Text of a letter from Gaetano Fosso to Niklos Aulirious.
To the major domo of the distinguished Bondama Clemens, now in Francia at the behest of Abbe Mazarini, the requested reports on the estate Senza Pari are tendered with all duty and respect.
The early planting has gone well, and aside from some minor amounts of spring rot in the planting, all the land should come to harvest. The spring rot has been contained and the land washed in vinegar; it will lie fallow this year and be planted again next spring, when, with the aid and good Will of God, the new plantings will flourish.
Of the four horses you sent authorization to sell, three have been taken for the sums you set. The sole exception is the gelding Furbo, who is ailing again. The farrier has looked at him and prepared hot mashes for him, but I fear he is not going to be marketable for some months. What would you wish me to do about this horse? If he cannot be made well again, it is a waste of money to keep him. I will continue to follow the advice of the farrier and Uberto until other orders are received from you and Bondama Clemens.
Uberto has asked that I inform you that he has lost track of his brother-in-law Nino, but has given orders to his family to notify him if the fellow presents himself again. It is Uberto’s belief that the man has found someone else willing to keep him drowned in wine, and that we will not be bothered with him again. Uberto’s report on the horses is included with this report and you will see that the mares in foal are doing well. Two more of the Hungarian mares have been bred, as Bondama Clemens requested, and the farrier informs me that they have settled and will deliver in ten months or so. Uberto will continue to report on their progress.
There has been a request from Paolo Germoglio da Luccio to purchase part of the ridge where his land and Senza Pari meet. His letter is also enclosed, and I am to tell you on his behalf that he believes that with Bondama Clemens and you gone from this estate that it cannot prosper as before and therefore it is his wish to do all that he might to keep the estate from falling into ruin, which he fears it will.
Word has come from Cardinal Bichi that it may be a few more months before Abbe Mazarini comes again to Francia. There are those who object to a mere Abbe being elevated to Cardinal without being ordained as a priest. His Holiness has promised to reach his decision soon, and has been willing to have these messages carried by his own courier, who is also bringing dispatches to King Louis.
There was fever in Roma this winter, and many were ill. As Bondama Clemens instructed me, I extended the aid of Senza Pari to those in need; food and blankets were distributed to the poor and four of the household lackeys were sent to the local monastery to assist the monks while half their numbers were taken with fever.
We have purchased the sheep you informed us we must have. All but four have arrived, and the rest will be here in the next week. All appear to be uninfected, and it is the opinion of the farrier that they will give good wool. Such long-haired sheep they are! Some of the landholders nearby have come to see them. They all agree that if their wool is of good quality that Bondama Clemens will have much to be pleased with when the first shearing comes. Of course, there are those who say that such sheep are an expensive and foolish waste of money, for they will not thrive in the Roman summer. Bondama Clemens has said that they come from a country where the summers are as hot as they are here, but most of her neighbors do not believe that. I will keep you informed about the progress of these sheep.
Three dozen pigs were taken to market and brought a very good price. The large black sow went for the greatest amount; you will observe this in the accounting I have included with this report. Of the sows remaining here, five are piggy and should deliver by April.
The Christmas benefices were gladly received by the servants here, and the allowance for two new suits of clothing for the household staff is most welcome, though it might not be prudent to give both a generous benefice and an allowance for two suits of clothes when one would suffice, under the circumstances. While Bondama Clemens is known for her generosity, she need not be so lavish with lackeys and cooks. In most households a single new suit of clothing is considered sufficient when there has been a benefice given. I intend no criticism, but as your deputy while you accompany her, I feel it wise to make this observation. If I give offence, I ask pardon of you and Bondama Clemens, for I do not wish to offend either you or her.
Permit me to recommend you review not only Uberto’s report, but his remarks on the conditions of our coaches, carriages, and wagons, for there are three requiring repair before they can be used safely. Two of the vehicles that Uberto returned here to Roma after they carried our mistress into Francia are much the worse for their long journey and are in poor condition. I realize that funds are available to replace such vehicles, but I do not think it wise to purchase new when the old might be repaired adequately. Uberto has agreed to do nothing until word is brought from you, but he has said that one of the wagons is past saving, and it is his belief that it would be wiser to replace that wagon. I await your orders on this and all other matters.
With the prayers of this household and all our families for the protection of Heaven and betterment in the world for you and our esteemed Bondama, I extend my most sincere salutation and solicit your prayers on our behalf as well.
Gaetano Fosso
acting major domo of Senza Pari
by my own hand, with appended
documents, previously described
On the 18th day of February, 1639.
Two bona fide copies retained at Senza Pari.
8
Richelieu’s face was drawn and his large eyes appeared to have sunk into his head. He put one hand to his brow, almost concealing his frown as his lackeys aided him out of his sedan chair and supported him up the four shallow steps to the enormous doors of the hotel d’Arruretordu.
The lackeys who opened the door both knelt to kiss his proffered ring, then escorted him to the private salon where this meeting has been arranged. Their host was conspicuously absent. “Eminence,” said the senior lackey, and bowed Richelieu into a room of pleasing proportions with tall windows overlooking a tiny, elegant garden.
Pere Chape was already on his feet; he knelt to kiss the Cardinal’s ring, then stood aside for Atta Olivia Clemens to make the same obeisance.
“I have a little more than an hour,” said Richelieu. “Then there are others who have a claim on my attention.”
Pere Chape accepted this at once. “We are grateful for any time you are willing to spare us.” He stood at a respectful distance while Richelieu went to the largest of the upholstered chairs. “Were it not that there has been so long a delay and so many rumors, we would not have trespassed on your good nature this far.”
Richelieu glanced at Olivia. “Is that your opinion as well, Madame?”
“Essentially,” Olivia answered with a steady look.
“That implies that, in fact, you disagree.” He made a sign to Pere Chape, who was about to intervene. “Pray, tell me why you disapprove, as I assume you do.”
“It is not for me to approve or disapprove. I came here at the request of Giulio Mazarini to be of assistance to him upon his return to France. However, that day seems as far off now as it did when I left Roma. Occasionally I wonder why I am here and what is expected of me.”
Pere Chape had raised a warning finger, but was prevented from speaking by Richelieu. “I share your disappointment, Madame, and I am as confused by it as Mazarin is. You must call him Mazarin here, for in France he is French.”
“As you wish,” said Olivia, curious about Richelieu and willing to let him steer the conversation as he liked. “Mazarin he shall be.”
Richelieu nodded once. “You have received messages from Mazarin?” Although this question was directed at Olivia, Pere Chape took it upon himself to answer.
“I have, Eminence,” said Pere Chape eagerly. “I have word from him faithfully every month.”
The expression in Richelieu’s sunken eyes was not pleasant. �
�I inquired of Madame Clemens, mon Pere. I will speak with you directly.” He turned back to Olivia; when he spoke again, it was in Latin. “I have been told you are a woman of some education, and that you have an understanding of the Church’s tongue.”
Olivia responded, “I speak Latin, if that is your meaning. Also Italian, French, a little Spanish, some English.” She knew more languages than that, but was aware it was risky to admit it, or that some of the languages she knew had now all but disappeared from the world.
“Most impressive. How do you come to know it?” He had rested his elbows on the chair’s arms and now placed the tips of his fingers together.
“I learned from my father and mother,” said Olivia with complete honesty.
“A scholar’s family, then,” said Richelieu. “And it would account for your curious accent. Whoever told you to pronounce the letter C in that fashion was most capricious.”
It was an effort for Olivia not to return a sharp retort, since her Latin was that of the upper-class Romans of the first Christian century. She coughed once. “It was the way I learned to speak, Eminence.”
“Scholars,” said Richelieu, dismissing all of them in a single word, though with an indulgent expression, as if he and Olivia shared a private joke. “Yet it is odd that you were taught. Did you have no brothers?”
“I did,” said Olivia. “All of us spoke Latin.”
“And French and Italian and some Spanish as well as English?” Richelieu asked archly, plainly enjoying himself.
“No,” Olivia said after a brief hesitation. “Not … all of us had … the opportunity.” She wished now she could change the subject, but did not want to alert the Cardinal to her distress. “I outlived my brothers and sisters,” she said.
“Ah,” said Richelieu, crossing himself. “My condolences.” He sighed. “No wonder your father lavished such attention upon you. And how fortunate you proved an apt student.” He fell silent, his eyes never leaving her face. “I understand you are a widow without children, or so Mazarin informs me.”
“That is correct,” said Olivia, wondering where Richelieu was leading their conversation now; she made no effort to change her Latin accent as she went on. “I have supposed that is one of the reasons the Abbe asked me to be part of his suite; I have few obligations to keep me in Roma.” The one that held her was so strong that the demands of family—if she had any surviving—were inconsequential in comparison. The tie of her native earth was as all-encompassing as the bonds of blood.
“He is a most astute man,” said Richelieu, then looked to Pere Chape and spoke once more in French. “You report to him, do you not?”
“Of course,” said Pere Chape, taken aback at the question.
“And the reports you render, are they candid? Or are you a politician at heart, ever currying favor and seeking to improve your place in your patron’s esteem?” His tented fingers pressed together and his fingers closed over his hands. “Well?”
“I am faithful to the task that has been set me,” said Pere Chape after a tiny hesitation. He stood a bit straighter and did his best to appear indignant. “I have no purpose in my reports but to inform the Abbe of what has transpired in my parish, that is, as much as I may do without violating my vows.”
“Commendable,” said Richelieu drily. He regarded Pere Chape a little longer. “Do you report to others? Is your intelligence intended for the Abbe alone, or are there others you include in your work?”
“Cardinal Bagni, for one, has asked for reports,” said Pere Chape, high color in his cheeks like fever spots.
“And the others,” Richelieu inquired, as polite as he was icy. “Will you tell me, or am I going to be made to guess?”
Pere Chape coughed. “The secretaries of His Holiness.”
Richelieu took a long breath. “His secretaries?” He tightened his locked hands. “For the benefit of the Church?”
“I am an ordained priest,” said Pere Chape.
“You are also a Frenchman,” Richelieu reminded him sharply. He leaned back, regarding the priest as if he were a perplexing stranger. “All right; you have your duty and you must perform it as you see fit; I will not dispute that. I have my duty, as well, and I will not tolerate your interference in it.” He opened his hands and indicated the way to the door. “I wish to be private with Madame Clemens. You may leave us.”
“Eminence—” Pere Chape began.
“I have said you may leave us: need I repeat?” He waited, hardly moving, until Pere Chape bowed and went to the door. “I will have you sent for when you are wanted.”
“Of course, Eminence,” said Pere Chape in a tone that was barely civil. He slammed the door behind him as he left the room to Olivia and Richelieu.
“So,” the Cardinal said when he was satisfied that Pere Chape was truly gone. “To repeat to you what I have already told Pere Chape, you may be as candid as you wish, Madame. I welcome your candor, and I trust—I pray—it is more genuine than I suspect his may be.”
“About what am I to be candid?” Olivia countered, her attitude respectful to conceal her alarm.
“Why, whatever you like,” said Richelieu. “But I trust that you will speak to the matter at hand—this delay that keeps Mazarin in Rome is not convenient.” He very nearly added more, but then held his silence.
“For any of us,” Olivia said with asperity, hoping she was not interrupting him, for it was clear that the Cardinal disapproved of such behavior. “I anticipated that Mazarin would have received permission to leave Rome before now. When I left, it was understood that the Abbe would not be long in coming, and that he would be wearing a red hat as well.”
“That was my understanding also,” said Richelieu thoughtfully. “And I wonder why it is that the Pope should be so slow to act.” He lowered his hands into his lap and looked down at them, becoming remotely studious. “I fear he is awaiting news of my death, so that he might use that event to his advantage.”
“Surely, Eminence, you cannot believe that His Holiness is so”—she hunted for just the right word—“unscrupulous.”
Richelieu gave a single, humorless laugh. “I have few illusions about His Holiness—no man in my position can afford illusions—and although I am the sincere and devout son of the Church, I realize that no Pope in this age may act with complete impunity when involved in matters of state. So I cannot help but doubt his intentions when he so resolutely refuses to grant my requests.” He met Olivia’s eyes directly. “You see, I, too, can be candid.”
“So it appears, Eminence,” said Olivia, startled in spite of herself. “It puzzles me, however, that you are so forthcoming with a stranger, and a foreign woman at that.”
“You are most astute, Madame,” said Richelieu, and once again spoke in Latin. “I have my obligations to France as I have obligations to the Church and to God. To that end, it is my sworn purpose to protect this country from all depredation. I cannot in conscience leave it to the caprice of the Pope, nor the … disposal of the King.”
Olivia made little effort to hide her ironic amusement, yet she also made every effort not to appear to be mocking him. “Eminence, it would seem that it is the right of the Pope and the right of the King to do as they see fit, for it is within their Right to act, whether it suits you or not.”
“Perhaps,” said Richelieu, an odd twist at the corners of his mouth that might have been a bitter smile. “It is my task to turn the kingdom over to Louis’ heir intact and prosperous, no matter what King and Pope may say. Any other legacy would be my disgrace.”
“And you fear you will not be able to do this?” Olivia asked directly, her gaze meeting his.
“Yes,” said Richelieu with equal bluntness. “If I die before Mazarin is established here, the Queen will not be able by herself to protect the heir, of that I am sadly certain. Anne of Austria is Spanish, and Spain and France … well, she is mistrusted, and much of it because of the King’s … aversion as much as her foreignness.” He shook his head. “I have given my
life, and gladly, to the cause of my faith and my country; to be so close to securing France against her enemies, inside and outside the country, and to be at risk of losing all because the Pope does not wish to offend any of those who support him is maddening.”
“Yes,” said Olivia, for the first time feeling genuine sympathy for this reserved and formidable man.
“Right now, only I stand between the heir and chaos, and I will not be able to protect him much longer. Without Mazarin, it will all be for nothing.” He rose abruptly and began to pace the room, the hem of his habit whispering against the floor as he moved. “The King is a man of unsteady temperament and dangerous affections. He has made certain promises that I am not convinced are reliable.” He rounded on her. “You are not to repeat that to anyone, not even to Mazarin in your confidential reports; if you do, I will learn of it, you may be sure, and I will have you cast out of France.”
This threat was all the more believable because it was delivered in a low, steady voice; Olivia was indignant. “You have no reason to entertain such a poor opinion of me, Eminence,” she said, matching his coolness with her own. “If you think I will betray your confidence, then it were best that you extend none to me. If you want me to leave France, you have only to say so, and I’ll arrange to return to my home at once.”
Richelieu shook his head. “Good Madame, I only wish to give you a warning, not to accuse you. Coming as you do from so far away, you might not quite understand the gravity of what transpires here. You have been described as a woman of excellent judgment, and certainly it is plain that your wits are quick, but that does not also guarantee that your tongue is as discreet as it must be while you are here.”
Olivia watched him pace. “Mazarini made that clear to me in Roma,” she said in Italian, then reverted to Latin. “I may be a woman, but I am not foolish. I have seen too much of the ways of the world—the ways of men, if you will—to put myself in a more compromising position than that which I occupy already. I know something of the past, and the place of women in it, and I have read what de Pisan wrote; her words are more eloquent than mine, but I would defend the City of Ladies as staunchly as she did, given the opportunity.”
A Candle For d'Artagnan Page 10
