“Then it is the Will of God,” said Giulio gently.
“Or a failure of the flesh,” said Barberini, his eyes growing hooded with a light in their depths that revealed little more than unacknowledged passion.
“Who is to say that is also not the Will of God?” said Giulio, wholly unperturbed.
The burning faded from Barberini’s eyes as he refilled his cup. “Abbe, you are a formidable diplomat. I can find it in my heart to pity the French.” He waved his hand as if shooing away a mosquito. “Take no offence, Giulio. Doubtless your skills are also the Will of God.”
Text of a letter from the major domo Niklos Aulirious to a warehouseman in Paris; written in French.
To that most excellent merchant and dealer in household goods, the warmest respects of Niklos Aulirios, and a number of requests which I trust you will be able to grant.
First, this is to inform you that my mistress, Bondama Atta Olivia Clemens, widow of Roma, has been given the signal honor of forming one of the suite of the Abbe Giulio Mazarini to accompany him to your illustrious city upon the occasion of his return there when he enters the diplomatic service of Louis XIII.
To that end, we have secured a house for Bondama Clemens just outside of Paris, near Chatillon, not far from the road leading to Chartres and Tours, where my mistress owns a stud farm. The house is seventy years old and necessary repairs are being made in anticipation of Bondama Clemens’ arrival there. I am informed that the renovations will be complete in three months, and that work has already commenced on what is needed. Since most of the house is empty, and what few furnishings there are do not suit my mistress, this letter will bring a purse to be used in the purchase of appropriate furnishings. My mistress, being Roman, tends to prefer Roman designs and textiles, but the current fashion in Roma, being Spanish, is not especially to her liking.
Let me recommend elegance in all things, for such is Bondama Clemens’ taste. Elegance and usefulness are her constant guides in all that surrounds her. If there is a choice of two chairs, select the one that is the more elegant and the more sturdy. Bondama Clemens has little patience with flimsy chairs. In the matter of draperies and other window coverings, again I feel I must emphasize elegance. Where a design is more simple but more elegant Bondama would doubtless prefer it over those more flamboyant but less elegant. She has a decided preference for damask silks but is not fond of embroidery.
We understand in Roma that there are many styles of lace just now, and for that reason my mistress has requested that I advise you she prefers lace on her clothes, not on her draperies, or linen or upholstery. I hope you will keep this in mind when you select those items for her house. When she is pleased, she is very generous; when she is disappointed, then she keeps her purse closed. Those who have pleased her have not regretted it.
My mistress is dispatching me to Paris before September, and I will do myself the honor of waiting upon you then to review all that has been done to the house and to be certain that all will be to my mistress’ taste upon her arrival.
You have been most highly recommended to me from many who have lived in Paris during the last ten years. For that reason, I am prepared to rely on you for this work. With these few guidelines I am certain that you can provide Bondama Clemens with all she requires of you. Tell your assistants to keep her preferences in mind, and they will benefit accordingly.
My mistress is expected to provide entertainment for those of the court who wish to speak with the Abbe in surroundings less restrictive than the court, but that does not mean that comfort and luxury are to be forgotten along with the rest of it. Bear in mind that those who are used to the caress of fine fabrics and the look of gold service will not be amused by appointments intended for a farmhouse.
The chateau, called Eblouir, will be available to you upon the presentation of this letter and the enclosed endorsement. I will give myself the pleasure of inspecting your progress upon my arrival in Paris, and at that time we will bring our accounts fully up to date. The endorsement includes the limits of your permitted expenses, and unless there is some reason you believe that there is a compelling reason to exceed your permitted spendings, I will assume that you will observe the boundaries you have accepted.
Your recommendation of a coachmaker would be very much appreciated, the appreciation taking useful form should your recommendation prove worthy.
Until I call upon you myself on my mistress behalf, may God send you good health and good fortune.
Niklos Aulirios
major domo to Bondama Atta Olivia Clemens
On the 19th day of June, 1638, in Roma.
By the courier of the Abbe Giulio Mazarini.
4
Crates were stacked in the central parlor of Senza Pari, the largest of them containing trunks filled with Roman earth. Though it was late in the day, the room was still uncomfortably hot and the men sweated as they struggled to finish their tasks before the evening meal.
“I wish there were a tepidarium out by the stables,” Olivia said to Avisa as she stood in the door watching.
“A tepidarium?” repeated Avisa. “A thing of pagan Roma?” She was not as horrified by such a notion as she had been a year ago. “What is a tepidarium?”
“A bath, a very big bath, filled with cool water, where we would be able to swim. How pleasant that would be, swimming as the day wanes.”
“Infamia,” said Avisa with satisfaction. “What woman would want to do something so … debauched.”
“I would, for one,” said Olivia with a short sigh. “I wish Niklos were still here. But then,” she went on with a quirky smile and a gesture of resignation, “I sent him to Parigi because I need him there.”
“The perils of travel, Madama,” said Avisa seriously. “For one of your station, and with your obligations, arrangements must be made.” She indicated all the chests. “You are being most reasonable, most prudent, leaving so much here.”
Olivia turned away from the parlor and started down the hall. “But then, I will come back here. I always come back to Roma; it is my native earth.” She entered the dining hall and shook her head as she studied the framed paintings hanging there. “I will miss them; they are much too cumbersome to take with me.”
“Out of their frames and rolled…” Avisa began, then stopped.
“I might as well take my carpets, too,” said Olivia, pausing to look at a Caravaggio she had commissioned from the artist. “And while I’m at it, my chests and my tables and my chairs. No, no”—she shook her head—“I don’t want to be tempted. They remain here, awaiting my return, for surely I shall return. In a way,” she continued after a brief hesitation as she gave the room another quick, keen glance, “they are my bond, my surety that I will be back.”
Avisa coughed delicately. “If that is your wish, Madama.”
“That I return?” she inquired. “Why should I not?”
This time Avisa smiled, the same sort of smile a nursemaid might give to an adored child. “Who knows, but that you might find a husband to your liking in Parigi and decide to remain there.” Her brows rose to accent the suggestion.
Olivia shook her head slowly. “Thank you for your good intentions, but I have had my fill of marriage.”
“That is because you have not met one who can replace your husband in your memory,” said Avisa piously.
“Thank God fasting for that,” Olivia responded, her hazel eyes darkening at the memory of Justus. It was the one thing she disliked about Roma—the city constantly reminded her of him. Most of the time the recollections were fleeting and fragmented, but from time to time his image came back to her and she discovered she could still loathe him.
“Madama!” Avisa said, scandalized, as she always was at Olivia’s disparaging remarks about her husband.
Generally this did not irritate Olivia, but now she spoke sharply. “You know my husband was debauched.”
“So you have said, Madama,” said Avisa, affronted.
In spite of herself Ol
ivia laughed. “Oh, don’t pucker so. I am not saying any of this to goad you, though you may think I am. It is my distress at leaving home that speaks, nothing more.”
Avisa dropped the suggestion of a curtsy. “Madama.”
“Don’t take offence,” said Olivia as she started toward the door. “None was intended.” She paused, looking back at the paintings she would leave behind. “What a sad thing, to leave so much beauty.”
This time Avisa did not say anything; her back stiff with disapproval she followed Olivia out of the salon and toward the side of the building toward the door that led to the stables.
Uberto emerged from the carriage-house as soon as Olivia entered the stableyard. He gave a nod in place of a bow and jerked his thumb in the direction of the smithy. “All new shoes on the horses, Madama. Every one of the teams will be inspected and tended to.”
“You have given them the meal I provided?” Olivia asked, looking around at the bustle of activity.
“For the worm; yes. But, Madama, there is no cure for the worm. It works its way with horses.” He shrugged emphatically.
“Do my horses die of the worm?” Olivia challenged.
“Not often,” Uberto allowed, pointing to the long row of stalls. “There are two mares in foal, of that we are certain: the Neopolitan and the Hungarian mare.”
“Those are the ones crossed with the Spanish horses from Andalusia?” Olivia asked, paying no attention to Avisa as she hung back at the entrance to the stableyard.
“Yes. The third mare did not settle.” He spat. “It was the doing of curses.”
“It was no such thing,” said Olivia. “I have been at breeding horses for a long time, Uberto. There are mares who do not settle easily, and that French mare is one such. When she comes into season again, have Fulmine mount her, and be certain that she is turned out for exercise every day.”
Uberto shook his head. “If she will not settle in her stall, giving her exercise will insure that—”
“She is the sort of mare who craves running. If she is deprived of that, she becomes troubled and ill. Do as I require, Uberto.” Olivia cocked her head toward the carriage-house. “Are the coaches in good repair?”
“Yes, Madama,” said Uberto with a sigh. “I have ordered all the axles tested, as you require, and there are extra wheels being made for the five coaches that will carry you into Francia.”
“Very good,” said Olivia, adding with a trace of mischief, “I know you think me quite mad, Uberto. But I have learned to make certain … preparations before I travel. Too often I have discovered, too late, that my plans were inadequate.” She motioned him to follow her toward the paddocks. “I trust you will keep me informed of the breeding here while I am gone? I want to know about every foal.”
“Are you planning to be homesick?” Uberto suggested with a wink.
“I’m always homesick away from Roma,” Olivia said seriously, her hazel eyes as distant as if she were already in Parigi. “That is to be expected.” She pointed toward one of the paddocks, her manner pragmatic and full of purpose once more. “What is being done about that gelding? Is his hock improving?”
“A little,” said Uberto cautiously.
“How little? That bodes ill,” Olivia challenged, her eyes narrowing. “Has he been able to move well, or is he still lame?”
“He’s been pretty lame,” Uberto admitted. “He hasn’t been exercised. The sore is still open.” This last he said guiltily with his face averted.
“Have the grooms used the poultice I gave them? I gave them an ample amount of it the day after Furbo was injured. If they have done their work, he ought to be improved by now.” She waited for his answer, weighing his reaction.
“They have their orders,” said Uberto, still not looking directly at her.
“My, my, what a very slippery answer.” She tapped Uberto on the shoulder with her folded fan. “Meaning that they have not used the poultice as I instructed them, have they?” She paused briefly. “And as a result of their obstinacy Furbo is probably ruined. How much proud flesh is there around the wound now?”
“Not much. Nothing so severe,” Uberto said, but his protest was little more than form. “He can improve.” He looked around as if searching for allies, but none appeared.
“Oh?” Olivia asked, a bit too sweetly. “Explain to me how it could not be so severe. Tell me how a gelding is going to be good for anything if he is still lame and the sore is open on his leg?” She had one hand over her hip; the lavish support of her padded sottane and Spanish farthingale made her skirts billow out from her waist. “Well? What do you propose? He is an excellent horse, Uberto, but if we cannot use him…”
“He will improve,” insisted Uberto. “The poultice takes time. I will attend to it myself. I will set myself a task—that Furbo improves.” His face was ruddy now and he swallowed hard once. “He’s hauled me out of trouble more than once, and I’ll see to it that he gets better.” He touched the medal that was around his neck on a ribbon. “By San Antonio.”
Olivia inclined her head. “I wish you success. It strikes me that you will need some aid if you’re going to manage it. Assign one of the grooms to tend him as well. All this for a gelding,” she said, shaking her head once as if amused at her own temerity.
“Furbo is a good fellow,” Uberto said with feeling.
“I agree,” Olivia answered. “It’s a pity that his mouth is so bad—I’d have used him as a stud if his mouth had been good.” She gave a slight, quick gesture of resignation. “Oh, don’t remind me that we do not breed unworthy horses here: that is my own rule and I have rarely broken it.” She was walking ahead of Uberto now, and Avisa lagged far behind. “The six-week-old foal.”
“She is doing very well. She’s thriving,” Uberto said with more enthusiasm than usual as if to compensate for his earlier lapses. “She is exercised twice a day with her mother.”
“She is not being restricted, is she?” Olivia asked sharply. “I do not want any of these new foals brought to heel too young. Remember what happened to the legs of last year’s foals? I want no more of that.” She opened her fan and used it once as emphasis. “And while I am gone, I expect a full and correct report regularly. Niklos Aulirious will return from time to time and he will inform me if there is any trouble here.”
“Madama, I do not write except to sign my name,” Uberto protested.
“There will be those here who do. You are to see that they have your reports once a month. The Abbe has guaranteed me monthly contact with Senza Pari, and access to his personal couriers in emergencies.” She had entered the barn where all the grain and salt was stored. “Before I go, I want a complete accounting of what you have on hand so that orders may be placed for those feeds you must purchase.”
“Of course, Madama,” said Uberto, sounding a little desperate now. “But am I not coming with you to Francia?”
“Yes, and you are then coming back. You are of more worth to me here than you would be in Parigi. I have coachmen in Francia already; you have been with these horses for almost ten years and you know them well.” She folded her arms as much as her enormous stiff sleeves would allow. “I would prefer to entrust the breeding to you than to someone unknown.”
“You honor me, Madama,” said Uberto, a touch of suspicion in his manner, as if he doubted her intentions.
“No, I don’t,” Olivia responded. “I am requiring a great deal of work from you, which is something very different. There is a great deal of responsibility to this task, and I am asking you to shoulder it while I am away. You will have more to do than you think now. And I expect you to do the work I assign to you.” She let him think over what she had told him.
“Of course,” he said, still not wholly convinced.
“You think now that while I am gone,” Olivia went on, her tone easier, as if they were speaking of nothing more than the prospects of a hot evening, “you will be the one to be master, but that is not correct; you will be my lieutenant, not my general.
” She read his startled expression correctly. “That is why I want regular reports. You may dictate them to Vittorio or Andrea, as you choose, but I want those reports. Give them to the Abbe’s courier every month, or I will dispatch Niklos at once and you will have to answer to him.”
Uberto’s expression which had been lighter had now soured. “I am your servant, Madama.”
“Yes,” said Olivia cordially. “Little as you may like it, you are. You are also the most reliable of the lot, and I am depending on that.” She looked around. “Where are the tally sheets on sheep and cattle?”
“Nino has them,” Uberto growled. “He is in the storage shed. Surely you don’t need to talk to Nino, do you?” There was a whine in his voice now, and he hated the sound of it.
“Is he drunk again?” Olivia asked without distress. “Your brother-in-law is carrying your family obligation much too far, don’t you think?” She was walking toward the storage shed with a determined stride, her heavy skirts puffing around her toes like damask dust clouds.
“He … he does drink too much,” Uberto had to admit as he hastened after Olivia. “He is not a happy man and his distress rankles him.” It was a very poor explanation but it was the only one he could offer.
“Does he say the same thing to your sister, I wonder? Or does he bluster and tell her of what he is capable of doing but has been thwarted by others because they sense his superiority?” Olivia had lived too long not to recognize the chronic discontent in Nino that sufficed to excuse all his excesses through resentment. “Other men have made the same claim; almost all of them are forgotten, and those that are remembered are not loved.”
“Dio,” whispered Uberto, unable to disagree with his mistress, yet unwilling to invent another excuse for Nino.
Olivia swung open the door to the storage shed, using her fan as the dusty air swept out of the darkness. “Gracious, what do we keep in here these days?” she asked, wishing she could sneeze to clear her head.
From some distance behind her, Avisa called out, “Madama, it isn’t fitting for—”
A Candle For d'Artagnan Page 5
