Daughter of Silk (23 page)

“Your concern for my safety is much admired, and may it please the marquis to think well of both me and my calling.”

Fabien looked into her eyes until warm color came to her cheeks. He remembered that passionate embrace on the gallery and promised him- self it would not be the last.

“I will think of you, you may be sure.”

Fabien heard a rustling sound on the other side of the trees and gar- den wall. Rachelle, too, turned her head toward the sound, but no one appeared.

Behind the garden wall, crouching beneath the overhanging clusters of bougainvillea, Charlotte de Presney cursed Rachelle under her breath. Charlotte had not intended to spy on them, though the Queen Mother ordered it. Her reluctance was not due to conscience or reticence, but because she was here to meet someone she must
not
be seen with.

Charlotte scarcely dared to breathe. If Fabien hoisted himself up onto the wide wall and looked down she would be called into account.

Any moment now she expected to see those sensuous violet eyes gaz- ing down at her. She imagined his surprise slowly turning to chilling displeasure.

How a galante could be so dismissing of a woman who wanted him, she could not fathom. He bewildered her. She could have most any man at court, but Marquis de Vendôme turned her down! It was humiliating, especially when she had seen the haste with which he
could
pursue when he became interested in someone.

That young woman is proving to be a prickly rosebud among the ladies at court. Well, she now has the serpentine attention of the Queen Mother.
But Fabien had not hoisted himself up to the wall. Their voices grew muffled and faded. Charlotte breathed easier, and conscious now of her rendezvous, hurried alongside the wall to where the lime trees grew. She was late. She would also be missed at Marguerite’s calèche. But the king would not yet leave, of that much she knew. So Marguerite would not depart without her. She could make up some excuse of where she had been, for

she had done so many times before when she needed to protect herself.

She neared the lime trees and waited a moment. She picked up some pebbles and tossed them against the trunk of one of the trees. A man stepped out, wearing a dark cape and wide-brimmed hat. He bowed and came to meet her.

“Did you bring it, Monsieur Rene?”

“I have it with me, Madame. Do you have the gold pieces?”

She produced a tied handkerchief with the quantity inside. She watched with cool impatience while he counted the pieces.

She held her palm toward him. Satisfied she had brought the exact amount, he laid the vial in her hand.

Charlotte looked upon the tiny, glittering vial. She had tried other potions in the past, including the ashes of animals, but had no success.

“You are most certain it will do its work?”

His dark baleful eyes gazed back from beneath heavy lids. Even Charlotte, who was accustomed to the Queen Mother’s expressionless serpentine look, felt a momentary chill blow through her. She had delib- erately decided not to wear a fur-lined cape this morning because she had wished to show her figure. Now, with the chilling wind against her, she barely restrained the shudder that threatened to travel down her spine.

“Madame, the list of important women who do business with Monsieur Rene speaks for itself.”

She knew the Queen Mother held confidence in Rene. He made up her parfumes and potions, just as the Ruggerio brothers arranged for her poisons. Charlotte knew of Catherine’s poison closet, but would have been a fool to ever discuss it.

Charlotte left him and hurried alongside the pathway beside the vine-covered wall. She came upon a patch of sweet smelling f lowers: stock, tuberoses, and jasmine. Now was the opportunity to put to test the famous potion. She turned her lips into a satisfied smile. She plucked several of the small roses, sprinkled them with the potion, and tucked them onto the lace at her bodice.

Soon she came to the small unlatched gate through which she had first entered the garden area.

In the courtyard again she wasted no time in removing herself from the area lest the marquis see her about and guess she had been behind the wall. She knew many side paths and shortcuts around the grounds of Chambord, and she took one of these now.

Ah, Fabien had told Rachelle not to reveal she was a Huguenot.

Charlotte stored away the priceless information, all but certain it would do her well one day.

Princesse Marguerite Valois leaned forward and called through the open door of her calèche: “Enough, Fabien, ma beau petit, you give us all reason for jealousy of Rachelle. Come, Rachelle, you will ride beside me to Amboise. Do not trust the marquis too much. He is more danger- ous than he permits you to realize, I promise you.”

Margo blew him a kiss. “Au revoir, Fabien. Remember the masquer- ade to be held at Amboise next week. I will see Rachelle is there.”

Fabien walked Rachelle to the calèche.

“Will I see you at Amboise?” Rachelle asked.

“Yes, but I may be gone for two days. I intend to ride to Moulins, but do not mention this to any of the others lest it get to the Guises.”

“I will say nothing, Marquis, you may be sure.”

He helped Rachelle into the calèche where Marguerite made room for her. There was another empty seat beside Louise de Fontaine who remarked, “What is delaying Madame de Presney?”

“She is always late, that one,” Marguerite said. “I will one day have her thrown to the king’s bears, I swear it.”

Charlotte de Presney came hurriedly beside the calèche. “Pardon! But I am not late.” There was a look of smug excitement in her blue eyes as she looked at Fabien.

“Marquis,” she murmured, casting her eyes downward as she dipped a low bow, dropping the tuberoses from her bodice as she did.

Fabien reached down and retrieved them. Their eyes met. A cloying fragrance clung to his fingers as he bowed, handing her the cluster and as he did, her fingers deliberately caressed his hand.

“Merci,” she murmured and waited to see if he would assist her. He took firm hold of her arm and helped her inside.

“Au revoir,” Marguerite called again cheerfully as the attendant closed the door.

Fabien was still looking at Charlotte as the door shut between them.

Gallaudet waited with Fabien’s horse as he came up. He handed Fabien the reins. Fabien took them and swung into his ornate saddle.

“Monsieur,” Gallaudet said after Fabien turned his horse to ride. “Andelot is with the common soldiers and his cousine Julot, the archer. Shall I send for Andelot to ride with us?”

“No, I will ride with him and Julot.”

Gallaudet’s eyes widened with surprise, for he held more strictly to title and rank than did even Fabien.

“I have a purpose in mind,” Fabien said. “Once the royal party comes to the fork in the road that turns toward Amboise, I will slip away. I wish no one to see me. You do the same. We will meet on the road to Moulins.”

Gallaudet lifted his brows. “Moulins, Monsieur?”

“I have a trusty word that Comte Sebastien has gone there to see Prince Condé. It may be that the Bourbon princes are gathered there as well, including Admiral Coligny. We ride to intercept Condé before he leaves for the royal summons at Amboise.”

Gallaudet’s brows shot up. “As you say, Monsieur. And Andelot? Is he to come with me?”

Fabien turned his bay to ride on toward the line of soldiers in the outer courtyard. “No, let him ride on to Amboise. It may be we shall meet up with him again on the way to Amboise castle. The king is in ailing health. They will journey slowly with his royal retinue in train.” Fabien rode away toward the outer gate to find his favorite of cousines, Andelot Dangeau.

Once in the saddle he felt free again, the fresh wind on his face and throat was cooling and clean. He thought of Charlotte de Presney and frowned. Why was he thinking of her?

Then he suddenly lifted his hand and sniffed. The fragrance was strong. He wiped his hand on his velvet hosing but it did no good. He was sure now that the fragrance had not come from the f lower he had retrieved for her. He lifted the lace on his sleeve and smelled. She had managed to place a potion on him when her fingers had caressed him. Where had the potion come from? Rene, the parfumer of Catherine de Medici used for her intrigues? And what was this potion supposed to do? Lure him to her bed?

His anger sizzled. What a comely and determined little witch she was, but a witch just the same. And one he would need to battle with in the future, of that he was becoming certain.

Chapter Twelve
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A

Andelot Dangeau watched the marquis ride through the gate

on his magnificent golden bay.
What a horse!

Andelot removed his borrowed hat and lifted it high to get the mar- quis’s attention. Fabien turned his reins and proceeded along the line of archers and soldiers, riding in a sprightly fashion toward him and Julot. He drew up in front of Julot, leaned across, and spoke in a low voice. Julot showed no expression, but Andelot, knowing him well, guessed the reason for the hardening of his jaw.

The marquis took a place beside Andelot in the line of horsemen. The soldiers nearby glanced his way, pleasure showing on their rugged faces that he chose to ride in their company instead of with the nobility. “I spoke with Maurice alone for a few minutes this morning, and he confirms a royal meeting with the Bourbon princes at Amboise. King Francis will sign an edict of pacification allowing for freedom of worship

in certain areas of France.”

Andelot could hardly fathom the good news.

“Bien! Then the danger of a plot is past. But then, Monsieur Fabien, you look as though you do not believe it.”

“I assure you, though the king himself wishes for the good of all his subjects, Catholic and Huguenot alike, I vow, mon cousine, this smells of Guise’s treachery.”

Andelot’s enthusiasm wavered. “Treachery, Monsieur Fabien! Oh, but surely no.”

“The Queen Mother is not called Madame le Serpent for want of rea- son. I learned she held a secret counsel exceedingly early this morning with the duc and the cardinal, and the king was not privy to it.”

Andelot stoutly resisted. The marquis’s suspicions were misguided.

He suggested such with caution.

“But, Monsieur knows well, does he not, that the king is ailing? Is it not good for the Queen Mother and the duc and the cardinal to permit him rest until shortly before we depart?”

Fabien appeared to ignore the idea and went on in a low voice, mus- ing, as if to himself. “Why would the House of Guise favor an edict of pacification? There have been other edicts, always broken by Guise’s war campaigns. What has changed now? If anything, matters for the Huguenots grow more troubling throughout France. There are more arrests, more burnings.”

“I pray you consider, it may be the Queen Mother did not favor the edict, Monsieur Fabien, and that is why she held council this morning, to convince them that such a pacification was not necessary for the good of all France. Even so, the Guises prevailed . . .”

Andelot felt a bit sheepish when the marquis turned slowly toward him and gave him a level stare, which spoke plainly that he considered the explanation naive.

“You may choose to think well of them for your own reasons, mon ami. But do not imagine the Guise brothers are of a mind for compro- mise. The duc is very bold, and the cardinal is a man of sneering cruelty. I have little reason to trust them.”

Andelot plucked at his reins. It perturbed him that Fabien regarded the House of Guise no better than his archery target pads in the armory. Why did he distrust them so?

“I am most sure, Monsieur — ”

“The cardinal knows both King Philip and the pope sanction their actions here in France, so they are as bold as gamecocks.”

Andelot felt his face turning hot with resentment. “Pray consider you may be errant in your conclusions, Marquis.”

“It is the cardinal who brings Catherine orders from both men, and I promise you, the throne of France yields to them for fear of invasion from Spain’s minions.”

Andelot stirred in his saddle. He felt it unfair to his religious loyal- ties to even listen to this, though he did not think it wise to say so. He held the marquis’s opinion in high regard, knowing him a man of his

word. But Andelot also cherished the cardinal’s office, even if he could not always cherish the character of the man in crimson. He wondered at times if the marquis, a Catholic who faithfully attended Mass, might not have secret penchants toward heretical Geneva?

He looked at Fabien out of the corner of his eye. No, it could not be. Why, Fabien was even wearing a silver Latin cross around his neck as he always did. There was a Huguenot cross as well, but if Fabien was one of the Calvinists, then he certainly would not wear the Latin emblem.

Andelot felt ashamed he had even thought such of the marquis, since he owed Fabien his unwavering loyalty. He admired him more than Fabien knew. Fabien had befriended him some years ago while they were boys. Andelot had gone to Paris to stay a month with his Oncle Sebastien. While Maurice shunned him and the other sons of the nobles looked upon him as a mere serf, Fabien, of higher rank than any of them, had cloaked him with dignity. And now, at Chambord, Fabien had brought him to his own chambers and called him cousine instead of sending him to sleep on the f loor in the soldier’s barracks. He had even given him fine clothes, put loose coins in his pocket, and told him to ignore Comte Maurice’s arrogance.

And so, it had been a severe disappointment when the Marquis mani- fested but token enthusiasm for Andelot’s proud announcement that he was related by blood to the House of Guise. He had thought surely the marquis would be impressed, just as he himself had been. But instead, he had cautioned him concerning any plans the duc and the cardinal might have for him.

The marquis was now saying, “It is of singular interest to me that this very morning the Queen Mother elevated Guise to become the new Marshal of France, the most powerful of positions. And the cardinal
made
himself treasurer. Do you not find these actions telling?”