among the branches of the trees, and others reclined on soft cushions arranged on carpets. Tables were filled with displays of wines, fruits, cheeses, and confectioneries, constantly replenished by busy servants under the watchful eyes of the chamberlains.
They came to a pavilion lighted with colored lanterns, and he turned her aside.
“I prefer this spot. You can see the bend in the river, and there are fewer courtiers.”
He led her up the steps to a terrace. Below, the lighted court was filled with distant dancers and diners, but it was the sound of f lutes and f lageolets that filled the woods around them.
He removed his wig and mask, and she did the same so that the breeze was refreshingly cool. They leaned against the rail, listening to the music. He bent over the rail and caught the attention of one of the lackeys, who brought up a platter of refreshments.
Rachelle was anxious to ask him about some of the bewildering things he had said earlier at the banquet and again later to Gallaudet.
She glanced toward him and said suddenly, “What did you mean when you told Gallaudet there were Huguenots in the woods? Do you mean now, here?” She lifted a hand toward the miles of trees receding toward the hills.
She saw his sobriety. She was right, then. What he had told his page was important.
“When I was at Moulins, Louis decided messengers should be sent to warn de la Renaudie that Avenelle disclosed the plot to Catherine and the Guises. The Huguenots I have noticed here in the woods have given me reason to fear that the messengers were thwarted, that Renaudie did not receive the warning to remain at Nantes.”
“How horrible. Then there are Huguenots here in the woods? Sent by Monsieur Renaudie? But they are in danger! They must be warned.” “That is what concerns me. And I have sent a message, you can be
sure, but I wanted Sebastien alerted.”
“Perhaps Monsieur Renaudie did not send these particular Huguenots?”
“That too is a possibility. Let us hope so. Julot, a cousin of Andelot’s, is trying to make contact now in the woods to see where they came from.
With so many courtiers roaming about, there is less chance of Julot being noticed. I only wish Louis would have accepted my offer to go to Renaudie. With Gallaudet, and perhaps Julot, we would have gotten through, I am sure.”
“Then if Monsieur Renaudie is being watched,” she said cautiously, “who would do so except the Queen Mother?”
“None but le Duc de Guise, though she and the cardinal would know about it. The duc was appointed head of all military forces in France before we left Blois . . . a curious and troubling fact when the Bourbon nobles are called to come here to sign an edict of pacification. Why is Guise suddenly made marshal?”
“You think they continue to suspect Renaudie will attack?” “Or worse, Mademoiselle.”
“What could be worse?”
“A trap,” he said savagely. “That is what I fear — a trap. But I can- not convince Louis to listen. He comes to save face, fearing he will be thought a coward if he does not come. And Coligny, honorable man that he is, is too trusting of royalty. He often declares he would rather trust the Queen Mother than live in fear of constant intrigue, but in that I do not believe he is being wise. I know the Guises and Catherine. They are devilishly shrewd.”
Rachelle stared off at the woods. Huguenots . . . were they out there? Would they attack? And if they did, what manner of trap did le Duc de Guise have in mind?
“My retainers and men-at-arms were chosen because they are witty and cautious. Nor do I make apology for their wariness. These are times to doubt the proffered cup of peace. Catherine is not above dipping her finger in poisons.”
Rachelle gripped the terrace banister. The colored lanterns, the masks of the courtiers, all took on a sinister new form.
He nodded below toward some trees. “Over there . . . even now, my loyals are near at hand. Gallaudet would be nearby if I had not sent him to Sebastien. We are always on watch, Mademoiselle. For my father, Jean-Louis — you may have heard me talk of him— was assassinated. Bourbons are rife for death, for they are closer to the throne than the Guises.”
“Then you suspect the House of Guise is to blame for his murder?” “Yes, but I have no proof. One reason I have spent time recently with
Charlotte de Presney is because she promises me evidence.”
Her head turned sharply. “Where would she discover such proof?” “Need you ask?” His voice was wry.
“The Queen Mother?”
“Among other lucrative sources. I can tell you the men Charlotte knows are often in high positions. A word from them would soon garner some facts.”
So Charlotte was promising him benefits for an association with her.
“What does she expect in return, Marquis Fabien?” she asked in a chilly voice.
He regarded her. She looked away. She should not have disclosed her concern since he had already made known his thoughts on such matters, especially about Charlotte.
He gently removed the dark cloak he had provided her and admired her emerald green silk dress. She had not intended for it to happen — or did she? Perhaps he did not plan it either, but the music, the silvery moonlight; all worked their enchantment. He drew her and she came to him.
“How is it possible,” he breathed, “that I feel so strongly about you so soon?”
“I confess my heart yearns for you also. You told me at Chambord it was love at first sight.”
“I meant it. But I am not so young as to believe such love as this can be rushed into a marriage. Love needs time to be tested, Rachelle, ma petite. We must make certain it is an enduring love and not only passion.”
“I hardly know you, but I do not want to say adieu.” “I would grieve if I were never to see you again.”
Their lips met — and like a blazing torch toppled accidentally into a dry haystack, what was intended as a light demonstration of promises to come burst into a consuming desire.
Rachelle trembled inside at his tightening embrace, while the heat of his lips melted the safeguards put in place by a young and tender will.
Lord Jesus,
her soul cried out in a plea for strength and wisdom in the gale of a storm newly experienced.
Fabien abruptly held her away from him and took her face between his hands. She shut her eyes against the burning blue of his gaze.
“Rachelle, my cherie,” he spoke in a low, husky voice. “I must be cautious — for your sake and mine. I promise to pursue our love, to see where it brings us in the future, but it is too soon to swear our hearts to eternal love when the passion is so strong.”
It took her a moment to find her voice again and calm her heart. She moved further away, allowing the cool breeze to blow against her, to bring sanity. “Yes, it is soon, too soon . . .”
“We would be unwise not to discuss some differences between us.” A soft uneasy murmur awakened in her heart. “You speak of my faith,
a Huguenot, and you— a Catholic.”
“There is that . . . and, some things I must do that I feel strongly about.”
She looked at him, questioning.
He frowned. “I shall doubtless make you wonder, for this is hardly the moment to show you on one hand how I feel strongly about you, and on the other to tell you that I am leaving France, but such is the situation now. So I must explain.”
Her heart sank. A dullness crept over her. “Going away?”
“Admiral Coligny has begun a colony in America. It is in a place they call Florida. I have already told the admiral I will help sponsor the jour- ney, to bring new colonizers to replace those who have died of sickness. I will be gone a year, maybe more.”
She was silent a long troubling minute. “Rachelle,” he said very softly.
Her heart hit bottom. “I see.”
“Non. I do not think so. This has been long planned. Before I ever saw you at Chambord. I must see it through. Nappier has been trying to convince me to buy a ship. We would sail together to the region around St. Augustine.”
One moment it had seemed the love of a lifetime was at her finger- tips. Within mere moments happiness was wrenched from her grasp and a door was closing. A year! Maybe two. It was impossible. The f lame kindled between them in the mere weeks they had known one another
could hardly be expected to burn for so long. But how could she tell him? He was so sure it would last. And she had no right after only weeks to demand, or even to plead, for him to stay. She could see in his eyes he could not stay.
He walked over to her and lifted her face as though he read her mind.
“I could not forget you, ever. Not even if I tried to forget.” “It is not fair,” she whispered vehemently.
“Cherie, I will return. Even if I stayed, it is too soon for us to marry. We are both young. There is much to do and learn that we will share with each other when I come back to you. And you, ma belle, you will have your wondrous silk and your Grandmère to make you into the renowned couturière you desire.”
“Yes, my silk. I will have the silk,” she said with consolation. “I will go home. They cannot keep me here. I will not stay.”
“Ma amour, you will have your way, I promise you.” “Oh, Fabien, you will make Marguerite let me go home?” “I will do something.”
“C’est bien promis?
”
“Yes, I promise you, ma Rachelle cherie.”
For a timeless moment he took both of her hands in his and held them to his lips as the beauty of the starlight shone like silver on the river.
P
Princesse Marguerite Valois did not hear as much as a whisper as she crept down the various corridors on her surreptitious route to reach her appartements before the sun was up. It was dawn and the castle was quiet except for guards moving here and there, sleepy, and waiting to be relieved by the next watch. She knew these night guards well, and they were rewarded at various times for looking the other way when she snuck back to her chamber from some rendezvous.
This dawn was different. There were more guards than usual, and some were strangers to her. This worried her, but not enough to change her plans.
She neared her appartements. There came a rush of footsteps and a loud command, lamps f lared with firelight, stinging her eyes, and she threw up an arm against the glare.
“How dare you accost the Princesse of France this way,” she cried.
Her breath stopped at the reply: “How dare a princesse of France behave the harlot! Bring her to my chamber immediately!”
Catherine
.
Marguerite broke into a dazed tremor, her body soon wet with sweat.
Charlotte de Presney, standing unseen in the shadow of a chamber door, tucked her mouth into a satisfied smile. Her betrayal of Marguerite’s activity to the Queen Mother would also bring Rachelle into grave
trouble. Rachelle had returned before midnight with the marquis and was asleep in her chamber but would soon be called to account.
Charlotte slipped away silently.
Catherine crossed her chamber to the door and turned the key in the lock. She moved slowly and regally toward Margo.
“You fool. It is not shame enough you behave the Jezebel of France? And with whom but the House of Guise? Our enemy. And of all times — during the King of Portugal’s visit to the palais!”
Margo stood, hands clasped together, head bowed, trembling. Catherine walked toward her, her eyes slits of rage.
“Harlot! I was on the verge of arranging your marriage with a nephew of Philip, uniting a bond between France and Spain. And you, wanton daughter, turn us into fools as you run off into the woods to beg favors of Henry de Guise like some prostitute on the street. “Oh Henry, mon amour,” she mocked her daughter’s voice, “I want you so. I am yours, Henry. Lie with me, Henry, lie with me in the weeds and bushes.” Catherine sneered and backhanded her across the face, her rings bruis- ing her daughter’s cheek.
Catherine took another step toward her as Margo stepped back. “Ah! Our cunning Monsieur de Guise has found the Princesse of France as wanton as the lowest of peasants. Princesse? Harlot! You have ruined everything I worked for!” She slapped her again on the other side of the face. Margo reeled, catching herself on the couch.
“Within an hour, talk of your rendezvous with Guise will sweep the palais, and the King of Portugal will hear of your wanton ways. Marriage! Bah! Should he marry a whore? And with the House of Philip zealous fanatics for Rome? Nay, I tell you there will be no contract now. King Philip will not allow it even if he were to overlook your whoredoms.”
And with these scornful words, Catherine f lung Margo from her with all her strength.
Margo lay stunned on the f loor, more dazed with fear than pain. Whenever her mother was in a cold, ruthless rage, Margo became paralyzed.
Catherine went to the door of her closet and gestured to someone inside. A moment later an attendant came out wearing a black-hooded cloak with eyeholes. The jeweled whipping cane in Catherine’s chamber was taken from its place and handed with fanfare to the mock execu- tioner. Catherine lifted her hand for the phantom to proceed.
“Beat some sense into this Jezebel who dares to call herself a prin- cesse of France! Do not touch her face. No one will see any marks but Henry de Guise.”
She had been beaten many times since a child, but never like this.
She begged for mercy, to no avail.
“Do you think Monsieur de Guise loves you?” Catherine demanded. “But non. Le Cardinal de Lorraine told him to seduce you so it would be impossible for you to marry the King of Portugal!”
The cane whacked again and again, bruising and cutting.
“Henry, mon amour,” Catherine mocked. “ ‘Do you love me too, mon petit Henry?’ . . . ‘Ah, I cannot do without you, Margo. And especially do I love all you bring me — the possibility of the throne of France!’ ”
“You lie,” Margo whispered through her parched throat. “Henry does love me.”
“You little fool.”
The cane came down again and again. Margo was coming in and out of consciousness.
Catherine took her by the shoulder sleeves of her gown and dragged her to a couch. The burgundy silk and cloth of gold ripped, stained with blood.