A Candle For d'Artagnan

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Des Essarts,” he mused. “I wonder how trustworthy he is? I know that du Peyrer de Troisvilles is my enemy, but des Essarts is another matter, I think.” He examined his two sealed dispatches. “I pray they are in time.”

  Jumeau had not been Mazarin’s secretary long enough to contain his curiosity. “How do you mean, Eminence? It is not my place to inquire,” he added hastily as he saw the darkening expression in the Cardinal’s eyes.

  “It is better you do not ask such questions,” said Mazarin with a faint smile. “If you do not know, you cannot tell.”

  The young prelate looked genuinely shocked. “I would never reveal anything you were gracious enough to impart to me.”

  “Then you are less human than any other man alive,” said Mazarin with a little shake of his head. “To never breathe a word to a confessor or a comrade or a brother or a mother or a lover, you must have a will of steel.” He put his hands over the sealed messages. “There are reasons why we destroy notes like these, Jumeau. Excellent reasons. Those reasons are more compelling than the first, for they insure your safety as well as my own and the safety of the throne.”

  Jumeau had been nodding repeatedly through this recitation. “I meant no intrusion,” he said when the Cardinal was silent.

  “Of course not,” said Mazarin in a tone so smooth that it denied his words.

  “I did not,” Jumeau protested more forcefully.

  “So you have told me,” Mazarin said, rising from his writing table. “Attend to my answer to le Duc, Jumeau. You have writing materials in your quarters.” It was as blunt a dismissal as Mazarin was likely to give.

  Jumeau’s face had turned pale now. “Eminence, you are mistaken in your thoughts.” He knelt and kissed Mazarin’s ring.

  “It is possible,” the Cardinal said at his most polite. “Pray attend to my instructions, Jumeau.”

  With a sensation of cold growing in his chest, Jumeau did as he had been ordered.

  Fontaine de Rochard arrived not long after, his new livery making him look smaller and more gangly than he was. He knelt to the Cardinal, his voice cracking as he said, “What is it to be my honor to do for Your Eminence?”

  Mazarin studied the youth; there was less than five years separating Jumeau and de Rochard, but their differences were marked: Jumeau was a man grown, set on the path determined by his family and his fortune; de Rochard, too, was a son doing his duty, but he had shouldered the burden long ago and without resentment—Jumeau felt limited and trapped by the cassock he had been compelled to don. “You served Richelieu well; he told me often of your service.”

  “God provided an opportunity for me,” said de Rochard as modestly as he could.

  “And you were sensible enough to seize it,” agreed Mazarin. “And now, once more there is no reason to demur,” he added. “If you are willing to act on my behalf in a certain matter, I will express my gratitude.” He paused again. “As I recall, your family is not well-circumstanced.”

  “No, we are not,” said de Rochard with unapologetic candor.

  “Then you would be wise to accept my commission and to act on my behalf to the full extent of your capabilities.” He lifted one of the sealed messages. “I require that this be delivered.”

  “You have only to tell me to whom and I will do it,” said de Rochard with such feeling that Mazarin decided that the young lackey’s dedication was fairly sincere.

  “Excellent,” he said. “You are to go with this message to the church of Saint-Etienne, near the fish market. There you will find a priest named Pere Chape, an Augustinian. Give it to no one but him, and watch him read it. I have already specified in this message that you are to do this, and if you fail me it will go ill for you.”

  “I will abide by your orders, Eminence, whatever they are.” He was wise enough not to hold out his hand until the Cardinal actually gave him the message.

  “When you have done this, you are to return here and wait for me. I may be some time, for I must attend the reception for the Austrians. Nevertheless, I wish to have your report this evening. You may inform my secretary that you are to have supper if the hour grows late. He will arrange it.” Mazarin took the smaller of the two sealed packets. “Here. Serve me well and your family will have reason to thank you.”

  Fontaine de Rochard kissed both the seal on the message and the Cardinal’s ring before he rose. “On my honor, Eminence.”

  Mazarin nodded thoughtfully. “Get a cloak,” he advised after a moment. “One that covers your livery. I want no notice taken of your visit.”

  “As you wish, Eminence,” said de Rochard. He rose but did not start toward the door yet. “Eminence … is there anything more?” He was aware how foolish it would be to depart before Mazarin had specifically ordered it.

  “No. On your way, de Rochard.” He kept his eyes on the papers on his writing table as the young lackey left, but once the door was closed, he rose and began to pace again, growing more and more aware of the impending reception, fearing that d’Artagnan would not arrive in time to carry his sealed message to Olivia. He could not keep the Austrians waiting, yet he dared not delay sending word to his associate. He was considering what alternatives he might have when there was a brisk knock on the door and before Mazarin could answer, the door opened and Charles d’Artagnan, his face a bit flushed, his amber-brown eyes bright, strode into the room, removing his plumed hat and dropping to his knee at the last moment.

  “You sent for me, Eminence?” he asked when he had kissed Mazarin’s ring.

  Mazarin drew his hand back. “Are you drunk?”

  “I’ve had two pots of country red, if that’s what you’re asking. That’s hardly enough to fuddle a man.” He rose, replaced his hat, and looked about the room. “Des Essarts’ man said it was urgent.” His irrepressible smile squeezed out the corners of his mouth.

  “It is,” Mazarin said, a bit testily. “Are you in any condition to ride?”

  “Naturally,” said Charles, his smile widening to a grin. “With what I have to celebrate, I could ride to London without a boat.”

  “All you must do is ride to Chatillon,” said Mazarin, not quite disapproving.

  “Olivia,” said Charles with such unguarded emotion that Mazarin was taken aback.

  “Yes; it is most important.” He hesitated. “I want you to give her this message and bring her answer to me. That is all. My business is urgent and she is part of my embassy; do you understand that? There is no time for you to dawdle away an hour or two with her; I require the response before morning. Is that clear?”

  Charles gave a brisk nod. “Yes, Eminence.”

  “I do not want to alarm you, d’Artagnan, but I depend on your absolute secrecy and your discretion.” He said this last with a little doubt in his voice. “No one must know you have carried this message, or who has written, or who has received it.” For emphasis he met Charles’ eyes uncompromisingly with his own.

  “Have no fear, Eminence. No one will pay any attention to me. I have made that ride so often that there will be no notice taken.” He put his hand to the hilt of his sword. “If they do, well, no matter: I will silence them for you.”

  Mazarin clapped his hands together in exasperation. “Don’t be more of a fool than God made you, Guardsman. I do not want your route littered with bodies—what better way to inform the world of where you have been than to kill a few men along the way?” He gave one, very Italian, gesture. “You are said to be a sensible man, d’Artagnan.”

  “All right,” Charles said. “No bodies. I will go in disguise, if you like.” This last impish suggestion was met with a hard, flat stare.

  “I do not issue orders lightly.” He put his hand out to the message. “If you are not willing to treat my commission in the correct manner, then I will find another to deliver the dispatch for me.”

  Charles sobered at once. He came to attention and lowered his head respectfully. “I crave Your Eminence’s pardon. I intended no offence; the news I have been given
today has made me joyous, and I fear that it has colored my behavior. Pray believe me to be willing to serve you in whatever capacity you require in the interests of France.”

  In spite of himself, Mazarin smiled. “All right—any man who can manage so careful an answer is not drunk, and not one to compromise his mission, either.”

  “Thank you, Eminence,” said Charles, his expression so wooden that Mazarin relented.

  “Oh, don’t look so like an automaton.” He waited while Charles relaxed his stance. “Before I give you this dispatch, what news is so welcome that it could do this to you?”

  Charles was almost able to contain his smile. “I doubt you’ll be as pleased as I am: I had it from Isaac de Portau. He’s a Musqueteer, a Bearnais, as fine a fellow as any in the world. He told me this afternoon that he had it from de Troisvilles himself—”

  “That fellow!” snapped Mazarin.

  “I said you might not be pleased,” Charles reminded him somberly. “Anyway, de Troisvilles told de Portau that the next time there is an opening in the Musqueteers, it is mine!”

  Mazarin bit back the sharp response that rose to his tongue and said, after a brief silence, “It is what you have wanted, isn’t it.”

  “Oh, yes, from the time I came to Paris.” Charles did his best to contain his enthusiasm, his attention now more thoroughly on the Cardinal.

  “And now it can be yours,” he said slowly. “I congratulate you, then.” He turned away and picked up the dispatch as if wholly unaware of Charles’ astonishment. “In the meantime, see this is delivered to Bondame Clemens, watch her read it and bring her answer back to me. At once.”

  “Eminence,” said Charles, doing his best to cover his confusion as he doffed his hat again and knelt to kiss Mazarin’s ring.

  Text of a letter from Ragoczy Sanct’ Germain Franciscus to Atta Olivia Clemens. Written in the Latin of Imperial Rome.

  To my dearest, most treasured Olivia, my greeting from this strange and distant place.

  Only recently have we been told that the French King is dead and his heir nothing more than a child. The news was a long time in coming, or you would have heard from me sooner, so close as you are to Paris, and that Italian Cardinal.

  You said in the last letter I had from you that you were being pursued by a dashing young man and that you were in doubt as to what to do. You, of all people, to doubt. I hope with all my heart that he is capable of knowing you and loving you, and that you have that joy and consolation to aid you through the danger of court life. I do not doubt your skills, your good sense, or your intelligence; I am worried about the intrigues that must surround the court with Louis dead. Have a care, Olivia, for my sake if not your own.

  You inquired about this place: I wish I could tell you of the things I have seen here, but there are so few words to describe the way in which these people live, or the ferocity the Spaniards have in their determination to extinguish that way of life, for sadly, these people are rich in gold, and the Crown and the Church covet it.

  Not since Egypt, long before I knew you, have I seen so much gold, and so much of it squandered in burial tokens. They struggle to bring the gold from the earth so they can return it to the ground along with a corpse. The richness of the tombs in these mountains beggars the imagination. I have been told that there are priests and monarchs buried encased in gold, on catafalques of gold, with golden attendants to guard them through eternity. That does not mean that the people are rich; they are much the same as the rest of the world, most of the people peasants and farmers and artisans, ordinary humanity, in fact. But their dead are glorious.

  Not since I crossed from China to India through the Land of Snows have I encountered mountains like these. They are more enormous than anything Europe can boast; only in Asia have they any rivals. To stand so high, on ancient roads, which until the Spaniards came never knew the wheel, and see the peaks rising high above is an experience few have been fortunate enough to have. Were it not for the ongoing war between the people here and the Spanish, I would recommend you come to see this for yourself, but not if you have to join the massacre, as I fear it is fast becoming.

  I write this to Paris, certain that Mazarini has not yet released you. With all that has happened, he must have more need of you now than before, when he was detained in Roma. I have yet to meet this second cousin of his, though I have been told he is in the New World. But the New World is a vast place, Olivia, and who can tell if his path will ever cross mine?

  It is late and the courier leaves at dawn. I will hand this to him before he retires so that it will come to you now; the next courier will not arrive for more than a month, and by the time the journey is made over land and across the sea, whatever news I can send you will be musty.

  Perhaps that is why I have gone on so long: I wish there to be something of merit in this letter beyond my concern and my love for you. If there is not, then the concern and love must suffice.

  Sanct’ Germain

  his seal, the eclipse

  By my own hand, on the 11th of March, 1644.

  2

  Olivia adjusted the girth a final time and set her foot in the stirrup, ignoring the shocked looks around her. As she swung into the saddle, she nodded to the groom holding the three-year-old’s head. “You can let him go,” she said coolly.

  “Madame, he is … fresh,” the groom protested, his face becoming more wrinkled as his worry increased.

  “Let him go,” she repeated in a tone that ended all argument. “I have been riding horses for longer than you know, Evraud. Let him go.”

  With a miserable gesture of helplessness, Evraud released his hold on the colt, stepping back hastily to avoid the sudden rush he feared would come.

  From his place by the fence, Perceval watched unhappily. By now he knew better than to question Bondame Clemens about anything she might do, including ride her half-broken horses while dressed in breeches and cavalry boots. Bondame Clemens, as he had reason to know, was not dissuaded by sensible argument or a servant’s threats. He could not wholly conceal his shudder as he watched her ease up on the colt’s head. In a secret part of his mind he hoped that the colt would toss her off quickly, so that she would come to her senses. At least the arena was covered so that she would not be seen by anyone but those of the estate. His chagrin as he thought of the gossip that would spread through the neighborhood made him look away from Olivia as she started the colt to a steady walk around the edge of the arena. “Thumaz,” he called out in order to do something, to show a little authority, “see you man that door.”

  Thumaz paid no heed to Perceval, as was the privilege of his age; he was watching Olivia handle the colt, riding very carefully in her fine deerskin-covered saddle. He noted with satisfaction that she was alert but not nervous, and that her arms had sinew enough to hold the powerful mouse-colored colt. As Olivia started the colt into a gentle turn, he gave a toothless smile of approval.

  Suddenly the colt balked, refusing to go forward, bouncing a little on his front legs.

  “Stop,” Olivia said firmly and calmly. She tightened her grip on the reins. “Hold.”

  The colt paid no heed. He began to toss his head in a steady, determined way, pawing with his off-side front hoof. He gave a low, defiant squeal as his pawing became more emphatic.

  Perceval brayed out an order and started to climb reluctantly over the high wall into the arena, expecting to see his mistress trampled by the outraged colt before he could reach her side.

  “Stay where you are; you’re making it worse,” Olivia called out in the same steady tone, her attention never leaving the colt, her hands firm as before. “Stop where you are until I have him moving again.”

  “Moving!” Perceval exclaimed. “He will bolt.”

  “Yes he will, if you keep irritating him.” She shifted her position in the saddle, rising a little in the stirrups, her heels forced farther down. “He’s trying to have a temper tantrum and I will not allow it.”

  Perceval wan
ted to order her out of the arena at once and call for the grooms who handled the stallions; let them bring their big whips and stout cudgels to control the animal. He knew what young stallions could be like, and how a reasonable man should handle them. But Olivia was mistress here, little as he approved of it, and he was at her mercy. He stood, his hands all but flapping at his sides in consternation.

  The colt changed tactics and bounced on his back legs, his ears angled, his head too high up. The whites of his eyes showed now, and not in fear. He gave a loud whinny of challenge.

  “Don’t be silly,” Olivia said loudly, as if correcting a wayward child. “Come to order.” She let him have his head for an instant, but only so that she could better set the bit in his mouth. She was pressing with her lower legs, urging him forward.

  Finally the colt bounded ahead three steps, then came to an abrupt halt, as if he had realized too late that he had followed her orders. He gave his head a shake and started to rear.

  “Mere Marie!” Perceval whispered, closing his eyes so he would not have to watch Olivia fall.

  Olivia sunk one hand in the colt’s long mane and with the other she used the reins to turn his head to the side, holding it there as the young stallion rose in the air, neighing. “Back on the ground,” she told him, keeping her seat with little effort. “If you want to get rid of me you have to do better than that.”

  The colt paid no heed to her. Once his front hooves were back on the plowed earth, he reared again, this time with so much energy that he very nearly overbalanced.

  Perceval turned and ran for the fence.

  “You are not helping, Perceval,” Olivia called out to him. “Stop where you are until this fellow comes to his senses.” She rocked back in the saddle, deliberately throwing the colt off-balance so that he had to bring his front feet down or fall. As she shifted her weight again, she thought back to that night, so very long ago, when she had scrambled onto the back of Sanct’ Germain’s big blue roan, and hung on for dear life as Sanct’ Germain set the horse cantering away from her tomb on the Via Appia. It had been her first time on a horse, and she had resolved then that she would learn to ride properly. It had taken longer than she had anticipated, but almost three centuries later Niklos had made a real horsewoman of her. She pressed her lower legs tight to the colt’s side and eased up on the rein. “Go on,” she said, starting him moving again.