“Look at you,” he said. “Look at how beautiful you are. Look what you do to me.” He gestured to the bulge in his striped breeches. “I love what you do to me.” His fingers touched her nipples, barely grazing the skin. “I tremble when I see you.” As he came a step nearer, he smiled down at her. “Do you tremble at the sight of me?”
“Yes,” she said, surprised that it was so.
“What will your Roman Cardinal think when he learns of this?” It was the only note of caution he sounded, and as he spoke his hands were beginning their sweet plundering of her body. He was more sure of himself than he had been a month ago.
“He will … be relieved, perhaps,” said Olivia, hoping that her guess was right. It was not easy to keep her mind on Charles’ question. “He is not an unreasonable man.”
“Isn’t he?” His hands cupped her breasts now, and before she could think of the words to answer him, he lowered his head, and her thoughts were forgotten.
Olivia gave herself over to the rapture of his touch and the frenzy of his kisses. She let him take possession of her without resistance, returning his passion with her hands and lips when she could, reveling in what he gave to her when she could not. It was almost impossible to remain standing, but Charles was not ready to fall into the hay.
“Does this please you?” he asked a short while later as he knelt before her, his hands between her thighs.
She nodded, her body quivering with the intensity of her desire. “Yes,” she murmured, as if speaking would break the spell. She went on as if sounding words out that she did not know. “It would please me more”—there was mischief in her voice—“if we were lying down. I don’t think I can stand up any longer.”
He chuckled, wrapping his arms around her knees. “So be it,” he said, toppling her.
The straw was warm, and August hung on the night air like the smell of a hot stove. Their clothes spread on the straw was bed enough for them, and by the time Charles kicked off his breeches, his body was ready for her. As he moved over her, he growled, “I want to be part of you. I want to be part of you.” He was avid for her, moving into her as if he wished to fuse the two of them forever.
It was astonishing to Olivia to plumb such depths of mania as she did with Charles. She had rarely felt so close to madness, and never so joyously. It was as if all the yearning, all the ecstasy she had denied herself for those long, long years, were returned to her tenfold; what was more amazing was that Charles’ need equaled her own. She rocked with him, joyous in their intimate dance.
“What must I do?” he panted, sweat standing out on his flesh. “Tell me.”
“If you’re determined,” she said, finding it difficult to speak. She was caught up in the marvel of his touch, his lips. Speech seemed hopelessly clumsy in comparison. “You do as I do.”
“And when?” He pressed into her more deeply. “I can’t last much longer.”
“When I do,” she said, unable to keep the doubt from her tone.
“What is this, Olivia?” he asked urgently. “Don’t you want me—”
“I worry for you,” she said. “Be certain.”
He gave a breathless laugh. “I am.” He wrapped his arms around her more closely. “I am. I am.”
Olivia could no longer argue. As she felt him gather, she put her lips to his neck and gave herself over to the elation he offered, and that he claimed for himself.
“Bon Dieu, I have scarred you,” Charles burst out when he had come to his senses. He stared at the rivulet of blood that ran from just below her collarbone to her side.
“No,” said Olivia. She was happily languorous in the aftermath of their passion. The straw on which they lay seemed as luxurious as a featherbed. “That is no longer possible.”
“Scars are always possible,” said Charles, unconvinced.
“Among the living,” Olivia reminded him. “Not for such as I am.”
“And I will be,” said Charles with satisfaction. He kissed the corner of her mouth and one hand strayed to the curve of her breast. “I will never, never have enough of you. There is not enough time before Judgment Day.”
“And you may see most of those years,” she said. She repositioned herself so she could rest her head on his shoulder.
He smiled lazily. “To live from now to Judgment Day. What wonders I will see.”
Olivia sighed. “I hope you will not come to hate me for those years, and the things you will see.”
“How could I hate you? especially now that blood will bind us.” He touched his neck where her lips had been. “There is as much of me in you as there is you in me.”
“I pray you never change your mind,” she said, a frown starting.
“Why should I?” Charles asked. With one hand he began to play with her fawn-brown hair.
“Others have,” she said, her mind far away.
“They were fools, to have you and to let you go,” said Charles, his expression darkening.
“Eventually we must let each other go,” said Olivia, staring up toward the ceiling. “When you come to my life, the bond remains, but the rest…”
“What?” Charles prompted when she did not go on.
Olivia did not answer him at once. “When you come to my life,” she repeated, “what we have now is … no longer possible.”
He turned, grabbed her upper arms. “What are you saying to me?”
There was dismay in her face. “Do you regret this already?”
“I regret nothing, nothing; but you have to explain,” he said emphatically. “Olivia. Tell me what you are saying.”
She looked away from him, then met his eyes with her own. “When you die, we will no longer be lovers, though we will share our bond and our … nature. That is what will make it impossible for us to continue, for we seek life, Charles.” She waited, and when he said nothing, she went on. “I will always love you, Charles; nothing else matters.”
“But we will not be lovers,” he said, scowling. “A fine state of affairs.” He all but flung her from him but could not bring himself to let go of her.
“Not as we are now,” she confirmed, a desolation sweeping over her. In all her centuries there had been so few times of lucid happiness, and now this one, treasured and rare, seemed to be slipping away from her.
Charles lay back, still holding her close to him. “Then we must make the best use to the time we have,” he said decisively. He went on in his practical way, “I assumed we would have decade upon decade to make love, but as it will only be until my death, we will have to devote more time to love. I can see that it will be essential if we are not to be cheated later, and come to resent our bond.” He gave her a hearty, deliberate kiss.
“You are not…” She could not find the word for what she feared.
“Disappointed?” he suggested. “Certainly I am, but we must accommodate.” He gave her a close look. “You’re not cold, are you?” He rubbed his hand over her shoulder in a token gesture.
“No; those of my blood are rarely cold,” she said, oddly touched at his solicitousness. “Are you cold?”
He clapped his free hand to his chest. “I am a Gascon. It is not conceivable that I would be cold on an August night.”
Olivia’s laughter was warm and soft. “And a soldier as well.” She leaned over and took his hand, bringing it to her lips to kiss.
“Olivia,” he said with shock. “You must not do this; it is for me to kiss your hand.”
“How absurd,” said Olivia, kissing his hand a second time, then adding more seriously. “I kiss your hand because of our bond, Charles, not for courtesy.”
He thought this over, then smiled a little, his flying eyebrows lifting at the corners. “Then it must be all right,” he told her before catching her in a second, breathless hug. “We still have hours before sunrise.”
“Aren’t you sleepy?” Olivia asked, grinning with him.
He gave a snort of contempt. “Sleep is for those with nothing better to do. You and I have much m
ore important things to do other than sleep.” His kiss was lingering and impatient all at once. “And what is more important than this?”
Olivia laughed for delight. “I can’t imagine.”
Text of a letter from Pere Pascal Chape to an unidentified person.
To the most exalted of those who attempted to right the injustices perpetrated on France, and who God in His Mercy has spared from death and dishonor, I send my most sincere greetings and pray that I will be permitted to act again in your interests whenever and however you may decide to command me, for next to God there is no one to whom I owe more binding allegiance.
It is most unfortunate that Cinq-Mars was discovered when he was so close to our goal; the price he has paid will be demanded of all of us at God’s Hand one day. I pray that Cinq-Mars was received in Heaven as the martyr he is, and that his cause—our cause, if I may be permitted the liberty—will not wither and die because of cowardice on the part of those who are near to you who have been horrified by how the not-to-be-sufficiently-damned Richelieu and that Italian poppinjay who is his lieutenant have moved against those in league with Cinq-Mars.
More than ever France cries out for a King who will serve her in honor and glory, who will leave not two puny sons behind him, but more children than any noble could wish for, all of them vital and devoted to the cause of their father and their country. What we have now is the puppet of his desires and those who find favor through his desires. This disgraces us before God as well as before the eyes of the world. That a Prince of the Church should support such a terrible regime is the greatest shame of all; Richelieu knows better than most that his position is untenable, both in terms of the country and any moral standard set forth by the Church.
I ask a favor of you, in that wonderful time that you rise to power and become the master of the kingdom, as you have every right and claim to be: that I be allowed to set out the punishments to be visited on Richelieu and that Roman Mazarini. I long to wield the sword of righteousness and to strike down those who have betrayed us all. Assure me that it will be my sentence that will fall on these two and I will never ask another boon of you, not for myself nor any part of my family nor any other man alive.
As far as I have been able to determine my role in our venture has not been discovered. I pray you will permit me to continue as I have been, sending you dispatches from time to time as they are needed and as I deem it is prudent to do so. I will employ a different courier each time and never one who is likely to serve me ill. Those I have used to date have been in Orders, and it seems to me that they are more apt to carry out my instructions without question than those who are not devoted to the religious life. I have also striven to choose those whose convictions march with our own and who are willing to risk disfavor in this life for the rewards granted to the virtuous in the next. I have pledged those who have served me to absolute silence, and my faith reposes in their vows.
I have been informed that you may come to court for the Nativity fete. If this is so, I ask that I be allowed to visit you, under such circumstances as would occasion no unwise remarks or speculation. I will count it a most profound honor if you are willing to admit me; if you have any reason to refuse, I will bow my head in acceptance, of course. You are the hope of all France and we who serve you have fixed our eyes on your star.
Permit me to make a recommendation at this point: it would be prudent to sever the courier links to Rome currently employed by the Italian Cardinal. I am certain he uses the house of his countrywoman, the Clemens widow, as a place of message exchanges. It is much easier to cut the chain there than in Paris or Rome; the route traveled by his couriers is changed from time to time, and so it is not as easy to interrupt the messengers once they have left Chatillon. I advise a constant watch on the widow’s house for now, so that when the time comes to act, we will not have to guess at what we do. We must also suborn one or two of Mazarini’s house servants—lackeys will do—so that we may know what is taking place there. As long as we have no means to decide which events are significant to our purposes, we increase our risks and by extension add to Mazarini’s strength, which would be most unfortunate for all of us.
Your request that I question those of noble rank as to their current sentiments concerning Richelieu and Mazarini is perhaps a bit premature, for Cinq-Mars has been dead for less than two weeks and there are many who fear that suspicion may light on them. By the time you come to Paris, such sentiments will have given way to reason and the resentment all true Frenchmen feel will have returned many fold. At that time, I may be of greater use to you and to the cause of justice we all serve.
I pray night and morning for your health and your advancement, and I ask God to show His favor by bringing you to the Crown you deserve. Be certain that I have not faltered in my convictions and I never will.
With benedictions and devotion, I have the honor to sign myself to you,
Pere Pascal Chape
Canons Regular of St. Augustine
On the 22nd day of September, 1642, the day following the Feast of St. Matthew the Apostle.
Destroy this.
9
At the monastery of Les Sacres Innocentes the roof of the smaller chapel was leaking. Most of the monks continued with their duties, but a few of them were busy trying to repair the broken slates before any more damage could be done.
“A fine way to keep the feast of Saint Martin,” Frere Herriot grumbled as another of the slates got away from him and went clattering down the roof.
“I tell you,” Frere Aubri agreed as he flapped his sodden habit at the others, “I would not mind the loan of his cloak about now.”
It was a feeble joke, but the other four monks perched on the roof did their best to laugh.
“The Abbe wants this done before nightfall,” warned Frere Gautier, who was the first to fall silent.
“If we’re fortunate, and if God wills it, then we will be done by nightfall,” said Frere Crepet, who was known not to be entirely right in his mind. “God will guide us.”
Frere Herriot and Frere Servie nodded and crossed themselves; Frere Aubri scoffed. “God isn’t going to wield this mallet for me, or shape new slates. If He’d slack off the rain, I’d be pleased.”
Again the other monks laughed dutifully.
“A pity we don’t have carpenters among our lay brothers,” said Frere Herriot. “It would mean we could stay inside at prayers and not have to—” He held up his mallet to express his irritation.
“God save us,” sighed Frere Servie. “Hold your tongue, or we’ll have to confess blasphemy and who knows what else.” He stared up into the rain. “We have one thing to be thankful for: it’s not windy.”
“A consideration,” Frere Aubri said. “Or we could have frost or snow. The roof wouldn’t be leaking, but…” He went back to work on the slates, muttering the “Dies Irae” with each blow, letting the prophesy of doom set the rhythm for him.
“But,” said Frere Gautier, running his hand through his thinning hair, “if we had snow, the roof might collapse. We’re better off with rain.”
Frere Servie, who was closest to the edge of the roof, started to lean forward. “What?” he called down through the steady drumming of the rain.
“Be careful!” Frere Crepet warned him, moving a little nearer the older monk, though he was known to fear heights as he feared so many things.
But Frere Servie was pointing down to the road that ran beside the chapel. “Look. There’s a man down there.”
“There are always men down there,” said Frere Aubri with a hint of disgust. “Men in the road!” he exclaimed in mock horror. “What is the world coming to?”
“But look,” Frere Servie persisted. “He’s waving to us.”
“A humorous fellow,” scoffed Frere Aubri.
“The poor man,” whispered Frere Crepet, though the other monks could not find the reason for his distress.
Frere Gautier came nearer the edge and looked over. “You’re right; he�
��s waving.”
“I wonder why,” Frere Herriot said, but he did not leave off his work. “If he wants something of us, let him go around to the pilgrims’ gate.”
“He looks like a soldier,” said Frere Gautier, who had been with the Compagne de Flandre just five years before.
“A deserter, more like,” said Frere Aubri without enthusiasm. “Seeking the monastery to take him in.”
“Well, you took me in,” said Frere Gautier reasonably. “The Abbe will not turn away another, not if he wishes to join the Order.” He held up his arms to get the man’s attention, and when he was sure he had it, he gestured instructions for finding the pilgrims’ gate. He repeated the process before he saw an answering signal of understanding from the man on the road.
“Abbe Gottard will be displeased,” said Frere Aubri as they returned to their work.
“He would be more displeased if we turned anyone away from our doors when they are in need,” said Frere Gautier in his most practical manner. “We are supposed to minister to those in need, aren’t we?” He started to wring the water from his sleeve, then shrugged. “We can put a few more slates in place before we get down.” As he swung his mallet expertly, he looked away over the roofs of the nearby town. “What must Tours have looked like when Saint Martin was Bishop here.”
“A smaller place, the houses more like huts, and stouter walls.” Frere Aubri gave a sweeping gesture with his arms. “And probably fewer farms, and most of them walled.” He sneezed once, twice, and blessed himself. “Come on, Brothers. A little more work and we’re done.”
“Well enough,” said Frere Herriot. “Labor and prayer are the same in the eyes of God.” He repeated it as he tended to repeat all lessons, in a kind of singsong voice that made him sound like a sulky schoolboy. He brought his mallet down with such force that he chipped the slate he was putting in place.
“Restraint,” suggested Frere Servie; he had been making more progress than the others, keeping at his task with rote steadiness. “The sooner we have our slates in place, the sooner it will be possible to get warm and dry again. And we need not fear the roof falling on us while we’re at prayers.”
A Candle For d'Artagnan Page 25
