Daughter of Silk (31 page)

He stopped. He turned slowly. His stare was even. “Repeat that, Madame.”

She let out a breath of relief. Charlotte pretended to hobble to a bench where she sat down and smoothed her hair into place. “We cannot talk here. I was already unwise to speak of it as loudly as I did.”

Fabien walked up to where she sat, gazing down at her. “If you are lying to me again —”

“Non. It is so.”

“Proceed,” he said. “You were saying?”

“Ah, surely, a man as wise as yourself knows we
cannot
discuss such matters openly. It is very dangerous.”

“We
will
discuss it here, if you please, Madame.”

“But we may be overheard by someone spying on us from the bushes.”

“Then they would have already raised their brows. However, I shall have one of my pages bring a calèche. We will ride, and you will explain your words.”

She smiled. “I shall wait here for the calèche, Monsieur Fabien.”

She watched him stride off to locate one of his pages and arrange for a calèche to take them out. She rubbed her ankle and calf. Actually, she had twisted it a little, but her success tonight was worth the mild discom- fort. Never had it been this difficult to capture her prey for the Queen Mother, and even now she had not yet won over the marquis — but the night remained young.

The next days for Rachelle were miserable in their passing, so she bur- ied herself with her work as a couturière. Now that she knew Charlotte had been with the marquis, Rachelle was furious with herself for having fallen for him so easily. She had played the fool with her heart. Grandmère had been right when she warned her at Chambord. Idelette, too, had tried to warn her in her sisterly way, but she had thought she knew more than they. How wrong she was. She would not speak to Fabien de Vendôme again. No, not ever. And as soon as she could leave court and return to Lyon, she would be only too pleased to pack her trunk and depart. She would also write Maman at the Louvre to see if Madeleine could have Sebastien do something,
anything
, to see that the Queen Mother would send her home. Rachelle even thought of playing the coward by pretend- ing to be sick. If she were sick in her
coucher
for days on end, the queen would soon see she was of no use and send her away.

Though she considered all these possibilities for escape, she would use none of them, for she would not dishonor herself with lies and weak- ness. She would be grateful to God for showing her in time what manner of man Fabien was before she had allowed her heart to go even further with him. And yet, all of her pleasant thoughts had been tossed by the wind and she was left with disappointment and a strange heartache that seemed to gnaw at her day and night.

Rachelle worked tirelessly on her designing efforts to please Marguerite to keep her mind off of her painful disillusionment over the

marquis. She also tried to avoid Charlotte. Charlotte was more smug than ever, and now and then dropped hints to Louise or one of the other ladies of her midnight meetings with her new bel ami.

“Princesse, should we not begin discussing your wedding trous- seau?” Rachelle broached Marguerite cautiously, hoping to bury her emotions in her skills and beloved silk and lace. She was more than anxious to sketch some designs for the trousseau and return to Lyon for Grandmère’s help.

“The only monsieur I will marry is Henry,” Marguerite said stub- bornly. “I will run away with him to Lorraine, and we will rule there, I promise you.”

“Will Monsieur de Guise be content with ruling Lorraine?” Charlotte looked up from her own sewing.

“Monsieur Guise would rule all France and Navarre if it were mine to give him,” Marguerite said.

“Such words will not endear you to the king, your brother, Princesse,” Charlotte said.

Marguerite, eyes snapping, walked over to where Charlotte sat and took hold of her earlobe.

Rachelle winced as Marguerite pinched hard and said between her teeth, “Watch your tongue, Charlotte, or you will pay for its f lippancy, I assure you.”

She released Charlotte and walked to the window, while Charlotte massaged her ear.

“I only meant to protect you, Princesse,” she said calmly.

“The protection I need is from the King of Portugal.” Marguerite moaned, for her ladies watched her with momentary disfavor for her treatment of Charlotte. Now she had their sympathy again, and Louise de Fontaine said soothingly, “I hear the king is handsome and very rich. He may inherit Spain from his oncle, King Philip.”

“There are none as handsome as my golden Henry. Ah, Rachelle, that design is most charmant.” Marguerite came up beside her desk where she sat with her stack of drawings and patches of cloth and lace.

But would the Queen Mother approve? Marguerite insisted on redo- ing Rachelle’s designs by either altering the décolletage or using colors that did not go well with her coloring. She was fond of blue, but it made her look sallow.

Marguerite could not make up her mind. One day she approved a drawing that the next day she would dismiss. Whatever promised her the most male attention was what she consistently insisted on.

“I shall wear blue to the banquet,” she said.

“But was not the burgundy and cloth of gold meant to wear when you meet the King of Portugal?”

“I will save that for when I meet Henry de Guise, at the masque.” Rachelle felt alarm when she recalled the words of the Queen

Mother.

“It matters what I want,” Marguerite said.

But they all knew it mattered what Catherine wanted. Marguerite could pretend with her ladies, she could throw her emotional tantrums, but once in her mother’s overpowering presence, Marguerite changed into a frightened young woman.

“And what do you plan to wear to the masque, Rachelle?” Louise asked.

Rachelle had no desire for the celebrations, but would not say so in front of Charlotte. She told Louise of several of her gowns she and Grandmère had designed and sewn for her while in Lyon. One was a green silk with gold trim and gathered sleeves, a matching cap and feather. Another was blue silk, for blue was one of her colors, and the third gown was a rose velvet with rosettes of cream Brugesse lace. It was with bitterness Rachelle remembered the burgundy and gold gown that Fabien had made a point of in her chambers at Chambord, a dress he had wanted her to have made and wear to Orléans. Doubtless, she would not be seeing him at Orléans now. Her entire life had unexpectedly taken a different path. The burgundy gown he had wanted was no longer pos- sible, not after his tryst with Charlotte. She thought longingly of the Chateau de Silk. What could she do to influence Catherine’s decision to send her back home to Lyon?

Chapter Seventeen
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A

Andelot Dangeau wished he had never left Paris. Several days had passed and still there was no summons to meet le Cardinal de Lorraine. They had forgotten him, and even his cousine, Marquis Fabien, was seldom in their appartement. He left early and returned late, leav- ing questions unanswered. He behaved so suspiciously Andelot began to think he may have a secret amour within the castle with whom he was spending his time. He rather hoped he had, for that meant Rachelle would be left alone. Nor had he seen her. He had caught glimpses of her, but always in the company of Princesse Marguerite Valois, attending to couturière business, so that he could not speak with her.

Once she had looked at him and smiled, and he could have sworn she wished for his company, as though homesick or at least troubled to be at court. Perhaps she had been concerned about something, he knew not what, but not even Fabien sought out her company as he had at the first. This was curious. Fabien was seen more in the company of Madame de Presney. They would go off together in a calèche.

On day five of their arrival from Blois, Andelot began to worry. His Oncle Sebastien had not yet returned from Moulins with the Bourbon princes and retainers, one of which was the Huguenot Admiral of Picardy and Normandy, Gaspard de Coligny, and his brothers. This, however, did not seem to trouble Fabien.

“They will not come until the Admiral Coligny joins them from Châtillon later in the month.”

But for Andelot, all things began to be cast with dark suspicions.

Andelot was deciding how to slip out of the castle and locate Julot in the soldiers’ barracks, when an unexpected invitation was delivered to him by a royal page.

The boy-prince, Charles Valois, brother of King Francis, sent word ordering Andelot Dangeau the peasant to come to his chambers for tea, sweetbreads, and an afternoon of games. Andelot was duly surprised by this. Perhaps Prince Charles could tell him why the cardinal had not yet summoned him, though it was not likely a boy younger than himself would know, or care to know, about what befell one of his lesser sub- jects. He recalled the odd warning from the marquis concerning young Charles.

From the moment Andelot met Prince Charles Valois, he became uneasy. There was something about the royal prince’s personality that went beyond the typical haughty manner of royalty. His troubled mind showed on his young face with aquiline nose and small, tight mouth that sneered, but seldom smiled. His eyes were prominent, like his mother’s, Catherine de Medici. And like her, he had a cruel streak that lingered beneath his boyish veneer that could unexpectedly spring forth, like a tiger lying low in the bushes, and demand satiation.

Andelot had been escorted into the princeling’s chamber and was there but a short time when Charles, slim and sullen and tall for his age, looked Andelot over keenly and boasted: “I hunt everything. Stags, bears, even dogs. Watch!”

To Andelot’s horror, Charles grabbed one of his own pet royal dogs, one of the numerous pets, including caged falcons, he kept in his cham- bers. He drew a dagger from his secret sheath.

Andelot was certain the prince was trying to frighten him, to some- how impress him with his savagery, but when an ugly, dazed look crossed the otherwise boyish face, and he began to foam at the mouth, Andelot knew a dart of fear. He was convinced he would wound, if not kill, the dog. The small, trembling animal appeared to be aware of such horrors from the past. The dog yelped and quivered. Its terror stricken whine infuriated Andelot, who could not endure to see the innocent suffering.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Andelot threw himself against the prince and wrestled him down to the gilded rug, forcing the jewel-han- dled dagger to drop from Charles’s hand.

Andelot stared down, scowling; Charles stared up red-faced, aston- ished, blinking.

Andelot realized at once what he had done in laying his hands on the heir apparent to the throne of France. He had actually attacked a royal prince. He could be sent to the Bastille, even quartered! He had spared the dog, but could he spare himself?

Andelot, startled by his own action, jerked back, releasing the prince and scrambling to his feet. The dog had escaped under the bed where it hid, unseen. Andelot wished he might crawl in after it. Trying to cover his anxiety, he pretended that his action was of no great consequence. He pushed his brown hair from his damp forehead; realizing his mouth was dry, he tried to smile. He was sure it was quite inadequate. When the prince remained on his back, Andelot, now shy, stepped forward, bowed stiff ly, took his hand, and lifted Charles onto his red satin slip- pered feet.

“Pardon, Monsieur le Prince.” He bowed a second time, this one more graceful than the first.

Charles breathed heavily, his eyes bulging with incredulity.

“You see, Monsieur, I cannot bear the sight of innocent things being tormented. The little dog . . . it did nothing wrong. Nothing worthy of your dagger. I — I better go now. Adieu, Monsieur Prince.” He bowed a third time, wishing Marquis Fabien would suddenly materialize in the royal chamber. He backed slowly toward the door leading to the outer corridor, hoping to placate Charles.

Charles gave a piercing yell that froze Andelot in his tracks.

Andelot, frightened, expected the prince’s nurse to come rushing in with guards to see whether the prince’s guest might have attempted an assassination. But to Andelot’s amazement no one came to check, and the door into the nurse’s chamber remained shut. He decided she must have chosen a fortunate moment to take a brief respite.

Charles needed no assistance from his nurse. He leaped past Andelot like a wiry, lean cat and scrambled toward the door on all fours, he leaned against it, arms folded, his mouth in a tight pucker.

“You will not leave until I say so, peasant!”

Andelot wondered at the tormented expression of rage and became afraid for the boy when his body trembled as though he had been in the icy water. His teeth chattered. His slim, white hands bedecked with heavy jewels, clasped together and unclasped, then he pressed them hard against his chest as though his heart were in pain. Little bubbles began to froth at his lips.

Andelot was stricken with fear, more for the mental state of the boy than for his own safety, though he would not be surprised should Charles rage at him with dagger in hand.

“Your Highness,” he whispered. “I beg your pardon! Please, do calm your soul. Are you well? Shall I call for your nurse? Oh please, be calm, be calm!”

“You!”
came the high-pitched squeak like a hoarse old woman. “I

shall have you w-whipped! You d-dare touch me, heir to the t-throne of France? I will send you to the dungeons below! I will have you torn limb from limb. I will have you disemboweled. I will have one tooth pulled at a time until you faint!”

Andelot stared, dumbfounded. He began to worry that his impru- dent actions might also reflect upon the Marquis Fabien, or would evok- ing the name of Vendôme grant him protection? Rank, here, meant everything as he well knew. Or perhaps he should go down on his knees and beg the prince’s forgiveness. Yet, he saw not a prince, but a cruel and unreasonable boy that Fabien had warned him to be cautious of. Even so, Andelot took heart. Charles was still a child and not a fiend, a mere boy who had sent for him to entertain him.

But Andelot could not bring himself to fall on his knees and beg. He sensed Charles would take sadistic glee from his begging and prolong the agony.