Written on Silk (24 page)

He was aware of some matter that had arisen to build a barrier between Rachelle and Marquis Fabien, some chill which held her in silence whenever his name was mentioned.
Should I not be content to
have it so? Maybe this will give me opportunity.

Andelot smiled and relished his choice cut of roast pheasant and chestnuts.

After the meal, as they prepared to depart, the duchesse informed Rachelle that she would write the unhappy lettre to the Château de Silk of Grandmère’s passing and explain Bertrand’s wish for Rachelle to accompany him to Calais.

The duchesse came to Bertrand.

“Our good God go before you, Bertrand.”

“Your servant, Madame. I suspect our paths may again cross, perhaps at Fontainebleau at the colloquy in the fall.”

“I shall be there in full support of our cause, I promise you. You are always welcome at the Dushane estate. Au revoir.”

Rachelle dipped a curtsy. “Merci, Madame, for all your care for Grandmère and Madeleine.” She kissed her hand, and turning, swept from the chamber with Bertrand following.

Andelot bowed as the duchesse turned to him.

“Your Grace, I bid you adieu.”

“Godspeed, Andelot. Do tell the marquis we need him desperately to intercede on behalf of Comte Sebastien.”

The Privateers’ Expectation

CALAIS

M
ARQUIS
FABIEN’S
ARRIVAL AT THE MEDIEVAL TOWN OF CALAIS WAS
bittersweet
.
It was here that the French forces under the command of the Duc de Guise defeated the English and won him the title of the great Le Balafrey, and it was near Calais in an earlier battle that Duc Jean Louis de Bourbon had been left to die, cut off from reinforcements by the same scheming duc.

Calais had long been the port of passage across the channel to England. The
citadelle
was the name given to the line of defense around the
Pas de Calais
with fortifications dating from the thirteenth century. Though there were complaints from merchant ship captains that the old port was a den of pirates, to Fabien this was a most fitting port to wait quietly with the other privateers for word from spies on the movements of Spanish galleons.

In spite of the sea air, the day seemed warm and muggy. Fabien entered one of the gates with Gallaudet and his men-at-arms, all heavily armed. The town was surrounded by ancient walls, which were encircled with canals that formed a moat. Here, generations before, Calais had faced starvation under siege by the English King Henry rather than surrender. There was a French tribute to the seven burghers who had offered to surrender their lives if the king would permit the rest of the French populace to flee the city. If Fabien could think of anything good to say about that monarch who had invaded France so long ago, it was that he had not slaughtered the people of Calais and had also spared the lives of the seven brave burghers.

“Such ordinary and reasonable acts now seem magnanimous, Gallaudet,” Fabien said as they rode into the town, the horses’ hooves rattling over the ancient cobbles. “It seems rare this day when kings and ducs mind burning women and children alive in a place of simple worship.”

“Just so, Monseigneur.”

They went toward the Place d’Armes, the main square in the town center with the thirteenth-century watchtower. From the lookout, a guard searched the horizon, alert for approaching enemies.

Fabien noted that many of the new inhabitants of Calais were Huguenots fleeing persecution from other areas of France. They had brought with them their valuable weaving skills, and he saw many shops producing all manner of intricate lace and cloth. Should they need to flee farther to escape fiery faggots, the next place of refuge was across the gray channel to what had become, under Queen Elizabeth, Protestant England. He knew that many Huguenot
émigrés
of French middle class were settling in Spitalfields, where they labored in the growing industry that produced lace, silken cloth, and many goods that gave them such a fine name among the English.

“Monseigneur, look — silk weavers.” Gallaudet gestured across the square to some shops with magnificent displays of lace.

As Fabien viewed the various weavers, skilled craftsmen, and cou-turières, a dark mood settled over him. He narrowed his gaze upon a haunting image of Rachelle when he saw a French woman carrying a bolt of lace along the wooden walk between shops.

Do not think about her.
He noticed a certain monsieur who followed her into the lace shop.
Could it be?
He bore a marked resemblance to Bertrand, except he was younger.
Monsieur Arnaut Macquinet?

After settling their horses and baggage at the hostel near the quay, and leaving some of his men there, Fabien took Gallaudet and Julot Caszalet, a relative to Sebastien, and went down to the harbor where ships of all sizes and from many regions were at anchor.

The smell of the sea, the wind, the lap of water against the hulls, all awakened him to a new world that beckoned with far more enticement than did the velvet and pearls, the smothering ambition, and the many ruses of the French court.

His ship was waiting; this first sight wove its romantic spell of enchantment upon his mind. Here was the
Reprisal
, as he was wont to name her, lulling peacefully at anchor, her guns now sleeping but fully capable of taking on a Spanish galleon. She was top of the line, bought from one of Queen Elizabeth’s closest plotters, and with her secret consent. Fabien had paid a king’s ransom for this, one of the more advanced English ships of this day. Even so, had it not been for his meetings with the queen’s privateers: Captain John Hawkins, Sir Martin Frobisher, Sir Francis Drake, and others, he might not have gotten this particular vessel.

As Fabien boarded, he was greeted with fanfaronnade by the crew, but to protect his identity from reaching the throne of France, his family ensign would not fly until at sea but would be replaced by a flag of piracy when intercepting ships from Spain.

This was a British capital vessel equal to other ships of the line, heavily armed, and maneuverable. The experienced crew had been handpicked by Nappier who would serve as
capitaine
while Fabien learned the secrets of mastering his own vessel. Fabien’s own men, eager to board Spanish vessels and fight their enemy hand to hand with swords, would have to learn the ways of the sea from the skilled crewmen. The ship’s cannons would be in the hands of gunners hired by Nappier. As for navigation, though Fabien believed he could assist Nappier with charts and sextant readings, he would need to trust Nappier’s experience.

The crew respected Fabien. He was sure it gave the corsairs satisfaction that they would be serving under a Bourbon and a genuine marquis on whose buccaneering vessel they would sail to attack the despised leaders of the Inquisition. In the process they would take their booty from Spain’s galleons. Fabien had already decided he cared very little if the stolen wealth from the Caribbean was taken away from Spaniards who lit faggots under the feet of Huguenots and Lutherans.

These corsairs knew little of Fabien’s own skills with the blade except through the praise of Nappier, and some believed Nappier boasted of this to give pride and confidence to his men. “It is always wise to prove one’s self,” Fabien had told Gallaudet. “And it gives me pleasure to show them that a noble is not always a fop who just happens to be born wealthy and of royal blood.”

Fabien looked upon Nappier with genuine affection and trust. Nappier had left the sea and worked himself up in the Royal Armory, becoming the chief master swordsman. Fabien had met Nappier at the armory at a time when Fabien’s impressionable youth had demanded a masculine image to admire. From the time he turned thirteen at Court, he had heard Nappier’s tales of buccaneering exploits. Nappier had won his affection and respect, and Fabien had hired him in order to acquire his skills with the sword, both the rapier and the short broad blade.

As the years had passed, Fabien learned of Nappier’s contempt for King Philip’s Spain and had talked buccaneering to him until Fabien, coming into maturity, had agreed to one day sponsor a ship with Nappier and handpicked members of his former crew. After the Amboise massacre, Fabien felt it imperative that those privateers wishing to aid the Dutch against the Duc d’Alva should move forward without delay.

Fabien knew enough to survive buccaneering ventures for he had gone on several short, secretive voyages when younger and out of school for the summer. Away from Court, it had been easy enough to get his way. The only kinsman who had known about these brief escapades, and who looked the other way, was his favorite Bourbon cousin, Prince Louis de Condé.

Condé had served as one of the principle soldiers of the Huguenot army during the past religious wars in France. Dashing adventurer that Condé was, he merely smiled at Fabien’s secret ventures, and no one had been the wiser except perhaps Sebastien, who had for reasons of his own, affected ignorance of Fabien’s youthful ventures.

Privateering against Philip’s treasure galleons from the Caribbean region of the Americas had been one of Nappier’s favorite endeavors, and he was just as eager now as in the past.

“Ah, the ship! It is the best I have seen, Monseigneur,” Nappier told him on the tour that morning. He rubbed his big hands together, his eyes sparkling like polished black pearls. “We will give no quarter to the persecutors, eh? We will board and fight with the blade!”

“I am anxious to destroy Spain’s supply lines, Nappier, I assure you.”

The sun was beaming down upon the gray-blue water and glittering like schools of silvery fish. With great delight Nappier brought him around the grand ship showing him all that was his.

“Ah, she is a grand beauty, she is. She will serve us well,” Nappier boasted.

Fabien placed hands on hips and looked up. She had the usual three masts, but her main mast carried additional furls of canvas.

“Topgallants, they are, Marquis Fabien. The new system first used by Hawkins. They can be struck when needed for extra thrust.”

“Another reason why I had wanted this ship,” Fabien said.

The
Reprisal
, at 120 tons, was built with a fine projecting beak and a square transom stern in which two cannons were mounted on either side of the rudder. From the sides she carried the full complement of two rows of guns.

Nappier brought Fabien to the captain’s cabin. It looked comfortable and was fitted with an adequate bunk, a writing desk, and several chairs. Some maps were tacked to the dark oak-paneled walls. His sea chest had been brought in, and a stack of leather-bound books were placed on the floor.

Later that night by lamplight, while his ship gently creaked at its moorings, Fabien thought about Rachelle’s father, Monsieur Arnaut. Fabien did not want to involve himself, but once he had seen him near the lace shop, he could not dismiss the man’s dilemma from his mind. He found himself struggling with his conscience. How could he leave Arnaut on his own, in danger, with none to help? He would not take the monsieur and his cargo to England, but he could protect him while he was in Calais awaiting transport for his Bibles to the Huguenots at Spitalfields.

He sent for Gallaudet and ordered him to the vicinity of the lace shop on a clandestine mission.

“Discover all you can about how matters progress for him, but do not identify yourself as the page of the Marquis de Vendôme.” Fabien was well aware that his association with the band of buccaneers would place him in dire straits with the French throne, not to mention Spain. How his actions would be perceived by Rachelle’s father was questionable. It may not be easy to smooth over his association with them, though Fabien needed no justification in his own mind for fighting Spain’s inquisitors, nor for defending the privateers in so crucial a task as defending their realms.

Several more days passed as restlessness stalked the privateers. Fabien called for a meeting in one of the warehouses on the dock.

Capitaine Pascal, reminding Fabien of a lean, hungry wolf anxiously lying in wait, paced incessantly, his tall calf-length boots squeaking. The Dutch Captain Williams looked at him derisively. “The cat’s hungry for his rat. Sit down, Pascal. You make us all nervous.”

“Something has gone wrong, I swear it; I feel it in my bones. Where is now the news from Plymouth, I ask you? Come, come, Messieurs, you know as well as I that we should have heard by now.” His eyes scanned the large empty warehouse where three oil lamps hung along the walls. A storm was brewing and the wooden structure creaked. The pilings beneath the wooden wharves groaned like chained ghosts.

The twelve capitaines with their first mates scowled.

“There is naught to do but wait, Pascal,” Nappier said. “Patience is the price of our coming victory.”

“Maybe there is a spy among us, eh?” Pascal looked about at each of them as though to sniff them out.

Fabien, lounging by the door, shifted his gaze from the window where rain splattered through a broken pane, to his fellow Frenchman, Pascal. He had known the young corsair for several years now, having met him through Nappier. Pascal could be trusted. He had sworn fealty to the Bourbons and held a particular liking for Fabien. But Pascal had a disposition that cultivated suspicions, which usually came to naught.