sipped his wine. “Mademoiselle Rachelle will not wish to keep company with such a ruthless corsair.”

Andelot was annoyed. With Maurice’s lusty eye on Rachelle, he had most likely convinced himself he could get Fabien out of the way.

Sebastien’s voice warned: “You concern yourself too much with the future of Madeleine’s younger sister. And as for the marquis, he can speak well enough for himself to the king.”

Maurice’s mouth turned with boredom. He put his arm behind his dark head and held the goblet in the other, studying it.

“I wish to marry Rachelle.”

The statement, though mentioned lightly before, now seemed more determined.

Sebastien made a snarling sound, lifted a hand of rebuff, and turned away to the fire.

Maurice was swiftly on his feet like a panther ready to leap. “Mille diables! You fret too much, Oncle, I swear it. And you, Andelot, do not look like a frog swallowing an egg. I am devoted to la Macquinet. I shall go posthaste to her père Arnaut and beg for her hand.”

“And be denied. You are never more cunning than when you use lofty words to justify your dubious ways,” Sebastien said wearily. “How many demoiselles in the last two years have you sworn to adore unto your utter loss?”

“Ah Oncle, those were all different.”

“Regardless, you will not involve yourself with Madeleine’s younger sister.”

Maurice looked at him over his goblet, his gaze turning angry.

“I will have my way, Oncle. I always do. And why should she not be pleased with me, I ask? One would think I was a barbarian. I attend Mass daily. I have even braved le Cardinal de Lorraine and gone to
le
prêche
as a Calvinist, now and then.”

“Now and then,” Sebastien repeated with a wry glance his way.

Maurice placed his palm against his ruffled silk shirt above his heart.

“Because Rachelle stirs my heart, am I now marked as a man of dubious intent?”

Précisément!
Andelot thought.

“Too many mademoiselles stir your heart, Maurice. Your intentions are well established at Court,” Sebastien said.

Andelot wanted to nod agreement.

“You fret like an old hen,” Maurice said. “It was long in the planning for Rachelle to come back to Court to resume her place as Princesse Marguerite’s maid-of-honor. I do nothing that was not already agreed upon in the past. All I do is awaken the sleeping little bird. Now, Rachelle will come as a couturière instead of her grandmère’s grisette. She will enjoy herself. The wardrobe Marguerite desires for her Spanish trip will fill Rachelle with delight. Ma mère will talk to you about this.”

“Francoise need tell me nothing.”

“Oncle, be reasonable; it is she who was sent the summons to bring Rachelle back to Court. I have it present with me to give you, for I should marry la Macquinet at once.”

Andelot displayed outward indifference, but his fingers twisted together in anger behind his back.

“It is dangerous for Rachelle to be at Court,” Sebastien said, shaking his head firmly. “Francoise should have come to me first about your schemes instead of appealing to Princesse Marguerite.”

“Andelot, more wine.” Maurice held out his cup. He snapped his lean fingers against the gold shining goblet.

Andelot went for the decanter and came back to his cousin who was lounging once more.

“Ah, mon belle amour has the most intriguing of eyes, the hair . . .”

Maurice sipped. He sighed. “Oui, perhaps I will have my wedding at the colloquy. It will be most religious.”

Andelot gripped the decanter.

Maurice held the goblet to the light, and with a little sensuous smile, watched the ruby liquid as Andelot poured. It was a smile Andelot loathed. He relaxed his grip on the decanter so it tipped downward just slightly, spilling wine down the front of Maurice’s frilled shirt and onto his satin doublet —

“Ehh!” Maurice jumped from the lounge attempting to brush off the spilled wine. “I am drowned in it! You did this vileness, Andelot, on purpose! I declare you to be false and disloyal!”

“
Mille pardons
, Monseigneur.” Andelot hastened to say with the right amount of humility and rushed to bring cloths to soak the wine from Maurice’s wardrobe. “It was most clumsy of me,” he added.

“Clumsy? Non! It was deliberate. Give that cloth to me — I shall do it myself.” Snatching it, Maurice blotted his garments. “They are ruined.”

He threw the cloths down with aggrieved disgust.

“I am most apologetic, Monsieur Cousin. I — ”

“Do not call me cousin!” Maurice turned to Sebastien who looked on with a curious glint in his eyes.

Maurice, his arm rigid, pointed at Andelot. “You saw what he did!”

“Calm yourself, Maurice,” Sebastien soothed. “It was but an accident. You have dozens of like finery. We have more grave matters with which to be concerned.”

Andelot bowed toward Maurice and moved away, gently now, avoiding those once deceptively languid eyes, and set the half-empty decanter back in its place.
It was worth it
.

“Well?” Sebastien’s voice showed a strain of impatience. “What is this missive you speak about from Princesse Marguerite?”

Maurice, with narrowed gaze following Andelot across the chamber, said stiffly: “It is important, I assure you, else I would not have troubled you at this hour.” He reached beneath his stained doublet and produced an envelope with an impressive gold seal that alerted Andelot. Sebastien’s expression changed.

Maurice noticed and looked satisfied with his disclosure. “The missive is not from Princesse Marguerite, mon oncle, though she was the means of bringing the request to the attention of the Queen Mother.”

Maurice handed the envelope over to Sebastien.

“From the Queen Mother herself,” Maurice said. “The Macquinet couturière is to be summoned here to Fontainebleau for audience with the queen.”

Andelot bit back his grumble of defeat.

Sebastien took the envelope, scowling his worry. “A mistake. A dreadful one. So Francoise went through Princesse Marguerite to get you what you want. It was clever of my sister, but unwise and dangerous.”

“Dangerous? You must exaggerate, mon oncle!”

With the royal missive in hand, Sebastien limped to the hearth where a crystal lamp in a silver base burned on a gilt-edged marble table.

“The Queen Mother is behind this. But why would she want Rachelle here at Court now?” Sebastien murmured, frowning thoughtfully.

A sullen expression came to Maurice. “I swear, mon oncle, beside Marguerite’s gowns, there is no motive except my desire for her in marriage.”

Sebastien looked at him with a dark countenance. “Marguerite would have no power to recall Rachelle if Catherine had not given permission.

And I ask, why? Maurice, one must not forget that Catherine de Medici is in the shadows — always in the shadows.”

Andelot shifted his stance, still watching Maurice.

Maurice fell silent. After a moment he refilled his wine goblet and stared into it.

“Francoise should have told me of her plan to go to Princesse Marguerite. In this foolish game of yours to get Rachelle to Court, you have put her at risk.”

“La belle will be busy with her silk,” Maurice said sullenly. “If it is her religion you worry about, it will not come before the cardinal.”

Sebastien turned. “You speak glibly. With the attacks on the Huguenots all across France, Prince de Condé imprisoned, and Antoine de Bourbon morally defeated? The Guises have more power now than ever.”

“Sainte Denis! You cannot think that the Guises would turn on Rachelle.”

“No? Who then do you think turned on her two young helpless sisters with their brutish soldiers at Lyon?”

Maurice scowled. He banged his empty glass down. “That was loathsome. If I had been there, I would have drawn sword, to be sure. I and the marquis both could have laid many of them low. But it will never happen to Rachelle here at Fontainebleau.”

“I do not expect it will. The danger here is more subtle, but just as ruinous.”

“If Princesse Marguerite heard of any danger to Rachelle, she would stop it. Did she not send her away from the danger at Amboise during the Huguenot rebellion?”

“The Princess Marguerite must please the Queen Mother. And I! I can do nothing.” Suddenly Sebastien wavered on his feet.

Andelot rushed to his side, leading him into a chair. Maurice appeared shaken and brought wine to Sebastien, pleading for him to drink it for strength.

“I will not let anything happen to Rachelle, I swear it. Nor will harm come to any Macquinet,” Maurice said, so that even Andelot looked at him.

“You will stop it?” Sebastien said. “With what authority do you think to match wits with the Guises?”

Maurice fingered the Alençon lace waterfall at his throat, grave thoughtfulness showing on his lean, dark, saturnine face.

“Ma mère has bonhomie with Princesse Marguerite, as do I. And Marguerite has influence on Henry, son of Duc de Guise. The duc will do whatever Henry may ask him. Anyway, I do not believe in this danger you insist upon where Rachelle is concerned.”

Because you are selfish and do not wish to see it
, Andelot thought angrily. He could keep silent no longer.

“Monsieur Oncle, if Mademoiselle Rachelle comes back to Court, let us remember Marquis Fabien has bonhomie with Princesse Marguerite, King Francis, and even Prince Charles. Perhaps we should appeal to the marquis?”

Maurice flushed and his lips tightened. “The marquis, if he turns up at Court, will find his friends have turned their heads.” He pointed a jeweled hand toward Andelot’s face. “Why do you mention the marquis?

Is there not trouble enough with the Bourbons?”

“Enough . . . enough . . . both of you,” Sebastien said wearily. He pushed himself up from the chair. “I need peace to think this matter through. Go now, Maurice, I wish to study this summons.”

Maurice snatched up his dove-hued cloak. The orange and gold threads glittered in the light as he walked briskly toward the door. As duty demanded, Andelot reached the door first, opened it, and bowed.

Maurice glanced over his shoulder toward his oncle who stood at the hearth, studying the parchment and scowling.

“
A bientôt
, mon oncle,” he said with agitation. “For despite your displeasure, I am on my way with my entourage to Lyon, for it is the order of the Queen Mother, as you will see.” He bowed. “By your leave.” Maurice passed through the doorway. Andelot followed, closing it behind them.

In the antechamber, Maurice faced him, his eyes sparking. “Do you think I do not know you have a foolish heart for ma chérie Rachelle?”

“Your chérie? If she has a heart for any, it is the Marquis de Vendôme. She will not have you.”

“So you think! Non, non, she will have no voice in the matter!”

“Her Huguenot parents will have much to say about whom she marries!”

“One way or another, I will have my way!”

“What selfish scheme brews in your mind now?”

“I need not explain to you.” Maurice pulled at his wine-stained silk shirt. “This, I will not forget. Of this, you have not heard the last. One day — I shall demand the slap to my honneur be repaid. Ah, you had best learn the rapier, Andelot, I promise you.” He turned on his polished heel, cloak floating behind him, and jerking the door open, swept out into the common corridor, and strutted away.

Now I am in for more misfortune
, Andelot thought wearily.

The Unwanted Suitor