Threads of Silk Read online

  “You underestimate my amour for you, ma belle.” He clasped her hands tightly to his chest where she could feel his heartbeat, and it thrilled her. “My feelings for you will not endure having you married to Maurice. I will fight to defend you. Do you think I would have returned to France if I were not certain you were the only woman for me? If that were not so, by now I would have been on a voyage to the Americas.”

  She held him tightly, the thought of losing him forever too much to endure.

  She turned her eyes to his. “If you had gone on to Fort Caroline . . . I cannot bear to think of what might have happened — ”

  “The loss, I assure you, would have been mine.” He brushed his lips against her forehead, shielding her hands between his. “If I had returned to find I was too late, and lost you to court intrigue, I would have never forgiven myself.”

  Her heart purred as he stroked her hair and kissed her temple.

  He brought her left hand to his lips, kissing her ring finger. “I will not rest content until I place the Bourbon wedding ring on your hand. “You know I love you, Rachelle, chérie, fully and completely. I could wish most profoundly to seal our marriage tonight, but in doing so we face another dilemma, one we cannot ignore. You know, even as I, what it is.”

  She turned her head aside. Yes . . . she knew. Her feelings, so uplifted only moments ago, now collapsed. The Queen Mother was not the only one who could separate them.

  “If I claim you in marriage tonight without addressing the matter of my Christian faith to Monsieur Arnaut,” he said of her father, “I will surely offend the deep significance of his spiritual belief.”

  She drew back slightly and then lowered herself to the bench. Feeling cold again, she looked at the red coals but felt no satisfying warmth.

  “Oui,” she murmured, “I have been thinking of this since we left Paris, and it is a great concern. Père Arnaut will be highly disappointed with me. It is because he does not fully understand you yet, nor does ma mère,” she said of her mother, Madame Clair. She turned her head toward him. “But when they know your heart as I do, they will have no such concerns.”

  “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 Bourbo
n 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 CHTEAU, 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.

  I shall admire these treasures from afar, and honor those whom God has gifted with skills to create such marvels, but I do not need to possess such luxury.

  What he desired now was to go to Geneva to hear Monsieur John Calvin, to perhaps attend the great theological school there.

  He gazed toward the archway where a door opened and a rustle of silky material alerted him. The fire flickered in a hearth, and a lamp was burning. There appeared to be someone else in the cardinal’s salle de séjour, but the figure slipped out of view before Andelot could fully see. He saw the handsome young Charles de Guise, the Cardinal de Lorraine, the most powerful religious messire in all France. Andelot caught a whiff of fragrance that he had come to associate with him.

  He was tall and slim with large, languid almond-shaped eyes. His mouth was sensuous, his long graceful hands adorned with gold and ruby rings. His lips were too often curved with what Andelot thought was amused cynicism. A woman in the other chamber quickly vanished through drapes. Andelot blinked, thinking he might have imagined her. No longer was he the gullible boy who had first come to Amboise to meet his Guise kinsmen. The first time Marquis Fabien had told him that the Cardinal de Lorraine kept mistresses, Andelot had been offended, thinking the marquis was being irreverent toward the cardinal. How gullible he had been to think that high church titles and religious ceremonies would make the man holy without the indwelling Spirit of God.

  If I must depend upon this manner of religious messire to stand between my soul and God, I should despair!

  Jesus, our great high priest, is holy, harmless, undefiled, and separate from sinners. He ever lives to make intercession for us. Our great high priest is moved with tender compassion for each of His own.

  Andelot suddenly smiled, joy dancing in his soul. “Bon jour, Monseigneur.” He hastened a small bow.

  The cardinal’s brow shot up. “You are full of joie de vivre I see, Andelot. Am I to take your deportment as happiness that your guardian oncle has fled Paris for England?”

  Andelot stared. What! It could not be true! Comte Sebastien, gone?

  “Monseigneur? Fled Paris?”

  “Like a rat fleeing a burning ship. Your shock indicates surprise. You were unaware, is that it, Andelot? I wonder if I can permit my sounder judgment to believe you?”

  “Monseigneur Cardinal, I vow this news astounds me.”

  “As it does us all.” He walked into the salle and sat upon an ornate chair, gesturing Andelot to do the same.

  “Sebastien has betrayed King Francis by this dastardly action. Not to mention inviting the rage of the Queen Mother, who trusted him as a member of the Privy Council. Without a word, he has ta
ken his wife and child and his wife’s sister and abandoned his duty to the throne of France. And this betrayal, mind you, after the kindnesses bestowed upon him. We should have left him to his just imprisonment in the Bastille for his part in the Huguenot rebellion at Amboise against the king.”

  Overcome by this development, Andelot remained silent.

  “Then you are willing to swear you knew naught of this vile treachery, Andelot?”

  Whether Sebastien’s actions were treacherous, Andelot would not judge, but he could vow that he had not been privy to the plans.

  “This is the first I have learned of it, Monseigneur. He did not speak of it to me, and I knew not that he was planning an escape.”

  He must have fled to Spitalfields to be with Pasteur Bertrand and the Huguenot church there.

  A feeling of loss rolled over him. He would miss the shrewd but kindly and protective Sebastien, who claimed in some complicated manner to be his oncle, even as the powerful cleric who sat watching him with measuring eyes was also said to be a kinsman. The facts had never been explained to Andelot’s satisfaction, and perhaps they never would be. The idea that he might be a Guise no longer straightened his shoulders and fed his desire for advancement at court.

  Why did Sebastien not tell me he was fleeing France? I might have chosen to flee with him.

  His loss waned with the growing realization that Sebastien, unhappy at court and at serious risk in his faith, had outmanipulated the Queen Mother. Relief roused in his heart and almost sang from his lips until he became aware of the languid eyes staring at him so keenly.

  “May I ask when Comte Sebastien left the Paris Louvre, Monsei-gneur?”

  “If we knew that, he might have been captured and arrested posthaste,” the cardinal said wryly. “We thought you might be able to tell us.”

  “I knew nothing of this, Monseigneur.”

  “So you have said. The road out of Paris to Calais is under watch on orders from the Queen Mother. He will be captured, you can be sure.”

  The cardinal’s confidence threw a dagger of fear into his belly. If Sebastien and his family were caught, it would mean their imprisonment, or worse.