A Candle For d'Artagnan

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  The lackey blushed. “I have done … very little.”

  “And thank God for that,” Niklos said softly and with feeling. “There are those on the staff who would have clarions and bells going by now. A courier’s presence is generally supposed to be … clandestine. The Abbe has had such uneven fortunes this last year, it’s no wonder he is being so cautious.”

  Olivia let herself out of the stall and secured the door behind her. “Well, I have to tend to Sabato here, but I suppose he can be left for a little while. I dislike leaving him unguarded; he’s apt to kick the bucket over and make things worse. But the courier—” She shook her head.

  “He must be seen at once, before more attention is drawn to him.” Niklos had that tone in his voice again, a warning that was more than it seemed to be.

  “Yes, yes,” said Olivia impatiently. “And you?” she added abruptly, turning to Meres. “What will you do?”

  “Meres will do as you instruct him,” said Niklos in that same quiet, pointed way. “You may rely on him.”

  Olivia regarded the young lackey, her expression all but unreadable. “It seems you are a very discreet fellow,” she said to Meres. “Very well; I am grateful, and you will have proof of it,” she promised, then gave her full attention to Niklos. “Tell me about the courier. What is he here for? Why has he come?”

  “I don’t know,” said Niklos. “I am fairly sure he does not know why himself. He has a letter that is for your eyes only and he cannot retire until you have read it in his presence. It is twice sealed: very impressive. I hope none of the servants saw it when he showed it to me. Whatever is going on, it is most important and you may be sure it is secret. You chose the worst possible night to be out of the house.” It may have been a trick of the lanthorn’s unsteady light, but his features sharpened, shifted briefly, becoming menacing, then returning to the handsomeness that was familiar.

  “I was not able to sleep, Niklos,” said Olivia, her tone keener. “And this colt Sabato has a swollen leg—hock to pastern. So long as I could not sleep, I thought it might be best to get up and take care of him.”

  “So it seems, Olivia,” said Niklos, taking a liberty that few French servants would dare to show to their masters.

  Belatedly, Meres interrupted. “Do you mean you have been sitting out here in this stall, in the dark, with that colt? For hours? Alone?”

  Olivia looked at him, a kind of amusement in her hazel eyes. “Yes. Is there some reason I should not?”

  “But a dark stable, alone…”he protested.

  “What is there to fear?” asked Olivia as she opened the stall door once more and spoke softly to Sabato. “I’m coming back, colt. Don’t get bothered.”

  Meres came to the door of the stall. “What if the horse should injure you?”

  “Him? Injure me?” Olivia said with disbelief. “I’ve been around horses for most of my life. Ask Niklos. He made a horsewoman out of me, when we were both much younger.” As she spoke she bent and eased Sabato’s leg out of the bucket. “You need another hour of that, but perhaps tomorrow night.” As she straightened she picked up the bucket.

  At once Meres moved to take the burden from her. “Madame,” he objected. “No, you must not.”

  Olivia motioned him away. “Be careful. You’ll frighten the colt.” She gave the black a pat on the rump and he stepped aside, his movements quick and fidgity. As she left the stall, Olivia once again closed and braced the door. “The colt doesn’t know you, Meres, and he is in a bad humor. Don’t try to get near him now.”

  “But you must not carry buckets, Madame,” said Meres with conviction. He had not learned all his responsibilities yet, but he was quite certain that the mistress of the household ought not to be permitted to carry buckets in a stable. He was, now he thought of it, not at all sure she ought to be in the stable, let alone tending horses. That she was wearing men’s clothes was so shocking that he was not able to think about it at all.

  “Don’t be silly, Meres,” said Olivia with her most winning smile. “I have been tending horses since before you were in swaddling bands.” As she spoke she relinquished the bucket to Niklos, who had reached out for it. “Come. Back to the house. I need to think of a plausible excuse to account for my absence,” she said in a more practical way. “Whatever I tell him, he is bound to report to the Abbe.”

  “Tell him the truth,” suggested Niklos. “Mazarini knows that you care for your horses. Don’t bother about the courier. His opinion means nothing.” As they reached the enormous doors, Niklos paused to empty out the bucket. “It were better to see him now than require him to wait longer.”

  Olivia nodded, her face turned away from the lanthorn. She did not speak at once. “I suppose I must.”

  “It is nothing so dreadful,” said Niklos. “The chances are that after so long a ride, he will not notice that you are dressed like a boy.” He looked over at Meres as he put the bucket down. “What do you think?”

  “It is sensible,” said Meres, trying to puzzle out what these two required of him. He offered them the safest answer he could think of, though it sounded woefully inadequate to him, and hoped it would be enough.

  “How diplomatic you are,” said Olivia, laughter tingeing the words. “Very well, take me as I am, and we’ll tell the poor man the truth.” She reached back and untied the ribband that had secured her fawn-brown hair at the back of her neck. As she shook her head, it spread over her shoulders; the shorter tendrils that framed her face were not crimped, but hung loosely, like a child’s crop. She did not look her age.

  Niklos led the way across the stableyard. “Meres, before you retire for the evening, stop by my quarters.” He opened the door and stood aside for Olivia to enter.

  “As you wish, Aulirios,” said Meres, more baffled than before.

  There were a few night candles burning in the kitchen, and Olivia paused in the light of one, ignoring the stare of the scullery maid who had risen from her bed near the hearth when she heard voices. “Look at my hands,” she said, holding them out, showing them water-wrinkled. She sniffed at them. “It is hardly perfume, is it?” She turned to Niklos. “Take me to the east salon, and then have someone fill my bath for me.”

  “Certainly,” said Niklos, apparently unaware of the shock he saw in Meres’ face. “Follow me.” As he started down the hall, he said to Olivia over his shoulder. “You really look disreputable, Olivia. You do.”

  Instead of upbraiding her major domo—as Meres fully expected she would—Olivia laughed. “Well, you know what Roman widows are.”

  Meres watched them; he had no idea of what he ought to do next. He heard Olivia call his name. “Come, Meres. I need your help to lend me a little respectability.” From the tone of her voice she was still amused. “Come,” she repeated.

  The courier was finishing off the last of a roast chicken and a plate of cabbage cooked in milk. He rose as Niklos entered the salon to announced “Bondame Atta Olivia Clemens,” then stared as the woman herself strolled up to him.

  In the hall, three lackeys gathered to watch until Niklos closed the door on them; of their numbers, only Meres would be privy to what happened in the east salon.

  “Madame?” said the courier, reaching to take her hand, and then hesitating as he looked at her. He recovered himself and compromised with a bow. “Bondame Clemens?”

  “Yes,” said Olivia. “I ask your pardon for coming to you in this way, but one of my horses is not well, and I have been attending to him. I … lost track of the hour.” She motioned to the divan. “Be seated, I pray you. Under the circumstances, there is no reason to stand on ceremony.”

  The courier murmured his thanks and resumed his seat. “Your servants have been—”

  “Kindly and efficient, I trust,” said Olivia. “It is no less than what I expect of them.” She started to move a chair nearer the divan, but Meres intercepted her and carried the chair for her. “My lackey is an excellent example,” she said, a bit drily. As she sat down, she indicate
d the leather dispatch case the courier carried over his arm. “You have something for me, I understand.”

  The courier nodded. “Yes. A letter. It is double-sealed and I must have your signature across the broken seals. I am charged to give it to you and to watch you read it. If there is a response, I am asked to take it to Cardinal Richelieu on Mazarin’s behalf.” He had assumed a more formal manner as he spoke, as if the words themselves imparted dignity and importance to the occasion.

  “Ah,” said Olivia, motioning to Niklos. “I require a pen and my inkstand, it appears. Bring them here, will you? And while you are away, be sure that a bedchamber is ready for our guest.” She looked toward the courier. “It is proper to rest, isn’t it?”

  “I have to reach Richelieu before mid-day,” he said, but went on, “I am grateful, Madame, for what you offer. I will accept the bed gladly, and bless your name tomorrow when I ride to Paris.” He let the wide leather strap of the dispatch case slide down his arm.

  “I will fetch your writing tools,” said Niklos, bowing. He signaled to Meres as he opened the door. “Stand here. No one is to enter but myself. And when it is finished, you will forget what you have seen.”

  Meres swallowed once. “I will forget.”

  Niklos gave him a slap on the shoulder. “Good fellow,” he said before he let himself out of the salon.

  “How is the Abbe?” Olivia asked the courier.

  “He is … fretful,” said the courier, choosing the word with care. “There have been so many delays, and there is the question of ordination…” He reached out and took a sip of wine from the tankard.

  “Which he still refuses?” Olivia asked, although she knew the answer.

  “He declares he does not have the vocation, and will not profane ordination if it is lacking,” said the courier, coolly repeating what he had heard so many times. “There are Cardinals who do not wish a … mere Abbe in their company.”

  “That is the excuse they give, I am sure,” said Olivia, looking speculatively at the courier. “How long have you been in Mazarini’s service?”

  “He accepted me five months ago,” said the courier. “I was recommended to him by my mother’s second cousin once removed, Armand Jean du Plessis, Cardinal Richelieu.” The Cardinal was his most exalted relative and it always gave him a moment of pride to reveal this connection.

  “A most capable man. I have had the pleasure to meet him on two occasions,” said Olivia, with the appearance of more interest than she felt. Titles and relatives had long ago lost the power to impress her.

  “Yes,” said the courier. “He honored me with the introduction to Mazarin.” He opened his dispatch case. “The letter is—”

  “Double-sealed,” Olivia finished for him. “Yes, you have said so.” In spite of herself, she was becoming curious about the contents of the letter. Perhaps, she thought, it would recall her to Roma. It would be unwise to return so soon, but it was tempting; she missed her home, her language, her annealing native earth.

  “Madame?” said the courier, seeing something of her thoughts reflected in her face. “Is something the matter?”

  Olivia gave herself a mental shake. “No, nothing. The hour, I suppose.” She looked up as Niklos came back into the salon, carrying the small case that contained her writing tools.

  “There are two trimmed pens,” said Niklos as he brought this to her. “I refilled the sand.”

  “Many thanks,” said Olivia, putting the little case on the table and opening it. “Very well, then, courier: let me see what you bring me from Mazarini.”

  The courier rose and bowed as he handed her the letter, looking a little surprised that she did not do the same. Olivia took the letter in her hands and kissed the first of the two seals, looking with curiosity at the Colonna arms pressed into the wax. She lifted the ends of the enclosing ribband and pulled the seal from the letter. Then she leaned forward, dipped one of the pens in the standish, and scrawled her name across the place where the seal had been. Out of this first envelope, she drew a second, once again kissed the seal before she pulled it off and signed her name. As she spread out the sheet, she crossed herself, and the courier nodded with approval as he drank his wine and watched her read.

  Olivia’s face was emotionless as she read; it was only after she had perused the document twice that she smiled. “I am pleased to receive the news you have brought me,” she said carefully, knowing that she was not permitted to reveal the contents of what she had read. “I will do as the Abbe requests and I am in readiness to fulfill his commands at any time.” It was a safe enough formula, and she looked directly at the courier. “Tell Mazarini and Richelieu that I will burn candles.”

  The courier touched his right hand to his chest. “On my honor,” he declared.

  “My thanks to you, once more,” said Olivia as she rose. “I am told to destroy this after reading.” She walked to the hearth and looked down into the low-burning fire there. “You may observe me do as I have been asked.” With that, she dropped the vellum sheet into the flames, then stood watching until the sheet was nothing more than a curl of ash. When she turned, she bowed to the courier. “I thank you again,” she said, then motioned to Meres. “As soon as the courier is ready, pray escort him to the blue bedchamber on the second floor, the one that faces south.”

  Meres bowed. “As you command, Madame.”

  Olivia favored him with a faintly mocking roguish grin before turning to Niklos. “Attend me.”

  The courier gave a single diplomatic cough. “There is no other answer you wish me to carry?”

  “Only what I have told you,” said Olivia. “It is often wisest to have care in answers, don’t you agree? There was nothing in the letter that required more than I have told you.” She offered him a farewell gesture that was more of a salute than a wave. “God give you good sleep, courier,” she said as she left the room with Niklos.

  “All right,” whispered Niklos in Byzantine Greek as they went down the hall. “What was in the letter?”

  “Our employer will soon be coming back to France; it’s finally been arranged. He will leave Roma before the end of the year. The official documents are being drawn up now, and no one has stopped them. There will be a formal notice within the month,” said Olivia in the same language. “And why must we speak this awful stuff? It reminds me of Justinian.”

  Niklos shook his head. “No; and not Belisarius. It reminds you of Drosos.”

  Olivia did not answer at once. “Yes,” she admitted as they started up the stairs to her apartments. “It does. Poor Drosos,” she said softly. “No one should have to endure what he did.” Her mouth was a thin, hard line, and then she managed a bit of a smile. “But you’re right. It is the safest language. Who in this household can speak it but us?”

  “Exactly,” said Niklos, pointing down the hall. “The bath will be ready in a short while. You might as well get undressed and into your night rail.”

  “No.” Olivia made a face. “I don’t want fine muslin and lace to smell of horse linament,” she said, stopping at the door to her apartments. When she spoke again, it was not in the old tongue of Constantinople, but in French. “Is Avisa still awake?”

  “She was a quarter hour ago,” said Niklos. “She said she wanted to take a composer and go to sleep.”

  “I’ll look in on her, in case,” said Olivia, and resumed her Byzantine Greek. “Niklos, how much longer do you think Richelieu can hang on?”

  “You know that better than I,” Niklos said in French, evasively. “He is failing steadily, we know that, but with a will like his…” He lifted one of his hands, palm up and open to show that no one could judge Richelieu’s will.

  “In Greek, Niklos. We may be watched,” she cautioned him. “About Richelieu: Mazarini must be aware.” She looked over her shoulder, her brows drawn down in concentration.

  “You’ve mentioned Richelieu’s health in your reports, haven’t you?” Niklos said, wondering why Olivia was distressed.

 
; “Yes, but…” She made herself stop. “There is nothing I can do, is there? I am not the only one who reports to the Abbe. Mazarini will have to see for himself. Now that he is finally going to be Mazarin.” She sighed, her tension fading. She returned to French. “It was fortunate, I suppose, that all I was doing was tending to a horse tonight. If I had been … elsewhere…”

  “But you weren’t,” said Niklos, continuing to use Greek. “And if you were, no one would know it, in any case. You still visit your men in dreams, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” she said with defiance. “And I will continue to.”

  Niklos looked at her with mild annoyance. “You will not have a lover? When you know how much you—”

  “Only if a lover will have me,” said Olivia, sadness replacing defiance.

  For a brief moment the two looked at each other, a stillness between them. Then Niklos sighed. “Go take your bath,” he said in French as he turned back toward the stairs.

  Text of a letter from Jules Mazarin to his fourteen-year-old second cousin, Gennaro Colonna, written in French.

  May God bless and keep you, Gennaro, and give you a love of learning as well as a quick tongue, for your last letter shows me that you are not as attentive as a youth of your station must be if he is to fulfill his position in life. In the hope of rekindling that devotion which gave you such promise, I greet you in the name of our family and in the name of the good people of France, who are our most worthy friends.

  It is now a little more than a year—a year and five days, to be precise—since I returned to Paris. It has been an eventful year, although that is of no concern to us now, other than the demands it makes on my time and skills at the pleasure of the great Richelieu. It is a great honor to be able to serve so great a master and to act on behalf of the good people of France.