Written on Silk (25 page)

A spy? Fabien glanced about at the privateers and rejected Pascal’s unhappy mood over the delay in taking to sea. There was not a man in the group that would side with Spain, no, not for a treasure galleon of booty from the Caribbean. He had heard from Nappier that each capitaine had firsthand knowledge of the ways of the inquisitors.

Nappier waved an arm and stood from the chair where he sat. “Spies, bah! You speak riddles, Pascal. Each of us here tonight is itching to sink the Spaniards’ innards.”

“Aye,” said the Englishman, Captain Tuvy. “D’ye be goin’ insultin’ us, Pascal? A spy, ’e says! Ye’ll be accusin’ me next of harborin’ papists in me ’old.”

“Bah, he says, and I say, why have we not heard from Plymouth? Matters, they have gone most injuriously, Messires.”

“The weather has worsened,” Fabien said. “From the feel of the wind, the storm comes from the north. There is most likely a delay. Patience is called for, Pascal.”

Pascal placed his hand at his heart and bowed. “Marquis de Vendôme, I beg of you, the Spaniards may have spotted the spy bark off the coast of Spain and sunk her. Or what of the English ambassador at Madrid?”

“What about ’im?” growled Tuvy, his eyes narrowing over talk of the English. “Are ye now accusin’ ’im? Next thing I knows, ye’ll be accusin’ me queen. And methinks I won’t be puttin’ up with that, Pascal.”

“Your prickly nerves goad us all, Tuvy,” Fabien said. “Pascal does well to wonder about the bark.”

Pascal’s smug smile in Tuvy’s direction brought a scowl.

“Methinks, my lordship Vendôme, that all ye fancy Frenchmen ban’ yerselves together at the chagrin of the blessed English. But I ’asten to add, me lordship, that I in no ways be accusin’ ye of unfair leadership in this matter. Nay, not for a paltry minute.”

“You are wise, Messire,” Fabien said smoothly, running his fingers along his handsome Holland shirt with wide sleeves. “The wage I offer you and your blessed English crew can only come through fancy Frenchmen.”

Pascal’s lips spread into a wide smile. “The English never bathe is what I hear.”

Tuvy scowled. “That ’asn’t a rodent’s hair to do with this. As for ’is lordship, I supports ’im. I never spoke against it.”

“The blessed English, he calls himself, Monseigneur.” Nappier also goaded Tuvy with a grin. “We did not think your controlling Calais all these mournful years was anything but curses to us.”

The Frenchmen laughed; the English privateers scowled. The Dutch looked on with forbearance at the French and English self-indulgent bickering.

“Enough, Messires,” Fabien said. “We are all in this enterprise together now. It is cursed Spain who looms as the intolerant tyrant over all our countries. We all have one mind: to cut off the head of this viper by sinking its galleons and denying Alva his soldiers and weapons.”

“Ah, your lordship, ’tis sprightly said. Why, you’re a bristling one to be sure, and I means it from the bottoms of me blessed heart! The first one of us over the side and onto a Spanish deck gets to keep a few papist heads to ’ang in ’is captain’s cabin!”

Laughter erupted.

Fabien turned to Nappier wanting to make certain the Frenchmen knew that he was not usurping Nappier’s authority as capitaine of the
Reprisal
just because he was their seigneur. He oft found his high position a hindrance, for he had never been one who needed to press subservience from his men. He preferred the company of men like Nappier and Andelot — whom Fabien considered a refreshing change from the haughty nobility. Like his kinsman, Prince Louis de Condé, he also could cavort with soldiers and privateers and find acceptance among them.

“But not indefinitely,” Fabien said. “I know through contacts in the French court that the army of Duc d’Alva desperately needs more soldiers, foodstuffs, and weapons. He will either risk his precious galleons or journey by land. If he goes by land, it will slow him down considerably. He is aware that Dutch forces under William of Orange are lying in wait. Do you agree, Henrich?” he asked of the Hollander, a muscled, flaxen-haired man with hard blue eyes.

The Hollander wore a stern face. “Lord William waits, as you say, Monseigneur, and if your Admiral Coligny could raise a few thousand more of his and Prince Condé’s Huguenot soldiers to join his forces, we could meet Alva and smash him and his papist inquisitors.”

Fabien was not as optimistic, but the Hollander’s point was well taken. Fabien spoke, “What do you think, Capitaine Nappier? Is it wise to send one of us across the channel to Plymouth to see the reason for the delay?”

The privateers perked up their ears and regarded Fabien, then Nappier, with interest. They knew he had been Nappier’s protégé with the sword, but the comaraderie between monseigneur and serf impressed them.

“It may be wise, Marquis,” Nappier said, pacing about and relishing his place of authority among the buccaneers. “I say, the longer we keep our vessels here, the longer suspicious eyes put us at risk as the days pass. Let us be clear on one matter, Messires — ” he turned with a sweeping glance to all capitaines in assembly — “Calais is indeed in the hands of France again, but she crawls with Spaniards and spies. We may hope our presence here is yet undiscovered, but if a Spaniard recognized any of us and sent a message to Madrid, it could delay the sailing of the galleons to our loss.”

It was soon agreed to allow Pascal to slip away before dawn to Plymouth, the nearest English port from Spain, and make contact with friendly spies. It was hoped their man on the French bark, loitering in safe waters off the coast of Spain, had by now received the message from the French ambassador’s page, a secret Huguenot. The page was to send word by longboat to the bark’s capitaine, who would promptly sail for Plymouth. If all worked according to plan, the word they awaited from Plymouth could only be delayed by rough weather.

The meeting ended and the privateers slipped away one and two at a time, melting into the darkness of the wharves.

The rain had ebbed when Fabien stepped onto the wharf, putting on his cloak and settling his wide-rimmed hat. The lamps on the vessels at anchor glowed in the darkness. Several of his men emerged from the shadows; Gallaudet came forward.

“What did you find out?” Fabien asked.

“It is as you thought, Marquis. Monsieur Arnaut Macquinet is here. He is being secretly shielded in a small antechamber connected to the Alençon lace shop. I asked around and learned the shop belongs to the Languet family, all Huguenots. They do much trade with the French weavers at Spitalfields. No lettres have arrived for him from Lyon or Paris, I was told. Then he knows naught of what befell his family at Château de Silk.”

“I did not think he would, Gallaudet. Correspondence is slow. And I am in no frame of mind to tell him his petite child is dead and his middle daughter forced. This tragedy should be broken to him by one closest to his heart. He must wait for the lettre from Madame Clair. Let that suffice. So far we have kept the incident silent here. Tell the men the matter must not be broached by any of them, or they will know my extreme displeasure.”

“Just so. I will warn them again. Would you have me contact Monsieur Arnaut of your wish to see him?”

“Non, not yet. But have Julot watch over him when he goes out of the shop.”

Fabien was awake at the first hint of dawn. Dressed in leather breeches and a loose linen tunic open at the neck, he was enjoying his petit noir and watching Capitaine Pascal’s ship, le
Fox
, leaving Calais harbor on its way across the channel to Plymouth. The ship’s lights were out, and the dark ghostly image, barely silhouetted against the horizon, slipped quietly out of port as faint ripples reflected the dawn.

The storm had passed and a morning star gleamed.

Rachelle came to his mind. That she had tried to manipulate to get her way bothered him. He leaned against the ship’s rail and watched the brightening horizon. He had insisted on his freedom, and doubtless she was hurt and angry.

The situation they had brought upon themselves was not one easily overcome. He was young, and Rachelle younger still. Dark days were looming over France, and love, if it were genuine, must be rational enough to confront the winds of trial. Much stood against them that he had merely set aside in the beginning, including his position, their allegiance to different bodies of Christian doctrine, and the times in which they found themselves placed by God.

Life and love and passion were not for the fainthearted. Life itself offered little comfort from the cruelties that abounded. Love, if it were to prosper between them and grow, must know how to give and forgive; and passion without a marriage commitment was but lust, empty of valor and without endurance, as in the Scripture he had read while at Vendôme: “Charity endureth all things.”

H
“
O!
MONSEIGNEUR
CAPITAINE!”

Nappier strode across the deck of the
Reprisal
toward Fabien, with the plume on his hat swaying, his hand on the jeweled scabbard that was a gift from Fabien when Nappier served at the Royal Armory in Paris.

“We do not need to wait for Pascal’s findings. This arrived just now from Plymouth. The messenger is with the cook eating now.”

Fabien broke the seal and read the short message:
Proceed to planned
rendezvous with all haste; the quarry has ventured from its pond.

He glanced up and saw the gulls wheeling in an updraft. “The wind is favorable. When is the soonest we can sail?”

“Tomorrow morning, Marquis; the capitaines will need to take on foodstuffs.”

“Gallaudet! I need you with me. We have to pay a visit to Monsieur Arnaut.”

Fabien stepped to his cabin to get his scabbard and belted it carefully. He grabbed a dark tunic from a hook and shouldered into it. Snatching his hat, he strode out and across the deck to the gangplank with Gallaudet rushing behind as though he were accustomed to unexpected action from his seigneur.

“What are we about, Monseigneur?”

“We will pay a short visit to Monsieur Macquinet. He must be warned of the spy Julot noticed loitering near the Huguenot shop. Now that we are departing, we can no longer act as his secret bodyguard.”

“The galleons were spotted then?”

“They were. We sail for the rendezvous point off the coast of Holland. We shall wait there to surprise them. Are you in a warm, mellow mood to greet le Duc d’Alva’s new soldiers, Gallaudet?”

“I am overflowing in bonhomie, Monseigneur.”

Hearts at Conflict

T
HE COACH-AND-SIX CARRYING COUSIN
BERTRAND,
RACHELLE,
AND
Andelot entered Calais at sunset. Silvery clouds tinged with pink, gray, and lavender loitered over the channel waters between the continent and England.

More rain?
The roads were slippery and muddy all the way from Paris. Rachelle longed for a warm bath and a bed, either at an inn or the Languets’ house, but she dreaded the moment when she and Bertrand must tell her father about Avril. She thought perchance the lettre, written to him from Madame Clair, might have arrived by now. If so, it would be most
naturel
that he would wish to rush home to Lyon to comfort his wife.
Might they be too late to contact either her père Arnaut or the
marquis?

Rachelle prayed earnestly.

The carriage wheels and horse hooves clattered down the mist-enshrouded street. Here in the Huguenot section of Calais, Rachelle’s first sight of the lace and couturière shops scattered along the crowded way brought her some cheer. One of these lace shops belonged to the Languets, a family originally from Alençon, whom the Macquinets had done business with for years. Persecution had driven them from their château to English-controlled Calais to set up their lace shop, exporting to London.

Calais had been reasonably safe for Protestants, but matters had changed since it was now under French rule, due to Duc de Guise’s military victory over the English several years earlier. Now, even Calais could not promise to remain a haven for Protestants in France. Already there was a movement from the bishop to close Huguenot churches. Should persecution break out, they must look across the channel to England’s Spitalfields.

The Macquinet coachman helped Rachelle and Bertrand out onto the carriage block in front of the Languet lace shop. He then brought the coach around the corner to the hostelry to board their horses for the night, followed by Andelot, Romier, and the guards who had escorted the coach from Paris.