The door unlocked; he ducked under its rim and entered a dark void, allowing the heavy tapestry to settle smoothly into position. He closed the door behind him.
Fabien stood cloistered in darkness, breathing the stale air of ancient construction. His sight adjusted to a dim beam of light above and ahead, reached by a steep, narrow set of steps which he assumed would bring him near the council chamber.
He felt his way cautiously. After a minute he reached a square platform no more than two feet wide, railed on either side, known as a secret step. In the darkness he saw a bright spot — the peephole. Looking through
it, he was greeted with a grand scene — the interior of the state coun- cil chamber with its long square table and chairs. A large window with brocade draperies looked onto a spring garden. The hole was located somewhere high in the council chamber wall, and it commanded a view of most of the chamber.
Someone had recently installed a listening tube, no doubt on orders from Catherine de Medici to one of the loyal Italian lackeys, or dwarves, she kept. Fabien suspected she might occasionally choose not to attend certain council meetings in order to spy on the king’s counselors to hear what they said on certain matters in her absence. She took perverse enjoyment in such activities. He was reminded again how much he dis- trusted Madame le Serpent.
Fabien centered his eye on the peephole and saw Catherine, garbed in black, pacing.
Where were the Guises and Avenelle?
The Queen Mother ceased her pacing, became very still, and stared straight toward him. The hair bristled at the back of his neck, as he almost credited her with knowing he was watching. He could imagine himself standing on a trapdoor with controls at her fingertips that would drop him into a pit of poisonous snakes.
She looked away, staring elsewhere, as though deep in thought. Fabien rebuked his reaction. The hole would be undetectable from inside the chamber except to those who knew it was there. She did know, of course, but would have no reason to believe anyone was watching her, as
she
had watched countless others while hatching evil designs against them.
The Queen Mother continued to stand perfectly still. Then, abruptly, she lifted her head. Fabien saw the stern face, the unblinking eyes, as though a decision had been reached in her cunning. She strode to the long council table in the midst of the chamber, surrounded by chairs, picked up a mallet, and struck a gong.
The door to the connecting guard chamber opened. Fabien could see two of the royal Swiss guards inside. A dainty page boy hurried in and bowed to her.
She commanded boldly: “Call for Maître Avenelle to come to me at once.”
Her voice came plainly to Fabien even without the listening tube.
With his eye to the hole he wondered that the Guises were not present, unless they were seated in a corner of the chamber out of his view — though he had not heard them, and it seemed unlikely they would remain mute.
A short time later the door opened and a guard hauled in a nervous man with sallow skin and a thin, wasted figure.
Yes, this is Avenelle. I recognize him.
Fabien felt pity and scorn.
Le
misérable! What has happened to him? He is like death housed in skin!
But do I need wonder what has befallen him?
Catherine de Medici was seated opposite him at a writing table, a pen in her hand and parchment before her. Avenelle stood facing her, and Fabien had a good view of the side of his face as well as of Catherine’s.
“Your M-Majesty,” came his tremulous voice.
Fabien narrowed his gaze.
No matter who a man may be, none should cringe and fawn before such an unrighteous ruler.
He realized that his thoughts were treasonous and had emerged quite unexpectedly. In questioning the Queen Mother’s right to rule, he ques- tioned the authority of the throne of France.
“Maître Avenelle,” Catherine demanded, “Le Duc de Guise and his brother, le Cardinal de Lorraine, have spoken to me of grave information you claim to be true. Tell me! When did you speak to the duc?”
Pale, he intertwined his fingers, pulling on them.
He bowed again, too humbly. “I spoke to the duc this very day. Monsieur Marmagne, his secretary, first brought me here to Blois from Paris so that I may speak to your sacred person.”
“I see. So you are a barrister, Maître Avenelle?” “Oui, I am that, Your Majesty.”
“I see. A friend of Seigneur Barri de la Renaudie from the Bourbon region of Moulins and Berry?”
At the mention of the Bourbon region Fabien became convinced Prince Condé was in danger.
“I
was
his friend, Madame,” he hastened.
Catherine’s twisted mouth was visible. “Ah,” she said with dripping scorn. “But no longer his ami. I see. This
leader
of the vile Huguenot plot of which le Duc de Guise has been warned by the Catholics of England
— you are willing to betray Renaudie to me?”
Avenelle’s face turned ruddy. His nervous fingers traveled up and down the front of his surcoat.
“I — I do not wish Your Majesty or that of our cher King Francis to be injured by these zealot heretics, Madame.”
“How kind of you, Maître Avenelle,” came her sarcastic voice. “You are most generous. Now tell me. Have you been paid well by the duc’s secretary, Marmagne, to tell all you know of this plot?”
Again, he fumbled, turning an ugly color. “Yes, Madame.” He swal- lowed. “I have come at the duc’s will to inform you of what I know of a grave Huguenot conspiracy . . . and le Duc de Guise has rewarded me.” Fabien tensed.
A plot?
If Prince Condé were in any way involved, and Sebastien with them, it would mean their deaths. But how could there be such a plot? Would he himself not be aware? But knowing Louis Condé, he might not have wanted to involve him in such a risk. Fabien recalled several Bourbon-Huguenot alliance meetings he had not been told about
until afterward, as though Louis did not want him there.
“And you have confessed to the duc all you know of this wicked- ness?” Catherine almost shouted.
Avenelle cringed. “Oui, Madame, I — I have confessed all.”
She bounced from her high-back gilded chair, pointing a finger at him. “You had best hope so, Maître Avenelle. Oh, you had best hope so, I swear it.”
He bowed low, both hands pressed against his heart.
Cringing coward,
Fabien thought with disgust.
Betrayer
. “This plot is hatched by Calvinists, is that so?” she inquired. “Yes, Madame, entirely.”
Fabien gritted his teeth.
“How many Huguenots are involved?” “Over two thousand, Madame.”
Two thousand!
Fabien stared.
Catherine sank back in her high-backed chair as though receiving a blow. Her face hardened with surprise, then fury. She pushed herself to her feet again and strode toward him. Avenelle sank to his knees.
“It is why I have come, to warn Your Majesty — ”
“Silence, worm! Who —
who
is at the head of these rebels? I demand the truth! Speak! If you hold back their names, I shall have you delivered to the torturers to be f layed alive.”
Avenelle was shaking so violently now that Fabien wondered if he would become sick to his stomach. Could the poor creature even speak without his teeth biting his tongue?
The vicious tone of Catherine’s voice and her autocratic manner had him paralyzed. Watching such a foul, despicable scene, Fabien clenched his fist.
Diabolical woman.
“Speak!” she cried. “Or I swear I shall have you put to the screw!”
Avenelle wiped his dripping forehead on the back of his sleeve. “I-I am unable to f-find my voice —”
Catherine walked around the table and looked down at him, waving her hand with an impatient gesture.
“Fool! You will answer me, Maître Avenelle. The torture chamber is at hand; the way of wisdom will loosen your tongue or you will have none with which to speak either truth or lies.”
“Oh Madame, oh Madame . . . I am come to tell you all.”
“Who, then, is at the head of this plot? Their names. I want their names.”
“That heretic Prince Condé, Madame.” “So.”
Fabien’s fingers tightened convulsively on his sword hilt. “And Admiral Coligny?”
“Non. Though the admiral knows of the plot, perhaps . . . I cannot swear for certain, Madame, but his brother Monsieur Odet, le Cardinal de Châtillon knows, but — but they are not involved as deeply. They will not draw swords.”
“Hah,” Catherine said. “Go on, Maître Avenelle.”
“The military leader of the plot is Barri de la Renaudie; but, Madame, he is a subordinate acting under Prince Louis de Condé’s orders. Heretics all, Your Majesty.”
“Heretics you call them?” she mocked. “You yourself are a Huguenot, is that not so?”
“Oh, Madame, I am no longer a Calvinist, I assure you.” “No?” she continued with scorn. “Why so?”
“Le Duc de Guise has— has helped me to see that I was wrong, Madame, and to recant.”
A crisp, mocking laugh came boldly from her lips. “Indeed, Maître Avenelle! How tender the shepherding heart of our great le Balafré and his brother the cardinal. I swear their concern for your soul and the souls of all the Huguenots in France is wondrous to behold. Has the pope yet struck a medal celebrating their love for their enemies, Maître Avenelle, as he has before?”
“I do not know, Madame,” came the shaking voice.
“This Renaudie, this Huguenot retainer under Prince Louis de Condé, is he not the commander, your bon ami? Did he not lodge with you as a brother in Paris?”
Avenelle was staring at the chamber f loor. He spoke, but Catherine interrupted: “I cannot understand you, Maître Avenelle. Speak up.”
“Yes, Madame. He did stay with me in Paris for a short time, but no longer. You see, I will have no bon ami who is not loyal to your sacred person and to the sacred person of King Francis Valois.”
“And the Guises? Do not forget to mention the House of Guise,” she said with stinging mockery. “One would think, Maître Avenelle, that the Guises were as much a part of the royal Valois family as my own sons!”
Avenelle cringed and kept silent.
The Queen Mother stalked about the chamber, her stiff skirts sway- ing, reminding Fabien of a giant dark bird ready to swoop down and eat the f lesh of her enemy.
“Maître Avenelle, tell me the purpose of this Huguenot plot.”
She walked to her chair of state, ornamented with the arms of France, and placed on a dais covered with thick carpet. She sat down, her eyes on Avenelle.
“Your Majesty, the Huguenots all say you are the power that gov- erns France, not your son, His Majesty Francis II, and that under your rule freedom of worship and justice will never be granted Frenchmen of the Protestant belief; they say, Madame, that you seek the counsel of le Duc de Guise and le Cardinal de Lorraine, who are even more bit- terly opposed than you are to Protestant interests. Therefore they have addressed themselves to Prince de Condé who is believed to share their opinions, both political and religious, for present redress. The conspira- tors propose, Madame, to place His Highness Prince de Condé on the throne as regent, in your place, until— until such measures are taken as will confirm their independence from burnings.”
Fabien stif led a groan. This would mean the end of Condé — unless he formed an army. A religious civil war in France would rip the nation in two.
“The Bourbon-Huguenot alliance think to put Your Majesty under palais confinement; send the young king and queen to some unfortified place — such as here at Chambord or Chenonceau — and then banish the Guise brothers from France.”
Better to kill them,
Fabien thought, his emotions like ice.
And I, for
one, would gladly put the sword to the duc
. Fabien’s heart thudded evenly in his chest. But what of Sebastien? Thus far Avenelle had not mentioned him.
I must alert Louis that Avenelle has betrayed them, and the plot is
known.
Avenelle had finished speaking. Catherine’s face was tight with rage. Then her voice shattered the silence, a sudden clear and unemotional command, showing Fabien she was once more in control.
“Proceed, Maître Avenelle.”
“U-under Renaudie, two thousand Huguenots expect to come here to Chambord from various points of Nantes to attack on the fifteenth of this month of March.”
Saintes!
Fabien thought.
It was almost the fifteenth now
.
Catherine stood looking unexpectedly calm and cold. Her face was still, and her eyes took on a steady, almost hypnotic stare.
“So le Duc de Guise spoke the truth to me when he ordered the royal court to the fortress castle of Amboise.”
Now matters were slowly unfolding to Fabien. The unexpected call to journey to Amboise came from Guise as a military tactic to thwart the attack of Renaudie’s army.
“Have you told me everything, Maître Avenelle?”
“Oui, all. I swear it. Have mercy and remember, I beg of you, that it was I, Avenelle, your humble, devoted servant who has saved Your Majesty and the young King Francis from their evil schemes.”
Catherine swung toward him, lifting a hand and pointing. Avenelle f linched as though she had hurled a whip.
“You will be kept a prisoner until His Majesty’s council tests the truth of your information. If you have told me the truth, I will spare your life.
Even so, when this is over, you will leave France forever, is that under- stood? If I find you have lied, you will surely die, Avenelle. I swear it. Now go from my presence.” She turned her back to him and strode to the window.
Her words echoed through the lofty chamber. She struck the metal gong. Two guards entered, grabbed Avenelle’s thin arms, and took him away.
Fabien leaned against the wall, staring in the darkness, frowning, calming his fervid brain. Avenelle had not mentioned Sebastien as one of the plotters. This bode better for his head staying in place than Fabien would have dared to hope only an hour ago. But where was he? Did le Duc de Guise and le Cardinal de Lorraine have him under bolt some- where in the palais chateau questioning him even now to gain new infor- mation and names of Huguenots?