Daughter of Silk (35 page)
I would have seen you before this to deny it, except I had some very important business which took me away for two days. We cannot talk here with courtiers coming and going. Come with me to the boat.” He drew her down the stairs and lowered his voice. “Margo is there waiting now.”
“The boat? How did she escape the banquet?”
“By walking in the garden with the King of Portugal. She made an excuse and ran off.”
“What excuse?”
“Mademoiselle, I did not ask her,” he said wearily. “She will meet Guise on the south side. He is there now, pacing impatiently, I imagine.”
She looked away quickly to break the spell of his gaze. “Then, if the princesse is aboard the boat, I shall need to go with you, Marquis,” she said stiff ly. “Otherwise — ”
“Merci,” he interrupted suavely. “Otherwise you would deny me. I am well aware. I have much to explain to you. From your coldness toward me I see I am not a minute too early in doing so.”
“You owe me no explanations, Monsieur.”
“I wish to give you such an explanation. I have already told you how you interest me. I know you are a Huguenot . . . that you keep your virtue intact until marriage. I expect nothing from you, Mademoiselle, if that is what you think my attention is hoping for. Court gossip has drifted to you about Charlotte and myself. I want you to understand that I turned her down.”
She had never heard such plainly spoken words before on a subject that made her face hot.
“You must not say these things.”
“Saint Denis! Did I not warn you at Blois what it would be like for you at court? You are accustomed to your quiet ways at the Chateau de Silk, to the morality of the Macquinets and your neighbors. Believe me, it is not so here; the natural ways of the f lesh abound.”
“Are you now suggesting the manner of your excuses?”
“Is that what you heard from me when I spoke to the cardinal? Excuses? I will now warn you about the cardinal. You had best under- stand and give him no cause. Non, not even a smile.”
When she was silent he said wryly, “So then, I have shocked you.” “Non,” she said quietly. “I am not that naive. I had guessed about the
cardinal. But I thought you and Charlotte de Presney . . . that is, I was told . . . I see I was too hasty.”
He stopped and looked down at her, his gaze warming her. The soft music sighed in the distance, mingling with the breezes in the forest trees.
“Believe me, I would not throw away so easily what has recently been shared between us. Charlotte’s appearance is enough to tempt any man with eyes to see, but — ”
“As she intends, I assure you.”
“It is you, Mademoiselle, who stirs my passions.”
She sucked in her breath at the word
passions.
Such a word should not be spoken, but the marquis evidently did not share the same mind.
He stepped toward her, scooping up her hand into his, and at his touch her heart yearned for him. He brought her fingers to his lips and held them there for a moment.
“I will not exchange a possible future with you, non, not for ten women such as Charlotte de Presney. I think you will be worth my patience.”
Rachelle could not speak. Her heart beat quickly with the sheer thought of his words. He had deliberately emphasized the word
future
. He would wait to have her.
“The Bourbon men, Mademoiselle, are not always wise in their behavior, but the ladies they have chosen to marry are the most honorable in France. Antoine and Jeanne of Navarre. Prince Louis and Eleonore, a niece of Coligny. These are the manner of women I will seek for a wife at Vendôme. Except I intend to be worthy of such a woman. Antoine is a moral weakling, and Louis hardly better, though I believe he sincerely loves Eleonore. He is also loyal to the Huguenots.”
She turned away, overwhelmed. “But why do you say these words to me? Surely you do not mean that —”
“Surely you know the answer. I see we are being observed. Come, let us go to the boat to seek Margo. If I do not bring her to the south side of the Loire to be with Guise, she will never forgive me. Despite her exasperating ways, I am as fond of her as a sister. I saw her grow up with Francis, Mary, and Charles.”
“I, too, grow more fond of her with the days. But I wish she had not made me her maid-of-honor. I prefer, as you said, the quiet life at the Chateau de Silk.”
“I could wish she had not as well! It appears as though we have been foiled on that, does it not? Let us hope Catherine does not ever consider you for her bevy of spies.”
“I would never accept, Marquis Fabien.”
“Catherine has her ploys, and they are always devious, believe me.”
She shuddered. “Let us not discuss her now. Let us look at the boats plying up and down the river. For that one entertainment, at least, let there be no dark clouds to hide the moon.”
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Upon the river, the red and gold lanterns on painted barges f loated past the bridge with its arches trimmed with colored lamps. The water swells ref lected the f lickering lanterns with bright glimmering patches of color.
Rachelle looked back toward the castle and saw its windows all aglow, while the turrets had become beacons against the dark sky. Surely this beauty could offer no danger? This castle of Amboise would never become a dank and treacherous place, and the dungeons, even on this night, surely must be empty, swept, and varnished?
Her soft emerald velvet gown sparkled with seed pearls in the lantern light, confirming her thoughts. They walked along the winding path toward the Loire.
“There is Gallaudet,” Fabien said.
He drew her under the shadow of the
parterre
to wait for him. The page came walking up carrying something dark and furry under his arm.
A dead cat?
Fabien pointed. “Dare I inquire what it is?”
Gallaudet produced a dark wavy wig and a silver eye mask. “For your sport, Monsieur.”
“You chose well.” Fabien plucked the long wig from Gallaudet’s hand and sniffed it.
Rachelle laughed.
Fabien threw a red cloak over his shoulders and bowed. “Your ser- vant, Madame.”
“Oh, dear,” she said with a laugh, “the marquis is a toad. I fear I have nothing to wear but my mask.” She slipped her emerald velvet eye mask over her face.
“It will take more than that to hide such beauty. Your hair gives you away, as does the dimple at the corner of your most delightful lips.”
Gallaudet cleared his throat. Rachelle managed to keep her poise. “Does your Monsieur often have such a way with words, Gallaudet?”
“Rarely, Mademoiselle. And upon first awakening he merely grumbles.”
“Silence, you traitor. That reminds me, awaken me at dawn. We have important business to attend to. And keep an eye on Andelot and the cardinal. Find Sebastien also. Ask him of the handful of Huguenots I noticed in the woods this afternoon. See what he may know of them. It will be a grave mistake if Monsieur de la Renaudie was not fully warned as planned at Moulins.”
“At once. I have brought these for Mademoiselle.” Gallaudet lifted from a satchel a Spanish hat, gold fringed with jewels, and a black cloak.
“Where did you get them?”
“From your trunk, Marquis. The hat you wore once at Fountain- bleau.”
“Did I? No wonder I never wore it again . . . At least the jewels are handsome.”
“Oui, I was thinking of cutting them off and bartering for a new horse —”
“You asked too late. They, and the hat, are now the petite grisette’s.”
Gallaudet shrugged and handed them over.
“Oh, I could not,” she said as the sapphires gleamed blue. But she placed the hat over her hair and tucked as much as she could under its rim.
“That will do well,” Fabien said cheerfully. “Come, our boat is long ready.” He turned to Gallaudet, who bowed.
“Oui, Marquis, it is ready. Capitaine Nappier himself will steer it.” “Nappier?” Fabien laughed. “From a twenty-gun corsair ship to a
butterf ly boat. He must be in profound spirits this night.”
Rachelle did not know what to expect, but she felt suddenly bold and daring in her Spanish hat with its shimmering gold fringe, her emerald eye mask, and a dashing black cloak that belonged to the marquis — and she had the marquis himself.
She bowed. “I am ready, Monsieur.”
The silvery moon and the fragrant spring f lowers wove their enchantments.
The quay where the barges and boats were boarded was not far from the king’s musicians, so that the lilting sound of a lute playing a haunting refrain of a love song carried toward them.
The painted barge was waiting for them . . . and what a barge! It was constructed in the shape of a butterf ly with gossamer wings ref lecting the moon’s beams.
“May I present my master swordsman, Capitaine Nappier,” Fabien told her withagrin.“Tonight Nappier is an elf, asyoucansee. So Nappier! Do you expect to harry Spain’s galleons with your magic wand?”
The tall Frenchman Nappier, rippling with muscle, displayed his green hose and a tunic. He bowed very low, his green cap bobbing with a rose. In his hand was a white wand that appeared to have been borrowed from a friendly chamberlain. He straightened, his teeth gleaming against his rugged, scarred features.
“Ah, Marquis de Vendôme. Maybe one day you will sponsor your humble servant with a twenty-gun buccaneering ship, eh?”
“And for the effort, see myself dangling from one of Philip’s yardarms.”
“You will not dangle Marquis, not with Nappier by your side, I assure you.”
“That, at least, is comforting. I must think about such a venture, Nappier. Tonight you remain an elf.”
Rachelle stepped into the gently rocking boat under Fabien’s guid- ing hand. As they left the riverbank, Princesse Marguerite came from beneath a dark cover where she had been concealed. She laughed, fan- ning herself, and tossed back her hooded black cloak. She came to Fabien
and kissed him. “Merci, mon amour Fabien.” Then she turned happily to Rachelle and clapped her hands in delight at her dashing hat with its saucy gold fringe dancing in the starlight.
“Oh, this is gleeful, to be free,
free!
I shall run away with cher Henry.
We shall become corsairs on the wild surging sea with Nappier! And we will drink in our amour, amour, amour!”
Fabien arched a brow at Rachelle, and she laughed. It was amusing to see Margo so free and happy — far from court and its political demands, away from the molding power of Catherine and her iron ambitions and the ruthless shackles of corrupted religion.
“But the King of Portugal,” Rachelle asked, “where did you leave him?”
The question somehow struck Marguerite’s fancy. She threw back her head and laughed. She began to dance about the little boat, clap- ping her hands. “Where is the King of Portugal?” she cried to the moon. “Why— the good King of Portugal is with the wicked King of Spain. And the King of Spain? With the King of France — and the pope.” And she laughed again as though this were most hilarious.
Fabien leaned toward Rachelle. “I assure you, the little hoyden has had one sip of wine too much. Come, ma cherie, let us look at the shore and listen to the orchestra.”
The forest on both sides of the Loire was ablaze with festoons of lan- terns looped from tree to tree. There were other boats as well, shaped like swans and peacocks, filled with masked courtiers.
Nappier laughed. “Now there is a capitaine for you, Monsieur Fabien.” He gestured to where a boat crew was caught in a thick tangle of water lilies on the banks beneath willow trees.
Laughter filled the night. The other boats slipped past the water lil- ies and hooted at the entangled boat with its courtiers wading ashore, the women squealing as they hoisted their skirts above their knees.
Marguerite grew more animated as they neared the southern bank. It was here she would meet Monsieur Henry de Guise.
Nappier drew the boat to the bank, and they disembarked and mounted broad marble steps of the parterre with white balustrades and marble statues now appearing red in the colored lamps. Fountains were splashing rainbow colors.
“There is Monsieur Henry now,” Marguerite said, and Rachelle turned her head to catch sight of a figure garbed as the King of Babylon in purple and yellow with a jeweled turban and purple mask.
Marguerite threw back her hood and displayed her burgundy silk and cloth of gold gown.
The Babylonian king advanced toward them.
Marguerite met him with a playful bow. They clasped hands and rushed aside beneath the shadow of a portico.
Rachelle quickened her steps in their direction, but Fabien held her back.
“Ma Rachelle cherie, they are running into the forest. We will not see her again until morning. For Marguerite it is always
toute la nuit.”
“But the king — ”
“Word will reach him by spies, believe me; no matter how careful we are, the news will be known. Come tomorrow this nephew of Philip’s and his retinue will be journeying from Amboise with injurious dis- dain. This is what Margo wants. She is now free again to try to marry Henry.”
He drew her onto a path that wound into the lighted trees where music played.
“She courts the wrath of the Queen Mother,” she protested. “We should not have brought her here.”
“Cherie, she would have managed, even if she had to swim. If Catherine cannot clip her wings, do you suppose your honorable efforts would curtail her? Non. I have known Margo since she was five. She was attached to Henry even then. They use to hide in the closet together.”
“But the rage she will face. I fear for her.”
“You do well, for Catherine will be livid when this hoped-for mar- riage contract fails despite her best intrigue. Margo understands this. She has chosen the path her footsteps take her.”
They wandered onto where plots of smooth grass grew lush beneath well-pruned trees. Along the parterre there were tents of satin and vel- vet, fringed with gold, offering the passing masquers refreshments and places to linger and listen to the music.
They strolled the borders of the white marble terraces into the woods, where masked courtiers danced under decorative hangings spread