Threads of Silk (23 page)

Silence enveloped the chamber, then Catherine stepped back.

Rachelle, her head still in her hands, heard the movement of stiff skirts.

“Sit down on that stool before I have a fainting damsel on my hands,” she said shortly.

Rachelle raised her face. She was not about to faint. She would stand against this woman’s evil schemes no matter the terror inflicted. Catherine was also seated again and the old demeanor was back. Rachelle sank onto the velvet stool. Her knees trembled, but she met the even gaze without faltering.

“So your sisters Madeleine and Idelette told you nothing of their planned escape?”

“Nothing, Madame.”

“Ah, Madeleine . . . She is doing well in London, she and the bébé, and recovering from her sickness?”

Rachelle’s skin tingled with fear, even while anger seared her heart. She wanted to veer her gaze from those prominent, watchful eyes, but it might unmask her.

The Queen Mother knew of her suspicion, knew why she had followed her to the quay. Rachelle had heard her ask for poison that could not be traced.

“Madeleine is growing stronger day by day, Madame, as is her infant daughter, Joan.”

Catherine smiled. “That is bonne news. Sebastien’s release from the Bastille was life to Madeleine’s heart, I am sure.”

With every beat of her own heart, she disliked this woman who bullied, threatened, and boasted that her personal actions were for
la gloire
de la France
.

How long would this game of diversion go on? What was she trying to learn? What did she want? Merely to intimidate, to assure cooperation and silence?

“May I ask, Madame, what it is I may do to bring about Marquis Fabien’s release from Amboise?”

The Queen Mother rose swiftly, her arms dangling at her sides, and looked down at her. “You will know quite soon, I assure you. Tomorrow morning you will go with me on a small journey to speak with him.”

Startled, Rachelle did not reply.

“To make certain of your discerning cooperation with my plans, it is necessary we convince the dashing marquis to join us in our bond of cooperation.”

Rachelle scarcely breathed, wondering, waiting for what trap came next.

The Queen Mother widened her eyes in mock surprise. “Surely you wish to speak with the marquis?”

Speak with him? But of course she did, with all her heart, and the Queen Mother knew it, so what was behind this unexpected event? Something sinister, of course, something intimidating, or she would not arrange the brief meeting with Fabien. Rachelle had wished to see him in his dungeon at Amboise immediately after his arrest, and at that time the Queen Mother swept aside her plea.

Wary, Rachelle hesitated.

“Madame, is the marquis here at Fontainebleau?”

“He remains at Amboise, as does his worthy kinsman Prince Louis. I will journey secretly by coach to speak with both messieurs in the morning. You, Mademoiselle, will accompany me. I am certain the marquis will be entirely pleased to see you, are you not?” She broadened her smile, then walked to her desk and sat down, drawing her lamp closer.

“You may return to your chamber now. Madalenna will come for you in the morning. I shall leave quite early, so be ready.” She dipped a gold quill into a jeweled inkwell and began to write, and the scratching sound across the surface of the paper clawed along the back of Rachelle’s nerves.

Catherine looked at her with raised brow, and Rachelle managed to dip a curtsy. She turned and moved toward the door.

Trapped. We have taken the place of Sebastien and Madeleine. No, we
are in more danger.

The Ultimatum

W
HY DOES THE WOMAN NOT COME TO ME WITH
her venomous bribes? Why does
she delay? Has she changed her mind about assassinating Guise?

The boring days and nights in the dungeon plagued him. Fabien moved to and fro across the stone cell, a tormented panther in a small cage. As soon as he’d grown strong enough to convince the prison captain that he would recover from his wound, guards were sent to take him to the filthy dungeons below Amboise castle. There he had remained for the last few weeks.

“I suggested to the Queen Mother they keep you in your first cell,” the docteur said on his last visit before returning to Fontainebleau, “but she overruled me.”

So she was behind his move to this dark and stinking dungeon. He might have guessed it.

“She is here at Amboise?”

“She comes often to speak with your kinsman, Prince Louis. They engage in quiet discussions on the state of matters in France. Civil war, I believe, is their topic. I am surprised she has not yet called for you, for her interest is avid. She desires to know the details of your health and spirits. Well, Messire, bon luck to you.”

A guard outside the dungeon walked by, glancing in. Fabien lowered his voice to the docteur. “Do not forget.”

The docteur glanced toward the guard and gave a slight nod. His answer was barely audible. “I shall do my best.”

He would try to deliver Fabien’s message to Andelot, who in turn would pass news on to Rachelle and Duchesse Dushane.

The docteur had already been taking verbal messages back and forth between Fabien and Gallaudet, and the news that his page had recovered from his wounds had lightened Fabien’s concerns. This communication would cease with the docteur’s departure.

Fabien would receive little information now that the docteur was leaving, since the Queen Mother’s elitist guards were ordered not to communicate with him. They kept their eyes averted when passing his dungeon and bringing his food and drink. He tried to maneuver them into talking, but they resisted.

“When I am freed from this place, I will remember your miserable silence,” he goaded, hoping to crack through their apparent indifference or fear of retribution. Finally, there was a day when the youngest of the guards was on duty alone, and Fabien spoke these words to him. The guard responded by looking over his shoulder uneasily. Fabien seized the advantage.

“It has been over two weeks since the docteur went to Fontainebleau. And over six weeks since I was arrested. I understand the Queen Mother is here. Send word I wish to see her.”

The guard again glanced over his shoulder to make sure they were alone. He took longer delivering his bread and boiled grains. He sized Fabien up as if deciding whether to break his silence.

“She is busy with your Bourbon kinsman, Prince Condé,” he finally whispered. “She meets with him in his cell for long discourses.”

“Is the execution still planned?”

“It is.”

“What of the Duc of Alva? He has left for the Netherlands?”

“He remains at Fontainebleau in company with Duc de Guise. They are hoping to have you turned over to a Spanish galleon soon.”

“He is lacking a few galleons’ worth of soldiers,” Fabien said with deliberate cheerfulness. “That is my consolation.”

If Alva remained in France, then Catherine must be intervening with King Francis to keep him out of the hands of Spain. She still needed him. Nothing had changed. She must come . . . soon.

The sound of footsteps and clinking chains echoed through the dungeon, signaling the approach of another guard. The younger guard would say no more and quickly went out.

There was nothing to do except wait. Matters were made worse by the condition of his cell. It was encrusted with the filth of years, dank from seepage from the Loire River, which ran through sections of the underground dungeons, and stench ridden with the rotting smells of death.

What a wretched situation! Still, there was no remedy for it but to sprawl upon the fetid hay and submit — something every inch of his body and mind found repulsive.

For one who enjoyed cleanliness, the filth was intolerable. He scratched his usually pristine head of golden brown hair — lice. He moved his fingers slowly and nabbed a flea under his arm. He lifted it and looked at it in the feeble light coming in through the tiny barred window, squishing it between thumb and finger. Large roaches and at least one family of water rats kept him company at night. He’d not had a change of clothing or a bath since the docteur left.

Nothing she ordered for his torments would shatter his resolve, he decided, except . . . Rachelle.

The Queen Mother also knew that. Denying him information on Rachelle’s condition was deliberate.

He thought of the Huguenots tortured for their faith in these very dungeons and beheaded in the courtyard. Their memory brought him renewed respect. He looked up at the stone ceiling that dripped with moisture. Above was the castle with its burgundy carpets, its velvet hangings, and brocade tapestries fringed in gold. Above were rich foods and wine and fragrant air. He’d taken it for granted while Christians were tortured here below, their screams muffled by the rock walls. Throughout France, men and women and their children continued to suffer agonies at the perverted hands and minds of their captors.

He thought of the upcoming colloquy to be held in the summer. Was it possible that good could come from the doctrinal debates between Calvin and the cardinal and bishops? Many nobles like Admiral Coligny and Queen Jeanne of Navarre held expectations for its enlightening outcome. Fabien remained doubtful.

Another week inched by. Had he been wrong about the Queen’s purposes?

He was lying on the hay when a key rattled and the small door to his cell creaked open. He turned his head, his arm still resting across his forehead, and squinted. Even the feeble lamplight seemed to glare in the dismal dungeon. After all these weeks he knew the guards by their faces, and felt his first spark of interest when the captain of the guard himself appeared.

“On your feet, Messire. You are to have a bath and a change of raiment.”

“The Queen Mother is here?”

“She is. Up with you, Messire.”

An hour later, Fabien was escorted to the salle de garde. When he entered, the Queen Mother stood inside, arms folded beneath her long, full cloak, and her coif giving the impression of an apparition.

“Marquis de Vendôme,” she said in a low voice.

He offered an élégant bow stained with mockery. “Your esteemed Majesty.”

She gestured to the guard. “Leave us.”

With a grave, sympathetic face that he would have found amusing had he been in a more conducive mood, she gazed at him.

“Marquis, I want you to know that your circumstance brings me no pleasure.”

“I am most confident, Madame, that your every word can be trusted.”

“Do not be impudent with me, my young tiger, or you shall indeed go to Spain.” With a swish of her stiff skirts, she walked up to him, holding a rolled parchment. She tapped it against his chest, which was covered with a clean but ragged tunic dug up by the guard.

“I have here, Marquis, among many such correspondences from Spain, a most bitter indictment from King Philip. His emissary, the Duc of Alva, also bedevils me to my sickbed with his daily rantings. The Spanish authorities charge you with piracy, the sinking of several galleons bringing soldiers and arms to Holland, and of the theft of many ingots of gold, silver, and emeralds. ‘Booty,’ I think it is called, that you and other corsairs gifted to the English heretic queen. This charge, as you can well imagine, is most severe.”

“Indeed, Madame. One can hardly fathom that I could accomplish so much.”

“Then, there is always the axe. And do remember that you are at Amboise.”

“What then, Madame? Have you come to relinquish me to Duc of Alva or the axe?”

“The Spanish envoy awaits, most impatiently,” Catherine continued, moving about, holding the rolled parchment. “It will delight him to see you handed over to him in shackles.”

“I am well aware, Madame, from the last meeting in the courtyard, of Alva’s salivation at the prospects.”

“What will it be, Marquis, the dungeons of Spain to face the Inquisitors who doubt your allegiance to the pope, or perhaps it would be poetic justice to send you back out to sea as a galley slave, chained at the oars of the Duc of Alva’s new ship?” She scanned him. “You are a strong young seigneur, well able to work. You will not die easily. And now he awaits an audience with me at Fontainebleau on my return. I can hold him off no longer. My poor son Francis has been badgered nearly to death by the duc and the Guises. Alva will once more demand that the king put forth a communiqué for your deliverance to his soldiers.”

She stepped back with an even stare. “Then, again, my lord Marquis, you and I may come to some mutual agreement of our own. I can release to you your heart’s treasure, your belle des belles, Marquise Rachelle de Vendôme.”

That she used the title inherited through the marriage was not lost on him. She would accept the marriage. If —

“And what, Madame, if I am permitted to ask, would be the reason for this suggested bonne fortune and reprieve?”

She moved about, restless as always. He leaned a shoulder against the stone wall and watched her in the light of the oil lamps. Her strong features were immobile, but her eyes were bright and alert to his response. She must know her deadly game had won her the prize she had schemed for.