Written on Silk by Linda Lee Chaikin Page A

was ailing at her stomach — oh, there was naught any of us could do to stop it. She grows weaker by the day and such a kind woman too, Messire, undeserving of such suffering. She gave me lace for a new dress — and her granddaughter, Madame Madeleine, is sick also! Madame-Duchesse Dushane is vexed. She has called her own docteur — he has come several times since yesterday.”
    Andelot frowned, for the illness sounded far worse than he first guessed.
    “This news is most evil, Messire. Perhaps a curse is upon us? I have heard the writings of Nostradamus, warning of dark omens and curses.”
    “Do not think of it,” he said.
    The mention of such things brought to mind the chilling atmosphere of the occult at Amboise. He tried to block from his mind the secret laboratory where young Prince Charles Valois had brought him above the Queen Mother’s chambers.
    He paced across the Aubusson rug. If only Marquis Fabien had not left France! His authority as a Bourbon gave him open doors into the court that few others possessed. Oncle Sebastien had once been a great asset for the family, but not now. There was the duchesse, of course, but she was already doing all she could.
    He felt sorry for the woman; she reminded him of the peasant woman in whose charge he had been until his tenth birthday, after which Sebastien had brought him here to the outskirts of Paris to a monastery school.
    When the serving woman hurried away, he went to one of the front windows, moved aside the blue and gold hangings, and peered below to the main courtyard.
    Sick . . . sick unto death . . . ?
    Unrest rattled the door of his mind. There was something he should remember . . . He shook his head. So much had happened recently — so much death.
    The royal court was not presently in residence here at the Louvre, but they were in the process of making a move to the forest tranquility of Fontainebleau, to one of the royalty’s favorite hunting châteaus. The court rarely remained in Paris during the heat of summer, due to its unhealthy air. Those courtiers not going to Fontainebleau even now were making plans to return to their own estates. As always, however, they remained prepared to join royalty at the snap of a finger should the king or Queen Mother call for them.
    Paris kept up its hum of activity with coaches rattling in and out of the gate, and guards in almost constant patrol in the courtyard. Andelot watched the flash of red and blue uniforms, the glint of their casques in the sunlight holding his attention.
    I should have begged the marquis to let me go to sea with him. He and Nappier could teach me some swordsmanship. What good to remain here in France? My future is small. I shall never become the scholar as I had hoped .
    Andelot sighed. While others loathed the study of books, history, and languages, he was fascinated. He might yet be forced to return to the Château de Silk and work again with silkworms as he had done when a boy. What else was there for him in Paris? The Corps des Pages — ah, that was but a dream, a vague promise of the past, for Cardinal de Lorraine was now angry with him.
    Andelot turned from the window, rubbing the back of his neck, frowning. Prisons . . . poisons . . . What was it that he should remember? There was something . . . something stirring at the back of his mind, calling to him, something he had wanted to mention to Marquis Fabien before he rode out, but in the rush of departure he had let it slip from his mind.
    He had last seen the marquis not long after Amboise. Marquis Fabien was returning from Vendôme where earlier he had agreed that Comte Maurice Beauvilliers should first bring Mademoiselle Rachelle for her safety.
    Fabien had visited Andelot secretly at night and informed him that he was returning to Vendôme and would be taking Rachelle home to the château. He expected to remain there in Lyon until a message arrived from a certain French privateer, whereupon a meeting of the brotherhood of