I would also want to arrange for two large barrels of wine to be delivered at that time. Do not use the Neopolitans to pull that load, use mules or the liver-chestnuts for that. Having her own vineyard will do much to enhance Bondama Clemens’ prestige in the eyes of the nobles here, and will provide another reason for her to maintain regular contact with you at Senza Pari.
The signs here are for an early winter this year, and for that reason, I recommend you dispatch your messenger a few days earlier than planned. If the passes are closed, he is authorized to go around by the coast and come up through Avignon. Be certain that he travels with extra money to pay for delays on the road, and that he carries the Abbe’s writ so that he will not be detained on his way.
With thanks on behalf of Bondama Clemens, whom we both serve, I pray God will bless and watch over you now and for years to come.
Niklos Aulirios
bondsman and major domo to Bondama
Atta Olivia Clemens
at Eblouir, near Chatillon
On the 4th day of October, 1638
Retain for estate records.
6
Padre Riccono leaned back in his chair and took another sip of wine. “Patience, Giulio; you must have patience.”
Mazarini glared at the Pope’s cousin and held back the retort he had been about to make. “I pray for it daily,” he said, more brusquely than was polite. “King Louis has requested that I be made a Cardinal, and apparently this is possible; I am supposed to be welcome again in Francia, and that is good news, most certainly. I am thankful that His Holiness has received the petition from Louis, and I am confident at the outcome. But here I am in Roma and I am no nearer to leaving than I was at the start of summer.” He paced the length of the library and came back to Padre Riccono. “So what am I to do?”
“Wait,” the Padre said with a benefic smile that was colored by an unexpected ferocity which often lay concealed in his good-natured pose of ineffectiveness. “You must wait, Giulio. Pray if it passes the time well. It will not be much longer.”
“How many times have I heard that?” said Mazarini, but he selected one of the other three chairs and flung himself into it with an exaggerated sigh. “Very well. Since I must wait, I will wait. I have prayed already and I do not wish it to appear that I am ungrateful to God. But do not advise me to take no active part, for that—forgive me, Padre mio—I cannot and will not do.” He had very expressive hands, large, long, and lean. He placed two fingers at the center of his brow as if to pinpoint a headache. “You do not know what you ask of me. Waiting can be worse than outright defeat.”
“I have some notion of it,” said Padre Riccono, cordially but drily. “But if you wish to explain it to me, pray do so.” His smile this time had lost its hidden wrath and instead was self-mocking. He had been one of the many Vatican secretaries for many years and was as skilled a strategist as any successful corsair. “In the meantime, have some of this excellent wine. It is a gift from that protegée of yours.”
“I was not aware I had a protegée,” said Mazarini in his most depressing manner, though he poured himself a glass as he spoke.
“Your protegée. The widow who is already establishing herself in Francia,” said Padre Riccono in the slow and deliberate way some persons talked to the deaf.
“She is not my protegée. She is part of my suite.” He tasted the wine. “A good vintage.”
“Yes. Her steward had it delivered a few weeks ago. There are four barrels of it, and I for one will be sorry when it is gone.” He finished his glass and looked sharply at Mazarini. “How do you mean, she is part of your suite, but she is not your protegee?”
“You know exactly what I mean, Padre,” said Mazarini, his tone growing sharper in spite of himself. “She is not part of my family, she is not my mistress, she is merely a Roman woman who has agreed to assist me with my dealings in Francia and to provide me a few needed favors from time to time. Clearly she is not under my protection.”
“Clearly.” He lifted his glass in what might have been a toast. “I heard she is a handsome woman,” said Padre Riccono, a speculative light in his eye.
“She is. Many another has said so.” It was becoming obvious that he did not want to answer more questions about Bondama Clemens.
“I have never seen her. Tell me about her,” said Padre Riccono in a flat voice.
Mazarini sighed and capitulated. “Mind you, I do not know her very well, and I am not completely familiar with her background.”
“Understood,” said Padre Riccono.
“I would guess her to be perhaps thirty from her face, but she must be more than that; her manner and her fortune suggest that she is older.” His eyes grew distant as he went on. “She has a title to her estate that can be traced back as far as the Crusades, so there is no question to her place in society. According to the records one or another of her blood relatives—that is her phrase—has lived there since that time. She has provided patronage to artists and musicians from time to time but not in an unseemly way.”
“These patronages, is that all they were?” Padre Riccono asked, suspicion making his genial features sharp.
“You mean was she rewarding lovers? I don’t know. I have met men who had dreamed about her, but in the matter of lovers, Bondama Clemens is most discreet.” He set his wineglass aside. “It was good of her to send this.”
“Or clever,” said Padre Riccono. “Are you certain that she is committed to your work?”
“No,” said Mazarini. “But I am sure that she is not committed to anyone else’s work.” He coughed delicately. “She has said she dislikes politics and I believe her.”
“And you sent her to Francia?” marveled the Padre.
“Of course. If I sent someone from my family, or someone who was known for what he has done in the world of politics, there would be endless difficulties, for everyone in Parigi would be instantly suspicious. It would be an unfortunate beginning, one that could lead to unpleasant repercussions later. But under the circumstances, how can there be offence given or taken since the woman who is in Francia is known for her dislike and distrust of politics?”
“Someone will find a way to be offended,” said Padre Riccono, taking a gloomy satisfaction in his prediction.
“But fewer than might be,” said Mazarini with determination.
“I will allow that,” said Padre Riccono when he had thought this over. “Still. You will want to take care as we approach the time for your departure to Francia. Remember that though you become a citizen of Francia, you will still be an Italian in the eyes of many, and they will scrutinize all you do. It will be crucial that those in your company deport themselves properly so as not to give more grounds for suspicion.”
“I have considered this, Padre, and I thank you for instructing me.” Mazarini’s large brown eyes were growing harder. “Is there anything else I might have overlooked that you wish to point out to me?”
“Ah, you’ve taken offence,” said Padre Riccono. “You may do that here with impunity, but once you enter the service of Louis, you will not have such luxury again. Learn to school yourself, Abbe, so that those who are your enemies cannot use your anger against you.”
It was useless to argue, and Mazarini knew it; he sat in silence for some little time before speaking again. “You have given me much to think about, mio Padre. I am grateful for the interest you have in the work I am to do.”
“Of course, of course,” said Padre Riccono with a wicked chuckle. “And in time you will come to understand why I have done this. You will.”
“Will I? I pray that God will send me such wisdom.” He rose slowly. “I am supposed to meet with Cardinal Bichi. There is a prelate here from Parigi he wishes me to meet; a scholar of some repute there, I’m told.”
“I have heard of this man,” said Padre Riccono. “Let me remind you of my advice again before you speak with this scholar from Parigi.” He had his rosary in his hands but appeared only to be playing with the large iv
ory beads. It had been a gift to him from His Holiness and the Padre often found reasons to display it.
“My thanks to you and to God,” said Mazarini without as much humor as he wanted to show. It was difficult to maintain a diplomatic wit when he was dealing with those so ruthless as Padre Riccono. Who was he speaking for? Mazarini wondered. Was the Padre reminding him of the power of the Pope, or was he trying to use his influence on behalf of others, such as those Cardinals who supported the Spanish instead of the French? He offered Riccono a more formal bow than courtesy required, then swept from the room, doing his best to ignore the soft, amused laughter that followed him out of the library.
For a quarter of an hour, Mazarini walked through the chapels and hallways of the Vatican, deliberately seeking out the things of beauty that served to quiet his soul, to restore the tranquility he found all too infrequently now. He did not want to give offence by arriving late to speak with Cardinal Bichi, but he knew that if he attempted to speak with this new man from Parigi, he must not appear inattentive or ungracious. Only when he was certain that his skills would not fail him did he start toward Cardinal Bichi’s apartments.
“I ask your indulgence for my tardiness,” Mazarini said as he came into the reception chamber and knelt to kiss the Cardinal’s ring.
“It was most unlike you, my son,” said Bichi in what Mazarini thought of as the Cardinal’s official voice. Lazily he motioned to Mazarini to rise. “Abbe Mazarin, let me make you known to Pere Pascal Chape,” he said in French.
A lean, middle-aged man in the black habit of the Canons Regular of Saint Augustine came forward, blessing Mazarini as he did. “I am honored that you will receive me, Abbe.”
Mazarini returned the blessing. “It is you who honor me, for I am coming to your country as … as one who is an orphan and who dedicates himself to the welfare of the family who has taken him in.” He listened to himself with a little amazement; he had not known how naturally he could spin out compliments and pleasantries until now.
“No Christian is an orphan, mon Abbe,” Pere Chape corrected him with sternness.
“Possibly not, but in the world, we see every day that men are—” Mazarini began only to have Cardinal Bichi interrupt him.
“This dispute would agreeably fill an hour, but, mon Pere, our time is short and there are other matters we must discuss. You may practice your statecraft at another time; now we must attend to the business that has been laid before us.” He indicated two letters on his writing table, both with broken seals. “Pere Chape brought these to me, and I wish you to read them. They are reports on the state of Cardinal Richelieu’s health and the current progress of the war.” He tapped the edge of the letters impatiently. “We must have you in France, and soon. Those who would rather keep you here must be stopped.”
Mazarini crossed himself, his face noticeably paler than it had been a moment before. “Is Richelieu ill? Again?”
“It is more a question that he continues ill, for he has never made a proper recovery, though there are times when he is improved for a while,” said Pere Chape. “His physicians, of course, are silent, and they will not reveal how the Cardinal fares. His servants are as circumspect, refusing all questions about their master. Richelieu himself has not discussed the matter with anyone, except—perhaps—His Majesty. Whatever is wrong with him remains speculation, nothing more, which is what Richelieu desires. Still, he is not as strong as he was and he has admitted that he cannot continue to work as he used to. He says little about pain, but the lines in his face give him away.”
“Oh, dear God,” whispered Mazarini, and the words were filled with sadness. He looked toward Cardinal Bichi, then toward the crucifix on the wall. “Richelieu.”
“He needs you, Abbe,” said Pere Chape as candidly as he could. “He has need of an ally he can trust, who can take up the reins when he can no longer hold them.”
It was not Mazarini who responded to Pere Chape’s remarks. “You sound as if you fear the day is near,” said Cardinal Bichi, his eyes narrowing as he looked from Pere Chape to the letters in front of him once more. “You speak as if we ought to be preparing black crepe for the altars and canticles for the dead.”
“I fear that time is not far off,” said Pere Chape. “I wish I could tell you otherwise, that I could offer some hope that the Cardinal will recover, but there is no reason to think that God will continue to spare him. Nor would you want Him to do that, if you could see how the Cardinal suffers.”
Mazarini turned away abruptly. “The man is the light of Europe, all of Europe. He is the spirit of reason in faith and of diplomacy. He is the greatest minister France has ever had. It is impossible that he cannot finish his own great work.” He folded his hands and raised them as he began to pray silently.
Pere Chape studied Mazarini, then regarded Cardinal Bichi with a questioning lift to the brows. “Well?”
“Oh, believe what you see, Pere,” said Cardinal Bichi. “He”—he nodded toward Mazarini—“will not give you false coin. His admiration of Richelieu is entirely genuine, do not doubt it. Little as it may seem possible, his faith is genuine. He is not one of your political religious—he is a religious who is also political.”
“Sophistry,” said Pere Chape.
Cardinal Bichi was about to protest when Mazarini turned around. “No,” he declared. “No. Let me explain it to you.” It was apparent from the fire in his large, dark eyes that he was offended. “You expect me to be some self-serving creature, a tool of the Colonna family, perhaps. I am an Abbe and I serve God in the world as ably as I can. I have dedicated myself to the cause of ending the strife in Europe, and to the goals of Cardinal Richelieu in particular, for I truly believe that unless his vision is fulfilled, our countries will be lost to war again before the next generation is old enough to bear arms.” He was speaking quickly, with abiding feeling. He trembled with the force of his emotion. “You expect me to become the pawn of France, a servant of the Pope, and a lackey of King Louis. Well, mon Pere, you are mistaken. I have dedicated myself already and I will not be swayed. I will bring France under the single rule of the Crown or I will retire to a monastery.” He turned to Cardinal Bichi. “Why have you wanted to subject me to this, when you know the goals for which I strive? What has made you bring this man to me?”
“You will have to answer such inquiries many times,” said Cardinal Bichi at his most imperturbable. “There are those who doubt you and there will be many more. You might as well accustom yourself to such skepticism.”
“It is offensive to me,” said Abbe Mazarini, looking from Cardinal Bichi to Pere Chape. “I accept your explanation, that you have done this without intention to give offence, but still I am offended.” He nodded in the direction of the door. “Is there anything else for us to talk about?”
“A few things,” said Pere Chape in a more conciliating tone. “Nothing so urgent as Richelieu’s health, but still of some interest. We have had word that the first of your suite is about to arrive at Paris. She may well have done so by now, which is all the more reason for us to review what you know of her.” He indicated one of the chairs. “They say she is a widow.”
“Yes,” said Mazarini, trying not to be short-tempered. “She has position, wealth, and an excellent reputation.” He stared at Cardinal Bichi. “You know her; you tell the Pere about her. I do not want to be questioned about my motives again.”
Cardinal Bichi nodded. “Yes. A woman of property and of propriety. She has an estate north and a trifle east of Roma. She is said to be capable manager and a just mistress.”
“High praise,” Pere Chape said so dubiously that in spite of himself Mazarini laughed.
“You need not think that this is a fabrication,” he said. “Bondama Clemens is not one of those women who is the handmaiden of power. Never have I heard of any instance when she was a willing pawn, or served as the tool of others.”
“Yet you have asked her to do such things for you,” Pere Chape pointed out.
“Reluctantly, and because I knew that it was foreign to her nature. She is not a woman to become the plaything of those in power, or to choose it for herself. In fact, for one as well placed as she is, she is much inclined to avoid it. If I had left her to her estate, she would have been just as pleased.” He looked directly at Pere Chape. “I would consider it a personal affront if I learned that there had been rumors spread about her in Paris. She is to suffer no calumny because of me.”
“If there are rumors, they are none of mine,” said Pere Chape stiffly, after one fulminating glance at Cardinal Bichi. “I fear you have mistaken me. I have no excuse to offer for my conduct or my suspicions, and I will offer up my fault in prayer. But there are … many things, many things that have convinced me that this woman might be … persuadable. Our own Queen, who has had much travail in the past, certainly, has often made … inappropriate friendships that have led to gossip and other speculation. And Louis has also … certain inappropriate friendships.” He grew noticeably more uncomfortable as he spoke.
“When you express yourself in this way,” said Cardinal Bichi, sounding far more bored than he was, “I am puzzled as to your meaning. What is inappropriate about the friendships?”
Pere Chape pursed his lips before he answered. “Well, the Queen, several years ago, was unwise in her dealings with the English Duke of Buckingham. Sadly, the Englishman was not very discreet in his attention to the Queen, and this caused His Majesty embarrassment and annoyance. Not even the English King could curtain the Duke’s extravagances, or his public demonstrations of his feelings for the Queen. Some say his servant killed him because of the relationship.” Pere Chape hesitated before continuing. “His Majesty often … prefers the company of gifted youngsters rather than his Queen.”
“Gifted youngsters?” Cardinal Bichi said, his brows rising. “Young men of rank, you mean? Then those rumors are not malice?”
“Regrettably they are not,” said Pere Chape. “The young men who gain his … favor obtain power and influence as well, for as long as the King’s fancy lights upon them. It would be one thing if he confined himself to pages or…” He closed his eyes. “We have prayed for a change of heart.”
A Candle For d'Artagnan Page 8
