A Candle For d'Artagnan

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “It won’t,” said Olivia with complete certainty. Not since she clawed her way out of her tomb to Sanct’ Germain had her skin taken any blemish, and this cut she knew would be no exception. “Truly,” she added, her manner softening to him as her fright and indignation began to fade.

  The Guardsman got into the coachman’s box beside her. “You are very brave, Madame. A paragon. But let me tend to that cut. And your team, if you will hand me the reins.” His smile was impulsive and generous, very like the one she had intended to show him; he held out his gloved hand. “I will get us off this street and then I will examine your forehead. Will that satisfy you?”

  To her inward surprise, Olivia nodded her acceptance without objection. “That might be best. One of the team has been cut; I need to see to that. And to my coachman.”

  “Ah!” said the Guardsman as he looked down into the bottom of the coachman’s box and saw Bueve crumpled there. “I feared he fled and left you to your own devices—which were impressive, but still…”

  Olivia did not respond. She started to bend over to Bueve, but as she did, her vision wobbled as she became dizzy and had to lift her head again. “I … I will need your assistance to pull him upright,” she said, embarrassed by her request.

  “Of course, as soon as we are off the street and I have seen to your cut,” said the Guardsman as he gathered the reins in his hand and began to coax the team into moving once more. “A pity you haven’t another whip.”

  “Yes,” she said, watching him handle her team with critical eyes. “Take care. Nerone, the off-side wheeler, is nervous of loud noises.”

  “I will keep that in mind,” said the Guardsman, his face alive with curiosity. “How does it come you know the temperament of this team?”

  “I bred them,” said Olivia bluntly. “I know my horses.” She felt the first bite of a headache—a rare occurrence for her—and she winced as the coach began to move again.

  The Guardsman stood up in the box and shouted down to a few of the Guardsmen nearby who had finished with the rioters. “Arnaud! Ehi! Arnaud!” He struggled with the team as one of the Guardsmen on the street finally approached the carriage. “Be a good fellow and tell des Essarts that I am escorting this Bondame to her destination.”

  Arnaud cocked his head, his shoulder-length curls in bloody disorder. “How long will you be?”

  “That depends on where she is bound, I suppose,” answered the Guardsman, inclining his head toward Olivia. “Where are you expected, Madame?”

  “His Eminence Richelieu has invited me to visit him,” said Olivia with all the propriety she could muster. She wished that she were not sitting in the box of her coach with blood on her face and her clothes torn.

  “The Cardinal,” Arnaud said, impressed and wary at once, for the King’s Guard did not often support Richelieu unless ordered to do so by the King. He looked at his comrade with a speculative gleam in his eyes. “And will you make a report to His Eminence, Charles?”

  “I leave that to his Guard,” said Charles a bit stiffly. “Let us get under way. And assure des Essarts that I will not forget myself.” Apparently both Guardsmen found this funny, for they laughed and exchanged casual salutes as Charles continued to maneuver the team into a gentle turn at a very slow walk. “I do not want them to go any faster, Madame,” he explained to Olivia.

  “I would do the same myself, Monsieur.” She cleared her throat, going on, “I fear all your name I know is Charles.”

  “Charles de Batz-Castelmore,” he said, introducing himself with nothing more than a touch to the brim of his plumed hat. “I will offer my bow later.”

  “You are a Gascon,” said Olivia, hating the way her head rang as she spoke. Few things caused her hurt and nothing gave her lasting injury except what brought the true death as well; but those few pains she did suffer were acute, as if to compensate for her great durability.

  “Yes, and proud to be one. Better a poor Gascon than a rich Parisian.” He hesitated. “I mean no offence, Madame.”

  “You give none; I am a Roman.” Olivia paused, realizing that it was not proper for her to provide him with her name without another person to introduce them. How many foolish restrictions had been put on people over the centuries! she thought, and said, “I am Atta Olivia Clemens, a member of—”

  “The Italian’s suite, I’ll be bound,” said Charles with ill-concealed irritation. He did not look at her, being occupied with getting the wounded horse to keep moving—without a whip this took great skill with the reins.

  “I am sorry if that distresses you.” Olivia had to cling to the side of the coachman’s box to keep from swaying as the vehicle began to move down the cobbled streets. Magna Mater! this was almost as bad as being at sea. What had that cut to her head done? It had been decades since she felt so faint.

  Charles brought the team to a halt and turned to her. “You are in pain, Madame.”

  “Not … badly,” said Olivia, drawing breath more quickly. “It will pass.”

  With a swift move, Charles set the brake and wrapped the reins around its handle. Then, as he pulled off his gloves, he turned Olivia’s face toward him. “You are in pain, Madame,” he repeated, this time with concern, and he brushed the crimped hair off her forehead. “It is still bleeding a little.”

  Olivia nodded twice, like an automaton. What a beautiful young man he is, she thought, and mocked herself for thinking it. Still, she liked his face, especially the up-tilted flying brows over clear brown eyes. His hair, a rusty chestnut color, was not as curly as fashion demanded, fell in waves to his shoulder. He had a small, neat beard and moustache; Olivia thought these looked a bit silly on a man so young, but held back her comments. “It will be all right,” she said.

  “I have a cloth,” Charles announced, and reached into the wallet that hung from his sash. “Here.” He held it out to her, then kept it and dabbed gently at the wound himself. “You must tell me if I hurt you.”

  “No,” she said, trying not to stare at him, silently upbraiding herself. How old is he? she demanded inwardly. At most, twenty. It is your coach and fine clothes that make him courteous and helpful. He seeks a reward, being a poor Gascon in the King’s Guard. He is not interested in a woman your age, even one your apparent age. She realized she had put her hand over his as he finished brushing her face with his cloth.

  “It is as much as I can do now, Madame,” he said, his eyes directly on hers. “I will pray to the Virgin to thank her for this.” He brought her hand to his lips.

  Olivia tried to make light of this gallantry and found she could only stammer. “I … a-as well.”

  A grin broke out on Charles’ open features. “Madame,” he said briskly. “Let me take you to the Louvre at once. I will wait there to see that your coachman receives proper attention from the physicians, and then I will myself escort you to your home, for you will need protection.” He was clearly pleased with himself.

  “You have duties as a King’s Guard,” said Olivia, recovering herself somewhat at last.

  “And none more pressing than guarding honest folk in service to the King and his court,” said Charles promptly with wicked amusement in his eyes. “You are part of an embassy. It is shocking that you should have been treated so … so barbarically here in Paris. I am obliged to see that no further incidents befall you.” He reached for the reins and loosed them, then he released the brake. “While you confer with Richelieu—and I warrant he has not had many visitors like you—I will send word to des Essarts to tell him of my plan.” He nodded with satisfaction as he got the horses moving again.

  “And if he does not give permission?” Olivia inquired, her feelings so confused that she wondered if she should ask Richelieu to arrange other transport for her.

  “He will,” said Charles happily. “It will mean showing up the Cardinal’s Guard, for they were there and they did nothing to assist you. Des Essarts will give me three days’ leave to escort you if I ask for it.” His eyes suddenly narrowed. “Un
less you refuse to have me.

  There it was, thought Olivia with a tiny sigh. He has only aided me, and if I do not let him continue to aid me, I will give him a slight for his kindness. She looked down at her hands and was surprised to see bruises on her knuckles and two broken nails. “If your Captain will allow it, then it would be churlish of me to say no.”

  Charles laughed aloud. “This is the Bondame Roman, not the lady I saw fighting ruffians.”

  Bueve moaned and half opened his eyes. Peering through purple, swollen lids, he blinked at the team and then at the Guardsman handling the reins. He made a garbled sound and grabbed out for the reins.

  Before Charles could do anything, Olivia restrained her coachman, holding his arms down and forcing him back in the hard wooden seat. “Bueve, no. Leave him alone.”

  The coachman tried to speak, then spat out three teeth and a mouthful of blood. Where he was not bruised he was the color of new cheese, and there was a film of cold sweat on his face. He put a shaking hand to his mouth and muttered something.

  “Do not worry, Bueve,” said Olivia with more purpose than she truly felt. “The Cardinal will see that your wounds are tended, and those responsible will—”

  “I will attend to them,” said Charles, holding the team to a walk. “It will not be difficult to learn who started the fray, and then all I need do is find them alone long enough to teach them manners with an arm’s length of steel.”

  Olivia knew it was proper for her to object to this plan, for a member of a King’s regiment was under oath not to pursue private battles; her own inclinations were as fierce as those of the young Guardsman beside her, but she compromised with what was expected of her and said, “I have known those in Roma to settle disputes in that way.”

  Charles nodded once with great determination. “There is something to admire in Romans after all. Other than their women, of course.” He grinned, then gave his attention to the reins as they crossed the Seine and neared another open square. “The Place des Enfantes,” said Charles. “They don’t bring children here now, but I was told they did once, a long time ago.”

  “Oh?” She put an arm around Bueve, who was swaying with every motion of the coach.

  “When Paris was under siege, before the Crusades, or so they say.” Charles shrugged to show that he did not necessarily believe this. “One of the other Guardsmen says they were Germans, but des Essarts says they were Danes.”

  “So many years,” she said, thinking yes, long ago when Viking ships came up the Seine to bring raiders. Then there had been a squat, walled monastery whose monks—had they been Ambroisians?—had sheltered children while their parents battled the Norsemen in their long ships. She had witnessed two such battles, and had, in fact, been badly wounded in the first. It had taken her months to recover and a few of the monks were afraid when she did, for she had no scars when she was healed. As she looked around the Place des Enfantes, she saw almost nothing she recognized now but a small portion of the wall that had once enclosed the monks’ vegetable garden.

  “And a foe we need not fear again. No German army shall set foot in Paris again.” He guided the coach into the next street.

  “Watch the off-side wheeler,” Olivia warned, for the gelding was starting to toss his head. “He’ll get behind the bit if he keeps that up.”

  Charles jobbed the rein expertly. “Now he will not.” He turned to Olivia for an instant. “You are knowledgeable with horses, Madame, that is plain.”

  “I raise them,” said Olivia, not quite smiling. She looked down the narrow street and saw with disappointment that they were nearing the Louvre. When the Vikings had attacked, it had been nothing more than a small keep with enormous kennels around it, the dogs bred for hunting and for battle. Philippe Auguste had changed all that, and Charles V had expanded and improved the chateau until it was a self-contained city. Olivia had never liked the place.

  Charles brought the coach to a halt at one of the side entrances and identified himself to the officer of the Household Guard on duty. “I bring Bondame Clemens to her meeting with His Eminence Richelieu, and request that a physician be brought at once.” He climbed out of the coachman’s box and waited while an official groom came to lead the team away. “They have been ill-treated by rioters,” he said.

  The Household Guardsman saluted and made a gesture of dismissal. “Thanks for your good service,” he said to Charles.

  But Charles did not leave. He held up his hand to assist Olivia down from the coach, saying to the Household Guardsman and to Olivia at once, “Your pardon, sir; I am charged with the protection of Bondame Clemens until she is once again safe within her own walls.”

  As Olivia descended the side of the carriage, she marveled at Charles’ audacity, and was not terribly surprised when he met her eyes and winked.

  Text of a letter from Jean-Arnaud du Peyrer de Troisvilles to Henri Coiffier de Ruze.

  Monsieur le Marquise,

  For a man of great position, you are not acting wisely. Since you have solicited my comments, you may have them only as courtesy to your position at court and your rank.

  First, yes, I am, as I have always been, still opposed to the policies of Richelieu. My sentiments are not unknown to His Majesty, nor, I expect, to the Cardinal. I am known to have spoken against the Italian Abbe; I do not deny that he is a capable man of a sort, and his bravery is a matter of record, but I am not convinced that he acts in the best interests of France as I understand them. I am sworn to uphold the King unto death, and I pray God I will have the opportunity to demonstrate my loyalty on the field of battle.

  But as regards your suggestion that assassination is the solution to our difficulties with the Cardinal, this does not convince me. Such deaths may appear expedient, but they are not acts of patriots but of those determined to destroy government. If the outrages you have described are as many and as flagrant as you have said, then bring this to His Majesty. If the King orders me to arrest anyone, I will do it for honor, and for my oath as his officer. The King’s Musqueteers are not brigands to be hired or bribed, and it demeans every one of them to have your request brought to me in so clandestine a fashion. If it is not the King’s will that I do such a thing, then it would dishonor me, my family, and my regiment for as long as the Kingdom of France endures.

  You hint of illustrious supporters and many offers for fighting men and supplies in order to bring about the change you seek, but nowhere do you say who these men are, or what they expect to achieve in joining with you, and this causes me great concern, for if you have set yourself above the King in your actions, then you are no different from Richelieu himself, and you are as much a part of what I am sworn to end in France as is Richelieu and his Italian Abbe.

  I will continue to oppose Richelieu, but only as the King permits. To act on your suggestion without the specific orders, of the King is repellent to me. Until you can present such orders, I cannot participate in your venture, whether or not I agree with the ends you claim to endorse.

  If you are planning to bring down Richelieu without the support and knowledge of the King, then realize that Louis may well regard what you do as treason, not assistance. You may be assured that I will not betray you: you were given my word when you first approached me and I will stand by it. That you question it at all is an offence that in another fighting man would demand that we meet on the field of honor. You, being a man of rank and under the protection of my master and his vicious dog, are untouchable by such a man as I, and I would be more than imprudent to risk so great a transgression for the satisfaction of meeting you. You may continue to rely on my silence and upon my oath taken to protect His Majesty for both spring from the same well and both are sacred to me.

  Jean-Arnaud du Peyrer de Troisvilles

  The King’s Musqueteers

  On the 18th day of July, 1641.

  A notarized complete copy of this letter has been retained in the records of the King’s Musqueteers.

  4

  His
expostulation was pithy and expert, in the lowest gutter Italian, and for those few moments, Jules Mazarin was once again Giulio Mazarini. Then he brought himself under control and returned to French. “I was promised! I was assured that they would make me a Cardinal whether I was in Rome or not, whether I was ordained a priest or not. I was not the only one: Richelieu was told it would happen!”

  Olivia had stopped making notes on the report Niklos had prepared for her on the small harvest at Eblouir as well as the most recent letter from her stud farm at Tours. She had taken to spending part of her afternoons here in the library, and it was here that she received her unexpected visitor. “What is necessary, Eminence?”

  “If I am to succeed Richelieu, I need that hat! Without such rank, I will not be able to step into the shoes Richelieu is readying for me; I will not be in a position to do the work the King will expect of me.” He paced in front of the six tall windows, looking out once toward the walls of Paris. “Or that may be the purpose in this delay, to ensure I will not be able to perform the task for which I was summoned to France, for which I gave up my citizenship to become a Frenchman. Perhaps there are those working through the Papal Court who are striving to block me in my advances so that France will be unprotected when Richelieu is … no longer at court.”

  “And that is likely to be sooner than later, isn’t it?” Olivia asked gently, going on when Mazarin turned to her in shock, “Someone must say these things, so that you may be prepared. It isn’t pragmatically sensible to leave the questions all unanswered because you fear to be impolite or … oh, any number of things.” She took a cleaning rag and rubbed the nib of her pen dry, then set it aside. “You have said yourself that you do not know how much longer Richelieu can last.”

  “That is true,” said Mazarin, the color fading from him. “I did not intend to speak so … brusquely.”

  “You—brusque?” Olivia said with a warming in her hazel eyes. “Giulio, you haven’t it in you to be brusque.” She moved her chair back from her writing table and came toward him. “Tell me; who should I contact and what should I say?”