“He has not thus far, not where Mazarini is concerned,” said de Troisvilles in a tone that closed the matter.
De Portau coughed. “Well, I wanted to think of some advantage in all this.”
“I know,” said de Troisvilles heavily. “I thank you for that, Isaac.” He got up and went to take down one of the rolled maps.
De Portau reached across the writing table and picked up the letter that lay on top of the stack of four, squinting at it as he read with difficulty. “Isn’t very good at letters, is he?” he said as he put the letter back on the pile.
“Who?” said de Troisvilles, then answered his own question. “Oh, you mean de Batz-Castelmore?”
“Yes; Charles de Batz-Castelmore,” said de Portau. “Sounds like a Gascon.”
“He is,” said de Troisvilles, coming back to the writing table with a map half-unrolled between his hands.
De Portau moved the letters out of the way. “What’s he like, do you know?”
De Troisvilles was more engrossed in the map than in his conversation with de Portau. It took a little time for him to answer. “Batz-Castelmore? A typical Gascon: tell him it’s for honor and he’ll eat a Turk for breakfast.”
“Oh, then you’ve met him?” de Portau asked with a trace of surprise.
“Yes,” said de Troisvilles as he traced one of the tributaries of the Marne with his finger. “He came here a few months ago. We had no place for him, but I promised I would enter his name on the lists. I believe he joined the Guard; I told him it was a good place to start. I heard that he went there, though he was most insistent about being a Musqueteer.”
De Portau clapped his wide, square hand to his chest. “I started there. As you say, it makes a good beginning.”
“For most of the regiments in France,” said de Troisvilles, his finger stopped at Ecury-sur-Coole. “What is the ground like here?” He tapped the map twice.
“I’ve never been there,” said de Portau after craning his neck to look at what de Troisvilles was indicating. “You might ask one of the older men; some of them probably remember.”
“Of course,” said de Troisvilles absently, going on as if to himself, “I’d like to be on campaign now. In war I know what I’m doing. I’d like to be doing something more than waiting for the King to tell us we have to protect that damned Italian.” He signaled to de Portau. “Have someone bring us wine; I’m dry as a bucket of dust.”
De Portau complied with alacrity, hauling the door open and bawling his orders to the confusion on the floor below. As he slammed back into the room, he said, “Cados is gone.”
“Just as well,” said de Troisvilles, trying to make himself believe it. “That’s one less thing to worry about.”
Text of a letter from Atta Olivia Clemens to Ragoczy Sanct’ Germain Franciscus, written in Latin.
To my dear, dear, dear Sanct’ Germain, my greetings from Gaul, and my hope that this finds you more contented than I.
I have followed Rogerian’s instructions and handed this to that Spanish Franciscan whose name you gave me. The man is much aged—in only ten years—and his face has that pinched, dried look that does not bode well for him, and in future it may require other means for me to reach you. Still, Frey Alejo tells me that all is in readiness; he has said he will arrange this to be sent where you are, although why you should have traveled such a very long way, and over water at that, I am at a loss to comprehend.
Of course there have been postponements and delays and heaven knows what else, and Abbe Mazarini has still not left Roma to come here. I don’t know why this astonishes me, but it does, and I am indignant to no purpose, since my indignation means nothing to any of the worthies who are jockeying for favor or power through Mazarini, Richelieu, and the King of France.
I have met Richelieu twice more, and I am certain that he is not going to live much longer. No, this is not despair that comes upon our kind from time to time, seeing nothing but brutality and brevity everywhere: Richelieu does not thrive. He masks his suffering well, but it is difficult to keep such secrets from those of our blood. I persist in my assumption that he has been protecting Queen Anne for many years, for no reason but his own love of her. Whether she loves him, or is indifferent to him, as I have heard, or whether she is aware of his protection, I do not know. I have met her only once, and that for nothing more than to touch her hand, curtsy, and say that the gathering was brilliant. I tend to discount the rumor that her son Louis was fathered by Richelieu—though the company of saints will testify that Richelieu is more of a father to the boy than Louis has been—though it is not impossible. But I cannot forget that Anne of Austria is a Spanish Hapsburg and she might not accept a priest as a lover because of his vows, which may be shortsighted where Richelieu is concerned.
Sanct’ Germain, why did you have to choose this time to go to the New World? It is less than a year since you set foot on that cursed ship, and already I miss you as if you were gone for a century in the heart of Africa. When you are not where I can reach you, I am uneasy. And it is not the same that Niklos is here and fusses over me; it is not the same at all.
I thank you for your advice—the same I have given you on more than one occasion—but I find myself unable to act upon it. Certainly I have visited men in their dreams when the need was upon me, and left them unharmed but for what little I had of them. You are right, of course, and it is poor nourishment, without love, but better than starving. I find I am not as willing as I was once to risk being despised. Once, perhaps, it was not as important to me, but now I dread that sickness of the soul that shows in their eyes when they know what I am and what I have done. That, I suspect, makes me a coward, and if I am, so be it. I have made a kind of truce with life. True, I miss the passion, but I am spared the odium. If this is a sign I am growing old, who (but you) has a better right to age? You ask would I take a lover if there were a man who wanted me and was capable of accepting what I am? Yes, yes, I would, so long as he gave himself as well as his blood; if not, then I prefer the honesty of loneliness to the deceit of closeness where nothing more than skin touches.
There, now I am starting to despair, which is useless and foolish. Tomorrow the court is supposed to go to Fontainebleau because the King has a taste for mushrooms or some such nonsense. I have been invited to attend, and since it is what the Cardinals want of me, I suppose I must go, though it has been raining most of the week and the roads are hip-deep in mud. Why it is necessary to order two or three dozen coaches to take to the road at such a time completely baffles me, but I suppose that is what makes royal caprice what it is.
Come back soon, my best and dearest friend. Europe seems awfully empty with you gone from it. Nevertheless it does not matter where you go—be sure that this brings you my love no matter how many years go by, no matter how far away you are. Send for me and I will come, Cardinals and Kings and Abbes be damned: their hold is nothing compared to the bond that links us and has linked us for more than fifteen hundred years.
There; I promise, no more morbidity. It is useless, as I have told you before. I will not languish nor despair, at least not for long.
Niklos informs me that it is time to go. I have come to my senses and sent word to the stables that we are to follow the court. My maid is in a terrible humor because of the haste I require of her, and if it were not that she will be near the Crown, she might sulk and refuse to accompany me. She, you understand, is overjoyed at the thought of seeing all the grand ladies and gentlemen. Sadly, I do not share her enthusiasm; I will prepare to be agog at mushrooms and talk inanities from dawn till midnight. And I will miss you, your smile and your voice. You would think after all this time apart that I would stop missing you. But I haven’t.
Olivia
At Eblouir, near Chatillon.
On the 2nd of November, 1639.
2
One lackey went to wake Niklos, who bundled into a long dressing robe and issued a few sharp orders as he searched for his shoes; the other went to Avisa’
s chamber to instruct her to summon her mistress.
“Good Lord God,” whispered Avisa, crossing herself and searching for her engulfing night wrap. Her hair, covered with a modest cap, poked out around her face giving her the look of a poorly made doll. “What has happened?”
The lackey had no answer, but said, “There is a courier from Mazarini. He has—”
“San Michele proteggimi,” she said, speaking a trifle more loudly. “The Abbe’s courier at this hour! From Mazarini himself!”
“Yes,” the lackey declared, hoping that this impressive news would spur Avisa to action. “Bring your mistress at once. The courier is waiting and he has been riding since sunset. He is tired and hungry and cannot rest until Bondama Clemens has the letter he brings to her.”
This information at last goaded Avisa into activity and she plunged through the short connecting corridor into Olivia’s private room, calling to her mistress to rise. “I’m sorry,” she added as she approached the bed, “cara madama, to call you so early, but—”
It was then she noticed that Olivia’s bed was empty and, aside from the impressions in the pillows, showed no sign of being slept in; not even the embroidered satin spread had been pulled back.
“Dear God,” said Avisa, clapping her hand over her mouth and trying not to scream. “Bondama!” She stepped back, then stared at the bed once more, as if she might have been mistaken the first time. She rocked back on her heels, her thoughts dithering, as she heard the lackey knock more forcefully on the door to her room. “Dear. Dear dear dear,” she said, biting her knuckles. “Oh, Bondama, dov’e?” She turned suddenly, as if she might catch Olivia unaware and lurking in the corner. Then she almost ran from the room, back to open the door for the lackey.
“How long will your mistress need to prepare?” the lackey asked, showing a careful blend of authority and subservience.
Avisa gathered her hands together under her chin. “She is gone!” she announced as dramatically as she could.
The lackey looked at her as if she were suddenly mad. “Did you tell her who was waiting for her, woman?”
“She is not here to tell. I can’t find her!” Avisa said, more loudly and slowly, as if the lackey were hard of hearing.
“What do you mean, can’t find her?” the lackey demanded contemptuously, hands now on his hips. “The courier is waiting. Get her up.”
“She is not in her room,” Avisa said, and burst into tears.
“Lord spare me a woman’s weeping,” said the lackey, blustering as he retreated. He did not turn as Avisa called after him.
“We must find her! We must find her!”
The lackey returned to the salon where the courier had been taken to wait for wine and a meal, found Niklos Aulirios already there, and was uncertain of protocol. Then he bowed to the courier and nodded to Niklos, making a careful distinction between the two men. “Apparently Bondame Clemens is not in her quarters and I regret to inform you that she has not yet been located,” he said smoothly to Niklos, doing his best to make this news sound both unremarkable and intriguing at once.
“What?” Niklos said, more amused than alarmed.
“Her maid told me she was not in her room.” The lackey opened his hands as if to absolve himself from anything Avisa might say.
“That’s impossible,” said Niklos, turning to the courier who by now was sprawled on one of the divans near the curtained window. “Will you permit me a few minutes to find my mistress? As you know, we have no guests here at present, and there are no entertainments after supper. However, Bondame Clemens occasionally suffers from sleeplessness”—he did not add that Olivia rarely needed more than two hours’ rest in a day—“and if this is one such night…”
The courier lowered his eyes to the dispatch case strapped to his sash. “I must present this to her myself; if you know where she is, bring her, in Mazarin’s name.”
“Certainly,” said Niklos, signaling to the lackey. “Go to the kitchen and see why wine has not been brought, and as soon as it is presentable, bring it. I do not want this house thrown into an uproar simply because Bondame Clemens has nights she cannot sleep.” Where was she, Niklos asked himself, and how could he account for her absence if she were not in the house at all? He made himself deal with immediate problems, not anticipation and worry. “Come, man; you see the courier needs refreshment. Hurry.”
The lackey longed for one of those households where the staff had free access to all the secrets under the roof, but this was not one such. Even idle speculation was frowned upon by Niklos, and the lackey had learned that the Greek major domo had unpleasant ways to deal with servants who forgot. Much as he would have preferred otherwise, he bowed slightly. “Certainly, Aulirios.” Using Niklos’ last name was a compromise the staff had reached in assessing the man.
“Now,” Niklos insisted pleasantly, indicating the door. As soon as the lackey was gone, Niklos bowed to the courier once more. “I fear I must excuse myself a short while. As soon as I locate my mistress, I will present her to you.”
“I am grateful,” said the courier, making a gesture of dismissal.
Niklos knew it was folly to appear harassed or anxious, so he made himself walk at his usual pace. His first destination was the library, which he found empty. He stared into the dark, cavernous room, his thoughts momentarily blank. Then he went to his quarters to get his fur-lined cloak. As he opened the larger of two armoires, he rang for a lackey.
He was drawing on his boots when the lackey—a sleepy youth from Chatillon—entered his room. “I need a lanthorn and someone to accompany me,” he said as he rose and pulled on his cloak. “I want no word of this to reach the courier.”
The lackey bowed. “One of the other lackeys, perhaps?”
“You,” said Niklos. “Get your cloak, bring the lanthorn and meet me at the stableyard door. As soon as possible.”
The lackey blinked and gave a nod that was almost a bow. “Certainly, Aulirios.”
“Thank you. Hurry,” said Niklos, all but shoving the young man out the door. He glanced quickly around the room, and on impulse decided to carry a dagger with him. He tucked it into his sash at the waist. Satisfied, he left his quarters.
The young lackey was waiting at the stableyard door, not far from the pantry. He had wrapped himself in a threadbare cloak and carried a hooded lanthorn. He was not completely awake yet, but he appeared more alert than he had been before. “I am ready,” he said in a tone that was not as convinced as his words.
“Good,” said Niklos, indicating the young man should go ahead of him. “Have a look around.”
The lackey did as he was told, reporting, “The stableyard is empty.” He wanted to ask what else it would be at that hour, but could not summon the courage to speak.
“Fine,” said Niklos, coming to his side and taking care to close the door.
“Where are we going?” asked the lackey, looking around in his apprehension. He had heard a few tales of the strange comings and goings at Eblouir and hoped he was not to be included in them, whatever they were.
“To the stables, of course,” said Niklos as if it were a foolish question. As they walked through the blowing night, their steps revealed by a feeble circle of amber light from the lanthorn, he added, “What’s your name?”
“Meres,” said the lackey.
“You came here in August, didn’t you? along with the two kitchen maids and a seamstress?” Niklos entered the shadow of the roof of the first rank of stalls; the greater darkness was less offset by the lanthorn, and the stable seemed to loom around them.
“Yes,” said Meres, whispering.
Niklos chuckled. “There’s no need to do that. Better to speak up, so we will not be treated as intruders.”
Meres nodded, but could not bring himself to speak more loudly when he first tried. “Why would anyone … anyone suspect intruders?”
“You do not expect intruders,” said Niklos patiently, a hint of a chuckle in his voice. “They arrive withou
t invitation. And are not met with welcome.”
“Yes,” said Meres, repeating the word with more force. “But who would meet them here?”
“Oh, grooms, stablemen, farriers, horsemen,” said Niklos carelessly. “And horses, certainly.” He swung back the massive door that led to the corridor of stalls, whistling loudly as he did. He waited; there was an answering whistle. “I knew it,” said Niklos to himself. “I knew it.”
“What?” Meres asked, more confused than frightened now.
Niklos drew Meres through the door and secured it from the inside. “Which stall?” he called out, not loudly but sufficient to be heard.
“The seventh, left side,” answered Olivia. “With the black yearling.” Her voice was loud enough to be heard but steady and soft. “I finally got his foot into a bucket. Don’t startle him. I’ll have to do it all over again.”
Niklos and Meres followed the sound of her voice to the stall she indicated. Lifting the lanthorn, they saw her seated on the straw bedding of the stall, dressed in men’s clothes, her attention on the black yearling that stood fretfully with his right rear leg in a bucket. A strong odor of crushed herbs and camphor hung on the air.
“Don’t bring the light any higher,” Olivia said in the same calm way. “He’s nervous enough without that. And he’s restless, poor fellow. Try not to bother him, if you can.” Very slowly and gracefully she got to her feet, patting the sleek black shoulder as she stood. “Good boy,” she said to the horse. “Keep that leg soaking a little more.” Then she looked curiously at Niklos. “Why have you come looking for me? It’s late for anyone to be up. It must be after midnight.”
“It is,” said Niklos, smiling at her in a way that might have seemed indulgent in another. “However, one of the Abbe’s couriers is waiting for you with an urgent dispatch. He’s in the east salon with food and wine. The poor man looks worn to the bone. Whatever his errand, it must be important. I’ve tried not to rouse too much of the household.” He indicated Meres with a nod. “Meres here has been very helpful.”
A Candle For d'Artagnan Page 13
