Written on Silk (50 page)

In his mind he seemed to hear the thunder of war horses and the clash of swords. War, sorrow, and death. In exchange for what? Freedom of worship, peace, and love.

Yes, it was worth it. Rachelle was worth it. Vendôme was worth it — if
he decided he could stay
.

He left the bed and walked to the window. He looked out, but London was draped with fog and he could see nothing. Somehow, the lack of sight brought to mind the words he had been reading in Scripture,
“For
we walk by faith, not by sight.”
Faith in the words of Scripture alone, and in Christ alone. Not in his own wisdom, nor in his own abilities, not even in the exercise of prayer, but
in
God.

These Spirit-breathed words would guide his future and Rachelle’s along the treacherous road that lay ahead for all Huguenots who remained in France. The road would be rough, but they were not alone. They were not to be pitied for being chosen to represent Christ in such a time as this, for Christ declared that the suffering church was rich and not poor, and well favored in His love.

Fear none of those things which thou shalt suffer . . . I will give thee a
crown of life
. . .

Fabien anticipated telling Rachelle that he would openly declare that he was a Huguenot. He would publicly take Communion at the colloquy with Bertrand, Beza, and John Calvin.

And he hoped she would welcome him into her heart.

He would leave London before sunrise. In a few days he would be in Paris to see his belle amie Rachelle again.

This time I will vow my enduring love through marriage.

The Secret

R
ACHELLE’S
JOURNEY FROM LYON TOWARD
FONTAINEBLEAU
PROCEEDED
without difficulty
.
Near Fontainebleau Comte Sebastien and his guards rode out to meet them, and they pulled off the road among the pine trees for a short rest. When Rachelle first saw Sebastien she was momentarily stunned by the change in his appearance, and Idelette caught her breath. He now looked as elderly as Pasteur Bertrand, but even frailer. Her heart went out to him.
What Sebastien must have endured! I am heartily
ashamed of myself. I shall never again entertain a single tainted thought
about his recantation.

She was so moved that when they met on the side of the road she embraced him. “Cher brother,” she said, and for lack of anything worthy to say, lapsed into silence.

Sebastien, his manner as fatherly as Bertrand, patted her shoulder. “I am doing well, ma petite soeur. I am cheered to see you again, but grieved that you have come to Court at this time. I worked against it for more reasons than one, for I may not always be there, but at least Duchesse Dushane should be. If ever in the future you find yourself in dire need, go to her immediately. These are precarious times for us all. You must behave most wisely before the Queen Mother, as I have confidence you will.”

He also suspects Grandmère and Madeleine were poisoned. Was he
expecting his own arrest again?

Rachelle tried to reassure him to alleviate his worrisome burdens. He surprised her when he announced that he would attend them both on the remainder of their journey, and that they would be going to Paris. Sebastien was to spend a few days with Madeleine and his bébé Joan before returning to Fontainebleau with Rachelle.

Rachelle had not expected this. She was journeying with all of her sewing equipage.

Sebastien rubbed and straightened his black velvet glove with fidgety fingers.
Was anything wrong? Was he perhaps not given permission to go
to Paris?

“And where is the Queen Mother?” she asked in a low voice.

“She has gone for a short time to Chambord to keep a meeting with the Duc d’Alva.”

Rachelle shuddered at the thought of the Spanish military commander of the soldiers in the Netherlands, recalling the brutality Fabien had told her about. She thought also of Fabien, and worried. Surely the duc was here to make complaints against the sinking of his galleons.

Rachelle did not mind going on to Paris, for there was the matter of the gloves that she had not been able to search out, and now she may have the opportunity. She wished to see Madeleine again and bébé Joan.

Idelette helped Rachelle down from the coach to walk about and stretch after such a long ride from the château. Maurice Beauvilliers rode up to his oncle.

“What is this, mon oncle? Paris, you say? But non. I am under orders by the Queen Mother to bring Mademoiselle Rachelle straight to the palais-château at Fontainebleau.”

“The Queen Mother is at Chambord entertaining the Duc d’Alva. We will be but a few days at the Louvre. Mademoiselle Rachelle will return with me to Fontainebleau then. Do continue on with the sewing equipage. Make certain all of the goods and bolts of silk are secured in an atelier.”

Maurice looked from Sebastien to Rachelle. “There is something odd about this, mon oncle.”

“Do as I say, mon neveu,” Sebastien said impatiently. “It is getting on toward afternoon, and I wish to be in Paris before sunset. Madeleine is expecting us. I sent word ahead to her.”

Maurice studied him for another moment, his lips forming a tight line, then he barked orders to his men to turn the wagons toward Fontainebleau. His languid eyes roved back to Rachelle. Suspicion showed on his face. Rachelle stared back evenly, vexed by his possessive demeanor. Since his arrival at the château he had treated her as though she were his belle amour.

He swung down from his black horse and sauntered up to where she stood. He swept up her hand and pressed it to his lips. She snatched her hand away and narrowed her gaze.

“I beg of you, Comte Maurice, that you cease such behavior. Everyone is watching.”

“Would you permit me then, if they were not?”

“I have given you no such right.”

“Ah, but I have that right, mademoiselle,” he said stiffly, “and none shall deny it on the word of the king.” A satisfied smile drew over his sensuous mouth.

The king?
Maurice’s confidence irritated and alarmed her. “Whatever do you mean?”

“The Queen Mother has written you and explained.”

“I beg to differ. The Queen Mother has explained nothing except that I am wanted at Court to create Princesse Marguerite’s wardrobe for her visit to Spain. You, mon comte, were not even mentioned,” she said with a taste of her own satisfaction. His pride was insufferable.

“Hah,
ma belle
, but you are most mistaken. I shall soon have you as my own princesse.”

“You imagine more than shall ever be, I assure you. I wish for no interest from any messire at Court, or otherwise. All I want is to be left in peace to do my work for Marguerite.”

“It is you, Rachelle, who imagines you have more rights than you are entitled. You and I will be married. The Queen Mother has promised me.”

Astounded, she stared at him. His eyes were bright and passionate and his determined expression alarmed her. He believed it!

“Messire, I think you are sadly mistaken. The Queen Mother could not have made you such a promise. My parents will not hear of it, I assure you.”

“They will have nothing to say about it,” he said flatly. “It is what the king will say that matters. If he wishes us to marry, we shall marry.

I suggest you be pleased you have won my devoted heart and begin to make plans to make me a happy and contented husband.”

Rachelle glared. “Ah, you are conceited, Maurice. I tell you I will not marry you. Now do step aside; my sister is waiting to board the carriage for Paris, and I am going with her. You have the orders of your oncle, and I suggest you honor him by carrying those duties to completion. I bid you adieu — and please do not permit the lackeys to soil one inch of my bolts of silk or they shall hear from me.” And she swept past him to the carriage, holding her breath, half expecting to feel his hand grab her arm or throw a tantrum over her rejection. Maurice kicked a rock across the road and shouted angrily at his lackeys.

“What was that all about?” Idelette was seated across from her as the coach proceeded once more toward Paris, Sebastien and his guard of a dozen armed men in the lead.

“I do not know, but he has some inane notion that the Queen Mother will arrange my marriage to him by going to the king about it.”

“Marriage to Maurice? But that will never be permitted by our family, I assure you.”

“So I told him, but he only insisted the king could force the marriage to take place if he wished.”

“I suppose he could. So could the Queen Mother, but why would they? Such enforcement is kept for high nobility and princesses like Marguerite.”

Rachelle made no further comment, but she was perturbed and growing more uneasy. What if the Queen Mother had promised Maurice her hand in marriage for some scheming reason? Was it possible she had done so? Maurice had oozed with confidence.

Things are not as they should be
, she thought as the horses trotted along the unpaved road to Paris. She looked out the window at the speckled sunshine filtering through the chestnut trees along the roadway.

Sebastien had behaved oddly. She wanted to mention it to Idelette, but she was resting her head against the back of the plush velvet covered seat, her eyes closed.

Rachelle mulled over the events. Yes, matters were not as they should be. Something was in the wind. There was a certain mood that told her life as she had known it was changing, even perhaps, coming to an end.

Marriage to Maurice Beauvilliers? Never!

Her heart turned toward Marquis Fabien. The longing became overwhelming and tears soon dampened her cheeks. She blotted them away, glad that Idelette did not see them and feel worse than she already did.

She turned her heart to her heavenly Father, remembering,
I am not
alone.
God stood in the shadows of life’s providence, keeping vigilant watch over His very own.

R
ACHELLE
HAD BEEN AT
the Louvre for several days. She set about almost immediately to search Grandmère’s chamber once again to see if the gloves might have fallen behind a piece of furniture, or got pushed under the canopied bed. The chamber had been swept clean.

On occasion she sought out each of the servants, asking questions, but again no one knew a thing about the missing gloves. They remembered seeing Grandmère wearing gloves, but they could not say where they may have disappeared.

Rachelle’s only glimmer of new information came from the serving maid.

“There was only one thing odd, Mademoiselle.”

“And what was that?” Rachelle urged.

“I saw a very small ghost in the grand madame’s chamber the day before she died. First I thought it was a boy child, but then I saw his face, and he looked old, Mademoiselle. And when I blinked and rubbed my eyes, thinking I was seeing a vision, well next thing I looked again, and whatever it was, it was no longer there. And now that I have thought it over, Mademoiselle, I am sure he was a dwarf.”

A dwarf!

The Queen Mother had several dwarves who served her as loyally as did Madalenna. It would have been possible for one of them to hide during the emotional comings and goings, when Grandmère became so ill.

Had they been clever, they should have left an untainted likeness of the poison gloves in the belle red box. They would have been tested for poison and found harmless.

“Did anyone else see this dwarf?”

“If they did, no one said so, Mademoiselle. They were all so busy with Grand Madame. It was those petite apples, Mademoiselle. They made her most sick, so that she succumbed.”

Later, Rachelle spoke to Madeleine about the Queen Mother’s dwarves.

Madeleine frowned in distress and was still unwilling to discuss anything that had to do with the gloves, Grandmère, or her illness.

“You do not understand, Rachelle. I have Joan to think of.”

“I do understand, but if Grandmère — ”

“If you discover something — then what? Take the matter before King Francis, who is only a weak boy controlled by the cardinal? Or burden Sebastien with it? He needs a long rest away from the demands and fears of Court that lash his conscience. He disagrees with much that the king is allowing the Guises to do in France, but how can he stop it?”