Daughter of Silk (21 page)
“And if the cardinal approves of me after my interview, then he will grant me the high privilege to enter training as a court page, perhaps even to le Cardinal de Lorraine himself.”
Failing that position, Andelot thought he could at least become an important courtier at the Louvre in Paris, perhaps to his Oncle Sebastien.
Andelot shook his head. “I can still but scarcely believe it,” he mur- mured to the horse. The horse lifted its ruddy head and pawed the ground restlessly, as though unsure about his new master.
Andelot straightened his forest green hat with plume. He squinted, frustrated. “And now my important meeting is delayed until Amboise. No one even knows why we go there. And where is mon Oncle Sebastien? My life is but full of thornbush and stumbling stones, on paths that wan- der uphill and down dale and lead to stagnant pools of green slime.”
He jerked his hat still lower.
He had thought to surprise Mademoiselle Rachelle at the revelation of his connection to the Guises while they were both here at Chambord and win her admiration. “And now, before I even get the chance to impress her with my grand prospects, she has met Marquis Fabien and I am still without notice or regard by Cardinal Charles Guise de Lorraine.”
Andelot entertained some noble ambitions— of one day attending the university in Paris. All now surely seemed possible. Becoming a page to the cardinal should lead to gaining special privileges and further oppor- tunities, but then perhaps — now Andelot felt as though a thorn stuck in his throat — perhaps to dark infamy. He was aware of the reputation of the House of Guise for terror against heretics.
Andelot shivered. He was a Catholic; he had nothing to fear; he dis- agreed with the Huguenots, with Calvin, and with that diable Monsieur Luther and his Reformation, but his heart pitied his fellow Frenchmen. He agreed with Duchesse Anne d’Este, wife of le Duc de Guise, when she implored him, “Please, at least spare the children and the women.”
Andelot could no more stomach a burning than he could imagine going to Calvin’s Geneva and becoming a Protestant scholar.
The pale sky showed blue in places between drifting white puffs. In the distance rain clouds loitered, threatening to drench the auspicious royal caravan soon to be on the road to Amboise. The breeze told a different story, of a fine spring full of gala events and amour. Andelot noticed that the lovely demoiselles of the nobles believed so anyway; they laughed behind bejeweled fans and paraded about in startling frocks with all manner of jewels. At first Andelot stared at the sight. “Fie. It is a miracle they are not robbed,” he had said, and Marquis Fabien had found the remark so amusing he had laughed aloud, whereupon, the marquis had given him lessons in savoir faire.
Andelot shaded his eyes with his hand and peered toward the court- yard where the gates now stood open for the royal retinue to come riding through.
He saw that the king’s attendants were waiting for the signal to emerge. Andelot marveled at such splendor. The nobles were well-fed, no skinny peasants, these. They wore sight-dazzling garments and were adorned with diamonds and rubies. They gathered either on horseback or in horse-drawn calèches, bearing armorial f lags. All had peasant lack- eys following on foot with the hunting dogs and house dogs, and wagons overf lowing with royal provisions.
It yet remains a wonder to me we are not robbed by highwaymen. But
then Marquis Fabien’s laughter may be realistic after all. I have seen what
happens to a peasant who dares to hunt in the king’s forest for a coney. How much worse to hunt for jewels and furs?
Andelot’s position on horseback was near the queue of common sol- diers, far behind the royal grenadiers in their blue and white uniforms, or the grand red, white, and blue of the House of Bourbon, of which Marquis Fabien’s retinue was a part.
I might at least have been invited to ride in Fabien’s guard
.
Andelot waited with the archers on horseback. To his left, astride a fine specimen of a horse, was another of his blood cousines, but of humble birth like himself — that is, before he had learned he was part Guise. The chevalier, Julot Cazalet, was a skilled archer and an excel- lent swordsman — and in secret a Huguenot, though Andelot was not supposed to know. As if he would betray his own cousine! Andelot told himself he would not tell the Guises this for any amount of silver.
Chevalier Julot Cazalet, also befriended by the generous Marquis Fabien, who was seeking to lure him into his own men-at-arms, so far without success, was old — fully twenty-eight. He had steely eyes, an angular chin, broad cheekbones, and hair a burnt ruddy color. It seemed to Andelot that Cousine Julot was always angry. He had been so ever since his brother was pulled apart limb from limb for carrying a heretic book in his saddlebag. The warning to Julot not to follow his brother’s ways included being tied to a post to watch his brother’s ordeal. It was whispered later that Julot had fainted before his brother, who had quoted words from the Psalter before he had gone into shock and died.
Julot had a right to be angry. But Andelot was uneasy of that steely rage. Even so, Julot continued to serve the royal House of Valois. Why? Andelot cast a side glance toward the man with broad muscled shoulders and lean hips. The swell of muscle in his arms assured Andelot that Julot could send the king’s arrows far and with strategic power. His sword arm might lop off an arm or a hand. Andelot shuddered. He did not like the sword. He liked manuscripts and quiet chambers of learning.
Andelot’s leather saddle creaked as he swiveled to crane his neck once again toward the gate searching for a hint of Marquis Fabien. Where was he?
In the courtyard, Marquis Fabien walked up to where his golden bay waited with the groom. Fabien was about to swing into the saddle when Gallaudet came trotting toward him. Fabien paused. He had sent Gallaudet with his men-at-arms to safeguard the Macquinet calèche and wagons back to Lyon.
“Monseigneur, I have news you will wish to hear now.” “Say on.”
“Mademoiselle Rachelle will not be returning to the Chateau de Silk in Lyon. I have learned this but minutes ago from Mademoiselle Idelette Macquinet. She is the only one returning to the Chateau de Silk.”
“The only one returning? Saintes! What is this?”
Gallaudet explained how he had arrived at the Macquinet calèche with the marquis’s swordsmen when Madame Dushane told him of her journey to Paris with the Queen Mother’s blessing. “Mademoiselle Rachelle is now a lady-in-waiting to Princesse Marguerite Valois.”
Fabien’s immediate anger f lared. “Lady-in-waiting!”
“And your wish, Monsieur? Does it remain the same for your swords- men to ride with the Macquinet
coterie
to Lyon?”
“Yes, but you, Gallaudet, do not journey onward to Lyon as first intended. I have other plans. I may need you. Meet me at the road.”
Lady-in-waiting to Margo — this displeased him, for Amboise would prove most dangerous. Fabien left his horse with his groom and entered the inner courtyard where the queue of calèches had gathered, waiting for the king to ride out. Princesse Marguerite and her ladies-in-waiting stood outside the two royal calèches awarded her for comfortable travel. The vivacious and attractively plump Margo, dark eyes snapping with fervency for young Henry de Guise, huddled with him on one side of the calèche. Her ladies and pages were shielding her as she bade au revoir to Henry, though he was also going on to Amboise. In reality, Margo and Henry’s amour for one another was known to any who both-
ered to notice. Fabien, for one, had small interest in their goings-on.
Fabien waited, bored. Henry, upon seeing him, unwrapped himself from Margo’s clinging embrace. He scanned Fabien, his jaw hardening. Though unsought by Fabien, there seemed a veiled competition between them at court for first place in the ladies’ admiration. Another foolish fri- volity as far as Fabien considered. He wished to avoid the belles dames.
Henry, however, with his golden looks, his proud and arrogant idoliza- tion of his father, expected to be adored because he was the duc’s son.
“A Guise, a Guise for a king,” the Parisians would shout when father and son with their men-at-arms rode from Lorraine into Paris.
Henry now approached Fabien. A stern look overtook his comely face, and his hair, a golden red, glinted in the sun. As soon as he was out of earshot of Margo and her attendants, he said, “A Bourbon.”
Fabien’s temper, a problem since childhood and now worn thin by recent events, f lared, for he believed it was Henry’s father who had plot- ted the demise of his own father, Jean-Louis. Yet this young Henry spread his proud feathers as though he, and not Fabien, was of the blood royal. The House of Guise was already in the place of authority that rightfully belonged to the princes of the blood, Antoine and Louis de Bourbon, only because the Guises were favored by powerful Spain and meddling Rome who believed in their political rule over kings.
Fabien stepped closer, keeping his voice low, for there were ladies present, and the animosity between them was theirs alone, developing since childhood.
“Your haughty address offends me, Henry. A Bourbon, yes, and where France is concerned, of higher rank than you or any in the House of Guise. If I were an arrogant Guise, I would draw my blade now before the ladies and demand your humble obeisance.”
“After Avenelle? After my father has discovered a plot hatched by Bourbons to overthrow the king?” Henry de Guise snarled.
“Avenelle,” the marquis said with contempt, “is a traitor, a small rat. A rat bribed by the duc to lie, and for whose rise to power? The duc’s own. Your oncle, the cardinal, scorns the king as well.”
“You speak thus of my father and oncle!”
“Your father deigns to overthrow the rightful rule of the house of Bourbon to usurp it for the House of Guise. He fills the king’s youthful mind with lies. There is no plot to overthrow a Valois king but to remove those around him who usurp a position not rightfully theirs. Men who are more loyal to Spain than to France.”
Henry stared at him open-mouthed. “Marquis! I demand apology or I shall call for an
affaire d’honneur
with the sword.”
“Then call for it. You will die here and now before Marguerite. Do so and be counted a fool, Henry. I shall best you. You will have nothing but infamy. Is that what you wish to portray before the royal princesse and courtiers?”
Henry de Guise drew in his chin. A look of confusion and then sur- prise crossed his face, and his faltering gaze said his rash call for a duel of honor had been a mistake.
Fabien wondered if Henry had ever been informed that the Guises of Lorraine ranked below Jean-Louis de Vendôme and the deceased prin- cesse, Marie-Louise de Bourbon, Fabien’s blood mother.
“No one has heard our exchange. I shall be generous and spare your reputation before Margo. But know you have foolishly accosted mine. It is I who has the right to call you out for lightly esteeming my rank. But I am not so insecure. Do ask your father, the duc, if he thinks it is wise for you to have done so. He will not be pleased by your rash action, I prom- ise you. Also ask him why he would not be pleased, if you so choose.”
Henry stood stiff ly. The look of uncertainty remained in his light blue eyes. “What do you mean to imply?”
“That is for you, your father, and your oncle the cardinal to decide. Ask them about the death of Jean-Louis de Vendôme in the last war with Spain. Tell them you
also
accused a Bourbon of treason. Tell them I told you to ask about my father, a prince of the blood who was so accused.”
Henry de Guise studied him with growing unease. “Your father was a prince of the blood?”
“He was.”
Doubt over his haste now showed in Henry’s eyes. “It is the first I have heard of it.”
“Pray consider why. Some wish to not talk of it, but to tout their own honors.”
Henry looked at him a long moment. “It seems I was hasty. I was under the impression . . .” He stopped.
“That you admit it is satisfaction enough. We will forget this hap- pened if you wish.”
Henry de Guise hesitated, then gave a grudging bow of his head to Fabien, showing deference. He walked away, his attendants following.
Fabien was also turning away when Comte Maurice Beauvilliers, who was lounging in the background near one of the calèches, watching the confrontation, left his pages some feet away and sauntered toward Fabien.
“I have important news, mon cousine Fabien. Do you wish to hear it?
Where can we talk that none else hears?”
M
Marquis Fabien walked away from the royal retinue of calèches and attendants with Maurice Beauvilliers. They paused beneath the shade of an arbor.
Maurice sniffed a crimson rose he had pinned on his emerald green surcoat. His almond-shaped gray eyes were as languid as ever.
“Did you discover news of Sebastien from Julot at the armoury last night?” Fabien asked.
“Non. But I have other news. Did you hear that Rachelle Macquinet, la belle des belles, is among Marguerite’s ladies? She will go to Amboise. The winds of bonne fortune blow my way.” He smiled to himself and breathed deeply of the fragrance of the red rose.
“Is that your news? I know it already,” Fabien said, irritated to be reminded of Rachelle going to Amboise and of Maurice’s interest. “What other news have you?”
The glimmer of sobriety in Maurice’s eyes surprised him, and he paused.
“I was passing Duchesse Dushane’s calèche and she called to me.” Mention of the duchesse sharpened Fabien’s interest.
Maurice sniffed his rose again. “She believed it was safe to speak to me of important matters, as who would suspect Maurice of favoring the Bourbons, eh? She gave me profound news, mon cousine. Oncle Sebastien is away on proper business for the throne.”
After what he had heard in the state council chamber?
“You are surely mad. The duchesse told you so?”
“She did. Sebastien departed Chambord soon after le Duc de Guise rode into the courtyard with Avenelle. Oncle Sebastien is on his way to Moulins with a royal summons for Prince Condé, Admiral Coligny, and his brother le Cardinal de Châtillon. There is to be an edict of pacifica- tion signed at Amboise, and your Bourbon kinsmen, the Huguenot lead- ers, are summoned there.”