Written on Silk (5 page)

“Oui, ma mère,” she said with dutiful respect and did not argue. She respected her mère too much for immature tantrums.
At least she had not
said a definite non to London.

What would Marquis Fabien do if she voyaged to Spitalfields?

The Prince of Darkness Grim

THE BARN CHURCH

R
RACHELLE
WALKED ALONG THE SHORTCUT THAT BROUGHT HER TO THE
wagon road that ran between the mulberry orchard and the silkworm hatcheries. From there it was only a five minute walk to the fields. She glanced back toward the château, and knowing that Madame Clair was not watching from the balustrade, tightened her sash, raised her silken skirts above her ankles, and tucked the waist under the sash. She had done this since a girl and saw no reason to stop now. She smiled at herself and ran through the mulberry orchard toward the dirt road. Just as long as the Marquis de Vendôme, with all of his
sang-froid
, did not ever see her acting like a naive peasant girl!

At the outskirts of the hatcheries and farther ahead to the right, a public road divided the Macquinet estate lands from Monsieur Lemoine’s hayfields. Lemoine, a Huguenot, had constructed a large, new barn that was used for Sunday worship meetings, as Protestant church buildings were forbidden by the Roman Church.

The wind came sweeping through the family’s
mûreraies
, or groves of mulberry trees. Rachelle basked in the breeze, rustling her silk dress, and looked at the clouds skimming across the expanse of deep blue sky. The mûreraies provided the leaves for feeding the château’s silkworms, which produced the unique filaments with which Sir James Hudson was so anxious to be associated. Rachelle was not in the least surprised that the fine quality silk, which elevated the Macquinet name among cou-turières across Europe, was known even in the English court of Queen Elizabeth.

Rachelle’s mind drifted to the merveilleux gown that she and Idelette were privileged to create. This would bring new opportunities . . . but where would they lead her?

How good it was to be home again, away from the court, away from the serpentine Queen Mother, from deceit on every hand. Home. There was nothing that could add its touch of contentment to her soul more than to be handling yards of silk in wondrous shades of blues, pinks, greens, silver, gold, and burgundy —

Burgundy. A smile tugged at her mouth. She relived the romantic moment when Marquis Fabien had surprised her with yards of rich burgundy silk and cloth of gold to make a gown for herself, just as she had for Princesse Marguerite.

Rachelle had arrived at the château from Vendôme several weeks ago, escorted by the
beau
Marquis Fabien de Vendôme. A few days later a message for the marquis arrived unexpectedly, delivered by Fabien’s chief page, Gallaudet, who claimed that one of the French “buccaneer’s men” had brought it to him before quickly leaving, refusing to linger in Lyon a moment longer than necessary. Did this French seaman think he was in danger?

Fabien read the message, then burned it in the château hearth while she watched, wondering what it meant. He left soon afterward without discussing its content, much to her irritation, telling her only that he would return to the château once the rendezvous was held, before he departed on a longer voyage to Florida. Fabien had refused to explain any details or even the purpose for this rendezvous — a fact she found irksome, for she felt she deserved his trust. Perhaps the time they had known each other had been too short for him to have complete confidence in her.

She knew little more than that he’d left for a location on the coast, where an ally, a French buccaneer, whose name Fabien had withheld, awaited him for a secret rendezvous. That he would return to see her again before his voyage to Florida, encouraged her. The marquis had not yet spoken to her of marriage — indeed, he seemed to step back from it, and she knew physical attraction alone was never enough for a lifetime.

His caution in that area had served him well during his years at Court, maintaining his freedom as well as his integrity.

During these last two weeks she had agonized over his safety. Any involvement with buccaneers — French, Dutch, or English — against Spain, would put him at risk by the throne.

Large leaves above her rustled, and speckled sunshine trickled onto her route. She took a turn that would lead toward a thick hedge of pink oleanders.

As the hedge came into view, she spotted an opening where she could squeeze through to cross the road. Rachelle was careful to avoid touching the pink flowers; although she found them attractive, she had heard they were poisonous.

She paused by the tall oleanders, catching her breath. How unseemly it would be to enter the worship gathering out of breath and perspiring, and with her skirts hiked up past her ankles! She laughed at herself, straightening her skirts and smoothing the folds into place. Singing came loud and clear from the large barn.
Ça alors!
She was late.

Cousin Bertrand had selected Martin Luther’s hymn, “A Mighty Fortress.” The words, which she knew well, were clear:

“The Prince of Darkness grim, we tremble not for him;

His rage we can endure, for lo, his doom is sure,

One little word shall fell him.”

Running footsteps pounded from behind; she turned to look over her shoulder toward the mulberry grove.

It was Philippe, one of the silk weaver boys, also late for the ser vice. She smiled until the look on his face alerted her.

“Mademoiselle Rachelle, run! Duc de Guise is riding here with many soldiers!

For a time she must have stood in shock for she realized Philippe was shaking her arm, his brown eyes wide.

“Mademoiselle! Jolon sends me! Run, he says!”

She threw her hand to her forehead. “Guise! It cannot be. Here? But why? Are you certain, Philippe? The
duchy
of Guise is in Lorraine.”

“Jolon has gone to warn his wife and others in the hatcheries. He says word came from a spy that le duc is bringing punishment on heretics!”

Here? Her mind revolted against such. This was not Amboise. What cause would he have?

The words to Luther’s hymn continued:

“Let goods and kindred go, this mortal life also;

The body they may kill: God’s truth abideth still,

His kingdom is forever.”

Rachelle whirled and looked off toward the fields and the barn . . .
kindred . . .

“I must warn Pasteur Bertrand.”

The boy laid hold of her, his frightened eyes imploring. “Non, mademoiselle, run. Listen — horses — ”

Rachelle turned her head sharply, toward the thudding hoofbeats on the road. Yes! Horses, many of them, thundering closer.

“Look!” Philippe pointed, awe in his voice. “It is him, le duc himself, with soldiers.”

Rachelle saw the horsemen above the tops of the oleanders. Swirls of dust rose about the horses. If she ran to warn Bertrand, she would run straight in front of the soldiers. She dare not attempt to cross the field toward the barn.

“Do not let them see us.” She drew the boy down beside her and peered through the leaves.

The duc’s soldiers galloped into clear view, the horses’ hoofs beating the dirt. The steel breastplates, partly covered in leather, glinted beneath the sun’s rays.

“Such soldiers, such horses, such gleaming steel — ” Philippe said, and Rachelle read the fear in his voice. “Ma mère is inside the barn-church. She sent me back to the bungalow for her wrap — she said she was cold — ”

Rachelle gripped her fingers on his arm to steady him. “God knows.Be strong and pray for their deliverance.”

The green and white flag bearing the emblem of the House of Guise snapped brazenly in the wind. Rachelle narrowed her gaze, seeking to glimpse the faces as they rode past, then — yes, there he was! The duc himself. She would recognize him anywhere. Her muscles tensed. That arrogant face with the tight mouth and contemptuous eyes was all too familiar after Amboise.

Duc de Guise reined in his horse, unsheathed his sword, and raised it above his head. His men followed suit with an ominous clink of steel. Rachelle clenched her fists. Her heart pounded in her ears.
Non, non —

“The sword of the Lord!”

His men answered with a rousing shout. Turning their horses away from the road, they galloped across the field toward the barn.

Rachelle grasped Philippe’s arm more tightly and found him trembling. She did not want him to witness what might happen.

“Run, Philippe, warn Madame Clair. Jolon may have forgotten. Tell her I said to hide the French Bible Idelette keeps in her chamber. There are other books too. Hurry!”

Philippe, his young face pale and tense, hesitated, his fearful gaze shooting back to the barn, but she gave him a little shove. “Do as I say! Quickly!”

He jumped to his feet and took off running back toward the mulberry orchard and the château.

Rachelle watched until the boy disappeared, then turned her attention to Lemoine’s field, praying urgently.

Peering through the oleander leaves, she wrestled with the horror seizing her heart.

“Do something,” she told herself. “Do not just sit here. Throw yourself with abandon into the raging terror! Save your sisters and Bertrand!”

As if she could! Her bitter desperation tasted only of gall. She clenched her hands into helpless fists until the nails dug into her flesh.

Who could stop such blind hatred for those labeled heretics, whose crime was worshiping Christ from a study of the Scriptures alone?

The singing ceased. Voices of praise gave way to the shouts of soldiers and the cries of protest from Huguenots trying for reason and calm. As though the Huguenots could reason with Guise’s personal inquisitors, Rachelle thought.

“Father,” she wailed, sinking on her knees to the dirt, “help Your poor children! If not, who can stand this onslaught from Satan? Surely those committing such rage against us are greatly deceived and need Your mercy. Oh! Do open their eyes that the scales of blindness might fall, like the apostle Paul who once persecuted the Jewish Chris tians for calling on the name of Jesus, so let these — even Duc de Guise — see the truth as it is written! Help us, Father! In Jesus’s name!”

INSIDE THE BARN,
the prayers, the crying of frightened children, and the shouts that invaded from outside the barn, all merged into one great howl as of a funeral dirge.

Pasteur Bertrand Macquinet was told the barn was surrounded by Duc de Guise’s men-at-arms soon after they heard the ominous shouts and galloping horses. Bertrand was grieved, but he was far from surprised that it was happening. The overzealous Guise was resorting to the tactics he was known for.

The doors and windows were being nailed shut from the outside before the Protestants could escape. Those few men who had gone out at once to attempt to reason with the duc’s men were dying, thrust through with the sword.

Once Guise gave his order to set the building on fire, his followers would set about to obey his command without a thought of wrong doing. They did not see themselves as murderers, but as crusaders, holy warriors preserving God’s truth from the onslaught of wicked apostates who followed that
diable
Luther. Bertrand knew there was no chance he could ever sit down across from Guise, with a Bible between them, to discuss Christian doctrines from the Scriptures. To be caught with the Scriptures in French brought death.

“Father God, Your sheep are trapped. Your little lambs too. I know You have the power to deliver us. Deliver us, O God, is my plea — but like Daniel’s three friends, faced with bowing to the golden image or being cast into the flames — even if You choose not to deliver us, we will not deny the Scriptures to please men or demons! Give us the grace to die for Your truth if need be. Strengthen Your servants to endure. In the name of Him who alone has secured our eternal safety, Jesus, amen.”

From somewhere ahead in the barn, Bertrand heard someone shouting at the door, “Let us out,
Seigneur
Guise, I beg of you. We have women and children in here. Arrest us, but let the women and children go!”

Bertrand prayed for the men not to panic. Many were shouting, banging on the door, and pushing against it with their shoulders. He hurried to the platform with his Bible raised so that the others who remained seated would follow his example of confidence in death. He was reading Psalm 41 in a loud unwavering voice when the young Englishman, Sir James Hudson, rushed up to him.