Threads of Silk (3 page)

“Perhaps. Until then, to Monsieur Arnaut it is an established fact that I’ve been a practicing Catholic while at court. In my brief meeting with him at Calais, I regret I did nothing to try to bridge our differences.”

Rachelle lifted her chin as she thought of the confrontation between her and Fabien over his determination to leave France on a two-year privateering mission against Spain, which had nearly led to the disintegration of their relationship.

“The reason for my reluctance to persuade Monsieur Arnaut in Calais is evident. I’d no idea of the impending circumstance that would lead to my swift return to France to declare myself to you. And now, should I marry his daughter in his absence, he will judge me most arrogant.”

Rachelle knew how shocked her parents would be upon discovering their daughter’s sudden marriage. Though marriage into the Bourbon family would be considered a great honor, Fabien’s perceived loyalty to the Roman Church would distress her parents, ardent supporters of the Reformation in France.

She paraded up and down before the glowing coals, plucking at the damp lace on her sleeves. “Madame Clair was convinced you could never become serious about marriage and wished for me to avoid you. Since you are a royal Bourbon, she thought it likely you would eventually marry a
princesse
.” She glanced at him.

“She was correct on the last point, I have found my princesse — it is you.”

That thrilled her, but despite his fervor, a tiny fear gnawed at her.

“Yet, your Bourbon family, the princes of the blood — ” she tossed up her hands in a helpless gesture — “they are not likely to be pleased with your choice.”

“I have considered them,” he said briefly. “But I decided years ago that I would not marry a woman merely to gain possessions or influence.

I have come forward to commit myself to you in Christian marriage. Even so, we know, do we not, it is your parents’ reaction that will be important should we marry tonight without seeking their permission. Their faith in the Scriptures is strong, as it should be. That I am Catholic — or was —will worry them. Assuredly, I will be accused of taking unfair advantage of their daughter in their absence. This is likely to breed resentment. It is no light thing, chérie, for a Catholic marquis to marry a Huguenot when France totters on the edge of religious civil war.”

She moved away, restless, clenching the folds of her skirt between her fingers. “Oh, if only they were here to speak with you, to see your faith as genuine. Instead,” she said, “they are in London. We could journey to Lyon, otherwise, to the Château de Silk, and meet with them. Mère speaks of the admonition from Scripture to not be unequally yoked together with unbelievers.”

“We are not unequally yoked in belief. Pasteur Bertrand, for one, could bear witness of that.”

She recalled the unusual circumstance of her father’s cousin, Bertrand Macquinet, a Geneva trained pastor, who sailed with Fabien on his last voyage to aid Holland against Spain.

“He could convince your parents. Unfortunately, we would have to contact him by lettre. We can be in London sooner ourselves by voyaging from Dieppe on the
Reprisal
.”

If only Cousin Bertrand were here!
She had always been close to Bertrand; he’d become a second father to her. He could not only convince Père Arnaut and Mère Clair of Fabien’s faith in Christ alone for salvation, but he could perform the marriage ceremony. But Bertrand was in England leading a Huguenot church in the Spitalfields district outside London, where many French Protestants had fled from the fiery stake in France.

Her hope for marriage before reaching London was disintegrating, which meant she remained at risk of falling into the will of the Queen Mother — and Maurice.

“If I brought you to Geneva and held audience with Monsieur Calvin, our marriage could be performed in the heart of the Reformation by Calvinists. This would satisfy your family. We could reach Geneva in less than two weeks.”

She lifted a brow. “You would meet with Monsieur Calvin?”

“Assuredly. I have wanted to meet him for years.”

Surprised, she watched as he tapped his chin, mentally debating the options.
Geneva?

“There is also the possibility of the Huguenot kingdom of Navarre,” she said.

“To my kinswoman Queen Jeanne . . . yes. She would do everything she could to protect you. She is a bonne woman, intelligent, and of rare spirit. I am most fond of her.”

Navarre, Geneva, London — at present it mattered little to her as long as their destination secured them from the reach of the treacheries that lurked.

“Oh, this is madness, mon amour. If only my parents understood my fate if we did
not
marry! They should thank God we married in time to thwart the Queen Mother’s plans with Maurice.”

“I vow, chérie, if there is no way out of this, we will marry without Monsieur Arnaut’s blessing.”

She threw herself into his embrace and rested her cheek against his chest, taking solace in his determination, his masculinity.

A measure of peace and confidence had returned in the passionate silence as they held to one another, hearing the crackle of pine in the hearth. He spoke to her tenderly, calming her fears.

“Ma belle, you have endured a long and tense day. Come, let me escort you to your chamber. I regret we have no maid to attend you. There are some wives of my men-at-arms, but they are all retired by now. Perhaps I could rouse one of them.”

She shook her head and offered a brief smile. “It is not necessary. Let them sleep.” The mention of maids brought to mind her own Nenette, whom she had to leave behind at the Louvre in Paris while making her unexpected flight with Fabien two days ago. Was Nenette safe?

Fabien walked her toward the great stairway carpeted in burgundy, where elevated wall lamps and candles cast a glimmer of golden light.

They ascended together in silence through the grandeur of the Bourbon
palais
to the carved door of the majestic bedchamber. It was the same she had occupied for a short time almost two years ago when fleeing the beheadings of the Huguenots at Amboise castle. How long ago that seemed!

He caught her hand to his lips, turned it over, and kissed her palm, his gaze speaking words so filled with amour, they set her heart racing.

“Adieu, mon belle amour.”

After he had left the corridor, she closed the door quietly and tried to collect her thoughts. So much had happened so swiftly, her mind was whirling. For every blessing there seemed a thorn — but also a promise from God’s Word for every need
.

I must keep my courage. I must keep my faith in God’s purposes.

Such was essential to nourish thanksgiving in her heart, and to keep from growing weary in times of spiritual struggle.

AT
FONTAINEBLEAU,
THE ROYAL HUNTING
CHÂTEAU
, Andelot Dangeau lit the large candles in his cramped chamber and stooped to the side of his narrow bed. Prayer objects lay on the bedcover as a precautionary safeguard for sudden intrusion. He lifted the edge of the straw mattress and glanced over his shoulder toward the open doorway that led into the larger book-filled study chamber used as a classroom by his tutor.

He hesitated, hand on the edge of the mattress. Had he heard a squeak of leather shoes on the carpet? He listened. Perhaps it was some crackling in the hearth.

Outside the windows, the wind shook the forest trees. With caution, he removed the French Bible. He held it and sighed as a hungry man eyeing roast meat. He ran his fingers across the worn leather binding. He’d had to stay up nights to read it by candlelight to avoid getting caught. Even so, he had not read it nearly enough to know the words and make them his own. Now that his new tutor had arrived from Paris University to occupy the chamber across from his own, reading would be even more precarious. Not that he knew the mind of the renowned scholar Thauvet, or what he might think about the Bible translated into French, since there was little freedom to debate such matters. Should a scholar endorse the forbidden translation, or if a copy was discovered to be in his possession, it would mean death, unless one recanted.

He could speak only for himself, and he’d discovered that to read the words in French warmed his soul as no religious ritual ever could.

He ran his fingers through his thick, wavy brown hair and drew his brows together. Even so, he must return the Bible to its owner as he had promised his
oncle,
Comte Sebastien. Sebastien was due back here at Fontainebleau tomorrow from Paris, so Andelot had come to the decision that he must bring the Bible late tonight to the fallen tree where the old Huguenot pasteur had hidden it from the Dominican in the Fontainebleau Forest.
At least I have memorized many passages. No
one can take my memory from me. I have the freedom to think about these
words as oft as I wish, even in the presence of the cardinal —

He was startled at overhearing a familiar voice.

“Ah, Monsieur Thauvet! I anticipated that you had retired by this hour so I did not knock . . . I hope I am not disturbing you? I have a message from the cardinal. Is your pupil Monsieur Andelot yet awake?”

Thauvet’s low voice answered Père Jaymin, who was a secretary on the cardinal’s staff.

Andelot swiftly thrust the Bible back under the mattress. He was smoothing the bedcovers in place when Jaymin loomed in the doorway. Standing in the shadow with the lamplight behind him, he appeared taller and thinner than usual in his religious finery adorned with the colors of scarlet and white, identifying him with the cardinal.

Andelot believed him a kindly man, though he held no sympathy for those considered heretics.

Jaymin’s spaniel-brown eyes dropped to the bed. Andelot felt a twinge.
I almost believe he can see through the mattress.

“Am I intruding upon your prayers?”

Andelot smoothed the bedcover again, giving it an extra pat. “Non, Père Jaymin, a fair evening to you.” He picked up the sanctified prayer objects and returned them to their niche along a wooden shelf on the wall. From the corner of his eye, he saw Jaymin’s gaze encircling the small chamber in much the same way, reminding Andelot of a hawk circling in search of prey.

Andelot gently cleared his throat. “You wish for my duty in some matter, Père Jaymin?”

“Ah, non, non.” His mouth spread in a benign smile, almost apologetic. “It is late of hour. It is the bon cardinal who summons you to his chamber.” He clicked his tongue. The smile gave way to a sigh. “I warn you afore. Expect hard questioning concerning your guardian, Comte Sebastien. You best go posthaste. I will say no more. The cardinal shall speak.”

About Oncle Sebastien!

ANDELOT,
GARBED IN HIS NEW
SCHOLAR’S
ROBE
with fur collar, adjusted the golden chain about his neck so the large cross was in the center of his chest with his robe open at either end. He waited in the front of the cardinal’s
appartement
that was one of the finest at Fontainebleau. He slid his gaze up and down the crimson draperies fringed with golden tassels and marveled at the marble statuette by Michelangelo on the pedestal near a wooden door carved with intertwining orange blossoms. He discovered that while he admired the beauty of all that he beheld, he no longer desired them to enhance his personal esteem as he had when he’d first come to court. He’d read in the French Bible that he was a member of “the household of God,” which made him valuable and secure.