Daughter of Silk (41 page)
In a f lash of self-pity he thought how unfair life was to place him here at this time. Even if he went undetected, which he doubted, how would he escape to find Fabien? Perhaps the marquis had already ridden out with Prince Louis and Admiral Coligny?
Charles might take pity upon his plight and return for him, but he doubted whether the boy-prince had that much conscience.
He ventured to open his eyes again. Why were they all here, what were they doing? Was this to be a bar of regal judgment?
Walking just behind the Queen Mother was le Cardinal de Lorraine, his expression one of haughty unconcern.
Andelot tore his gaze away to fix upon King Francis, walking beside his equally young wife, Mary of Scotland. She appeared as bewildered as he, and they seemed to draw strength one from another as they looped arms and walked slowly, somberly, forward onto the terrace. Mary wore a white robe with gold embroidery trimmed with ermine. Her dark hair was drawn back from her forehead to set off her fair face, and on her head she wore a small pointed cap, studded with jewels, to which was attached a thin veil that f luttered behind. Her cheeks were f lushed, but she was in control of herself.
The king’s pallid face and tight mouth confirmed his emotional duress. A lump formed in Andelot’s throat, and he needed to swallow hard to control the emotions boiling up within his soul. He shivered and felt cold.
I must get out of here!
The Queen Mother entered first. With an imperious gesture she signed to Mary to take her place under the royal canopy. Next came King Francis, followed by the Guises, and many others Andelot recognized but whose names he did not know.
But
Sebastien!
He was not among the king’s cabinet!
Then to his horror he saw an executioner appear in the courtyard, striding slowly, somberly toward the scaffold and up the steps. Garbed in a black mask and a crimson robe, he picked up the ax.
Andelot clasped a palm over his mouth when he saw the long line of Huguenot prisoners already bloodied and bruised from torture. They were packed closely together as far as his eye could see, all the way past the outer walls of the chapel and beyond.
The sight shocked him. It could not be true. So many! Too many for one executioner to behead — there must be others waiting to take the executioner’s place. The idea nauseated him. His throat ached as he tried to swallow. How many? Hundreds? No, a thousand — nay, even
two
thousand! The prisoners were like sheep for the slaughter, guarded by archers and musketeers who moved them along.
Andelot squinted as sweat from his forehead trickled into his eyes and stung. Still, he tried to catch a glimpse of Sebastien and Julot, terri- fied they might be in the line of death.
He tried to pray.
Help these, your sons, who will die this hour, O God. Give your children courage. Do not let them die without feeling your strength and comfort. Have mercy on us, Lord. Have mercy on France!
He swallowed, his throat dry, his eyes following the horrific sight. Huguenot after Huguenot was led up beneath the royal gallery, up the steps to the scaffold, forced to kneel before the chopping block. They did not scream nor beg. He heard them singing psalms. And then — a heavy whack!
Andelot jerked with each blow, each whack.
He silenced the heave of emotion that welled up within him. A head- less, quivering body was cast to one side to be thrown into the Loire River. Blood began to run . . . a little at first, then in streams, then in pools.
Andelot plugged his ears.
Whack!
He squeezed his eyes shut tightly.
Still unable to keep the whacking of the ax from invading his mind. Unable to control himself now, tears oozed hot and salty down his cheeks with his sweat, and he tasted both on his lips.
Children of God, followers of the Lamb. Andelot’s brothers in the faith.
Whack!
Andelot shook in silent sobs until he could hear his heart thudding in his ears, ready to explode.
Trumpets were blaring, fifes were screeching. The terror went on and on. The sun climbed higher in the French sky.
There was now a loud commotion in the royal gallery. Andelot opened his eyes and looked, feeling bleary-eyed. Young Mary of Scotland, Queen of France, had slumped in her seat. Francis bent over her, looking pale and sickened.
The Queen Mother Catherine turned with a frown toward her son, handing him something. King Francis fumbled and waved whatever it was before his wife’s nose, and she revived. Mary sat up, looked about, cried out again, then standing to her feet she rushed forward, f linging herself before her oncle, le Cardinal de Lorraine.
Her voice came to Andelot with its pathos.
“Oncle, cher oncle, stay this awful massacre. Speak to the Queen Mother, or I shall die! Oh! Why was I brought here to behold such a sight?”
“My niece,” the cardinal said solemnly, but his face was f lushed with excitement. He raised her from the platform and tenderly kissed her on the cheek. “Have courage; these are but a few pestilent fellows; heretics who would have dethroned you and the king and set up a false religion in France. By their destruction we do the kingdom a favor. These deserve no pity. You ought to rejoice.”
Andelot turned his gaze to Francis who had also stood. “Alas! My mother,” the king cried. “I too am overcome by this horrible display. I would crave your permission to retire; the blood of even my enemies brings me no joy.” He turned to his Mary as if to depart the bloody scene.
Catherine de Medici stood abruptly, and raising her hand to stop him, her voice was full of angry passion. “My son, I command you to stay! Duc de Guise,” she called firmly, “support your niece, the Queen of France! Teach her the duty of a sovereign!”
As though intimidated by his mother’s iron will, the king sat again, pale. Mary was brought to his side where she was once again seated.
The executioner was wearied and another took his place. Andelot had no notion of how many had gone before him. Once again the mur- derous display captured the attention of the royal audience as blood ran like a river.
The sunlight was waning as the disc sank lower in the sky.
Dazed, Andelot heard the cry and fainting of le Duc de Guise’s wife, Anne d’Este. She was carried away. Andelot looked at Mary and saw that the reinette had also slumped in her chair again; again, she was recovered.
The Queen Mother sat erect and calm. Suddenly Francis stood to his feet. “My mother, you are periling the health of my wife. Govern my kingdom and slay my subjects, but let me judge what is seemly for my queen!”
Walking with Mary, his arm around her, Francis withdrew with her.
Huguenot bodies jammed the Loire River. They were piled in heaps as high as the walls about the castle. Headless corpses dangled from the battlements so that wherever one looked they saw dead Huguenots.
And still the butchery continued.
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R
Rachelle was standing on the balustrade overlooking the courtyard when the gates were drawn aside, and with a f lurry, the House of Bourbon rode through with a proud display of f lags and emblems in the Bourbon colors of blue, white, and red. Men-at-arms with bronze and silver armaments, their
escutcheons
, on which the various coats of arms were depicted, glittered in the sunlight.
Her anxious gaze sought for Fabien and found him close to Prince Louis de Condé and Admiral Coligny.
Fabien, my future husband?
she wondered with excitement.
Could such honor and happiness await her? Or did death in the Bastille, or in some town square with faggots sizzling, licking up her feet, legs, and body—
Louise de Fontaine walked up beside her. “Such sights as these make one wonder what will happen, do they not? But I must call you away. Princesse Marguerite asks for you to come to her chamber.”
Rachelle tore herself away from the splendor of soldiers and princes and walked to the chambers of the princesse.
One of the maids opened the door and showed Rachelle inside. A heavy, dark wood-framed bed concealed by filmy crimson and cream draperies was looped around a deep alcove. Marguerite was propped beneath satin coverings, large red pillows with fringe of beaded gold lined the entire bedstead. Rachelle’s compassion reached out to Marguerite when she saw her wan face, her thick black hair, which was tangled, for she sent her personal maid scrambling from the chamber.
“My head aches too much to be troubled by brushes and combs.” Her dark eyes told Rachelle of boiling inner turmoil. “Close my door and bolt it,” she whispered.
As Rachelle closed the door she glimpsed Charlotte de Presney watching from a window seat on the far side of the chamber. Charlotte held some embroidery work on the lap of her bright organdy pink skirts, but Rachelle doubted she was concentrating on anything as mild and pleasant as silken stitches. She too must have seen the Bourbon display below the window where she sat, and saw and coveted Fabien. Rachelle did not doubt for a moment that her nemesis had surrendered her hopes to become his maitresse.
“That spy,” Marguerite hissed, glancing with dislike toward Charlotte. “If only I could be rid of her unwanted presence among my ladies-in-waiting, but the Queen Mother will not allow it. Come closer,” she whispered, and Rachelle drew up the stool and sat beside her.
Haggard lines showed beneath Marguerite’s eyes. She reached for Rachelle’s wrist, her damp fingers clasping hold tightly. She shook for emphasis. “You must do as I tell you, Rachelle. I know of certain things that will happen . . . may already be happening. Go to your closet and remain there out of sight for this day and tomorrow. Whatever you do, do not wander the castle or gardens.”
“What is happening, Princesse? I have heard the noise of horses and soldiers in the courtyard.”
“Do not ask. Do as you are commanded. I will call for you again in a few days.”
Footsteps sounded just outside the drawn draperies of the alcove. Marguerite gritted her teeth. “Go now,” she hissed. “She is watching us both.”
Rachelle stood, and as she parted the curtains and stepped out into the chamber, Charlotte had left the window seat across the chamber and was straightening the bowl of white f lowers on the tall gold-veined table. She walked back to the window and sat down again with her embroi- dery, without a glance or word in Rachelle’s direction.
Rachelle watched her for a moment, then left the chamber.
Once inside her own chamber she tried to busy herself working on the book of her gown designs. One day soon she expected to bring the
collection of drawings home to Maman and Grandmère.
Oh, for that day to be hastened
.
Sometime later she heard voices in the antechamber and footsteps.
She stood quickly.
The door swung open and Marquis Fabien burst inside, banging the door shut.
“Monsieur Fabien!”
She searched his handsome features and was riveted by his com- pelling gaze as heated as molted violet blue fire. She understood well enough that he would never enter her personal domain like this unless he felt compelled to do so. The hardness of his jaw convinced her that he had reason enough.
So this was what Marguerite had meant. She too had known that trouble was ready to break forth like a flood to take them all away.
Fabien was dressed for travel in dark woolen clothes, cloak, and hat. His scabbard was belted on and housed a deadly weapon. He was beside her in several strides, taking hold of her, and crushing her in his embrace, his lips taking hers with hungry desire. She struggled against the overwhelming need surging through her, trying to swim back from the passion conquering them.
“Fabien!” she gasped, turning her face away. “What are you doing?”
“Loving you, ma belle petite.” And he propelled her over toward the window where he pushed the drape aside and peered out. Little could be seen, for the window looked out upon the distant forest. She wondered what he might have feared to see f loating in the Loire.
“Do you have any idea what is happening?”
“Non,” she said breathlessly, “except you come here to sweep me away — ”
“I do not intend to lose you,” he said, bringing her against him again.
“Fabien, bel ami, what is it? What is wrong? Marguerite demands I stay here in my closet. Something dreadful must be occurring, but what? Did your kinsmen escape safely?”
There was no smile, no apology for his bluntness. “They rode out yesterday morning. There is a slaughter going on at this very minute.”
“A slaughter — !”
“Thousands of Huguenot prisoners are being dragged to the chop- ping block.”
She gasped her horror. “Andelot and Sebastien.”
“Andelot is not a Huguenot. Even so — ” he frowned — “he is not in my chamber and no one knows where he has gone. Sebastien too is not in his chamber.”
“Oh, Fabien we must find them.”
“There is no time. It is you alone that concerns me now. We shall try to escape to my family castle at Vendôme. It is not far, some twenty miles. I have good horses.”
She stared at him, numb, but his eyes persuaded her that he would not speak this way if there were not cause.
She looked around her chamber helplessly.
What to bring? So many
priceless things that were part of her life from Lyon—
He took her arm and drew her away toward her closet. “Bring a hooded cloak. It may rain. Nothing else.”
“But Sebastien — ”
“I have Gallaudet and Julot searching for both Sebastien and Andelot.
They will do what they can. Come, Rachelle, make haste!”
She darted into her closet, looked about in despair at all her prized sewing things, then realizing he was at the closet doorway urging her on, she grabbed a hooded cloak and f led with him, pausing long enough to snatch her book of drawings from the table.
Moments later they were walking along the corridor, his hand hold- ing to her arm as though he expected someone to challenge him and snatch her away. Her footsteps could hardly keep up with his strides. Frightened servants huddled, whispering, and slipped away as they neared.
